Last Seed

Author's Note: Please enjoy this companion piece to "Hades and Persephone (Receiver of Many)". This story stars Aphrodite and Ares, as they appeared in Receiver of Many, meeting each other for the first time on the last day of the Gigantomachy. A little treat for sticking with me and reading my story for going on two years now...

~s

* * *

"Mimas!"

The creature came to a halt, dust drifting around his scaled feet.

"Turn around, you dog!" The God of War felt the earth shake as the giant spun on his heels. Sweat beaded under Ares' helm, stinging his eyes. The sun beat down on his red cloak, stifling him.

"Who dares to call the last son of Ouranos a dog?!" The giant's bellowing shook the very air.

Pompous idiot, Ares thought. The Gigantes were certainly not the last sons of Ouranos; that infamous honor belonged to the Titans, defeated by his father aeons ago. These beastly creatures wriggled out of the earth long after Cronus spilt his father's blood upon it. Abominations, the lot of them. They had plagued his family and their worshippers, but Gigantes could be killed. The war against them had raged for seven years from Olympus itself to Thrace and Phlegra, and Ares had chased the last of their kind across the burning hot mountains and valleys of Asia. Today he would end them, but the God of War was not so foolish as to underestimate his opponent. He clenched his teeth, spear in hand, on the balls of his feet. He stayed silent. He waited.

Mimas paced around him and leaned down, face to face with Ares. "You must be hard of hearing, speck," Spittle landed on his armor. "Who challenges the last true scion of the Heavens?!"

"The son of Almighty Zeus!" The warrior lifted his helm and the giant uprighted. Sunlight hit Ares, temporarily blinding him. The giant had positioned himself facing east. Clever.

Mimas laughed. "Go home little god, I know who you are. You're the coward!" He raised his club again. "And like the rest you're easily defeated."

A shadow rose, blocking the sun, and Ares realized that it was the creature's great club, whittled from a whole oak tree, ripped from the earth. He leapt out of the way and the bared roots crashed to the earth next to him, spraying another cloud of hot dust, blinding him further. Those were his father's trees. Ares got his bearings and planted his feet into the earth, his spear ready at his side.

"Easily?!" Ares snorted. "You are the only one remaining! Have you not heard? We destroyed the rest of your kin."

Mimas' eyes narrowed for only a moment. He smirked. "You think I care that those weaklings are dead? I survived, I remain, I would have killed them myself once we were finished with you. You Olympians did me a favor. And everyone knows you are a coward, Ares! Now do what you do best. Run and hide!" The club swung over his head, blocking out the sun again.

The God of War tore off his cloak and helm and rolled left, leaving his shield behind. The club shook the earth and covered him in dust and grit. He could taste it on his teeth, feel it cake his arms and legs. He picked up his sword and spear, running under the cover of dust. Mimas waited for it to clear, revealing a red mass of cloth, and the red crest of Ares' helm. He rifled through the discarded pieces to see if the god hid underneath.

Mimas guffawed. "Already run back to your whore mother, did you? Just like all the other bastards spawned by your Almighty Zeus."

"I think not," Ares growled from behind the hulking Giant.

Mimas turned toward the sound of Ares' voice too late. His spear sailed through the air and into the back of the giant's knee, the tip burrowing through flesh and bone until it poked out the other side. Mimas howled, dropping his club. His hand reached back to pull out the projectile, but his arm went limp, the tendons in his elbow cut with the swing of a sword. His ankle gave out, sliced through as methodically as his arm. Mimas cursed. Ares leapt and plunged his blade into the giant's thigh. He climbed, then lodged his sword between Mimas' ribs and scampered up his back. The monster swatting fruitlessly as he collapsed to one knee. Ares felt his heart clench as Mimas' scaled fingers slapped haphazardly next to his head, threatening to crush him. He froze.

I am Deathless... none can harm me... I am Deathless... none can harm me... he chanted to himself, trying to keep his heart from racing, trying to keep that loathsome weakness from creeping up his throat. He concentrated and pulled through the fear, just as Enyo had taught him. Ares plunged his sword into the creature's shoulder blade. Mimas screamed. The God of War climbed high enough to reach his neck.

