unsteady alliance.
𝚉𝙴𝚄𝚂' 𝙷𝙾𝚄𝚂𝙴
𝙰 𝙲𝙾𝙻𝙻𝙰𝙱 𝙱𝙴𝚃𝚆𝙴𝙴𝙽 @Legion02 𝙰𝙽𝙳 @beetlemoth
The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Ares kept repeating that in his head as he made the short walk from his Mercedes to the mansion’s large front door. He let the ash of his cigarette dwindle down to the ground. Fuck he had too much to think about. Too much he didn’t want to think about. The whole business with Hephaestus was getting him nowhere and he promised his mother results. So he would have results. Even if that meant he had to team up with the worst possible person he could imagine. The literal cause of all that he knew was wrong with himself. A man who called him most hated and cast him aside in favor of all his other children. Even the memories alone were enough to work Ares up. Even though he thought he got his emotions under control. Nonetheless, desperate times require desperate measures. At least it kept his mind occupied. For now. At the front door he knocked three times, and then begged the fates that he wouldn’t be home.
Behind the door, there’s the sound of shuffling, of things being picked up and put back into place, and a muffled shout of “just a minute!” that sounded more annoyed than anything. When the door does eventually crack open, Ares is not met with the face of Zeus, but that of a woman.
She’s middle-aged, short — about 5’2” or so — with a sturdy build that spoke of a lifetime of wrangling children and hard work. Her box-blonde hair is tied up into a messy updo, held in place by an assortment of bobby pins. And with a scrutinizing narrow of her eyes, she stares up at Ares, questioning, though the intended effect is somewhat ruined by the pink t-shirt and leopard-print leggings she happened to be wearing.
“Can I help you?” she snaps, looking none too pleased at having a visitor. There’s a squeegee clutched in her right hand, and she holds it protectively in front of her chest like a xiphos. “Mr. Sarandon isn’t expecting anyone today.”
The woman’s appearance was a bit of a surprise. But then again, it wasn’t as if Zeus was a stranger to women. “No.” Ares said. “But he should have.” He then pushed the woman into the house. “Get down here dad! We have matters to handle!” Ares yelled for the entire house. Knowing full well it would probably raise a few questions from ‘Mr. Sarandon’s lady friend. Not that he cared. Not right now.
“Wh—”
The woman’s protest is cut short by an indignant squawk as she’s all but shoved aside, stumbling a little over her own feet. And for a moment, all she can do is stare, wide-eyed and gaping at the audacity of this intruder.
And since when did Dean Sarandon have a son?
But before she has the chance to think about it any further, or try to smite Ares with the sheer might of her cleaning apparatus, another voice calls out from the second floor.
“Angie, I already told you I’m not seeing any guests today. Who the hell is making all that—”
Zeus appears, rounding the corner. He’s busy typing something on his phone, brow furrowed in concentration, and doesn’t notice Ares until he looks up a few seconds later.
“—Noise.”
The expression on his face is one of surprise with just a little dash of panic thrown in, like a deer staring down the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler. And then, suddenly, as if broken from a trance, he stops staring and puts his phone away, hurriedly making his way down to the foyer where Ares was.
“You should’ve called.” Zeus chides, jaw set in a rigid line, but there’s something different about the way he looks at Ares, this time —– something soft and sad and… almost remorseful. It doesn’t last long, however, his features quickly arranging themselves back into a mask of businesslike neutrality. “But you’re right. We need to talk. Let’s take this to my office.”
He places a tentative hand on Ares’ shoulder, giving it a squeeze before turning back to the woman —– Angie.
“Hey, uh, why don’t you take the rest of the day off? Just… leave everything where it is for now, and here,” Zeus pulls out his money clip, counting out a small stack of bills and handing it to her. “What I owe you for this week and the next.”
She doesn’t waste any time in pocketing the proffered money, but gives the two of them one last look before shaking her head and moving to pack up her belongings.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Sarandon.”
Zeus just smiles, giving her a little wave as she leaves.
When the door finally clicks shut behind her, he lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and combs his fingers through the perpetually graying strands of his hair. Zeus had to wonder then just what it was that brought Ares here, though he had a sinking suspicion he already knew. The timing was too opportune.
“Shall we?” With a slight incline of his head, he gestures for Ares to follow him, striding ahead towards the office on the second floor.
