Ares the opera singer paces his training for maximum effect. He does not push his voice to reach the notes at the edge of his skill at first, but instead trains his lungs for endurance and stamina by practicing holding low notes and learning how to control his diaphragm.
Ares the opera singer does not engage in voice shattering dares and is written off by his fellow students as a stick in the mud. But he has a goal, and destroying his voice for a drunken dare will not bring him any closer. He surprises himself and his peers when he explodes in anger and makes the hall doors reverberate as his tone sobers the flippant youths around him.
Ares the opera singer sings arias to his lovers. He uses the timing of his thrusts to mark the measures he spills over their entwined bodies. He can’t decide which ecstasy is the more pure. The orgasm he allows to slip out of his control, or reaching that high note that had eluded him for months. Both. Both is good and worth striving for again.
Ares the opera singer turns toward the audience at a crucial point in the performance. As his arm sweeps across the stage, his voice reaches to the grand doors. He sees they had to cover the hinges again to keep his voice from rattling them. He expresses his pride by drowning out the tubas.
Ares the opera singer appears to outsiders as fickle, pernicious, and superstitious. He refuses certain foods and makes unreasonable demands on his personal chefs. He has watched how jealousy and rivalry will drive lesser men to poison their betters instead of striving for excellence with them. He will not succumb to their efforts. Let the public think him strange. He will protect himself and his voice.
Ares the opera singer will not accept anything less from himself than excellence. His lovers come and go. His villas are little more than storehouses for the gifts of patrons. The style of music changes over the years. But still he strives to be better. He does not accept that where he is, is “good enough”.
Ares the opera singer can not stand for long periods anymore. Age has stolen what he had honed and perfected. He still has the stamina and range to utterly destroy the egos of arrogant youths, but he is no longer the best that he can be. He looks upon the statues and the paintings dedicated to him and smiles bitterly. It was good then. It will never be that good again.
Ares the opera singer feels death kissing him. In one last act of defiance, he struggles to his feet and sings his favorite solo. The sound silences everyone that hears him and all of nature bows its head in homage. The solo completed, he passes out on his feet and never feels the indignity of gravity.
Ares opens his eyes and finds himself in the arms of Aphrodite. She teases him about singing in his sleep. He leaps to his feet and sweeps her away from hers. Holding her firmly, he sings the solo still warm in his heart. She is jealous that something could hold his affection stronger than her.
Ares sets her down before her jealousy becomes rage. Still humming, he takes his helm and cradles it under his arm. As he bows his farewell, he reflects on the dream of mortality.
There is not much difference between being an opera singer and being a soldier, he muses. There are drills and practice. There are wars and rivalries. There are opponents worth combating and weaknesses to be purged. A strong voice. A strong arm. It takes a strong mind to wield both effectively.
Ares the god of war moves with determination towards the fields where his soldiers wait. The sound of swords clashing against shields in well honed rhythm races to embrace him. He answers the call of his true love with a booming voice that sings to shake the foundations of the heavens.
Inspired by: “GodMail from Ares“