Rotting Back to Ground

by Amorette

Epicasta stood up, startled by the sudden gust of wind and the accompanying clap of thunder. The sky was a perfect summer blue, only a few, high wisps of clouds that looked like furrows plowed across the heavens, breaking the expanse. There was no sign of a storm. Shading her eyes, she turned slowly around, surveying her garden and the vineyards on the hill above it. All she noticed was that she needed to weed the eggplants again.

With a sigh, she brushed off the front of her skirt, picked up her basket and tools, and started towards the neat rows of eggplants, their large violet blossoms turned up toward the sun. As she passed the compost heap at the rear of her garden, she heard a peculiar sound.

Someone was moaning. A man, from the sound of it, was moaning, as if in pain, and the sound was coming from her compost heap.

Carefully wrapping her fingers around her sharpest cultivator, Epicasta leaned over and peered at the far side of the compost pile.

A man was lying there, sprawled against the piles of dead leaves and kitchen garbage, his hands covering his face. He was a large man, with night dark hair, dressed in black leather and silver studding, a vicious-looking sword at his hip. A warrior, obviously, and not a local farmer. A stranger, with a sword, was lying in her compost heap.

Epicasta was torn. Had he been an ordinary man, in rough wool and linen, with no weapon save his knife, she would have been kneeling at his side in an instant, giving aid. This man, however, radiated power and danger.

He moaned again, lowering his hands to blink up at Epicasta. They stared at each other for a heartbeat. Then the man, in a rough, deep voice, said, "What is that smell?"

"Um." Epicasta gestured with her cultivator. "You're lying in my compost heap."

The man, his handsome face wrinkling in disgust at the aroma rising from underneath him, rolled over, onto his hands and knees, then managed to lurch to his feet. He stared down at the heap.

"What was I doing there?" he asked, sounding annoyed.

"I have no idea. I was weeding my garden and suddenly, there you were."

He looked around, blinking. His eyes were as dark as his hair. He had a dark beard, framing a wide mouth. The more Epicasta looked at him, the more she was certain he wasn't from anywhere nearby. No one who looked like him had ever even passed through the village of Buthrotum, let alone stayed long enough to leave his bloodline behind.

"Where did I come from?" The man turned slowly around, surveying Epicasta's garden plot, the small house beyond it, the pond with its collection of ducks, and the herd of goats that browsed through all but the fenced garden.

"As I said, I have no idea."

The man's rotation had brought his attention back to her. He stared at the woman in front of him, frowning. Epicasta found herself gripping her cultivator more tightly, as if she could defend herself against an attack from a man that big, that strong, that well-armed, with a garden tool.

"Who are you, then?" He was a man obviously accustomed to command, to authority, and even in his confusion, his natural instincts were asserting themselves. "Where are we?"

"I'm Epicasta, widow of Mestor, and you're on my farm just south of the village of Buthrotum."

The man's frown deepened. "Buthrotum. That's in the north, isn't it? On the western coast?"

"Yes."

The man looked down at the compost heap again and stepped away from it, brushing the clinging vegetation off his muscular arms.

"And you don't know how I got here?" He sounded less angry now, more puzzled. One hand went up to touch the back of his head and he winced.

"I have no idea, my lord." Epicasta added the honorific, just in case. Her mysterious visitor seemed like the sort of person one addressed very politely.

His dark gaze turned back to her. "I don't suppose you know my name then, do you?"

Epicasta nearly dropped her cultivator, so surprised was she by his question. Wordlessly, she shook her head. He reached up to touch the back of his head again, frowning. He had a very menacing frown, the corners of his full lips turning down, his brows lowering over his eyes. Epicasta stepped back.

"Um, if you like. . ."

He turned his attention back to her, his frown fading a little.

Gesturing with her cultivator, she added, "You could sit down and I could get you a compress for your injury."

One eyebrow lifted as the man studied his fingers, stained with blood. "Am I injured?"

"Well, it would appear that way and it would explain why you can't remember anything. A bad bump on the head can do that."

He thought it over, rubbing his fingers together. "I remember things," he said. "I just don't seem to remember anything about me. I knew where Buthrotum was, didn't I?"