Ares just let out a disinterested grunt of acknowledgement as he followed his father. The whole fatherly thing hadn’t caught with the god of war at all. Even now with the whole hand on shoulder and momentarily vulnerable look. It was all an act. Always an act. Even if the Greek god of Lightning didn’t realize it himself perhaps. Ares never believed in it, and never would. This was the man that called him most hated. The man who never even tried to hide who his favorite was. The distaste towards Zeus was so deeply rooted that pushing off the arm of his shoulder would’ve been too much. Ares simply did not care.
Once in the office he sat back on one of the sofa’s and with practiced smoothness a burning cigarette was again in his hand. Making him billow out smoke through his nostrils. The way the god of war was looking at Zeus made clear it was a challenge. “Are you hitting that?” He asked, pointing down back to the entryway of the house and clearly meaning Angie.
It takes a while for Zeus’ mind to even register the question because of how out of the blue it is, how incisive, and for a brief moment, it seems to knock him off-balance. He stares back at Ares, incredulity coloring every square inch of his face.
He couldn’t be serious.
Sure, Angie was a nice capable woman, but the mere insinuation that he would’ve had… relations with her was downright farcical. Zeus was a man who sought out beauty in his lovers, and she, in spite of her cleaning prowess, was far from his ideal partner.
Just who did Ares think he was? Priapus? Unlike that coarse, squirrelly beast, he actually had standards.
“No. Gods, no.” He shakes his head then, a quiet huff of laughter tumbling past his lips. Briefly, he shoots Ares a meaningful look, one accentuated by a raised eyebrow. He’s joking. Probably. “But if you want to, I’m not gonna stop you from trying.”
Pushing off his desk, he walks over to a glass-and-wood cabinet on the far side of the room, retrieving a bottle of amber-colored liquid and unscrewing the cap.
“You might wanna watch out for that broom, though. She’s got a mean swing. Drink?”
Zeus doesn’t wait for his son’s response before starting to pour both of them a glass, handing Ares a carved crystal tumbler as he joins him on the couch. He first pauses to take a swig, letting the taste of single malt settle on his tongue.
“So,” he begins, and the scotch in his glass keeps swirling, spurred on by rhythmic revolutions of the wrist. “Given the circumstances, I have to assume this is about Hephaestus. Did you find anything yet?”
The god of war just rolled his eyes when his father made the joke. And when the old man found it necessary to share the same couch with him, he was quick to push up and head for the drinking cabinet. Adding another finger to whatever drink Zeus would use to impress mortals. Then with the indignation of someone who would never care what you served him, Ares downed it all in one gulp. After which he poured himself another finger.
“It is about my brother indeed. And I have.” He said as he turned around to face his father, leaning against the drinking cabinet with cig still in hand. But then he turned away his attention towards pretty much anything he could find in the room. Things he could use against his father. Trophies. Pictures he would be proud of. One seemed to stand out. His father shook hands around a bunch of people, in front of just a massive field of dark-blue solar arrays. He picked it up to look closely at it. “Funny. God of lightning but has to beg his own son for power.” Ares said showing Zeus the picture. Then he opened his hand, letting it tumble to the ground. “Oops. Slipped.” He said with a coy voice.
It didn’t matter that Ares seemed intent on draining his reserves of Macallan Lalique. Zeus’ pockets ran deep. He could afford a hundred more bottles to replace the one.
And it didn’t matter that Ares was stalking about the room like an ornery feline, looking for whatever shiny object he could knock over or destroy. What did Zeus care about trophies and trinkets? His achievements would always be his own, and anyone with two working eyes could see that.
So, Zeus tells himself that it doesn’t matter. Not even when Ares directs another pointed jab towards his ego. Or when a framed photo of the inauguration of the Lycaeum Project shatters against the ground with a piercing crack.
Outside, lightning flashes, the air itself vibrating with a roll of distant thunder.
“Ares…” Zeus sighs, setting his drink aside for the moment to stand up, although he doesn’t approach Ares this time; just walks over to his desk and starts fiddling with the rolodex the way he does when some upstart, nouveau riche CEO starts talking to him like they know better. The new Zeus wouldn’t let himself be worked up into a frothing rage by mere property damage. He refused. He’s above that now.
“If you want to tear my house to shreds, be my guest. But bear in mind that you were the one who came to me, and right now, all you’re doing is wasting both of our times.”
