26. Get It Together
Theos
Kheos’ words rang in his ears incessantly. He hated that his brother’s position gave him that ability. Whatever warning The Fates gave you, it stuck – singing between your ears like a blood thirsty animal, waiting for you to make the ‘right’ choice. Pathetically, he could think of nothing else. As soon as Kheos spoke, the noise of everything else in Theos’ mind faded into nothing.
“Mate bonds self-destruct when they are not consummated. You may be able to survive its slow death. She will not.”
Theos leaned forward, letting his head fall into his hands. He wasn’t sure how long he could keep up this pretence.
“All these syrises you have pined for her. And still, though I have made you wait, in hopes that you would change, you are still nothing but a selfish god.”
Kheos thought him a self-seeking fool for withholding. But how could he do anything else? Haera was hurt. Constantly hurt. Permanently hurt. He couldn’t very well have walked into her small cottage after rescuing her from assault and demanded she part her legs so he could fuck her as payment for saving her. The opportunity for making love to her had not yet presented itself. If he had initiated intimacy in any of their interactions thus far, he would have been taking advantage of her. He couldn’t do that. No matter how eager her body was for him to touch her, he knew her heart wasn’t in it. He knew she was still afraid. Desperately afraid.
What if he had pressured her into it and promised her that it was the best thing for their bond? No matter how true that was, it would have all crumbled on his head when Alanis visited and started screaming that he would also take advantage of her the way Zyadon had. She would have immediately felt violated and begun to wonder whether her choice truly had been taken away from her. Disaster is what it would have led to.
No matter how desperately he wanted to lock her in place so she couldn’t pull away, and fuck into her slowly, over and over so all she could do was take all of him, he couldn’t. No matter how much he wanted to press his face between her thighs and drink up all the arousal there that tortured him with its scent, he couldn’t. Gods . He wanted to. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t let himself touch her when the current dark desires he harboured were all far too close to her lived experience. He didn’t want to wonder whether every touch would be a regret for her. He wanted her so needy for him that he could wake her up with his cock in her guts and she’d say thank you with her whimpering and moaning. He wanted her with a fierceness that bordered on disregard for what she wanted. He wanted her with a fierceness that could not happen unless she was truly ready to consent to being used.
If waiting until she was sure – until she wasn’t afraid – to make sure they were permanently tied together was the selfish thing to do, then he was selfish. He wanted her to want him as much as he wanted her, before he touched her that way. He wanted her to feel safe being touched that way before he did. He wanted her to feel safe enough to never run from what he gave her. Selfish. He was very selfish .
On the throne, he sat staring out over the universe through the glass walls, trying to level his breathing. He was still in pain. Less pain than before, but still enough of an ache to completely cripple his usual energetic personality and subdue him into silence. Since Kheos had grabbed his arm, he hurt less. The bond hurt less. Had Kheos…healed him? He had been harbouring that question in his mind. After the loudness that was Kheos’ warning that he was somehow selfish and uncaring for waiting for his mate to be ready, that question surged.
It was unlikely that Kheos had healed him for a multitude of reasons. For one, Kheos hated his guts. He took every opportunity that came to him to make Theos’ existence miserable, particularly now that Theos had forced his hand; forced him to unceremoniously hand over his mate. For two, The Fates harboured mercy for no one . With mortals or deities or the lame inanimate members of the worlds, The Fates were immovable and cruel. Kheos wouldn’t have healed him. Then why was the pain so much less now than it had been houyras before, when he’d just arrived to Olympus?
He shook his head, letting his hair fall into his face. Eyes closed, he sighed when images of Haera came to mind. He wanted to go back to her. He wasn’t sure when. Would she call for him? Would he never hear from her again? Her request for space had dumbfounded him so much that he hadn’t even bothered to ask her how long she wanted space for. He hadn’t been thinking straight enough to ask her for the signal that she wanted him to come back.
He was tired of the conflict that seemed to constantly stretch between them. He wanted the restrictions in their relationship to end. He wanted to touch her unrestricted. Hug her. Kiss her. Love her. But he had to wait.
“All these syrises you have pined for her. And still, though I have made you wait, in hopes that you would change, you are still nothing but a selfish god.”
Kheos’ voice was ringing through his head again. Patience. Kheos was trying to teach him patience, like he was a petulant, spoiled child who got whatever he wanted, when he wanted. Now, with the one thing he wanted that he couldn’t have ethically granted to himself, Kheos was trying to subdue him.
Darkness was manifesting around him, slowly, characteristically unlike all the other times Regos manifested in his presence. His younger brother was an even more violent, impatient asshole than he was. If anyone needed a lesson in patience, it was Regos. For some reason, he was manifesting slowly, like he wanted Theos to realize he was coming. Like he wanted Theos to notice that he was manifesting in his throne room without being summoned .
He could have blocked his brother’s manifestation with a wall of energy that would have sent him slamming back into The Hells. He could have stopped his entrance into his presence with just his rejection of the way the atoms around them were shifting, expanding in darkness to accommodate the god of death. He could have turned him back.
“My, my, my,” came Regos’ chillingly condescending whisper. Amusement was bleeding from every pore in his body. “The king over everything, reduced to rubble because he could not resist tasting the gift he gave to mortals.”
Theos did not respond to his brother’s goading, but Regos didn’t seem to need one. His hands slipped into his pockets as he ever so casually approached the throne.
“And even then, with this love, you are so careless.” Regos pulled one hand from his pockets to observe his claws, as though bored. “Your precious little mate is alone, and bleeding.”
Regos’ eyes flashed up to Theos, and Theos watched them filter from their regular green to pure, unadulterated red. When he spoke next, his voice was lower, darker – almost incomprehensible to the languages Theos could understand.
“You know how Death feels about blood. You know I abhor being tempted. Go home to your precious little star. Quickly . Before I can no longer control my thirst for her blood. ”
Theos rose to his feet, stepping into the phantaron without response.
“Long Live the King.” Regos growled, letting the darkness surge around him and shake the foundations of Olympus now that Theos was gone. “We hope the king will get it together.”