There was a time during my childhood when I believed this world of ours could be good—not entirely perfect—but good. It could be merciful in a way. And though we were banished from our home by the fuelled greed of the monster we had for a father, I did—or at least the younger me—believe that we still had a chance. Happiness was a choice and truly, it was possible. We could've lived in prosperity. We could've settled ourselves amongst the humans as kings of the provincial states in the countries of Eastern Europe and Southern Asia. Our powers would have to live dormant inside of us, existing throughout ages but never used. Our birthright to the throne of the skies, the seas and the world below would've been willingly relinquished for the sake of peace.

But the world—especially our world—was never meant to be that simple.

The universe willed something different, something greater for us and the rest of humanity. The tyranny of Cronus and the Titans needed to end. The lives of the people whose worship we relied on to keep ourselves immortal were on stake. I would've gladly sacrificed my eternity in exchange for a few years of comfort had it meant harmony and peace between my siblings. But Zeus was too ambitious, Poseidon too reckless and Hera too vengeful—all of my siblings were too young to realize the consequences of their rebellious thoughts.

Zeus wanted power. Poseidon wanted justice. Hera wanted vengeance. Demeter and Hestia were forced to choose sides. Slowly my image of the good—if not perfect—world was crumbling.

I wanted to convince myself that there was still a chance—that there was still hope. Perhaps we could strike an agreement with Cronus and the others, or maybe we could find a safe house in the castles of the European kings.

We could.

Maybe.

But then it all came down to the day when my father dared to struck his hand down on Poseidon, and like the bloom of youth which he mercilessly broke, my thoughts of diplomacy too were shattered. I never saw the world the same ever again. Not when Poseidon's bare back still carried the scar that our father, Cronus had gravely inflicted. It was in this twisted sort of way, did I discover that it was indeed possible to wound a god. All it took was an immortal hand to draw blood from our undying bodies and a parent as devious and as wicked as ours. We went against our father and I made sure he would pay dearly for all the pain he caused and all the scars he drew. He would be imprisoned forever in constant torture in the deepest region of Tartarus, and had there been a punishment more sinister than this, I would be more than willing to accommodate it.

At that point, I knew there was no such thing as a good world. The smiles and laughter of those who dwelt in it were mere illusions to fool the commoner into believing a lie. I swore in my life that I would never be as foolish to believe in fantasies again. Gone were the days when I fed my own naivety.

I thought I made myself clear in this point—I really, really did.

But then I found myself, again tempted—to believe in the goodness of this imperfect world. How could I not? Eris was slowly learning how to utilize the capacity of her powers. Hera made it a point to keep a weekly correspondence with me. Athena found great followers in the Amazonas of the jungles. Poseidon had become a regular visitor in the underworld. And Persephone—she had finally picked up the habit of calling me, "uncle."

Those who failed to learn from the mistakes of the past were bound to repeat it.

And though I believed myself to be entirely aware of the extent of my expectations, never had the idea of being 'too hopeful' struck me. I was contented in how my days were spent. For a very long time, I found nothing to alter. I didn't look forward to anything but I wanted to preserve what I had—to maintain whatever kind of spell the universe casted on me. And perhaps that was where I failed. I became too engrossed in my personal satisfaction and too invested in my made-up world. From where I was, there seemed to be no room for disappointments, anger or displeasure. I ought to know better. I was wiser to believe all of it would last.

There were those who wake up to find their made-up reality broken by the awful revelation of the truth.

I woke up to that fateful day knowing my agenda would go the same as it had been for the past few months. It did. For the first hours of my day, it did. Little did I know that there in the castle's breakfast parlor was the seed that would reveal the wickedness of cruel fate.

The spell was broken. A curse took its place.

A curse that came in the form of a badly wounded and frighteningly bloody, Ares.

Here's a teaser for the next chapter:

"Milord, perhaps this is not the best time for you to approach Master Ares."

"Leone, he's my nephew—"

"And that is why we are sure, he'll pull through." I felt his hold on tighten. I looked straight at him still with the intention of going up to the god of war. He whispered. "You are trembling, milord."

We've reached phase II. YAY!

I'm considering doing a Loki-centric movie-verse marvel fanfic. (Random thought, cause y'know. Must. Break. Tension)

Best readers eveeeer.

Yours,
Ms. Reen