02
rose
Ares has grown in the shadow of his father's rule. King Zeus; the mighty god who could split the sky, but couldn't stay loyal to his wife.
Hera was fierce, but even she had become worn down. He watched his mother slowly wilt; a lily rotting at the roots. When she had the strength, she fought him on it. A fury that rivalled even the king of the gods. But it always ended the same; Zeus would use that patriarchal command to silence her, ever the loyal wife.
That's not to say there weren't good times - there were. Moments Ares treasured, tattooed on the back of his skin and stored in the fissures of his heart. Memories of a bright Hera, laughing as she tickled her young and chubby god of war in the meadows. Zeus creating a lightning show in the sky, arm around his wife as his son watched in awe.
But Ares knew that those highs were always followed by a low. And they were awful lows. More than once, Ares would jump between them, a protector for his mother. Zeus hated him for it, his son was never on his side. The two would fight until Olympus' foundations shook with the might of it, no matter how much Hera shrieked at them to stop.
Yes, Ares was all too aware on the consequences of a forced marriage. Which was why he pitied that goddess so much. He was starting to see the same thing in her that plagued his mother; a heavy sadness that weighed down the eyes.
He tried to spare her subtle seconds of kindness. A small smile across the gardens, a helping hand onto her new throne. It was placed beside his; an odd thing, considering Hephaestus built it, and his was across the room. But then again, the marriage wasn't going too well. Everyone noticed it. When meetings were held, it was hard not to feel awkward amongst the tension.
Ares happened upon her again one day in the gardens. It were as if Atlas has shifted the weight of the sky onto her shoulders. There was a strain in movements, bags under her eyes, taunt lines around her mouth. If he could, Ares would've offered to take the burden off of her. But this was not a physical pain, it wasn't something he could fist fight. As he had discovered from his mother, a weariness like this just couldn't be beat.
He offered her a rose he had picked from a bush. 'To match your hair.'
She glanced at it - at him - then took it feebly between her fingers. It really did match her hair. She had a head full of it, curling and corkscrewing past her strong shoulders. It fell along the nape of her neck, found home against her collarbones. She was pale, with long elegant hands made for a lyre. Her body was lanky; elbows jutting against the skin, dips in her hips. Crooked bottom teeth, a Roman nose, her brown eyes were the first thing you noticed on her face.
She was the most beautiful thing Ares had ever seen.
'Thank you.' She pinned it behind her ear. A heavy silence ensued; Ares had never been much of a talker.
'Your name?' he tried.
'What?' she sounded offended.
'Have you found one, that is.'
'Oh,' she was blushing. 'My husband hasn't thought of one yet.'
The flowers looked like they wanted to curl back into their stems. Ares blushed now.
'Sorry,' he muttered.
