Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

«««««««« ─────── · I · ─────── ««««««««

When Ares was born the skies rained blood, or so the Muses sing to him. Whether in distaste, jest, or kindness he never knows—Father Zeus and Mother Hera refuse to speak much of the circumstances of his birth or the times that followed directly after—but Ares prides himself in the tale just the same.

There is little he himself remembers of his infancy: unlike his sister, who later has the foresight to spring into life already nearly grown, Ares begins his existence a lesser thing, one small and weak and cruel. A thing unformed and in need of care, yet vicious from the start: one who, as his mother often reminds him, would draw ichor from her breast when she nursed him then laugh.

This Ares does not doubt, yet why she recounts it so bitterly he never understands. After all, what greater bond could there be than that forged through bloodshed?

Alone of the young gods on Olympus, Ares does not know his domain. Ask as he may, none will tell him.

Their whispering eyes follow him through childhood, though why he does not know.

The past is a strange, shaded thing.

Ares remembers flashes of his mother’s hurts; his father’s rage. The feel of their fury.

The silent shape of the missing years.

Ares knows of his early life what he is told.

Of himself, he knows what he carves into being.

«««««««« ─────── · II · ─────── ««««««««

It is bright in the clouds above Mount Olympus, bright in the halls of the gods. The air is ever thick with wine and perfume, thysia and gossip—enough of each to leave one’s head hazy if unused to it. Ares is used to it, but often still finds himself dizzied and out of step.

For him Olympus is a lonely place, though far from empty of other children. Solitary Hephaestus looks on him cautiously, his scarred hands too busy with constant craftwork to join in games, least of all those that Ares concocts. The twins Artemis and Apollo stick together, their silent conversations impenetrable, their eyes flat when he speaks to them. Eileithyia, his sister who humours him and smells of blood and milk, so rarely walks the halls, busy as the work of childbirth keeps her. The minor gods and visiting nymphs are careful around him, and even his ever-growing list of half-siblings are quick to slink away with half-hearted excuses when Ares approaches with the blunt wooden weapons he is permitted.

It is a lonely place, but Ares draws their resentment warm within his bones. Wraps their fear around him like a second skin.

No, though the halls of Olympus are never quiet, their towering columns and floors of bronze make for a cool home; the gods that frequent them, with their many social graces, for bland company. Nonetheless, Ares absorbs their hollow pleasantries and mannerisms. Dissects them to study their make. Learns the civil sinews of their words though they always seem to become disfigured by his own tongue, always seem to be received with distaste.

The ever-present sense of discomfort follows him when he retreats to his own chambers, dull as they are courtesy of his mother’s frequent inspections. With his door closed, Ares practices smiling in his mirror though he dislikes his reflection: his tamed hair, his bland face. He practices subduing the glow of his eyes, the red that seems to draw such ire.

Once he can stand it no more, Ares ducks beneath his bed to fish out his latest collection of secret treasures, slowly regrowing in number after his mother found and disposed of the first. He looks over his prizes one by one: a peacock feather given to him by Hera herself during one of her better moods, a long white hair left at his father’s banquet chair. A fragile bird skull and a leather strap cut from a mortal’s armour, gifted to him by Eileithyia during a rare visit from the surface. A single gold obol given to him by his already-grown younger half-brother Hermes in exchange for the promise of a future favour.

Ares turns each treasure in his hands, then hides them carefully back under his bed and looks about his chambers. Once sure that he has left nothing out for his mother to find, nothing that could be deemed unsavoury and taken, he draws the smile back to his face and leaves.

Day by day, night by night, Ares paces the floors, his boredom honed sharper by the minute.

Despite the wariness of his mother’s gaze, she still brings Ares to her side. He knows he is lucky in this way, unlike Hephaestus. She walks him through the many expectations of the Olympians and sits him at the banquet table under her watch. Ares keeps as still as he can manage, smiles as pleasantly as he can, yet he has little patience for their sedate ceremony and his own attempts at polite conversation only seem to result in unease. Inevitably, he sends his mother into a rage at what she calls his unruliness, and perhaps that is what it is.

No, Ares has little interest in the leisurely Olympian past times—except for one.

When he can, Ares sits at the feet of the Muses and listens to their songs of love and violence; makes quiet study of the way they spin their words. Of how they twist and colour his own chest so unexpectedly. He watches the beautiful horror that unfolds in their tragedies. The way their performances move the listening gods to tears and rage.

What terrifying power, to hold sway over such passions.

They laugh when Ares says as much, eyes flashing with hunger. Soon, they say, he will hold such a power himself.

Soon, he will feed their stories well. 

«««««««« ─────── · III · ─────── ««««««««

When he sleeps, Ares dreams of death.

Of burning air and blades and screams that sound like hymns.

Awake, he stalks through the Halls of Olympus with increasing agitation, the question haunting his footsteps, haunting the angry beat of his heart: What am I? 

It follows him as he stares at his reflection, stares back at the red eyes that so unsettle his kin. Follows him as he prods and pinches at his skin, as he maps out vein and bone. Finds the places that hurt; hooks his fingers deep until bruises rise like laughter.

What stories will those fingers soon shape? What great passions will be his to hold?

When he peppers the Muses with questions about the power that will come to him, they only laugh and shake their heads.

He must learn to wait.

When the Muses are silent, Ares follows his mother like a shadow in the hopes of stumbling upon his calling; clings to the hem of her peplos until she scolds him for getting under foot. Dejected, he trails his father and wears down his initial good humour, begging to join him on his travels to the surface until Zeus rages at his lack of respect. It is educational, churning up such a storm in him, though Zeus does not seem to find it so.

Finally, his mother finds him a weapons trainer.

The courtyard is peaceful when Ares arrives, the air crisp and pleasant under Helios’ gentle rays. Ares looks to the strange god across from him with scepticism. He is oddly hewn: his features unpleasant, his figure unbecoming. He does not look to be much of a warrior.

Nonetheless, Ares keeps his eyes on his face and recalls his manners, ducking his head in greeting. “Good day, sir…?”

The god raises an eyebrow. “There is no need for that. You may simply call me Priapus.”

Ares nods slowly. “Yes, sir…Priapus.” The god watches him with amusement, measuring him up silently until Ares finally clears his throat. “What will we do today, then, sir—Priapus? I am most eager to commence with learning the spear.”

“You wish to stab when you cannot even dance?” the man scoffs. “Pah, youth. With that mentality, none will ever give you the chance.”

Ares frowns as he mulls over the words. “That is of no interest to me.”

“You’d best become interested in it. I’ll not set a weapon in your hand until you show you’re worthy of handling one.”

Ares scowls, then turns on his heel and starts away. “I’ll not stay here to be mocked.”

The god laughs. “I’d heard you were belligerent. Perhaps we are the same in that regard.” Ares slows halfway across the courtyard. “I know how I appear; that I have been crudely fashioned. But, little lord, handsome though you may be, do not think yourself so very different.” Ares turns, fists clenched, but the god only raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Do you wish to learn to fight or do you not? If so, then best stop giving their low expectation of you merit.

“Low expectation?”

Priapus smiles, his face twisting harshly. “I have fought no battles of great renown, yet here I stand, selected to instruct you in fighting. You may make of that what you will.”

“You admit you have nothing to teach me?” Ares mutters finally.

“Alas, you continue to do your reputation honour. No, little lord, I can teach you much indeed—if you are able to demonstrate the discipline needed to learn.”

“By dancing?”

“You speak lowly of it, but it is no mere test,” the god says. “The fighter who moves clumsily will not be a fighter for long, and avoiding that ought to be your first priority at all times.”

Ares thinks of the Muses. Of Terpsichore and the way the gods’ eyes follow her as she sways. The way she moves and their hearts move with her.

What am I?

He nods slowly. “I accept.”

As it turns out, his feet find the steps quickly, beating the ground with the rhythms of war. Ares had not expected it to be so. He is not accustomed to being good at things.

He likes it.

When he says as much to the Muses later, they laugh with delight. In the purple sunset, Euterpe plays and they clap to egg him on, then fuss over him until his ears are golden.

The weeks become months and when he finally does hold his first spear, Ares finds he takes to it even quicker yet, the ash wood shaft settling in his hand like an extension of his own flesh. Finds that his heart beats a little stronger.

Still, at the end of each session, he dances. He never complains of it again.

«««««««« ─────── · IV · ─────── ««««««««

It is calm on Olympus, save for the times when his parents bicker and send the walls trembling until the gods retreat to their own private halls, and Hephaestus to his room. At times Ares joins him, but often he paces through the halls alone, feeling out the shape of their fury as it tints the air with red. Feeling the way that it sinks into his chest with an uncomfortable pleasure.

At times the walls shake, but mostly Olympus is calm.

Then, one day, his father becomes unwell.

Hera bars the door to their chambers, but cannot silence the rumble of Zeus’ cries. It is unlike those from when they fight, unlike anything Ares has heard before. He and Hephaestus stand in the hallway outside listening nervously.

“It sounds most painful, don’t you agree?” Ares finally says with a practiced lightness.

Hephaestus bristles immediately. “Now is not the time for this, Ares.”

“Do you suppose that he will die?”

“Can you truly not speak of anything else? Of course he’s not going to die.”

“I would not be pleased by it, brother,” he mumbles.

“Who knows with you.”

Ares clenches his fists, rage flaring, but before he can respond the door slams open.

When their mother flies from the room, Hephaestus takes a deep breath then pulls himself to his feet. “I’m going to go see what’s happening.”

Without another word his brother slips inside, Ares tailing him doggedly. As the door shuts behind them, both come to a stop.

Zeus lies on his bed drenched in sweat, his eyes clenched shut in agony. His head is disfigured and swollen, his forehead protruding.

“Hephaestus,” Ares whispers, heart racing, “have you any idea what could be wrong with him?”

His brother is quiet for a long moment, then gasps. “It moved. Did you see that? His forehead—it moved.”

Ares squints. At first, he sees nothing; starts to scoff—but then it happens. Sure enough, for a moment the flat of his forehead bulges forward, the bone surely fractured by the force of it.

Ares looks to his older brother in alarm. Notices the way he has grown pale. When Hephaestus looks back to him, Ares can see the terror in his eyes. “There’s…something in there.”

It happens again, the awful pressing outward, and Ares stares with horrified fascination. Perhaps he really could die.

The thought jolts through him. “We must extract it.”

Ares looks across the room to the decorative axe hanging on the wall, then looks back to his brother. Hephaestus follows his gaze and begins to shake his head. “We’re not doing that—!”

But before he can argue more, Ares darts forward and pulls the axe from its mount. It is heavy, far larger than any weapon he’s held in training, but it sits naturally in his palms. The feel of its weight, the gleam of the blades, twist in his stomach with something like excitement.

When he turns around, Hephaestus stands in his way. His brother takes a shaky breath and holds out his hands.

Ares frowns. “I can do it.”

“I won’t let you,” Hephaestus says softly, and takes the axe before Ares can stop him.

“It wouldn’t upset me—!”

“I’m sure that it wouldn’t,” Hephaestus snaps, then sighs. "You’re too young.”

“Will you do it, then?” His brother looks at the axe. Their father groans; Hephaestus’ hands shake. Ares feels a lump rising in his throat. “If you won’t permit me to do it, then you must.”

His brother looks back to Zeus and turns the axe in his hands, suddenly uncertain. “Perhaps it is not—”

“You must do it. If you don’t—!” Ares stops, eyes welling up with a sudden hopelessness—then he feels it: the strange warmth that rises in his chest at times, that sets him at ease. He lets it grow.

Before he knows what he’s doing, Ares reaches out and sets his palm against his brother’s arm. The feeling sharpens, racing red down Ares’ hand as he exhales, then shoots between them. Hephaestus shudders, eyes shooting wide as the red crawls up his skin—then he tightens his grip on his hammer. He looks at his brother in astonishment.

“You—?” He pauses, a strange look coming across his face, then takes a deep breath. “Alright, Ares. Alright—I’ll do it.” He glances back to their father, darkening. “Though…you shouldn’t be here. You should leave.”

“I won’t; you can’t make me.”

Hephaestus frowns, then shakes his head. “I suppose that you would want to watch. Fine. But don’t blame me.”

Without another word, he steps forward and raises his hammer.

It’s sickening, the sound as the metal crashes into his skull. Sickening, their father’s cries: loud as thunder, deep as the cracking of the earth. The skin and bones of a god are strong, but so is iron: the hammer falls again and again until the golden sweet of ichor fills the air. Ares stares. It is a beautiful sight, a horrible sight.

When Hera walks into the room, his older sister Eileithyia following behind her, Ares is smiling as the tears stream down his cheeks.

Hera freezes, mouth falling open as she takes in the scene. “You wicked things—!”

But she doesn’t finish her sentence, because Hephaestus brings down his hammer again and their father’s head splits open. With a cry, a girl leaps free from the gore, already nearly grown and covered from head to toe in golden ichor. She lands smoothly on the ground, eyes flashing, and draws her hands up as though prepared to fight.

For a moment, Ares can only stare in awe.

Then his father groans from behind her, ichor still pouring from his head. Hera shouts and runs to him as Eileithyia takes Hephaestus in her arms and leads him hastily from the room; when she catches his eye Ares knows from her expression that she wishes for him to follow. Instead, he darts to his mother’s side, suddenly very afraid. Hesitantly, he reaches out to touch her peplos. “Mother, how can I—?”

“Away,” she snaps, voice low. “Haven’t you already done enough?”

Ares lets his hand fall to his side and steps back, face burning, then turns his attention to the girl now crouched warily against the wall. She is a strange thing, eyes alert and calculating as they flick between his parents before landing back on him.

Ares stands up straight; holds his empty hands out at his sides. “I’ll not hurt you.”

The girl looks to where Zeus lays covered in his own ichor, then back to him.

“Ah, but that was not my doing. Or, rather—we needed to remove you from there. From him. My father, I mean.”

She glances to the axe, now laying on the floor, then back to him suspiciously.

“There were no other means available and now he will surely recover swiftly,” he adds. The girl narrows her eyes, and Ares smiles as pleasantly as he can manage before continuing. “But you are here now, and I am most pleased to make your acquaintance. My name is Ares—might I enquire as to yours, if you yet know it?”

He holds out his hand. The girl glances at it then back to him, sceptical. Finally, she cautiously reaches out to take it, clearing her throat. Her hand is cool and sticky with still-drying ichor; something about the feel of it stirs red in Ares’ chest.

“Athena,” she says, voice rough as she forms the sounds. “My name is Athena.”

“Athena,” he repeats, gently shaking her hand. “How delightful it is to meet you. Pray tell me—how did it come to be that you found yourself within my father’s skull?”

“Our father,” she corrects him, “consumed my mother, and in so doing myself as well.”

Ares nods slowly. Such things have been known to happen.

He looks back to where his own mother has drawn out a needle and thread to begin stitching Zeus’ wounds closed as she weeps. For a moment he watches, captivated, as the needle dips through his skin then out again; watches as the gash is drawn together in a fine gold line. From the corner of his eye, he notices Athena staring at him and quickly turns back to her.

He smiles pleasantly, as he has so often practiced.

“Athena,” he begins, then corrects himself. “My sister. I understand—welcome. Come, I am sure you must wish to wash and clothe yourself.”

He steals a final glance at his parents, knelt together in their bed of blood. Tucks the image of it tenderly into his heart. Looks to the steady movement of his mother’s hands to reassure himself.

Confident of his father’s healing, he turns and starts toward the door. He does not wait for Athena’s response, familiar as he is with the look of distaste that had crossed her face. The sudden sound of her steps as she begins to follow him is a welcome surprise, and this time when he smiles it is genuine.

As they leave the room, Ares looks down to where his hand shines gold with the ichor of his father and shivers, suddenly conscious of how precious a thing he holds. He draws his hand to the exposed skin of his chest; lets the cold stick of it settle over the beat of his own heart. Wipes the remaining gold onto the pale hem of his chiton, resolving to later cut free the fabric and add it to his collection.

