30 A.X. (After Xena)
Prologue:
Ares stood on an outcropping above the Strymon valley and watched a battle rage below. To the east, Amphipolis smoldered beneath a mound of ash. The area had become a hot zone for warlords again now that the Romans had set their eyes on Britannia and the riches of the Levantine coast. The power vacuum had left every petty bandit thinking he had a shot at becoming the next Julius Caesar. Or more appropriately, the next Xena.
Ares saddened at the memory of the love that never was. At least for her. Her rise to glory had happened in such a time as the one now facing northern Greece. Hungry warlords trying to fill the void of the decaying Athenian Empire, all paying tribute to him. That was still the game, although most called him Mars these days. And the villagers, instead of praying to Athena or Zeus, or Apollo for succor, now turned to the growing cult of Eli.
Ares' lip twisted in disgust at all that was lost. He mourned his family from time to time. But then he reminded himself that they had brought the wrath of Xena down on themselves. If they'd just left well enough alone, she would have died. And sooner than any of them had ever considered that she would. Sooner than he had considered, that was for certain.
Oh, she played her cards, all of them. He owned her soul, that contract was binding, if he could find it. But without it, the Jappa gods had sent him packing. Nothing had ever left him feeling as powerless as his inability to bring her back. It had crushed him for years. He spent those years as drunk as a god could get on wine and whores. He'd probably fucked every black haired, blue eyed wench in Greece and half of the ones in Rome too. But none of them were her, no matter how hard he fucked them. But he'd punished every last one of them for her sin. The sin of leaving him. Of abandoning her post as his Chosen.
A cow lowing as it was catapulted across the battlefield drew Ares' attention back to the battle at hand. Splat. "Ooooh, that hurts," Ares winced as the heifer landed on a row of archers. He watched as a small group split from the pack and maneuvered north to try to outflank the enemy. From his vantage point, he could see the ambush waiting for them. It was all he needed to see to know how the day was going to end. Still, he had nothing better to do. The remaining gods preferred that he stay away from Olympus. Most had adjusted to the new paradigm and few even mentioned his parent's generation anymore, except Hestia and Demeter occasionally. But still, Ares had broken their trust. They'd let Aphrodite back in the fold, but then again, gods, like people, were always charmed by her.
Ares spent most of his time these days at the Halls of War or in the camps of various generals he had come to favor. Otherwise, he just kept his eyes on skirmishes like the one he was now watching. It was a good way to find fresh blood, potential new leaders.
Ares felt a ripple in the fabric of the aether. He knew it was his son before the younger god appeared beside him on the mountain side. A god of nineteen, Lykon reached his father's height and nearly matched him in good looks, with the same dark curly hair and full mouth. Lykon wore his beard neatly trimmed and kept his brows sharply manicured over his honey amber eyes. When he spoke his voice was deep and even like his father's, "Mother is asking after you."
"You're a messenger now? Pathetic."
Lykon swallowed. His father only ever had an acerbic tongue for him. No matter how many victories he won, no matter how many perfect weapons he crafted, no matter how many horses he tamed, no matter how many beasts he slayed, his father was only ever a disappointment.
"I was headed north anyway. She asked if I would send word."
"What does she want?"
"To see her husband," Lykon answered sourly. His father had never loved his mother. All the gods knew it to be true. The marriage had been an arrangement to shore up the Mediterranean alliance against the threat of a Northern invasion that had never come. His mother had been sold into a loveless marriage, and his father guilted into an alliance he cared little for. Lykon often wondered how he had ever come into existence. He couldn't see his parents ever having shared a marriage bed, but his was living proof that it had happened, at least once.
"I'll see her when I see her. You can tell her–"
"As I said, I'm headed North, I don't expect to be back anytime soon."
"Nothing north but more skirmishes like this one."
"Exactly. I have a potential arms contract with a kingdom that's on the precipice of war."
"Money. That's what motivates you?" Ares sneered in disgust.
"Beats a dead mortal motivating me," Lykon retorted. "Now, I'm off to make a deal. You stay here and relive your glory days. The world marches on."