Much before any servant could have entered his sleeping chambers, drawn back the thick curtains and let the first rosy streaks of day sneak in, Ares had slipped outside.
The new day was still young, a rose-gold yawn, promising, he thought, another sweltering summer morning.
Clad in only white undergarments matching white linen trousers, goosebumps soon were crawling up his arms and spine.
It mattered not.
Whether broken darkness, black-pit dark, or early bronze – he cherished those hours. Silent moments, silence meandering. Sometimes, somewhere, there was the twitch of birds. In between shrubs, briars and trees looming large.
Only then, it was just him, sword in hand, polished rigorously by the dimming embers at hearths of yesterday. He kept his most treasured one in a chest in his room, from which he had retrieved it earlier; the key always on a gold chain around his neck.
His tread, though he was barefoot, resounded strong, even, certain. He knew he wanted to train; if he did not, did indeed miss even one of those sacred morrow rites, Ares would feel on edge throughout, until next he would rest his head.
And why not, he mused further, for the weight of his blade in his hands, rough hands, his calluses made to fit for this very hilt – nothing was more right than this.
Once the training dummies came into view, he cautiously stepped up to them. Swinging his sword, a full, strong blow from above, he swiftly spun his blade, mimicking the heavy blows that had saved his life many times in battle.
This is a full-body attack; the stern voice of his mentor ringing in his mind. The longsword’s primary attack. He did exactly as he had been thought as a boy, as he had done countless times on the battlefield. There was the momentum, carrying, growing, rising – into a strike. Never easing on the onslaught.
How he longed to be on campaign again, marching, sharing scraps of food with his soldiers at a kindled fire. Campaigning meant war, meant tedious stratagem, meant death; but he belonged on the battlefield. Amidst the noise, the chaos, the clash of steel thick with screams, and soil saturated with viscera still warm.
It was grim, it was dark, it was what his sister loathed the most.
“My Lord,” came the voice, just as he was about to grip his sword once more and practice more. It was Iris, his wet nurse, and his mother’s closest companion.
When he glimpsed over his shoulder, however, Ares paused. Usually, her amber eyes were lively, kind, fond – there was nothing there, nothing of her, of what Ares had known for so long. Only shock. Surprise?
“Have I not told you countless times not to address me as such?” he chided in playful tones, a smile so earnest it reached his own eyes.
“There are horsemen on the way to the castle,” she hastened on, vowels and consonants clashing, shaking, because now she was wringing her hands, again and again, trying to ground herself.
Ares stiffened. His jaw tightened.
“Enemies?”
“Their flags bear the Queen’s mark.”
The Queen? His white eyebrows drew together, creases deep and dark in between. What could his sister want? He was only summoned for matters of conquest, sieges, and tax collection through his own soldiers.
“I shall expect them in the courtyard. Give word to the stable master.”
***
After a race back to his rooms, to have servants dress him in attire adequate to receive men of the Queen’s guard, he was standing in the very heart of his own courtyard, tall and straight, as a man who had led other men into victory and defeat, likewise, ought to.
Here, clasping onto composure and proper posture, he had to bite the inside of his left cheek. Always, inside him, the urge to pluck and pull at such garments uncoiled. He was in a dark, tight coif, his sleeves inlaid with golden thread, his shoes from costly-tooled Spanish leather.
As a boy, he would often fuss at his formal tunics, scratch at his skin – such things were made for status and show, not for comfort. Alas, he was no longer a boy who could get away with childhood-day-foolery.
There, the sound of hooves, the neighing of black palfreys. They were riding into the courtyard, one of the knights coming to a stop a few inches where Ares and his attendees were already waiting.
This knight dismounted, practiced, all grace and poise, pulling off his helmet.
Eris.
“Eris, come, please tell me the meaning of this visit. Surely my good sister the Queen is not this determined to compel me to obey her schedule, is she?”
Off somewhere, in the distance, an owl shrieked.
Hark.
Eris’ features, always an ode to mischief, were wooden, cold.
Hark.
She did not say anything. She was looking at him, as if through him, the other knights spilling out at her sides like tall, towering shades in their dark armor.
“The Queen,” Eris said.
The knights’ faces next to her were bellmen in and of themselves: pallid, bloodless, silent.
“The Queen is dead.”
***
The journey to the capital stretched out and out and out. At first, after Ares had been ushered into the carriage, Eris had spoken to him. Attempted to. He had seen her lips move, forming words, yet the sounds had not reached him. She had soon realized he was elsewhere, somewhere unreachable, and grew silent. He was glad for her company, because he did not need to grasp at poseurdom or poise. She had seen him ruined, ravaged, remade – there was not a single crack or blemish she had not come to know intimately.
He wasn’t crying.
No, tears were sorrows unbecoming of any man, even for the likes of him. In lieu of ennui or rage, Ares was staring outside, watching as verdant meadows and tree crowns up high drifted him by, merging into blurs of nature.
Athena.
The Queen. His sister, his rival, his confidant.
She had always seemed larger than all of nobility, a goddess almost, untouched by ordinary worries and ordinary failures. She had waged wars, won wars, conquered cities – all for the good of their kingdom. And once Ares had accepted he would never be anything or anybody other than the younger brother of the Queen, Athena had often taken his side over that of a noble.
To think her gone, torn from here, with him left behind… it was wrong, was what it was.
Athena had never been expendable, one of a kind – whereas there were plenty of bachelor royal sons of little consequence.
Like him.
Hadn’t he told her, hadn’t he told her he should lead instead of her?
“Ares, listen.”
He was about to ask what he was supposed to hear when he did hear.
Faint, at first, like sounds under water: then, gradually, growing louder and louder. Against protocol, he withdrew the curtains and peeked outside. Common folk lined the streets. Women were tearing at their clothes and hair; screams and cries and wails – the lamentations of a people mourning for their Queen. The men, on the other side, had taken their practice spears of yore.
In perfect synchronization, the butts of their spears beat and beat and beat on the earth, a slow staccato rhythm soon mingling with their keening. Yet between all those marrow-deep screeching sounds, there were other voices forming, quite distinctly, one word in unison.
His name.
“Have they gone mad?” he asked.
Eris said nothing.
***
“Nephew,” Poseidon said at once, with emphasis, rising from where he had been sitting the moment Ares entered the room.
When he had drawn nearer, his uncle lay a hand on his shoulder, firmly, whether to reassure him or himself, he could not say. He gave him a long look: pitying, comforting, steadying.
