Watching Perseus Jackson hobbles on the beach sand, surviving his encounter with the God of Underworld, had been pleasant sight.
Ares don't know why, but he feels great amount of relief. As if a burden was lifted from his shoulders. Well no. Not lifted. Reduced.
…!
The static at the back of his head is getting louder. That was a downside.
Every time he's near Jackson punk, that static getting louder. Sometimes he can make words out of it, if he listens closely.
"Hey, kid," Ares waved, pleased (R̶̶e̶̶l̶̶i̶̶e̶̶v̶̶e̶̶d̶). "You were supposed to die."
(̶G̶̶o̶̶o̶̶d̶ ̶t̶̶h̶̶i̶̶n̶̶g̶ ̶h̶̶e̶ ̶d̶̶i̶̶d̶̶n̶'̶t̶.)
"You tricked me," Punk scowled. "You stole the helmet and the master bolt."
̶D̶̶i̶̶d̶ ̶n̶̶o̶̶t̶. "Well, now, I didn't steal them personally. Gods taking each other's symbols of power – that's a big no-no."
It was one Ancient Law that everyone can agree to. No stealing each other Symbol. Not after the time toddler Hermes stole Apollo's Sacred Cow for few days as prank and damn near got gelded and skinned alive if not for his quick thinking.
If someone tried to stole Ares' symbols… well.
The asshole should consider themselves lucky there are something left of them for the Keres to pick.
..̶w̶̶h̶̶y̶… ̶r̶̶e̶…?
…̶a̶̶p̶… ̶it̶!
Ares tunes out the static. Pushing it back to the forgotten corner of his mind. He cannot afford to get distracted and screw this up. "But you're not the only hero in the world who can run errands."
It was amusing how Punk think he got Clarisse to do the dirty job. No way. He doesn't step into his children's affair. They gotta prove themselves worthy and stealing things are not on the list of things that make them worthy in Ares' eyes. He is no thief.
Displaying his grand plan to set of biggest, bloodiest war to ever exist is sending shiver of doom down his spine. His father and uncles are at each other throat. Shame, really, that Perseus Jackson did not die at Corpse Breath's hands. That would make his job easier.
When Jackson questioning about the Backpack, Ares can't help but answer. Hey. God of War. He had to know things about weapon. Mundane and magic alike, and he rarely had chance to talk about it. Usually, his Cripple Smith of Brother or Know-It-All Owl Head stole the job from him.
"The backpack is the master bolt's sheath, just morphed a bit." He grins. "The bolt is connected to it, sort of like that sword you got, kid. It always returns to your pocket, right?'
It was a really nice mechanics. Ares love that thing since it makes it impossible for Hermes to stole his stuff when he needed it the most.
"Anyway, I tinkered with the magic a bit," Hephaestus is not the only one who can mess with enchantments, "so the bolt would only return to the sheath once you reached the Underworld. You get close to Hades… Bingo, you got mail. If you died along the way – no loss. I still had the weapon."
…why is he talking like the Mister Overworked Delivery Guy?
"But why not just keep the master bolt for yourself?' Questioned Jackson. "Why send it to Hades?"
He… yeah. Why didn't he? The Ancient Law said no God can steal each other Symbol. It never stated that they can't keep the Godly Symbol they took over by Right of Conquest until they are beaten by someone else. He beat the Real Thief so he should have the right of keeping them.
Do not question this, Ares. You must not hold onto them if you know what the best for you.
Because contrast to what Minerva or Vulcan said, WE do have brain between our ears! Displaying them openly will make Father royally angry he will put us in that thrice damned jar and throw it to Neptune's Palace to drown!
Two voices spoke up almost simultaneously.