«««««««« ─────── · V · ─────── ««««««««

The moment that Zeus is recovered enough to walk, Olympus begins to shudder. The gods flee from the halls until they are empty save for Ares, Hephaestus and Athena, who follows them with measuring eyes.

From down the hall, Ares watches as the red pours from his parents’ chambers and thickens in the air. He breathes it in deeply. Draws the feel of them within his ribs until he can scarcely think from the rage.

His brother paces at his side, steps staggered and agitated. “We cannot keep letting this happen.”

“What they do is no business of ours,” Athena says quietly.

Hephaestus turns on her. “You have scarcely been here a week, what right have you to speak on our affairs?”

She frowns. “I have been here for longer than either of you, even if you did not realise it.”

The voices raise from behind the doors; the ground trembles beneath their feet. Hephaestus spins to Ares. “What you did before—do it again.”

Ares blinks, tearing his attention from the hatred that burns in the air around them. “I am still uncertain of how I—”

“Always you have asked and asked what it is that you are, yet now that we know you would do nothing with it?” his brother snaps, stepping closer.

Ares stares, heart racing. “But I still don’t know.”

“Courage,” Hephaestus says, grimacing, “You must be courage.”

Ares stills, pulse heavy in his ears, red behind his eyes. Courage. Yes, that is a mighty thing to be, a noble thing to be.

He can be courage.

From his side, Athena’s eyes narrow ever so slightly; she says nothing.

“This was my doing,” Hephaestus mutters, eyes flickering toward Athena bitterly. “I ought to be the one to set things right.”

Ares watches his brother with a sudden respect—but in his heart he knows that Hephaestus is wrong. There is blame to be had, yes, but it does not lay on his brother’s shoulders.

Slowly, shamefully, he nods.

When Ares breathes in the turmoil around them, what he draws in is quite different from what had been in his father’s chamber during Athena’s birth. He feels the hatred twist headily in his lungs; lets it swell in his chest until he could kill, wants to kill. He pauses, suddenly unsure—but his brother’s eyes are heavy on him, filled with something like hope, and when has anyone ever looked on him in such a manner?

He holds out his hand, and, when Hephaestus takes it, Ares sends the feeling forward as he did before; sends the red up his brother’s hand and into his chest. Hephaestus’ eyes widen. He grits his teeth, grip tightening before he tears his hand away and falls back.  

For a moment, Hephaestus stares across at him, eyes wild. Then, without so much as a word, he turns and starts down the hall to their parents’ chambers.

He opens the door and walks inside.

What happens next is a shadowy thing, one Ares later struggles to reconcile in his mind.

When he comes to later on, locked in his room from the outside with a strange dagger in his hand, Ares knows four things for sure.

The cold rage that had overcome him, more vicious than anything he’d felt before.

The stoic face of Athena as she restrained him with a strength greater than her stature would have led him to believe.

The silent absence of his brother.

The cause: Ares himself.

«««««««« ─────── · VI · ─────── ««««««««

The fury subsides to cold resentment nearly as quickly as it was stoked, and soon Ares is released back into the Halls. He is quiet as he moves from banquet to training to bedroom. Quiet as he watches the Muses and lets them bleed from him the feelings he cannot put to words. Quiet enough that even his mother praises his behaviour.

Quiet as the memory of his brother’s eyes as he fell down into the clouds, so clear and yet so slippery in Ares’ mind.

Returned to his senses, Zeus is quick to bring Athena to his side and name her as his own, then quicker yet to delight in her presence. Athena, as it turns out, is remarkably clever for one so new to the world. It is befitting, Ares supposes, for the goddess of wisdom and strategic warfare.

First Zeus, then begrudgingly even Hera, coddle her.

Ares watches as Athena draws nearer and nearer to the head of the table; as the other gods begin to nod along when she speaks. Watches when Hera finally brings Athena to her side as she weaves, instructing her in the movements, then praises how deftly his sister’s fingers move over the loom. Watches as she brings their father to laughter with the cleverness of her plans, eyes darting sharp around the room.

It would be easy for him to hate her, and at times he does, but when she meets Ares’ gaze there is something in it that he recognises.

When Ares finds her in the armoury turning a spear in her hands, the confirmation is a delight. She spins, eyes wary, but Ares only grins. “Come, sister, I can teach you.”

Yet as he shows her the grip, shows her how to stand and stab, Ares quickly realises there is little need for him: Athena takes to the spear faster than even he had.

Still, afterward as they stretch their limbs surrounded by the looming instruments of violence, Ares cannot help but find the armoury a bit warmer than it was in the past. 

“I knew you were like me,” he says suddenly. “I knew it from the instant you sprang from his head.”

Athena’s eyes flash over him with alarm. She almost seems about to speak, but then smiles and nods instead.

“Will you join me in studying under Priapus?” he asks eagerly.

Ares regrets the question immediately as her expression turns scornful. “I would not set foot near that man.”

And, true to her word, she does not: soon after, their father takes her to the training courtyard himself and the Halls echo with the clash of shield and spear.

«««««««« ─────── · VII · ─────── ««««««««

Rage and love are fickle, if simmering, things, and not the least on Olympus. Soon, his mother announces that she is with child. A daughter, Hera says, she is certain of it: Hebe will be her name. Another child like Ares and Eileithyia, of her and his father both. A fitting apology to soothe the hurt of Zeus’ many mistakes, she says bitterly.

Ares watches as her belly swells with fascination. Imagines he can see the movement of the little life within, that he can sense the ichor flowing through her veins the same as his own. When he asks to feel his sister kick, Hera shoos him away. A baby, she says, is far too delicate a thing for the likes of him.

When his mother’s contractions begin, Ares is barred from the room. He sits sullenly in the hall outside and listens to her screams; lets the pain wrap red around his lungs. Once the door finally opens and his father is sent for, Ares slips inside after him, eager to see his sister, but is quickly spotted and cast out. Yet Ares is the god of courage and he cannot be so easily dissuaded. When his mother tires and retreats to her own room to sleep, Ares creeps to the crib and peers down, entranced.

His sister is the smallest creature he’s ever seen, her eyes large and bright. When he leans nearer and Hebe sees him, she smiles. Ares stares, scarcely trusting himself to breathe. Then, against his better judgement, he reaches down to take her into his arms: carefully, so carefully, and how fragile a thing she is. He tucks her to his chest as he'd seen his mother doing, rocks her gently—and she laughs.

“She loves you already.” Ares freezes guiltily, but when Eileithyia stands from the sofa in the shadowed corner she is smiling, her brown eyes warm. “I’d not have expected you to be good with them.”

Ares grins and starts forward with open delight. “I didn’t realise you had returned!”

“I’d not miss our sister’s birth, little beast. Oh, but you’ve grown more handsome than ever!”

She folds the two of them into her arms and ruffles his hair good-naturedly as Ares flushes. “Why were you gone for so long?” he demands. “Why didn’t you stay after Athena—?”

“There have been many births to oversee.” Eileithyia pauses, then frees him and adds casually, “Many deaths too.”

Ares perks up; Hebe gurgles happily against his chest. “What nature of deaths?”

“Why, you haven’t changed a bit, have you?” she laughs under her breath. “I’ve said it before—it is a dangerous business, childbirth. No less so than those battles you fancy hearing about. You would do well to remember it when you come into your own strength—”

“It’s courage, Eileithyia!” he says, interrupting her in his excitement. “I’m courage.”

“But how quickly you’ve grown.” His sister stills for a moment, an odd look crossing her face, then continues more firmly, “Courage is the greatest of qualities, and I am sure you will do much good with it.” Ares beams. “It is even more important, then, that you heed my words.”

“I shall,” Ares says, nodding seriously before adding, “but if I may—would you perhaps tell me more of the deaths?”

“Ah, but I thought you might ask that. Come then, little beast. Sit with me and I’ll tell you of their miseries.”

She draws him back to the long sofa across the room and drops down lazily; when Ares sits next to her, Eileithyia is quick to tuck him into her side and set about fixing his hair.

He cradles Hebe gently against his chest, softening against the doting of his sister, then asks, “Do you see Death often?”

“Death? I suppose that I do.”

“And what of him? What is he like?”

“You mean Thanatos himself?” Eileithyia laughs with surprise. “Well—he appears young still, and very serious, though I cannot say we speak much. He…is an odd one. As are you.” She smiles, then presses her lips to his forehead; Ares grimaces and puts on a half-hearted show of squirming away. “But surely it isn’t him you wish to hear of. Let me tell you more of the nature of their deaths…”

As she begins her tales of blood and laboured sorrow, Ares lets his eyes drift shut.

It is strange, but with Hebe pressed cheerful against his heart and Eileithyia’s arm about his shoulders, he is suddenly sure that everything will be alright.

«««««««« ─────── · end of chapter · ─────── ««««««««

Chapter Text

«««««««« ─────── · I · ─────── ««««««««

Olympus is warm during the brief period of Eileithyia’s stay. The night before she must return, a feast is held in celebration of Hebe’s birth and the halls bustle with the gods who usually work on the surface, returned to drink and pledge their affections. One by one, they speak and raise their glasses.

When it is Eileithyia’s turn, she praises Hera for her fortitude in childbirth then regales their family with the more uplifting of her surface tales, free from mention of the blood and screams Ares knows they ought to contain. As his kin ooh and ah, she catches his eye and winks.

After the final speech ends, Ares watches from a distance as Hebe is shown to the crowd of gathered gods. Watches as one by one they present their gifts to his mother: chests of gems and fabrics as bright as the peacocks Hera keeps; rich perfumes and jewellery of gold and pearls.

When the gifting ends and the gods return to their drinking, Ares creeps forward and kneels quietly at his mother’s feet.

“I have little to offer, mother, but if it pleases you I would offer it all the same.”

He holds out his hand to reveal a small burgundy pouch knotted closed with leather cord. Hera blinks in surprise. “What is this, my son?”

“A charm. I would offer her my protection.”

Hera is quiet for a moment then slowly asks, “…and what have you put inside of it?”

Somewhere behind them Poseidon laughs; Ares can hear the lilting rise of Eileithyia’s voice and recognizes the annoyance in her tone.

“Courage, mother,” he says, smiling as pleasantly as he can, “which I would offer to her as well.”

The pouch is heavy in his hand for so light a thing as it is, the red glow of his blessing even deeper in hue than the fabric. His mother’s eyes narrow and Ares prepares himself for the impending rejection—then she holds out her hand. “I thank you for your gift, my son. It is very thoughtful of you.”

Ares stands and sets the pouch into her palm, then steals a look at his sister. As soon as Hebe sees him, she smiles and reaches out. Ares glances to where his mother frowns, then cautiously holds out his hand. For a flash, Hera’s eyes widen—then Hebe grabs him, the whole of her hand wrapping around one of his fingers, small as she is. He grins and wiggles his finger until she laughs.

Ares turns back, about to ask for permission to hold her, but stops when he sees his mother staring at the place their hands meet with terror.

“I’d not hurt her, mother,” he says quietly, stomach turning, “I would only offer her my protection, I swear it.”

When Hera meets his eyes, her own are wet. “I believe you, my son. I believe that it would never be your intention.”

The air goes cold in his lungs, the walls of the room suddenly too small around him. When Hebe lets him go, Ares yanks his hand back.

“I understand,” he says quietly.

He backs away, then turns and walks briskly from the hall. As soon as he turns the corner, he breaks into a run.

It is cooler outside. Quieter, the laughs and complaints and clinking of cups muted by distance. Ares paces back and forth across the arena at the centre of the Muses’ now-empty amphitheatre, unable to shake off the sickly air that follows him.

“That was an unfair thing our mother said.”

Ares slows and looks up to where Eileithyia stands at the top of the steps. He digs his nails into the flesh of his palms.

“…you heard that?”

She shakes her head and starts down the steps. “I hear many things.”

“I suspect that she is correct,” Ares mutters, beginning to pace again. “What is wrong with me, Eileithyia?”

“You are as you were fated to be,” she says firmly, stepping onto the level ground of the arena and setting a hand on his shoulder to still him. “There is no wrong.”

Ares lowers his head, unable to meet her eyes. The floor is cold under his feet, glittering with reflected starlight.

“I’m…different.”

“Is that truly so bad a thing?” Eileithyia glances around then leans in and adds, conspiratorially, “Would you rather you were more like our good Uncle Poseidon?”

Ares smiles half-heartedly, well aware of his sister’s distaste for their uncle and his repeated questions about her lack of husband. “I wish you weren’t leaving.”

“Ah, but I will see you again soon I am sure, my courageous little beast. Perhaps next time it will be on the surface, hm?” She pauses, then reaches into the folds of her peplos. “Until then—I brought something for you. After all, you will need to start a new collection now.”

When Eileithyia holds out her hand Ares freezes at the sight of the thing in her palm, pulse racing loud and crimson in his ears. He looks up to her, eyes wide, then quickly takes it into his hands and tucks it away.

“Eileithyia—” he starts, then finds he doesn’t know how to continue.

Ares stops searching for the right words and throws his arms around her instead. Eileithyia laughs sadly and presses her lips to the top of his head. “A fearsome attack indeed,” she finally says, then ruffles his hair and continues with a sudden seriousness. “Ares—you must not live as an apology for what you are. Remember this.”

Ares blinks into the soft fabric of her peplos, the words forming a lump in his throat. He clenches his eyes shut and holds her tight.

When Eileithyia returns to the festivities, Ares does not follow her. Instead, he hurries to his room and reaches under his bed to pull out the box he’s taken to storing his treasures in, now empty save for the dagger he still can’t recall finding. He turns the blade in his hands, then returns it and draws out the item hidden in his chiton, the item Eileithyia had pressed into his hand: the splintered head of a spear, still stained red with mortal blood. As he runs his hands over the fractured thing, his heart stumbles in his chest. He takes a deep breath, then sets his new treasure into the box and shuts the lid.

As the night thickens, the distant revelry growing louder and the laughter wet with ambrosia, Eileithyia reappears and steals him back into Hebe’s room where she now lays. Smiles at the way he rocks their sister as she tells him more of the surface: of births delayed at the willing of Hera, of warriors made queasy by the sight of her work. Of life and death birthed in bloody screams.

“Tell me more,” Ares whispers in the dimmed nursery lights, the air all milk and newness. “Tell me more.”

And so she does, the tales growing grislier as the night sky begins to purple with the threat of morning and Ares’ eyes drift shut. Finally, when he opens them, he finds himself in his own bed, his blanket tucked gently over him and the bright melancholy of day creeping through his window.

«««««««« ─────── · II · ─────── ««««««««

It is cold in the Halls of Olympus; cold, the bronze that shines beneath his feet as Ares darts across the floor. He is careful with his steps, moving lightly despite the strange new lankiness of his body. Ares looks quickly from column to column. The Hall is still, far more so than usual, busy as all the other gods are with overseeing the mortal festivities on the surface.

All the other gods except for one.

The noise is subtle when it comes, but Ares has been waiting for it: he starts after the footsteps immediately and dashes around the column at his right, grip tight on his wooden sword.

“Got you—!”

But there is nothing there.

The blunt point of a wooden spear prods the skin between his shoulder blades.

“I win,” Athena says smugly. “This is what I’ve warned you of, brother—you must always anticipate your enemy’s—”

Ares flushes, anger rising red in his chest, then spins and knocks the spear away and swings at her with a shout. Athena steps back swiftly, parrying his attacks. Always, she is a step ahead of him, always.

Then: an opening as she begins to lunge forward. Ares stabs, and—

Athena pivots at the last second, driving the butt of her spear up into his gut.

He falls to the ground, gasping for breath as she brings the blunted point to the soft skin under his chin. “And again. You cannot hope to beat me like this. You must learn to use your head, Ares, should you ever hope to join me on the surface.”

