Chapter 11 #3
“Well, sometimes it must be, surely?” Hephaestus leans forward. “There must be weddings that you can celebrate, countless matches you’ve brought together?”
I wrinkle my nose. “It does happen, and I’ll accept their thanks when it does. But it’s always a little tedious when one of my women pledges herself to a husband forever.” Phaon was the only exception, I think, and look how that turned out. “It feels like an ending.”
Hephaestus furrows his brow. “But surely it’s a beginning.”
“She prefers the unknown,” Charis tells him. “All the possibilities of other love affairs.”
The thrill still courses through my veins now, heat and passion vividly stamped on my memories of last night. I take a firm hold of myself, banishing them from my mind.
“Which a wife rejects,” I explain. “Well, she’s supposed to anyway.”
“Even so,” Hephaestus says, clapping his hands together, “a wedding is a happy occasion.”
“Sometimes,” Charis interjects.
I nod. “How happy was Amphitrite when Poseidon sent his sea-gods to hunt her down and drag her to his palace? Or what about Boreas, galloping down to earth and sweeping up his bride while she was playing in a meadow with her friends?” It makes my toes curl with revulsion when I picture it: the sudden chill in the air as the purple-winged God of the Wind descended, his icy breath freezing the droplets of dew on the grass as he swooped to grab her.
“Too many of the gods take what they want without asking.”
“And men follow their example.” Charis sniffs, tossing her curls so they fall like a shining river down her back.
“It’s not love as I know it,” I finish. “Not the kind I want to inspire in gods or mortals.”
Hephaestus frowns. “But it’s not always like that.”
I laugh. “I think you might be more romantic than I am.”
“Surely not.”
“Well, maybe not. More romantic than Hera, certainly.”
Hephaestus looks serious. “Who can blame her, though?”
It’s interesting how much sympathy he’s prepared to extend to his mother.
I haven’t noticed much maternal affection from her to either of her sons, but he’s far more willing to excuse her than Ares is.
I remember what he said about Hera and Zeus fighting to win him in their perpetual battle against one another, and indignation for Hephaestus stirs inside me.
They don’t fight over their second son. They’re both equally contemptuous of him.
“Don’t feel sorry for her,” I tell him. “Her misery is of her own making.”
My sharpness startles him. “Not entirely,” he protests. “It’s mostly Zeus’ fault.”
“Either way,” I say, “it’s a waste of time getting involved.”
He gives me a curious look. “That doesn’t sound like you.”
A blush starts to creep across my cheeks.
He’s right. I drain my wine hastily. “Perhaps I’m more worried about her dragging me into her weddings than I thought,” I say.
“Anyway, if she was looking for me, I’m sure she’s lost patience by now.
” I get to my feet, and Charis follows. In a hurry, we bid Hephaestus goodbye and walk back to my quarters across the thankfully empty courtyard.
—
I hear that Ares is outside Sparta, helping their warriors defend the city from attack.
It won’t take long, I’m sure; they’re renowned for their ferocity.
The nights pass as I throw myself into my work in Cyprus, granting love to others.
I visit Phaon’s widow, bringing polished shells to her small son, delighting in the smile that dimples his cheeks and lights up his eyes with a happiness that reminds me of his father.
I watch over my temple and hear the prayers of the lovelorn and the hopeful, and I make broken hearts whole once more. I am distracted but not enough.
When I see the trailing flame of his horses in the sky, galloping from Sparta back to Thrace, my body is galvanized into action. I don’t harness my chariot; I leap from the mountain summit, shimmer into the shape of a dove and fly to the forbidding gates of his mansion on Mount Haemus.
He’s waiting on the black flagstones in the courtyard, as though he knew I was coming.
“I didn’t think you would,” he assures me. “But I hoped.”
“Just this once,” I tell him breathlessly.
I pull his mouth to mine and his hands are in my hair, pressing me to him like he can’t wait another second. In this moment, I realize every moment we weren’t touching felt like an agonizing eternity. Now I have him again, I need him closer. Much closer.
I’m not worried about betrayal: the wraithlike Keres stare right through me as though I don’t exist. If Eris wanted to share our secrets, there is no god willing to hear her except Ares himself.
I don’t fear the watchful gaze of Helios: his rays quail and shrink from these grim towers, his light dwindling to no more than a pale trickle that barely illuminates the floating mists that wreathe these rocky peaks.
Ares breaks the kiss just long enough to pull me through the doors, into that austere hall again.
His home is far from my bright and cheerful quarters on Olympus, but, in the arms of the War God, I wonder if its desolate magnificence isn’t more impressive than our glittering palace.
If to be queen of this shadowed mansion for a night might not be better than all the glory that the heavens have to offer.
In the heat of this moment, it feels like that’s true.
Later, I’ll wake in the darkness of his bedchamber to the haunted shriek of an owl. I’ll hear the cries of grief rising from the families of those he vanquished and I’ll vow that this time really will be the last.