Chapter Four

Months passed, counting out the long Greek summer. Others came to the forest, hunters and travelers and holy pilgrims who journeyed from outlying villages touched by the new god’s growing power. Not all of them caught Anthos’ eye, and he never pushed himself on the unwilling, but Anthos was clearly getting stronger.

Not that he sat idly by between trysts. He had to make up for those first weeks of lost time, and did all he could to ensure a good harvest. At dawn and dusk, times of mystery and magic, he would dance between the rows of grapes and grain, playing his reed pipes. He would visit the sheep and goats, whispering words of power in their ears, and walk through orchards, touching every tree.

Sometimes people would catch glimpses of him, hear his pipes on the wind. It was important that they never see him properly—something about divine mystery—but even then, the rumors began to grow. Lord Anthos was here, he was real, he was sharing his blessings as Lord Dryas never had.

And it was true—what should’ve been famine had grown into a bumper crop, with grapes so large and juicy they were nearly falling off the vine. When harvest came, Cleon went to work in the fields and organize the festival. The villagers gave him so many supplies and offerings he had to borrow his family’s ox-cart to tote them back.

“I wish I could go to the festival this year,” Amara said, helping Cleon load the last basket into the cart.

“You’ll be old enough next time,” he said, patting her hair. Their family had never had an abundance of food, but now there was a healthy glow to her cheeks he’d never seen before. “My baby sister, all grown up.”

She giggled, and Cleon smiled softly. He had spent years dreading the day when she would become a woman, when she would dance before Dryas and possibly catch his eye, but she was safe now. He knew Anthos would never touch her unless she wanted it, and if she did, he’d treat her with the utmost care.

Anthos still hadn’t been with a woman yet, nor had he topped, but he was working up to it. Perhaps at the festival he would be able to overcome that last hurdle.

When Cleon returned to the sacred glade, Anthos was back in his oak-branch roost, playing a melancholy tune on the panpipes. He waved at Cleon, but didn’t jump down yet, lowering the instrument and swinging his hooves.

“Something wrong?” Cleon called, craning his neck to look up at his lover.

Anthos began to speak, then seemed to realize that being forty feet up made for poor conversation. He leaped down to the top of the bower, which didn’t even tremble under his weight.

“I’m just…” He sighed. “Just nervous. You said a lot of people are coming, right?”

“Yes,” Cleon replied, “but trust me, they all like you already.”

“I suppose,” Anthos said, staring down at the pipes and turning them over in his hands. “I just…I just wish I knew better what to do. I wish Father had lived long enough to explain it to me.”

“Your father?” Cleon asked. He’d only ever heard Anthos speak of his brother, nobody else.

“Pan,” Anthos said, holding up the pipes which the old god had invented. “He died when I was very young, and his kingdom was divided among his sons…except for me. I was just a baby, so I was given to Dryas to raise.”

“Ah,” Cleon said. “Not the best choice, really.”

“No,” Anthos said with a rueful smile. “I realize that now, but I suppose it made sense to them? We’re the only two with deer antlers, and we share the same mother…Despoinê.”

“I’ve never heard of her,” Cleon admitted.

“Most people haven’t, unless they’re in a mystery cult,” Anthos said. “I’ve only seen her a handful of times myself, and even then, she spoke in riddles.”

“I’m sorry,” Cleon said with a wince. “That sounds difficult.”

Anthos sighed, then hopped down to land on the steps of his throne. He sat, patting the step beside him, and Cleon went to join him. The ox was fine where it was, idly cropping the grass beside Cleon’s small hut. Anthos laid his head against Cleon’s shoulder, and Cleon tucked a hand around his waist.

“I envy your family sometimes,” Anthos admitted, biting his lip. “Your father, your brothers and sister, your baby nephews…you have a lot of people that love you.”

There was something in his voice, an echo of that fear and hesitation he’d shown on that first day. Cleon vividly remembered those downcast eyes, the anxious tremor in his voice. It sent a stab of pain through Cleon’s heart, and he pulled Anthos still closer, kissing the top of that tawny head.

