“You could talk to him and ask.”
“I believe approaching someone who wants nothing more than to kill you would be the human definition of insanity.”
“And thinking that I don’t know how you love to get under your brother’s skin would be the definition of stupid, on your part.”
“It’s just so easy.”
Athena’s brightly-painted, silvery-pink lips curl upwards. Her eyes are the same vibrant gold Ares’ are, whenever the bloodlust of war prickles at his soul. For Athena, it’s a verbal spar that sparks her engine. Or a physical one. Any form of honorable combat with an equal, really.
And maybe, just maybe, after twenty plus years, she’s starting to find me her equal.
But really, would anyone be Athena’s intellectual equal?
“You’re different,” she says, cupping her drink with both hands, looking over the rim of the porcelain mug.
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“Neither. Both. I’ve never seen you so...outwardly brazen before. And I was your best friend during the French Revolution.”
“You left me to die then.”
She shrugs. “I couldn’t stop what was happening then. Just like you, no matter what you do, cannot stop what’s going to happen now. Driving a new model of car doesn’t matter if you take the same road, Carson. It just changes how long it takes to get there.”
The waitress returns, dropping our food in front of us. This time, she doesn’t even hide her favor for me, never turning to look at Athena. “Can I get you anything else?”
Athena snorts, and I shake my head. “I think that’s everything, thank you.”
The waitress slumps slightly as she walks away, leaving us to a meal Athena doesn’t need, and I don’t really want.
“Just so you know,” I tell Athena, chewing slowly, “you lost me with that car metaphor.”
The sharp Caesar dressing tap-dances against my senses. In this life, I enjoy it. In my last one, it made me want to vomit. There’s still a twitch of that gag reflex each time I eat it. No matter how much I like it.
I stab a crouton and a curl of lettuce, and lift them halfway to my mouth before Athena’s French-manicured hand grabs my wrist, stopping me.
“Then let me be clearer. Associating with my brother will lead to your death. Faster.”
Her grip is strong, stronger than my human grip. There’s a moment of push and pull, my arm moving an inch or two in each direction, but I can’t break her grasp, nor her gaze. Even as I push a command out with my mind, a gift I’ve developed over my lives, and feel my will wrap around hers, she resists, shredding my influence with ease.
“Don’t insult me, Carson,” she whispers coldly. “Your tricks won’t work on me. You may be able to make men and women bend to your will, but that doesn’t apply to gods.”
“It works on your brother,” I snap without thinking.
Athena’s brow twitches. A successful blow. One point for me. But that’s the only success I get. “Again. You’re smart enough to know better. My brother loves you, in spite of how foolish it is. You should have stayed in Seattle instead of coming here.”
“Then you’re smart enough to know, eventually, we all would have been brought together anyway. Aphrodite would have made it happen once she got bored. At least now I’m taking a proactive stance when it comes to my own future.”
Athena and I sit in silence, me eliminating half of my salad, and her looking out the window. Police cruisers zoom by, heading south. Men and women in masks, painted with rainbow glitter pass by, chanting an energizing call to arms that would surely make the news and social media rounds before the day was up.
“Do you think he did it?” I ask, breaking the silence once I’m done eating. When she doesn’t answer, I clarify. “The cop.”
“Does it matter?” Athena still doesn’t look at me, but she taps her middle fingernail against the table with a four count.
“It should. You’re the Goddess of Wisdom.”
“And I have the wisdom to know some questions don’t have answers. Some conflicts might be born from a specific event, but that’s not the reason they continue.
“Take the apartment fire, for instance. That’s not an isolated event—it’s a byproduct of a group of people fed up of being viewed as nothing. It’s the manifestation of hurt and pain when a cop, the cop is question, is found guilty of a hate crime, but the sentencing—time served and community service—doesn’t fit the crime. What about the family who lost their son? About the community who has dealt with being under the oppressive thumb of those who have sworn to protect them? What about the people who, time and time again, are the ones left to pick up the pieces of themselves and put themselves back together when justice is not served in the way they deem it should be? What happens when enough is enough?”
Athena sighs, and leans back, pausing for only a moment. “Chaos. That’s what happens. Right or wrong, just or fallible, driven by greed or justice, chaos is the product of pain and sometimes, like this time, chaos gives birth to war, Carson. A war that is already set in motion and cannot be stopped. Not by you. Not by me. Not by my brother. The only way it can stop, is if one of us...”
“Has to be victorious,” I finish for her. “Ares told me that already.”
“Well, he’s immature, not stupid.”
A twinge of white-hot fire bubbles in my stomach at her jab at Ares, but I choose to ignore it in favor of another question. “Whose side are you on this time?”
Athena doesn’t hesitate. “The side of justice and law and reason,” she says. “The courts. The justice system. The lawyers, on both sides, who did their jobs to discover guilt and innocence.”
“And you’re okay with this?”