"And I'm no bastard." Ares growled into his ear. He sliced the vein just under it, and was coated with a spurt of blood, hot and thick on his skin, mixing with the dust and sand of the earth, anointing him triumphant. Mimas staggered and fell and Ares fell with him, his sword raised overhead, his face contorted by a wild-eyed cry of bloodlust and pure joy. Never turn your back unless you know they're dead, the voice of Enyo echoed in his mind. An injured animal is the most dangerous kind. The giant landed on his side, seizing and thrashing as his lifeblood drained onto the sand. Kill them a second time if you must.

Ares plunged his sword into Mimas' windpipe, anchoring his feet as the dying giant flopped onto his back. "My mother is Hera the Queen of Heaven! I am the true heir to Olympus and any who oppose my father shall perish!" He hacked at the creature's throat, determined to take his head off. A gift for Father Zeus to show him that he alone had defeated the last of their retreating enemies— that he was worthy. Mimas lay still. You fought nobly, he thought, hacking into his neck. But you're dead all the same.

He caught sight of the giant's lifeless eyes and stopped. What did those orbs see? What horrific vision fixed the gaze of any man or creature once Thanatos had reaped its soul? Ares swallowed and backed away. Perhaps a head was too much work. He would have to lug the heavy thing behind him. He wagered that Mimas' fanged jawbone weighed more than he did. Ares hopped off the giant's carcass and sauntered to the side of his head, then sliced at the base of the creature's ear, sawing back and forth.

Dishonorable butcher, he could hear Athena castigating him, even though she was two hundred leagues away, safe in her own little town by the sea. He shook his head. Strategy and diplomacy hadn't ended the Gigantes— bloodshed had. Useless, judgmental Athena. Another bastard. The bastard that bares your father's aegis, his own voice reminded him. He clenched his teeth and continued carving until the ear came loose— a piece of Mimas the size of Ares' shield. He wiped his face clean on the edge of his cloak, then fastened the cloth to his bronze cuirass.

Ares heaved the ear onto his shield and dragged it through the rocky desert, leaving Mimas and his vacant eyes far behind him. He sighed, frustrated. Could he even bring something like this with him through the ether and back to Olympus?

The air was hot. The land itself taunted him, wavering in mirage, mimicking cool water. A woman giggled.

Ares up righted and whipped around, spear held at the ready, circling, searching for the sound of the voice. A glint of gold lit the mirage of hot earth, wavering. She was about a hundred paces away, he wagered, though in the heat it was hard to tell. Her hair was black— or was it reddish?— and her skin shone in the sun. Her hair was laced with gold, and a diadem with golden horns was perched on her forehead. She looked foreign— from the far eastern lands.

"What in Tartarus..." He walked toward her but could get no closer.

Her perfect pearly teeth glistened when she smiled at him. The woman swirled her skirts of gold about her.

"Hey!" He let go of Mimas' ear and jogged in her direction, trying to catch up with her, but the faster he went the further she faded. "Wait!"

The woman in gold vanished and Ares stopped in his tracks, bewildered.

"Do you know who I am?! Show yourself to me!"

He felt a cooling sea breeze strike his skin, making it prickle. Of course I do, a woman's voice whispered.

"Are you one of them?" Ares hated the lump in his throat, hated hearing his voice catch when he asked it.

I am older than the Gigantes.

Ares felt his blood freeze. If she wasn't of his kind or one of the Gigantes, then what was she? Older than the Gigantes. Gods above, he thought, she might be a Titan... an enemy that would make the Gigantomachy look like a practice skirmish. His heart pounded and he held his breath. The cooling breeze whipped across his skin again, caressing him.

Worry not, my Ares, her voice said on the wind. I will see you soon.

The breeze vanished and he felt the hot sun on his shoulders. Ares shook his head. It was too hot outside. He'd tracked Mimas too long. When was the last time he'd tasted ambrosia or nectar? He tried not to think about how madness ran in his family or the tales about how it has consumed his grandfather... driven him to eat his young... to swallow his mother... Ares trudged back to the severed ear, flies already starting to collect on congealed blood. His stomach turned.

"Oh, to Hades with this," he mumbled and left Mimas' ear in the dust.

* * *

Thrace was a riot of celebration and drumming, cries and shouts going up around the temple of Ares Enyalios. Fires blazed into the night, celebrating the end of the Gigantomachy, and the triumph and favor of their patron.