“They love you too,” Cleon said gently. “Tomorrow night you’ll see how much we all love you.”

 

* * * *

 

A few village men came to help Cleon set up for the festival, bringing torches and blankets and tables for the feast. There were great jugs of last year’s wine, piles of bread and bowls of fruit. A pit was prepared for the great bonfire, and the meat was skewered for roasting.

When all was ready, Cleon wiped his sweaty hands and swallowed hard. Anthos wasn’t the only nervous one, but he, although a new priest, could do this. He would never let his god down, not on such an important day. Cleon steeled his nerves, shrugged on a ceremonial robe and took up his staff, which was wound with flowering vines. The wreath on his head was made of leaves from the sacred oak, and his sandals were polished as clean as he could manage.

He looked in his washbasin before he left, and for the first time he thought he might actually resemble a proper priest.

He met the revelers at the edge of the wood—the adults in their fertile years from the surrounding farms and villages. They looked nervous, but there were also some smiles and eager whispers. They were prepared to meet their new god.

Cleon beat his staff on the ground, lifting his voice in the hymn he’d helped Anthos re-write, and taught to the villagers. The tune was an old one, but the words were new, praising their lord’s kindness and bounty instead of begging his mercy. The drums struck up, the lyres and flutes began to play and voices rose to mingle with his. The sun dipped below the horizon, rose-gold light tinting the sky as he turned and led them into the forest.

Anthos wasn’t waiting on his throne, but on the steps before it, garlanded with flowers and playing his pipes. He smiled at the mortals, eyes bright green and shining.

“Welcome to my home,” he said. “May the festival begin!”

It was glorious. Wine flowed and music rang through the glade, along with laughter. The bonfire blazed, first to roast the meat then to burn the offerings each man and woman fed to the flames. Moment by moment tension bled from the crowd, lingering fear fading away.

Every previous festival had been a show, the mortals faking enjoyment to appease a cruel god. The smiles had been plastered on, the dancers stiff—trying to please Dryas enough to show mercy, but not enough to catch his eye.

Now, though, Anthos danced with them, his hooves beating like drums on the ground. He laughed and joked, sang and drank spiced wine. There was a tension in his shoulders at first, but it too faded, replaced by an easy lightness.

When the dancers grew tired, they set to feasting, ripe fruit and sizzling meat, the bounty of the harvest. Cleon watched Anthos as he sat in a circle of admirers, smiling and blushing at the attention. One young woman in particular was flirting outrageously with him, and the god looked over at Cleon with a nervously hopeful eye.

Cleon smiled, nodding approvingly. Anthos smiled back and tugged the maiden into his lap, and the two immediately fell into kissing. The rest of the revelers soon followed, tunics and dresses falling to the grass as the air filled with sighs. This had been the part they’d always feared, when Dryas had chosen his victim for the night, but now the enthusiasm was genuine.

Cleon watched as he had promised to, while the god pushed his own partner down on the grass. He didn’t expect to enjoy the sight—straight sex had never done anything for him—but with Anthos involved it was surprisingly hot. Pale legs wrapped around furred hips, slender hands tangled in curly hair, but Cleon’s eyes stayed focused on that bronzed back and round ass as the god started moving.

Anthos had been afraid of topping for a long time, afraid of hurting someone with his inexperience and sheer size, but that clearly wasn’t the case. His partner wailed like she was drowning in ecstasy, and Anthos’ own moans made Cleon want to go over there and start fucking Anthos himself, filling him up as he filled another.

No, he’d promised to be last. He would sit and wait, wait as the maiden and god both reached their peak, as he kissed her softly and thanked her. He would wait as Anthos rose to his knees, catching up another eager young woman as her husband moved to kiss his neck and shoulders. He would wait as they took up the positions Cleon had just been imagining, desperate moans ringing loudly even in a clearing full of lovers.