She shrugs. “He’ll live with the shroud of public shame, a record, and loss of his job for the rest of his life. I’d argue he’s received his due. More than other officers in this generation have. Ares doesn’t want justice, of any sort. He feeds off the vitriol of people. Stirs it. Churns it. He doesn’t care who is right or wrong. Only who is the angriest and most filled with bloodlust. In this iteration, it’s the rioters.”
She takes a sip of her drink. “Have you thought of what might happen if Ares wins this little scuffle between the two of us?”
“He represents the protesters, he should win. When something wrong happens...”
“Justice decides the outcome, not the bloodlust of humanity, Carson,” Athena sighs. “My brother has always represented the primal rage inside of people. I’ve always represented the law and fairness of the judicial system. When there is conflict, we appear, and our presences help determine which side will win. It’s been like that for centuries, a cyclical event. And you ignoring the societal ramifications of what happens if Ares wins this scuffle, is just as repetitive. You know what happens when people get a taste of victory by the hands of violence. You’ve lived through half a dozen of those simulations.”
“I’m not stupid either, Athena,” I say through gritted teeth. “I know—”
“Then stop acting like you are,” she interrupts with a cold tone I’d expect from someone like Hades. “Some things, Carson, are out of our hands. How many times do you have to die prematurely before you realize that? How many times must you try and stop Ares—The God of War—from being who he is? How many times must you meddle, and manipulate, poorly, I might add, for something as foolish as love, when the man you’re fighting to be with doesn’t even care about you?”
“He cares about me,” I object. “You even said before...”
“Yes, yes. My brother loves you. But caring about someone and loving someone are two very different things. Love is a powerful emotion. Just like hate, or bloodlust, or valor. My brother feels all those things. But he cares only about war. And winning. Caring about another person requires sacrifice and asks all of you. My brot
her will only give all of him to one thing: war.
“And besides, look at where loving someone like him has gotten you. You were an idiot to fall for him back then, and you’re an idiot to keep loving him. If you were smart, you’d put that brain of yours to work thinking how to avoid him and I, not flocking toward him like a lovesick child.”
“That’s what Ares said.”
“Even a broken clock is right twice a day.”
I swallow thickly, digging my nails into the palm of my hand. I know where this is going. Every few lives, Athena tries this same song-and-dance.
“Are you saying you’re any different?”
“Very. Not because I care about people. But because I know that I don’t. You make him weak, Carson. That scares him, and emboldens him. Why do you think he’ll go to the end of the Earth for you, but also pushes you away?”
“Because he loves me,” I correct and repeat. Like I, despite everything, love him. I don’t care about Athena and Ares’ endless tit-for-tat. It’ll never end. But these riots outside? The violence that’s threatening to bubble over? That needs to end. Now.
“How do I stop this, Athena?”
“This conflict?”
I nod. “Do I need to kill Pandora? Find the Box again? Make a pact with another god?”
“That’s what got you into this mess.”
“A witch? What has to be done? I met you here because I want this to end. Every problem has a solution, so what’s this one’s?”
Athena laughs again. She stands and her clothing ripples like gold flecks on the surface of a pristine lake. Her power suit changes into a white tunic, fit perfectly with a gold-and-leather breastplate. Golden-plated boots appear as sandals and a matching helmet and wrist guards adorn her. Her shoulder bag is replaced with a circular shield. Her copy of Moby Dick with her signature gladius.
“This will stop, like everything else horrible in this world will stop, when I kill Ares. For good.”
III
For most, the sound of thunder is a (familiar) omen of an ongoing New England summer storm.
For me, it is the familiar sound of two gods exchanging metallic blows during a fight to the death.
The streets of Boston are overrun with protesters and cops—a sea of rainbow flags bleeding into waves of dark blue. News crews report from the sidelines as demonstrators chant so loudly it’s one homogeneous roar of live-wire energy.
Citizen journalists weave in and out of the groups, taking pictures with their phones and inserting themselves into conversations, trying to balance the truth with sensationalism. Everyone knew this was going to be big—the cop who bashed a gay kid’s face in only got community service? It was a huge national news story.
But no one thought it would turn into a full-on mass riot in the city, fueled by opinions, social exhaustion, and most of all, anger. No one knew how this incident was filled with so much human...pain, that the gods themselves would insert themselves into the narrative. No one knew how out of control their lives truly were.
But that isn’t my concern. Not now at least.
My attention is focused on the two gods on a rooftop locked in combat.
After Athena left, I knew exactly where she was going to go. Finding Ares has never been a problem. We can always find each other; a parting gift Aphrodite gave me along with this curse so many years ago.
The closer I get to his location, a roof, the more the sizzling and crackling air pushes me away. But I fight through it, kicking the door to the rooftop open, just in time to see Athena’s shield block Ares’ foot.
The impact forces her to slide back. She keeps her ground, her toes digging deep into the concrete roof. Ares brandishes his broadsword in a wide arc. He swings, but she blocks with her gladius. With her knee, she drives a sharp blow into his abs.
His feet leave the ground, and Athena strikes again. Using her strength and speed, she hits the side of his face—hard—with her shield. He flies for a meter or two, then lands on his side, with a heavy thump.
