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Chapter Text

Clarisse had spent her early childhood longing for her father, but when at last he came to her, she was terrified. This was what she was made of. This was who she came from – the personification of bloodlust and savagery. She became his favorite daughter, the implications of which made her both immensely proud and sick to her stomach.

In her head, she had pictured her dad as big and strong like her – someone who took no shit – but who also clapped her on the back after she demolished another team in softball, hugged her when she had a bad day at school, and wrestled with her for fun. He would be tough as nails and mean to everyone but her and her mom.

Well, that had turned out to be bullshit. Not the tough thing, of course, but the whole “love” part. Gods didn’t love their kids. Gods didn’t love their partners. Gods only loved themselves.

Especially Ares.

________________

The fact that the shrimp who had broken her spear was going on a quest made her blood boil. Anger was an old friend – she knew it in and out – but this was beyond fucked up. If that little shit miraculously made it back to camp, she would kick his teeth in.

It had been a gift from Ares after she made head counselor the year before. He cornered her during her post-dinner workout when no one was around. To her embarrassment, she shrieked and fell off the pull-up bars when he sneaked up on her. She stood there doing her best not to tremble. All he did was flash his signature smirk, summon the spear, and thrust it into the dirt. Then he left. That was it. He didn’t bother to show himself to her siblings, who saw him even less than she did. But his absence was better than his ire, which is what they usually got.

Clarisse’s hand hovered over the spear as it crackled with red energy. She couldn’t wait to wield it during the next day’s training. She would show them what being a child of Ares really meant.

The spear served her well until the son of Poseidon waltzed into camp and snapped it in two like a twig. Her heart shattered when she held its remains. What did this mean? Was her father telling her she was weak? Had he given it to her for the sole purpose of humiliation?

Clarisse wrestled with that uncertainty for a whole year, and then she got her quest. It wasn’t any old quest either; she was going to retrieve the Golden Fleece and save Thalia’s tree. Glory awaited her, and camp would be grateful for her aid. This confidence was boosted by Ares’ gift: a ship and crew, all for her.

Her father hadn’t spurned her. He wasn’t disappointed in her. Although that bastard Tantalus had been the one who decided she would go on the quest, proving herself to Ares was what she truly craved.

Of course, Prissy and Annabeth got themselves wrapped up in her mission, but that wasn’t important, right? At the end of the day, she had done right by her father and made her siblings proud. That was all that mattered.

________________

Before getting an impromptu mission, she went to visit her mother.

It was weird being back in Phoenix, but weirdly nice at the same time. Her mom seemed to be doing a lot better not having a demigod around all the time, which Clarisse didn’t take personally. Since she was not enrolled in school, they spent a few weeks hiking the desert, shooting on the gun range, and eating real fucking tacos – so much better than what the dryads at camp cooked up.

But all good things come to a swift end, especially for a demigod.

She found Chris Rodriguez, an unclaimed son of Hermes whom she had begrudgingly harbored a crush on for years, wandering the desert a few miles from Mom’s trailer. He was delirious with thirst and hunger and had been touched with madness, the source of which she could not discern. Her little vacation with Mom was clearly over, and she managed to contact Coach Hedge to get him back to camp.

For Clarisse herself, camp would have to wait. She got word from Chiron to enter the hellhole Chris had crawled out from and scout for stray half-bloods. The next few months were the most exhausting and disturbing of her life, and when camp finally called her back, she swore never to enter the Labyrinth again.

All of her spare time upon returning was spent at Chris’s bedside (and ignoring her siblings’ pestering). She wanted to throttle Mr. D for leaving when one of the campers needed him most, even though she knew his current expeditions were far more important than the sanity of one unclaimed half-blood.

She also wanted to throttle Hermes. Where did the gods get off in not claiming their children? Although she would never turn traitor, she understood why Chris and the others had joined Luke.

One day in June, her father showed up right outside the Big House’s basement where Chris was kept. It was well past curfew, but she’d threatened to pulverize anyone who brought up her nightly absences.

“Father,” she blurted. His beefy arms were crossed over his chest, and she could almost see flames coming from his nostrils. “What – why are you here? What do you need?”

“What are you doing?” he asked. His voice was level but clearly bordering on raving mad.

Clarisse balked. “I’m just looking after one of the kids from Cabin Eleven. He’s been ill.”

“Oh, I know what’s wrong with him. I’m asking why my daughter is wasting her time playing nurse for some invalid while war is brewing.”

She gaped at him. “Are you serious? I know that caring is not exactly your strong suit, but I’m half my mother. Despite what you like to think, mortal blood is just as strong in us as ichor.”

He shot forward and fisted one of his hands in her short hair while the other wrapped around her neck. The pull on her scalp made her eyes water, and although the pressure on her throat was not enough to restrict her breathing too much, it made her gag.

“You were not made to waste time on weak little boys. You were not made for compassion.” Ares spat out the word with as much venom as he could. “I won’t let you do that, Clarisse.”

He released his hold on her, and she struggled not to stagger away from him.

“Fuck this,” she mumbled.

“What? What the fuck did you just say?”

She glanced at his clenched fists and coughed out a laugh. “I said fuck this. Fuck you. I’m fucking done. I don’t want to see you ever again.”

And then she did something few half-bloods had ever done – she walked away from the god of war, slowly and without fear. There was none left.

________________

“Mark, Ellis.”

The two brawny young men turned to Clarisse, who was entering Cabin Five. She was sweaty and a single vein popped out of her forehead. She was pissed.

“Yeah,” Mark answered.

“Those fuckers in Seven are trying to claim the chariot for themselves.”