"Yes." Epicasta had to agree. She had been imprecise in her words. "You just seem to have forgotten about yourself. You don't remember anything about you?"

His eyes narrowed as he again surveyed his surroundings. "There doesn't seem to be an army hereabouts. I'm sure I have something to do with an army."

Epicasta shook her head. "Sorry. No army. There is a small garrison in town and the local nobles all have a few soldiers but nothing you could call an army."

To her surprise, his face suddenly relaxed and he looked rather pleasant. "No army. No name. Just a bump on the head and a puzzle. How did I end up there." He pointed to the compost pile. "Very odd."

Nodding her head, Epicasta agreed. "Very odd indeed, my lord. Would you like a compress or a cup of cool water or something."

The man shrugged. "Water sounds nice."

She indicated the direction and he walked towards her house, carefully cataloging his surroundings. When they reached her house, she pointed to the bench her husband had built for her. He sat down, his hand going to the back of his head again.

Nervously, the woman hurried inside, fetching rags and the bucket of water drawn that morning and kept covered and cool in a dark corner. She dipped a cup from it, then filled a basin. When she came outside, her visitor was staring at her goats.

Suspecting that approaching him suddenly would be a bad idea, Epicasta said, "I'm back."

He barely glanced at her. "Your goats have worms."

"I know." That surprised her, almost as much as his initial appearance had. Somehow this warrior didn't look as if he would know the first thing about goats. Handing him a cup, she parted the hair on the back of his head to examine his wound.

His hair was like heavy silk, soft and smelling, not of compost or blood, but of the sky after a lightning strike. He drank his water, saying nothing as she dabbed at the little blood still sticking in his hair. She soaked a rag until it was cool, then twisted it dry.

"Here."

He took it, obviously confused.

"You hold it against the bump." Epicasta demonstrated. "It will keep the swelling down and relieve the pain. How's your stomach?"

"My stomach?" He glanced down at his midriff, touching himself just above the ornate buckle of his sword belt. "I didn't notice any injury."

"Not outside." He must have gotten his brain addled. How could an experienced warrior know so little about head wounds? "Sometimes a hard bump on the head makes a person queasy."

"Queasy?" He said the word as if he had never heard it before. "No, my stomach feels fine. More water."

He said the last two words as a casual command. Epicasta expected that. She hadn't expected thanks either and didn't get them. He just sat, silently, holding the compress to the back of his head while he watched her goats browsing.

As she handed him his refilled cup, he said, "Sulphur mixed in pine resin is good for worms. Well, it's bad for worms but good for the goats."

Cautiously, Epicasta took a seat on her milking stool, facing her mysterious guest. "I know. I have the mixture but I'm not strong enough to force it down them by myself. My neighbor was going to help but his eldest son has been sick and he can't spare the time to come. Maybe in a few days. . ."

The man left holding the compress, using it to wipe his hands, before he set it aside and drank some more water. If he had been her late husband or anyone else, she would have told him to keep applying the compress. For him, however, she kept silent.

"I'll help you. It seems to me I know how to dose a goat."

The sound of her own startled laughter embarrassed Epicasta. She clapped her hand over her mouth, hoping she hadn't offended her visitor. She must not have, because he was smiling at her. His frown had been fearsome and ominous. His smile was the exact opposite, warm and full of good humor.

Shaking his head, he laughed as he said, "I know. It doesn't make any sense to me, either." His hand brushed the sword at his side. "I must have been raised on a farm or something because I remember being very young and learning how to worm a goat. At least. . .I think I remember it." He sighed. "This no memory is very annoying."

"I can imagine."

He stood up, towering over her in black and silver, ominous but no longer frightening. How could a man who offered to help her worm her goats be frightening?

"So, where's your medicine?"

She pointed. "Inside."

He lead the way into her house, ducking at the lintel. Neither she nor her husband were tall enough to be bothered by the low doorway but her visitor was. As he had outside, he examined the room carefully; Epicasta certain he was evaluating it, every detail, as if he expected someone to leap out from behind the bed curtains and attack him.

Murmuring an apology, she moved past him to get the jar with the worm medicine from its place on the shelf. He took it from her, casually, and opened the lid to sniff the contents.

