by Liz Meldon
“You know, I think I can grasp the simplicities of dancing,” she insisted as he tugged her toward the drunken horde. “It doesn’t look complicated.”
“Then my lessons will be wasted,” Lugh said with a sigh. Then he glanced back at her with a smirk. “But they’ll be enjoyable all the same.”
Athena rolled her eyes again and made sure that he saw. Harp strums and lilting lyres drowned out his laughter, as did the drunken shouting and leering in the cluster of dancers. Athena’s gown, a floaty piece ill-suited for anything but court, stood in sharp contrast to the hurricane of pastel fabrics suddenly surrounding her. The dancers were the dawn, sprightly pinks and purples and soft greens abounding. And Athena was the night, the blue of her dress so dark it might as well have been black. She felt the heavy weight that night was forced to carry in the way she held herself, unable to loosen the cautious ties that bound her self-respect together.
Curiously, Hebe was nowhere to be seen. Athena scanned the crowd with a frown, only to be yanked from her scrutiny seconds later, whirled around into Lugh’s arms.
“You must feel the music,” he insisted, drawing her close, his hand spanning the breadth of her lower back. The nearby torches glimmered in his eyes. “Feel it in your bones, grey-eyed Athena. Feel it in your marrow.”
She let loose a scoff as they began to move, Lugh guiding her as her hands settled atop his broad shoulders. Gone was the armor of starlight, in its place a simple tunic and cloak. Still bright and airy. While the others were the dawn, Lugh was the day, carrying in his stride the same weight as the night. Athena had always appreciated that about him. For all his laughter, his essence remained grounded. His soul longed to quest, but she would never consider him flighty.
“I hardly need to feel it so deep,” she said as they moved. True to his word, not once did he step on her toes. Twice to the right. Once back. Twice forward. The pattern wasn’t difficult to discern as they lost themselves in the swirling collection of bodies.
“You are good at this,” Lugh praised. One song transitioned to another, and still they danced. Athena arched an eyebrow.
“You’re surprised?”
“Curious,” he countered. “Why reject the others?”
“Because I chose to.” It was a simple answer. While Athena understood the necessity of bowing to custom and cause, she seldom ever found herself forced to do something. If she had no interest—which was in fact, rare, as all things big and small could pique at least some facet of her curiosity—then she could easily put her foot down and turn the other way.
“Ah.” Gone was the teasing edge in his voice. “So I should count myself fortunate?”
“Always,” she told him, her words saturated with honesty. “You are among the most fortunate men I know, Lugh.”
“Men held in your esteem… The most fortunate men in all the worlds.”
The latest song ended in a chorus of rousing cheers. Between Lugh and Athena, their moment passed in silence, and then they broke apart to join in the clapping. The squadron of musicians, human, by the weathered appearance of their skin, beamed shyly at the praise, and started up again shortly after with a melody so beautiful that it brought one of the fae to tears. Athena turned away from the dramatics with a gentle smile, only to find herself the focus of Lugh’s unflinching stare.
He blinked hard. “Thank you,” he said, gathering one of her hands in both of his and bringing it to his lips for a kiss, “for choosing me.”
Knowing any word she spoke would escape with a tremor, Athena merely nodded and slipped out of the crowd. Rather than return to the table, she joined Felix on the outskirts of the hall, leaning back against the white stone walls with a noisy exhale.
“Enjoying yourself, goddess?”
Her eyes were starting to feel heavy as she studied the hall’s occupants, but still she smiled and nodded. “Always.”
Beside her, Felix stood straight as an arrow, broad shoulders thrust back and steely gaze constantly on the move.
“And you, Felix?” When his brow furrowed slightly, she clarified. “Are you enjoying yourself? Did you eat enough?”
“Yes, goddess.” Never had two words sounded so miserable before. She let out a gentle laugh and straightened, settling her hand on his shoulder.
“You must find a way to enjoy these sorts of things,” she insisted, which made his jaw clench noticeably. “This is the first of many feasts. The Norse, to my recollection, are far worse than this. Most will want to fight you…or outdrink you.”
