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“And… what of this one, here?” Death traces a slender finger over the swell of Ares’ left thigh, where the skin is raised and twisted, like the gnarled branch of a tree. “Was it Hercules?”
Ares hums, “Hercules, yes. It was the War of Pylos, and Hercules… he struck my shield thrice with his spear, and I… I fell. It was then that he pierced me through the thigh, and this is the result.” He inclines his head, “I returned to Olympus, disgraced, the wound weeping golden ichor so dark it was almost black…”
And then, “And these…? These were the work of the Aloadae giants, if I recall…” Thanatos’ hands creep up underneath Ares’ bracers, to tease over the tender flesh along the insides of his wrists.
The corner of Ares’ mouth cocks upward in an almost-smile, “It would seem we’ve had this conversation many a time before…” His blood red eyes flit down to the scars in question, “The Aloadae giants, indeed. You remember that I attempted to stop their siege upon Mt. Olympus, then?”
Thanatos does remember, yes. The brothers, Otus and Ephialtes, had stormed Mt. Olympus in the hopes of taking Artemis and Hera to wife. Instead, they had kidnapped Ares and trapped him inside of a bronze jar for thirteen months. Ares, weakened from battle, had been unable to overcome the strength of his binds, and had thus remained imprisoned until Hermes had come to his rescue. It was not one of Ares’ fondest memories. In fact, the whole thing was rather humiliating. But he told the story, over and over, anytime that Thanatos asked. Because devastation… humiliation… these were not emotions that were unique to Thanatos, in the wake of his brush with the knave king, Sisyphus. And no matter how overwhelmed he felt by it all… He wasn’t alone.
Ares turns Thanatos’ left hand palm-up, tracing a finger over the raised skin along the inside of his wrist. The damage is not as severe here, though it is clear that Death’s chains are just as immovable as Death himself. Each ridge is evidence of how he’d struggled—some are deep enough that Thanatos’ flesh would have wept golden ichor, some are still too sensitive to bear even the gentlest of touch. All are tangible reminders of the months of Hell which he’d endured, all while the world continued to turn without him.
Ares lays his left wrist down alongside Thanatos’. His scars from the battle with the giants have faded somewhat, buried beneath a lattice of thin, white lines from other battles—both those he had won, and those he had lost. Not all of his scars are bad, per se, and he has made his peace with those born from loss and humiliation. If seeing them bared like this might help Thanatos in some small way, then he will do so, gladly. If hearing the same stories time and again might bring Thanatos some measure of comfort, then he will tell them, over and over, until they’re so ingrained in Death’s troubled mind that he might be able to look upon any part of Ares’ body and tell the stories of the battles which he has fought. He will do for Thanatos what he wishes someone had cared enough to do for him…
Thanatos takes a deep breath, “Would you…?” He inclines his head toward his gauntlet, “I would like you to take it off for me… Please.” He swallows hard, flexing his fingers inside of the metal enclosure—
“Are you certain?” Ares confirms. Thanatos is silent for a long moment, his molten amber eyes fixed upon the hint of raised skin he can see just beneath the cuff. The gauntlet hides the worst of the scarring, but only from the curious eyes of outside observers. Thanatos knows what lurks underneath all too well.
“Yes, I…” He swallows hard. “The frankincense oil… it can really help to fade the scar tissue?” Ares nods—it won’t happen overnight, but the oil will help the scars to fade, with time.
“It’s not a cure-all. There will always be marks… but this can make them somewhat less apparent, yes.” He says.
Ares’ fingers caress the warm metal of the gauntlet. Thanatos’ eyes follow their movement, up and down… until the gauntlet falls away and he’s left staring at the ruin that Sisyphus had left him with. “Horrible, isn’t it? I think it looks worse every time that I take that blasted thing off—”
Ares presses a kiss to the crown of Thanatos’ head, “It is no worse than when I looked upon it last, O Death.” Gently, he runs a finger along the inside of Thanatos’ wrist, over the sea of scars that Sisyphus had left him with. No matter how much time passes, the scars will serve as a permanent reminder of what transpired.
“I want them gone. Gone!” His arm begins to tremble. Ares curls his fingers around Thanatos’ wrist and drags it up and out of sight, so that he might… “Oh, Lord Ares, you don’t have to—”
He shudders, as Lord Ares drags his lips over his scars in a tender kiss. He means to say that the god of war should not debase himself in such a way, but cannot force his mouth to form the words. The truth is, Lord Ares needn’t bother himself with any of this. Thanatos is well aware that the only reason he’d gotten involved at all was because there was no way to end his precious wars without casualties (no-one had missed him, in all of that time—no-one had thought his prolonged absence to be strange or unusual or…). It was only out of pity that he continued to sit there with Thanatos and play nursemaid to his scars, whilst he regaled him with stories of wars he only had the vaguest of interest in. Thanatos has no interest in violence, or war, or bloodshed…
But where War goes, Death inevitably follows. And, in the last several months, Thanatos has come to realize that he doesn’t mind trailing after Ares and tending to the casualties of his many wars. It gives him a sense of purpose, makes him feel needed… There will always be a need for death, but death comes in a variety of forms. And, for some unfathomable reason, Ares seems to have a particular fondness for his unique brand of death-dealing. Or, perhaps, just a fondness for him (heavens’ know why)—after all, what use has War for the god of peaceful death?
Ares drizzles the faintly scented oil over his fingers, as he draws Thanatos’ attention away from the scarred appendage with another story. Tonight, he spins a yarn about the Trojan War, his language so vibrant and colorful that… well, it’s like Thanatos is there, all over again. He’s heard this particular story what has to be one-thousand times over, and yet, it is every bit as fascinating as the first time. He hasn’t the stomach for tales of war, but… a story of vulnerability? To know that War can ache, can bleed, can scar…
To know that he and War were not so very different… it brought a small smile to his face.
“There.” Ares proclaims, “Finished. No, don’t touch it—allow the oil time to work it’s magic.”
The oil is certainly not magic. If it were magic, it would’ve been able to rid him of the scars completely. But he does feel better. He can tolerate the slow press of Ares’ calloused thumb to the scars, the digit working in a slow, counterclockwise motion that leaves his entire hand feeling like jelly… He can tolerate Ares’ blood red eyes studying the scars curiously, content with the way that they are healing. There was a time when even this made him wish that he’d been born as anything other than Death. If Lord Zeus hadn’t sent him to collect Sisyphus’ soul (it’s because he wanted him to be collected early—not even the gods could alter the Fates’ design), then he would never have been tricked into wearing his own chains and…
“It’s true that you are scarred.” Ares purrs, pressing a tender kiss to the long, dark column of Thanatos’ neck. “But a scar… it doesn’t tell the whole story. I have made peace with my scars, because they are evidence that I survived everything that the Fates threw my way.”
Thanatos eyes flutter as he considers his scars again, “I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to make peace with these…”
“Well…” He expects Ares to be upset, or even angry. Instead, he seems… a little sad? “Then, I will be here to remind you that these,” he runs his finger down the inside of Thanatos’ wrist, “don’t define you, for as long as you need. Until then… Did I ever tell you about this mark, here?” He touches his chin, “I will say… my brother, Apollo, is one hell of a boxer…”