"Good mixture," he grunted.

Epicasta found herself relaxing a little. He might be a warrior now but, as he said, he must have been a farmer once. "You might want to take that off." She pointed to his sword. "It might get in the way with the goats."

He glanced down at his sword, looking mildly surprised, as if he had forgotten the thing hung off his hip. Perhaps, thought Epicasta, he was so accustomed to its weight, he no longer noticed it. He nodded to her, unbuckling the weapon and the heavy belt that held it. She opened the lid of her wedding trunk, showing him that he could lay it on top of the best blanket. Somehow, that gleaming, vicious weapon shouldn't be left in open view in her humble home. He laid the sword there and shut the lid.

"What happened to your husband? Don't you have children?" He asked the questions casually, unconcerned that the questions might hurt.

"Fever," she replied abruptly. "Three years ago. River fever. And we never had any children."

"Oh." The jar of medicine held in his big hand, he lead the way back outside. "I don't think I've ever been married but I'm sure I have children." He stopped, so suddenly she ran into his back. Epicasta sprang backwards, stunned by the impact. "Several children." His voice had lost it aura of command. "I'm sure of it."

"Children are a blessing," Epicasta murmured, skittering nervously past her visitor. This was insane. This terrible, terrifying man had suddenly appeared in her compost heap, obviously sent by the gods, and now he was about to dose her goats. She felt her safe world spiraling away from her.

"Are they?" He sounded almost amused. "I have the distinct feeling they are as much a trial as a blessing."

Epicasta ignored the small pain in her heart as he said that. "So I've heard."

Handing her the jar, her visitor rubbed his hands together. "We should start with the dominant male. Once the others see him take it, they'll be more tractable."

Spoken like a dominant male, thought Epicasta.

Her biggest billy was a four-horned ram, white and brown, young and strong. She was slightly afraid of him and his alien yellow slit eyes. Her visitor wasn't. He reached for the goat, grabbing him as easily as Epicasta would grab a kitten. Her mouth fell open as he manipulated the animal. She had been sure he would be strong but this was ridiculous.

The billy bellowed and kicked but her visitor held him easily with one hand across the goat's neck, heedless of the sharp hooves kicking at his legs. With his other hand, the visitor pried open the billy's mouth, again, with no apparent effort.

"Well?" He smiled at her. She shook herself. Taking a spoonful of the pine resin, Epicasta handed it to the man, who slid the spoon down the goat's throat. The billy squawked some more but no avail. The man released him. "Next?"

The billy wandered off, his long spotted tongue running around his lips as he complained. One by one, the big man dosed the goats, catching and holding each one with ease. He wasn't even sweating as he finished with the half-grown kids, a pair of white twins that he stopped and petted before releasing them.

He was grinning as he brushed his hands together, scattering some stiff goat hairs to the wind. Epicasta found herself smiling back. Funny, how unthreatening a man became after he helped you dose your goats.

"Well," said the man. "I suppose I could be going."

"But you don't know where to go."

"No." He frowned, although not as severely as he had earlier. One hand wandered down to pet a goat that was butting at his legs. "And I don't know who my enemies are. I'd hate to run into a troop of men and not know if I should be glad to see them or draw my sword."

Epicasta nodded. "Could be awkward." They stared at each other. "You could stay for supper. I mean, since you can't very well wander off with no memory."

"No, I can't."

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble, and your head isn't hurting, could you split some wood for me?" Epicasta pointed to her wood pile. There were only a few logs of the size to burn, next to a splitting block, and two long logs awaiting her efforts.

The man walked over to the wood pile, his hand brushing the back of his head as he did. "No, my head isn't hurting. Where's the ax?"

"Hanging there, in the leather case. I'll start supper while you work."

The man nodded. He took down the ax, swinging it experimentally, then testing the edge on his thumb.

"I know it's small," said Epicasta, "but a big ax wouldn't do me any good. I couldn't lift it."

"I'll manage." He found the sharpening stone and started working on the ax.

Leaving him to his task, Epicasta went inside. Once out of his sight, she slumped against the wall, her hand pressed to her breast. From the moment she had seen him, she had suspected he wasn't entirely human in origin. How else to explain his sudden appearance? He had to be involved with the gods, maybe even. . .

