Carry on my wayward son - there'll be peace when you are done. Who: Ares (ares_godofwar) and Cronus (usurped_usurper) [Narrative] What: Winning over the god of war. Where: Pub When: Wednesday night. Warnings: None.
There were gods who chatted over a polished table in a hotel that was nothing short of fancy and overindulgent, and then there were gods who hogged seats at seedy bars only accessible via a complex network of narrow side-streets and dirty alleyways.
There were ways they shared things in common, as if the non-existent father-son relationships meant anything whatsoever, and then there were ways in which they were nothing alike.
The music was playing not too loudly in the background and Ares seemed more interested in his vodka and the women than the other Greek sitting next to him, but Cronus didn’t seem to mind. In fact there was something about his grandson which he seemed to find fascinating.
“That’s embarrassing, gramps. No one comes to a pub and orders a fucking chocolate milk.”
“I count as a legitimate person. Now you know someone who does.”
Ares studied the face that belonged to his grandfather. He looked young enough to be Ares’ son. And if there was supposed to be a resemblance with Zeus, Ares couldn’t see it. But Zeus did look like a-
“You know why I am here.”
A brief one-shoulder shrug.
“Sure.”
“What will you say?”
Ares allowed himself to be distracted by the bartender and that cleavage display every time she bent over to wipe the counter down. She looked up at him and he winked back at her. She then offered what could be construed as an awkward smile before walking away to attend to the other customers.
“I ‘unno.”
“Hm.”
He watched Cronus drink his chocolate milk. If anything, gramps looked a little bit like Poseidon. Obviously no one would confuse the two of them but people would believe them if they said they were related. People said they could see the resemblance between Hades and Zeus. They said the same about Phobos and himself too.
People were weird.
“You support Zeus?”
“This ain’t my fight.”
“When did that ever stop you?”
Ares made a face. The smile faltered and the light in his eyes was consumed by a malignant darkness. The lines on his face disappeared and though Cronus recognised it in most people as anger, he knew Ares wasn’t particularly angry.
This was Ares’ real face. The one beneath the façade of normalcy. This was the Ares that stopped pretending he had emotions of the same spectrum as everyone else did. If you asked a Greek three thousand years ago what Ares was like, this is the Ares they would describe.
Must have picked up the acting skills from his mother – from Cronus’ baby girl. How endearing.
And then the face disappeared and that plastic smile came back on again.
“The last time I got dragged into a fight I wasn’t interested in was the Trojan War. And I got owned.” “Owned?” “Nnh. Like, y’know, completely defeated. Like getting your ass handed to you.” “I’ve never heard of that saying either.” “It’s slang.” “It sounds sexual.” “Hn. You’re Greek. Everything’s sexual.”
That plastic smile on Ares’ face started to look more genuine.
“No one can promise victory, Ares. All I can offer is a good time.” “Talk about sounding sexual.” “When was the last time you heard from Zeus?”
The Face started returning, but Cronus continued talking.
“He doesn’t need you. He never did and he never will. You’re not good enough for him to even be useful.” “Don’t.” “Don’t what? Tell you what you already know? Tell you what you’ve been telling yourself all these centuries? When he comes to you telling you to do something, you’ll do it – not because you want to but because you have to. Because that is the only way he can control you – he is your king.” “It’s 2010. We’re in America. There are no kings.” “He will always be your king. That is how he is remembered and that is how you are remembered.” “You’re remembered for getting killed and you came back. Things can change.” “You have to change them.”
The Olympian didn’t reply.
“Kings cannot lose, Ares. Kings who lose get executed or exiled. You have nothing to lose.”
Ares brought his empty glass to his lips for the fourth time, each time failing to remember that there was nothing but ice in the glass. The bartender lady returned, leaning over the counter, asking if she could refill his glass. He didn’t even notice her.
“At least give it some thought,” Cronus said, even though he knew his grandson had already made up his mind.
Most of the conversation was already forgotten when Ares woke up next to the naked bartender lady, sunlight pouring in through the window between the curtains.