Page 3 of The Night Belongs To Lovers

The god brought his hard as marble, yet slender fingers down upon the Roman’s closed eyelids, scarcely touching them. How pale his immortal flesh looked these days as time, along with the blood of an ancient Titan, continued to rob him of the darker hue he once possessed, bleaching him as if there was no longer a need for pigment. Having spurned the sun centuries ago, a tanned reminder of the daylight’s power was, apparently, unnecessary.

Opening Coriolanus’ eyes, the god gazed upon the two orbs, truly lifeless to a mortal’s sight. They dimly reflected his stunning visage at him. A figure of unequalled beauty and ferocity. A worldly, haughty creature who carried himself like royalty. And why not? He was a god among these mortals. It was only fitting to act so.

And he was royalty once—mortal royalty, when his coal-coloured eyes routinely gazed out upon the daylight, the soft skin of his cheek welcoming the sun’s heated kiss.

Suddenly, a strange mist appeared before the god’s eyes, hazing his sight as if by some dark, Stygian magic. A vivid and terrible memory overtook him as he felt the heat of the raging fires and the smell of burning flesh once again.

A vision carried the god back to a familiar city long since cannibalized by the dirt and mud it sprouted up from; images of buildings aflame and invaders from the North beset him. There they were, the Roman men with their black, short-cropped hair and strong, bronzed bodies clad in superior armour, placing his people on spikes as war chariots raced throughout the crumbling city. The cries of the innocent, the brutalized, and the dying rang out in their torment as the Roman bastards killed or abducted them.

Death and destruction were everywhere.

However, the Romans did not merely want his minor kingdom under their rule; they wanted his people as enslaved workers. For the young city-state, not yet a Republic, though it was well on its way, the nations of Kemet and Nubia, just over the “Great Sea” from Italia, were too mighty to plunder, so they had set their sights on easier targets in the same vicinity, like his land, his people.

The god saw himself as the frail mortal he once was, screaming, standing on the ruins of his throne, his kingdom burning to the ground around him. A king, yes, but sickly flesh—a helpless mortal.

That was why they had come. They knew the young king could not defend his land or lead his men, a small yet formidable band of brave warriors ashamed of their sovereign’s weakness. He againheard their bitter curses directed at him as they fell to superior Roman steel. He saw no way to arrest it, so he did nothing.

Amid the chaos, he fled in his disgrace.

The cruel vision moved onward, revealing to the god the vast desert where he had wandered endlessly amid the scorching sands after his defeat. The Imperial raiment, burnt and shredded beyond recognition, hung upon a near-naked, vulnerable body. The once-king had become a shame-ridden nomad, sleeping daily in the shade of Pyramids and smaller structures or buried in the sand for protection against the sun’s burning rays, terrified of feeling the scorpion’s sting.

By night, he was a defenceless vagabond roaming without a purpose or a home to return to, living off survival instincts and hate; accursed bile in a parched throat provided his only sustenance.

And he would soon have died, an insignificant wretch quickly forgotten, had an ancient god,the night personified, not come to him, offering a quick death, an end to his rancorous state, to suffering—orthe gift of immortality and unparalleled power.

For the humiliated once-king, there was no choice, no contemplation. All-consuming hatred and the need for vengeance gave none.

In bold detail, the vision retold hisBecoming, how he gave himself to the darkness for a chance to get his people justice. No—their revenge, for it was a far sweeter thing to him at that moment. The mighty Titan Coeus, Lord of the Night, was his saviour. The powerof an immortal—of a god—was now his. He would be frail flesh no more, never again.

The horrid vision faded as quickly as it had come upon him, returning to a deep chasm in his mind where the flustered deity hoped the unwanted memories would remain.

Conscious of his surroundings and again in control of his faculties, the god realized he was still looking down at the warrior, who seemed to stare back even with his pallor mortis. He swiftly shut Coriolanus’ eyelids, for he no longer wished to see the past reflected in the man’s glassy eyes. This power from an unknown source would not assail him again.

And though he hated the experience of reliving the pain and horror of his kingdom on fire and the destruction of his mortal life, his detestation towards Rome and its inhabitants only grew stronger from it.

He smirked, realizing that adding to an infinite hatred was possible.

More than ever, the god was convinced his objective was coming to fruition. His choice of Coriolanus as his harbinger of vengeance against Rome, the instrument of their destruction, was correct. He now saw the vision as an omen, and it was good. He had waited so long already for satisfaction.

It was time to begin.

Bringing Coriolanus’ neck up to his lips, the god tore into bronze flesh with now protracted teeth, fangs as keenly sharp as a sword’s edge. He greedily sucked out the remaining vitality within themortal’s body, stopping just short of draining him completely; the act did not take long as there was scant left in Coriolanus’ fairly exsanguinated state to taste.

Despite the fleetingness, the god had no choice but to imbibe the warrior’s essence regardless of quantity; to elevate any mortal to godhood required a physical bonding.

Retracting his fangs from the near-empty vessel, the god began Coriolanus’ Becoming. He would fill this magnificent specimen of male potency and strength with new power, erasing all mortal physical limitations and the enslavement to time.

With a razor-like fingernail, sharper than any forest predator’s claw, the god slit his wrist open, allowing precious red ichor to pour into Coriolanus’ forced open mouth, a gaping maw to welcome his godly essence.

He revelled in knowing what his potent blood would bring forth once it flowed down the human warrior’s throat and permeated throughout his motionless, once robust body. And it would soon be that again. Desirable, lustful, a flesh more magnificent and powerful than any godling since himself.

More beautiful than even arrogant Adonis.

Coriolanus would emerge from the grip of the underworld, remade in the god’s image. And he believed he was more than all those capricious and pompous immortals—more than even great Coeus ever thought possible.

Remarkably quicker than the god anticipated, the muscles in Coriolanus’ face activated, and his mouth sprang alive. As expected,his body awakened soon after that. Not significantly, but with just enough agency for the warrior to clutch the god’s wrist like a parched beggar would to a jug of water, forcing more of that life-giving liquid down his throat.

Greedily suckling, Coriolanus waged war with death—and he was winning. The god’s essence was exceedingly potent. Organs and flesh began to mend, fusing to erase all traces of mortal wounds. But not just heal—becoming significantly tougher, far superior to what they once were.

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