This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(63)
“You never wanted to give Hera the satisfaction of a war against Zeus,” I point out.
“It would be worth it for you,” he says.
“It won’t come to that.”
“That’s not really the point.”
“I know.” I twist the carnelian beads on my necklace, their polished surface smooth under my fingers. Although my heart is thrilling at his words, I’m anxious too.
“So, what’s wrong?”
“I don’t understand,” I say. “One moment you wouldn’t care if I was in love with Hephaestus, the next you want to start a war for me?”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t care.” His eyes darken. “Only that I know love is in your nature, it’s woven into the fabric of who you are. You don’t have a choice over that; no god does. We are what we were made to be. How could I try to stop Aphrodite from falling in love? It’s impossible.”
As impossible as keeping you from battle. “Well,” I say, “you don’t need to try to stop me from falling in love, since it’s you I’ve fallen in love with.”
I see the realization dawn on him, as irresistible as sunrise. The flush of warmth that softens his face, the golden glow of a happiness that feels almost too precious to believe. His caution and his doubt, overwhelmed in this moment by the dazzling clarity of day. I know his instinct is to doubt, to armor himself against the possibility that it might be only a fragile illusion, just a trick of light and shadow.
But it’s true. Inconvenient, impossible and completely true.
He pulls me close, and we start walking again. “Are you going back there?” He clears his throat gruffly. “To see him again?”
“I will,” I say, “if he wants to see me. He might not.”
“He will.” His tone is grim, echoes of clashing swords ringing under his words.
“I’ll think about it,” I say. I’m thinking of Charis too. She may not desire my help, but, now that Hephaestus knows I can’t reciprocate his feelings, maybe he’ll finally look around and notice what he’s got.
“So,” he says, pivoting to face me. He takes my hands in his and steers me backward, until I’m between him and the craggy rock face towering above. “That means you aren’t going anywhere right away.”
His hands slip to my wrists, like fetters holding me to the stone. “No,” I say. “There’s nowhere else I want to be.” The rock is damp against my back, the fresh scent of rain rising from it.
“Good,” he says, and lowers his lips to mine.
* * *
—
When I eventually bring myself to leave Ares’ bed, I don’t go to Sicily. Instead, I go to Naxos. I promised Dionysus I’d return to the forest where his Maenads dance, and so I’m here, whirling more and more wildly in dizzying circles until the stars above us wheel in the dark skies. I wanted to come for something uncomplicated, for the sheer joy of it. The grass is damp and cool beneath my back, the world tilting until I feel as though I’m suspended above the vast bowl of melting constellations, like I could topple down at any moment and lose myself among them.
His leopard paces past me, and I reach out a hand to touch her fur. It’s sleek beneath my fingers, and I can feel the warmth of her blood pulsing through her body. Her breath is hot and musky, her head hard when she dips down and rubs against my arm, seeking more caresses.
I hear Dionysus laugh and turn my head toward him. The leopard slinks past me, pressing her body against his knees, letting him stroke her ears and press kisses into her forehead. He’s beautiful, I think hazily. Ares is tall and lithe, sleek and strong like the leopard. Dionysus is nothing like him, graceful and slightly built. Nothing like Hephaestus either, who towers as broad and powerful as the volcano he rules.
He’s so close to me. His ivy crown has tipped and leaves are tangled in his soft hair. He sprawls down on the earth, his chiton rumpled and falling to the side, exposing half his chest. I glance around the grove; I can hear the high voices of Maenads lifted in raucous song, but they’re drifting into the distance.
The echo of the cymbals and drums carries on the breeze and reminds me of the war celebrations in Thrace. The followers of Dionysus lose themselves in ecstasy, like the worshippers of Ares, like the mortals who devote themselves to me as well. But there is a primal joy here, a delight that doesn’t feel edged with violence like it does at the rites of the War God. They’re here to worship pleasure, not death and slaughter.
Dionysus tips his silver drinking-horn back into his mouth and takes a deep swig, before offering it to me. His hand is warm against my fingers as I take it, and I put my lips to the rim, the same place where his mouth was moments ago.
Another leopard slinks from the trees, and the two nuzzle into one another’s necks, arching their bodies around each other, their shining eyes heavy-lidded with hypnotic entrancement.
Wouldn’t I rather be here, lost in song and wine and delicious anticipation, than overlooking a battleground where the screams of the dying mingle with the Keres’ gleeful shrieks? The fog swirls in my head, the haze of wine creeping through my blood. I’m sure Dionysus feels it too from the way his lips part over his teeth and his eyes cloud with desire.
What’s stopping me? The sound of Ares’ voice in my mind telling me that he loves me? Or is it the warning memory of Dionysus’ covetous eyes on Hephaestus’ vacant throne?