“Uncle Poseidon,” he began, carefully,” might I inquire to know why I’ve been summoned? I am greatly saddened by the news, as you may know, yet I am uncertain if I am able to assist, here. The funeral arrangements are the responsibility of the successor, are they not?”
There was a pause.
Ares lifted a brow.
Pauses, silences, quietude – those had never been associated with his uncle, much less his domain. His presence was loud, booming, oftentimes overwhelming; it was not for him to say nothing.
And here he was, all quiet, all still.
“The successor will be announced by the council shortly,” was all Poseidon mustered, before he gestured towards the seat opposite his.
Athena’s.
“No,” he answered, instantly, his jaw taut and tight, bile on his tongue.
***
“The Queen has left a succession will,” proclaimed Apollo, donning his holy insignia and robes: the white dalmatic, bright-gold-embossed, billowing always in the wake of his striding steps, the cincture, he remembered, a kind of rope tied at the middle; god thread, jewel-adorned. His half-brother reveled in his station, and had never shied any expense to wear clothes that exuded his importance.
He made a practiced, graceful hand gesture, after which they all sat down.
Ares did not know why he was there. He had only ever seen the inside of this room when Athena had required his insight and rapport with the soldiers, sometimes when she required a second opinion on her stratagems. Surely, those new lands could not have fallen into disarray this swiftly, could they?
“I, Athena the Queene, proclaim that the imperial crown of this realm of Olympia with all dignities, honours, prominences, prerogatives, authorities and jurisdictions to the same annexed or belonging should be to my dear brother, the prince Ares, and any heirs he may sire, that is to say, the firstborn of his body between the prince, my heir, and his future Queene, and that His Highness should and might give, will, limit, assign, appoint or dispose the said imperial crown and other the premises to what persons or person, and give the same person or persons such estate in the same, as it should please His Highness by his gracious letters patents under the great seal, or by his last will in writing signed with his most gracious hand; as by the same act among divers other things therein contained more at large it doth appear; since the making of which act, I, the Queene, have no issue of my body lawfully begotten any heirs, and thus have it be known, in this legal and binding will, that only my good brother the prince may and shall succeed me, as no other hath claim to the throne of Olympia. Furthermore, that the appointing of advisors of his Majesty’s government falleth only to my successor and that he may choose whomever he pleases to serve the kingdom and its interests, which, until His Majesty hath chosen a government that pleases him, releases my chosen government advisors from service immediately. I bequeath to my advisors 5.000 gold each, as thanks and in honour of their most loyal service to the kingdom.”
“This must be a joke!” Erebus exclaimed, banging his fist on the table.
But Ares was still processing. He had heard Apollo’s sonorous voice, smooth, silk, sweet as only the practiced oration of a studied man.
He, the heir?
He, the successor?
“No,” Ares said, not thinking, shaking his head vehemently.
“There you have it,” Erebus interjected, his nostrils flaring, his words blaring, like war horns, deafening any other assent or dissent.
“Surely the ancient and noble line of my house, Cthonisia, is much better suited to the task than some philandering, dilettante half-wit of a princeling? Do we want Queen Athena’s efforts and victories to have all been for naught?”
Apollo’s gaze flitted from his fellow cardinals to Erebus, a flash of green across the room. As always, that look, that gaze, that glare – it was gaining momentum and might until, afeared, Erebus looked away.
“The will of the Queen is binding, irrespective of how willing or unwilling her successor may be,” he began, glancing briefly towards Ares.
“It is, however, binding for all – disobedience or disregard of the wish of the Queen, whether alive or not, is treason. And treason, my dear gentlemen, is a death sentence.”
There was truth to his words, sickening as it was to Ares. The only truth spoken today, he mused. This meeting was a waste of time, if he had to think about it. Yes, this served as a means to convey Athena’s last will, but it was predominantly for these ministers to try on their sycophant costumes like good little nobles grabbling for authority.
***
“I don’t want it. I’m no king!” came the fusillade of rage, the torrent, the wrath. Once he and Apollo had retreated to the private library of the Queen, Ares had done what he always did when he lost himself. He grew warm, then hot, then blazing, a flame; a fire engulfing everything, from right to reason, leaving only cinder, like the fire from years before. The city fire, from when nearly everything had burnt to the ground.
His fists were shaking at his sides, trembling with that dangerous, incendiary current. He was seeing only white, brilliant white, his teeth bared, sharp, a warning.
Apollo had him against the wall within seconds, his right hand wrapped around his throat. He was staring at him, staring him down, predator to a predator.
“Stop behaving like a petulant child before I forget myself!”
Apollo had that effect on him. Apollo knew how to tame a beast, it was said, as one of the swiftest, deadliest hunters aside from his twin sister Artemis. Tame him he did, in that moment.
Ares took a deep, deep breath, his chest heaving with the effort of it. He closed his eyes, breathed in again, breathed out, opened his eyes again.
“Whether you like it or not, you will be crowned king in the coming days. I will help and guide you as best as I can as a servant of the Mother, and my function as a member of your council. But you must exercise self-control, or the nobles will skin you alive, and I will not disgrace myself and save you from yourself.”
***
Night had settled in the castle, in silence and dark. Only silvery moonlight was slipping in through the high windows, which cast a cool light in the hallways. It was that quiet that made him cautious. The cicadas, their distant song, the lonely winds, even the owls and their hooting – yes, those were noises fit for the sleeping world, but not footsteps.
Ares tiptoed through the shadows, sneaking down the same path he had first sneaked down when he had turned fifteen. A secret passage, for their way, because it was only known to them.
There she was.
Once Ares had emerged from the confined space of the passage and out into a dimly-lit chamber, his gaze found hers.
She was standing there, in the center of the room, as though she had been waiting for him. Expecting him. Clad only in a white linen nightgown, the shape of her round breasts sharp against the cloth, she took a step towards him, and stretched out her hand.
Ares smiled, tiredly, gladly. For her. He took her hand. He let himself be let towards and then onto the bed, where she pushed him into the pillows, gently, before laying down her head on his chest.
“How are you feeling, my heart? Honestly.”
Ares gave a huff.
“Honestly?”
Aphrodite raised her head and looked up at him, firm and stern.
“Honestly.”
And how could he lie to her, who already knew too much of him and had seen too much?
So he heaved a deep sigh, ruffled his own hair, and squeezed his eyes shut.
“I keep wishing to wake up to find this has all simply been a figment of my imagination, a bad dream… but, alas, it seems real.”
