Ares had been late. It had been entirely of his own accord, his own choice. Yes, he admits it — he had not wanted to train in the arena. He had not wanted to be leered upon by judgmental children; he had not wanted to be where he would only be regarded as blemish upon the security of this safe space where one first learns to trust oneself and one another to keep one safe. He knows what he is a symbol of, and—
Yes, he had not wanted any of that.
But most of all, he had not wanted to be forced to cooperate with the Overlander.
The warrior. The benevolent child. Perhaps, most aptly put — Ares' savior. Gregor.
And it is a shameful confession that bends his head and curls his wings in on themselves. He has no right, after all — no right to pick and choose as he likes. He has no right to spite the Overlander — not when it is the Overlander who saved him when no one should have. He has no right to any such things anymore. When one owes their life, they do not have much freedom of will.
But the truth is that the Overlander had angered Ares — had irked him, had scorned him, had made light of just about everything that boils in Ares' chest in every wakeful moment. Inadvertently, yes. But what has occured inadvertently has still occurred. So Ares had not wanted to be forced together with the Overlander again. He could not have—
He could not have.
Yet he had to, for what right has Ares to pick and choose? What right has Ares, twice bonded, given second chances where none ought to have been found, to spite the Overlander, when that same Overlander has saved him and continues to save him just through his position as the warrior?
So he came to the arena. He was late, yes. He might have excused himself by stating that the Overlander would not have required a flier for his training at this time — a rude display such as that would not have been odd coming from his mouth.
He had used it before, and Henry had done the same.
But he had not excused himself — he was an excuse in and of himself regardless. His neck had been tense with anxiety, his lips curled in distaste. Why need make himself pleasant when no pleasantry would yield?
And so, in his reluctance, as he had blown into the arena, the last thing he had expected to find was this:
The Overlander, back tense with effort, sword misplaced in his hands—
Bystanders, mouths agape, caught between cheering and shouting—
And fifteen pouring shells on the moss.
He hit the total, Ares thinks dully.
The Overlander is sweating. He breathes like a dying, and the gaze he casts upon his red-tinged hands radiates sheer confusion.
He is eleven years old and he hit the total. He is eleven years old and the warrior. He is eleven years old and he bonded with Ares. He is eleven years old and Ares is angry at him.
He is all those things — and they are only his actions. What he has done unto others and not what has been done unto him.
Oh, thinks Ares.
Gregor drops his swords. The quiver of his hands feels palpable. He turns rapidly and starts to walk.
And Ares finds himself diving. Despite himself, he finds himself diving — regardless of the clamor, of his right, of what he wants and what all others do. He dives in the empty space that all expect to be filled by Gregor's words — of hitting the total, of being the warrior, of having done this and done that.
"I know a place," Ares says.