He glares at the reminder of his sister’s recently begun duties, raw in the wake of his own repeatedly denied requests. Athena smirks down at him, not a hair out of place—then draws the spear back and holds out her hand. Ares pushes his anger away. Picks up his sword from where he’d dropped it and lets her pull him to his feet.

“Might we have another round?”

“If I say yes, what will you do different this time?”

Ares grimaces. “Use my head.”

For a moment, Athena watches him sceptically—but then she nods and starts back down the Hall. “Come then, let us reset.”

Ares runs a hand over the tender spot in his stomach then grins and races after the shining back of her armour.

«««««««« ─────── · III · ─────── ««««««««

During the times when Athena joins them on Olympus, Ares follows her from the armoury to the practice grounds, the stables to the loom room, entirely undeterred by the bemused eyes of the weaving goddesses. Athena sends him a sidelong look. “If you wish to join me here, then you must be of use.”

Ares shrugs. “I can be of use.”

“Do you intend to join me at weaving, brother?” she asks with a touch of amusement.

He pauses, the old memory of his mother’s hands bringing needle to skin flashing through his mind. “And if I do? I would, in fact, be most eager to learn to sew.”

Athena scans his face with narrowed eyes, then begins to smile. “If you truly wish to learn, then I will teach you. Come, sit at my side.” 

He follows as she shows him to thread his needle, follows her in dipping it in and out of his scrap of linen.

“And if the material were to be skin?” he finally asks.

Athena blinks; Ares smiles pleasantly until she begins to nod. “Indeed, there are ample scenarios where such a skill could prove valuable. A wise consideration, brother.”

He beams, mind turning with flesh and blood as she deliberates on how the technique would differ.

That evening when he retreats to his chambers, Ares takes his dagger from the box under his bed; digs out the needle and thread he’d hidden away in the folds of his chiton. He carefully threads and knots the needle as Athena had shown him, then reaches for his dagger. In the flickering candlelight, he brings the blade along the side of his index finger. Shivers at the feel as the ichor flows golden down his hand. Then, raising the threaded needle in his other hand, he gets to work. When he is done, all that remains is a line of gold and a zig-zag mess of stitches.

The following evening when he takes a seat at Athena’s side, her eyes lock immediately onto his hand with horror. “What have you done?”

Ares smiles. “I thought to test it myself! See how well it works?”

Her expression darkens. “You must not do such things.”

“But you said—!”

“I’d not have thought you would do something like this,” Athena says sharply. “You must never do it again. Give them back.”

Ares glares. “They’re mine.”

For a moment, Athena’s eyes are hard enough that Ares tenses in anticipation of a blow—then she sighs. “You tricked me. Me.” She sets a hand lightly on his shoulder. “For that, I must commend you, brother.”

Ares straightens, grinning with unexpected delight, but Athena’s expression remains sombre. Slowly, his smile fades.

The room is empty around them save for the looms and the unfinished projects still hanging over them. The shadows they throw across the floor.

Athena looks back to his stitches, eyes grey. “You were never meant for this place.”

For a moment they sit in silence.

Cool light falls through the windows, the lonely colour of early autumn evening. The first of the stars freckle the sky as it stretches out above the clouds. Somewhere, a god is laughing, voice as wine-thick as the air.

Athena watches him, unblinking and certain, and the stitches begin to prickle in his flesh.

Finally, Ares smiles. He rubs at the stitches. Catches at the thread and begins to pull. “No, I do not believe that I was.”

“I cannot understand why they keep you here.”

“Nor do I, sister—I would sooner not be here myself.” Ares pauses and looks to the shadows, then quietly continues, “You could help me with that. Let me join you when next you leave.”

She looks at him for a long moment, eyes unreadable, then slowly says, “I would never knowingly facilitate such a thing, brother. It is our father’s wish that you remain here and I would not act against him.”

Ares mulls the words over in search of the loophole he's learned to look for with her, then begins to smile. “Of course—you would never knowingly do such a thing.”

“I will leave again in the morning. A war is brewing below that I must see to.”

Ares sharpens, excitement shooting electric up his spine. “War, you say?”

His sister nods curtly. “Indeed. There is little shelter in my chariot, so don’t think for a moment of sneaking along. You may, if you wish, prepare my weapons chest for me—I know how you enjoy such things.”

“Of course,” he says, tugging the last of the thread from his skin, “how very thoughtful of you.

«««««««« ─────── · IV · ─────── ««««««««

It is dark inside the weapons chest; claustrophobic as he lays amongst the spears while the chariot descends.

Ares grits his teeth and shuts his mind to the weeping wind as they plummet downward.

When the wheels touch the surface with a jolt, he finds himself breathing again.

There is an immediate difference in the quality of the surface air that seeps through the cracks: it is weightier, yet somehow familiar.

There is something else in it. Something like copper, like the shattered head of his spear.

A rap on the wooden lid of the weapons case shakes him from his reverie. As the lid is lifted above him, Ares shields his eyes against the brightness. Athena looks down at him, a darkened silhouette against the sun, then wryly says, “I told you not to do this, brother.”

She holds out her hand and Ares takes it with a grin, letting her pull him from the wooden box.

When his feet hit the ground, it is with a solid thud, the soil giving ever so slightly beneath him despite the frost. Ares blinks unsteadily, taking in the foreign world around him: the sharp green trees that seem to crisp his lungs with their smell; the mountains that rise in the distance, tall enough to scrape the bottoms of the clouds; the strange birds that cut through the air above, so much darker in colour than those his mother favours.

The nearby clash of metal, hidden beyond the hill that rises ahead of them.

The scent of blood.  

“Stay with me.”

He drags his attention back to where Athena stands, now armed with a spear in hand and a fearsome helm atop her head. As she starts forward in the direction of the noise, he follows at her heel.

When they slow at the crest of the hill overlooking Athena’s battlefield, Ares freezes. At his side, his sister speaks of kings and heroes, of wartime strategy and politics—but such talk slides past his ears like water, because ahead they are fighting.

Ares shudders at the sudden way it crashes over him: the terror, the hatred, the heart of the mortals below.

He stands still as stone, unable to move from the overwhelm.

How hollow he must have been before. How empty, to find himself so suddenly full.

It’s intoxicating.

Athena continues speaking but the world is screams and there are no words that can compete. No, there is nothing but the feeling that builds inside him until his heart, his lungs, are brimming red with rage with pain with courage—and is this what it is, to love?

How right it is to let that red breach the bindings of his skin and flow outward. To let it fill the bodies of the mortals who slash and hack and bleed as he exhales. To accept the shuddering hatred, the fear, that they breathe back to him in vicious prayer.

These, Ares knows well what to do with.

He brings their cruelty tenderly within his ribcage; feeds it on his own air because this is what he is.

On the ground below, a brutal conviction seems to overrun the warriors all at once, a new fervour that tips the fight into chaos. Athena starts suddenly, looking to the battlefield with horror then back to him, eyes flashing. “What did you do?”

Ares blinks dizzily. “I’m not sure.”

“Put them back.”

“But how—?”

Athena glares then snatches him by the arm and begins to tug him back down the hill toward the chariot. “Go home, Ares. This was a mistake.”

Ares looks from his sister to the chariot with growing panic. Feels the way his feet sink into the mud of the surface, the way his skin burns like he’s alive, finally alive. Thinks of the sterile halls of Olympus. The gossip and polite laughter.

The eyes.

The emptiness.

Something stirs within him from somewhere dark, somewhere hidden. When the rush of red overthrows him, well-fed as it now is, Ares welcomes it.

He watches as he drags his nails over Athena’s hand where she holds him.

Watches as she loosens her grip in shock and he breaks away.

Watches the earth move beneath his feet as he runs up the hill then down into the maelstrom of bodies. Somewhere behind him Athena is shouting, but what does it matter amid the violence that suddenly engulfs him?

As Ares dashes through the battlefield, the air around him churns with fever.

He snatches a sword from the ground and brings it to flesh. Gasps at the pain, the fear, that he himself feels; gasps at the darkening approach of the end as he raises his blade again. With a shout, he brings it down in a rain of blood and is reborn as the mortal is abruptly wrested from him, soul stolen away by a Ker in a blur of wings and fangs and wild yellow eyes.

He laughs through gritted teeth as the corpse falls to the ground.

When the lightning bolt strikes not a metre ahead of him, it cuts through his bloodlust and leaves the air crackling.

Ares blinks away the shock.

Tightens his fingers around the blade suddenly heavy in his hand.

Before he can recover, Athena’s hand clamps around his forearm like a vice; she twists the sword from his grasp.

“Enough, brother,” she snaps. “It is over. We are going home.”

Around them the battle has stilled, the mortals breaking apart in terror at the show of Zeus’ fury. It is strange, such a sudden quiet in the wake of the chaos.

A guttural sound crawls from his chest before he can stop it, and Ares tries to break free. “Let me go.”

“Madman, you are undone. Have you lost all judgement and understanding? Stop this now, else he’ll strike you next, then myself as well!”

“Would that he does! Go, leave me here to lay in blood and dust among the corpses.”

Ares claws at her fingers to no avail as the tears streak his face; claws at them until she grapples him to the ground and digs a knee into his gut. He gasps, fighting for air as he struggles against her amongst the mud and the bronze and the bodies.

As he looks up to the restrained dismay in her eyes, for a moment Ares hates her. Exhaling, he sends the gnashing red of it forward—but Athena is unmoved.

When he inhales, grasping for the feel of her rage, her hurt, he finds himself shivering. How cold it is, how calculating. How empty.

All at once, Ares starts to laugh and finds he can’t stop.

“You don’t care at all,” he manages finally. “Have you ever?”

“Don’t speak to me of things you don’t understand,” she says sharply. The air around them begins to sizzle and tighten; Athena’s eyes widen. “Brother, listen to me, you must stop this now.”

Ares ignores her and gropes about blindly in the mud for a weapon, a stone, anything—then her shield crashes down on his head and the world goes dark.

«««««««« ─────── · V · ─────── ««««««««

When Ares comes to, he is on the floor of the chariot as it lifts into the sky. Peering from the side, he can only watch as the surface ground falls away beneath them and is replaced by open air.

Athena stands next to him, tall and fierce and gleaming, and Ares finds he cannot look at her. He draws his knees to his chest, eyes watering against the bite of the cold air that billows past and the sudden, unmistakeable sense of loss.

«««««««« ─────── · end of chapter · ─────── ««««««««

Chapter Text

«««««««« ─────── · I · ─────── ««««««««

It is dark in the throne room of Olympus, the candlelight bending to the ferocity of the circling storm that seeps in past the columns lining the room. Ares keeps his hands clasped tightly behind his back and ignores the rain that pelts him, loosening the dried mud and gore that still clings to his skin. Ignores the way the room opens out onto clouds at the sides.

Ignores the fall so very near.

“He was not to leave Olympus, not irascible as he yet remains,” Hera says, voice cold. “You were supposed to manage the war—and instead you too would deliberately disobey us?”

Athena looks her in the eye, unflinching. “It is being managed and I have done no such thing. I did not know he was in the chariot until I arrived.”

Zeus darkens, turning to Ares. “After all we have done for you, you would sneak in so deceitful a manner? Interfere with our affairs on the surface?”

Ares looks across to Athena, who stares resolutely away. He clenches his bloodied hands into fists, digging his nails into his palms tight enough to give a reason for the blurring of his eyesight.

He holds his head high and smiles.

“Yes, it is true.”

“Never,” Zeus storms, “never have I been met with such blatant disrespect as from you.”

The wind whips across his face, tugging at his matted hair.

“Lord Father, I do apologize. I had only hoped—”

“Don’t try crying to me now,” Zeus snaps, “do you think me some kind of fool? No, I know better. Never has there been a god on Olympus more hateful than you. For shame you are my son or I would cast you down from these halls.”

Ares freezes, remembering the look on his brother's face. The way the clouds consumed him.

He clenches his fists tighter and grits his teeth. Feeds the bite of it into the warm spark of feeling that rises in him and stands straight. Draws the back of his hand across his eyes and breathes in his father’s fury. As he does his chest burns redder, and is this what it is?

Before he can think it through, Ares sends the feeling forward. As the red brushes tentatively over his father’s skin, Zeus’ eyes flash. He slams his palms against the arm rests of his throne with a crack and stands, the air electric around him.

“You would try such tricks with me? Why, I ought to strike you down!”

Looking up to where Zeus towers over them, Ares can feel the truth of it. He looks quickly from his mother, eyes damp but resigned, to Athena, stoic and rigid as stone, and braces himself—but instead, his father slowly sits back down with a groan.

“Yet, you are my son,” he grumbles, “and I cannot long see you suffer such. Go—though do not test me in such a way again. And wash that mess from yourself!”

Ares draws the last of his father’s rage into his chest with a shiver; wraps it around his heart like silk. Then, with a quick nod, he steals away from the room.

«««««««« ─────── · II · ─────── ««««««««

That night when he sleeps, his dreams are spun from screams and bronze. The sensation of falling. A strange wind.

When he sits up, Ares is covered in sweat despite the chill of his skin. He takes the dagger from under his bed and turns it between his hands, then hides it beneath his pillow and stares up into the dark.

«««««««« ─────── · III · ─────── ««««««««

He lays in bed watching the square of sunlight as it moves from one end of his room to the other.

He shifts the bloodied spearhead from hand to hand.

He does not practice smiling.

He avoids his mirror altogether.

«««««««« ─────── · IV · ─────── ««««««««

In the dark of night, Ares creeps from his room to hover above Hebe’s crib, watching quietly as she sleeps. His charm hangs from the railing of her crib, red as blood. Red as the mortal pain still simmering under his skin alongside Zeus’ rage. They have grown slippery to keep hold of, sharp enough to tear him apart—but Ares clings to them.

Cautiously, he brushes a thumb over the softness of Hebe’s cheek. Breathes in the feel of his sister’s air experimentally: it is nothing but milk and sweetness, a warmth that threatens to strangle his own hateful heart.

He shies away, suddenly terribly afraid of what he might breathe back out.

He pulls his fury close and flees.

«««««««« ─────── · V · ─────── ««««««««

In the pale light of morning the Muses weep and sing.

He sits at their feet and tries to let their stories seep into his skin, but finds he cannot feel a thing.

«««««««« ─────── · VI · ─────── ««««««««

The days blend.

«««««««« ─────── · VII · ─────── ««««««««

Ares paces through the corridors aimlessly, his footsteps warped as they echo down the halls. Whispers follow him like a stench: the boy is a bad thing, a hateful thing, an instrument of Death. Ares lets the words sink into his skin, lets them add a swing to his step, because he knows that they are right.

When he finds himself standing outside the armoury, he smiles.

The weapons line the walls tidily, the metal shining and hungry. Ares grabs a bow, then a quiver full of arrows.  

Setting them over his shoulder, he turns to leave. As he does, the gleam of a helmet catches his eye. He pauses, then takes it in his hands. It is too large, but he brings it over his head anyway before stalking from the room.

It is not often that Ares visits the edge of Olympus. He does not like the balustrade that overlooks the empty air below. Doesn’t like to be reminded of their height or the sudden sense of ending; of the places he cannot touch.

On the surface below, he can see the distant movement of the mortals that plough the fields, so small he has to squint. So small that he could crush them.

Ares nocks an arrow and draws.

Takes aim.

It is dark when Athena finds him sat on the balustrade with his feet hanging out over the abyss, the air around him sick with fear and bloodlust as he plays at death.

“Brother, what are you doing?” she asks coolly.

Ares grins tightly, turning the last of the arrows in his hand as he squints through the dark. “It is strange how much our father cares for their affairs, don't you agree?”

“It is not strange. Without them, you and I would have little reason to be.”

“Perhaps we have little reason to be anyway.”

He draws and begins to take aim. Before he can loose the arrow, Athena grabs him by the arm and tugs him roughly back to the ground. Ares snarls as she snatches the bow from his hands; before he can retaliate she brings her fist to his gut, knocking the air from him.