He grunted, his gaze growing stormier, if possible. “Perfect.”
“Come now,” Athena ordered, turning toward the door at the sight of a head of beautiful golden curls weaving through the crowd toward her. “Escort me back to my room. I would like to start tomorrow early and clear-headed.”
“Yes, goddess.”
The two of them moved like shadows, not turning one head or raising a single eyebrow as they skirted the outer rim of the festivities and silently left the clamor. While Athena was more than capable of staying awake for days on end, she would have been more inclined to do so had she ensnared Dagda’s attention to discuss more serious matters. As it were, the king had busied himself with a handful of fairy women hours ago and clearly had no room for a serious grey-eyed goddess with absolutely no interest in letting him bed her. So, she would approach him tomorrow, well-rested and alert, to discuss the possibility of a private meeting. While there were still five long days of games ahead, Athena preferred to speak with the king of the realm about her mission sooner rather than later. Then she could actually lose herself in the activities, even if only a little.
“Ensure you get enough rest tonight,” Athena instructed as they moved through the darkened corridors, Felix matching her step for step. “Even if it means sleeping in front of my door. These godly realms will drain you, Felix. Be mindful of your limitations.”
The Roman gave a curt nod. “I am ready to face the challenges ahead, goddess.”
“Of course you are.” They rounded a corner, bringing the stairwell to the upper levels in sight. “That’s why I chose you.”
A giggle made her pause, her piercing stare darting down a narrow corridor from the one in which she and her Roman trod. It wasn’t that the sound of a woman in the darkness caught her attention—but rather the familiar pitch of said giggle. Athena sighed heavily and flicked her hand in the direction of the sound. Seconds later, all the torches in the area ignited with such a fury that it made the giggler cry out.
“Hebe,” Athena chided, arms crossed as she studied the young goddess in the arms of a rather handsome god. “What are you doing?”
“We are touring the palace, fair Athena,” the god remarked, his arm snapped tight like a snare around Hebe’s narrow waist. “No harm shall befall her.”
“No, only you, Aengus, son of Dagda, when news reaches Hebe’s husband and mistress that you carried her off into the night.” Already Felix was marching down the hall toward the pair, Athena following at a slower pace. “Give her to my companion and there shall be no quarrel.”
“You speak on matters of which you know naught,” the god of love—and poetry, and crooning, swooning women—declared. He too had a head full of beautiful, bountiful curls, but unlike Lugh’s, they were the red of freshly spilled blood—just like his father’s.
A pity, Athena thought, that she had not brought Aphrodite along instead of Hebe. The wench was no good at serving or negotiating—or much at all, really—but she would have kept all the lusty gods out of Athena’s hair.
“Let her go, boy,” Athena demanded, her tone sharpening, “and we will be on our way.”
Aengus’s bright green eyes shot swiftly from Felix to Athena, and when the Roman soldier was within reach, he snatched at the front of Felix’s breastplate and shoved him aside with godly speed and strength. Felix hit the wall hard; the sound he made on impact told Athena it pained him, but he showed no sign of it in his fa
ce. Instead, he bounced back and drew his sword, causing poor drunk Hebe to faint in her would-be lover’s arms.
Athena’s hands fell to her hips. What a display.
“Hand her over,” she said, “or I shall come at you with that sword, and I can assure you… You will not find me so easily tossed aside.”
Sweet Aengus. A lover, not a fighter, from the tip top of his bounciest red curl to the point of his big toe. Still, he did not take too kindly to losing his prize. He handed over the unconscious goddess with muttered insults, which Athena graciously chalked up to all the wine, and then stalked off in the opposite direction with his hands in tight fists.
“I could have beat him,” Felix insisted with a chuckle, though each word sounded strained as he tried to hoist Hebe’s limp body up. Athena moved in to lighten the load, cradling her little sister in her arms. She knew Felix would have preferred to carry her, but once she was unconscious, holding up Hebe’s godly weight was akin to Felix carrying the Roman Pantheon itself. Gods always had to be so careful with delicate human bodies. This was just easier.
