by Aimee Carter
While I wait for Apollo, I sit beside the young man and touch his cheek—the only part of him that isn’t bloody or bruised or both. His breaths come in gasps, but he remains unconscious. From the pain, I think, but I don’t understand how he could possibly register the brutality done to his body and still be alive.
As the forest rustles with its nighttime sounds, my brother finally arrives. He kneels beside the stranger, shooing me away, and I sit back on my heels and watch anxiously. It’s been too long, I’m sure of it, but Apollo doesn’t hesitate. He holds his hands over him, and golden light glows in the space between. I’ve never seen him heal someone before. I know he can do it, of course, but for a mortal this far gone…was it even possible?
Eros toddles over to me and wraps his pudgy arms around my neck. I pull him into a hug, burying my face in his hair. His curls are the exact same shade as Apollo’s. It’s a silly thing to think about when a man’s life hangs in the balance, but it gives me some small measure of comfort.
At last Apollo pulls away. I don’t know how long it’s been, but Eros is asleep in my arms, love radiating from him as if he knows how much I need it right now. Maybe he does. My son is gifted in ways I’m just beginning to understand, and I hold him tight. “Is he going to live?”
Apollo nods grimly. He’s pale, as if he’s poured every last bit of himself into healing this stranger. “I’ve done what I can. He’ll need some time to heal.”
“He can stay here.” Even as I say it, I can hear the worry in my own voice, but no mortal would dare to harm a goddess. And if he did try, then I’d throw him into the ocean. Something about him, though—the way his face relaxes now that he’s free of pain, maybe—tells me he won’t.
“Ares won’t mind?” says Apollo, and I shrug.
“Ares isn’t here.” I can have another secret.
Apollo touches my face. Even his eyes are drained of color. “I miss you,” he says. “We’re all rooting for you and Ares, you know.”
I smile faintly. I don’t believe him. Artemis, Athena—even our aunts look down on this sort of reckless love. But it isn’t reckless if it’s real, and I’ll take their scorn if it means I get to be happy. They can remain in Olympus with Daddy, alone and miserable and full of cobwebs for the rest of forever. “Stay here tonight,” I say.
He doesn’t fight me, and soon enough he’s snoring in another corner. The fire dims to embers, but I don’t move for the rest of the night. I’m too afraid. Any moment, Daddy might find me; any moment, Ares might return. Any moment, the stranger might open his eyes.
Any moment, my world might change forever. Unless it already has.
I force myself to relax. I’m safe for now, and I have Eros. Daddy can’t take him away from me. He would never even try, knowing how badly it would hurt me.
Everything will be okay. I have to believe it—for Eros, for this stranger and for myself.
* * *
When Apollo leaves at sunset the next day, the stranger is still asleep. While the nymphs watch over him, I gather enough water, herbs and berries to keep him fed for a while—or at least I hope it’ll be enough. I don’t know how much mortals eat.
For the first time since Ares left me, I don’t go down to the beach that day. The perfect shell Eros found joins the hundreds of others we’ve collected in baskets that line the entrance of the grotto, but I barely think about it as I remain by the stranger’s side. One day won’t hurt. And this mortal needs me more than Ares needs my misery.
Apollo’s handiwork is impressive. The young man’s body is straight now, and the worst of his wounds are healed. His skin is still bruised, but at least his heart beats steadily. That’s something.
Shortly after the sun sets, the stranger’s breathing changes. It grows faster, more labored, and his good hand gropes around for something that isn’t there.
“Hold still,” I say, touching his knuckles. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
At last he opens his puffy eyes. Every other part of him is dark, but his irises are a pale gray, the color of stone. “Who…?” He stops and licks his lips. Clearly it’s painful to talk, and I know what he’s asking anyway. But I can’t tell him. He’d never believe me.
“I’m a friend,” I say. “Who are you?”
He tries to sit up, and a rattle echoes from deep within his chest. I don’t know much about mortal health, but that sound can’t be good.
“Lay back down,” I say, pushing his shoulders gently. He’s in no condition to fight me, and thankfully he doesn’t try. “I have food and water if you want it.”
He licks his lips again, and I take that as a yes. I pour a trickle of water into his mouth, and though he coughs, he manages to swallow most of it.
“Where…?” His voice isn’t as rough now, but it’s still hard to make out what he’s saying.
“You’re on my island. You’re safe here, I promise.”
“With you.” It isn’t a question. Even though I’m a stranger to him, he looks at me not as a threat, but like I’m some sort of savior. Maybe to him I am. There’s a certain sort of tenderness in the way he watches me, as if he knows I’m the reason he’s still alive even though he’s barely conscious, and it warms me from the inside out. I squeeze his hand affectionately. He is lucky. If Ares had been the one to find him, he would have had him by the tip of a sword the moment he’d stumbled across his broken body.
“Do you have a name?” I say.
Silence. The young man watches me with those pale eyes of his, and I bite my lip. I’m used to everyone staring at me. I enjoy it. But something about the way he looks at me—it’s like he can see past the beauty, and it makes me squirm.