The first one is old. Ancient. Demanding obedience. Who is it think it can control Ares? ̶B̶̶u̶̶t̶ ̶h̶̶e̶ ̶h̶̶a̶̶s̶ ̶f̶̶e̶̶e̶̶l̶̶i̶̶n̶̶g̶̶s̶ ̶h̶̶e̶ ̶h̶̶a̶̶d̶ ̶h̶̶e̶̶a̶̶r̶̶d̶ ̶t̶̶h̶̶a̶̶t̶ ̶v̶̶o̶̶i̶̶c̶̶e̶̶s̶ ̶b̶̶e̶̶f̶̶o̶̶r̶̶e̶. ̶G̶̶u̶̶i̶̶d̶̶i̶̶n̶̶g̶ ̶h̶̶i̶̶s̶ ̶a̶̶c̶̶t̶̶i̶̶o̶̶n̶. ̶G̶̶i̶̶v̶̶i̶̶n̶̶g̶ ̶h̶̶i̶̶m̶ ̶s̶̶u̶̶g̶̶g̶̶e̶̶s̶̶t̶̶i̶̶o̶̶n̶/̶o̶̶r̶̶d̶̶e̶̶r̶̶s̶. ̶A̶̶n̶̶d̶ ̶e̶̶a̶̶c̶̶h̶ ̶t̶̶i̶̶m̶̶e̶ ̶A̶̶r̶̶e̶̶s̶ ̶p̶̶l̶̶a̶̶y̶̶e̶̶d̶ ̶n̶̶i̶̶c̶̶e̶̶l̶̶y̶.
The second is Ares' own voice. But it was not his thought.
That was—
The ancient presence washed Ares over. Reminding him of situation at hand.
Right. Punk is here.
"I didn't want the trouble. Better to have you caught red handed, holding the thing."
Father is cruel. Especially to his own sons. Look at what happened to Apollo and Dionysus. Look at me, Hermes, and Hephaestus. Either he dismisses us or he felt threatened by us and in turn making our immortal life miserable. As if Mother is not enough in spreading the misery.
̶H̶̶e̶'̶s̶ ̶n̶̶e̶̶v̶̶e̶̶r̶ ̶a̶ ̶f̶̶a̶̶t̶̶h̶̶e̶̶r̶ ̶t̶̶o̶ ̶m̶̶e̶.
"You're lying," S̶̶h̶̶a̶̶r̶̶p̶ "Sending the bolt to the Underworld wasn't your idea, was it?"
"Of course it was!" No it wasn't! We was about to turn it in alongside with that thief if not for—
"You didn't order the theft. Someone else sent a hero to steal the two items. Then, when Zeus sent you to hunt him down, you caught the thief. But you didn't turn him over to Zeus. Something convinced you to let him go. You kept the items until another hero could come along and complete the delivery. That thing in the pit is ordering you around."
The ancient presence stifled him. Ares felt like a marionette with strings tugged around and he hates. It.
FUCKING FINALLY!
Ares panicked.
His control over his own body wanes. He lost it.
He become passenger in his own body.
"Smart. Smart kid." His mouth moved, as his hands raised and clapped. "Congrats. You guessed it right. How about a reward, then?"
NO! Ares screamed as he fought back for control of his own body.
But he found himself incapacitated. There's energy binding him. Like marionette strings. Tugged and pulled, this way and that way, to make a show out of it.
And he is the marionette.
Panic, fear, and rage blinded Ares. Making him almost missing what is happening to his body.
"You'll hand it over, Lord Ares?" The Satyr ask hopefully.
"Ha!" His body laughed. "In your dream kid. No. You, punk, you will fight me. One on one."
"What?"
"I like strength, kid. I value strength. Determination. You want the helmet? Prove me your strength. Show me, why I should hand it over after all pain it put me through. Impress me. I do not tolerate disappointments."
For some reason that kind of speech is familiar to Ares. Annoying and make him clenched his teeth—metaphysical version of it, since his real body is outside his control. But it was not strange.
It was as if he knows who it was in control over his body.
The clue is everywhere. The name is at the tips of his lips. It just… what? Who?!
Think about it later! His-voice-but-not-him barked. Cut the strings! Or do you want to be marionette forever!