Epicasta shook her head. No point in dwelling on that. Until he regained his memory, she would treat him like a man. A powerful, dangerous man but a man, nonetheless.

It had been years since she worked with the comforting sound of wood being split in the background. Her late husband would line up the logs he need to cut and split so that he could create a rhythm while he worked. The stranger must have the same system because once he started, there was hardly a pause in the steady sound of his strokes.

Cook enough food for two, the woman reminded herself as she dug through her larder. Make that four. Her visitor was sure to be a big eater. Onions and garlic, eggplant and turnips. She had some chicken packed in salt that should still be good. The bread was fresh that morning. Unaware, Epicasta started singing under her breath, a song whose meter matched the sound of the ax.

"Where do you want the wood?"

The deep, warm voice took her by surprise. She turned. Her visitor was standing just inside the doorway, an armload of wood held against his naked chest. He must have taken off his leather vest while he worked.

"Um, there." Epicasta pointed, unsure of her voice. Terrifying, dangerous and gorgeous. She had never seen anyone so beautiful in her life. She put those thoughts away with the ones about his origins. Some things were best not dwelled on.

"I finished the wood and restacked your woodpile. I'll bring some more in, then wash." He wasn't asking her, he was telling her. Command, she thought, came naturally to him.

"Fine. Supper will be ready soon."

She got out her good plates, the ones with the fine black glaze that her mother had given her for her wedding. She even put a cloth on the table, finding herself polishing the bronze lantern on her sleeve before she set it in the middle of the table.

"Do you have some wine?"

Epicasta started again. She suspected she would never get used to that voice. Of course not, she scolded herself, he'll be gone soon. But ah, wouldn't it be nice to hear a voice like that, smooth and rich, in her life every day. Her husband had been a good man but he always sounded as if he had a stuffed nose.

Realizing he was looking at her, smiling, she made an effort to pull her attention back to the reality. He had put on his vest again, although it wasn't fastened.

"I have wine," the woman admitted, "but it's not very good. Our grapes grow well enough but something's wrong with the soil. Our wine tends to be. . .dry."

She had pointed to a jug. There were cups on the table. The man poured himself a cup, then took a sip.

Epicasta had to laugh. She couldn't help it. The expression, on that handsome face, was hysterical. His lip curled, one eye flickered shut and his head twitched.

"Dry?" He stuck his tongue out, staring into the cup as if it contained poison. "That's the understatement of the century. I've had vinegar that tasted better."

"If you think my wine is bad, you'd hate my vinegar."

"How can you drink this dreck?"

"Well, I thin it with lots of water and try to swallow as quickly as possible."

He considered, then tipped the cup back and swallowed the rest.

"Gah!" He shook his head violently, his long dark hair flying. His entire body gave a shudder. "Nope, I don't think I can manage it."

"How about water? It's from a nice deep well."

"I'd drink scum from a swamp before I'd touch that wine."

"Don't worry. We aren't that desperate. Although, if you like, there is a swamp not far from here."

They exchanged grins. He sat down, waiting to be served. Epicasta set the food on the table, trying to avoid brushing against her guest. It wasn't just his appearance that unnerved. It was as if the very air around him was different, with currents all its own.

She sat down, folding her hands on her lap, aware of his bright, dark eyes watching her.

"I, um, usually offer thanks to Demeter and Hestia."

He shrugged, reaching for his food. "Do what you like."

Deciding that this wasn't the time, Epicasta took some of her cooking and put it on her plate. She should be starving but her stomach was so twisted in knots by the afternoon's adventures that she could barely manage a mouthful of bread.

"So," he said, oblivious to her discomfort as he chewed and swallowed. "Tell me about life in Buthrotum."

"It's dull."

He grinned, tossing another handful of chicken into his mouth. "Surely there are some scandals. A wandering wife. A dishonest merchant."

"Well, the mayor's son likes to wear his sister's clothes."

Her guest chuckled. He hadn't said anything about the food but must have found it acceptable, as he was eating it steadily. "Does he look good in them?"

Epicasta smiled in return. "He looks better than his sister. That's the scandal!"