“Rest,” I say. It’s the most I can offer him. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
His eyes flutter shut once more, and I’m almost relieved. I don’t know who he is or where he comes from, but those gray irises speak of things I can’t even imagine. There’s a reason he survived—a reason the Fates didn’t cut the thread of his life. Whatever it is, I vow to make sure he finds out.
* * *
For sixteen days, the stranger is silent.
I watch over him while Eros remains in the care of my most trusted nymph, and in my head I call him Cyrus. It doesn’t exactly do me much good to name him; chances are it isn’t his real name, after all, and I never call him that aloud. But in my mind, Cyrus is more of a person, and it makes me feel better about the risks I took to save him.
Daddy doesn’t show up. Not on the first day, not on the second, not half a lunar cycle later. I’m on guard at first, ready to make my case and stomp my foot again if I have to. But either Daddy wasn’t watching Apollo closely, or for some reason he’s decided not to chase after me. I hope it’s the first. The idea that Daddy doesn’t care enough to try hurts too much.
Cyrus heals slower than I thought he would, but soon enough he’s sitting up. He eats and drinks everything I offer him, but he never asks for more, and I constantly worry that he’s not getting enough. Food’s important to the healing process for mortals, I know that, but how much is appropriate gnaws at me. I give him an extra bowl of berries, and he eats that, too. But he still heals too slowly.
His silence unnerves me, and I catch him watching me far too often, but it’s the love that radiates from him that baffles me. I’ve always been able to sense love, but this—it isn’t the kind of love I’m used to. It isn’t made of heat and desire, like Ares’s. It’s tender. It’s gentle, as if he wants to tak
e care of me, even though I’m the one taking care of him. And even though I’m with Ares, even though he could come home any day, I slowly start to give in. I can’t help it—it’s one of my gifts, the inability to receive love without returning it, but I think even if it wasn’t, I would grow to care for him deeply. He’s kind, kinder than Ares has ever been, and his presence calms me even when I’m certain Daddy’s going to walk through the entrance to my grotto at any moment.
It doesn’t matter, though. He’s mortal, and even if I let him stay with me until Ares returns, he might die long before then. It’s a temporary love at best, and in a way, that helps ease my guilt. And it makes it easier to accept the connection that grows between us, even though he never utters a word.
On the sixteenth day—I know this because every evening Eros brings me a pebble he’s found in the pool of clear water—Cyrus sits up and watches me with those eyes of his. They’re still uncanny, even though I’ve had time to get used to them.
“May I have some meat?” These are the first words he’s spoken since he asked where he was, and I’m relieved.
“Er, you mean, like…rabbit?” I say. I’ve never even thought to kill and cook a rabbit. My nymphs would be furious.
“Or fish,” he says. His voice is soft, and I have to strain to hear him.
“Fish might be possible.” And the nymphs would probably swallow that a little easier. I stand. “I’ll go ask my uncle.”
“Your uncle?”
I blush. Right. He has no idea who I am. “Er, yeah. I’ll be back.”
I hurry off. The beach isn’t far from the grotto, and Poseidon offers me a few fish for Cyrus. I don’t like asking for his help—he’s one more person who might tell Daddy where I am—but I don’t know the first thing about catching fish. And if meat will help Cyrus heal faster, then so be it. It’s not like I haven’t risked everything already.
I return with the parcel of fish—which is probably the worst thing I’ve ever smelled in my entire existence—but Cyrus isn’t there. My heart skips a beat, and I drop the fish and hurry outside. “Hello?” I call. Why didn’t I ask for his real name when I had the chance? “Where did you go?”
He couldn’t have gone far. I look for any trace of footprints, but other than the ones my wet feet leave behind, there are none. Terrific. He’s worse than Eros. I turn my back for a few moments and—
Laughter. I stop to listen, straining to hear over the sounds of the waterfall. Yes, definitely a man’s laughter. Tiptoeing through the trees, I follow it. What could Cyrus be laughing about? Who is he laughing with? And how did he leave the grotto?
Poking my head around a thick trunk, my mouth drops open. Eros sits in the middle of a small clearing, one he claimed as his ages ago, and he’s stringing flowers together. Cyrus sits beside him, leaning against a tree to support himself, and he too is making flower chains.
It isn’t just Cyrus who’s laughing. Eros giggles, too; the sweet sound of it mostly drowned out by Cyrus’s deeper chuckles. I’ve never seen Eros with anyone other than the nymphs before. The three days Ares was here after our son was born hardly count, after all. But Eros looks happy. Really, really happy. And so does Cyrus.
“What are you two doing?” I say in a playful voice. The last thing I want to do is make them feel as if this isn’t okay. I should be wary of Cyrus, especially around my son, but any apprehension I had about him is long gone now.
“Mama!” Eros holds up his flower chain, a mismatch of colorful blossoms. I kneel beside him and kiss the top of his head.
“That’s beautiful. Is it for me?” I say, and he shakes his head. Before I can say anything else, he holds it out for Cyrus.
“Yous!” Eros declares. I expect Cyrus to turn it down—Ares would never wear a necklace of flowers no matter who gave them to him—but instead he takes it.