The shadow of a smile crosses his lips —– thin, rigid, a warning for Ares to not push this further.
“So if there’s anything of use you’d like to say, please, I’m all ears. Otherwise, I don’t see the point in continuing this conversation any further.”
In a flash Ares crossed the office space to get right up in Zeus’ face. “Yes!” He said, his eyes ablaze not with quite the same intensity as at the Conclave, but nonetheless burning with anger that hadn’t gone away for half a week now. “But that is the man I need to talk to.” He continued, pointing out at the sky where the thunder and flash of lightning had come from. “The man who murdered his own father, who fought in the Titanomachy and put Atlas in eternal torment.” Then he took two paces back. Letting himself cool for a second before saying: “Can you be that man? The one I need? The one mom and Hephaestus-“ and Hebe now too “need?” Or was he already so consumed in his own ideas of self-improvement that reverting back to his old self was impossible? Was there not even a hint of the old man’s old self deep within? There had to be.
Zeus hardly reacts when, all of a sudden, he finds himself with a faceful of Ares, and he doesn’t look away even when it feels like the other’s gaze might burn right through into his skull. Ares’ wrath has always been his greatest strength and weakness —– an all-consuming fire that razes everything into the ground, but right now, it just seems… trivial. Almost puerile.
Like a slighted child throwing a tantrum.
“You know, Ares,” he begins, voice steady, but edged with something else. Something challenging. Perhaps he wanted to get a rise out of Ares, too. “You’ve always been too presumptuous for your own good.”
“What makes you think you know anything about me, hm? I built this empire from the ground up, brick by brick out of nothing.” And I made you who you are. Though they remain unsaid, the words’ implication hangs thickly in the air, and in the cool, withering stare he fixes upon Ares.
“I know what I have to do.” Zeus declares with an air of quiet finality, fingers steepled over his chest. “I also know that I’ve committed many sins in the past. Against you. Against your mother. But do not think that just because I seek recompense that I am incapable of seeing justice done.”
“You’d do well to remember that, υἱός.”
A slight grin formed on Ares’ lips. This was the man he needed. Not the old fool who brought Danishes to a Conclave that almost turned into a battlefield. Slowly he walked back, sitting down on the sofa and leaning backwards. “It’s not justice I am after.” Ares’ voice turned much, much colder. In the last few decades he had learned more lessons than Zeus could ever know of. He too had grown. “Justice is a funny word mortals use so others receive that which they deserve. It’s no more than foolish ideas of karma or destiny. What we would do wouldn’t be justice. I call it revenge, you can call it settling a score. Or if you’re feeling magnanimous: making an example.” Ares spoke plainly now and knew well what it was he wanted. But knew very well as well what the Olympians as a whole needed.
Yes, Hera needed her son’s body and after that doubtlessly she’d demand the perpetrator killed. That was revenge. The others needed to be shown they were safe. That could only be done if the other pantheons were shown an example. It was why people dangled corpses off city walls, why terror was the strongest force on a battlefield.
From the pocket of his coat he pulled the notebook his men had found in Hephaestus’ apartment and tossed it on the small table in front of him. “This was found in my brother’s place. Filled with names of minor gods… and Hebe’s. Hers is encircled several times.” Slowly he leaned forward, staring right into Zeus’ eyes. “I fear she’s next.”
Zeus is silent as he picks up the notebook, flipping through the pages with an evaluating gleam in his eyes; and just like Ares said, Hebe’s name is on the very last page, singled out from the rest by a messy scrawl of ink. Slowly, the tips of his fingers begin to grow numb with fury, pupils fixated on his beloved daughter’s name on the page. If she really was in danger…
—– No. He wouldn’t let it get to that point. Hephaestus’ death was already one too many, more blood on his hands that he could never wash off.
Disgusted, he snaps the notebook shut and casts it back onto the table.
“Call it what you like, but any act of retribution against our enemies is justified.”
As Ares had so squarely pointed out, Zeus was not the sort of man who operated in half-measures, meting out cold, bright vengeance to those who had wronged him. How he became King of the Gods in the first place was testament to that.
Cronus believed him harmless, but he thought wrong.
“You already have people out looking for your brother?” Zeus is quick to draw matters back to the practical. He understood how important it was to find Hephaestus’ body. A proper burial meant a clear path to the afterlife, even if such circumstances had been rendered nebulous by the interference of the Colossus. It disquieted him, thinking about what might happen to them after death. Without Hades there to watch over the souls of the Underworld, was there anything keeping them there?
