#that doesn't mean you've lost the war nor does it mean you're 'weak'

[wildharesandboundteeth]

How Lord Ares feels to me

TW: mentions of a shitty legal system, abuse, mentions of death, mention of suicidal ideation, descriptions of starvation, ect.

Even if I've never been on an actual battlefield, even before He was a flicker in my mind, even before I formally met Him, my viscera knows Lord Ares well. Fight or flight. Wrath and restraint. Dogma and rebellion. Blood in teeth.

I recall it so clearly, and yet no matter how hard I try to put it into words, I can never do it justice.

The cold touch of the floor upon my skin. The gentle hands of Sleep soothing me, offerings of refuge both a mercy and a lethal temptation. Death hushing my rumbling stomach, His scythe carving away at my muscle and fat until my skin began to squeeze my bones.

After years of wishing for it, it seemed like I'd finally get my wish fulfilled.

My time was up. No more tricks, no more spells, no more wiles. No more running and hiding like a little mouse. No more twisting and slipping like a snake. No more snarling and biting like a dog. Couldn't even bat my eyes or roll over. Labelled as an animal, dying like one.

Above truth, above justice, above humanity. It's always been about appearances. Best ignore it. Let it die by itself. Let's not shatter the illusion, hm? So people don't know what they let happen. The law wouldn't save me- a truth I had beaten into me many, many times in childhood.

Though, it'd be wrong to refer to it as 'childhood' since I had been a child back when I first felt whispers death's merciful silence.

Yet even in the encroaching silence, I could could still hear my abuser's voice outside my prison. It was merry.

Carefree.

Even if my mind had finally grown as quiet as my body, I understood.

"I'm dying."

I wonder if it was Hermes that had called Him. He's been with me for years, even if I hadn't known it was Him guiding my hands as I learned His craft. I wonder if it was because He'd been there to drop off a delivery of dreams. Or if it was because it was because He was there to collect after Death had reaped. I wonder if He'd heard me on the phone as I begged my helpless sibling not to let me die. Did He hear their stifled sobs under my desperate ones? Does it haunt Him like it does me? Or perhaps He's seen it all before.

It only a mere few seconds, it was a thousand years.

A flicker.

"I want to live."

Even as my bones creaked in the absence of muscle and sinew.

"I want to live."

Even as my mind stayed blank as the static haze of fight and flight began boiling within my very soul.

"I want to live."

Even if the realisation was as quiet, it was as sure as my understanding of my end. A fact of life. Unseen yet just as real as the potential energy in a battery.

My heartbeat that had once slowed itself in resignation was beginning to beat like a war drum. All at once, steady and frantic.

Was it His twins that had sized my body, shaking it with terror and panic? Was it Them that shooed away starvation, that had asked Death for more time? Did the Sister of War and Discord choose to stay their gracious hands, waiting for my escape? It must be so, since I had somehow scrambled into the arms of Victory.

Even as lies and cunning weaved and twisted, I still wasn't thinking. Was it Hermes whispering in my ear? Or perhaps was it Ares running through the familiar channels of a weapon well honed. Maybe a little bit of both.

It's been years since that day. I still haven't recovered, and yet my viscera still sings the name of Lord Ares as loudly and familiarly as it has that day.

The Gods are old.

They have seen this exact story play out a thousand times and have seen a thousand different endings.

I know this and yet...

Whenever I reach out my scarred, bloody hands in prayer, I'm still so surprised when the Deimon of War itself does not flinch away. He does not offer empty pity. He does not offer dismissal.

He takes his own hands, a billion times more scarred and bloody than mine, and gently guides me along. Even when I fall and have to crawl back. Again and again, big gentle hands cradle mine as He pulls me up. The recovery after a battle, a war in and of itself.

And still, and still, and still, and still.

When the unwearying commander looks down upon me, I still cannot believe He is not disgusted or repulsed.

It is not the splendid laugh of darling Hermes, yet I am energised all the same. It is not the sustenance nor the tender love of pulchritudinous Mother Gaia, yet I am nourished all the same.

He just. Gets it.

Maybe it's because I've never had that deep, unflinching understanding before that point. Maybe it's because I'm still that dying animal in its death throes despite my efforts to cover it up. Maybe it's because I had never seen someone who bares so many wounds be so effortlessly gentle, wise, and kind.

Maybe it's because when I see Him, I start to wonder if I can be like that too.

Maybe it's because I'm starting to believe it when He says I've done well.

That He's proud of me.

That I'm someone to be proud of.

Maybe it's because He's just That Great.

But man, I love Lord Ares so goddamn fuckimg much.