Mortal Gods

She propelled herself faster. It wouldn’t be Ares. The screams were women’s screams, and no one would grieve so loudly if he’d been the one to fall.

When she burst into the village, she expected panic. But there was none. No smoke except for the small trail rising up from the cooking fire. And all around, dead bodies. Sun-browned bodies of well-fed, happy men and boys. A few had mercifully crushed skulls. Others had gotten Ares’ blade and died sliced open. Women and children wept and yelled, but no one took up weapons and swore vengeance. They were people of peace. Hunters. Farmers. A little boy sat beside his dead father with dry, empty eyes. He didn’t understand. He wouldn’t until they took away the body.

“Athena!” Odysseus ran to her, and she leaned on his shoulder.

“I thought—when he came and you weren’t there—” His hand pressed against her cheek, and he glanced down. “Your leg.”

“What happened here? What is this?” she asked. Several huts had caved in or been flattened altogether. It was all so small. So fragile. Ruined. Hermes and Cassandra stood in the center. Hermes had his hand over his eyes.

“Come on,” said Odysseus. “Let’s get you somewhere you can rest.”

He tugged her, but she resisted. She wouldn’t embrace him, or even look him in the eye, though his heart beat against her and she wanted to. Odysseus was alive. As much as she had believed he would be, she was still grateful.

“What happened here?” she asked again, louder.

“They tried to help,” Hermes shouted. Tears tracked in clear lines through the dirt and dust on his thin cheeks. “They tried to help, and when they did, he ignored us and went after them.” He turned his palms up, turned his arms so she could see the cuts he’d taken trying to defend them. Then he let them drop. It hadn’t done any good.

“Where is he?” Athena asked. “Where did he go?”

“I don’t know,” Hermes said. Somewhere, someone wailed louder, and he grimaced. “They didn’t understand. When they picked up their weapons they didn’t understand that they’d become soldiers to him.”

“These weren’t soldiers,” Athena snapped. “These weren’t warriors.” Ares would have known that. He just didn’t care. He’d turned on the villagers because he was too afraid to do what he’d threatened. He’d killed a dozen because he feared one girl.

“Cassandra stopped him,” Odysseus whispered.

Cassandra had her arms crossed over her chest, her shoulders hunched, her cheeks pale. She was afraid. Less of Ares than of herself.

“Tell me what happened.”

“She—” Odysseus swallowed. His throat had to hurt, but she needed to hear. “I tried to hold her back. I tried, but—she kicked me. And then she ran up from behind and put her hands on his back like she was going to jump on him. Where she touched him, his back popped like a burst mosquito.”

“And then he ran away,” Athena finished.

“She didn’t kill him. But she was close.”

Athena watched Cassandra, standing mute and shell-shocked in the middle of the massacre. She really had needed the girl, after all.

“Come on.” Athena still held Odysseus’ shoulder, but her knee already felt better. A few hours off of it and she’d be able to walk on her own.

Cassandra looked up as they approached.

“You’re hurt,” she said.

“You’re not,” Athena said. “Good.”

“I should’ve done something sooner.”

Athena had nothing to say to that. The bodies of strangers lay strewn at their feet. Strangers who had taken it upon themselves to stand between them and a god.

“We should go,” said Hermes. “Before we bring anything else down on their heads.”

“Isn’t there anything we can do for them?” Cassandra asked.

“No,” Athena sighed. “Aside from help them bury or burn their dead. And I don’t think they’d want our help.”

A voice sounded from their right, paper thin but strong. The white-haired elder walked toward them on stiff knees, her woven dress splashed with blood. She looked at Athena and spoke.

“She says she dreamed of you,” Hermes translated. “Like silver fire. She dreamed your pain. She—” He stopped.

“What? What did she say?”

“She said she dreamed of you, the dog of war. The dogs of war are your home. Or something.” Hermes shook his head. “I’m sorry, lady. I’m a poor and rusty translator.”