A shiver snuck up and down his spine, then; there was pressure at first, light, lighter, lightest, the warm wetness of her mouth against his closed eyelids. Kisses for him. Ares could not keep a crooked smile from turning his mouth corners upside. She always found new places to plant her love.
“Indeed it does, my heart,” came her affirming whisper, close to his ear.
“Any king needs rest, however, so you best not worry your pretty little head all night for now and close your eyes now like a good little boy.”
***
The morning broke just like any other morning; yet golden-young and bronze-drowsy from a reclining night. Where he would have snuck outside yearning to swing his sword at the practice grounds, Ares was miles and miles away. In the capital, at court, sat upright in bed. In his old sleeping chamber. Back when he had begrudgingly remained. For Athena, for Aphrodite. Before the glaring, opulent ballrooms and indulgent banquets had all been too much.
Sleep had evaded him throughout, even though exhaustion had not. His limbs and mind were still heavy and aching. Even though Aphrodite had stayed with him, her breathing a calming, soothing lullaby; but even she could not alter reality.
Looking out of the small window, he edged closer to sit on the sill. He leaned forward to gaze outside.
Tiny gull and pigeon dots were hopping over meticulously trimmed meadows. In only a few hours, he would be stepping inside the parliament chamber to meet the council. Where ministers of high birth would cajole and trickle sweet, tempting promises all over him. A gamble, of course, to retain their positions and influence. Just because Athena had favored these nobles, it didn’t mean Ares would. It was up to him to shape and form his council however he saw fit.
Power was not everything in those rooms, he had learned. Although the decision ultimately lay in his hands, it was a small comfort.
Apollo would be there, as was his duty and right as a high priest of The Mother. But this first trial of kingship, he had to face alone.
Dread twisted his insides; cool, cruel, gnawing.
Ares flinched a little. Slender arms still warm from blankets and cushions and their shared body heat wrapped around him from behind. Rosy locks came into his vision, tickling his bare skin.
“Be on your guard, my heart. These ministers will not shy away from deceit or manipulation, especially now that you can control their fortune.”
Ares gave a non-committal grunt.
She would know, wouldn’t she?
***
After Aphrodite had tiptoed back to her chambers through their secret passage connecting their rooms and assisted in putting on his robes for the day, he had made his way to the west wing. He had servants to call on, but he had never much enjoyed their demure eyes and quiet, lurking nature. He did not need help for the simple act of dressing himself. But having Aphrodite help him into his tunic was different. She knew him, knew what suited him, specifically; knew the impetus of style, and how it could be just as much a weapon among nobles as a sharpened blade in battle.
He was standing in front of the parliament door after wandering aimlessly for a while, after one last, wistful look at her. But, there it was, that door: Old, dark wood adorned with owls, door knobs shaped like Aegis, gold-embossed and imposing. Apollo was beside him, his hand already on those knobs.
“Ready?”
“Yes,” he muttered, raising his shoulders to attain the proper posture. Tall, towering, looming.
The door opened with a loud, resounding creak, ancient as it was, and immediately, every seated minister rose to acknowledge his entrance.
Before they could walk to take their positions, however, Nyx strode forwards above everyone else present. She was donning her House colors: a gown of deep, deep blue velvet, endlessly flowing. Her dark strands of hair were spilling over her shoulders, dark as ink, adorned with small jewels to resemble stars.
“Your Grace, we are all deeply sorry for your loss, and mourn our most-beloved Queen. Although her absence shall be most keenly felt by us all, you lost a sister also. Her death must succeed you two-fold.”
Gradually, as words after words poured from her lips, his smile grew sharper. She was smiling a smile of sympathy, though her eyes were cold.
“If ever I or my children can lessen the burden on your shoulders, I ask you to please make use of us as you see fit. As surely you are aware, our Houses are linked through a rich history of marriage, loyal service, and fruitful cooperation. We would be humbled to see it thus continue.”
There it was, he thought, consciously trying to control his composure and face. He felt the faint pull of his mouth corners, the twitch, down and down – the hint of disdain.
“My Lady Nyx, I thank you for your most soothing words, for they bring me great comfort. Truly, I am grateful for your continued support. I can surely count on your unconditional loyalty to the crown as well, I hope?”
“But of course.”
Nyx must have awakened their collective ambition from complacency, for throughout the meeting, more and more ministers were hovering around him. They all waited and waited, a hunger in their looks. Predators, all of them, who interrupted each other or agreed loudly when it suited them. Appearances, appearances, appearances.
***
Once the last member had been ushered outside and left, spewing vacuous condolences in their wake, Ares shut the door firmly behind their back. He lurched over, collapsed into the nearest seat, and let out an exasperated sigh.
“I do not trust any of them.”
He leaned further back so that he could cast a side glimpse at Apollo, who was looking out of the faraway window.
“Did Athena?”
At his question, Apollo stirred. His impassive profile crumbled. Ares knew his brother knew how to conceal his own secrets, was expert in this, always bright, blinding, blazing and warm. And just as his skin was sun-caressed, freckles scattered on his cheeks, so, too, bright was he and his mind.
Apollo, full of light and joy, could just as easily drape himself in darkness: scathing remarks, glacial glares, and then, his features were an inscrutable mask.
Now, he allowed Ares to see him. Not the devout priest, not the legitimized bastard of the late King, but him, his half-brother who, too, had lost a sister.
“That is the price of ruling. No one can be trusted, least of all any of Athena’s ministers. The most obvious being, in your case, because they loathe you.”
When Ares only grunted by way of reply, Apollo sighed before coming over to claim the seat next to him.
“You must root it out, one by one, elect new ministers you can trust to a degree.”
His gaze dropped away, straight to the middle of the long table. His words merely a beat before had warned him against trust or sentiments. This was a miasma between them, a gaping gulf, their expressions the same: grim. Tense shoulders both.
“It would be unwise, however, to yank them all out. Choose which are the lesser evil, who can be controlled best.”
Ares drew a deep breath.
Already pressure was building behind his eyes, the faint pulse and drum an ache that could hardly be eased, or stopped.
“Thank you for your counsel. For now, I wish to retire to deliberate this matter in private.”
Which was to say: he needed a goddamn drink.
***
Where drink freely flowed, rippling like stray raindrops into cups, Dionysus was not far. Indeed, Ares did not have to scour long for his half-brother when he entered the main hall. A circle had formed at the edge of the currently empty dancing floor. The musicians who had travelled far to perform at court were resting now, their conversations gentle whispers permeated by gasps and giggles from the crowd.
