Epilogue

"Welcome back to Mount Olympus Bazaar's 311th Annual Columns Tournament!"

The crowd went wild as the challenger stepped up onto the stage. They had all seen Nike, the Goddess of Victory, challenge the Fates before - it happened every year – but it was still a sight to behold. It was like watching two birds having a flying contest. They were masters of their trade, their every move beautiful.

Mars had a good vantage point from the top of the next hill along. The screen was big enough and the soundsystem noisy enough that he could easily tell what was happening. He was away from the crowds as well. You didn't argue with Mars about ownership of a hill that he was already at the top of. Even though he looked distracted, lounging on a park bench with his spear propped up against the arm, most deities assumed he had filled the entire hill with landmines.

"Hey, Marth."

"What?" he snapped, glaring up at the woman behind him, who was leaning over him with some kind of small box.

"I've got a new game and I'll let you borrow it!" said Eirene cheerfully, placing the handheld games console in his lap, "Look, the hero's named after you!"

"Really? Hey, my name's not Marth!" he cried, his face going red. She burst into a fit of laughter. Then his eyes focussed on what was actually happening on the screen and he gave her a broad smile, "Its a tactical RPG! Why didn't you say so to begin with?"

"I knew you liked them!" she giggled, "Hey, did you hear the news about the Fates?"

"What news?"

"They've finally found a replacement for Clotho! And you'll never guess who it is!"

"Go on, tell me," he ordered. He didn't want to be caught up in some kind of guessing game that he would never be able to win unless he was as knowledgeable about local gossip as the women were.

"Its a guy who got fired from the Infernal Bureau!"

"Fired. Infernal. Is that supposed to be a pun?"

"No, really, he got thrown out of the court of Hell. Apparently, he was lousy at the job! But the Fates decided to hire him. They must have seen something in him, I guess," she shrugged, "But, much more importantly... this guy is dating Nike's sister!"

"What, Spatula? Spatula has a boyfriend?" he almost dropped his stylus.

"I knew you'd react to that!" she laughed, "Hey, Marth..."

"Mars! Not Marth! This is Marth!" he jabbed the screen with his stylus, "I am Mars!"

"Mars, do you like Nike?" she asked, "I mean, really like?"

"What? Of course not! I'm a taken man! Venus would never forgive me!"

"Then why are you yelling?"

"Because you're annoying! Go away!"

"Okay, but I'm taking my games console back!"

"What do I care? I can get my own, you idiot!" he snapped. She ran away, laughing at the top of her voice. Suddenly, he wished he had really planted landmines.

"Peace-time turns people into twisted lunatics," he said to nobody in particular. Then a deafening roar erupted from the crowd. Nike had won. Again. Mars yawned, stretched, rolled over and fell asleep.