I snort. “That’s absurd.”

“Then why tell me I don’t need to fight?” He kisses my cheek. “I’m taking care of my duties, that’s all. The nymphs will be here to take care of you and Eros, and I’ll be back soon enough.”

“How soon is soon enough?” I say, and he shrugs.

“As long as it takes for someone to win. But I’ll think of you every second, I promise.”

We both know he won’t, not when there’s a battle to fight, but I appreciate the sentiment anyhow. And at sunset the next day, he kisses me and Eros goodbye, his lips lingering on mine. A flash of green bursts through the sky, and all that’s left of him are two footprints in the sand.

Swallowing tightly, I notice a shell beside the spot where his left heel was moments before. Picking it up, I wash it in the ocean and cradle it in my palm, as if it holds the key to when Ares will return. But it’s just a shell, and it gives me no answers. I take it back to the grotto anyway.

I spend the whole night sobbing, even though I’m upsetting Eros. His tears only make me cry harder, and I cling to him as if he’s my lifeline. He is, in a way. Ares is gone, however temporarily, and Eros is all I have left until he returns. I need love the way Ares needs war; without him, I’m just immortal again, waiting for that spark to bring me to life once more. But at least he waited until we had a baby to leave. At least he knows I can’t be alone.

That in and of itself is a sign of how much he loves me, and I force myself not to forget it.

* * *

I go to the beach every day at sunset to wait for him. I make plans for what we’ll do together when he returns, and on my bad days, I consider returning to Olympus just to find out where he is. But even though Ares isn’t here, Eros is, and watching him grow makes me feel again.

“Eros! Not so fast!” I laugh as I chase my toddler down the beach. The sun beats down on us, warming me from the inside out, and the gentle waves lap at my feet. The only way today could be more perfect is if Ares would come home.

Eros stops at a scattering of driftwood near the entrance to a cave we’ve explored a dozen times before. Kneeling in the sand, he picks through the crude rope and logs, and I crouch down beside him.

“What are you looking for?” I murmur. He ignores me, but suddenly he beams and pulls something from the wreckage.

“Sell!” he declares, and he sets a white-and-coral spiral shell in my palm. Out of all the shells we’ve found on the beach together—one for each day Ares has been gone—this is the most beautiful. I turn it over in my hands, admiring its perfection. I miss him. Badly. And though I’m usually good at hiding it from Eros, seeing this triggers something in me. The love I have for my son isn’t the same kind of love I have for Ares, and I want that back. I need that back.

While I’m struggling not to tear up in front of him, Eros toddles off again, this time toward the caves. My vision blurs, and I wipe my eyes as I rise. “Eros, no, baby, not without me.”

He keeps going, naturally, and I follow him. He’s immortal, and nothing can hurt him. That doesn’t mean I want him to get lost, though.

As I close in on him, however, I spot something in the sand. Footsteps. Not Eros’s small, uneven ones, but large enough for an adult. For a man.

Pocketing the shell, I scoop Eros up and balance him on my hip. He lets out a cry of protest, but I kiss his hair and follow the path toward the cave. The footsteps soon turn to drag marks, as if whoever it was could no longer hold his own weight. Did Ares return without telling me? But why would he leave behind the remains of a raft, and why would he go this way instead of back toward the waterfall?

No, whoever it is must be hurt, and no mortal battle could ever injure Ares. It isn’t him.

“Hello?” I call as I swallow my disappointment. No answer. I poke my head inside the cave, smaller than the one we live in, and I have to squint to make anything out in the sudden darkness. “Is anyone here?”

A rough cough. I hold Eros tighter, and with a wave of my hand, a cheerful fire forms in the middle of the cave. Huddled in the nearest corner is a young man dressed in rags. Everything about him is dark: his matted hair, the stubble on his cheeks—even his skin is tanned to a leathery brown.

A horrible smell reaches me, and I wrinkle my nose. Blood. The smell of violence and war. Without letting go of Eros, I approach the huddled figure. Shadows dance on the walls of the cave, confusing his shape, but eventually I make him out.

He’s bent in ways a body isn’t supposed to be. His legs are mangled, and it’s a miracle he was able to leave footprints at all. Part of his chest is concave, as if he had been hit by a large rock, and his breaths are labored. But at least he’s breathing. At least he’s alive.

“Eros,” I say, setting my son down. “I need you to do exactly as I say and follow me home without wandering off. Do you promise?”

Eros nods solemnly, somehow aware of the gravity of the situation despite how little he is. He latches onto my leg, and I wave my hands. It’s tricky, and the young man groans, but his broken body rises in the air.

I float him out of the cave, and after three seconds in the sunlight, he passes out. From pain or the shock of being held up in the air without any discernible source, I have no idea. Either way, at least I won’t have to dodge any questions.

Even though I know Ares would have a fit if he found out, I bring the injured young man back to the grotto. He moans as I place him on the pillows, and blood browned by time stains his hands. This isn’t good. This really, really, really isn’t good.