“What, the priest isn’t joining in?” a hearty voice asked, an arm landing around Cleon’s shoulders. He glanced up at the speaker and smiled before returning his eyes to Anthos.

“I promised to keep an eye on him, Hylas,” the priest said to his old lover. They’d parted before the shepherd had married, but such bonds were suspended on this holy night.

“I won’t stop you,” Hylas promised, moving to settle between Cleon’s thighs, “but perhaps I can thank you for putting all this together?”

“Be my guest,” Cleon said, then sighed happily as lips closed around his cock. Hylas was good, had always been good, and Cleon contentedly tangled fingers in his hair. All in all, this was shaping up to be the perfect night.

“What is the meaning of this?”

The roar cut through the giggles and sighs, and every soul in the clearing froze. Panic seized Cleon’s heart—he knew that voice, but even if he hadn’t, he would have still felt primal, animal fear. Cleon turned his head, moving slowly as if in the presence of a predator, and stared in blank horror at the figure he’d hoped never to see again.

Dryas stood at the edge of the glade, as huge and terrible as he had always been. He was fully nine feet tall, even without the bone-white antlers sprouting from his hair. He was broad and muscled, with biceps the size of Cleon’s head and his fists clenched in rage. His hair, beard and deer’s haunches were jet black, and his eyes were as dark and cold as the pits of Tartarus.

The worst part of it all, though, was his magnetic allure. Cleon feared Dryas, hated him, longed to flee, but still his cock refused to soften. A part of the mortal just wanted to roll over and show his belly, spread his legs and get it over with.

“What is the meaning of this?” the god repeated in a low growl, stalking into the clearing like a prowling lion. His eyes swept over the naked crowd, and every head lowered in instinctive submission. “How dare you begin the festival without your god?”

Silence filled the clearing, everyone too afraid to move. It took long moments before a voice finally spoke up, small and shaking but still there.

“There…” Anthos said, rising from his tangle of lovers. “There is a god here.”

“Brother?” Dryas snorted in surprise. “What are you playing at, you pathetic runt? I told you never to show yourself to mortals!”

“I’m…I’m d-doing my job,” Anthos said. His shoulders were hunched as though expecting a blow, but he didn’t back down. “Your job.”

“Silence!” Dryas snapped. “You have no right to butt in on things that don’t concern you.”

Anthos swallowed hard, head falling forward. All the growth and confidence of the last few months seemed to drain away, replaced by old, familiar misery.

“B-but you left,” Anthos said in a voice like a sob. “They were all going to die if I didn’t—”

“Mortals die,” Dryas sneered. “That’s what they do. It doesn’t matter. They always make more. Now leave so they can pay homage to their true god.”

Cleon watched Anthos falter, hesitate, and he forced his body to move. He stood, looking up at Dryas with as much defiance as he could muster.

“He is our true god!” Cleon said.

That cold black gaze turned to fix on Cleon, chilling him to the bone. He felt like a mouse locking eyes with a snake, hypnotized by the sight of his own death.

“Who is this, brother?” Dryas asked coldly. “This wretch who dares to speak to me?”

“H-he…” Anthos stammered. “He’s…”

“I’m his priest,” Cleon said, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. “The priest of Lord Anthos, long may he re—”

The words were cut off as Dryas leaped forward, quick as a cat, closing one great fist around Cleon’s throat. The mortals around him scattered in terror as the huge god lifted his captive into the air. Cleon writhed and struggled, trying and failing to breathe.

“You should train your dog not to bark at his betters,” Dryas said, eyes fixed on Anthos once more. He didn’t even seem to notice Cleon clawing at his fingers, desperate for air. Cleon kicked his legs wildly, but his feet were two yards above the ground and there was no way to escape, no way to flee. He might as well have tried to fight a thunderstorm.

Darkness started to grow at the corners of his vision, the world swimming before him. This was it. Cleon was going to die.

Then a howl split the air, fierce and feral, and Cleon was flying. He hit the sacred oak with a sickening crack, his left shoulder searing with white-hot pain. He screamed as he fell to the ground, but it was drowned out by the scream of a charging god. His eyes caught movement, struggle, and when they finally focused, he gasped in horror.