“Do you think this a game?”

Ares doubles over, gasping for air, then glares up at her. “What business have you with my affairs?”

She tears the helmet from his head and throws it to the floor; the ring of metal cuts through the air.

“What is it that you hope to achieve with this, brother? Destruction? Impossible, you will find only suffering then be brought back here sad and sorry.” Ares scowls, the fury hot at the back of his eyes, but Athena’s expression is almost sad. “You know this as well as I—so, what is it that you hope to achieve?”

Ares frowns and looks back beyond the balustrade. It is dark on the surface save for the scattered pinpricks of light from the mortal dwellings below. He tempers his anger.

“I don’t know.”

Athena follows his gaze. “If you wish to return to the surface, I believe that there is still a way—an actual way, unlike your own. But you must stop this behaviour and show that you can be useful. You must do as I say.”

“Is that what all of this has been for?” he asks with a sudden tiredness. “You wish to gain control of me?”

“I ask only for your cooperation,” Athena says sternly. “I care for this family. For you, brother.”

“Care,” he laughs bitterly, “I’ve felt the depths of your care. You feel nothing at all.”

It is quiet for a moment, save the distant sounds of revelry.

“Do you really believe that to care I must feel in the same manner as yourself?” Athena looks at him curiously, then continues when he fails to answer. “Think of me what you will—but do not forget that, regardless of my feelings or lack thereof, I have risked myself for you just the same. Bled for you.” She holds up her hands to show the jagged lines of claw marks, already nearly faded. “I had thought that meant something to you and I.”

Ares is quiet. Finally, he mutters, “I am war, the same as you, am I not?”

Athena’s eyes narrow ever so slightly. “You are my more…feeling counterpart, yes.”

“You knew this beforehand.”

“Of course I knew it.”

“And you never thought to tell me?”

Athena blinks. “For what purpose do you believe I released you from that weapons chest, brother?”

Ares pauses, mulling over the words.

“I’ll not apologize for what I am.”

She nods. “No, you will not apologize for what you are. But you will apologize for your actions and learn to properly manage your own affairs. You will make yourself of use and show your family respect, as do even the dread gods in Tartarus.” She shakes her head as Ares begins to open his mouth. “I do not care for your feelings on the subject; you will show it.”

Ares turns back to the surface lights, scattered across the ground so like the star-strewn sky above, and tries to remember the noise of it, the thrill of it.

Then, slowly, he asks, “What exactly would you have me do?”

«««««««« ─────── · VIII · ─────── ««««««««

Ares paces the halls, paces his room. He brews his resentment silently. Accepts the rage of his father at his latest offense without resistance; bows his head and lets his mother scold him. He returns to his weapons training as expected and takes Priapus’ taunts about his fall from disrepute without retaliation. Smiles politely at banquets and withholds his own comments altogether.

When he can scarcely take any more of it, Athena requests for their father to meet with her. Ares lurks in the corridor outside the throne room and listens.

“Athena, daughter—he cannot possibly be allowed to run mad on the surface as we now know for certain he is liable to do.”

“Yet has he not been calm of late? Has he not apologised appropriately? I am ever grateful for all you done for me, my Lord Father, and I rarely want for a thing. But this I want—he could make for a powerful tool, I know you see it too.”

Zeus sighs. “He cannot be trusted.”

“We don’t need to trust him,” Athena says slowly, “we merely need to be able to use him.”

“And you believe he can be managed enough to be of use?”

There is a pause—a convincing one, Ares notes. Athena is sly indeed.

“If we permit him controlled contact with his own domain, aid him in learning to manage it appropriately—I believe he will become pliable enough when needed, yes.”

“You cannot intend to instruct him yourself, child. You already have duties enough.”

Athena is quiet for a moment, then says, “Our domains overlap. Though I wouldn’t be able to keep him under constant supervision, I will often be near enough to intervene if necessary.”

“Intervene, yes, but what of instruction?”

Ares strengthens his resolve then steps into the room, smiling as pleasantly as he can. “I’m afraid I couldn’t help but overhear. A proposal, if I may?”

Zeus glares as Ares slows at Athena’s side before the throne. “You were not invited here. Leave—and stop smirking, I’ve said before that it isn’t becoming of you.”

Athena clears her throat gently. “Perhaps we should hear him, Lord Father—if he tries his usual mischief, we will know then of his quality.”

She looks at him pointedly and Ares ducks his head in gratitude as Zeus reluctantly gestures for him to speak.

“I admit I have been unruly in the past,” Ares says lightly. “You do not wish for me to be here, and I suppose that is understandable. I would be most eager to undertake my dear sister’s suggestion, but even I would not want to take too greatly of her time. Yet—there are other gods who mind the surface woes, are there not? Allow me to join them, learn from them, and demonstrate to you my usefulness. And, should I fail to do so, I shall accept the repercussions. On my honour.”

“Your honour?” Zeus scoffs. “Do you think that my brother’s dread subordinates will want to deal with your mischief any more than I? Why, they’re half as likely to torture you as they are to teach you.”

Ares grins before he can stop himself and Zeus leans back in his seat, bringing a hand to his temple in exasperation.

“Fine then, go—‘demonstrate to us your usefulness’. But should you make a mess of this too—should you bring more shame on us—I assure you that you’ll not like what comes of it.” Ares nods, heart racing. His father frowns, then asks resignedly, “And whose tutelage would you have? What dread god do you imagine you could be of use to?”

Ares’ smile widens.

«««««««« ─────── · IX · ─────── ««««««««

On the morning of his leaving, Ares wakes before the sun rises and stands before his mirror staring himself down: the neat, even curls of his hair, the careful dullness of his eyes. He tilts his head from side to side. It is not so bad a countenance, he knows, yet one that has never brought him any pleasure.

Ares takes the razor blade in hand. He is slow, careful as he carves at the sides of his head, hair falling to the floor in clumps. He pauses to take in his own image, the mess of hair that remains, then straighten the edges; hacks it shorter. It is a patient kind of butchery, a precise correction. He severs a final strand, then, finally pleased, dabs his hair with oil and twists it into place just so.

He turns his head from side to side, appreciative of the way he has been sharpened, then turns to the pottle of paint he had coaxed from the Muses. He dips a brush in and brings it to his face. The paint is cold but it goes on smooth, pale against his skin, harsh against the glow of his eyes. Ares sparks the red in his chest and lets them catch.

When Ares looks into the mirror again, it is a fearsome thing that looks back.

He likes it.

He clothes himself in black and red then, drawing his helmet to his head, he leaves the room.

As he stalks through the halls of Olympus, the eyes follow him.

For once, he enjoys it.

When he is nearly to the nursery, Ares slows at the sight of his mother leaving the room. She stops when she sees him.

“You are leaving,” she says with a quiet reserve, but he can see the way her eyes well. “I would sooner keep you near, my son.”

Ares smiles and begins to step forward. “I am grateful, mother—” he starts, but she continues.

“Do not stir more trouble for your family than you have.”

He stops, smile tightening. “I will not,” he says coolly, then looks past her. “I have come to farewell my sister.” 

Hera pauses—then, slowly, she moves aside and allows him into the room. Ares hurries through the doorway before she can change her mind.

It is dim inside, the crib shadowy near its centre. He pauses as his eyes catch on the small red pouch that still hangs from its guard rail, heart trembling, then moves to its side.

Hebe is as small as ever while she rests, slow as she seems to grow.

He wonders, suddenly, if she will be the same when next he returns.

Ares reaches down and sets a finger in her hand, gently calling her name. Hebe’s eyes fly open all at once, and Ares smiles without needing to think it. She looks up, squints at his face—and begins to cry.

Ares snatches his hand away, stepping back and looking with a sudden anxiousness to where Hera watches sadly. “Your appearance is changed. It has scared her.”  

“Yes,” he says quietly, dropping his gaze to his feet and starting for the door. “My apologies, it had not been my intention. Farewell mother—until next I return.”

“Ares—my son—”

He stops and reluctantly turns back to where his mother watches him, expression pained. “Yes, mother?”

She pauses, then moves to the side of the crib and takes Hebe into her arms; his sister quietens as Hera begins to rock her. As Ares stares, she meets his eyes and nods.

He creeps forward cautiously, slowing at her side. When she notices him, again Hebe begins to frown—but Hera bounces her lightly and she settles.

As Hebe’s eyes finally begin to drift shut, Hera turns to him. “You may hold her, if you wish.”

Ares stares down at his sister’s face, soft and warm with sleep. He reaches out a hand and lightly brushes her cheek, then shakes his head. “I suspect it would not be for the best.”

“My son—” Hera starts, then stops again, seemingly collecting herself. “It is my hope that you will find there what you lack here. May you bring pride to us all.”

He blinks, head spinning, then quietly says. “You have my gratitude, mother.”

Suddenly unsure of how to continue, Ares gives her a quick nod then turns and leaves without another word.

When he arrives back in his room, Ares finds a box on his bed, and in it armour of white and gold, clothing softer to the touch than anything he’s ever owned. He frowns as he runs his hands over them, familiar with the fabric he has seen his mother weaving. Frowns as his heart protests. It is lighter in colour than he’d thought to dress himself in, less fearsome than the image he’d intended to carve. Ares brings the chiton to his face; lets his eyes drift shut as he breathes in the lingering scent of his mother: lotus and milk and the wind that brushes through the corridors of Olympus.

Ares sighs, then begins to change.

«««««««« ─────── · X · ─────── ««««««««

When he next leaves his room Ares is almost self-conscious, gleaming as he is. He walks through the halls, heart pounding. Walks purposefully, slowly, past the throne room, then keeps going when the voices inside continue their discussion unaffected.

Athena is already at the stables tending to her horses when he arrives. She looks him up and down appraisingly, then nods with approval. “You nearly look a god, brother.”

“It is kind of you to say,” Ares says sombrely as he can manage, but can’t quite stop the twitch of his lips. “My mother’s doing.”

Athena pauses. “I don’t imagine the paint was your mother’s doing. Or the hair.” Ares frowns, uncertain of whether he is being mocked. Before he can question it, Athena gestures to the stable next to her where a new chariot is readied with four fearsome horses. “From your father and uncle.”

Ares stares, then hurries into the stable.

As he nears, the horses’ eyes flare and they paw at the ground, the air sparking dangerously around them. Ares stills; waits patiently for them to settle before moving slowly forward. As he nears the closest, a silver creature with eyes as red as his own, it snorts, breath hot enough to burn. He murmurs to it, the sweet low nothings that seem to calm them, then cautiously holds out a hand and lets it smell him.

“My father gifted me such a thing?” he asks quietly as Athena watches from the front of the stall.  

She pauses. “It is befitting of a child of Zeus.”

“…but he is not here.”

The horse nudges its head against his own; inhales the scent of his hair then snorts.

“He is very busy. I am sorry, brother.”

“Yes,” Ares says slowly, “Yes, of course.”

Athena takes a step forward and sets a hand lightly on his shoulder. “You ought to look inside.”

He blinks, then darts to the cart.

The swords lay neatly on the seat, sheathed in leather with handles glinting gold. Ares draws first one blade then the other. Runs a finger over their edges one at a time and hisses with delight at the ready way they bite. Tests the perfectly weighted balance of them, then looks back to Athena. “Where are these from?”

She smiles ever so slightly, grey eyes almost warm, and says nothing. The fondness rushes over him like a shock and Ares throws his arms around her. “Thank you, sister.”

Athena coughs awkwardly. “I trust you will wield them wisely. But come now, you must be eager for us to leave.”

He grins and lets her go. “Indeed, I am. Let us go then.”

When Ares steps into the chariot, his heart is racing. He takes the reins in hand, feels the clever weave of gold that runs through them, and suddenly he is nervous. Chariot racing is far from new to him, not with his training and the frequency of the games played on Olympus, but there is a weightiness to it that is new to him now. A weightiness to the fineness of the chariot. To the knowledge that he is leaving.

A weightiness, the thought of such a descent.

Ares braces himself and brings the courage into his heart. Glances across to where his sister stands ready. She gives him a nod.

He takes a final look through the gates to the shining halls of marble and bronze, scours the pathway to the stables. Finding it still empty, he turns his attention to the open stable doors ahead.

He urges the horses forward into the open sky.

«««««««« ─────── · end of chapter · ─────── ««««««««

Chapter Text

«««««««« ─────── · I · ─────── ««««««««

The chariot wheels touch shakily to the frozen surface, the horses’ hooves like sudden thunder. When they come to a stop, it is quiet compared to Ares’ last foray on the surface. As he steps from the cart the horses paw at the ground, eyes flashing nervously. He runs a hand over the neck of one then the other, murmuring his assurances. New though the surface may be to all of them, they’d best grow accustomed to it swiftly.

They will be there for some time.

As the horses begin to settle, he turns to look about him. A city lays to one side of the coastal plains where they landed, the stony raise of distant mountains rising behind it; to the other, the Aegean Sea stretches out to the rising sun. Ares pauses at the sight of the dark waters stained rose and gold from the touch of Eos. How different, the view from the surface.

“I admit I’d not thought it would come to pass,” he says quietly as Athena comes to stand at his side.

“I told you it would,” she says, not without a touch of smugness. “You did well, brother.”

Ares looks back to the rising sun, then draws a sword; the air rings. He turns the blade in his hands, revelling in the newness of such a possession and the easy way it cuts through the air. “You say the coming war will begin soon? I am most eager to commence with it.”

“Indeed, it will,” she says, “and you must focus on making yourself needed. Make it so our family is entertained by your work; so they are pleased by it and wish for you to remain here.”

“You will aid me in this?”

Athena looks at him levelly. “I will ensure it—so long as you act as I say.”

A momentary flash of agitation bubbles up in his chest; the sword suddenly heavy in his hand. He tightens his grip and pushes the feeling down.

“What would you have me do?”

Athena looks out across the sea. “There will soon be a battle here—a short but fierce one. Yet, this will only be the beginning, brother. It must be memorable, but not annihilating. Enough of them must remain to return to their homes with resentment. They must return and feed the desire for more.”

Ares shivers. “You…wish for me to encourage their ferocity?”

Athena turns to him, unblinking. “Without causing their complete mutual destruction. I will bring them to reason before that point—and you must listen, must withdraw when I tell you. Do you understand?”

Somewhere in the surrounding trees a bird sings out; the following quiet is softened by the gentle hush of waves.

“I understand.” He pauses thoughtfully, drawing the blade between his fingers. Smiles as the sharp of it catches against his skin yet again, hungry as it is. “And will he be joining us?”

Athena frowns. “I would not be so excited to meet Death, brother.” He waits until she shakes her head and continues. “Our father sent your invitation; I saw to it. It is as I warned you: he is busy and has little taste for our domain where he can avoid it.”

For a moment, even the waves seem to pause at the chill of the air.

Ares watches the ichor trickle golden down his hand, then smiles tightly and looks back to the sunrise. “Is that so.”

«««««««« ─────── · II · ─────── ««««««««

Despite the seeming peacefulness of the seaside city on that first morning, it is not long before the plains are filled with warriors, mortal men who bristle and drink to soothe their nerves. Ares walks among them. Sits at their fires and sets the fear back into their lungs; twists it into courage. Moves through their tents and fills them with hate.

He does not go where their leaders meet. These he leaves for Athena.

As the sun begins to rise, he enters the city and wanders through the dusty streets where the soldiers race to arm. Peers through open windows to where the old, the young, and the women left behind mourn and stoically move through their morning rituals against the backdrop of destruction. He watches curiously as a bull is sacrificed before a shrine to his sister, the flesh burnt in her name. He sets his own strength into their walls.

When the warriors begin to flood out onto the field in front of the city, Ares follows them. Breathes rage and bravery through their ranks; listens appreciatively to their prince’s speech and adds thunder to his voice until the mortals shout along. Lets the thickness of the fervour raise the bumps on his skin; almost lets it unsteady him completely.