He wonders if his brother knew the answer, if he, too, worried about the prospect of lost souls. But now, there were other, more important things to be concerned about.
“Hebe. She needs someone to keep her safe. Have you spoken to her?”
“I have. This morning.” Ares said as he got up again to take the notebook back and pocketed it. “She’s safe. For now. Hasn’t talked to Hephaestus for a while.” Just like he hadn’t. “I can’t protect her.” These were the facts, but he hated them. “My people… they stand out in a university.” Of course they did, they looked like jacked up gorillas that walked into a wall and the wall broke. “Maybe an intern you trust or something could keep an eye out.” Ares offered before he walked up to the office’s window to look outside. It was cloudy. Always cloudy in Seattle.
At least his father seemed to be reverting surprisingly quickly to the old man he hated. The Zeus that felt no love for the violent god of war. “The body is still out there.” He continued after a brief pause. His eyes scanned over the skyline of Seattle. As if he would be able to see it from the window. “And I haven’t come a step closer to finding it. The only thing I have is footage of a man leaving his apartment.” The words he spoke, they were toxic. Cutting. But only towards himself. There were few things that could genuinely hurt Ares. Failure when it counted the most was one of those things. “And you? What did you find in the past two days?”
“I’ll have someone sent over, then.” Zeus makes a mental note to keep track of Hebe’s whereabouts. He would also have to spare a few members from the company’s security detail to keep an eye out for anything out of the ordinary, though whether they would be able to do anything when faced with somebody capable of killing a god remains to be seen.
“I take it you haven’t spoken to Athena?”
The question is more rhetorical than anything else. Zeus knows that Ares and Athena have never really seen eye to eye, even if the siblings shared more similarities than either of them would’ve liked to admit. But setting aside the bad blood that had split this family into sharp, ragged splinters, the Goddess of War was the one who stood the best chance of finding Hephaestus out of them all. “She should already be working on it, but I’ll send her a heads-up about Hebe and the notebook.”
Ares’ sudden shift in tone takes him aback, although it probably shouldn’t have. His son has always expected much of himself, and now, as he wrapped his words in thorns, a shroud of hate and weakness, Zeus wonders if there was anything he could’ve done to pick up the pieces of their relationship.
It’s too late, a part of him whispers.
But he doesn’t want it to be.
“We’ll find him.”
A promise is the best he can offer Ares for now, and as he speaks, he fixes him with a level gaze. This time, he would not allow himself to fail. Not when the safety of his family was on the line.
No doubt Athena was working on the case indeed. And before the sun was down, Ares’ father would’ve told her about the notebook. Would she come around to pick it up for evidence? Dust it for prints believing Ares hadn’t done that yet? Probably. Or she would just send some poor police officer to retrieve it. No matter, the notebook’s purpose had already been served. In truth, Ares did not believe his sister could help them now. If law and order were real, Hephaestus would be on TV now. Making some fiery speech about how the police corps of Seattle prevented an assassination. Instead he was dead and justice had failed.
With the assurance that Zeus would look after Hebe, Ares had what he needed from his father. “We will.” He said, putting down his glass. “I’ll be going then.” Ares turned away from his father to head out the door. Neither of them were, truly, of the sentimental bunch. And Ares had always been terrible at goodbyes. But as he opened the door of Zeus’ office, he stopped. Though he kept his back at his father as he said: “I know you wished it was Athena who told you all this. And I know the minute I step outside, it’s her you’ll call and tell everything.” And if Athena learned something, Ares wouldn’t hear it. He was the criminal. The black sheep. He knew it. He had accepted it. “I’m sorry I’m not the child you wished I would be.” With those words spoken he left the office, and soon Zeus’ house as well.
There were many things Zeus felt about Ares, and even more things he wished to say to him, but as he watches him walk out the door, eyes fixed on his retreating figure, he can’t bring himself to say a word.
How did he ever let things get so fucked up?
He’s still perched against his desk, a little unsteady now, like a blackbird ready to take flight at the sound of thunder. But the silence is deafening. He looks to the walls, to the expensive furniture lining every inch of the office. It all felt hollow. A pointless facade of status and artifice. Zeus lets his eyes slide shut then, drawing into his lungs a steadying breath. Ares’ words had affected him deeply, sunk their claws into him in ways he never thought possible.
