dust had crept over the place during these past months. Crimson arrows and bows hung useless in his corridor, quivering every time he came near, practically begging to be put back into service. Those weapons of love missed working their magic almost as much as he did. He’d tried explaining the details of his recent pact to them, but his living arsenal never had been much on patience.
But they were very high on loyalty, a bond that went both ways. Eros had found them, a battalion of castoff soldiers cursed by his own father’s hand, transformed to standing stones, forever overlooking the Straits of Salamis. Ares had left these mighty men of valor, these Greek fighting warriors, lifelessly observing the battleground, unable to defend their beloved homeland.
Eros had taken pity upon the soldiers. Knowing firsthand how cruel his father could be, he’d transformed and conscripted them into his arsenal. They held rank and name, as they had in life, and he hoped that perhaps one day Ares might be persuaded to return them to their human state—a power he himself did not possess. At the moment, his arsenal did not understand the wager he’d made with his father. He pitied them, hanging uselessly in the hall of weapons; they surely felt as if they’d been turned to stone again.
Eros understood the sentiment, that deathly pall of uselessness.
That was where Dominick and Adrianne had entered into his affairs. Although imaginary, they at least provided some outlet for his talents. He’d hoped that, like the dossiers he had always maintained on his pairings, imagining their amorous intersection would give him purpose. He stared at their insipid tale upon the scroll, and despite himself, a thrill charged through his veins. Creation. Love. Seduction. Ah, it was only on the page, but it mimicked the real-life wicked rush.
He blew on his latest passage, urging the ink to dry. He wondered when his hard-won temperance would earn his father’s favor.
“Still trying your hand at verse?”
Eros started, turning over the inkpot, his hands and arms becoming drenched in crimson color. “Father. You were not expected.” He struggled to sound composed, even as he dripped ink ingloriously.
Ares stared down his nose. “We wouldn’t want you to appear drenched in blood. Not like a real warrior; then again, perhaps you’ve put those arrows of yours to legitimate use at last.”
Eros blotted at the ink, but it only smeared into a greater mess.
His father sniffed. “Go clean yourself, boy.”
Eros’s face flamed hot. Neither of them ever aged, and although he was this god’s son, he hadn’t been a “boy” in many millennia. Still, he found himself muttering, “Yes, my lord,” as he hurried toward the bathing rooms for a towel.
When he returned, Ares was reading from his scroll, sneering at Adrianne and Dominick’s tale of mortal love. “What a waste,” his father declared, dropping the parchment back onto the bed as if it were a lethal snake.
Eros quickly rolled it up, trying to blot away the remnants of spilled ink. “You know my gift must find an outlet, father,” he explained, hating how nervous and jittery he sounded. “It has been months since I worked my own arrows to any romantic effect.”
“Months, and yet the mortal populace moons and sexes onward, no end to their need for love.” Ares wandered toward a large Delacroix canvas that hung over the bed, one with surging bodies twined in an orgasmic, voluptuous display. “If it were me, I’d begin questioning my relevance, seeing as how humans carry on quite well without you, Eros.”
“It is their way. I did not sire the need in them. That came from the Highest.”
“Don’t mention Him .”
“Merely stating, father, that you cannot blame me for the existence of the emotion.”
“But for its many permutations and lasting effect . . . clearly you have no significant relevance. Even you must realize that after so many months of abstinence.”
For some
But they were very high on loyalty, a bond that went both ways. Eros had found them, a battalion of castoff soldiers cursed by his own father’s hand, transformed to standing stones, forever overlooking the Straits of Salamis. Ares had left these mighty men of valor, these Greek fighting warriors, lifelessly observing the battleground, unable to defend their beloved homeland.
Eros had taken pity upon the soldiers. Knowing firsthand how cruel his father could be, he’d transformed and conscripted them into his arsenal. They held rank and name, as they had in life, and he hoped that perhaps one day Ares might be persuaded to return them to their human state—a power he himself did not possess. At the moment, his arsenal did not understand the wager he’d made with his father. He pitied them, hanging uselessly in the hall of weapons; they surely felt as if they’d been turned to stone again.
Eros understood the sentiment, that deathly pall of uselessness.
That was where Dominick and Adrianne had entered into his affairs. Although imaginary, they at least provided some outlet for his talents. He’d hoped that, like the dossiers he had always maintained on his pairings, imagining their amorous intersection would give him purpose. He stared at their insipid tale upon the scroll, and despite himself, a thrill charged through his veins. Creation. Love. Seduction. Ah, it was only on the page, but it mimicked the real-life wicked rush.
He blew on his latest passage, urging the ink to dry. He wondered when his hard-won temperance would earn his father’s favor.
“Still trying your hand at verse?”
Eros started, turning over the inkpot, his hands and arms becoming drenched in crimson color. “Father. You were not expected.” He struggled to sound composed, even as he dripped ink ingloriously.
Ares stared down his nose. “We wouldn’t want you to appear drenched in blood. Not like a real warrior; then again, perhaps you’ve put those arrows of yours to legitimate use at last.”
Eros blotted at the ink, but it only smeared into a greater mess.
His father sniffed. “Go clean yourself, boy.”
Eros’s face flamed hot. Neither of them ever aged, and although he was this god’s son, he hadn’t been a “boy” in many millennia. Still, he found himself muttering, “Yes, my lord,” as he hurried toward the bathing rooms for a towel.
When he returned, Ares was reading from his scroll, sneering at Adrianne and Dominick’s tale of mortal love. “What a waste,” his father declared, dropping the parchment back onto the bed as if it were a lethal snake.
Eros quickly rolled it up, trying to blot away the remnants of spilled ink. “You know my gift must find an outlet, father,” he explained, hating how nervous and jittery he sounded. “It has been months since I worked my own arrows to any romantic effect.”
“Months, and yet the mortal populace moons and sexes onward, no end to their need for love.” Ares wandered toward a large Delacroix canvas that hung over the bed, one with surging bodies twined in an orgasmic, voluptuous display. “If it were me, I’d begin questioning my relevance, seeing as how humans carry on quite well without you, Eros.”
“It is their way. I did not sire the need in them. That came from the Highest.”
“Don’t mention Him .”
“Merely stating, father, that you cannot blame me for the existence of the emotion.”
“But for its many permutations and lasting effect . . . clearly you have no significant relevance. Even you must realize that after so many months of abstinence.”
For some
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