Wrath of Love

Book I - VII

The days had passed in a heavy, charged silence. The mortal remained in his chambers, isolated from the god who had stirred something so profound within him. He hadn't spoken to Ares since that tense moment in the war god's palace. No words had been exchanged, but the weight of their unspoken connection lingered, haunting him like a shadow.

His mind was in turmoil, torn between the storm of emotions he couldn't fully understand and the reality of his uncertain fate. He had defeated a god, but the victory had come at a cost he hadn't foreseen. His thoughts drifted to home, to the memory of his mother, to the life he once knew, but the Olympian world, with all its chaos and beauty, had changed him. He was no longer the same mortal who had been brought here.

Late in the evening, as the light of Olympus' eternal dawn filtered through his window, the sound of soft laughter and the rustle of silk filled the air. He turned to see a group of nymphs—ethereal and graceful—entering his chambers, their presence as delicate as a summer breeze. Their laughter was melodic, their steps barely making a sound as they moved with an otherworldly grace.

These were the attendants of Aphrodite, the goddess of beauty and love, their skin shimmering in the soft light like pearls from the depths of the sea. One of them, with hair the color of golden wheat and eyes like blue sapphires, stepped forward, offering him a smile that seemed to carry the warmth of the sun itself.

"You are to be made ready for the solstice," she said, her voice as soft as a lullaby. "The gods must see you in all your glory, for it is not often a mortal is brought to stand trial before Olympus."

The mortal hesitated, his thoughts still scattered, but the nymphs moved with gentle insistence. They led him from his chambers, guiding him through the winding halls of the palace with their light, shimmering gowns trailing behind them like mist. Eventually, they arrived at the palace of Aphrodite, a place bathed in golden light and the scent of roses that clung to the air like a lover's perfume.

There, they began their work, preparing him for the solstice. The nymphs bathed him in warm waters, fragrant with oils of lavender and myrrh, the scent wrapping around him like a soothing balm. They worked with skilled hands, cleansing the exhaustion from his body, washing away the aches of his battles, both physical and emotional. The water was soft against his skin, its warmth melting the tension in his muscles, but it couldn't quite calm the storm within his heart.

Once cleansed, they dressed him in robes of rich, deep blue, the color of the twilight sky just before the first stars appear. The fabric clung to him, tailored perfectly to his frame. His body, honed from the challenges he had faced, carried a quiet strength—a strength that had not gone unnoticed by the gods.

The robes were embroidered with silver thread that caught the light like the gleam of distant constellations. Around his waist, they tied a belt of golden links, delicate yet strong, each link shimmering with an iridescent sheen. His feet were adorned with sandals made from the finest leather, dyed a deep midnight black.

The nymphs moved on to his hair, which had grown slightly longer since his time in Olympus. They brushed it until it shone, a dark brown like the earth after a rain, and pulled it back loosely, letting a few strands fall forward, framing his face. His features, once hardened by life's trials, now seemed to carry a certain grace—his high cheekbones sharp under the light, his strong jaw softened by the flicker of candlelight in the chamber.

They then applied a light dusting of silver powder across his skin, giving him a faint glow, as if the moon itself had kissed him. His eyes, dark and intense, were framed with a touch of kohl, drawing attention to their depth. They were eyes that had seen too much for one so young—a reflection of his inner struggle, his conflict between mortality and the world of gods that had claimed him.