Ares heartily agreed, as did his mortal counterpart; even in sleep his vessel stirred, his frail human heart racing at the memory of blood. This was familiar to him, known, a sort of thrill his civilian life had all but left behind. Ares, who felt little enough of fear, drew happily from his human host's memories of it. Somehow it sweetened the fury around him, gave him a wholly new appreciation for the work his son could do. This, then, was the fullness of war, the whole experience for so long kept from him. He all but trembled with the beauty of it, the culmination of raw human experience so few could ever know - save, perhaps, his own consort, he thought with a deviant grin.
His grip on the reins was not so tight as his son's, having taught his violent steeds his ways long centuries ago. They obeyed him, as all on the field now did by one means or another. With thundering hooves they encircled the warriors, drawing nearer to them as they reached a clutch of huddling, almost wholly uninjured men. "Their fear overwhelms them," Ares noted. Inwardly he took partial credit for this: After all, inasmuch as bravery was his purview, so, too, was cowardice. Still, in their chosen course of action they were being abominably boring; with such chaos around them, there was more that they could do.
"Make them act," he said, flashing eyes turning to meet his progeny's. "Else these will sooner die from age than steel."