After such wait for the onslaught, it is quick to start once set in motion. As the mortals surge forward around him, Ares draws his swords and moves with them.

As the armies first clash, for an instant the world is breathless.

The front-line folds together, flesh embracing metal.

The silence fills with blood.

Then the surface erupts, the rosy sky filled with screams, with death, with iron. As the first bodies crumple to the dirt, new ones step into their place, pressed forward by those who would soon follow.

It shoots over him; melts his careful preparation in an instant. Ares laughs at the sudden rush of the hurt, the fury, the worship. He weaves through the bodies, living and dead. Turns his blades around him and feeds the frenzy of his skin, the thirst in his chest, until he’s sick from the sudden glut after such starvation.

Ares carves through them with delight. He does not care for sides, does not care for rank, cares only for the feel of the swords in his hands, the smooth way they meet flesh, the heat of the blood as it coats his skin.

When he stumbles into a small gap in the fighting and finds Athena stood before him, Ares grins and slicks the gore from his swords.

“That is enough.” Her voice is cold, the words colder. “Retreat, Ares.”

The words are cold but it is warm, tucked amidst the violence. He starts back toward the carnage.

He has only taken a few steps when the blow strikes him from behind.

Ares snarls, turns—and Athena’s shield catches him in the side of the head.

«««««««« ─────── · III · ─────── ««««««««

When he comes to, there is no sound but the breaking of the waves. The ground beneath him is soft and gritty, his skin sticky with blood and salt. His head aches.

Ares opens his eyes, wincing as he adjusts to the sight of the flurried stars, the dizzying abyss of Nyx. He grasps about himself with a sudden nervousness, only calming when his hands settle on the swords laid next to him.

As the spin of the world begins to slow, he sits up.

“You must learn to control your impulses.”

Ares glances blearily to where Athena sits on a dead log behind him, then frowns and looks out to the darkened sea. He does not reply.

Behind him, he hears her stand. “Wash the mess from yourself, brother. We will try again tomorrow.”

As her footsteps fade away, Ares begins to shake the sand from his hair and brush at the blood still clinging to his skin, now cold as the quiet around him.

«««««««« ─────── · IV · ─────── ««««««««

The following day goes much the same, as does the one after.

On the fourth day, Ares watches the sun rise low and red in the sky, the daylight bleeding over the edge of the world. He traces the shape of the new bruise that sits over his cheek; presses down.

When the mortals begin to arm and form their ranks, Ares returns to stalk amongst them and stir at their emotions.

This time when the battle begins Ares moves slowly, letting the overwhelm sink into his skin. He flirts with the threat of his senses’ overthrow, paces his breath, and wades through the carnage. Lets the feeling of their wounds ghost across his skin. Lets the mortals pass freely around him.

He waits.

Searches.

Finally, one draws his attention: a man armed with a cruel curved kopis and surrounded with a bloodlust thick enough to slice. A worthy devotee.

This one Ares claims for himself.

He sends his heart forward; bolsters the man’s fury and feasts himself on the deaths that he deals. There is something pleasing in it that is new: a certain comradery, a certain communion.

Ares likes it.

He follows in his footsteps, slashing away the attacks directed at his back.

When an arrow passes by him, passes even through armour to strike between the mortal’s shoulder blades, it is a shock. Ares glares, following its track—and sees his sister looming behind the archer who had loosed it. She watches him sternly and he understands: it is time that he retreat.

He glowers—then slowly nods.

Ares looks back to his mortal, fists clenched. He breathes in the pain, creeping as it is, and returns it as courage. Returns it as what blessing he has left to offer.

He drives his own sword through the man’s throat.

Ares shivers at the pain of it; swallows thickly. Shivers as the blood runs hot and red down the hilt of the blade and over his hand. Before the Keres can claim him, Ares catches the man in his arms and lowers him to the ground.

“An honourable effort,” he says as the mortal’s eyes suddenly fix on him and shoot wide. “I shall recall it with fondness.”

He pulls his sword free and the man makes a wet, wordless sound, staring up at him with horror. Ares smiles and gently takes the kopis from his hand.

“You have died well.”

When Ares stands, the Keres are quick to descend. In an instant the mortal is torn from his influence, taken where he can no longer follow.

It grieves him.

Ares sheathes his own sword and moves his new treasure from hand to hand appreciatively. The kopis is pleasing in shape, lightweight and wicked. Ares slicks the still-warm blood from its edge; lets it melt his bitterness at Athena’s theft. Then, reluctantly, he withdraws from the battlefield.

For the rest of the day Ares watches from the edge of the fighting. He lets their prayers sink into his bones. He accepts them hungrily but withholds any answer.

As the sun fades and the mortals limp back to camp and city, Ares walks back to the battlefield and begins to search through the remains. When he returns to his chariot the night is deep and his heart content. He loads his new treasures into the cart: a broken sword, a shield of bronze, a tooth. The kopis he keeps with him.

“Already they speak of you.” Ares turns to where Athena is looking him up and down with growing distaste. “Brother,” she starts again after a pause, “you are as bloodstained as they. Must you always become so?”

He grins. “It is suitable, wouldn’t you agree?”

She frowns. “It is true what they’ve begun to call you,” she says finally. “Ares, bane of men.”

The words, the title, hit him as hard as any blow, and for a moment he can scarcely breathe. He draws them into his chest, turns them over his tongue, and finds himself most pleased indeed.

“I had not yet heard such a thing,” he finally manages. “You have my thanks.”

Athena watches him oddly, then shakes her head. “You have done well today, but much work is still ahead.”

Ares beams.

«««««««« ─────── · V · ─────── ««««««««

Though the threat of overwhelm never lifts entirely, in the following days his rampages lessen in frequency. As he finds his bearing, Ares stops trying to smile. He has no need to try, what with the many violent delights given to him.

He should have no want for anything.

The sun rises and sets, the passage of time marked by the growing stain of blood.

The world begins to grow familiar.

There are the mortals with their prayers and their curses, the many fragile needs they lay at his feet. There are those that claim the souls of the dead: the Keres, who have begun to frequent the periphery of Ares' vision as a snarl of wings while they fight over the corpses left in his wake; Hermes, who appears sometimes to carry souls away yet never stays for longer than the quickest of greetings. At times Ares can sense the presence of others he cannot yet name: here, the unexpected touch of fervour; there, a fleeting spike of confusion. He recognizes the way the strange gods test out the feel of him.

All keep their distance.

Ares buries himself in flesh and bone; lets them appraise him.

As he does, he looks at times for the other—the one that holds his curiosity, that is odd like himself—but there is none that fits his description.

Ares waits.

When the war finally ends, the field is strewn with rubble and corpses, ash and armour. True to Athena’s word it had proved a short, if vicious, battle. While she attends the victor’s festivities to partake in the merriment and sow the seeds of the greater war that is to come, Ares picks through the leftovers.

As he draws near to a hastily assembled and abandoned funeral pyre, Ares slows at the sight of the vultures bothering the remains of the corpses. They look up to watch as he approaches, wings fluffing fretfully as the blood drips from their beaks, and his chest warms at the beauty of it.

Ares edges closer, pulse sweet in his veins—and with a rush of wind they disappear into the sky. He frowns to himself, then turns away.

He can be patient.

«««««««« ─────── · VI · ─────── ««««««««

When Athena returns, Ares follows her from city to city stirring up unrest. His sister whispers in the ears of the rulers, hones the blades of their heroes, and leaves him to the dirty work. He would have it no different.

Ares brings the memories of the battlefield atrocities to the forefront of their minds and sparks skirmishes in the settlements. He sets them on edge, stokes their resentment, then leaves them to stew. He savours it, revelling in the anticipation of what fruits his restraint will grow.

Soon the mortals whisper his name across the surface, then weave it into hymn to ask for his favour. Ares listens to the pleas. He feels out the fear underpinning the words and feeds it.

Walls go up, then roofs and altars. At first when they begin to burn offerings in his name the thysia leaves him lightheaded, unaccustomed as he is to the feel of such affection being directed toward himself, but his taste for it soon grows.

Little by little, Athena sends him further away.

It is strange, at first, to travel with no company but the thunder of the horses and the daylight hot on the back of his neck. Ares finds he is far more at ease when he slips into the towns, the cities, to brew conflict. Sometimes he stops to appreciate his work: to dip his fingers into the blood that flows in his name, to taste the mortal courage. Sometimes he stops to search.

Everywhere are signs of Birth and Death, yet they themselves are nowhere to be found when he arrives.

Ares urges his horses on.

The surface is cold compared with Olympus, but when immersed in the intensifying skirmishes the air is hot and sharp with the taste of copper. There is no space for loneliness on a battlefield, no time for such thoughts.

As he walks among them Ares flushes more with each kill until his skin shines as brazen as mortal armour; until his eyes burn, blood-drunk as he is from the gore at his feet. He seeks out the greatest of his devotees, the bravest and most brutal of the creatures. To them, Ares offers his heart: he follows them through the swelling waves of fervour, follows them, often, to the very edge of death until they are taken, though he would yet follow them there.

It grieves him, such theft.

Ares strips the corpses of their armour; takes as spoils the finest pieces until his chariot cart is overloaded.

His agitation grows.

What dreadful being would dare take from him in such a way, reaching into the very heart of what is his? Ares cannot look bitterly on the Keres, those vicious goddesses that tail him during the slaughter. They too are merely servants.

No, Ares knows well who it is; knows that by right it is no theft. Because, though the god may still yet spurn his invitation, it is to him that Ares himself is in servitude of.

Thanatos.

He turns the name over his tongue like a poison, draws it to his bloodstream and lets it take. That creature that has always held his fascination, that horror the mortals scarcely name for fear, Thanatos.

Ares scowls as he wedges a sword into his cart.

Perhaps Thanatos lacks the appetite for war but Ares would still rather like to meet him, however poor his taste.

In the absence of company, Ares searches for other wicked things. When the mortals fling a serpent from their walls, Ares slows. Crouches to run his hands over its cool, dying skin and smiles when it sinks its fangs into his flesh. Smiles at its daring and lets it draw his ichor through its frail body; lets it heal its wounds then slip away through the grass. He moves steadily nearer to the vultures that follow his trail of destruction, though always they shy away before he can join them.

As he moves from town to city, marketplace to alleyway, Ares tracks the glint of eyes that follow him: the gods that slink in his shadow.

Finally, as he passes through the latest city gate, he comes to a stop. “Show yourselves.”

A long silence follows.

Then, cautiously, a goddess appears at the other side of the gate. She is slight and oddly attired, chiton worn short as his own over tall gauntlets. Her hair bobs dark under a dog-head cap, her eyes flash cold and yellow.

“Greetings,” Ares says, smiling carefully, “I am grateful to finally put a face to one that has for so long been following me.”

The goddess smiles back, teeth sharp and gleaming. “The pleasure is mine, Ares, son of Zeus.”

“You have the advantage of me.”

She pauses, expression unwavering, then says casually, “You may call me Furor.”

Ares thinks over the names he had learned while on Olympus. “I know of no Furor.”

She smiles wider. “Now you do.”

Ares scans the city behind her, where he can sense the others watching. “Will they not show themselves too?”

Furor holds up her hands apologetically. “Forgive us for being intimidated by those of you from Olympus. We ourselves are not so mighty, yet we mean no disrespect.”

“There is none taken,” Ares says, smile tightening. “Though I hope they will consider that I too am here, rather than in those Halls above.”

“I am certain they shall consider it.”

It is a bitter disappointment, but not one that is new. Ares nods in acceptance.

“I’ll not raise arms against you. I hope you shall one day walk at my side.”

For a flash Furor frowns, then her smile returns as wide as ever. “What is it that you wish for? What are your intentions?”

He grins; he does not have to try. “Death.”

Her eyes flicker with amusement and she seems to relax. “Well,” she says with a low laugh, “if that proves true, then I expect one day soon we will all get on charmingly.” 

«««««««« ─────── · VII · ─────── ««««««««

He rides from the sea to the mountains, rides further and further North as the days become weeks become months. It is pleasing, to roam freely in such a way; pleasing, to move among the mortals.

He should have no want for anything.

At the crest of the barren mountains of Haemus, Ares slows. He crouches to run a hand over the spine of the unfortunate hubristic creature turned to earth. Somewhere below he almost thinks he can feel the twitch of blood.

Ares straightens and looks out across the slopes of the mountain to the pale sky that hangs over the sea below. Something of the place calls to him, something fragile at the edge of his understanding. He frowns and turns the kopis in his hand, then climbs back into his chariot.

Though he doesn’t know why, when Ares comes to the high iron walls raised in shrine to him, he draws the horses to a halt.

The main hall is tall and empty: cold with iron, cold with darkness. His feet are heavy against the stone floor as he walks inside, his footsteps echoing through the walls like a heartbeat. The structure is yet unfinished, the arches of the sidewalls opening out to the rocky landscape beyond. A cool wind snakes through, strewing leaves across the floor. At the head of the room an altar sits atop a dais.

Ares breathes in deeply; lets the taste of pine and sulphur from the nearby waters fill his lungs. Runs a hand over the closest column and sets his heart into the stone.

He looks back to his chariot, its cart overfull with the treasures he’d thought to bring back to Olympus. Instead, he finds himself carrying them inside, arranging them carefully at the centre of the main hall. When he sets the final sword on the ground, Ares steps back. It is a risk, he knows, to trust in their care.

He hopes it is not a foolish one of him to take.

When he returns to his chariot, Ares pauses and looks down to the city at the feet of the mountain. He casts his blessing down over the city’s walls. He wills for them to build.

«««««««« ─────── · VIII · ─────── ««««««««

The war is shaping up to be one for the ages—so Athena says with satisfaction, but Ares doesn’t need to be told. He can feel it in the thick salt air, in the electric way the city bristles. Can feel it in the strange quiet that falls over the walls as the army draws near.

Ares knows, because he will be there, drawn out finally from the mundane tasks that seem to so occupy him.

It is strange, the way the knowledge sets his skin on edge.

On the morning the war begins, Athena sets a hand on his shoulder, eyes shining with an excitement as wicked as his own. “You have done well, brother.”

Ares grins and throws his arms around her; glows as Athena pats his shoulder awkwardly. “You have my gratitude,” he says finally, letting her go.

She clears her throat and straightens her helmet then pauses, appraising him. “Ares,” she says with a sudden sternness, “bane of men—today, we show no mercy. Do not forget that our father has interest in this battle. Ensure that he is pleased by what he sees.”

Ares nods, heart pounding at the title, the permission. For a moment Athena watches him, eyes narrowing ever so slightly—then she turns and leaves for the tacticians’ tents.

Left alone again, Ares stalks across the would-be battlefield. He smiles at the fresh fall of snow that coats the ground with white, smiles as he thinks of how the blood will soon paint it. Stalks through the army tents and sets their blades on edge. Draws forth their fear and files it sharp.

As the sky begins to turn from purple to red and the mortals take up their arms, he finds himself pacing beneath the trees on the outskirts of the field.

He waits.

Waits as Helios rises into the sky.

Waits as the armies muster, then break on one another like crashing waves.

Waits, frustration growing alongside the raging bloodlust.

Then, without any warning, the toll of bells rings through his ears and he is blinded.

Ares shields his eyes at the flash of light, clutching the kopis in his hand.

When he drops his hand—he is there, facing away toward the battlefield ahead.

The God of Death is slighter than he’d expected: smaller in stature than he himself and shorter too were he not floating above the ground. His hair hangs nearly to his waist, cool as the lightest iron.

He is not as Ares had expected, but there is no mistaking him. Not with the current of power that surges through the air; the intoxicating threat of it.

Thanatos.

Ares steps forward, skin tingling with a sudden thrill.

The god stares fixedly across the battlefield and remains unmoving as Ares slows at his side. Ares follows his gaze out across the gleam of bronze and the blood that paints the dirtied snow just as he’d known it would; the thousand forms of death on display as the mortals bathe themselves in his blessings and stain the land red.

