This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(39)
His laugh is genuine, his seriousness lifted for a flash like the sun breaking through the clouds. “There’s always another reason,” he says. “An agenda, a strategy. But you really cared for that mortal. He mattered to you. Most gods aren’t sincere, not like that. They never show who they really are. But you can’t be anything except who you are. It made me wonder.”
“Wonder what?”
“What else I’d gotten wrong about you.”
I absorb his words slowly. He’s right. I can cloak my intentions so that Zeus or Poseidon never quite knows where he stands, but I couldn’t keep them hidden around Ares. I let him see how I really felt.
It worries me. What happened between us last night was an explosion of desire, of pent-up frustration and suppressed longing bursting free. But lying in his arms and listening to him talk like this is something else. There’s a coziness that feels seductive but that I know is dangerous. This was meant to be a singular occurrence. I need to believe that I was impelled only by the intrigue, by his mystery and strangeness, and that I’ll swiftly grow tired of the darkness. Surely, the eerie allure of this place will fade, and with it my fascination with him will crumble away? The last thing I want is to start believing that this cold, distant War God has a heart.
“Well, I don’t think the other gods would agree that they’re at my mercy.” I steer us back on to safer conversational ground.
If he’s disappointed, he doesn’t betray it. “They’re fools if they don’t see your power,” he says lightly.
“Athena can resist anything I try,” I say. “I can never even guess what might tempt her, if anything exists that could.”
He leans back against the furs. “Stick to bringing down Hades’ defenses if you want to keep your sanity. Don’t try her.”
I smile. “Why does she annoy you so much?”
“She treats war the same way she treats love,” he mutters. “As though she’s above it.”
“At least she engages in war, unlike love,” I counter. “She’s so disdainful of everything I do.”
“I’d rather she stayed out of war too, instead of trying to bring it into line with the way she thinks it should be,” he says. “You’re lucky you don’t have to watch her dabbling around in love, never really caring about it, never knowing what it means. Trying to make it make sense, be orderly and controlled.” He exhales, a short huff of irritation.
“But all the gods respect her,” I say. I think of Zeus and Poseidon, the covetous leer when their eyes rove up and down my body, of Hera’s peremptory manner toward me. And then there’s Artemis, who has told me bluntly that she wants none of my interference, that love is of no interest to her at all. I know, though, what she does with her forest-nymphs under the moonlight. I know that her wild huntresses are the sweetest of her prey, willing and eager to succumb to her embrace. She just won’t acknowledge that love flows from me. Even Demeter, as kind and maternal as she can be, sometimes gives me the impression that she thinks my power a more frivolous thing than hers. Not quite as crucial as replenishing the harvest every year. As though the act of survival is more important than having something to live for.
Ares leans over the side of the bed, reaching for the jug of nectar and the rough-hewn cups on the floor. He sits up to pour the golden liquid into each, handing one to me. He lives so simply here, but I’m extremely grateful not to have his unnerving attendants materializing to serve us.
“They’d rather not think about it,” he says. “How important you are, how powerful. They think love and war are both diversions, as though they exist for entertainment or a spectacle. They prefer to think of it that way, rather than acknowledge how much they need us both.”
There it is again, that intimacy in the way he’s speaking about us that makes me uncomfortable. What he’s saying sets the two of us apart from all the other gods—a treacherous, romantic idea that worms its way into my heart, almost convincing me. I know he’s an outcast among the Olympians, while I easily find my place, but the domains we rule are raw and passionate and unpredictable and of course that unsettles them. For a dizzying moment, I see us through Ares’ eyes—two gods who are different to all the rest.
But that doesn’t make us the same as each other.
“When will you come back to Olympus? How long will it take before you can stand to see Zeus without declaring war on him?”
Ares shrugs and catches a gleaming droplet of nectar with his finger before it slides down the surface of the cup. “I’m not in any hurry.”
“But when you do,” I say, drawing a deep breath, “this stays between us.”
He gives me a quizzical glance. “Who would I tell?”
“I just mean it’s better that Zeus doesn’t suspect anything.”
“Aphrodite,” he says, “I don’t care what Zeus suspects. I don’t care what he thinks about anything.” He sounds scornful. “But, no, I won’t give anything away. I don’t want any of the other gods in my life.”
Any of them except me. A little thrill shivers through me. I damp it down at once. “You should care,” I say. “Anything that Zeus knows, he can use as a weapon. But it doesn’t matter. No one saw us leave Cyprus together.” They were all far too distracted to notice.