Dionysus was trying his coin trick of yore on a high-born lady when he stepped closer to watch him with a raised brow. As he had conjured the gold coin countless times before, he did so in this very moment. Accompanied by the free, loose laughter of the lady half a beat later. Dionysus curtsied deeply and winked at her with glee and mischief alive in his eyes.
It did not take him long to spot Ares in the crowd, however, which prompted him to curtsy once more, even deeper this time. The tip of his nose was barely inches away from marble.
Ares could not help but scoff at the display. Discomfiture wrapped around him; the taste of bile in his mouth. Burning, as their glances, into his consciousness.
“There is no need for such formality between brothers, Dio.”
“Oh, my little vulture, I must insist there is! How could I not pay proper homage to my soon to be king?”
He laughed; loudly, boldly, quite unlike any mirth befitting of a man of his station, bastard or not. Dionysus was always laughing in spite of this, always with a twinkle in his eyes, crinkles underneath, and dimples in his cheeks – as if his lover, Hypnos, had pressed his thumbs into his skin and left a permanent mark.
And so, too, his whole posture loosened, opened, came alive. His brother had that effect on others, no matter the situation or standing. A spell, a craft, finely honed.
It was this magic he needed, he decided.
“A word?”
Dionysus bowed again, all elegance and decorum.
“I am, as ever, at your disposal, my most illustrious king and sovereign ruler.”
Ares scoffed at those pompous airs he put on, revelling in his discomfiture; but he put it aside, tolerated it. He gestured towards the study outside, at the far end of the hallway.
Athena’s girlhood study was a small room, practically a broom closet compared to the size and opulence of every other room. It was this simplicity, this lack of wealth Ares could well appreciate it. Just dark shelves of oak lining the walls, stacked with books of all themes. Political theory, history, mathematics, science and so much more. All under a vaulted ceiling, wide and spacious, like a plain.
“As you know, I have spent the last years at the estates in the countryside, far removed from court. I know it has been much the same for you,” he began, leaning forwards in his chair, hands folded on the writing desk.
“However, you have been travelling throughout the kingdoms, performing at various courts. Listening. I trust you have learned a thing or two of the innerworkings here and there, have you not?”
Dionysus smiled his lazy smile, though his eyes were awake and alert as he reclined in his chair, crossing his legs.
“You know what they say about bards, my little vulture. No one ever suspects them,” he replied. His lips curled into a smirk. As unloved sons both, legitimate or not, they knew the value of obscurity, of irrelevancy.
“I will be glad to write up a summary of the juicy bits I’ve heard, if it helps.”
“It certainly will. Thank you, Dio.”
***
That night as many nights and afternoons before he had retreated to the country estate, Ares found solace in the arms of Aphrodite, nuzzling his face into her hair, the scent of myrrh and rose water in his nose, and her warmth, always her tender strength and unfailing warmth. He told her about the meeting with the council, about Nyx’s protestation, about the dread in his guts and the hungering wolves sat around him, dressed in fine silks and golden jewelry to flaunt their wealth and status, about how vulnerable he felt in their wake, even though he was the one wearing the crown.
“Well,” she murmured in his ear while he was on the threshold of waking and dreaming,” I say you should follow your heart, hm?”
It was.
It was.
A yearning, a craving, little praying – a wanting he could no longer allow. Never could he abandon his loves the way Athena had, sacrificing and sacrificing and hurting, for the good of the lands; but he had to tear parts of him apart, with stained hands, scrape off the dried blood from under his fingertips, and gaze out the balcony. Those houses, far, far away, silhouettes closer to the mountains, he had to think of too, now, not only his own indulgences.
He sought out Apollo the next morning, having been helped once more by Aphrodite to dress in robes conveying his rank, and found him already waiting in the throne room.
“I take it you have already at least partially made up your mind on whom to elect as a minister?” he asked, knowing, because Ares was nothing if not predictable in such matters.
“Yes,” he said, trailing off, letting silence turn stilted, pulling them further apart. His brother was unreadable, always, and as their eyes locked, Ares was none the wiser about his thoughts.
“I am releasing Thanatos from the tower to have him take the place as one of my close advisors.”
Apollo nodded instantly.
“Yes, this should please the House Cthonisia and ease the tensions between us for a while.”
He paused. Grew silent. His eyes, bright and hard and seeing, on him, searching for something, finding it, and still Ares did not know what Apollo wanted with this knowledge. What he would do.
“But, Ares, we cannot release him until after your coronation. You are not officially king yet, after all, and acting in opposition to Athena’s will, while legally possible and constitutionally your right as her successor, is... unwise.”
He swallowed, audibly, leaning his back against the stone-brick wall. Cool, yet steady. Of course, Apollo was right, as he often was. Infuriatingly so. He did have the authority to do as he pleased now that Athena’s will had been spread, and her old council informed. Many would think it callous to stride around handing out orders and pardons before Athena, still the Queen in the eyes of the common people, was even buried. It was his duty to give their sovereign, his sister, the funeral she was due. As a royal lady, as a ruler, as his friend. The people should grieve and mourn and find comfort in the following games. To remember her, to reminisce, to keep her alive in their memories for one last day.
“How is he?”
Apollo gave him one of his avuncular smiles. It was pleasant, it was charming; it did not reach his eyes.
“Thanatos is the second oldest son of an old, noble House. I assure you he’s received the best accommodations and care one can ask for, his confinement notwithstanding.”
He strode to the nearest window, peering outside.
“For now, I advise you to focus on immediate concerns, namely Athena’s funeral arrangements, along with the games in her honor. Do not take this lightly, brother, for our foreign ambassadors at court have sharp tongues, and will not look kindly on the next ruler of Olympia if they find your arrangements lacking.”
***
He had been poring over papers and waving off ambassadors and merchants eager to make some coin and, already, he could feel it. The pressure of tension throbbing behind his temples, imbued by a dull ache. It was not the worst he had had, though it was consistent, pulsating from his head down to the soles of his feet.
“Don’t despair, my heart,” Aphrodite crooned; honeyed, forgiving, patient. She ambled over to a servant girl holding a tray with ale, bread, and some cheese. She gave the girl an appreciative nod and a smile before allowing her to return to her other duties. Again, she made him smile, too. Just watching her was a pleasure. And those ostensibly small gestures were what made Aphrodite shine. Commoners, nobles, ambassadors. She knew how to act around others according to their station, and though her words and motions were calculated, her defiant warmth towards all never felt like a scene from a play.
