Chapter Text
You can say whatever you want about the god of war, and a lot of it might be true – but these are the facts:
1. Ares has never taken a woman against her will, despite rape being a standard of war.
2. Ares claims his children.
3. Ares is proud of his children, even those who are not worthy.
4. Ares avenges his children. Tries to, at least.
5. Ares loves his children (and his mother) because despite what some morons preach, war is inseparable from love.
6. Similarly, war is inseparable from loss and humiliation. Ares knows this, Ares understands this, and yes, he does accept it for himself from time to time.
7. Ares is hated.
8. But the world has paid tribute to him more than any other god, even though they refuse to acknowledge it.
9. Ares is not stupid. Volatile? Absolutely. Stupid? Hell no.
10. And finally, despite what he told the son of Poseidon, Ares dreams.
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Gaby La Rue was just one of the many, many flings he’d had, but she was still a striking mortal.
When Ares spotted her across the bar, she was shoveling chili fries into her mouth faster than a bullet, and the sight made him chuckle. At five foot nothing and only one hundred pounds, she was a little bit of a thing.
His presence usually made people steer clear, but Gaby took one look at him and stuck up her middle finger, all while eating more fries. That was what did it for him.
Her spitfire personality kept him coming back to Phoenix, and it took ten weeks of visits before she begrudgingly asked to ride his motorcycle. The rest was history – the same old song and dance. He met a woman, she amused him, they fooled around, and that was that. If he knocked her up, it was on purpose.
Ares wasn’t the type to f*ck without caring about the consequences. He was similar to Athena in that way – they made children for a reason. Hers were gifts of combined brilliance meant to make great contributions to society; his were to remind mortals and immortals alike of the dark, primal instincts they possessed. His children’s existence made people uncomfortable – spiteful – and that was necessary.
Perhaps the true reason he reproduced less than the other gods was the constant ache he felt because of his children’s isolation. All demigods didn’t fit the mortal world, but his kids were scorned amongst their own kind, too. He’d heard of others at the camp that suffered the same, unclaimed kids of unfavorable gods.
He held Clarisse once as a baby, whispered a short but powerful prayer over her, and then left her and Gaby. They were taken care of financially (or they at least had full bellies and a roof over their heads), but that was as far as his parenting extended. He would meet her when the time was right.
Gaby hated Ares for leaving, as did all of his past lovers, and he didn’t give a damn. So, yeah, he was sh*tty in that regard. People got that right about him.
But.
He did care about his daughter. He thought about her often, hoped she was doing okay, and was inevitably furious when she wasn’t.
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His girls were tall, bulky, and plain-faced like their brothers. Their eyes were mean and hard, they scowled, they had rough hands – they were ugly, and to be an ugly woman was to be scorned.
It was because of this that he liked them more than his sons, and consequently pushed them harder. If there was one thing Ares hated, it was the thought of his girls being unprepared. He’d made a vow to himself after Hippolyta. If his daughters were going to be scorned, then he’d make damn sure they would be feared, too.
Clarisse was his favorite. He hadn’t a clue why; she did not exceed her siblings in brutality, skill, or courage. There was just something about her that made him want to smile. Not smirk. Smile.
She was ten, almost eleven, when he claimed her. One of those tree-hugging satyrs had scouted her back in Phoenix, and they almost made it to camp when a couple of harpies swarmed them.
Ares observed his daughter’s struggle. He studied her every move and savored the anger swelling in her chest. The satyr bleated in panic on the sidelines. After lots of scratches and screaming, Clarisse had beheaded every last one of them.
Sure, harpies were no Minotaur, but it was impressive. It made him proud – he never tired of watching his progenies kill.
She vehemently refused the satyr’s help and tore her outer shirt into makeshift bandages. Ares felt a twinge of concern at the blood oozing down her arms, but it was soon overcome. He wondered if they were her first real battle wounds.
Choosing to take the leap and introduce himself, Ares stepped in front of them, his boots making the dust road quake.
“Well, that was fun.” Clarisse and the satyr were still panting from the fight, and they stared at him with shock.
He gave his daughter a curt nod. “Kid.”
She was a force to be reckoned with, like all his other offspring, but right then she looked like a wilting flower. The girl was scared sh*tless, he realized – scared of him. Not surprising, of course, but it made that pesky twinge in his chest return.
Ares focused on the satyr. “You gonna take her across the border now?” he asked. “Or wait around for more monsters?” To his delight, the old goat’s face twisted with indignation.
“Thank you for your presence, my lord. I will see her safely into camp,” he sniffed.
Ares sneered at him and moved closer to get a proper look at his daughter. Seeing her tense even further, he decided it was time to break down her walls completely. He slowly slid his Ray-Bans off and tucked them into a pocket. He let the violent essence of his divinity flicker in his eyes.
Clarisse’s own pair were small, muddy-colored, and set deep into her skull like a pig’s. He saw his fury reflected on their surface, but she did not avert her gaze.
“Hm. You’re alright, kid,” he decided. “You’re alright.” That was high praise coming from him, though there was no doubt Clarisse saw it differently. Her thin mouth wavered and turned down.
Oh, well. She would get used to it. She would understand one day that it was genuine affection.
He stayed only until they had crossed safely over the border. It would be another two years before he saw her again.
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Kronos had exploited him, and it was possibly Ares’ most humiliating moment of all time – worse than the Trojan War, than getting caught in that stupid golden net, than everything.