Ares liked Thrace. He liked their warriors with their artful skin. Their men endured great pain when the needles tapped a meandros of horses and suns into their flesh to show the world that they were no longer boys— that they were proud warrior men of their tribe. He liked their women with their red hair and flaming temperament, as capable of gutting their foes as any man in Hellas. And he very much enjoyed fucking the women of Thrace, when the mood struck him.

He'd disguised himself, as his kind was wont to do, dressing as a common soldier celebrating with the people. Tonight his arms boasted the same dark ink as the Thracians, his cloak bore the same dark colors. Ares toasted to victory in their agora. He poured himself more wine and tipped a small leather flask of ambrosia into his cup then drank its contents in one gulp. Vitality flowed through his veins, chasing away the weariness of battle.

Hetaerae, women skilled in the art of pleasure, danced past him. Their deerskin loin skirts showed off the smooth curves of their legs, and purple apodesmos bound their breasts. Coins jangled as they gyrated, sewn to strips of cloth tied about their wrists and ankles. A fair hetaerae, covered head-to-toe in freckles, played a lyre and sang of the battle.

On any other day, he would have tossed the instrument from the freckled girl's hands, given her a hard kiss and thrown her over his shoulder to disappear into the night. Sometimes the girls protested; most times they did not. Often he could quiet their protests with a clever tongue and fingers or a shiny trinket or two. She was a pretty little thing, but the desert woman in gold already consumed his mind. Instead of pulling the hetaerae into his arms, he stood and listened to her next song.

"Who will come for him? Who will consort with Enyalios?

Who will calm the fire that runs through the veins of our lord?

She comes... she comes... the Lady she comes...

To conquer the heart of Enyalios..."

He wrinkled his nose and walked on. If only she would, whoever she was. Like most gods he was handsome enough, he thought, though not vain about it like preening, prancing Apollo. His build was stocky and muscular, much like his father. His body had been hardened by training and battle, but unlike the warriors around him, bore none of its scars. Mortal women, nymphs and the like had come willingly to his bed. One nymph, to his embarrassment, had gone on about his square jawline and his eyes and how they reminded her of a deep lake near her home. He'd found a quick way to quiet her prattling, replacing her words with mewls and moans.

But as for goddesses... He shook his head, trying not to remember how Zeus had scolded him for soundly thrashing Hermes when the God of Thieves taunted him for it. He desperately wished to forget the scorn Demeter had heaped on him at Olympus in front of everyone when he had polished his bronze armor and presented his sword and shield to the Harvest Goddess to beg her elusive daughter Persephone's hand in marriage. He finished another cup and recalled the terror that seized him when Zeus took him aside and told him that Persephone was already betrothed... and of the dreaded one who would become her lord and husband.

Ares stalked off toward the great wine barrel in the middle of the agora, determined to have at least three more cups before retiring for the night. A woman with piercing gray eyes and gold strands woven through her red hair danced into his path. He tried to sidestep her but when Ares moved to the left, she moved left. He moved right, she mirrored his steps.

He scowled and spoke in Thracian. "Woman, be gone. I'm not in the mood for games."

With no words or warning, she grasped the back of his head and pulled him to her, locking her lips against his. Ares felt his heart quicken, his pulse pound in his ears. Her tongue snaked out against his teeth. His breath grew short and he felt light headed. The sounds around them blurred together and dimmed and Ares could feel only her, her fingers on the nape of his neck, the taste of rosewater on her lips. He pushed her off him and shook himself, bringing his senses back under his control. His features hardened into a scowl.

"Damn it wench, I said I'm not in the mood! Go find yourself a different soldier for the night."

"You're not a soldier."

"What are you talking about?" He pounded his armor-clad chest. "Look at me, foolish girl, I—"

"You're a prince," she said with in heavily accented Theoi. He froze. The woman gave him a disarming smile. "And you're not the only immortal here tonight, Gigantes Slayer."

He blinked, but when his eyes opened again, the woman was gone. He only heard laughter on the air.

* * *

Festivities carried on well into the night but no matter where Ares searched, he couldn't find the hetaerae— or whomever she was— that had accosted him.

