6
Despite his conspicuous absence during the offerings, he had actually been there. Every year, as many members of the War Department who could be spared attended the event. No matter how packed his schedule was, the God of War was always one of them. The Memorial Ceremony for the Battle of Wind Blown Tears wasn't something he was going to miss.
He was also the first to leave. Once the whisky hit the feet of Dythos' statue, the God of War was already turning to make his departure. The ceremony was important but there was no need to stay for cucumber sandwiches, prosecco with tiny slices of strawberry and endless questions about how he was feeling.
Prying questions, from people who only feigned interest in how he was doing on days like this yet never talked to him on any normal day of the year. They grinned, showing perfect pearly white teeth as their jolly inquiry's reawakened his veteran's horror. He didn't want to answer any of them.
The horror of it all wasn't real to them and it was blatantly obvious to anyone that he wasn't feeling great.
"What was it like when you stabbed Bulmor?" Some bright eyed Love Goddess asked, holding a delicate glass in her right hand filled with a disturbingly blue liquid.
He hadn't even seen her, so focussed he was on getting to the doors. Bulmor was a name that could still derail him from that though, as his feet planted themselves into the decorative paving despite himself. The muscles in his jaw tightened.
Her left hand patted him on the arm, it had less of a reassuring impression than she had probably intended, as it drew his attention to the gilt flowers which ran along the edges of his pauldron. Flowers he wanted to bring with him even on a day like this. They shone in the bright afternoon sunlight streaming into the ornamental garden.
Another reminder of what had been lost.
He really should have had the red enamel added to them like Dythos had suggested. It would have been...
It would have been.
Would have been.
The God of War gently removed her hand from his shoulder and let it flop like a dead fish, to lay against her side before continuing his escape of the cocktail hour. Her smile similarly fell leaving a frown in it's place. Not that he really cared. Getting out of here, without getting pulled into further conversations was taking every ounce of his attention, as he squeezed through the crowd.
Every year the raw agony that accompanied his personal memories of the Battle of Wind Blown Tears grew just a little duller as it faded almost entirely from the collective memory. There were so few familiar faces standing here now.
Every year, the number of Deities that remembered The Battle of Wind Blown Tears dwindled. Those who had actually been there, that had fought in it, who had seen the destruction of life and nature it had left in it's wake, well they were basically an endangered species now.
The whole ceremony was slowly changing from the solemn tear filled gathering of veterans from both realms created in the aftermath of the war to more of a 'celebration of life'.
That couldn't be helped, ceremonies shift in meaning slowly over time even among the Gods. What he couldn't stand was how it was slowly erasing the other people who had died in that campaign. The Battle of Wind Blown Tears was just the last battle in a war that had killed a lot of Deities on both sides.
There was a reason the War Department had it's own memorial.
In the early days, there had at least been the comfort of those he had fought alongside during this event. Either comrades whom he had trusted with his life, or the people who had once been on the opposite side and knew as well as he did the pain of loss. The Deities of Death had held the inconsolable in arms that promised the dead were not lost, for so many had died.
The Deities of Heaven didn't even have graves.
Gone.
They were just gone forever.
Only their life timers in the Halls of the Dead prove that they had ever existed.
He didn't remember when the statues had been made, or who had done them but the likenesses were painfully true to life. Sword outstretched, his former mentor looked down on him and he wondered what he would have thought of his successor.
There had been a vacuum in power in the absence of the Former God of War and he had been pushed into the role by his believers. It was a constant reminder that he himself could have died that day. That he probably should have died that day.
And Dythos...
He couldn't forget Dythos. Whenever he closed his eyes, The God of War could see him lying there covered in blood.
Dythos wasn't dead!
Deep within the Halls of the Dead amongst the sand timers of the Gods, Dythos' still held sand dripping slowly through it. Proof that he was still alive, given to him by the Deities of Death who had taken him down there in the depths of his despair. Everyone had been worried about him and the Deities of Death had taken him into their soft embrace to give The God of War something to keep living.
Although it had given him comfort, the passing centuries without his return had added to both his misery and determination.
After what had happened and what he had done, there was no way he could stay here and chat casually whilst looking up at the crying face of the Wheat God. The blood really had been the final straw. He'd braced himself for it's sweet, metallic scent, the longer he was here the stronger it seemed to grow. Memories of the battle were the closest to the surface on these days when they gathered to remember and the sight of the bright red liquid dripping from Dythos' statue was too much.
Did they really need to make his statue cry blood from his eyes?
Was that really necessary?
His throat tightened and he could feel himself breaking out into a cold sweat. The fancy, fancy crystal glass in his hand shook, the contents sloshing rather dangerously from side to side. Threatening at any moment to spill all over the front of his armour.