Ares balked.
HELL FUCKING NO!
THEN GET TO WORK, YOU LAZY BUM!
Growling, Ares called forth for his power. He may not have control over his body anymore, but his power, he still had it. Building up inside, shaping it like sword to 'sliced' through the bindings.
His mind split, one part focusing to freeing himself from the binding. Other was watching from behind his own eyes.
The usurper and Punk were engaging in combat.
Punk is not bad. Bit too hot-headed. Too eager. That was fun. Would be fun to play with had Ares was the one in control. The one who toyed around with Punk, leading him to deliberately-made weakness in his own stance. Twisting out of the way from launch that about to hit his head (if Ares got head injury from that, he's going to be pissed), and swatted the Punk five feet to the side.
Using flat side of his blade instead cleaving him in half.
"Is that all you got?" Not-Him scoffed. "Don't tell me all your determination is shallow like smoke. That you are fake warrior."
For some reason, Ares felt like it was told to him instead, and it ignites white hot rage inside him, as he redoubles his effort in breaking free from the binding.
The binding moved. Lashed out. Like a foe.
Okay. That's good. Ares can do with a Foe. In fact, this is the best.
He dodges the incoming strike.
(His body dodge the incoming blade)
He swung the metaphysical sword in arch motion, cutting some threads.
(His body swung the sword in arch motion, cleaving the wave and forced punk to leap back)
The energy seems to be wary, and attempt to 'disarm' him by cutting off his connection to his metaphysical weapon. Ares simply shifted the 'weapon' to his other 'hand' and batted them away.
(Punk tried to do disarm method, but his usurper see it through and deliberately let him close, only to deflect the attempt and kick him away)
Fighting is good. Ares is born for fighting. He can predict the next move. He can coordinate his movement according to his enemy's next step.
He's in upper hand.
(except taking back control of his body, but the Eidolon who take over is not half-bad)
EXCUSE ME?! His usurper roared in indignation. I AM NOT AN EIDOLON!
Yeah yeah whatever.
UNGRATEFUL GRAECUS!
Okay, Ares frowned as he dodges the next slash. That phrase seems to be familiar but where did he hear it?
The energy change tactic. It tries to pull back. Building up energy. Once it reaches its peak, it rushed forth to try and overpowered Ares. Snaring his limbs like the blasted Golden Net. Ares gnashed in anger and he burn his very being hotly.
Another layer of power shields him from the worst of encroachment—the brainwashing—but it was not enough. He hears it.
SubmitlistenobeyyouknowwhoistheoneinthechargelistentomeyouknowwhichoneisgoodforyouIcangiveyouwhatyouwantendlessbloodshedcarnage—
The added layer was just enough for Ares to resist most of it and thinks straight. But that was it.
(His usurper, to his shame, did better. The Punk pull the wave until the power explodes, riding behind the stream. But the Usurper jumped behind out of the range. With a roundhouse kick, he sends Punk flying away with few broken ribs)
"Are you going to do better or are you going to keep disappoints me?"
Ares transmitted several choices of swearwords to the usurper. He just knows that one aimed at him as much as it to the Punk.
"Shut up…!" Punk growled, wobblily standing on his shaking feet. Like a baby foal. His glare got good rate, though. He does get Barnacle Beard's eyes. Glare included. "Shut the fuck up, Ares!"
Ares can't feel his mouth tugged into mockery of smile. Right. The one in control of his body is not him.
"Make me, brat."
The punk wants to rush over and stab him, but with broken ribs and twisted ankle, he had to play it smart.
He stayed on the water. Using it to heals him (so the brat got water healing. Fun) and watch cautiously now that his ultimate move had failed him.
Tired of waiting, the Usurper make his move. Launching himself too fast before the Punk can react. The Punk literally dropped himself and Ares grimaces as he can taste sea salt water on his mouth when the water rose like a ballistic missile. Thankfully the usurper manages to block the worst of it and quickly drag the Punk out of water by his hair.