“I have no doubt you could have bested him,” Athena told the man as they went on their way, “but I had no desire to explain to Dagda why my human rid him of a son.”
Felix grinned up at her. “Best we let him go, I suppose.”
“Yes… My intention is to limit bloodshed in Tír na nÓg,” Athena said, shaking her head. “There will be more than enough of that with Odin’s folk, I can assure you…”
Chapter 5
Unfortunately, Athena was one of the few who’d had the foresight to retire at a reasonable enough hour to warrant an early rise. Shortly after the sun poked its beaming face over the horizon, the grey-eyed goddess was up and dressed, donning a floor-length brown chiton with a golden fleece belt cinched around her waist. Her raven locks nestled atop her head, pulled back and held in place by various bone pins. Ever the image of an average Roman woman—she knew Felix would be pleased.
She found her soldier dozing against her door, just as she’d suspected she would. Once he leapt to attention—and Athena permitted him to relieve himself in her lavatory—the two gathered the rest of their company, much to Hebe’s distaste, and dragged them all down for the breaking of the fast.
However, Athena and her companions were the only ones awake at the time. They dined in peace, chatting quietly about the comings and goings of the night before, as bleary-eyed servants delivered fresh-baked bread with fruit spreads and a platter of cold meats for them to enjoy. When they had finished, Hebe slunk back to bed, in no state to attend to anyone that morning, while the others made their way outside. Athena and Sia ventured down to the lake briefly to watch the latter half of the sunrise, Felix standing guard at a distance. By the time they returned, the palace finally had some semblance of life about it.
“A moment,” Athena insisted as they passed the stables. “I wish to see to my horse.”
“She was well cared for when I inquired about her last night,” Felix said, but Athena was already on her way, strolling toward the long rectangular building, the scent of hay and horse dung becoming ever stronger the nearer she drew. True to Felix’s word, she found her mare in a spacious pen all by herself, while some of the other horses had been stabled together. All had ample hay, feed, and water, and a handful of servants were in the process of mucking out the pens when the goddess stopped by to inspect. Satisfied, Athena gave her mare a quick nose rub, tickling her nostrils lightly so that the creature snorted, then slipped her an apple she had kept from breakfast. Teasing forgotten, the mare devoured it whole.
“We’ll ride again soon,” Athena promised. After one final rub, she gathered her skirts in hand, not wanting to drag them through the filth lining the path between the pens, and made her way out.
Only to pause at a sight she assumed would become all too familiar as her journey progressed.
Pan lay in a pile of hay, surrounded by empty flagons of ale. A blue-haired leanan sídhe nestled up against him, nude ivory skin caught in the light seeping through the cracks in the stable ceiling. With a slight shake of her head, Athena ordered the stablehands to attend to Pan when he awoke.
“Be ready with stale bread,” she instructed, “and more wine. He’ll be easier to manage should he immediately forget the pain in his head.”
Poor Hebe would be in good company with the slumbering satyr, though Athena suspected she would have had a hard time facing the unyielding sun on her way from palace to pen. Best leave her where she was. As Athena departed the stables, she made a note to check on both Pan and Hebe in a few hours to ensure they were up and presentable. After all, while Athena was the primary envoy responsible for bringing foreign pantheons into her council, she hadn’t brought her traveling companions along to act as furniture. Everyone had a part to play.
She found Felix hovering near the stable entrance, a watchful eye on the courtyard and a hand resting on the head of his sword. His somber expression lightened only somewhat when she fell in beside him.
“All is well,” Athena announced, noting the bustle of servants rushing to and fro to complete their morning duties around them. “Pan sleeps still.”
“A surprise to no one,” Felix muttered, which made them both smirk. “The god Sia was whisked away by a group of men… Apparently, they have already begun the games.”
Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “Without the guest of honour?”
“I don’t think you’ll be getting any ceremonies here, goddess,” Felix told her with a shake of his head. “From what I gathered last night, there is no formal structure to the games. We’re to wander from station to station and compete against whoever is present. Quite strange.”