He eventually wandered behind his temple and vanished through the ether, his pathway through that realm marked with sand and iron and blood, just as it had always been since he was a child.

Upon seeing that sign of what he was meant for, Zeus and Hera had given young Ares over to the tutelage of Enyo, the warrior goddess with black silken hair, daughter of the Protogenoi. She'd been hard on him. Harder than he'd expected from a woman.

There are no women like me, Enyo once told him. And beware a woman's charm, young one. They will stab you through the heart before you can even see the blade. Most men fall to swords, but they can also fall to sheaths.

Ares grunted, thinking about the woman and her laughter. And her kiss. Ares had never been kissed like that. She tasted of roses and sea salt, and her lips had all the pull of the cosmos, tearing him to pieces, then stitching him back together again.

As the night wore on, Ares decided it was best not to go back to Olympus in his besotted state. He ended up on a secluded Thracian beach, staggering drunk, then dropped his weapons, his shield and helm, and cast off his cloak. Ares stripped off his bloody cuirass and tunic, his greaves and gauntlets and loincloth and lay naked under the heavens, staring up at the stars. The sound of lapping waves calmed him and he breathed deeply, the world still spinning from the wine. The sea air wafted across his hot skin, cooling him.

The great band of light was high overhead. The people of Thrace and Hellas had a legend that it was made of milk, squirted from his holy mother's breast across the vault of night. When he was a boy he'd asked Selene, the moon Titaness, if it were true. She had said the band of light was made of distant stars, that they had always been there, and had certainly been there before Hera. He shut his eyes as pink and red licked the horizon, the sun soon to rise.

Ares awoke at noonday when the tide came in, tickling his ankles.

"Suffering Keres," he moaned, covering his eyes against the bright sun. He squinted and saw his loincloth drift in on a wave. His tunic lay on the beach, sopping wet.

Just as well, he thought. More useful that way. He sat up, ignoring the stiffness in every joint and wrung out the wet clothes. At least he'd had the sense last night to leave his armor and weapons further up the beach. He stared at the rivulets of blood staining his cuirass and sighed, kneeling to clean it thoroughly. He dug caked blood out of the embossed serpents on the front carapace. Freshwater would have been better. And something to dry it. And he should have had oil with him to keep rust away. He didn't need any of those things in truth. He was a god— his armor an extension of his will, and as fast against age and decay as he was. But such habits were hard to break.

Take care of your armor, young one, and it will take care of you, Enyo repeatedly told him. When he'd scoffed at cleaning his armor, she made him run all the way around Mount Parnassus, keeping pace with him and shouting at him that it was what his warriors would expect it of him. He must do as they did. Live as they lived. Killed as they killed. He had an example to set to the mortals. Would you rather they look to your wretched sister for all things concerning war? Would you rather be a useless god? Purposeless? Pointless?

He shook his head. The Gigantomachy had dwindled to a slow hunt after their enemies had been broken, and he was the last hunter of the Gigantes. And what had he to show for it? No trophy from Mimas, no sign of the woman... Had the giant's blood poisoned him? Was she just as much an illusion as the wavering desert air? He scrubbed harder and wrung out his tunic, thankful as always that it was already dyed deep red. He took both tunic and loincloth to the shore and dipped them in the water.

His linen loincloth was now stained and tinged like a woman's. He shrugged. A woman's moon blood never bothered him. In many ways he took a perverse pleasure in it. Women burned hot during that time and a man between their thighs was the best way to bank their fires. He loved overcoming a girl's protestations to spear her lips with his tongue, and the mingling of seed and blood on his cock...

Ares stopped, silent. He knew when he was being watched. Waves lapped the shoreline and carried a perfect cockleshell to rest at his feet. He picked it up and turned it over in his hand. When he looked up, grey eyes closed and red hair disappeared beneath the waves. Ares heard laughter.

He threw down the shell. "Aren't you tired of mocking me yet?"

I do not mock you, son of Zeus.

"Then what do you want with me? Stop playing games and show yourself!"

If you insist.

The crown of her head poked up through the water and she walked toward him, the sea revealing more with each slow step. Her eyes were wide open, gray as newly forged iron, her nose was just pert enough and her cheeks were smattered with freckles. She came closer and the waves pulled back to reveal her collarbone, her smooth arms and the fullness of her breasts.