Whoever thought that a blood sacrifice was something that needed to happen during the ceremony... It felt like the amount of blood involved increased every year. He used to be better at dealing with it in the past but then it had been drops of blood. Now you could basically swim laps in the fountain.
He almost gagged at the thought, downed the last of his drink, disposing of the glass by shoving it into a nearby bush. Several deep breaths through his mouth later The God of War was feeling like he was on a much more even keel and continued his efforts to get out of the ornamental garden, filtering slowly through the crowd until he could leave the garden through one of the doors before breaking out into a sprint.
The juniors of the War Department nudged each other discreetly at the sight of him leaving. A select few broke away from the group to follow him.
Discreetly.
~
Passing through the heavy metal gates, he slipped away from view. Abundant flowers from the garden blocked the sight of him from the street, even through the decorative brick lattice.
Only a single strand of ripe wheat laying in between two cracked flagstones was evidence that anyone had been here at all.
Despite this, the juniors of the War Department didn't need to see him to know his destination. It was the same place he went every year on this date after the ceremony became too overwhelming. A routine held, the seniors said, for several thousand years.
In the central courtyard of Dythos the God of Wheat's palace the God of War, still in his ceremonial armour was kneeling in the gravel. He fought the urge to just flop forward and prostrate himself fully there in the garden. The Wheat God wasn't one to condone such actions. He was kind and too forgiving.
A pained smile crossed the God of War's face at the thought of what he would say if he saw him kneeling there in the gravel.
He was ignorant to the racket caused by the sightseers outside being wrangled by Nywez. Instead, staring unblinkingly into the room directly in front of him. Behind its open doors hung a painting of Dythos, its golden paint shining in the sun.
This year it felt different.
His grief was spread thin but the crevices and canyons it covered were still vast and deep like the ocean. It felt like he could slip at any moment and plummet back into the raw agony of the past which had nearly taken his sanity. Climbing back up would not be as easy the second time.
There had been no war to distract him for quite some time now. Peace left him with so much free time to think about his mistakes.
A red flower fell from the flowering bush beside him and it landed on one of his pauldrons, a look-alike of the armour's own gold ones. He shifted his position, knees complaining at his treatment of them and it fell onto the floor.
His hands felt too big to touch it. Too big not to crush it between his long scarred fingers accidentally but it was Dythos' favourite flower and so he scooped it up as if it was a newborn baby.
It felt like a message from the other God and at this point he'd kill purely to get even the faintest message from Dythos. Not that he deserved one.
He knew the other martial gods were worried about him and frankly they were right to do so.
The God of War was worried too.
~
"He's there again?" The junior gods were trying to figure out what to do. They were all huddled around the gate, holding it open enough to see what was happening on the other side but not enough to expose it to passers by.
"Yes." said a Goddess squatting and peering through the leaves.
"Can't we just go in and pull him out?" An overly ambitious member of the group suggested moving to be closer to the opening.
"No. He'll legitimately lose his mind that other people are there." A slightly older member of the group answered, reaching out and grabbing a handful of their cloak to prevent them actually passing the threshold. "You heard what happened two thousand years ago? Right?"
"I did." They answered. A look of dawning recognition slowly crossed his face.
Some senior Deity had tried to reason with the God of War that his grief... well he'd basically insinuated that he should be over it by now. The result of that conversation left the rude party in the Healing Halls for weeks.
It had taken over a decade for the senior to recover enough to be able to come back to work and their relationship had never recovered.
"At least he's not drinking this year."
"That actually makes me more worried." Nywez said as he sidled up beside them. At least three of the juniors jumped in shock, not having heard him approach.
The sound of crunching gravel could be heard from the courtyard, getting louder as their boss finally finished his own memorial for Dythos. He looked even more careworn than usual as he trudged his way to a side gate.
Some of the younger gods made as if to follow him but were held back by Nywez.
"The only place that Elgaldir will go now is home. He'll stay there and not talk to anyone for a few days unless there's an emergency. There's no need to worry now that he's left the Palace of the Wheat God." The God of Handheld Projectiles told them as he gently pulled the gate closed.
The sun had long set and now the sky was filled with twinkling stars. Down every street and alley, you could hear the drunken singing of people leaving the Palace of the Heavenly Emperor. It was time for them to return to the War Department.
This visit was longer than it was last year.
Nywez sighed.
Mini theatre
Elgaldir: Blood ? Really?
Emperor: It's thematic.
Elgaldir: Ever thought that some of the people that actually fought might have bad reactions to seeing statues of people that died horribly in the war standing in pools of blood?
Emperor: *swallows nervously*
Former God of War: Well I personally appreciate the effort.
A/n: Is this late? Yes. Life is like that sometimes. Here's a longer chapter than normal to make up for it.