"Lycurgus, Odysseus' left flank!" It is not the battle that matters; battles are instinctual. The leading is the matter, she must observe without ceasing to fight. This is no united Spartan front, but rather a crazed mass of one-on-one combat. Every Olympian has turned out, excepting the nature spirits. Even Zeus, swirling masses of cloud overhead. A flash of red enters her vision, a arm, hammer reached to the sky.

"Thor!" she screams, ignoring the twinge in her heart. "Work with him! Do not fight him!" He gives no sign of hearing, but the sky begins to dance with itself, reaching a boiling point of unforeseen grace, oil paint whipped into peaks by master artists. Nike revels in the rain.


The battle is unimportant; it is the same as every battle. There are victors, there are casualties and civilians hurt in the fray. The Olympians, exhausted as the Avengers, drop their swords, let their bows fall to their sides as their shoulders slump. Some, such as Lycurgus and Eris, depart at once for home, but most stay behind, casting aside their tiredness to search through rubble; they will do a more thorough job than mortals will ever be able to accomplish. Nike directs this as well, patiently, more softly than before. Thor watches her slim frame, her hands gesturing this way and that as she speaks to the crowd before her, delegating tasks. But she herself is no healer, and has her own job to do.

Her gait is not weighed down by the battle, it contains the same slight skip as if she is fighting her wings to stay on the ground. She watches with interest as Banner helps Stark up, each spattered with dirt and gore.

"That was unprecedentedly brave," she says, causing them all to jump. "You will be forever remembered for that, Stark." The man watches her with wide, tired eyes as she steps forward. No crown of laurels appears in her hands, the age for such gestures is long gone, rather she kisses his forehead. "I name thee, Triumph of Mortals, Victor of Nike, Hero of Olympus." She moves onto Banner and Barton and Romanov. Each takes the blessing with a solemn nod. Finally she stands before Rogers. He stares at her almost angrily, still holding a hint of righteous resolve, but after a moment, he acquiesces. Nike smiles benevolently.

"I name thee, Triumph of Mortals, Victor of Nike, Hero of Olympus."

Thor looks at her, eyes soft. "Nike, you returned. Thank you. I did not mean-"

She cuts him off with a kiss to his forehead. If he were to reach out at this moment, he would feel her heart thrumming, her skin shimmering with heartbreak. "I name thee, Triumph of Asgard, Victor of Nike, Hero of Olympus."

"We are going to eat," he tries again. "Come with us."

"I have other matters to which to attend." Her voice hurts him. It does not carry the usual emotion, but rather is as unyielding as marble - not cruel, but not kind either, voice she learned from her mother.

On que, her parents appear. "Well done, daughter," Ares says, giving her a rough slap on the shoulder. Nike's knees quake under the force, though her face does not waver. Thor's does. Stepping forward, he grasps the straps of Ares' armor, lifting him from the ground.

"You Olympians," he grunts, "are fond of throwing these far distances, yes?" Thor would fare well in the Olympics.

Athena snorts, watching Ares fly down the block. "You have approximately eighteen seconds before he retaliates."

Grinning, Thor looks down at Nike, who stares back stony-faced with fear.

"Thor, that was foolish."

"Do not worry, Nike."

"You just threw the god of war like a discuss," she insists. "I know his temper."

"I think I can protect myself," he smiles at her like she's a child, and her temper flares.

"You, yes! Me, well, I am good, but against my father I hardly stand a chance!"

Athena watches this all, slight amusement leaked onto her face. She says something to Greek to Nike, who snorts. Twenty yards away, Ares stirs.

"What did she say," Thor demands.

"She said…combine the egotism with the hair and the cloak and you are nothing if not a Spartan devotee of Helen."

"I do not know what that means," he admits. In the periphery of their vision, Ares stands.

Aphrodite saunters up, Artemis at her side. Uncharacteristically, both have the same look on their face: undeniable smugness. "She says you are a pussy."

Nike shifts, oddly uncomfortable at Aphrodite's boldness.

"Well-" Mjolnir begins spinning into a blur. "-I'm sure Nike can ensure you that I am not." Ares goes flying again, and this time stays down. To Thor's disappointment, Nike's face shows no joy at his action.

The smugness drops from Artemis' face. "I have castrated men for less than that."

"Yes, I'd thank you not to talk about our niece in such a manner," Aphrodite said through narrowed eyes. "One would think that just after seeing the might of Olympus, the boy would be smarter."

"Most like he believes the men did all the fighting," Artemis suggests; they do not take their eyes off Thor. "The fool."

"I think you were right, Artemis. I do not think we've had a hunt in a while."

Thor holds his hands up. "I surrender; Forgive me, Nike."

"Thor!" Romanov calls. "We're going to get Loki."

He stares at Nike's turned form, her bare back, thin and tanned. Her chiton drapes just a little too low, letting her shoulder blades show. He's never touched her wings before, he can't see them, just feel their presence.

"Yes, of course." Dully, he turns towards Stark Tower.