Punk struggle and kicked the ground, tried to freed himself.
The usurper slammed punk on the ground, face first, and knees him in the back with hands twisted.
(Ares almost manages to free himself. All that he need was a push to completely obliterates the invading energy and make them. Shut. The. Fuck. UP!)
"Yield."
There's muffled sound of curses.
The wave roared and rushes, as if intents to swallow Ares' body and drag it to the depth, where Barnacle Beard is waiting with Trident polished and ready to turn him into kebab.
No other option but to let the Punk go.
The Punk use the chance to grab his sword tightly and twist his body. Once again use it to launch an attack. This time two pronged.
Ares watch it all. He watch how the first wave (no, the pun is completely unintended shut up) aim to push him back and knock the usurper off balance.
Then when the water pooled around his ankle, it stuck there and wrap him like superglue.
That's when Punk strike. Swinging his hand.
The usurper blocked it and—
Clang!
A Tin can? Wait! It's a bait! A trap!
Hot sharp pain felt like thunder crashing onto him out of blue. The Punk use the momentary chance to swung his sword, slicing Ares' wrist open and let Ichor drip to the water. Shocking, but empowering as it gave Ares the much-needed opportunity to strike back. To burn brightly and incinerates the corruption inside him. The anomaly that did not belong.
The usurper strangely stayed here. As if he always belongs.
"Perseus Jackson." The usurper lifted Punk's face by chin. "You have done it. You spill an immortal's blood." Grinning. Ares can feel the grin. "You get more interesting by minutes. Consider yourself lucky I am in no mood to smite anyone otherwise, fate worse than death awaits you. I am not called The Avenger for nothing."
The Avenger. A title. Wait—
Mars?!
The static at the back of his head. That was him all these times?!
Finally got it, you dumbass.
"Well." Mars let the Punk go. "Not like I have to do much. You have blessings… but too much blessing shall become curse. You can blame it on the Fates. They spun very interesting tapestry for your future."
"What do you mean?!"
Mars walked away.
"Ask your father." He grab the helmet and launch it at the punk. Nailed it on the head. "Sailor Mouth has the answer for it."
.
What the fuck was that?!
Mars hummed as his Greek half demanded answer.
They were in that Love Tunnel Ride where Ares lost his shield to Hephaestus. Mars leaned on the wall while his reflection scowled at him.
Someone tries to control us. Control you. He answers. Surely you know who.
Ares growled. Mars understands because he, too, is angry.
It had been close to six frustrating months. Six damned months of Mars forcefully woken up from his slumber when he felt a foreign, corrupting force invading their being, only to being muzzled like feral animal and chained at the back of Ares' mind, suppressed even worse than when Ares was fighting him for control and keeping him buried down. Six months of stifled, repressed rage and humiliation at his Greek behalf when seeing him act like marionette on a play. He hate Greeks. Too wild and barbaric and disorderly, but watching his Greek Half being made into mere caricature instead proud God of War he is, that angers Mars more than anything else.
Especially when Ares is made as pasty for the mess.
If it works, Ares will be the one to blame. If it doesn't, if it gets discovered, Ares still be the one to shoulder the blame while the real culprit gets away unharmed (not for the first time Mars curse how Ares love occassional unnecessary carnage—that made people doesn't question why he want bloodbath).
For the first time, Mars feels anger at the behalf of Ares.
He feels strong urge to find out who the bastard who dares to manipulate Ares—to manipulate them—and introduce them to world of pain that makes Field of Punishment looks like Elysium in comparison.
He is Mars Ultor. Mars the Avenger.
And for the first time, he will raise his weapon to avenge his Greek Half.
No one messes with his continue being. No one muzzle him like feral animal. No one made The War God as pasty and scapegoat, and get away unharmed.
No. Bloody. One.
Mars is going to find that bloody Castellan brat, and make him pay with his blood.