It is an artful scene he has crafted, the best of his work thus far, and one Ares can only hope is befitting of such company. He glances across to Thanatos expectantly, but still the god fails to acknowledge him.

Ares waits. He looks over the scythe in his hand, a thing of strange make that twists the air dark around it.

The unsettling eyes, cold and yellow as a Ker’s.

The angle of his jaw, the sallow skin of his chest.

True to Eileithyia’s words, he can scarcely be older than Ares himself.

Below Ares can feel the mortals rage and die, can feel their terror—and it is artful, the arrangement he has orchestrated in anticipation of Death’s arrival, but now he finds he cannot look away from the god himself.

How would it feel to touch that skin, he wonders. To taste of that which would steal so easily into his realm.

How strange a thought.

Ares twists the kopis in his hand, agitation building in the silence.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he finally asks.

Thanatos turns to him then, eyes sharp as any blade when they meet his own and flay him without a word. Ares tears his gaze free and looks quickly back to the battlefield, his heart racing with something like fear, with something like delight—

“I see nothing beautiful here.”

The rage at the betrayal shoots over him like a shock as he processes the words.

Ares tightens his grip on the kopis. Digs his nails into his palm until the skin breaks, then forces a laugh. “I had heard that you were an odd one. But—never mind. If you have such disdain for my work, then go on and show me what it is I’m meant to learn from you.” 

The god’s eyes narrow ever so slightly, but otherwise Thanatos gives no response. Without another word, he disappears in a flash of green and reappears in the distance, floating above the fighting. He turns his scythe in his hands, summoning a circle of magic around him, deep and dark as night.

As Ares watches, a dozen or more of the mortals—his mortals—fall to the ground, severed from him. As the corners of his vision begin to grow dark, he draws a breath in, deep enough that the chill air burns his lungs and gives his chest a reason for its aching.

What a strange, exquisite pain.

He smiles at the unexpected pleasure of it, then sheathes the kopis, draws his swords and stalks forward into the writhing mass of bodies.

As Ares carves through their midst, he tries to hold his focus on the mortals—on their pain and courage, on their many violent devotions—but it haunts him: the ripple of power when Thanatos grows near, the devastation he sows, more than Ares himself ever could. The way he hovers above, as though too disgusted to set foot on the same ground.

How crude he himself is by comparison.

How easily Thanatos would shame him.

How Ares hates him, the feeling red in his chest his gut his blood.

How he longs to take him by that pretty hair and make him see it.

Ares lets his loathing boil in his chest until it spills over, urging his devotees onward into greater violence than he’s yet seen. He does not look to where Thanatos works; ignores, as best he can, the one thing that holds his attention. The one thing in his realm he cannot touch.

Ignores the way that even as he rages under the bleeding sun, he knows that he will try.

Ares waits as the bodies fall like flies, waits as Thanatos threads through his realm like a needle, each reappearance a stitch that draws them nearer.

Day fades into night fades into morning before the moment comes.

Thanatos hovers at the outskirts of the battlefield, pausing to watch the armies as they regather in the pale morning light. He offers no greeting when Ares moves to stand at his side.

“I am not too proud to admit when I have spoken wrongly,” Ares says apologetically. “Never have I seen one deal so much death with such speed.”

Thanatos turns to him then, eyes harsh with a familiar dislike. “I would have no need to do so if it weren’t for you.”

Ares laughs at the compliment, unintended though he knows it is. He turns from the weight of Thanatos’ scorn and looks back to the circling vultures, to the way the fallen shine on the ground like so many offerings. He shakes his head.

“I fear you speak wrongly of me, Thanatos. I’m no more to blame for this than you are for the aging of their bodies. It is their nature. I merely…encourage them to unleash it.”

He watches from the corner of his eye as Thanatos turns back to the field, expression darkening, and how cruel a way to look on the fruits of their labour.

Ares frowns at the thought and continues, “Though you were wrong. It is beautiful, even if you don’t see it yourself. Does it not excite you to see them throw themselves so wantonly at your feet? Do you really think it so ugly a thing—Death?”

That seems to grab his attention: Thanatos’ eyes flash back to him, wide with alarm. As he watches, Thanatos reaches for his hair, then stops and sheepishly folds his arms as though he hadn't. Ares gawks, revelling in the aftertaste of his panic. He steals it into his chest; studies the fearful shape of him—and how odd, for Death to feel such a thing.

“I prefer a more—gentle approach,” Thanatos mumbles.

Ares grins before he can stop himself; a less likely thing he can scarcely imagine.

“And yet you have not truly answered my question. Perhaps that is wise of you,” Ares says wryly, catching his eye. “I myself am not renowned for my wisdom. If you were to ask the same of me, I would simply tell you no. No, on the contrary: I have never seen anything more exquisite.”

Thanatos blinks, falling quiet, and the power rolls suddenly around him as sharp as iron, as heavy as the ichor churning through Ares’ own veins. For a moment Ares expects to feel the bite of it; he thrills at the thought.

Instead, as he watches, a gold flush begins to rise up Thanatos’ cheeks, and oh—his heart stutters. Ares turns the kopis hand to hand, turns the feeling about in his rib cage in search of the cause with increasing dismay.

Thanatos tears his gaze away, half as gold as the gorget around his neck, and, despite everything, he no longer seems so insufferably superior after all.

“I do not think that we’ll find any agreement here,” he says awkwardly.

Ares smiles in a way he hopes is endearing.

“You are odd indeed. But these blood-stained fields that they create—make no mistake, my gentle associate. They are an altar to you as much as to me.”

Thanatos sends him a sharp look. “I have no need of such things.”

“Perhaps not," Ares says, shrugging casually, “but I will offer them to you nonetheless. I am, after all, your student in death, am I not? And, if it would please you, I could perhaps be a friend to you too?”

Thanatos frowns apprehensively, then mutters, “I am behind.”

In a flash of green, he disappears without another word.

For a long moment Ares stares at the place where he had been, breath shallow. Finally, he shakes his head and moves to spread his disquiet amongst the mortal ranks.

How true his own words had been: he is not wise at all.

«««««««« ─────── · end of chapter · ─────── ««««««««

Chapter Text

«««««««« ─────── · I · ─────── ««««««««

When night falls, Ares waits where Thanatos had first appeared, the gore-strewn snow between camp and city spread out before him. He sharpens his swords as the heavens shift above. It is lovely, the way the blades catch in the moonlight. Lovelier still, the bursts of green that appear in the darkness as Thanatos moves from death to death, camp to field.

The night slips into morning. Thanatos does not join him.

It is cold on the surface; cold, the blades that he hones.

It is not as Ares had thought.

«««««««« ─────── · II · ─────── ««««««««

There is no space for loneliness in battle and Ares buries himself in it.

During the days he moves amongst the violence, at times shadowing those mortals most prolific in their killing, at others cutting his own path through the bodies. He gluts himself on blood and suffering. He does not to raise his eyes above the gore. He avoids looking for the flash of green, avoids listening for the gong.

When they come, he still looks up.

Ares does not speak to Thanatos, has no chance to speak to Thanatos, what with his constant movement. When their paths cross on the battlefield, the god does not stay any longer than it takes for him to collect his souls. As he does, never more than the slightest flicker of bloodlust comes from him before it is strangled.

How strange for Death to reject what he is.

Ares will not humour such a thing. As he moves through the fighting, Ares toys with greater brutality and stokes the mortal appetite for death. He paints the world in blood and bronze, then hopes for Thanatos to arrive and watches for his reaction when he does. Yet Thanatos displays no interest in the deaths Ares prepares for him; offers only the slightest acknowledgement to Ares himself. When the battlefield is paused by sleep Thanatos disappears, to where Ares does not know.

Wherever he goes, it is decidedly away from war. 

The deaths are as boundless as mortal hatred, their violent offerings endlessly inventive. Always Ares’ skin is flushed with the blood spilt in his name, always the words of hymn run electric under his skin.

He should want for nothing.

Ares moves among the wreckage. He picks through the bodies and takes keepsakes from the scenes of particularly memorable cruelties. Days turn to weeks and weeks to months, and though the war shows no sign of end Ares’ chariot cart again fills with the spoils of his efforts. 

In the dark of the night while the mortals turn fretfully in sleep Ares rides for Thrace, the eyes of his horses glowing as they cut through the starry sky. It is quiet in the space between the heavens and the surface; unsettling still, to be at such a height. He is glad to guide them back to the earth when the ridges of Mount Haemus appear below.

Ares slows as he steps from his chariot to the ground outside his shrine. The mortals have been busy in his absence: the open walls have been sealed, the building itself expanded outward. Before the doors stands a new, large altar. It is stained red.

He walks inside, pulse racing, then stops.

The floor is stone, the walls and columns wooden.

His treasures remain at the centre of the room where he had left them—however, in front of them lay more weapons: swords, spears, a bow and a quiver of arrows, all of fine make. To their side is a table laden with amphorae, a krater and cups, all intricately painted with scenes of battle. At the end of the hall, incense burns atop the raised altar he had seen before. The heady frankincense that fills the air is tinged with the scent of copper.

Finally, Ares steps forward. He crouches to take one then another of the weapons in his hands, before laying each back to its place on the floor.

When he moves to the table, he finds the krater already half-filled with mixed wine, a ladle leaning against its side. He stirs it, watches the dark liquid swirl, then pours a ladle-full into a cup and brings it to his lips. The flavour is rich, earthy. It holds something of the taste of mortality in it; something of devotion.

Ares likes it.

He crosses the hall, taking in the smoothed grain of the columns and the sharp-sweet scene of the wooden walls. They are pleasing. Rather plain, yes, but Ares can fix that himself. He stops before the steps to the altar, then hesitantly climbs them. The marble bowl is white, fine in make—and its centre is still wet with blood. Slowly, Ares dips a finger to it; brings it to his chest. Then, placing his hand to the marble bowl, he wills his libations there. As he watches, the basin begins to fill with red.

Ares smiles, turning from the altar to the table of wine, the treasures on the ground.

He takes a sip from his cup and heads back to his chariot to bring his new spoils inside.

«««««««« ─────── · III · ─────── ««««««««

The war continues, the days bleeding together. The armies surge forward and fall back again, neither claiming much ground—until one does.

On the morning that the army turns its teeth from the high walls of the city to the nearby township, a band of the finest warriors take to the road before the sun rises. Athena finds Ares as he walks alongside them. “You have done well, brother—and today you are rewarded for it.”

“It shall be bloody?” he asks.

Athena nods curtly, but he recognises the excitement in her eyes, as cruel as his own. “As much as you can make it so. Make for yourself another name, if you will: Ares, sacker of cities.”

“Sacker of cities,” he repeats to himself with a shiver. The words are harsh and pleasing.

“Brother,” Athena continues, “now more than ever is the time for your ferocity. Our family will be watching. Demonstrate to them your usefulness.”

Ares looks ahead to the distant walls.

He smiles.

It is loud when the gates fall, the iron clattering dead to the ground.

The mortals scream as they charge inside, scream as they hurt and kill and die. They are cruel creatures, putting the hatred Ares inflames in them to uses more viciously creative than he himself could have imagined.

Ares breathes crimson into the air until it’s thick in the hearts of the attackers, the defenders, the many weeping innocents. The god of war deals out like measure to all. They bleed for him just the same.

The world becomes smoke and snow and coppery blood.

It is dizzying.

Ares wades through the destruction, giddy with the praise, giddy with the horrors they would spin from his aid, giddy with the pain as the mortals fall at his feet in brutal worship.

Giddy when Thanatos appears at his side to take them from him.

Ares turns to him, chest aching with exhilaration—then he freezes.

Thanatos stares down into the core of him, expression flat with horror as he floats above it all, the threatening decay that ripples outward from him so strong that it cleanses the air of taste of noise of feeling. So strong that for a moment Ares feels his own heart still with fear—and if it is his wish then how gladly, Ares realises, he will let Thanatos take him.

“Beautiful,” he whispers.

Thanatos blinks in surprise, the slightest touch of gold creeping across his cheeks as his loathing dissipates. Ares claws the remnants into his chest and lets it sting as the taste returns to the air.

“Tsch,” Thanatos mutters, looking away, “I’ve said before that is no word for this. You take too much enjoyment from it.”

“Perhaps one day you will too.”

Ares waits for him to disappear as usual, but Thanatos does not move.

Flames begin to scale a building to their side as around them the mortals continue at their atrocities. Thanatos watches as they run and hack and die, expression strange. He clutches his scythe to his chest; the purple butterfly that always seems to accompany him bats its wings at the disturbance.

“So much suffering,” Thanatos finally says, soft enough that his voice is almost lost in the roil of sound, “so much death. Are you still not satisfied?”

“How could I ever be?” Ares asks, meeting his eyes when Thanatos glares back to him. “Are you?”

“It isn’t about our satisfaction,” he snaps. “I only give them what they call for.”

“As do I,” Ares says with a touch of defensiveness. “Be as it may that they have greater need of you than I, do not believe that you are the only one they call for.”

Thanatos frowns but doesn’t answer. He also doesn’t leave.

It is dizzying, the destruction around them; dizzying, the chance that Ares knows he’s being given. He changes tack.

“It was not my intention to force you here, nor has this been of my doing alone. You may not recall it, but I offered you invitation.” Thanatos’ eyes flash over him. Before he can reply, Ares adds, “Though I can see you are not pleased to be in my company, I remain glad of yours nonetheless.”

With a sickening crack, the roof of the burning building begins to collapse inward. Thanatos fidgets with his scythe, glancing to the blackened rubble. The flames set shine to his eyes, his hair shifts in the hot unsettled air, and Ares is not wise at all.

He finds the words falling from his mouth before he can stop them. “I fear that the circumstances of our meeting have not been to your liking. I would be most eager to make it up to you.”

Thanatos sends him a sidelong look. “What do you mean, Ares?”

He pauses at the sound of his name on the god’s tongue. Ares has not heard him say it before; Thanatos never gave him the chance to offer it in the first place. Ares composes himself and smiles as warmly as he can. “I now have Halls of my own in Thrace. I would be honoured if you were to join me there—to partake of my wine perhaps, if you wish?”

“To…partake of your wine?” Thanatos asks, seemingly caught off guard. Ares waits expectantly until he frowns and turns away. “I do not have time for such things. I must go; they are calling for me.”

In a flash of green, he is gone.

Ares lingers as the light fades, watching the space where Thanatos had been. He holds the sharp feel of Thanatos’ scorn to his heart and lets it fester.

Finally, Ares shakes himself and looks irritably to where the mortals continue at their carnage as the buildings crumble. Apollo sits atop a nearby wall, armour shining as he observes the devastation with glee. Across the courtyard, Athena urges her chosen warriors forward.

She looks up to meet his eyes with a frown, then calls out, “Why do you pause, you who would be sacker of cities?”

Ares pushes down his humiliation and brings a smile to his face.

He lashes the world with his hurt until the streets flow red with blood.

By the time the evening begins to creep across the sky, the town is emptied of life save for the feasting vultures. Ares sits patiently across from where a pair hisses and tears at the body that lies between them. They keep him in their line of sight.

He reaches to the corpse and cuts free a hunk of flesh. As the vultures watch warily, Ares holds it out to them, cautiously shuffling forward—and they take to the sky. He frowns and sits back.

“You have become distracted.”

Ares looks up to where Athena stands across the road, grey eyes flat.

“Am I not fulfilling my role?” he asks, agitated.

“I had not expected to see you pause amidst a sacking. It is…unlike you.” Ares looks away and tosses the gore to the ground. “Be careful, brother,” Athena continues coolly. “A battlefield is no place for distractions, as I’d thought you knew.”

“I will manage my own affairs.”

“And I will manage mine,” she says pointedly. “I have said it before: do not be so eager to fraternize with Death.”

Ares draws himself to his feet. “I will fraternize with whomever I please,” he snaps, then turns and begins to stalk away.