Then again, his firstborn son always did have a way of bringing out the worst in him —– the king, the tyrant. Not the father he wanted to be.
Was supposed to be.
Perhaps it was too late to change, after all.
Pushing it all aside for the moment, he fishes his phone out of his pocket, dials a number that has grown all too familiar to him.
It rings once. Twice. Three times.
A quiet click on the other end of the line lets him know he’s been connected.
“Athena? There’s something I need to tell you.”
Behind the door, there’s the sound of shuffling, of things being picked up and put back into place, and a muffled shout of “just a minute!” that sounded more annoyed than anything. When the door does eventually crack open, Ares is not met with the face of Zeus, but that of a woman.
She’s middle-aged, short — about 5’2” or so — with a sturdy build that spoke of a lifetime of wrangling children and hard work. Her box-blonde hair is tied up into a messy updo, held in place by an assortment of bobby pins. And with a scrutinizing narrow of her eyes, she stares up at Ares, questioning, though the intended effect is somewhat ruined by the pink t-shirt and leopard-print leggings she happened to be wearing.
“Can I help you?” she snaps, looking none too pleased at having a visitor. There’s a squeegee clutched in her right hand, and she holds it protectively in front of her chest like a xiphos. “Mr. Sarandon isn’t expecting anyone today.”
The woman’s appearance was a bit of a surprise. But then again, it wasn’t as if Zeus was a stranger to women. “No.” Ares said. “But he should have.” He then pushed the woman into the house. “Get down here dad! We have matters to handle!” Ares yelled for the entire house. Knowing full well it would probably raise a few questions from ‘Mr. Sarandon’s lady friend. Not that he cared. Not right now.
“Wh—”
The woman’s protest is cut short by an indignant squawk as she’s all but shoved aside, stumbling a little over her own feet. And for a moment, all she can do is stare, wide-eyed and gaping at the audacity of this intruder.
And since when did Dean Sarandon have a son?
But before she has the chance to think about it any further, or try to smite Ares with the sheer might of her cleaning apparatus, another voice calls out from the second floor.
“Angie, I already told you I’m not seeing any guests today. Who the hell is making all that—”
Zeus appears, rounding the corner. He’s busy typing something on his phone, brow furrowed in concentration, and doesn’t notice Ares until he looks up a few seconds later.
“—Noise.”
The expression on his face is one of surprise with just a little dash of panic thrown in, like a deer staring down the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler. And then, suddenly, as if broken from a trance, he stops staring and puts his phone away, hurriedly making his way down to the foyer where Ares was.
“You should’ve called.” Zeus chides, jaw set in a rigid line, but there’s something different about the way he looks at Ares, this time —– something soft and sad and… almost remorseful. It doesn’t last long, however, his features quickly arranging themselves back into a mask of businesslike neutrality. “But you’re right. We need to talk. Let’s take this to my office.”
He places a tentative hand on Ares’ shoulder, giving it a squeeze before turning back to the woman —– Angie.
“Hey, uh, why don’t you take the rest of the day off? Just… leave everything where it is for now, and here,” Zeus pulls out his money clip, counting out a small stack of bills and handing it to her. “What I owe you for this week and the next.”
She doesn’t waste any time in pocketing the proffered money, but gives the two of them one last look before shaking her head and moving to pack up her belongings.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Sarandon.”
Zeus just smiles, giving her a little wave as she leaves.
When the door finally clicks shut behind her, he lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and combs his fingers through the perpetually graying strands of his hair. Zeus had to wonder then just what it was that brought Ares here, though he had a sinking suspicion he already knew. The timing was too opportune.
“Shall we?” With a slight incline of his head, he gestures for Ares to follow him, striding ahead towards the office on the second floor.
Ares just let out a disinterested grunt of acknowledgement as he followed his father. The whole fatherly thing hadn’t caught with the god of war at all. Even now with the whole hand on shoulder and momentarily vulnerable look. It was all an act. Always an act. Even if the Greek god of Lightning didn’t realize it himself perhaps. Ares never believed in it, and never would. This was the man that called him most hated. The man who never even tried to hide who his favorite was. The distaste towards Zeus was so deeply rooted that pushing off the arm of his shoulder would’ve been too much. Ares simply did not care.
