Ares wasn't in the mood to play. He stalked up the stairs, tugging his jacket off as he went. Once over the threshold, he threw the jacket to the left, fully expecting it to catch on a hook in the wall, as it always did before.
Instead, the jacket hit the wall and slid to the floor. He turned at the sound and glared hard enough to peel paint. There was no hook. There was no hook. His mouth grew sterner, if it were possible. He wouldn't stoop to pick up the garment; instead he left it there. Aphrodite could command an attendant to fetch it, for all he cared.
Clasping his hands behind his back in military fashion, Ares marched down the hall, inspecting every bit of the temple and comparing it to his memory. Many things were the same. Some were different. He recalled a garish fascination with the color pink in this place - a fascination that drove him quite mad most times. His color was red. He was sure that his Aphrodite chose pink because she knew just how much he hated to see his color weakened.
But it was fitting. She was his greatest weakness after all.
"Well?" he asked, at last, turning again to the one who named herself Aphrodite.
She fit here. It was discomfiting to think that he might have been wrong about her.