“Ares!” I yell. He only holds up his hand, a silent command to stay back. In typical Ares fashion, he laughs and spits out blood in Athena’s direction.
“You’ve gotten better.” He smirks.
“And you’ve gotten worse,” she replies, taunting him with three taps on her shield with her sword.
This isn’t the first—or second or third—time Athena and Ares have fought. In fact, much of this life reminds me of our times together through history. France in the nineteen forties. The Civil War. Major events that shaped world history, where right and wrong were blurred.
Where there is war, there is Ares.
Where there is justice, there is Athena.
One will always win, one side will be proclaimed in history books as being victor.
And this fight, right here? Is the true deciding factor. Not politicians, not weapons of mass destruction or wise empathetic spokesmen. This.
And the pattern repeats.
Always.
How can they not see this? How can they not understand that this endless war they have, this fight for control, is accomplishing nothing? Don’t they see this cycle will never stop? That they’ll be back to exchanging blows ten, twenty, thirty years from now?
Or maybe they just don’t care?
“Stop!” I beg, pushing away from the door and running toward them.
Ares and Athena are less than fifteen feet away from me. Within the time it takes to travel the steps, they’ve exchanged more than three dozen blows. Their battle is a golden and white blur, much like what a highway looks like at night when a photographer takes a long-exposure shot. The only time I can make them out is when they pause, in different battle positions, before resuming their dance.
Athena on top of Ares with her blade at his neck.
Ares with Athena in a choke hold.
Athena and Ares, blades shaking as they push against one another.
“Why?” I whisper to myself. Why was I given this curse by Aphrodite? What does living forever and loving someone who can never die mean if this is how we spend our lives? Who deserves that?
Me. The human who thought loving and being loved by a god would be a cakewalk. The boy who thought calling upon Ares, the God of War to help avenge the loss of his fallen lover was a smart idea. Who assumed our passionate and all-encompassing love that came to be wouldn’t cause ripples in the Pantheon? Me, who thought the Goddess of Love herself wouldn’t be intrigued by our romance.
I’m not certain why Aphrodite picked me for this curse. Was it because she saw the love Ares and I had and was jealous? Or was it because she was rooting for us and knew we’d need more than one human life to succeed? All I know is the gods are known for meddling in human lives, and Aphrodite is no exception.
Was she proud of me? Proud of us? How we kept coming back to one another, no matter how many times or how far apart we were? Did she revel in the pain she caused? In revealing that true love always ends in pain?
And most importantly, was it worth it? The fleeting moments where we both know the allure of war and winning will pull him away from me? The wars Ares has caused to find me? The people he’s hurt? The situations I’ve put him through? The sacrifices we’ve made? It’s a dysfunctional love. A tragic love. A horrible love.
But it’s ours, even if it won’t end any differently. Even if he wins this fight with Athena, or Athena beats him, the byproduct will always be the same. I’ll die. Maybe not right now. Maybe in a minute, or in a day, or a week, but death will come for me. Aphrodite will see to that, and her secret experiment will start again.
An experiment with one simple hypothesis: is it truly possible for a human and a god to love one another?
This time, when Ares and Athena pause their dance, Athena’s back is against the wall, her impression imprinted on the brick. Sweat is on her bro
w—something you rarely see on a god—and her shield is off to the side, out of reach.
It’s clear, even on her usually poised, always in-control face, that she’s on the defensive. It’s a reflection of the battle below. Just like her, the cops are outnumbered. Outmanned. The hate crime had spilled outside of Boston proper. The news and social media had stoked the flames and the whole USA was talking about it.
Athena, and the cops, had lost before this riot had even begun. And Ares, with the hungry, almost crazed, look in his eyes, lunged forward to make a—the—blow.
The blow that would kill a god.
The same blow that I leap in front of, causing Ares’ broadsword to sink deep into my abdomen, and gives Aphrodite an answer:
None of your fucking business.
IV
When my love is near, the air usually smells of sharpened steel, but this time, it smells faintly of roses.
I can hear the sounds of Ares and Athena arguing over me, but their words are muddled. The tips of my fingers and toes feel cold—and once again, the corners of my eyes are dark. I can’t move, despite how many times I tell myself to, the request is denied. My body feels like an engine trying to rev itself back to life, and each growl is weaker than the last.
I try to focus on the words the two gods above me say, to force my mind to remain alert, but the growing scent of flowers distracts me. For a moment, none of it makes sense—we’re on a rooftop, not in a forest. Until I feel time stand still, the pain is replaced with warmth, and something tickles my nose.
A woman looks down at me, her long hair brushing against me. She’s smiling, her demure, heart-shaped face and warm eyes make it clear who she is.
“Hades doesn’t usually send you to deal with my passing,” I note. “We usually use this time to play a game of chess.”
Persephone smiles, stroking her fingers through my hair. Her nails scratch against my scalp and my eyes close slowly. I feel my lips curl into a small, stupor-like grin, my stiff joints relaxing with each touch.
“Something has come up in Africa. He sends his regards,” she whispers.
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