“Gods don’t dream” is what he told the son of Poseidon, because if they did, it meant he had to admit he’d been played. War was his domain; he was the one who tempted others into damnation, not the Titan who’d been banished to the deepest, darkest pit on Earth (by his own children no less).
It had been a long time since the Olympians had fought, really fought, so it had taken mere whispers in his mind, the promise to unleash a chaos the world had not seen since its inception. Earth-quaking, sky-splitting, and bloodshed swirled behind the veil of Ares’ eyes, its lure sweeter than any nectar the gods could offer. So, he took the bolt and helm from Hermes’ son and let him go without a scratch. He told himself it was all for the glory of war, and it was convincing.
Until the son of Poseidon spilled his godly blood.
Ares let the ichor flow from his ankle like a river of gold, and waited until it had slowed to a trickle before waving his hand and vanishing the wound. Yet it ached. Percy Jackson’s mark would not leave him for some time. The boy’s impertinence made him chuckle. He’d have fun tormenting him until the last of his mortal days.
It was during those minutes of reflection that Ares acknowledged the Titan and banished him from his mind.
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A week after the final battle, Ares visited his favorite daughter.
The camp’s treatment of his offspring had never been more than satisfactory, but now, in the blissful afterglow of a war well won, it had the potential to be better. Clarisse would make it better.
His remaining children – Ellis, Kinley, and Louise – nearly choked on their ribs when he strolled up to them at dinner. Clarisse was quiet, and the other campers did their best to ignore his presence. It was rare for a god other than Mr. D to show up in camp, and they clearly would have preferred one of the “nicer” ones. Demeter, maybe. Tough sh*t for them – none of his family would ever step foot there unless they were truly desperate.
“Spawn,” he greeted.
They hastily wiped barbecue sauce from their cheeks and coughed out hellos. Louise, the youngest now that Nakoma had died, stuffed her hands in her pockets to keep from shaking.
“This is how you say hello?” he asked. “I’m almost offended.”
Clarisse rolled her eyes, which he silently laughed at, while her siblings hurried to apologize.
He held up a placating hand. “It’s fine. I’m f*cking with you. Don’t need to be so formal all the time,” he said. They nodded hesitantly. “I need to speak to your sister.” He jerked his head toward Clarisse, who was already getting up from the table.
They walked in silence to the dock, ignoring the campers’ burning eyes on their backs. The sky was tinged pink with the tail end of sunset.
“What did you need to speak about, Father?”
Ares grit his teeth. Heart-to-hearts were not his forte. They’d already had one less than a month ago – surely that would suffice for a few years? But… this was important. He decided to spit it out.
“I know there are scouts going out all over the continent looking for half-bloods. They’ll find plenty, but none of mine. I’ve got one left,” he admitted, “and he was tucked away in Manitoba until a few days ago. He's going to stay here from now on.”
Her brow raised. “Really? Only one?”
“Only one.”
“What’s his name?” she asked. There was a touch of tenderness in her voice.
“Xander. He’s three.”
She cursed in Greek. “That’s…so young. Why not wait a few years?”
“Because his mom just died, and he has nowhere to go,” Ares bit. It had happened last week, right after the battle. While he’d been mourning two of his children, another sat crying two thousand miles away next to his mother’s body. She’d been an epileptic.
Xander had watched her convulse and choke to death, and then sat alone with the body for two days. When Ares found them, he was starving and covered in urine and feces.
“I see. I’ll take good care of him, Father.”
“He needs more than a teacher. He needs a parent. I wouldn't put this on you if he had someone left.”
She cringed. “It’s not a burden to love my own brother. Besides, there are probably fifty dryads who would love to babysit him.”
Ares averted his gaze. She was good, his daughter. She was better than him.
“Where is he, anyways?”
“In the cabin.”
Her eyes bulged. “What!” she cried. “You left him there?”
“Relax. He’s sleeping on one of those little pillow things.”
“A beanbag? What if he rolls off and cracks his head open?”
“f*ck’s sake, Clarisse, he’s three years old. Your mom told me you jumped off a balcony when you were a toddler and didn’t get so much as a scratch.”
She paused. “You’ve talked to Mom?”
Ares sighed. He was not used to these types of conversations with his kids – ones that lasted more than a few minutes and didn’t involve yelling.
“On occasion,” he admitted.
“So…twice in my whole life?”
He glared at her, and she backed off.
“Sorry,” she said gruffly. “This is a big deal. We’ve never had kids that young. Annabeth was seven when she got here, and had already fought like ten monsters.”
“She had protection from two powerful half-bloods. He’s lived in a town with a couple hundred people his whole life. Nothing and no one goes up there. He was protected. He was safe.” Ares felt his temper rising and tried to quell it for his daughter’s sake.
“Okay,” she breathed. “Okay. I…will go let the girls know the situation. Ellis is leaving, you know. Permanently.”
He started. No, he did not know.
Clarisse gave him a rueful smile. “Yeah. He doesn’t have any plans. Just wants to get away, I guess. He – he’s so tired.”
And that was part of the reason Ares was never going to sire another child. Looking at Nakoma and Mark’s bodies, their bones and organs on display, he had vowed to every existing power (including, most importantly, himself) that it was the end. War was eternal – there was nothing to offer his children besides it.
He was not a good father, so he would never be one again.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
She nodded and started walking toward the cabins.
Ares felt that twinge in his chest again – that old pain tugging him toward Clarisse. He hoped that one day she would be free from him, from the anguish he stood for, and that Elysium would welcome her with open arms when her time came.
A burning sensation itched in his eyes, and he knew it was time to go. He took one last look in his daughter’s direction and flickered away.