Anthos had his head down, straining and pawing at the ground with his antlers aimed at his brother’s gut. The velvet had pulled back from the tips, leaving dagger-like points of bone only a few feet from the larger god’s flesh. The only things stopping him from skewering his brother were the huge hands gripping his antlers, Dryas snorting like a bull as he held the small god back. He must have thrown Cleon aside at the last moment, freeing his hands to halt his brother’s charge.

“Don’t you touch him!” Anthos screamed. “Don’t you dare touch him!”

“Be quiet, you brat!” Dryas snarled. His muscles strained, hooves digging into the earth as he shoved his brother back an inch, then two. “He’s mine, and I say he dies!”

Anthos howled with fury, tears streaming down his cheeks. He fought to get closer, to carve his vengeance into his brother’s flesh, but Dryas was too strong. He held the younger god fast, held him back, then a cruel smile crossed his terrible face. Those huge muscles bulged as he slowly began to force his brother’s head down, bending that slender neck at a torturous angle. Anthos’ next scream was one of agony, tearing at the soul, and his legs trembled as he fought to stay on his feet.

Cleon struggled to rise, to help, but the pain in his shoulder nearly knocked him out. Even if he could have stood, though, he would have been useless. What good would a mortal be in a fight between gods? All he could do was pray.

“Oh…oh Anthos great,” he gasped through the pain, “the substance of the whole—ethereal, holy, earthly, gentle soul.”

Anthos screamed in pain, tears streaming down his face as Dryas wrenched at his antlers. There was a sneer twisting his lips, a cruel expression that made Cleon want to curl up and hide, but he couldn’t. He had only his voice, his prayer, his faith, and he would fight for Anthos in the only way he could, just as Anthos fought for him.

“I call Anthos, whom rural haunts delight, come, leaping, agile, wandering, starry light…”

Another voice, faltering and hesitant, joined Cleon’s. He glanced over to see the hunter Gyras and his partner Nikias joining the next verse of the hymn.

“The birds and beasts await thy high command, and round thy throne in graceful order stand…”

Anthos clenched his fists and teeth, his eyes wild with pain and rage as he fought to hold his ground. He pawed at the earth, deep furrows forming around his hooves as he struggled for purchase. Then two more voices rose—Cleon’s brothers—followed by their wives. Then Hylas, and the girls whom Anthos had just held.

“In thee a refuge from our fears we find, those fears peculiar to the humankind…”

The hymn was louder now, from a dozen, two dozen, three dozen throats. The people called to their god, giving him their hope, their praise, their prayers. They gave him their worship, their love, everything they had…

Was it Cleon’s imagination, or had Anthos stopped sliding back?

“All-fertile Anthos, in thy splendor pure, in fruits rejoicing, and in woods obscure…”

No, Cleon wasn’t imagining it. Anthos was slowly raising his head, his hooves braced firmly in the earth as his dagger-sharp antlers aimed once more toward his brother’s gut. The sight made Cleon’s heart thunder in his chest, gave him the strength to sing even louder.

“Immortal fire—for all the world is thine, and all are parts of thee, O Lord divine!”

Dryas let out a grunt of genuine effort, his muscles bulging as he gripped his brother’s antlers even tighter. Then he bared his teeth in a feral snarl, eyes dark and hateful as he started twisting. He wrenched his brother’s antlers in different directions, and Anthos screamed in pain once more as those mighty hands tried to rip his antlers from his skull.

He was stumbling, falling, but his knees didn’t touch the ground. He fought to stand, fought with everything he had, everything his worshippers could give him.

“All nature’s change through thy protecting care, and all mankind thy liberal bounties share!”

Anthos struggled back to his feet, rose with the hymn that rang through the glade. His lovely face was a mask of agony, but also rage and determination. He looked like a lion defending his pride, a wolf defending his pups, a god defending his people.

