This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(17)

The face of his wife—of his widow—rises vividly in my mind, robbing the breath from my body. I brought them together, for her to lose him all over again. The horror of it strangles the cry in my throat.

“You were too slow.”

I turn, bewildered.

Eris, her smug delight shocking me back into the heat and noise of the battle once more. The ripple of glee in her voice is repugnant.

She feeds on conflict; the rage and turmoil that surround us strengthen her, bringing color into her pale cheeks and a glow into her hollow eyes. There is nothing that would give her more pleasure than to rile me into revenge. I know this, yet numb shock gives way to grief and fury mounting in my breast.

“Eris!” His voice is unmistakable, rising above the din.

His stallion rears up in front of us, close enough for me to see the rolling whites of its eyes and the froth lathering at its mouth. I lift my eyes to Ares. The warhorse bucks again, its flanks slick with sweat, but he stays steady on its back, leather reins gathered in one fist and his spear raised in the other. The ground beneath us quakes, and the battle roils, but the animal bows to his will, quietening to his command.

His dark gaze is locked on mine. I can discern no pity in him. No apology, no regret and absolutely no mercy.

“Eris,” he says again, with a steely authority that she can’t ignore. She peels herself away, spreading her wings and gliding over the fighters to join him.

Then he and Eris plunge into the fray, and I’m left standing alone with Phaon’s body.





6


I find her in a sheltered bay, not unlike the one where I first met Phaon. She leans on a rock, looking out at the gray waters, the dog at her feet. Its muzzle rests on its paws, its eyes mournful, staring at the horizon for the boat that will never bring his master home.

I’m not disguised. All I do is dim my radiance so that she won’t be burned or blinded. I see her take in the tattered, filthy state of my dress.

“You didn’t save him.” It isn’t a question.

I shake my head.

The dog heaves itself up and trots toward me, tilting its head quizzically. I stroke it gently and it licks my wrist, as if it knows I tried and it’s trying to console me. But I’ve come to offer sympathy, not receive it.

“I told him not to fight,” I say. “But he was a good man, too good to run away.”

Tears slide down her cheeks. She doesn’t look at me. “I know.”

The dog whines softly, returning to her side. She pats it, her gesture mechanical, her gaze unseeing. Her chin shakes and she dips her head, hair falling in front of her face, shielding her.

I take a step closer and rest my hand on her shoulder. “He loved you so much,” I say.

“I would have died in Athens,” she bursts out. “I lived my life without him, but that was coming to an end. In the Kingdom of Hades, we would have found one another again. I would have had to wait only a few more years, if you’d left me alone.”

“I wanted you to have him here,” I say. “Not as a shadow but real.”

“And what will I do,” she asks, finally meeting my eyes, “now that he’s gone?” She rests her hand on the swelling curve of her stomach. “What will we do?”

Her despair and her dignity are humbling. If Ares saw this, I think, if he were made to confront the consequence of his wars, would it stir any flicker of regret in his iron soul? He can fly away from the carnage, his chariot pulled by fire-breathing, bronze-hooved horses, and never have to think about it. It’s goddesses who hear the prayers of the grieving, just as Demeter said. Never the gods.

“You can go to one of my temples,” I say. “Become a priestess.” She’d be protected there. Safe to live out the years I’ve given her in comfort.

“And devote my life to the worship of love?” There’s a bitter edge to her tone.

I take a moment before I answer, reaching for her hand and holding it in mine. “You’ve loved and been loved greatly. You’d make a worthy priestess.”

A sob escapes her throat.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. I’m sorry I wasn’t quicker, that I didn’t anticipate the arrow. I’m sorry I didn’t try harder to convince him, instead of trying to pluck him out of the maelstrom when it was already too late.

The sun is sinking behind the clouds; too lackluster to do more than tint the white mist a faint pink. Rain begins to spatter onto the pebbles around us.

She cries quietly, and we fall silent. There’s nothing left to say. I stand with her until the last light drains from the sky.



* * *



—

There is precious little time allowed for grief and regret on Mount Olympus. No matter how bruising the loss of Phaon feels, I must make a show of restoring my reputation. It’s humiliating as well as shocking to lose a favored mortal; one whose glorious love story was supposed to be a triumph, not a tragedy.

It’s only Demeter I confide in. I find her at the charred wasteland left behind by the army. She wanders through the abandoned tents, the burnt stumps of the trees that grew here and the trampled stems of the once-abundant grasses and flowers.

“I wasn’t fast enough,” I tell her wearily.

She’s kneeling on the ravaged earth, studying the damage, but when she looks up at me, her face is kind. “You aren’t accustomed to battle,” she says. “It’s not your fault.”