They both laughed. He had a wonderful laugh, deep and warm. Epicasta found the knot in her stomach loosening a little. They managed a pleasant conversation, with Epicasta doing most of the talking, while he ate her food and added amusing comments now and then. When they finished, she cleared the table, leaving him sitting there, staring at the flame produced by her little lamp.

"In the morning," she said, wondering where she would sleep tonight since she was certain her guest would expect the bed, "I can go into town and see if there is any gossip about a missing warrior." Or a missing whatever-you-are she added silently.

Silence. She glanced over and saw he was passing his hand through the flame, slowly. His face was set into grim lines.

"You'll have to be careful," he said, softly. "I must have dangerous enemies."

She almost laughed. He looked like a man who would have dangerous friends. Instead, she nodded as she returned to washing up. "I'll be careful. I won't go barreling in announcing that I've found you. I'll just ask around. As I said, Buthrotum is a very dull little place. Anything interesting happens, everyone talks about it."

Silence. She finished her housekeeping, then turned to find him standing behind her, looking at her, a speculative expression on his face. For such a big man, he moved very quietly.

"Epicasta," he said, his voice soft. One hand reached up and brushed a hair back off her face. "I once knew someone named Epicasta. I'm sure of it."

She tried to swallow against a throat gone dry. He was so beautiful and so close. She could see the thick line of his eyelashes over those dark eyes, the perfect arch of his brow, the soft curve of his lips framed by that neatly trimmed beard. She could smell him, not the stink of a man who had spent the day chopping wood but a scent of woodsmoke and leather and something else she had never smelled before.

"It's a common enough name," she gasped.

"Ah," he said, raising one eyebrow, "for an uncommon woman."

He did it. She could hardly believe it. She wanted to push him away and run to look at her reflection in the pond. Was she still a plump, plain woman, with ordinary features? Because surely a man like this would only press those sensuous lips to the lips of woman equally as beautiful.

His hand, surprisingly soft for a man who carried a sword, pushed a strand of hair off her face, then slid along her jaw and down the curve of her shoulder. She was trembling, frightened by her desire. She put her hands up as if to push him away and found them touching his chest, feeling the hard muscle under the soft curls of dark hair. Someone made a soft sound of desire.

"Epicasta," he breathed her name as if it were a prayer, his breath sweet and warm against her ear.

She tried to shake her head, although she didn't really want to refuse him. She wanted him to take her in his arms and take her as she hadn't been taken in the three long years since her husband had died.

His lips, warm and wet, followed his hand, down to nuzzle at the pulse point below her jaw. Of their own volition, her hands combed through his hair, relishing the soft weight of it. She tried to be careful, expecting to find the bump that must still be tender on the back of his head.

Her house was small. It was just a few steps from the table where they had been eating to her lonely bed. She barely noticed him pushing her backwards until she sat on the bed. He grinned down at her, shrugging his vest slowly off his shoulders. She wasn't surprised. No one could look like him and not be aware of it.

His next move surprised her. He dropped gracefully to his knees, his hands deftly unlacing her bodice.

"Funny thing is," he said cheerfully, his hands cupping her breasts as he bent his neck, "I don't actually remember ever doing this before but I seem to know exactly what to do."

Epicasta laughed breathlessly as his lips touched her aching nipples, her hands again in his hair. "You don't look like a virgin," she gasped, delighted by the way she could feel his responding chuckle.

"Don't feel like one, either," was his grunted response.

She couldn't do anything but let him do what he wanted. If she had wanted to resist him, she was aware it would have been impossible; he was far stronger than she was. But since she wanted him, all she did was submit.

He was skilled, and not with just his tongue and lips as they nuzzled and bit her breasts. He was managing to undress both of them at them same time, accomplishing most of it with one hand. She'd seen that sword, she managed to think as his hand pushed her skirt down past her hips and onto the floor, so she knew his hand should be callused, the palm and fingers marked by the pressure of the hilt, but it felt soft as it aimlessly caressed her.

As she laid back on the bed, his heavy, hard body hot above hers, she wished she knew his name, that she had some word to call out in ecstasy as he continued to touch her. All she could do was moan and gasp and beg him not to stop.