And all those people were singing now, shouting out the hymn with all their strength and will. A shiver ran down Cleon’s spine. His heart was still thumping in his ears, his stomach still twisting in fear, but there was something else there…something like hope…

“By thee the earth wide-bosomed deep and long, stands on a basis permanent and strong!”

Anthos took a step forward, then two, hooves digging deep into the earth as he fought the mighty arms straining to hold him back. Dryas was grunting with genuine effort, head bowed forward as he fought, not to take down his small brother but to hold him off. That terrible face twisted in a snarl of bestial, murderous rage.

“Stop it!” Dryas roared, “I’ll kill you, every last traitorous one of you—”

The voices drowned him out, offering all their strength to their true god. Dryas had hurt them, hurt them all too much and for too long. Anthos was kind—he had fed them and danced with them and now he fought for them. Anthos had earned their love, and now they gave it gladly.

“O all-producing power, famed, divine, the land’s great ruler, all our prayers are thine!”

With a roar of defiance, Anthos shook free of his brother’s hands, leaping forward to close the distance. He whipped his head upward in a savage slash, antler-points carving into the larger god’s belly. Dryas fell back, clutching at his stomach where it bled golden ichor, the blood of immortal gods. His eyes were wide in shock and rage, as though he couldn’t believe he had been wounded.

“Anthos, I command you to—”

Anthos cut him off with a savage kick to the knee, sending Dryas crashing to the ground. He gasped, trying and failing to struggle to his feet—roots had reached up to bind him to the earth, forcing him to kneel.

“I command you to be silent!” Anthos snarled. He stalked toward his brother, antlers dripping gold and eyes full of cold green fire. He was a few inches shorter than Dryas’ kneeling form, but his presence was far larger, like a mighty oak towering over a pathetic weed.

More roots sprang out of the ground along with woody, grasping vines. They wrapped around Dryas’ chest, his arms, his shoulders and his neck. The mighty figure struggled vainly against superior divine power, and his rage turned to abject terror. For the first time in living memory, in untold centuries, Dryas was afraid.

Anthos reached up with one tiny hand, gripping a throat thicker than his own biceps. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t reach all the way around. Dryas was as helpless as Cleon had been mere moments before. Anthos was a god in the heart of his own domain, the master of this forest and the lord of its people. He was nature’s wrath incarnate, and Cleon knew in that moment that Anthos could snap that massive neck like a twig.

“Don’t—” Dryas gasped. “Don’t—you can’t! Lord Zeus has forbidden—”

“The killing of kin, I know,” Anthos replied, his voice as hard and sharp as a stone knife. “But I can still hurt you, Dryas.”

The huge god shuddered, tried to pull away, but the roots held him fast. Dryas’ strength, the power that had terrorized the land for three hundred years, meant nothing now.

“Please…” Dryas begged. “P-please, brother, have mercy!”

Anthos stepped back to look his brother in the eyes, a lifetime of fear replaced by pure disgust. The bully had finally met his match, and now he was nothing more than a sniveling, pitiful wreck. Even Cleon didn’t fear him now—if he’d had the strength to stand, Cleon would have walked over and spat in his face.

“These are my lands, Dryas,” Anthos snapped. “These people are under my protection! I suggest you run, run fast and far, because if I ever catch wind of you near this place, I’ll make you beg me to kill you.”

Dryas nodded, tears of terror running down his face.

“I swear!” he cried. “I swear I won’t come back—”

“Swear it on the River Styx,” Anthos spat. Such an oath was unbreakable as far as the gods were concerned, and Dryas swallowed in terror before he spoke.

“I s-swear,” the pathetic, broken god stammered. “I swear on the Styx that I’ll never return.”

Anthos nodded and stepped back, the roots and vines falling away. He looked up as his brother struggled to his feet, still bleeding golden drops on the trampled grass. He backed up one step, two, stumbling on shaking legs as he stared down at his brother in pure, animal terror.

“Run!” Anthos roared, and Dryas obeyed.