Once in the office he sat back on one of the sofa’s and with practiced smoothness a burning cigarette was again in his hand. Making him billow out smoke through his nostrils. The way the god of war was looking at Zeus made clear it was a challenge. “Are you hitting that?” He asked, pointing down back to the entryway of the house and clearly meaning Angie.
It takes a while for Zeus’ mind to even register the question because of how out of the blue it is, how incisive, and for a brief moment, it seems to knock him off-balance. He stares back at Ares, incredulity coloring every square inch of his face.
He couldn’t be serious.
Sure, Angie was a nice capable woman, but the mere insinuation that he would’ve had… relations with her was downright farcical. Zeus was a man who sought out beauty in his lovers, and she, in spite of her cleaning prowess, was far from his ideal partner.
Just who did Ares think he was? Priapus? Unlike that coarse, squirrelly beast, he actually had standards.
“No. Gods, no.” He shakes his head then, a quiet huff of laughter tumbling past his lips. Briefly, he shoots Ares a meaningful look, one accentuated by a raised eyebrow. He’s joking. Probably. “But if you want to, I’m not gonna stop you from trying.”
Pushing off his desk, he walks over to a glass-and-wood cabinet on the far side of the room, retrieving a bottle of amber-colored liquid and unscrewing the cap.
“You might wanna watch out for that broom, though. She’s got a mean swing. Drink?”
Zeus doesn’t wait for his son’s response before starting to pour both of them a glass, handing Ares a carved crystal tumbler as he joins him on the couch. He first pauses to take a swig, letting the taste of single malt settle on his tongue.
“So,” he begins, and the scotch in his glass keeps swirling, spurred on by rhythmic revolutions of the wrist. “Given the circumstances, I have to assume this is about Hephaestus. Did you find anything yet?”
The god of war just rolled his eyes when his father made the joke. And when the old man found it necessary to share the same couch with him, he was quick to push up and head for the drinking cabinet. Adding another finger to whatever drink Zeus would use to impress mortals. Then with the indignation of someone who would never care what you served him, Ares downed it all in one gulp. After which he poured himself another finger.
“It is about my brother indeed. And I have.” He said as he turned around to face his father, leaning against the drinking cabinet with cig still in hand. But then he turned away his attention towards pretty much anything he could find in the room. Things he could use against his father. Trophies. Pictures he would be proud of. One seemed to stand out. His father shook hands around a bunch of people, in front of just a massive field of dark-blue solar arrays. He picked it up to look closely at it. “Funny. God of lightning but has to beg his own son for power.” Ares said showing Zeus the picture. Then he opened his hand, letting it tumble to the ground. “Oops. Slipped.” He said with a coy voice.
It didn’t matter that Ares seemed intent on draining his reserves of Macallan Lalique. Zeus’ pockets ran deep. He could afford a hundred more bottles to replace the one.
And it didn’t matter that Ares was stalking about the room like an ornery feline, looking for whatever shiny object he could knock over or destroy. What did Zeus care about trophies and trinkets? His achievements would always be his own, and anyone with two working eyes could see that.
So, Zeus tells himself that it doesn’t matter. Not even when Ares directs another pointed jab towards his ego. Or when a framed photo of the inauguration of the Lycaeum Project shatters against the ground with a piercing crack.
Outside, lightning flashes, the air itself vibrating with a roll of distant thunder.
“Ares…” Zeus sighs, setting his drink aside for the moment to stand up, although he doesn’t approach Ares this time; just walks over to his desk and starts fiddling with the rolodex the way he does when some upstart, nouveau riche CEO starts talking to him like they know better. The new Zeus wouldn’t let himself be worked up into a frothing rage by mere property damage. He refused. He’s above that now.
“If you want to tear my house to shreds, be my guest. But bear in mind that you were the one who came to me, and right now, all you’re doing is wasting both of our times.”
The shadow of a smile crosses his lips —– thin, rigid, a warning for Ares to not push this further.
“So if there’s anything of use you’d like to say, please, I’m all ears. Otherwise, I don’t see the point in continuing this conversation any further.”