She carefully set down the tray, then claimed the chair next to him. Without so much as a mischievous gleam in her eyes and a little smirk, she took his hand propping up his head and shoved the ale at him.
“Your determination to get this right is all quite endearing, darling, but you have to take care of yourself. When did you last eat, hm?”
Ares grunted noncommittally, but took a quick swig of the ale in his hands.
“I’ve barely made any progress since midday.”
She smiled.
“This is why I brought someone along.”
Almost as if they had planned it to the very second, Dionysus burst in, leaving his guards stupefied in his wake. He lurched towards them, towards the round oak table, raising a hand as a nonchalant welcome.
“I’ve heard you need some help with a little planning, my little vulture?”
Ares sighed.
“This is supposed to be a funeral arrangement. Please be decent, Dio, if you must help.”
“Oh, I absolutely must.”
To his surprise, his half-brother did have a penchant for planning and organization, even if it largely pertained to the games, which would be held after the ceremony at the church. There was to be a race, a tournament, and a play on the final day. The latter, so Dionysus said, would be a homage to Athena’s reign, her victories, a snapshot lane of a dearly beloved queen. They had had relative peace under her, after decades of vicious fighting among noble Houses. It was not without reason that, besides many other honorifics, she had been the Saviour Queene.
There was some consolation in the thought that his sister, their sister, would be celebrated as she had lived.
***
The morning of the funeral had dressed in dreary grey; heavy clouds, gusts of wind, hidden sun. Many priests in the temple had solemnly reassured Ares this had to be an omen. A good one, for it seemed even the Mother was mourning the loss of a faithful servant who had mended her earth with years of peace and prosperity. Athena’s bier had taken weeks to craft by the finest artisans, expedited by spells of speed thanks to the kingdom’s mages, adorned with gold and precious jewels befitting of her status as sovereign. Ares, on horseback, was riding behind the bier as her successor, through the busy streets of Olympia. People of the capital had poured outside to bid farewell to their Queen. Some of them had opened their windows, leaning on window sills for a better vantage point. The women gave way to their grief in loud wails. They were beating their chests in one unrelenting, cruel rhythm, tearing at their hair and clothes.
A keening sound resounded throughout the journey from the streets of the town to the abbey, where all kings and queens would rest eternally. A keening sound. It was their song of woe. Sobs and wails and loss and fear. Too soon for the people to have forgotten the succession wars that had ravaged the lands and taken their sons and daughters in summons to fight for their queen and her claim to the throne. There was uncertainty in this banquet of glances, Ares knew, as he rode past. Athena had brought order. What, they were thinking, would her brother bring?
But even a queen who had executed traitorous, ambitious nobles and passed bill after bill to leave little possibility for another war once she would die could not strip those oligarchs off their essence. They would always poke and prod at the pillars she had so thoughtfully built, until there were ruins once more. There was uncertainty in those looks. He was well-liked among the army and the common folk, yes, because he was their prince. A prince, at that, who had dared to elevate ordinary men and women into offices. They had a voice in government, now, and because Athena had not opposed and granted his recommendations for those offices and posts, they were of consequence.
Tensions between old and new had not subsided.
They would have to see whether this successor of hers was up to the task to unite them.
It was Apollo who addressed the crowd to give his funeral speech. His voice, an echo throughout, silvery and strong --- the mark of an expert orator, his verbiage deliberate and vibrant; a recounting of Athena’s accomplishments.
How she had ended the succession wars that had drained the coffers for all and left the farmers either gutted or starving while the opposing forces would take their lands. How she had stabilized the succession and royal family to banish tragedy into plays, onto stages. How she had pleaded and succeeded in more equality.
Indeed, she was laid to rest not a mortal, but a goddess.
The funeral games followed and lasted three days.
Commoners, too, were permitted to participate in the race vying for a medal and a prize of thirty gold.
It was a commoner who won. A father of three, with lanky legs and nimble feet. However swift he had been, however, Ares could not help but doubt whether he could have outrun Hermes, had he been here.
Hermes, sent running a year ago, to liaison for House Olympia at the court of Titanus. A spy, what else, who had dared further still to love above his station.
Ares tried not to think about it.
***
Even though the funeral rites and games had barely ended, Apollo was already preoccupied again. His mind had once again filtered out everyday trivialities, focusing instead on Ares’ fast approaching coronation.
Evidently, this was not simply over and done with putting the crown on his head and waving to the assembled nobility.
Everything from his wardrobe to his gait towards the throne fell under patronizing scrutiny. Everything was wrong, nothing was right. He did not have the poise Athena had naturally possessed, nor her knowledge of etiquette. Even he had attended such lessons, with a stern, grim-faced lecturer, who had often slammed a wooden stick on his bare hands, laid out on the table like an offering. It had brought deep, dark welts, red skin, a glaring impress of discipline; but there was a wildness in him. He was a wolf, an animal, ravenous always. It had been unbecoming of a prince then, and it was humiliating now.
Again and again he had been walking back and forth, striding back and forth, all under the unrelenting eyes of Apollo. Again and again his brother had told him, harshly, exasperated, that he could not move like a foot soldier. His posture was not as outrageous as it could have been, had he not been trained to become a fighter, a soldier, and a commander early on. He was standing straight and tall, a sense of authority undeniably in the way he was holding himself.
He was a king now, however, somebody who was supposed to stride into any room, linger in any crowd, and still leave everyone speechless. Because his presence should be its own force, its own might, like their infamous warships at port.
Ares huffed audibly, loudly, before collapsing into his chair. Apollo gave him a foul look when he sat down, abandoning his lessons and practice, but he pretended not to see it.
“This is impossible and ridiculous,” he grumbled.
Before his brother could throw a scathing remark back at him, one of the guards entered his chambers.
“Your Majesty, the dowager queen Hera seeks an audience.”
Ares lifted a quizzical eyebrow. This formality. Unnecessary. His mother would burst into any room she wanted, whether he were a king or a stable boy. It was sweet, this sensation, this realization his mother would have to obey, whatever he said. He nodded dismissively. Apollo rose to his feet, giving Hera the slightest nod of acknowledgement as he strode past her.
“Mother,” he said, cautious to keep his voice neutral.
Hera strode to the chair opposite him without invitation or permission.
“I have come to discuss the topic of securing a suitable marriage for you now that you are going to be king, son.”
He frowned.
“There is nothing to discuss. You know who I’m going to marry.”
