"My problem is that at this moment, you are reminding me a great deal of Henry."

Ares does not quite think when he says those words.

Then, does he ever quite think before he acts? There would be few who would support such a claim. Ares has always been unruly — one who met danger with a smile, with no thought for the consequences; one who took risks and put himself on the line for sake of the thrill; one who made choices on impulse, rather than reflection.

True, he is more at rest at present that he once was.

Henry took care of that.

After all, two rebels are a recipe for disaster — one must bend lest both break. So Ares had lost the worst of his penchant for danger, in order to keep Henry from stepping too far.

But Henry, as the Overlander squirming beneath Ares, soon lost respect for his bond, too.

And so, he stepped too far regardless of Ares' struggles.

And perhaps that is why Ares tells the Overlander that he resembles Henry.

"Henry?" The Overlander's voice brims with confusion, mouth gaping in incredulity.

Something grates in the depths of Ares' very being. The sensation is similar to the effort of turning of an ancient wheel of a human cart makes when it has not been oiled for long.

"Yes, Henry. My old bond." Ares' words sound dull, devoid of emotion, of life. He feels far from his mouth, as if it is merely a corpse, a husk, speaking, and he is the onlooking spirit. "You remember, I let him smash to his death on the rocks so that I could give you more time."

You remember, I broke my bond because I thought he was lost and you were not.

You remember, I cast away all that I was and all that I had so that you may live another

You remember, I let him die so that you may live. And thus, I should surely have died, too.

A growl builds in his throat. There is an urge grinding against the insides of his claws — to tear and to maim, to destroy this boy for his insolence, for his insensitivity; and strongest, the desire to tear across his own wings, as rocks through bodies.

But he cannot.

He must not.

He is better than that.

And so is Gregor.

So Ares' words turn sardonic. "And right now," he says, "I am wondering if I should not have let you both fall because, like Henry, you are under the impression that I am your servant."

The boy looks more annoyed than shocked.

Good. Good.

That was the intended result.

And perhaps Ares' insides will settle, too.

(But then, they never quite had.)