In a flash Ares crossed the office space to get right up in Zeus’ face. “Yes!” He said, his eyes ablaze not with quite the same intensity as at the Conclave, but nonetheless burning with anger that hadn’t gone away for half a week now. “But that is the man I need to talk to.” He continued, pointing out at the sky where the thunder and flash of lightning had come from. “The man who murdered his own father, who fought in the Titanomachy and put Atlas in eternal torment.” Then he took two paces back. Letting himself cool for a second before saying: “Can you be that man? The one I need? The one mom and Hephaestus-“ and Hebe now too “need?” Or was he already so consumed in his own ideas of self-improvement that reverting back to his old self was impossible? Was there not even a hint of the old man’s old self deep within? There had to be.
Zeus hardly reacts when, all of a sudden, he finds himself with a faceful of Ares, and he doesn’t look away even when it feels like the other’s gaze might burn right through into his skull. Ares’ wrath has always been his greatest strength and weakness —– an all-consuming fire that razes everything into the ground, but right now, it just seems… trivial. Almost puerile.
Like a slighted child throwing a tantrum.
“You know, Ares,” he begins, voice steady, but edged with something else. Something challenging. Perhaps he wanted to get a rise out of Ares, too. “You’ve always been too presumptuous for your own good.”
“What makes you think you know anything about me, hm? I built this empire from the ground up, brick by brick out of nothing.” And I made you who you are. Though they remain unsaid, the words’ implication hangs thickly in the air, and in the cool, withering stare he fixes upon Ares.
“I know what I have to do.” Zeus declares with an air of quiet finality, fingers steepled over his chest. “I also know that I’ve committed many sins in the past. Against you. Against your mother. But do not think that just because I seek recompense that I am incapable of seeing justice done.”
“You’d do well to remember that, υἱός.”
A slight grin formed on Ares’ lips. This was the man he needed. Not the old fool who brought Danishes to a Conclave that almost turned into a battlefield. Slowly he walked back, sitting down on the sofa and leaning backwards. “It’s not justice I am after.” Ares’ voice turned much, much colder. In the last few decades he had learned more lessons than Zeus could ever know of. He too had grown. “Justice is a funny word mortals use so others receive that which they deserve. It’s no more than foolish ideas of karma or destiny. What we would do wouldn’t be justice. I call it revenge, you can call it settling a score. Or if you’re feeling magnanimous: making an example.” Ares spoke plainly now and knew well what it was he wanted. But knew very well as well what the Olympians as a whole needed.
Yes, Hera needed her son’s body and after that doubtlessly she’d demand the perpetrator killed. That was revenge. The others needed to be shown they were safe. That could only be done if the other pantheons were shown an example. It was why people dangled corpses off city walls, why terror was the strongest force on a battlefield.
From the pocket of his coat he pulled the notebook his men had found in Hephaestus’ apartment and tossed it on the small table in front of him. “This was found in my brother’s place. Filled with names of minor gods… and Hebe’s. Hers is encircled several times.” Slowly he leaned forward, staring right into Zeus’ eyes. “I fear she’s next.”
Zeus is silent as he picks up the notebook, flipping through the pages with an evaluating gleam in his eyes; and just like Ares said, Hebe’s name is on the very last page, singled out from the rest by a messy scrawl of ink. Slowly, the tips of his fingers begin to grow numb with fury, pupils fixated on his beloved daughter’s name on the page. If she really was in danger…
—– No. He wouldn’t let it get to that point. Hephaestus’ death was already one too many, more blood on his hands that he could never wash off.
Disgusted, he snaps the notebook shut and casts it back onto the table.
“Call it what you like, but any act of retribution against our enemies is justified.”
As Ares had so squarely pointed out, Zeus was not the sort of man who operated in half-measures, meting out cold, bright vengeance to those who had wronged him. How he became King of the Gods in the first place was testament to that.
Cronus believed him harmless, but he thought wrong.
“You already have people out looking for your brother?” Zeus is quick to draw matters back to the practical. He understood how important it was to find Hephaestus’ body. A proper burial meant a clear path to the afterlife, even if such circumstances had been rendered nebulous by the interference of the Colossus. It disquieted him, thinking about what might happen to them after death. Without Hades there to watch over the souls of the Underworld, was there anything keeping them there?
He wonders if his brother knew the answer, if he, too, worried about the prospect of lost souls. But now, there were other, more important things to be concerned about.
“Hebe. She needs someone to keep her safe. Have you spoken to her?”