Fury. He could see the transformation on her face, could watch as her dark look grew darker, sharper, colder, her lips thin and pale - and her nose scrunched up in disgust.
“Surely you cannot mean to marry this girl, my dear? I will not protest if you wish to keep her as your mistress, it is your right after all, yet Aphrodite is unsuitable to be your queen.”
A sigh elicited him at her crude, callous words, none of which were new. Her wrath against Aphrodite had begun after her introduction at court a few years ago. She had spent her childhood abroad at the court of Queen Persephone. A common practice for daughters of influential men, which Aphrodite’s foster-father undoubtedly was.
Soon, their gaping silence had opened up like an ever growing gulf. With nothing to breach this distance, this glacial disapproval in his mother’s eyes, it became unbearable. Desperate for words, for sounds, any sound, his lips parted, ready to just speak; but Hera held up a hand, motioning for further silence.
She was not quiet for long.
“Ares, now that you are king, you cannot live your life freely doing whatever you desire most in the moment. She...may have her charms, and I see she pleases you,” she conceded, her mouth corners downturned,” however, take into account our difficult relations with the neighboring kingdoms. It was not long ago that we were fighting a bloody succession war, in which many people perished. It would be in your best interests, therefore, to take a bride that will strengthen foreign connections and appease the other ruling monarchs.”
Again, he inhaled, deeply, through his nose; again, he exhaled, shakily, through his mouth. He leaned further back in his seat. His mother was a clever woman. Had she been Queen in the age of Athena and Artemis, both revered queens in their own right, she would have made a better head of state than his father could have ever been. She could have steered this country towards golden dawns instead of charcoal dusks. Like his father. She was showing this in this very moment. She had a personal stake in keeping Aphrodite from becoming queen, yes. Her hatred was a cold, twisted thing she had never bothered to hide. Though more than anything, more than her rage, Ares saw a mother who did not want history to repeat itself.
He was his father’s son.
In the end.
“Thank you for your counsel, mother.”
With this, he rose. After this, he needed to be away from this wretched castle, this wretched court.
He went outside, to the gardens.
***
All too quickly, he saw he was not alone.
Perched on a little stool with a canvas before him, a man was painting the very heart of the labyrinth: a tall marble statue of the Mother. At her foot, a crown of flowers bloomed. White roses, brighter even still in the noon light. Ivy was coiling around her long, slender limbs, too, though Ares did not remember seeing it the last time he had been there.
“heard you, you know.”
The man glanced over his shoulder, a smirk clearly on his face.
“You have good ears, then,” he said, and took a few steps forward until he could take a proper look.
He was smiling, dimples popping; but it did not reach his gaze. His dark, brown eyes were inscrutable, impenetrable, like depths of unknown waters. His matching brown hair was a mussed up mess, wind-kissed, and his white tunic was hanging loosely off of his left shoulder.
“You always were pretty awful at remembering faces, boss.”
Ares frowned.
This knowing smile, those features - there was a vague familiarity to them. He edged towards him, still frowning, coming to a stop right behind the stool on which he was sitting. He was looking up at him, with that smile, as if he knew, as if he held all knowledge.
He remembered.
Boss.
“Hermes.”
At the sound of his name, his smile dispersed. There was a mischievous sheen to those eyes, though, which had never dulled or gone in all the years he had known him.
“Got to say, did not think you’d remember this quickly. Always on the slower side there. Good on you, Ares. Though I guess it’s your Highness now, isn’t it?”
Ares’ face twisted into a grimace. Without waiting for Hermes to scoot over on his stool, he lay down in the grass, staring up at the sky above.
“So you’ve heard,” he muttered. He shook his head, slowly, pointedly not looking at Hermes.
“It’ll always be just Ares to you.”
“Barely a day back and already receiving special privileges. That’s pretty quick, even by my standards.”
His mouth went dry.
He shifted slowly, carefully, so that he could prop himself up on his elbows and look at his old friend.
“So you’re back?”
His body tensed, was heavy. Those words had tumbled out, without thought. The hitch in his voice, this breathy note - his silly little boyhood hope.
“Yupp. Been summoned by none other than Apollo himself. There’s a job that needs doing, he said.”
Hermes did not seem to have noticed anything. He narrowed his eyes just so, his gaze dropping away.
“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
There it was again.
His smile.
“What do you think?”
***
Even though he would learn why Hermes was once again at court, he guarded his secret expertly. Apollo, too, had very firmly shot down his questioning, claiming his coronation took precedence over the matter of Hermes’ new position. It had always been like this, with him. Conspirators, the both of them. Always, indelibly, donning secrecy as other nobles would finery.
It did not bother him, not knowing.
He would never ask him for truth.
Hermes without secrecy was only one half of him. Incomplete, inherent. So they had agreed, when they had both been students under Chaos, that Ares trusted him to speak when there was something he had to know.
Despite this, despite their promise, he couldn’t deny he was curious. Apollo did not leave him many moments to dwell, however, adding one lesson after the next in preparation for his coronation that he was nearly spending all his mornings, afternoons, and evenings with his brother.
They had retreated to the private library of Athena. Day had reclined further and further until light summer skies had collapsed into soft, orange evening. Apollo was striding up and down the room, hands clasped behind his back. Aside from the occasional withering looks when he would stumble over a word, or mix up the exact vernacular, he did not acknowledge him. Only his own voice was reverberating in the study. A tired, tired drone. Disembodied. Dull. Dry.
“Could we end these lessons now?” Ares asked, after he had recited his speech for the fifteenth time this evening alone.
Apollo paused, turned, glimpsed at him. Those golden eyes, always warm according to the people of the court, were blazing. Blazing eyes, blazing attention - burning him, who was the focus of that look, that glare.
“Ares,” he said.
It was not to address him.
It was not to reprimand him.
It was a warning.
“For better or worse, the crown will land on your head. As you may recall, your tutelage under liege Chaos was solely lacking, because you could not be bothered to take your duty, nor your education seriously. I will make sure, personally, you will not be an embarrassment to the crown. Am I making myself clear?”
He always was a good little soldier, wasn’t he?
He knew how to follow orders.
Knew how to kneel.
Ares stared blankly at the filled notebook lying open on the tabletop, his grip around his quill tight. Very, very tight.
“Yes.”