“You will see all manner of absurdities soon.” They headed for the wide doorway of the courtyard that led to the fields beyond the palace walls. Dagda had announced that the games, organized in their entirety by Lugh, would be held all day for the next five days in the ample greenery and gentle rolling hills. Athena spared Felix a quick glance as they passed from the shadow of the arched doorway and back into the sunlight. “When we finally return to Rome, nothing will seem strange to you.”
“You gods are always strange to me.” The man seemed to realize what he had said only after he said it, and Athena laughed at the noticeable flood of colour to his scruffy cheeks.
“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” In the distance, she spied a lone figure she had much interest in speaking with—Dagda, strolling across the field with his magical staff in hand, a trio of shaggy black hounds at his heels. “We are a funny sort, we gods.”
She motioned for Felix to hang back, moving into the fluttering grass. Morning dew clung to each blade, cool droplets caressing her ankles. Dagda walked at a leisurely pace, headed for a dozen purple tents in the distance—the games, perhaps. As Athena approached, the hounds looked back toward her with their ears perked, tails ceasing their wagging. A sharp whistle from their master encouraged them back to his side.
“Hail, king of kings!” Athena called, voice carrying on the wind. Dagda slowed but did not stop, allowing her a moment to join him. “A fine morning in this blessed realm.”
“Indeed,” Dagda remarked with a nod. “A fine day indeed.”
“I am honoured that you have decided to host games for me…” The goddess heard her breath catch in her reluctance to dive straight into the more serious matters hanging between them. Dagda’s eye twitched, as if bracing himself. “But you know that I visit your court with an objective in mind.”
His head bobbed slightly, wild hair loose and savage in the daylight. “Yes, I am aware of that.”
“So must we wait?” she asked. “Why not discuss it now, here?”
“Because Morrigan wishes to be present for our talks.” He reached down to pat one of the hounds’ heads; the creature gazed up at him with more adoration than Athena had thought possible. “We three will sit when the games have concluded. This is a happy time, daug
hter of Zeus. Let us not mar it with talk of the human world.”
Athena bit the insides of her cheeks to keep from objecting, knowing she could carry on the argument far longer than Dagda would tolerate. It was best not to push her luck. Still, she would have preferred to speak to the king of the Tuatha Dé Danann alone. Morrigan’s presence brought about an odd sort of pain behind her right eye.
“In other matters,” Dagda continued, his whole being seeming to lift at the change in subject, “I was pulled from my companions last night by a son of mine who claimed you threatened him.”
“Aengus would know a real threat had I made one,” Athena said, squinting as the sun crept higher into the cloudless sky. “I spared him unnecessary persecution. Hera would have been most displeased to learn her favorite cupbearer had bedded a man who was not her husband.” She paused, the image of Hebe’s dearest Heracles coming to mind, the most ardent and feverous of all the warriors under Athena’s thumb. “And her husband really is the most jealous boor.”
“Then I shall order him to stop his bellyaching and offer you his sincerest thanks,” the great king mused. He then shot her the faintest hint of a wink before increasing his stride. Athena fell back, sensing she had been dismissed, and bit her cheeks harder.
The shrill cry of an owl managed to keep her from sinking too far into a tempestuous fit. Overhead, a little figure circled, and Athena held out her arm, a smile blooming as Nocta found his perch.
“And where have you been, sweetling?” she cooed, drawing the small owl in and ruffling his downy feathers. He nipped at her fingers affectionately, fluffing out and rearranging himself before climbing up to his preferred spot on her shoulder. Athena hadn’t seen her most faithful companion since they had crossed over into the Otherworld, but she had no reason to fear. Nocta was the smartest beast she knew in all the realms. He had as much of an interest in exploring and acquiring knowledge as his mistress. No matter the day, her little sweetling always found his way back to her. Athena turned her head to the side, allowing the little owl to nuzzle against her cheek. “Have you been exploring the forests? I would, had I the chance.”