“What!” Ellis cried. Their sisters started rolling off their bunks at the news.

There was a reason none of the campers ever visited their cabin. The children of Ares were loud and brash, and you did not want to be around them when they were angry. That, and the music they seemed to have playing twenty four hours a day was a hell of a lot more grating than the records Seven had spinning – fuckin’ Fleetwood Mac and Beatles and Cat Stevens. They’d take Motörhead over that soft shit any day.

The youngest, little Nakoma, was already reaching for her sword.

“Hold up, Koma,” Clarisse said. She put her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “We’ve gotta be smart about this. If we’re hotheads again, everyone’s going to take their side.”

“Nobody ever takes our side,” Ellis huffed. “So who cares? We’ll get ‘em back next time.”

Kinley smacked the back of his head. “I care, dickface. You know what Dad would say if we just rolled over and let them have it?”

Clarisse pursed her lips. She didn’t give a damn what Ares thought these days, not that she’d admit to it in front of her siblings.

“Look,” Mark said, “we did the dirty work. All they did was pop up at the last second to take the thing. It should be ours, fair and square.”

“Even if it wasn’t fair, since when did that ever stop us?” Nakoma asked. She was so young – only ten – and had spent the past four years of her life at camp. Dead mom and a deadbeat dad, could barely read or write or do math or anything but fight. All she knew was trouble. It made Clarisse and her brothers sad; at least they had gotten a few years of relative normalcy before shit hit the fan.

In the end, the boys, Kinley, and Louise agreed with Nakoma.

Clarisse threw her hands in the air. “Fine! Fine. You wanna fight? Let’s fucking fight.”

Five watched with a twinge of regret as their sister stormed out of the cabin. It had been happening a lot since she found Chris in Arizona, and they were more than a bit confused by the behavior.

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She would probably go the rest of her life without hearing that sound again, or anything like it. Grief was visible in all the Olympians, but his was the only vocalized. Something about that made Clarisse hate her father a little less. How many children had he lost in his years? Thousands? Surely the heartless bastard had gotten used to it ages ago...

But there he was, kicking rubble and corpses across the battlefield because two of them had been slain. They had died a warrior’s death; he should respect their sacrifice with pride. Instead, it seemed that he would do almost anything for Mark and Nakoma to live again. 

Clarisse sank to the crumbled asphalt beside her siblings’ bodies. “Will they get Elysium?” she croaked.

Shockingly, Ares paused to answer her. “I don’t know. Most of my kids don’t.”

She nodded. It made sense. Didn’t stop her heart from cracking even further, though.

He hesitated before turning to face her. “The little one might.”

She looked up at him, and for once did not flinch at the destruction burning in his eyes.

“Koma?”

He clenched his jaw and gave her a short nod.

“She was fearless,” Clarisse whispered. “There was so much fight in her. And Mark…”

Ares growled. Mark was – had been – his oldest living mortal offspring at twenty-two years. Demigods died young, and his kids were certainly no exception. Now Mark was just another number on that long list.

Clarisse said something she knew would get her in serious trouble. “You barely knew them, Father. You barely knew them at all.”

His hand clamped down on her shoulder, and the pain made her tears fall quicker. Leaning down, his hot, rancid breath skimmed her ear.

“Don’t. You. Dare.”

Ares pushed her hard onto the asphalt. Too tired to put up a fight, or even care, she watched him loom over her and smiled, exposing a row of crowded, bloody teeth. He looked at her with scrutiny, and then did something that made her heart stop.

He bent over and wiped away her tears with the calloused pad of his thumb. It crossed her mind that she had never felt a gentle touch from him in her life. Once her tears slowed to a trickle, he gripped her with his enormous hands and hauled her to a standing position. Her chest heaved from an awkward attempt to regulate. Ares’ permanent scowl deepened, and his fingers dug further into her skin.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured.

“Don’t do that. We don’t apologize for nothin’, got it? At least not things we aren’t guilty of.”

“Then why...?"

He sighed and released his hold on her. She found herself missing his touch.

“I can never be what you want. I am not a good person. I'm not a good father. It’s not in my nature.”

“Father,” she croaked. “I’d never ask you to be anything other than who you are.”

“And I’d never ask that of you,” he replied. “You make me so proud.” Her eyes widened, and he turned to leave. Before he shimmered away to deal with business, he said something else.

“I care about my kids, no matter what anyone believes. I love you, Clarisse.”

She gagged on the bile coming up her esophagus. Those three words were all she’d ever wanted to hear from him, but in that moment, it was too much. A low breeze rustled the bloodied hair of her siblings, and Clarisse laid down beside them for a short, dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

You could say whatever you wanted about the god of war, and a lot of it might have been true, but these were the facts:

1. Ares had never taken a woman against her will, despite rape being a standard of war.

2. Ares claimed his children.

3. Ares was proud of his children, even those who were not worthy.

4. Ares avenged his children. Tried to, at least.

5. Ares loved his children (and his mother) because contrary to what some morons preach, war was inseparable from love.

6. Similarly, war was inseparable from loss and humiliation. Ares knew this, Ares understood this, and yes, he did accept it for himself from time to time.

7. Ares was hated.

8. But the world had paid tribute to him more than any other god, even though they refused to acknowledge it.

9. Ares was not stupid. Volatile? Absolutely. Stupid? Hell no.

10. And finally, despite what he told the son of Poseidon, Ares dreamed.

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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 fuck 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 shitty 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 angered 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 progeny 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 shitless, 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.

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.

________________

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.

________________

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 shit 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 fucking 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 he.

“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?”

“Fuck’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.