The night before his coronation did not belong to him. Tradition demanded penance, in this dusk, this twilight, between old and new. It was why he found Apollo sitting on a chair by his bed, the bound, embossed holy scripture of the Mother yet unopened in his lap. He watched gingerly when Ares climbed into bed. Only a priest could take his confession, to give him absolution for his sins in the name of the Mother. As the highest member of her priesthood, it fell to Apollo to ease new sovereigns into their reign. He was a listener to the living and the dying, steady and unyielding in his duties.
“Son of the Mother, what do you wish to confess?”
His hands tightened around the cool, silken sheets. He could not meet Apollo’s condemning eyes, too harsh a judgment late at night, when the Mother herself was listening in.
“I have ended many men's and women's lives on the battlefield. It was to defend my kingdom, my family, and my home, but I have shed blood still, and I have taken their lies in spite of these circumstances.”
Apollo was sitting very still, unmoving, one hand laid on the holy scripture. Throughout his telling of fields ravaged and turned into graveyards, he had made no sound, not even one of dissent or disgust. He had only listened.
“Do you ask forgiveness?”
Ares nodded.
“For this, I ask the Mother for forgiveness, and if she wishes to meddle in my case, I wish she only judge it justly.”
Slowly, tentatively, Apollo reached out for his hand, and placed his palm on the scripture, which he was now holding up high.
“You are forgiven.”
Intricately drawn runes coiling around Apollo’s arms and dipping into his palms flickered with light, softly, as dawn after night. Laying his own hand atop his, Ares winced just so. It was the gentle mark of the Mother upon her priests, the warmth of it, that was touching and encircling him. His fears had dulled, had quelled to concern; his fear, it did not cut and twist deeply in his mind anymore.
Silence, too, had unfolded. Only the tiny trembles of the torchlights tumbled through, all soft light and half-shadows and relief.
This was no deafening silence, no sentence, no tilted punishment. Here, now, Ares did not feel ill at ease in his brother’s presence.
“I don’t believe I’m of the same regal cloth as Athena, Apollo. I’m not sure I’m up to it.”
He had expected assent, callous and cruel as his brother always was. When it did not come, when instead he simply sat, hands once again on the scripture, his head slightly tilted downwards, Ares wanted to see him off quickly.
It was then his brother spoke, when he had not been bracing himself for his voice.
“When our father made the decision to legitimize me and include me in the succession line, I was overjoyed. I truly thought he had found an heir worthy of him at last.”
Bitter, those words unsaid, Ares thought, proper black in mood. The only triumph he had ever held over Apollo was his own legitimacy, to be the son of Hera, a true queen. Apollo and Athena both had been immortal. Free from flaws. As children, as adults. Apollo, whose soul had bathed in molten specks of the Mother’s light, who could prophesize and entice all nobles to vye for even one favorable glance from him alone.
And Athena, whose intellect had soared and soared and soared, above any scholar or scientist.
He, he knew, had only ever been an ugly thing of shadows, rotten rage residue child of two royals, ruins themselves, who could have only ever made one thing: terror.
“When I embarked on my quest to gather enough support to have our father up my place in the succession, so that I would’ve succeeded him, Hyacinthus had been my closest confidant and advisor. Although it was a terrible risk, I sent him to one royal family who had always borne only ire towards our royal House, to plead my case, but…,” Apollo trailed off, the first pause in an otherwise terribly dull tone.
It sounded like a monotone, something rehearsed, a speech to which he had only begrudgingly agreed.
“You know, you do. They found him a few days later, gutted like some thug from the streets.”
Anger had made his enunciation slip, had made it sharp; but this anger was old, aged, like fine wine.
“Power corrupts, Ares. It is why I refused my claim on the throne and gave my soul in service to the Mother.”
They were silent again, sharing squirt together, not against one another this time. In truth, Ares had suspected Hyacinthus had been the reason for Apollo’s sudden pilgrimage and subsequent retreat to the temple.
He had never asked, though, never prodded. They were not close. They did not share such fierce hurt.
Ares, though, understood wounds.
He had not asked.
When Apollo’s light had gone from golden to garish, then blazing, hurting, Ares had looked away, pretending not to see.
They all had.
“One of the reasons I believe Athena was not entirely mad when she thought it necessary to make revisions to her will is exactly that. You possess a quality I do not have, which shall enable you with the ability to act for the right reasons, and for the good of the people, not to advance yourself, not for glory nor riches.”
Before Ares could turn those lines around in his head, ask for the truth of it, Apollo had risen abruptly and left his chamber without looking back.
Apollo and him, they had one bond that bound them indelibly:
They never lied.
***
The transition from one sovereign to the next, from old to new, from dead to alive. Saturated in tradition and history, laced with deliberate dramaturgy to have one day last and linger. An eternity in a day, trespassing the paths of time. If not forever literally, then all attending had to remember, and remember fondly, passing the memory from one generation to the other. There was a reason why Apollo had drawn out the rigorous lessons from his childhood and taught him anew the importance of such ceremonies.
It began with this:
before dawn could break and the day yawn light, Ares was already dressed in his ceremonial garb, waiting on his bed. Gradually, Apollo poured into his chamber as the night before, succeeded by other, lower ranking priests. It was Apollo also, who shifted sideways on his feet to dip his hands into an ornate ceremonial bowl filled with holy water. He strode up to Ares, shook his hands mid-air. Lukewarm water dripped on his cheeks, down the curve of his mouth. Rose water, myrrh, the scent of earth after rain.
Apollo then held out his other hand and helped Arise rise.
On they strode, out the palace grounds and onto the streets. Every step, Ares recalled, was symbolic, on this untrodden path from palace to temple, where he would be crowned.
Every step on this road, this path, resembled the unknown way ahead.
He had to stay silent.
In the eyes of the Mother, Ares was in limbo: not yet a king, yet no longer a subject. Not yet living, for the former queen had crossed over, but he had not yet become. Beings in between worlds did not speak, did not haunt with word or sound, as apparitions and wraiths would.
Throughout this, throughout their procession, Ares was borne by one priest, Asclepius, and a member of his council. Thanatos. Secular lords and lieges proceeded in their wake, displayed high on gilt trays. His grand marshal, Eris, carried her staff pointing downwards.
Once in the temple, Ares walked into the centre, where a likeness of the Mother’s eye stared back at him in colorful mosaics.
“Will you, my good people, honor and support me during my reign?”
The throng of people roared, tickled lions all, triple acclamations, from priests and advisors and nobles and the people:
“We will! We will! We will!”
***
“Enough sleeping already, we have work to do.”