“I have. This morning.” Ares said as he got up again to take the notebook back and pocketed it. “She’s safe. For now. Hasn’t talked to Hephaestus for a while.” Just like he hadn’t. “I can’t protect her.” These were the facts, but he hated them. “My people… they stand out in a university.” Of course they did, they looked like jacked up gorillas that walked into a wall and the wall broke. “Maybe an intern you trust or something could keep an eye out.” Ares offered before he walked up to the office’s window to look outside. It was cloudy. Always cloudy in Seattle.
At least his father seemed to be reverting surprisingly quickly to the old man he hated. The Zeus that felt no love for the violent god of war. “The body is still out there.” He continued after a brief pause. His eyes scanned over the skyline of Seattle. As if he would be able to see it from the window. “And I haven’t come a step closer to finding it. The only thing I have is footage of a man leaving his apartment.” The words he spoke, they were toxic. Cutting. But only towards himself. There were few things that could genuinely hurt Ares. Failure when it counted the most was one of those things. “And you? What did you find in the past two days?”
“I’ll have someone sent over, then.” Zeus makes a mental note to keep track of Hebe’s whereabouts. He would also have to spare a few members from the company’s security detail to keep an eye out for anything out of the ordinary, though whether they would be able to do anything when faced with somebody capable of killing a god remains to be seen.
“I take it you haven’t spoken to Athena?”
The question is more rhetorical than anything else. Zeus knows that Ares and Athena have never really seen eye to eye, even if the siblings shared more similarities than either of them would’ve liked to admit. But setting aside the bad blood that had split this family into sharp, ragged splinters, the Goddess of War was the one who stood the best chance of finding Hephaestus out of them all. “She should already be working on it, but I’ll send her a heads-up about Hebe and the notebook.”
Ares’ sudden shift in tone takes him aback, although it probably shouldn’t have. His son has always expected much of himself, and now, as he wrapped his words in thorns, a shroud of hate and weakness, Zeus wonders if there was anything he could’ve done to pick up the pieces of their relationship.
It’s too late, a part of him whispers.
But he doesn’t want it to be.
“We’ll find him.”
A promise is the best he can offer Ares for now, and as he speaks, he fixes him with a level gaze. This time, he would not allow himself to fail. Not when the safety of his family was on the line.
No doubt Athena was working on the case indeed. And before the sun was down, Ares’ father would’ve told her about the notebook. Would she come around to pick it up for evidence? Dust it for prints believing Ares hadn’t done that yet? Probably. Or she would just send some poor police officer to retrieve it. No matter, the notebook’s purpose had already been served. In truth, Ares did not believe his sister could help them now. If law and order were real, Hephaestus would be on TV now. Making some fiery speech about how the police corps of Seattle prevented an assassination. Instead he was dead and justice had failed.
With the assurance that Zeus would look after Hebe, Ares had what he needed from his father. “We will.” He said, putting down his glass. “I’ll be going then.” Ares turned away from his father to head out the door. Neither of them were, truly, of the sentimental bunch. And Ares had always been terrible at goodbyes. But as he opened the door of Zeus’ office, he stopped. Though he kept his back at his father as he said: “I know you wished it was Athena who told you all this. And I know the minute I step outside, it’s her you’ll call and tell everything.” And if Athena learned something, Ares wouldn’t hear it. He was the criminal. The black sheep. He knew it. He had accepted it. “I’m sorry I’m not the child you wished I would be.” With those words spoken he left the office, and soon Zeus’ house as well.
There were many things Zeus felt about Ares, and even more things he wished to say to him, but as he watches him walk out the door, eyes fixed on his retreating figure, he can’t bring himself to say a word.
How did he ever let things get so fucked up?
He’s still perched against his desk, a little unsteady now, like a blackbird ready to take flight at the sound of thunder. But the silence is deafening. He looks to the walls, to the expensive furniture lining every inch of the office. It all felt hollow. A pointless facade of status and artifice. Zeus lets his eyes slide shut then, drawing into his lungs a steadying breath. Ares’ words had affected him deeply, sunk their claws into him in ways he never thought possible.
Then again, his firstborn son always did have a way of bringing out the worst in him —– the king, the tyrant. Not the father he wanted to be.
Was supposed to be.
Perhaps it was too late to change, after all.
Pushing it all aside for the moment, he fishes his phone out of his pocket, dials a number that has grown all too familiar to him.
It rings once. Twice. Three times.
A quiet click on the other end of the line lets him know he’s been connected.
“Athena? There’s something I need to tell you.”
8x Like
