Chapter 79:: Departed Heav'n, and Made Earth War

In a small flat in St. Ebbes, four people—to define that term very loosely—are gathered in one room, around one table. They look similar, the two oldest women, and the one man, though the similarity lies not so much in their features as in the way in which they wear them.

“Have you laid plans, yet?”

“None. Do we know who dare oppose us?”

“Astraeus. Juventas.”

“Juventas?”

“Hebe.”

“Ah.”

“Iris. Charon.”

“Circe. Eris.”

The man looks at the speaking woman, but her face bears no sign of displeasure at this betrayal of two of her children.

“Dionysus. The Furies.”

“They’ll be dangerous. And Eris.” The youngest woman leans forward and puts both arms on the table.

“Disregarding the others is not something we should do, perhaps, though they are, undeniably, less capable of causing trouble. We do, however, have one advantage.”

“Other than the fact that they are messengers and cup-bearers and whatever was Astraeus, anyway?”

“The god of dusk,” the girl says, “and yes, besides that.”

“So tell it me, Athene the Wise and Valorous, for I yearn for the salt waters of my homes, and would, if I can, visit them, once, before this squabble takes up all my time.”

“Time and enough, brother,” says one of the older women—the one who had been speaking, whose face, for all its lovely eyes, is stern and forbidding, “when we have crushed them. Tell us, Pallas.”

“They do not know,” the girl says, grey eyes luminous on the third woman’s face, “that she is here. Nor even that we are, Hera and I.”

“Is that all your news, sister, that you were so mysterious and ceremonial about?” The man rises, hand heavy on the girl's shoulder. “And you, little scholar, is that all you wish to tell us?”

“There is more, brother,” the third woman says, the first words she has spoken, in this room. “So sit, for Hera will tell us all; shall you not, sister, queen?”

***

A young man opens the door to the flat, and stands aside to let a girl walk in, then enters, himself, and shuts it. The room they have entered boasts a number of occupants, already—more, indeed, than it ever has before.

“Have we missed much?” the girl asks, walking over to perch on the arm of the sofa, beside a rather brutally-handsome young man.

The woman seated between him and another, rather more-average—the unkind, including her, have called him uncomely—looking man, smiles up at her. “Nothing at all, Huntress, which we have not also.”

“They are shut up in there, with Athene,” proclaims the youngest there.

“Feel you unworthy, my brother?” asks the man with eyes like the sun and hair like gold.

“Bereft,” he answers, laughing. “Worthless and lowly. Come here, brother, and console me.”

“If you would deign to move,” he suggests, and is pulled down into the armchair for his trouble. “Not quite that abruptly, next time, perhaps?”

“Perhaps,” Hermes agrees.

“Tell us all, then.”

“We know nothing you do not also, Phoebe.”

“Hush, Trickster. Are you not grief-struck? Mayhap you have failed to hear everything. Ares,” she pulls at his curls, “tell me.”

“They have Eris,” he says, turning his head a little, “because Aphrodite was foolish enough to keep her our daughter’s guardian.”

“You will have lovers’ quarrels with my wife when you have defeated our Father in battle, brother. Not before.”

Ares shrugs. “And the Furies. And dear drunken Dionysus.”

“No others?”

“Pretty little Hebe, who should know better,” the other man says. “And lords of dusk and messengers, and the sorceress Circe.”

“Thank you, Hephaestus, for your news. Phoebus?”

“My sister?”

“What think you of this?”

“I think I am content to await whatever plans they hatch,” he says, hand out in a wide gesture towards the inner room. “Meanwhile, do tell me how you managed to obtain this… charming residence?”

Ares shares a rare smile with Hephaestus, while Aphrodite shrinks away from both of them. “A simple matter of slaughtering the residents, Apollo.”

Apollo’s lazy smile lights up the room. “How entirely apt, brother.”

“How utterly amusing,” Hermes insists, one slender hand in Phoebus’ hair, “to hear them pray to their crucified god while he sliced them. So neat, too.”

“You cut them up?” This from Artemis, who has stood up, and wanders to Hehaestus. “Your first kill in millennia, and I not there to witness it.”

“There will be others,” Aphrodite says, catching at her arm as she trails it across the back of the sofa. “And we poured out their blood in libation to us, and burnt their flesh.”

“My beautiful, beloved Aphrodite,” Artemis smiles, and Ares, kissing Aphrodite, winks at her. “My lovely, thoughtful sister.”

“Our first offerings, and by the hands of gods. And there will be more,” Apollo smiles. “Thank you.”

“Very many more,” Hermes says, as the inner door opens, and the others come out, “and that soon.”