Twilight's Entreat

The twilight was bloody in the wake of the disruptive chaos and obliteration. Sunset had never been this atrocious—this vileness that sent a pit of sickness onto one's guts. Gone indeed were the days of Hellas's golden success. 

"What have I done?" Standing by the veranda, overlooking the whole harbor, the god of war deeply reflected. "This is not what I want. This is not what was supposed to happen!" 

For the first time, for many eras he had gone through, Ares admitted guilt. It was a remorse that ate him up to his dreams. Those charred hands and bloody faces all gnawing at him, trailing on his shadows until their teeth bit the flesh of his toes. 

Even in his waking moments, the aftermath of his greed haunted him. As he stared at the horizon where the vast lands of Hellas sit, the smoke enveloped the area as if the dark nimbus decided to gobble everyone and everything into its stomach. Ares clawed the wooden banister, leaving a trail of lines that reflected his crowded thoughts and bitter feelings that obstructed his soul to an unfathomable hold. 

"I have only wanted the throne—to have my birthright. I only wished for a new era." He soliloquized with a knotted forehead and dry lips. "I am tired of Zeus's rule. I am tired of the unreciprocated respect! I only wanted what was best for humanity. The gods should never dwell personally in the mortal's life! All that despair, unwanted tragedies, and punishments bestowed on the innocent—the gods had already crossed the line! 

Bastards after bastards—Zeus was a hypocrite! 

A father he was, but a father he was not! 

The rules laid down even forbade me to act like one, even though I was ever-willing to be a father. But it was not meant to be—not according to the book. It was not allowed." Head bent down, fists clenched, and lower lip bit until it left an imprint of his disappointment. 

Pandemonium was tailing on him—a shadow ever since his birth. Many wise men had never recalled the truth of his nativity, only stating what they perceived 'happened' during that moment. 

Ares's birth was a bleak moment. His childhood was a collection of foggy moments, recalling only those scenes that involved him in a euphoric state of bliss or rage. He was the ancient one called the "arē" or the cursed one. Since his gentle years, love was scarce and a fantasy to him. His upbringing never involved kindness—not even a little charity when he struggled with training. Everything had to be brutal. 

Zeus was never involved with him regarding being the paternal hands a child needed. Instead, the great god was more like a master to him—the stickler to the rules written by Chronos and beings before. 

Ares remembered how firm he was when training him for battle. He even remembered how Zeus would always frown at his mistakes and scream at him that a man should be rigid, be straightforward, and never be easily distracted from his goal. And what he said, he did obey—deeply encrypted in his brain like a seed sprouting into big roots, holding on until the soil, where it stood, was completely taken over. 

And from a weakling little boy who cried when a dagger cut through his flesh, Ares did grow like the root—brutal, tight, and strong-willed, combined with an iron fist that many brave men would go frail. 

That was the truth that no mortals had attained to record. 

Many of the stories even noted that he adored Hera. It was true. He did adore his mother when he was a little boy, but much like Zeus, Hera was like another sovereign who dictated to him many things—to be proper, to be respected, to be the one that all feared, and, at the same time, admired. So much was running on his little head that everything became a riddle. 

He did his part—being what the king and queen wanted him to be. But in the end, it gained him the notoriety of being the despised deity in all Olympus. Even Aphrodite got tired of him and all of his former paramours who showed him the pleasure of love. 

"I should have killed you when I had the chance," Ares growled when he remembered Athena. The anger was brewing like a hot stew in a cauldron. All of a sudden, he became calm like the spring. "But it is too late for me to do it now. Have you ma—"

"Your Grace," A knock sounded at the door, cutting Ares off from his monologue. "I have some news for you."

The god of war composed himself and ordered, "Well—come in, Pantelis."

As the door opened, old Pantelis, a former councilor of Sparta and now Ares's right-hand man, presented himself—bowing graciously before Ares. "Good evening, my lord. I am sorry to interrupt your rest, but I have heard some news from servants."

"From the servants? Hope this is not just any fictitious rumors." 

"No, my lord." The old right hand answered. "It is about Athena." 

"Oh," Ares acknowledged. 

"Yes—they said she is awake now."

"Is she? Ho—how is she then?" Trembling words were about to spill out from his lips as his thoughts began to wander about those secrets he had learned from the fallen goddess. 

Her voice began to haunt him amongst the reverberations of his will to rule. 

Pantelis nodded sideways as he said, "Not a sentence to detail what happened to the goddess. All I know is that the servants told me her grace is awake."

"I see. Any more news?"

"Yes, my lord. I received a word from Eris. An envoy of hers came this morning and told me there will be a play tomorrow at the megaron, and your presence is needed."

Ares raised a brow—confused at such news about a play in the middle of an exodus. "A play? What is with this play that requires my audience? Tell Eris that I will be staying here, at the harbor, for a few more days. I cannot waste time on such leisure at moments like this."

"Will do, your grace." Pantelis bowed. "I will see to it that your response is delivered right away. And by the way, my lord—I almost forgot to tell you, Enyo had managed to access several ships enough to carry the survivors. The payment, she informed, is to be settled also by her."

"Send also my gratitude to her," Ares added. 

The right-hand man bowed again. 

After Pantelis left, the god returned to stare at the crimson skyline that quietly called for compassion. It was a hard truth to swallow—knowing his birthland had become an oasis of rubble, dust, and smoke. He also learned from the chaos—a knowledge that an enemy had successfully penetrated the lands, conquering it as if it was just some animal easily domesticated. 

Subsequent to the disorder, the days were spent looking for survivors and things Ares and his men could still reconsider for their moving. Few people were spared from death, but many more were trapped—with no chance of rescue. 

Hell broke loose, and not even a divine could change its course. 

He may have won the battle, but he never won the war. The throne was now his, but his reign immediately went straight into Tartarus. 

Ares was overwhelmed by the rapid events that waved above them. 

His years of planning to end Zeus's reign crumbled, all because of someone's impulsiveness. But this was his destiny now—

This era was his to rule.

Thinking for more deliberation was no option.

Ares finally recuperated from his growing doubt as he raised his head, stiffened his stance, and slowly erased those unnecessary notions as he firmly uttered, "I have already passed the point of no return. I must state my words with unbent dispositions. The rules are on my hands now."

The sun in mourning said his goodbye as the night swept in without the stars and the moon. Scarlet—as red as the blood from the innocents—and it was Ares's scenery. It was the color of his manic thoughts. 

And scarlet was the color of his sprouting mystifying sentiments.