“Ares,” she says from behind him, “do not forget why you are here. Do not forget that you do not need to be.”

He slows in the middle of the street. The crumbling buildings loom at his sides, emptied and dark with ash and shadow.

“I have not forgotten,” he says slowly, “but can I not have something for myself?”

He is met with silence.

When Ares looks back, Athena is already gone.

«««««««« ─────── · IV · ─────── ««««««««

The following day, Ares buries himself in battle outside the city walls: in the feel of blade to muscle to bone, the feel of human pain, the sludge of snow and blood beneath his feet. The air is full of fury and he has more than enough to add to it.

Still, the mortals are hateful creatures, perhaps more so than Ares could ever be himself. It is not difficult for him to find one that rages as he too would rage, that grins sharper at the feel of his presence. Ares follows him, matching the man’s anger and feeding it with his own until they move as one, carving through the defending warriors as they begin to fall back.

It is pleasing to walk alongside one that welcomes him; to see the way the warriors cower before them.

Pleasing to see the city walls grow nearer.

Pleasing—until he is shaken by the sound of his name.

“Ares.” He slows then turns to where Athena has appeared several paces away, spear in hand. The mortals move around her, oblivious in their panic and their glee. “The war must not be won today. You know this.”

Ares watches the way her eyes track the man behind him. He positions himself between them, pushing down his rage as it tries to flare.

“What is it that you want of me?” he asks irritably. “Do you wish for ferocity or do you not?”

Athena looks back to him, frowning. “I ask only for your cooperation, and that you not act rashly. We have our family’s reputation to uphold—”

Ares grits his teeth; contorts his face into a smile. “Is our father not entertained? Does he too find my work disagreeable?”

Athena sharpens. “Stand down, brother,” she says, voice low with threat.

His sister’s eyes are cool and grey, her chest free from rage, and Ares knows that it is true: there is no need of him.

He hates her for it.

“The walls will not be taken,” Ares says stiffly, “but I will manage my own affairs. I ought by now to have earned your trust enough for that.”

Ares begins to turn back to the walls—and as he does, the spear flies over his shoulder, close enough that his hair shifts as it passes him, to bury itself in his mortal’s skull.

The man falls.

Ares stares as the air erupts in wings and fangs and a Ker drags his soul away.

Stares at the fresh stain of red that begins to spread across the icy ground.

The wind whips past his face, chill with snow.

The mortals that had been retreating to their walls begin to turn and urge each other back to the battlefield.

Brazen Ares protects the Achaeans no longer.

The gods have returned to their side.

“Why?” Ares asks quietly.

“Today you must retreat, brother,” Athena says firmly. “The war must not be won—stand down.”

“He was mine,” Ares snaps, turning on his heel and raising his swords as his hurt sharpens into fury.

Athena raises her shield and steadies the spear in her other hand. “Ares, stand down.”

“Have I proven myself an unfit tool?” asks, smiling pleasantly as he tightens his grip.

The blades shine.

Athena’s eyes narrow.

He closes the gap between them in an instant, but she parries his blows, unfazed.

“You would fight me? How disappointing.”

Ares snarls and slashes at her again, again. He knows the patterns of Athena’s movements; knows the way she feints and sidesteps—yet still each time he is blocked.

The rage itches beneath his skin until it is as blistering as that of the mortals around them.

Ares is careful. He holds his hatred tight; refuses to let it overwhelm him. He dashes forward as though thoughtless and watches as Athena follows the movement. Watches as she steadies her shield the way he has seen so many times before.

When Athena swings at him, this time Ares ducks. As the shield moves over his head, he lunges forward, targeting the exposed skin of her armpit. 

Before he can connect, Athena pivots and drives her spear into his thigh.

Ares freezes.

He blinks down to where the spearhead is buried in his flesh with surprise.

Then Athena tears it free and the world explodes into gold as his leg gives out beneath him.

Ares roars in pain as his knees hit the surface, loud enough that the mortals tremble, then looks in horror to where Athena stands over him.

“I will not allow you to ruin this for us, Ares,” she says, expression steely. “Return to Olympus and heal. You will be needed back here once you are recovered—if, of course, you intend to make yourself of use.”

Without another word Athena turns and strides away, disappearing into the swarm of mortals as they return to their fighting.

Ares glares at the place she had been as the hurt begins to cut through his rage. He sheathes his swords and sets a hand cautiously to the wound. Tests the feel of the pain that is so new, so strange. Watches as his ichor falls golden to the ground and mixes with the sludge.

When Ares tries to stand, he finds his leg refusing. It is an agony he does not enjoy.

Ares glowers at the wound, cursing his body’s newfound frailty, then tries again. 

As he struggles, the air turns green around him.

His stomach sinks. He does not look up, doesn’t have to look up to know that he is there. Ares forces himself unsteadily to his feet. 

Clenching his fists, he takes a step forward with his wounded leg. As Ares sets his foot to the ground and begins to shift his weight, his leg gives out again. He feels himself lurching forward, feels himself about to fall—but then, in a rustle of wind and talons, he is righted. 

Ares jumps, looking about himself with alarm, then jumps again as a hand catches him by the elbow.

When he turns back, Ares finds Furor watching him cautiously.

For a moment, he stares, then slowly dips his head in thanks.

Before he can stop himself, Ares looks up to where Thanatos watches, wide-eyed and motionless, untouched by the snow that swirls around him. Ares turns quickly away. 

Flushed with shame, he lets Furor help him from the battlefield. 

It is a slow effort.

Ares steeps himself in the pain of the wound, so different to feel within his own body. There is a sweetness to the depth of the sensation, but the restriction it causes is bitter.

They do not speak as they move through the mortals, nor as the bodies begin to thin.

Ahead, the plains stretch white and red to the sea; the waves crash onto strange sands. Ahead, his chariot awaits.

Ares turns to the trees at the edges of the battlefield instead.

When they reach them, Ares stops and lets Furor help him to the ground.

He does not meet her eyes.

“You have my gratitude,” Ares says quietly.

Furor inclines her head. “We would not abandon one who has treated us to such generosity, Lord Ares.”

He watches as she turns and starts back to the battlefield. Remembers the wind that had righted him. What turmoil, the crimson in his chest. How slippery it is to place. 

Ares turns his attention to the wound, a far easier thing to manage. He prods the skin experimentally, frowns at the steady stream of ichor that continues to flow from it, then reaches into the pouch at his belt. 

Drawing out his needle and thread, he gets to work. 

By the time the sky begins to darken and the mortals retreat to camp and home, all that remains of the wound is a neat line of stitches and a stubborn pain, a persistent weakness. Ares looks out to the gleaming battlefield resignedly. He will heal fast. 

As the campfires begin to flicker to life, Athena emerges from between the tents and starts through the snow toward the line of trees.

Ares watches her approach cagily, drawing his kopis as she nears.

There is no need. When she slows before him, Athena seems almost tired.

“I told you to return home, brother,” she says with a touch of weariness. “You need healing.”

Ares glares up at her. “As I said—I will manage my own affairs.”

Athena looks to his stitches and shakes her head. “Then so be it.”

As she turns to leave, his anger returns.

“You humiliated me,” he says, voice tight. “I would not have you do so.”

Athena stops, snow falling around her.

Somewhere in the camp a man is singing.

Somewhere another cries out.

“No, Ares,” Athena finally says. “You humiliated us both.”

She strides away without another word.

She does not look back.

«««««««« ─────── · V · ─────── ««««««««

As the night deepens and the clouds give way, Ares watches the stars move across the sky and sharpens his blades. He prods the skin around his sutures roughly. Feels out the changing pain as his wound begins to seal.

It is unexpected when the flash of green comes, and for an instant it leaves Ares blinded. As his vision returns, he sheathes his swords with a growing dismay.

Thanatos hovers in front of him facing the empty battlefield ahead. 

His hair hangs down over the sway of his robes; the blade of his scythe catches in the moonlight, far lovelier than any weapon of Ares’. The shadows cling to the deepened lines of his shoulders and the drape of his chiton.

How easily Thanatos would unpick the seams of his world.

How easily he threads back through it.

The silence drags on.

Ares waits; he will not be the one to break it. Not again.

The voices of the night watch carry up from the base of the hill, tinged with hopeful merriment in Ares’ absence. He looks away to the stretch of stars. Watches as one falls from the sky and is extinguished. 

“What have you to say?” Ares finally asks, irritable. 

Thanatos is quiet a moment longer then snips, “You ought to display more restraint. You make more work for me than you ought to.”

“You complain that I complete my work?”

“I scarcely believe that you only complete your work,” Thanatos mutters. “You enjoy it far too much.”

Ares scoffs. “And you do not?”

Thanatos turns to him sharply. His eyes shoot to the wound at his thigh then up to meet his own. “We do not need to enjoy it—we merely need to ensure that it is done well.”

“Yet still you fail to answer my question,” Ares says as evenly as he can manage under the weight of Thanatos’ gaze. He crosses his arms to calm their shiver. “You deal such death so quickly, yet say that you feel no excitement as you do?”

Thanatos looks away and reaches for his hair, then begins to twist a lock between his fingers. Ares follows the movement. How strangely innocent an action for the things he’s seen inflicted by those hands.

“It is a frightful thing for them—death. They need to see…calmness, steadiness.” Thanatos pauses, then frees his hair as he notices Ares staring. “It is not for me to be excited about—nor should it be for you.”

Thanatos frowns down at him. The moonlight clings to his silhouette; his eyes shine yellow.

How cruel, the way it aches.

Ares laughs.

“Don’t speak of what should or shouldn’t excite me,” he says, still grinning. “And you? You are Death, my friend. It is their utmost offering to you is it not? I know that you have no wish to be in my realm, but, while you must be, I wish you would take from it what pleasure you can.”

Thanatos glares; Ares feels his panic spike. “Death has no need of offerings,” he snaps, “and you are not my friend.”  

In a flash of green he is gone. 

Ares groans and knocks his head back against the tree in frustration. 

“Our brother has unusual sensibilities. I’d not take his callousness to heart.”

He startles, turning to the shadows under the trees at his side. As he watches, a pair of hungry yellow eyes appear in the thick of the gloom.

“Your…brother?” he asks slowly.

Furor smiles, her teeth gleaming sharp and white through the darkness. “One amongst many.”

“I’ve not taken anything of your brother to heart,” he says stiffly.

Furor does not answer, but her smile widens.

His rage flares. “Are you the cause of this?”

She pauses, eyes reflecting the moonlight, then asks, “Are you the cause of their violence?”

Ares frowns. “Could you put an end to it?”

“Could you put an end to war?”

He looks back to the battlefield, its fresh snow pale beneath the stars. “I will not have you interfere with my affairs.”

“I cannot help that you so feed my domain,” Furor says slowly, “though I would not willingly act against one that I’d call friend.”

Ares stills, waiting for her to backtrack. As the quiet grows and she does not he grins, a sudden warmth rushing over him. “I suppose I cannot fault you for that. And the others?”

Furor laughs under her breath, then glances up to the trees. Ares follows her gaze. As he does, the branches come to life with shadowy shapes and the glimmer of eyes, more eyes than he can count. 

“You will have to forgive my sisters,” Furor says, teeth bared bright. “They are not accustomed to the company of those of you from Olympus, or to their own being desired. Others yet remain wary, though I suspect they shall come around in the end.”

Ares stares up at the trees.

He looks from one pair of shining eyes to another and finds himself quite speechless.

Finally composing himself, Ares clenches a hand into a fist and brings it to his chest. He bows his head, then solemnly says, “I am honoured to at last make your acquaintance.” 

A low titter rolls through the shadows and Furor’s eyes crinkle with amusement. “They are not much for speech, Lord Ares—but the honour is ours, I’m sure.”

«««««««« ─────── · end of chapter · ─────── ««««««««

Chapter Text

«««««««« ─────── · I · ─────── ««««««««

When day begins to break the Keres fly from the trees, their wings darkening the sky. Ares thinks of the way they had hissed and rustled among the branches in the night. The way their eyes had glistened through the gloom as they watched him, gossiping to one another in a tongue he did not know.

The way they had stayed.

As the mortals return to their fighting, Ares surveys the unfolding battle with frustration. He lets his resentment heat to a boil, then casts it across the field until the mortals cry and tear at their skins.

He sharpens and sharpens his swords.

With the dying of the day, the mortals stagger back to their fires. As they do, the Keres return to the trees in a blur of bloodied feathers, Furor slinking behind them with her never-faltering grin. He likes it: the way they squabble and complain, the way their agitation spikes then fades into something warmer.

A day passes, then another.

Ares tugs his stitches free and prods at the angry red line, already nearly sealed. Bends his leg tentatively and frowns at the way the muscle resists.

Soon.

In the dark of night Furor sits with her sisters in the branches, at times chattering in their own strange tongue, at others talking with Ares himself. She is quick to humour him, quick to describe the most unsavoury of the day’s deaths and answer his many questions. If anything, she seems hungry for them.

“Your mother is the goddess Nyx?”

“She is.”

“She is lovely,” Ares says, looking out into the darkness. “And she is of Chaos themself?”

“Indeed.”

Ares feels the hair raise on his arms. “To think you come from such beings,” he says with awe. “My debt to your kin is great.”

He digs his fingers through the snow to tear away a fistful of the hard earth below. He shapes and reshapes the palmful of soil thoughtfully. Before them, a green light flashes back and forth between tent and field.

“I would make an offering to Thanatos,” he says suddenly. “Do you know his tastes?”

Furor’s eyes gleam; her smile stretches near to the point of breaking. “Death takes no offerings.”

Ares laughs at first, but stops when she does not join him. “You cannot mean it?” he asks in horror.

“Oh, but I do, Lord Ares. Are you really so surprised, after all that you have learned of him?”

Ares pauses. “I…suppose that I ought not to be. He is an odd one indeed.”

“Insufferable, really.”

Ares starts to frown, then laughs under his breath. “I suppose he is,” he says fondly.

Furor’s smile widens.

He watches as the light comes and goes, the spark of green so vivid in the darkness. He tightens his fist around the soil in his hand, then lets it fall.

The night is still and lonely—or it would be, were it not for the steady murmuring that comes from the branches above. Ares looks back to where Furor watches him fixedly.

“Your sisters,” he starts again. “Do they understand my speech?”

“But of course they do.”

“And could I learn to understand theirs? To speak their words?”

Furor cocks her head to the side. “I suppose it might be possible.”

“I would be most eager to learn to do so if you would aid me in it,” he says sombrely.

The Keres titter in the trees above; Furor glances into the shadows with amusement. “Why, we have never done such a thing before—but if you wish it, then I suppose we can try.”

Ares perks up. “I wish it.”

It is challenging at first to distinguish between the sounds—clicks and hisses, whistles and coos—but as the stars move across the sky, slowly he begins to do so. When Ares tries to repeat the noises himself he finds them to be guttural things, often as sharp as the meanings Furor offers as translations.

Ares shapes and reshapes the sounds with his tongue; feels the harsh of them in the back of his throat.

His own mangled attempts at replicating the first word Furor feeds him unsettles the air, but his awkward efforts seem to delight the Keres above. As he struggles, first one then another of them begins to repeat the word along with him until the darkness is filled with the chant of blood. When the word finally leaves his mouth correctly Ares knows it by the way the trees erupt with raucous cheers.

It is infectious, and Ares can’t hide the way he glows at it. “It is but one word,” he says, grinning sheepishly, “please—I would be most grateful if you were to teach me more.”

A tremor of excitement runs through the trees.

“But of course,” Furor says with wicked glee, her eyes reflecting eerily through the darkness. “We have another that we suspect you will be quite fond of.”

Ares listens carefully to the new word; tries to mould it with his lips. He is no natural, he knows, but he tries to make it his own nonetheless.

It proves a pleasant way to pass the time.

Soon again the gloom is filled with death and blood, and no: it is not so very lonely after all.