He didn't. He ran his lips over all of her, from the arch of her foot to wrap in her hair. When he slid his tongue between her thighs, she arched up, whimpering.

"Been a while, hasn't it?" he whispered, his hands under her, bending her back into a bow before he lowered his head again to his task.

All Epicasta could do was moan her acknowledgment. She no longer concerned herself, as she pressed his head down to apply the quickening pressure she craved, with his injury. All she cared about was the heat in her belly and the muscles that trembled in her thighs.

She heard his laugh, his knowing chuckle, as he kissed his way back up her body. Then his lips, his beard and mustache wet with her juices, touched her mouth and she opened it, letting his tongue explore inside. Her hands ran down his back, cupping his firm ass as she pressed herself against his hard cock.

Some small part of Epicasta remembered she was a respectable widow who had no business spreading her legs for a total stranger. Her hesitation, tiny and momentary as it was, vanished as she let her hand trail over his hip and under his belly, brushing through the hair until she touched him.

He gasped, his breath catching for an instant as her fingers encircled him.

Gods, she thought, Cupid and Aphrodite have pity on me. He was much bigger and much harder than her husband had ever been. Still, the need for him, for that, was greater than her trepidation.

Epicasta reached between her legs and wet her fingers with her own desire. She slicked his cock, repeating the action while his mouth worked its magic to hers. Then she opened herself, tilting her pelvis, her hand directing him inside her. He laughed again.

Oh, Gods! It was like fire, burning and aching even as he slid smoothly into her. Her head thrashed on her pillow, one hand pushing him away even as the other pulled him closer.

"Easy," he breathed in her ear, shifting his weight, "Shhh. Relax. I'd never hurt you. Relax. It's going to be so good."

Epicasta sobbed, knowing his words were true. She tried to catch her breath, panting.

"Shhh," he whispered again. That voice, that sensual whisper, was as arousing as his touch. He began to move, very slowly, small, gentle rocking movements, his hands stroking along her ribs, his voice still murmuring gentle encouragement. "That's it, oh, yes, oh, sweet Epicasta, you are so hot, so tight, it feels so good, yes, relax. . ."

He shifted again, lifting himself off her a little, changing the angle. She cried out, her arms reaching for his ass, clutching it as she began to rock back, finding their rhythm.

Another breathless laugh from above her. She managed to look up at him. He was smiling down at her, not amused but pleased. Such a lovely smile, she thought. His hair was falling forward. She let go of his buttocks long enough to push it back, which made him laugh again.

Then he closed his eyes, his back arching, and he began to push into her harder, faster, deeper. Reaching for him, she pulled him down close to her, so the curling dark hair on his chest stroked her hard nipples as he thrust.

He wasn't laughing now but panting and groaning, finding as much pleasure in her body as she found in his. Epicasta lost the capacity for coherent thought as that cock pushed and pulled at her. All she could think was yes, yes, yesyesyesyesyes.

And then it all spilled over. The sweet pain surged through her belly from between her legs and she cried out wordlessly. She came back from her orgasm in time to open her eyes and see him bite that lush lower lip, his head dropping forward as he gasped out his climax.

Then he was heavy on top of her, still smelling more of lightning than sweat. Epicasta couldn't help herself. She ran her fingers through his hair again, brushing it back from his face. She was certain, as she studied it, that she would never forget those features. They would be burned into her memory until she crossed the Styx and drank the waters of the Lethe.

Dark eyes opened. Full lips quirked in a smile. She realized, with a start, that he was still inside her and still hard. Surely she couldn't. . .he couldn't. . .

But he could. And did. This time his fingers found the place between her legs, beneath her curling wet hair. She screamed a hoarse plea to the gods as she came, which made him hesitate, but not for long.

He pulled her onto her hands and knees and took her from behind, his body stretched over hers, his hands on top of hers, their fingers interlaced. She straddled him as he lay on his back, his hands running over her skin so lightly they felt like water.

Finally, there was nothing left of Epicasta, only a trembling, sweating, gasping woman who not only didn't know the name of her lover, she couldn't remember her own. She fell asleep, curled into his embrace, satiated beyond anything she had ever imagined.

