Call him War, call him Ares.
Tell him he’s anger and angry, that he’s hateful and hated. Wipe the blood off his face, tell him to control it. To control himself. Then make him sack the cities he protects, to protect the cities he sacks. Say: How do you expect to be loved? You can’t even be trusted.
Watch for a reaction. If he flinches, you’ve done well. Be satisfied in that accomplishment. If he clenches his hands into fists, call out his violence. Say, This is why no one likes you. All you know is destruction.
Don’t let him rebuild what he breaks. Those hands of his are for destruction, those callouses are for holding swords and spears and shields. Those hands are for War—not for healing, not for caring. He isn’t supposed to be tender. Don’t let him be tender. He might learn to be tender with himself and you don’t want that. No, that’s the last thing you want.
Bloodstained, gore-defiled, he rejoiced and laughed.