Aphrodite said he was grieving.
He, the God of War, grieving over a death of a mortal — oh, that would have been a first. Ridiculous.
A little pissed off, maybe; yes, that he was; at first; the first couple of days, a week, maybe two. Well, okay, he might have gotten a bit carried away at first. Anger management wasn't a strong suit of his.
His damn father learned it the hard way. An old coward, that was who his father was; clutching onto his throne so desperately that he killed a child in a mother's womb; the throne he lost anyway, just hours after, how ironic. The dagger of Helios sinking into his heart, Zeus didn't know what hit him. He wasn't the only one surprised, though. Pretty much everyone on Olympus was shocked, some more than others. Some faces held anger, some were baffled; others, the cowardly and paranoid ones, thought he went on a killing spree and they would be next.
Well, not that he would've minded ridding Olympus of Apollo, but for practical reasons it wouldn't have been wise — messing with the idiot's mantle would've brought about a shitload of chaos to the mortal realm.
Besides, he couldn't care less about Apollo now — he had already been powerful as the God of War, so now, with his powers upgraded to the royal level in the aftermath of Zeus' death, it would've taken one wave of his hand to make Apollo regret he was born.
No wonder they all eyed him with fear now. Because they knew it, too.
And he hadn't even officially taken over the throne, yet. They anticipated him to do it, but he couldn't be bothered. This wasn't why he killed Zeus. In fact, being the officially coronated King of the Gods was going to be a drag; there was a whole legislative and political side to it that gave him a headache to even think about.
Not that he regretted killing his father.
Well, he had one regret, actually. That Zeus never got to witness how Ares, the son he despised so much, on that very same day, buried the very same dagger in the chest of daddy's precious little golden boy, Hercules.
But well, you couldn't always get what you wanted.
#
Then, months later, he noticed he calmed down. He got tired, and constant bathing in blood of mortals slowly gave way to the need for silence and solitude.
He would sit on his throne in the Halls of War, eyes closed, a sigh leaving his lungs. And she'd be there, always on his mind when his lids shut. He would will himself to summon the images of her on the battlefield, bloody and sweaty, baring her teeth when she slashed the sword across her opponents' necks. He would try, and it would last a moment, before the gory scene would turn into a very different setting; her, in here, the place no mortal had set foot before; his home, his bedroom, where he first had her, where he made her his for hours, till dawn; where she was wearing the floor-length, silken red robe that still had her scent all over it, and then nothing at all.
He usually felt pathetic after that.
But it wasn't anything a nice little bloodshed or two couldn't fix. At least for a while.
But then again, what was life if not a sum of consequent whiles? One after another. With no way back.
Funny how, throughout all the eons of his godly life he used to think that his father was omnipotent; that there was nothing a King of the Gods couldn't do.
Well, somehow, he couldn't turn back time.
#
He stared at the cobweb for a while, then brushed it off the window frame, and went on staring blankly into the distance, at the swaying, moonlit treetops in the yard.
Then, he turned around, taking in the candlelit darkness of the room; the bed, the sheets shining perfect black, perfectly spread out, and there was just one thing flawing the black perfection — a red piece of garment, that he now held in his hand, burying his face in it, muffling the roar that tore his lungs and clouded his vision, her scent in his nostrils, in his blood.
He was a god; he would be fine.
A damn King of the Gods.
"A bad day?"
He held his breath, looking towards where the familiar voice came from, and froze, his heart thudding as he gazed at the silhouette in the doorway; gods, he had to be going mad.
"Xena…"
"You look like you've seen a ghost," she said, her voice low, smooth, teasing, mischief in her eyes as she slowly made her way towards him, her breasts swaying under the red silk.
He gulped, his throat dry. Furrowing his brows, he glanced down at his hands; the robe was gone.
But she wasn't wearing it for long, either; as soon as she closed the distance between them, she let the silk slide down her arms and soundlessly end up a red pile on the floor.
"If I didn't know better, I'd say you're scared," she raised her brow, amusement playing around her lips; oblivious to how right she was, how scared he was to touch her and see his hand go right through her. But no, she was all flesh and blood, her breasts soft in his palms, the scent of her making him lightheaded. "Playing hard to get?" she kept teasing, grabbing the front of his pants.
"I thought you liked hard." Abruptly, he grabbed her by the waist, lifted her in his arms and pinned her down to the mattress the next moment, their heavy breaths intermingling.
"I do…" She wrapped her leg around him, her voice breathless, helpless in his ear as he sank into her, and it all went blank.
#
He flinched, forcing his eyes open, using his elbows to prop himself on the mattress, his chest heaving, sweaty.
The room was dimly brightened by daylight sneaking in through the little gaps between the drapes; empty, quiet. He didn't look to his right, didn't want to see it, but the red fabric glimmered, ominous and obvious even when just seen out of the corner of the eye; a crimson island in the sea of black.