A groan elicited him at the cacophony. Too early. Too soon. For words. For communication. On instinct alone, he squeezed his eyes shut. Darkness was enveloping him, his limbs tangled up in cozy warmth. Surely, Apollo could wait.
“Ares.”
But this was not Apollo’s cool voice.
The tone, gruff and raw, yet soft.
Ares sat bolt upright in his bed. Instantly, he threw off his cushions, his blankets; wanted, needed, had to take hold.
“Thanatos,” he whispered.
There he was, sitting at the edge of his bed, with the same stern gaze he had thrown his way too often and not enough.
“Hello, Ares.”
He stared, was staring, had been staring. One year. He had not seen him in one year, had not heard him say his name in one year, had not been near him in one year. And Thanatos, held in the tower, in confinement, a front row view for the gallows. Because of him, because of how much he meant, because he was the second oldest son of House Cthonisia.
Thanatos scoffed, shaked his head, drew him near, kissed him and kissed him and kissed him. Gave him what he wanted, in that moment, when Ares could not ask for it. How he had done the same for Thanatos before, how this man had come to know him so intimately, so honestly.
It was too short, this reverie, his caressing, cool fingertips gone before Ares could ease into their shared physicality.
“Before you ask: I am fine, no, I don’t want to talk about it. And… get dressed. We have a meeting with Apollo.”
***
This was an official meeting, Ares realized, as Thanatos led him down the stairs to the council chamber. Apollo was already seated and waiting, along with Hermes, who was restless as ever. Up and down he went, with his bouncing steps and fast gait.
Before they entered, Thanatos stepped beside him, their hands brushing seemingly by accident, before interlocking their fingers for just a beat, just a breath. He squeezed his hand, steadying him as he had always done. Just as accidental as it might have seemed, however, Thanatos released him, and strode purposefully towards the seat opposite Apollo, to the right, at Ares’ place.
“Before we address the reason for Lord Hermes’ return, I find it necessary, indeed inevitable, I should say, that Lord Thanatos and you, Ares, receive a first briefing on the political climate and current circumstances at court.”
Ares frowned.
“I thought all was well under Athena’s rule? It’s predominantly the reason why the people are calling her the savior queen, no?”
Apollo’s mouth twitched suddenly; he was looking at him as a tutor would at his student who had just asked an obtuse question.
“Things are never as straightforward as they seem in politics. Yes, the kingdom now knows what stability is truly like thanks to Athena’s reforms and mending of foreign relations, but the climate remains...tense. Let us not forget the succession wars ravaged our lands and dried up our resources less than a decade ago.”
Hermes gave a hum, then a nod. His tread slowed, gradually, before his steps faded into quietude once more. For once, he was completely still, unmoving. Ares followed his movements, took in his body and his expression. Anything for a cue, anything, to learn what was happening in this sharp mind, ever abuzz with ways and more and more and more.
“Remind me, why won’t you, how exactly the queen died?” Hermes asked.
Nothing in the way he had turned around and was now appraising Apollo suggested to Ares that Hermes didn’t already know. The sweet, daming allure of him was this: secrecy, secrets, guessing - only ever the faintest, vaguest shade of knowing. And yet still, Hermes himself was never ignorant or unknowing. He knew things, somehow, more than anyone else in any room would ever know.
“Ares’ estimation not to take the threat of the rebellions of the north lightly was correct. Athena, however, dismissed it as a simple, disorganized uprising of commoners and servants untrained in combat. They proved quite the opposite, in fact, according to the reports in the wake of Athena’s injury and subsequent death. She intended to simply starve them out until they would inevitably surrender, but they did not surrender. They attacked, under the cover of night, and Athena sustained an injury. She lived for a while, but alas the wound became infected and, regrettably for us all, she passed.”
Again, Hermes hummed, his joyous tone almost dissonant, almost taunting. Apollo was recounting his sister’s death. His sister, who had fallen, bled, and suffered. Cut open like the still warm carcass of a deer during one of Artemis’ hunting parties.
“Curious, isn’t it, that this uprising was just like any other of the minor ones up north, and so soon after Athena had changed her succession will.”
Beside him, Ares felt Thanatos tense.
He had been sitting upright and proper, a posture without flaw; but now, his golden eyes had widened, his jaw clenched. Ares himself was biting down nausea, his stomach in knots, with marrow-deep fear at the forefront.
“How would you know this, Olympia? This was a government matter of utmost secrecy, not some trite drivel one could easily pick up from the common folk,” came the retort from Apollo, without pause, without propriety, which Ares had always seen him uphold. No, now, there was a quiver in his voice, a threat poorly veiled. Hot fury.
“That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” Hermes quipped. He meandered forwards a step, with a leisurely gait, then bounced back and forth on the soles of his feet when he came to a halt shortly before Apollo.
“Because I know things I shouldn’t know.”
***
Hasty treads, two of them, steps mingling into one sound, one beat: Hermes and Ares, in a faraway alcove, only inches apart.
Ares was looking down at him, an unsaid prayer in his eyes, beseeching hands on narrow shoulders. He was gripping him tighter than he wanted to, he saw, because Hermes flinched. Still he pressed deeper, until there was no skin under his palms, but the outline of bones.
“Is it true, Hermes? Is it because of me Athena...did I…,” he began, stopped, trailed off, stopped. It was a question he could not pose, could not voice. There was nothing but his query, however, because Hermes would never tell him how he knew. Asking for truth alone, from Hermes of all people, was sacrilege.
“Nobody knows why she chose you, Ares,” he said, evenly, and placed his hands atop his. His palms were warm, Ares realized, his presence light, feathery, never heavy. Hermes leaned in further, closer, on tiptoes, so that he could whisper into his ear. It was just as well, Ares conceded quietly, to himself. He had forgotten caution in his own consternation, in his horror, and once more he knew he needed Hermes at his side more than ever.
“Found something that leads me to believe word got out about the change to the succession will while I was liaison to Olympia at the Titanus court. Didn’t sit well with some, you know.”
Hot breath against his skin, the brush of his mouth, the scent of memories while he had revealed something. Of sandalwood and nights in the forest during summer rain, the sweet tobacco he sometimes smoked so he would not fidget with his never still, never idle hands.
Ares’ breath hitched.
No.
He had to concentrate on what he was saying.
Reaching out and placing a hand against Hermes’ chest, he pushed back so he could look him in the eyes. He breathed in, breathed out.
“Hermes.”
No response.
Just those dark, deep eyes, dark hooks, dark, looking back at him.
“Tell me who.”
