Melpomene hadn't expected Ares to hang around and chat, afterwards. She certainly hadn't expected him to say things that made her stomach feel it had dropped clear out of her body.
Some people in this city think they are prepared for war, and I aim to show them how mistaken they are.
Dear gods, wasn't that perfect? Didn't that capture the most poetic essence of war; that nobody, ever, could truly be prepared? She'd felt a storm brewing, too, seen the stock-piling of weapons and felt the tension building beneath the surface. Seen the confidence on the faces of the people who believed they were destined to be life's winners; that they were a chosen people; that this life, this country, belonged to them.
Melpomene, Muse of Tragedy, knew better.
With a fluid motion she sat up, straddling Ares. She didn't snatch the bottle from him, but she did guide it up to her mouth to take another hearty mouthful. "Yes," she said, a dark look of want in her eyes. "I want to see it."