And, stupidly, he did what he always did when he woke up from those dreams; looked towards the doorway, half-expecting her to show up, hoping she would, and scolded himself for it, for how he couldn't avert his eyes, how ridiculous it was, holding his breath, waiting.
He closed his eyes, rushing the air out of his lungs in a loud exhale. "You left the robe," he said under his breath, and huffed at the stupidness of it. Annoying heaviness spreading around his chest, he collapsed back down on the bed, covering his face with his hands as he drew a deep breath in.
Sometimes, he felt like, she'd taken it all with her; him, most of him, maybe even all; all she asked for.
And at times, it felt like he'd never get it back. He wanted to just stop; thinking, feeling, to silence this sickness in his head, the nightmare.
The one dream he ached to wake up from.
Sitting up on the edge of the mattress, he glanced to his right; the stubborn pile of red silk, always there. With an angry snap of his fingers, it went up in flames.
It didn't last more than seconds before, in a flash of green light, the ether broke open, and the fire was put out. Not by him.
"War in love," the cold, steady voice of the Queen of the Gods filled the room as the royally clad, majestic silhouette of his mother materialized in front of him.
"What?" He grimaced, not looking at her.
"Once a child is conceived by War in love, the King's throne the Son claims; the Old passes, the New is born…" the cryptic words echoed through the ether, in a way that sent a tingle down his arms.
"If you came here with more prophecy bullshit, I'm not in the mood."
"Your father lied to me about the prophecy."
"What are you talking about?"
"He made us believe that once you sire a child with the woman you love, all the gods will perish. Turn out it wasn't our future he was concerned about, it was only his own — since the actual prophecy said, once the child was conceived, you would've taken Zeus' throne from him. That was why your father killed the child in her womb."
"He didn't kill just the child," he uttered through clenched teeth, the memory of it cutting his breath short.
"Your father was an old fool. A wise god knows a prophecy cannot be stopped — which your father's fate is the best illustration of. For all it's worth, had I known he deceived me, I would've stopped him."
He snorted. "Well, it doesn't change shit now, does it? She's gone, completely; she's not in the Underworld, I can't find her anywhere."
"It is what a Rib of Cronos does; erases from existence, entirely."
He exhaled, his shoulders sagging. Stupidly, he still held some hope that, maybe, she was still out there, somewhere; just somewhere he couldn't access her, yet. Knowing that she really was — that there was no her, anymore— "Thanks for a fun-fact," he said hastily, breath hitching in his throat, "and, if you're done—"
"I am sorry for your loss, son."
He frowned, taken by surprise. "Since when do you care?" he said dismissively, his eyes roaming over the patterns of his gauntlet.
"Since I understood — after I lost a loved one myself."
He glanced up at her, his frown deepening.
"I loved your father. I find it — challenging, being without him."
He looked up at her, bewilderment making his brows furrow. His mother never opened up like that. He didn't even know she was capable of feelings. But there is was; her voice, never laced with anything other than mild contempt, right now, was almost soft.
He exhaled, casting his eyes down as he felt her hand on his head when she stepped closer towards him. It felt weird, to have her touch him, but he didn't move; it was calming, somehow. "Does it ever… get normal again?" he asked, his lids closing.
"That I do not know. But I do not wish to endure further anticipation to find out."
"What're you talking about?" he raised his head, alarmed.
"What's a Queen without a King? My reign here is done."
"What's a King without a Queen?" he snorted before he could stop himself.
"Queen or no Queen, it is your time to take over after your father and I, as it was always meant to be," she said, the green eyes piercing him in their usual, eerie manner. "Come. They are waiting."
When they materialized in the main hall of Olympus, there was a crowd, indeed; all eyes on them.
And here he was, his lifelong dream coming true; the throne of the King finally his; no Zeus, no humiliation, no punishments.
And no her, the thought needled his mind as he looked to his mother's empty throne.
"My time here is done. It should be your Queen up on that throne," his mother's voice entered his mind.
For a moment, he couldn't see anyone anymore, all the faces melting into a blur. There was only one face he ached to see, to be there, and she wasn't; and never would be, he thought, the realization hitting him like a ton of bricks, sudden despair gripping at his gut. How fucking meaningless it now seemed, all of it, if she couldn't be here.
"I don't wanna be here," he said darkly, under his breath, blinking to disperse the emotion welling up in his eyes, forcing a breath in through the clenched throat.
Then, glancing sideways, seeing the understanding in his mother's calm gaze, he composed himself, some newfound strength filling his lungs, as his mother's voice in his head verbalized what was now rendering before his eyes when he stared at the Queen's throne.
"She's there, looking at you; always will be."
He blinked to clear his vision, and she was, she really was. For a moment.
As breathtakingly royal as he remembered.
THE END