«««««««« ─────── · II · ─────── ««««««««

Ares is quick to return to the battlefield once he can carry his own weight, slow and awkward as his steps are. It is uncomfortable—his leg is stiff, shaky—but manageable, especially as he draws in the adrenaline from the mortals that swarm past him. It is a relief to be returned: the closeness, the gleam of sword and shield, the noise too great for thought. A relief to feel again the give of flesh and bone beneath his blades.

A thrill, the flash of wings that sing death at his side; the spark of delight that comes when Ares sings it back.

A thrill, the sudden burst of green when he appears as though summoned.

Death, the whispers in the air; Death, the sickly racing in Ares’ chest.

He looks to where Thanatos hovers, facing away from him with his hood raised. Before he can disappear, Ares breathes courage into the air and sends his mortals surging forward.

A dark circle appears beneath them, whisking away the sudden influx of souls as Ares stumbles through the bodies to reach his side.

As Ares slows next to him, Thanatos looks determinedly away.

“Greetings,” Ares says after a moment. “It has been some time.”

“You have scarcely returned and already you would make such work for me? Must you truly do so?”

“I enjoy my work, yes,” Ares says lightly. “And what of it?”

“Khh—I ought to leave you here to clean up your own mess,” he snaps, finally turning to him.

Thanatos’ eyes are cold enough to pin him to the ground, as though Ares were something he could crush. How it unsteadies his heart. How it turns in his gut.

Ares grins before he can stop himself. “Ah, but you would not do such a thing, would you my diligent friend?”

“You are not my—!”

“Yes, you have said as much already. I was rather wounded by it, I must admit.” Thanatos’ expression darkens further at the interruption, and faced with the threat of his fury the temptation proves too great. Mischievously, Ares adds, “And yet you are here again. I think that perhaps you have missed me, hm?”

But Thanatos does not slip into rage; if anything, the rage slips away from him yet again. Instead, gold shoots up his face and Thanatos splutters, “I most certainly did not.”

It would be a disappointment were it not so delightful. How amusing it is to unsteady him; how charming he is once unsteadied. Ares finds himself smiling, all intent at mockery gone. “I am most pleased by it.”

Thanatos glares, the threat of it long since diminished by the glow of his face, then disappears without another word.

Ares slicks the blood from one sword then another, still grinning, and limps back through the mess of bodies. It is easy for Ares to put heart in the mortals around him as he does. He has more than enough, he finds, to go around.

His high spirits follow him throughout the morning, bolstering his energy until the stiffness of his leg becomes too great and he finally retreats, arms filled with armour and bone. As the sky bruises and the Keres—his friends—return to the trees, it is clear that they too remain cheerful.

Death, they chortle and repeat until it again becomes a chant, Death.

“Really, my friends,” he mutters, face brightening, “already I have learned that one well enough, I think.”

“Enough,” Furor says lightly as she draws near, “best you not test our good Lord Ares.”

Ares opens his mouth to brush off her worry, then stops when he finds the air is free from it. He softens at the realisation and leans back with a sudden contentment.

“Indeed, the results of such a thing would be poor,” he says with mock agitation, “I’d at least have you teach me more first.”

Above, the trees erupt all over again.

How strange, the changed feel of the night when dressed with such pleasant laughter.

How unsettling it is when suddenly it falls quiet.

The moonlight glints off of Athena’s armour as she strides toward them from the mortal camp. Ares takes his kopis in hand and begins sharpening it as he watches her approach. His leg aches.

As she nears, he looks up casually and waits.

Athena slows a pace away, glancing from Ares to the trees then back. She makes no acknowledgement of the shining eyes that stare down at her.

“I see that you have recovered enough to rejoin our efforts, brother.”

“I have recovered enough to rejoin, yes,” he says coolly.

Athena nods. “It is well-timed. The walls must be strengthened tomorrow.”

He smiles pleasantly. “And yet I do not need to be here. Surely the walls will stand without my aid, dear sister.”

He brings the whetstone back to his blade.

“Ares, bane of men, murderous sacker of cities,” she says, voice low. Ares freezes, his pulse turning thick in his ears with those words of mortal praise so strange from the mouth of his kin. “I ask for your aid in this matter because our father will be joining us tomorrow to more closely examine the battlefield. It would not pay for him to see anything but unity in our approach.”

He finds himself nodding along. “Our father will be joining us, you say?”

Athena appraises him, lips curving ever so slightly. “Indeed.”

“And when should we expect him?”

“Tomorrow night,” she says, eyes grey.

The wind moves through the branches above them; a low murmur passes through the trees.

“Tomorrow night?” Ares asks slowly. “You mean to say—?”

“There will be an attack under the cover of nightfall.”

A rush of exhilaration runs through him. “You plan a massacre.”

“Perhaps,” she accepts before continuing, “though you will prevent it from spilling beyond the walls. You must give them courage, Ares.”

The red of Ares’ eyes reflect back at him from the flat of his blade. Slowly, he begins to smile. “Ah, so long as blood will be spilled and death dealt, how can I possibly decline?”

“Wisely decided,” Athena says curtly. She turns on her heel and begins to walk away before pausing after a few steps. “I will be pleased to see you returned.”

Ares holds the stone over his kopis, unmoving. The silence grows.

Finally, Athena strides away into the darkness.

Once she disappears from his sight and the trees again begin to fill with voices, Ares sets the whetstone to the ground at his side. He traces the outline of the scabbed skin on his leg; the lightening bruise. Clouds roll thick and dark over the distant mountains.

He watches as they near and he presses down.

«««««««« ─────── · III · ─────── ««««««««

There is nothing honourable about the attack when it comes in the dark of night, the sound of the army’s approach masked by wind and snow. Ares rides his chariot back and forth through the thickening battle breathing resolve into the defenders, torn so harshly from sleep. It is not what Ares would have planned himself, underhanded as it is, but he must credit his sister: the results are most pleasing indeed.

It is masterful, Ares assures himself: the rage with which the mortals defend their walls beneath the heavy clouds, the terror that underpins their desperate fighting. The oily glisten of blood in the torchlight, the blooming wounds as deep as pitch. The fiery burn of his horses’ eyes.

Yes, it is a worthy scene that he has orchestrated on his end, Ares is sure.

Nonetheless, he watches with growing trepidation as his father’s chariot descends like a falling star and settles on the ground across the field, casting a hail of sparks through the gloom. Zeus' hair and armour take on an otherworldly glow as he steps from his chariot, as do Athena's when she moves to his side. How quick he is to sweep her into an embrace before turning to the walls where Ares works.

Ares casts courage out to the mortals about him, strengthening their ranks. He holds his focus tight.

When the flash of green comes, the excitement that rushes through him is quickly doused with agitation. Ares does not look to his father and Athena as he brings the chariot to a halt and draws a sword. He slashes at a passing warrior; they crumble to the ground. Before the Keres can descend, a dark circle of magic closes around them. He risks a glance to where Thanatos hovers nearby, mouth drawn tight. Ares pauses despite himself at the terrifying sight of him: the ethereal way he hovers so still above the chaos, the snow falling past and leaving him untouched. The harshness of his eyes as they shine through the darkness, cold as the air around them. The shadows so fortunate to cling to his skin that must never have known mud.

The urge to drag him down and change that.

Ares tears his eyes away and strikes down the nearest attacker irritably, wary of his father’s approach. Again, the circle opens.

He holds his attention in careful check.

He does not look up again.

“Greetings, my son.” Ares turns with a jolt to where Zeus nears. His voice is loud as ever; jovial and threatening as ever as it rises above the noise of battle. How strange, the sound of such a greeting. “Why, it has been some time now! You’ve lasted longer down here than I’d thought.”

As he slows at Ares’ side, Zeus looks about them with amusement. His father is tall, towering over Ares even as he stands in his chariot—yet noticeably less so than Ares remembers him being. He quickly sheathes his swords and bows his head.

“Greetings, Lord Father. It is an honour to have you join us.”

Zeus looks him up and down, smile wavering at the sight of his bloodied hands. “And how goes your time here on the surface?”

Ares smiles pleasantly. “Well, father—I am much suited to it, I believe.”

“More so than expected, I’ll admit—though I hear you are still at your mischief,” he says, eyes narrowing. “Why, I ought not be surprised when I hear that you would sooner keep company with Death and other such dreadful sorts!”

Ares glances to where Thanatos still hovers nearby. It is within hearing range, surely, yet he offers no reaction. Ares looks back to his father, carefully holding his smile in place. “I beg to differ: their company is most agreeable.”

“Agreeable?” Zeus says sternly. “I know enough of my brother’s realm to know otherwise, and I’ll not have you jest with me.”

“I do not jest, Lord Father. I have learned much from the surface gods. They are most admirable in their workings and they have nothing but my deepest of gratitude.”

His father frowns—then bursts into laughter. “You always have had unusual tastes I suppose. Why though, I must say I’d not expected you would manage to make an ally of Death!” Ares dips his head in acceptance; he does not correct him. His father’s laughter trails off and Zeus continues. “Now then, we still must speak of your good half-sister. I know you two have had your disputes—it sounds as though you even thought to fight her recently? Audacity runs in our family, but that was unwise of you,” Zeus chuckles. “Athena is more forgiving than I, wishing to keep you here despite it—though best you not go spurning her again, you understand?”

“Athena…wishes to keep me here?”

“Requested it herself! Always even-tempered, our Athena.”

Ares frowns, looking to where his sister moves calmly through the attacking ranks. His leg aches. “I suppose that she is,” he says begrudgingly.

“She has done well to arrange all of this, hasn’t she? You would do well to follow her lead.” His father claps a hand to his back. Ares tenses, racing to memorise the sensation while he tries and fails to reconcile words with touch. His father continues as though oblivious to his turmoil. “Ah, this is a hateful business though, isn’t it?” Zeus says merrily as the mortals fall around them.

Ares watches him from the corner of his eye, uncertain how to respond. “…yes,” he says finally. “Yes, it is hateful indeed.”

His father resumes talking, and Ares holds his smile still. When Zeus orders that he urge his mortals forward, Ares does as he is told. He savours what scraps of praise fall his way; reasons that when his father laughs it is with approval. He holds his tongue until Zeus bores of him and returns to speak with Athena.

The fighting continues through the night, but it is a strange kind. Ares cannot escape the burning memory of his father’s hand, so unusual to feel with affection; cannot separate it from the bite of his words. Looking over his many careful arrangements, Ares finds the battlefield changed and oddly unwelcoming.

Something that is no longer his own.

He holds his disquiet close; keeps it restrained beneath his skin while more and more of his laughing kin descend to enjoy the sport. Ares avoids their eyes, yet finds few places he can trust his own to linger. He is careful not to watch any one warrior for too long. He does not permit himself to slip into enjoyment of the heady panic raised by the nighttime slaughter.

He focuses as best he can on the dark wings that shadow him and ignores the gossip that sits so gratingly above the violence.

Only when Thanatos himself again appears above the fighting before him do Ares’ kin begin to drift elsewhere. He watches their retreat with interest, then urges his horses forward. As he draws near, Thanatos offers no acknowledgement. His agitation hangs cool in the air.

Ares breathes it in, comforting as it is compared to the mirth of his kin.

He does not speak.

As the silence between them grows, Ares can feel his agitation fade. When Thanatos shifts, reappearing further down the frontline, Ares moves to rejoin him. Thanatos studies him for a moment as Ares slows back at his side, then returns to his work without comment.

It is a quiet kind of company but a welcome one, however short-lived it is. Though Thanatos stays for a time—perhaps longer than usual, Ares thinks—soon he disappears again.

As the battle drags on and on, Ares searches for the burst of green.

He follows it.

«««««««« ─────── · IV · ─────── ««««««««

When Zeus tires of their bloody sport and returns to the heavens, Ares strengthens the hearts of his mortals enough to repel the attacking enemies. As they slink away, the snowy winds begin to settle. In the solemn stillness, the defenders collect their dead. Ares moves through the battlefield, unnoticed alongside them, his eyes darting between armour and flesh. From them he takes a shield and a spear with a shattered shaft; a gauntlet and a mangled jawbone.

Already it is a challenge to fit the spoils into his chariot cart; he must return to his halls soon. Finally fitting the shield into place, Ares moves to his horses and begins to unharness them. They flick their tails lazily as he runs his hands over their hot shoulders then starts to brush them down.

He can still feel the ghost of his father’s touch on his own shoulder; is still followed by the memory of his laughter.

From beyond the dunes, he can hear the steady crash and withdrawing of the waves, now nearly so familiar a background noise as his own heartbeat.

When his horses are happily picking over the ground, Ares sets the brush down and finds himself drawn beyond the rise of sand.

The beach is changed from the first time that he had awoken there, strewn with the debris of war and littered with dead campfires. Ships dot the waters beyond the gentle waves, deeper shadows in the night.

Still the waves crash. Still the air tastes of salt.

His leg aches as it has for some hours, stubborn as the hurt is. It is not a pain he likes. Ares sighs and sits on a driftwood log to offer it a moment’s respite. He watches the sky start to bleed from the horizon as Night slowly releases the world from her embrace.

It is unexpected when Thanatos appears at his side, but Ares hides his surprise as best he can.

Thanatos does not acknowledge him, does not even look at him, as Ares is beginning to suspect is his custom. This time Ares doesn’t bother waiting.

“Greetings, my friend,” he says lightly. “Have you some need of me?”

His agitation seems to return immediately. Thanatos glares at the horizon as though it is to blame, and Ares can’t help but smile to himself. So prickly a creature he is for one that would call himself gentle. Insufferable indeed.

“I’d not have you use my name in your family disputes,” he snaps. “You make a mockery of my House and I.”

Ares pauses, frowning. “Nothing I said was to mock you; I meant no insult to you or your House. I’ve said already that I would sooner serve you than quarrel in this manner, and never have I lied to you, Thanatos.”

“And yet a lie has been said nonetheless.”

“I…failed to correct my father as to the nature of our association, yes. I am grateful you did not either.” As Thanatos begins to bristle again, Ares adds, “I’d much rather it was true, you know.”

Thanatos watches him for a long moment, brow furrowed. “It was an awful thing, tonight.”

How soft it is, the way the ocean breeze would turn Thanatos’ hair. How soft, the distant voices of the mortals. How cruel, for their lives to be so destined for his embrace.

How Ares loathes himself for having the thought.

“Then why were you there?” Ares asks, suddenly angering at the complaint, at the distaste and the laughter and the lingering sense of observation.

The waves crash.

Retreat.

“It is strange how highly many of them would speak of you though you are their end,” Thanatos finally says.

Ares blinks, his rage giving way to confusion. Thanatos looks back to the sea, then begins to turn away.

Before he can shift, Ares quickly says, “She is lovely, the Night—your mother, yes?”

He looks back with surprise then nods, face softening. “Yes—yes, she is.”

“You know,” Ares starts carefully, “this is far from the only battle to have been fought under the cover of darkness, awful though it may have been. Night is a logical ally of War, after all. I am most grateful of her aid, and I wish her well.”

Thanatos blinks—then he begins to smile, a subtle thing that hooks in Ares’ chest. “Yes,” he says, lips barely moving, “I suppose that she is, in a way.”

Ares stares, scarcely able to believe he has caused such a thing, then averts his eyes before he can ruin it.

“…War should also be so logical an ally to Death,” he murmurs.

“I have no need of—” Thanatos starts before pausing. He frowns, looking to the cloudy sky and catching at a strand of his hair. “Though…if indeed we are to remain colleagues, I suppose there would be a logic to it.”

Ares looks down at his hands, grinning before he can stop himself. “I’m glad that you agree, my friend.”

Thanatos stares back across the ocean, seemingly deep in thought as he toys with his scythe, the sharp of the blade gleaming. “Yes, well—I’d best be going; I have a mortal to attend to.”

Without another word, he disappears in a flash of green. Ares runs a hand through his hair, laughing.

His friend.

«««««««« ─────── · end of chapter · ─────── ««««««««