“Thank you,” he says, and he ties it around his neck. “How is that?”
Eros giggles, and I kiss his pudgy cheek. “That was very nice of you,” I murmur. “Such a perfect little boy.”
“He is,” says Cyrus. “You’re very lucky.”
I smile faintly. “I am.”
Cyrus ties off the last of his stems. “Thank you,” he says. “I owe you my life. I can’t begin to make it up to you, the kindness you’ve shown me, but I suppose this is a start.” He offers me his crown of flowers. “It’s not much, but it’s all I have.”
My lips part in surprise. I hesitate, but at last I take it gingerly. He’s done good work, wrapping the stems around a thicker vine and securing everything in place. I touch a petal. No man’s ever given me something like this before—something they’ve taken time to make with their own hands. Ares has given me jewels, silks, the finest things in the world. But he’s never been able to appreciate the beauty in something so simple.
“Thank you,” I say. “It’s lovely.”
“As are you,” he says quietly. “You are the first person I’ve met who is as beautiful on the inside as she is on the outside.”
I have to press my lips together to keep from grinning, and even then, my cheeks grow warm. “I should get you back to the grotto. I have your fish.”
He nods, and slowly he stands on shaky legs. He must be more healed than I’d thought. I watch him for signs of pain, and while he winces some, he manages to make it back to the grotto without too much trouble. I take Eros’s hand and follow.
That evening, we feast on fish. I have to eat to keep up appearances, and Eros eagerly tries a few bites before he declares he’s full. Cyrus, however, wolfs down three fish on his own, and I take note. Next time I find an injured mortal, fish it is.
By the time Eros falls asleep in my lap, the sun is setting, and I sit beside Cyrus as we watch the fire. It’s peaceful, and for the first time since Ares left, I’m not lonely. “What’s your name?”
He tilts his head and looks at me out of the corner of his eye. “What is yours?”
I shake my head. I can’t tell him. Our names were once a secret, but now that mortals worship us, we’re too well known for me to say. He might think I’m a namesake, that my parents wanted to honor a goddess, but he’s seen too much. He’ll put two and two together, and while I trust him, I don’t want to risk him bringing others back to my island.
“I call you Cyrus in my head,” I admit. “I don’t know why.”
“Cyrus?” His lips curl into a small smile. “That’s as good a name as any, I suppose. May I choose a name for you?”
I nod. “Just make it a good one.”
For a long moment he studies me, his gray eyes reflecting the fire, and at last he murmurs, “Ava.”
Ava. The way he says it sends a shiver through me, and I snake my hand through the space between us until I’m touching his. “It’s perfect.”
“As are you,” he whispers. Our eyes lock together, and time seems to stop. All I see is him. All I feel is him. All I smell and all I touch is him, and all I want to taste is him.
Maybe it’s loneliness. Maybe it’s the way he looks at me. Maybe it’s his laughter or smile or any number of things. But even though I love Ares, I lean into Cyrus and press my lips to his.
It’s a soft kiss without the burning passion I have with Ares, but it’s still tender. It’s still sweet and loving, but a different kind of love—the kind of love that tells me he’ll take care of me, and I’ll take care of him. The kind of love that wants to hear about my day. That sees me underneath the beauty and still loves me anyway.
&nbs
p; I crave it. It’s a salve, soothing the wounds Ares has caused. He isn’t Ares, he’ll never be Ares, but in that moment, I’m grateful for it. I don’t want the kind of love Ares has given me the past few years. I want this love, the love in front of me, the love I can touch taste smell hear see. Cyrus may not realize it, but the way he feels for me radiates from him, wrapping itself around me. This kiss is an offer, and I want to take it.
“Ahem.”
I jump back, jostling Eros. In the doorway, silhouetted by the last vestiges of sunset, is the last person I expect.
Ares.
“I see you’ve been keeping yourself busy.” He spits the words out like venom, and part of me bristles, but another part can’t blame him. “Who is this?”
“I—” I swallow and force myself to sit up straight. Ares is the one who left me alone for years. What did he expect? “This is Cyrus. He had a wreck, and he landed on the island. I’ve been helping him recover.”
“And this is your idea of playing healer?” Ares narrows his eyes, and his fingers twitch toward the monstrous sword strapped to his hip. Brilliant.
Cyrus squeezes my hand. I should pull away, but I need the comfort his touch offers. Clearly I won’t be getting it from Ares. “Is this your uncle?” he says, and the idea is so absurd that I snort.
“Her uncle?” Ares steps closer, and the fire casts shadows on his face. “Is that what you’ve been telling him?”
“What? No,” I say quickly, and to Cyrus I add, “this is my— This is Eros’s father.”
His grip on my hand loosens, and now it’s my turn to squeeze. I don’t want him to let go. “Oh,” he says. “I’m sorry. I had no idea she was—”
“She is,” snaps Ares. “She’s mine. You have one chance to get the hell away from her before I slit you from nose to navel.”
Despite my grip, Cyrus pulls his hand from mine, and he slowly crawls back into the nest of pillows. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I would have never—”