There's this boy, and he thinks he has to fight his way through the world. He's calm on the outside,, but on the inside he's a storm.
Ares doesn't fight. The other's gawk at his change. He sees pity in their silent judgement hidden in their silent gazes. He laughs at them behind a mask of scars. It is not the lost passion for the battle high. It is the loss of the purpose in the fight. Hell rained from the sky, or bullets shot a thousand times a minute hardly leaves room for emotion.
He fell in love with love. Whirlwinds and longing in a perpetual cycle filled with pleasure of the carnal wants. He's a celestial being as flawed as the people below. He's looked down on him before, his father, claiming clouding his mind with his emotions would end him. There had been disappointment, than anger. So much anger. Zeus need not fret. There's no feeling now.
It is numb. The killing numb. The death even more devoid of meaning. It makes him long for the days of the sword, the sweat that would drip from his brow, clouding his vision, the taste of metallic blood on his tongue. Chaos. Euphoria at the win. The ache in the joints in the days after. The ache of the soul in the years that follow.
He met Athena once. Bickered. Bantered. All of the above, until they fell beside one another covered in white sheets. Her grey eyes are hollow. He thinks that perhaps she feels it too. It's a strange day when the god known for bloodlust finds solace with the goddess who strategized battle plans that saved soldiers. She used to be fierce in battle. Now it seems that there are no battles worthy of the fight.
He finds more meaning in the silent wars of the fragile people. There is more bravery in the ones scarred by their own hand, then those, who hide behind a drone. Their victories jubilant, more noble. If you're going to kill a man, do it with you eyes on his. Though these days, no one knows who they've killed until their dead.