Slowly, regretfully, Epicasta found herself surfacing from sleep. She didn't want to wake up. She wanted to continue her wonderful dream. But her full bladder and her aching limbs wouldn't let her.

It wasn't a dream. She lay in her tumbled bed clothes, her thighs sticking together, the room smelling of musk and sex. She had been in bed with the mysterious stranger. Epicasta sat up abruptly, wincing at the strained muscles in her legs.

She was alone. There was no sign of him. Of the dark man. Or god. She wasn't sure which. Wrapping a sheet around herself, Epicasta went out the back door of her tiny house and visited the privy. When she came back, she stopped to pour herself a cup of cool water. As she stood drinking it, she realized he wasn't gone. He was standing outside the front door of her house, staring up at the night sky. Pouring a second cup, she went outside, handing it silently to him. He accepted it without a word.

"I think I know who you are," she said, moving away. He was dressed again, black leather and silver metal, unfamiliar and frightening, again.

"Do you?" He turned away from the stars. In the moonlight, all she could see was the gleam of his eyes and his teeth as he spoke. "So, who am I?"

Epicasta took a deep breath. "Does the name Hercules mean anything to you?"

She thought he was frowning. He did shake his head. "It sounds. . .familiar. Nothing more. Who is he?"

"Hercules is the son of Zeus. . .you do know who Zeus is, don't you?" He grunted in acknowledgment. "Hercules is the son of Zeus by a mortal woman. A demigod."

"You think I'm. . ."

"No. I've always heard he never carries a weapon and someone I know saw him once and he had blue eyes."

"Definitely not me."

"No." She shivered. It wasn't just the cool night air that made her shiver. "But maybe you are another demigod. I know there are lots of them. Perseus. Hercules. Zeus is fond of mortal women."

"So I've heard. But I don't have blue eyes and I carry a sword. . ." His voice trailed off, oddly. Abruptly, he pushed past her into the house. She couldn't see him clearly but she knew what he was doing. He tossed back the lid of her wedding chest. She heard the sound, saw a faint movement in the darkness.

Then, the candles and lamps all blazed, blindingly, painfully bright. He was standing there, holding the unsheathed sword in his right hand, the empty scabbard and belt in the other.

Epicasta breathed his name, almost as a prayer. His eyes moved from the glint of the naked blade to hers. A sardonic smile quirked his lips.

"A son of Zeus, all right," he said. Balls of flame rolled in the center of her house.

When Epicasta blinked the tears away from her eyes, she was alone. The lid of her wedding chest was still thrown open. She was naked, wrapped in a sheet. Her knees buckled and Epicasta collapsed onto her bed. The bed. Where she and . . .

She had known, the moment she saw him, that he had to be from the gods but, although she was almost willing to accept he might be a half mortal, like Hercules, the idea that she, a simple farmwoman, had entertained a full god. One of the pantheon. . .

Epicasta's world spun and she fell back on the sheets that still smelled of him. Of Ares. Of the God of War.

****

Epicasta sighed and looked over at the goats. The worming had helped but they probably needed a second dose. It had been a week since her mysterious visitor. A part of her preferred to believe that it had never happened. Except. . .who had helped her dose the goats if not. . .

She was not going there, even if he haunted her dreams every night. She had told no one, would tell no one. No one would believe her anyway. She wasn't sure she believed it herself.

"They're looking better."

The cheerful voice behind her made her gasp and spin around.

There he was, big as life, his folded hands resting casually on the hilt of that sword. The Sword of War. She was still surprised it hadn't left a burned imprint on her best blankets.

"Um, yes." Should she curtsy? He was a god, after all, even if he had dosed her goats, chopped her wood, eaten her food and done. . .other things.

He waved a hand negligibly towards the animals. "There. You'll never have to worm them again."

"Really?"

The smile that had so enchanted her when she hadn't known who he was spread across his face.

"Really. Handy being a god, you know." He winked, chuckling. "Provided you know you are a god, that is."

"Um, if it's not prying, what happened?"

"Oh, the old man and I got into an argument and he tossed a lightning bolt a little harder than he intended and I fell off Olympus."

