Spears

The sky was still dark when Ares stepped barefoot onto the stone floor of the training courtyard, the chill of the early morning biting up through his skin. He welcomed it. Better the pain of the cold than the ache in his chest. Pain could be shaped, controlled.  This ache felt too deep, and it made his skin itch with restlessness. 

He rolled his shoulders and reached for the first spear. It was heavier than mortal weapons, celestial iron wrapped in gold-threaded leather. Balanced perfectly for his grip. He tested the weight, then drew his arm back and launched it into the far target.

The shaft hit dead center with a satisfying thunk. But it didn’t help. The tension didn’t fade. If anything, it deepened.

He stalked back to the rack, grabbed another. His movements were sharp, economical, predatory.

He imagined her wild tumble of cinnamon curls that never seemed to obey her. He grabbed a spear and launched it, hard, fast, and furious. The sound of it sliced through the air barely catching up before it struck the target clean and deep.

Her eyes, sharp and impossibly blue, like the piercing clarity of ice, locked into his memory. Those eyes didn’t just see him, they unmade him, stripping everything down until there was nothing left but the raw truth of who he was beneath the godhood. He snatched another spear from the rack and hurled it harder. The impact cracked the edge of the first, wood splintering with a violent shudder.

And her skin, gods, her skin. It was soft and sun-warmed, the memory of it already carved into his palms. A bead of sweat slid down his spine as he loosed the next spear. It slammed through the previous shaft, splitting it down the center like kindling.

The thought of her consumed him, cell by cell, like fire eating through dry grass. 

She wasn’t supposed to linger. Not in his body. Not in his mind. And yet every morning he woke with the ghost of her still wrapped around him, the scent of parchment and citrus and the memory of her magic brushing his skin. His cock stirred against the inside of his waistband, unbidden and infuriatingly persistent. The tightness in him was physical, yes, but it came from something deeper. It wasn’t just lust. It was her. The shape of her mouth when she bit back a smile. The sound of her breath catching when he stepped too close. His ache for her was deep and infuriating.

Another spear. Another throw. The target cracked.

He remembered the way she looked at him, not like a god, not like a monster. Just like a man didn’t fear, but didn't fully trust. Her eyes had held fire. She made him feel like he had to earn the air around her. No one had done that in centuries.

The next throw flew wide. It slammed into the stone wall, embedding deep with a ringing echo. He stood there breathing hard, sweat beginning to cling to his bare chest. His grip tightened around the last spear.

She haunted him.

The softness of her laugh. The way her curls escaped whatever she became to animated while talking, almost alive with its own magic. The way her power tasted when it collided with his, like cool water when his mouth was full of ash. 

He could still feel the heat that built between them. The breath she sucked in when he stared at her. The way her body swayed toward his before she caught herself. 

He wanted her.

Not just the curve of her hips or the sound she made when annoyed, though those burned behind his ribs, but all of her. Her stubbornness, her angry silences, the way she looked at the world like she was always searching for the way to make things better, clearer, more beautiful and fair. 

He drew back, arm taut, spine coiled like a spring.

He threw the final spear.

It hit the wall so hard the stone cracked around it, chips of marble raining to the floor.

His breath slowed. The weight in his chest did not.

He leaned against the wall, palm braced, eyes closing. Her name still lived behind his teeth, burning in his mouth.

She belonged to someone else. Or would. Or should.

And he...he was war incarnate. What use did he have for poetry? What use was he to her? 

But gods help him, he would burn down every temple in the world if it meant feeling her hand in his again.

He stayed there, arm pressed to stone, chest heaving, until the sun rose pale and useless above the wall.