Epicasta felt her own mouth twitch. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. He was a little embarrassed, since he needed me on a battlefield and had no idea where I had fallen."

"My compost heap."

He laughed, shaking his head. "Ironic, isn't it? You were a gracious hostess, under the circumstances."

Epicasta shrugged. Now that she knew who he was, she knew she had deceived herself to think him anything but what he was. He glowed with his power, the air sang with it, her senses rang with it.

"Well, hospitality and all that. What else could I do?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Run screaming for help? Ah, well, the old man is a stickler for welcoming guests and all that. I guess. . ." He frowned but she could tell he wasn't serious. "I should be grateful."

She looked at her goats and found herself giggling. "So should I! I hate dosing those miserable animals."

He smirked, obviously following her line of thought. "How come I know so much about goats? I mean, goats should be outside my purview, right? Well, I'll tell you something, a long time ago. . .I mean a really, really long time ago, when I was young and the world was new, there weren't very many people. Not many people and not much technology." He sighed. She noticed that his eyes were never still, scanning the horizon. She could almost feel his evaluation of the land, where would be a good place to stage an attack or a defense. "So there weren't enough people to make war. Oh, a few guys could hit each other with sticks but not real war. So, I had to make sure that the population increased and the technology advanced."

"You were in charge of. . ."

"Fertility. Farming." The grin again. "Goats. Fortunately for everyone, I was good at the job and there got to be enough people and other gods came along who could take over the farming and I could get on with what I was meant for."

Listening to him cheerfully telling her about events that happened in the forgotten mists of time made Epicasta acutely aware that he was what he was.

"Anyway, I fixed your goats so they will never have worms." He turned towards the vines on the hillside. "People weren't making wine back in those days so I don't know much about grapes. I know someone who does and I'll make sure he fixes those grapes." He shuddered in mock horror. "I could use that wine of yours as weapon."

She laughed. How could something as fierce as the God of War be so pleasant?

"You don't have to, you know. You thanked me. . ." Epicasta felt her cheeks redden and warm.

Grinning, he reached out and touched her cheek. "Sweet Epicasta. Oh, I remember who the Epicasta I used to know was. She was the mother of a lover of mine. When she first caught me with her daughter, she hit me with a poker." The grin broadened. "And she knew who I was."

"And she hit you? What did you do?"

He shrugged. "Nothing. I'm pretty protective of my daughters, too, so I understood. Eventually, we got along pretty well."

Epicasta ducked her head. "It sounds odd but you seem so . . . nice that I can't imagine a woman not getting along with you."

He roared with laughter at that, clapping his hands in delight. When he stopped laughing, he smiled at her, that soft, sensual smile and Epicasta felt her breath catch in her throat.

"When I'm with a woman, I don't tend to be in full war mode. I can be pretty nasty when it's called for."

She looked into those dark eyes and saw, in their limitless depths, the fire of war. Startled, she stepped back, comforted when he smiled again.

Gasping, she said, "I can imagine."

He looked away, distracted by something she sensed was happening far away. "Anyway, thanks and your goats will be worm free as long as you or any member of your family lives here." There was a flash of flame and he started to vanish, then suddenly returned to his full substance. "I almost forgot. That childless thing, I fixed it. Next time you get married, you'll have children. Although, I should warn you, being as parent is as much burden as reward."

She tried to mumble her bewildered gratitude but he vanished before she could get a coherent word out. Epicasta stood staring at the spot where he had been. She had entertained a god, in her home and in her bed. She had made the God of War chop her wood. An almost hysterical laugh bubbled up.

No one was likely to marry her, anyway, she thought as she crossed her garden to the compost heap. She had a bucket of kitchen scraps. As she upended them onto the heap, it occurred to her that a god had laid right where the trimmings from her turnips were going. Perhaps she should build a shrine on the spot, to Ares Aphenius, Ares the Bountiful.

Ares, as soon as he arrived on Olympus, realized he hadn't told her about his plans to have Cupid keep an eye on that widowed blacksmith in the village that she was fond of. Oh, well. Mortals liked surprises, as long as they were pleasant. Like having a handsome, sexy god drop into their compost heap.

Chuckling, Ares went in to talk to his father.

April 2001