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“Is she dead?”
He barely processes that he's spoke the thought aloud, tongue feeling too heavy in his mouth at the sight of his sister- Athena, goddess of wisdom, Athena, perfect child, Athena, the one who outwits him so easily in every fight- unresponsive, eerily still below.
The threat of his father's wrath, so many times before, banishment, exile from the heavens- he was his father's most hated child. Why is it Athena pinned to the ground, wings flared behind her, a butterfly pinned against the wall for display-
his favourite child.
“No! Nono- gods cannot die, beloved Ares! She…she's not dead. She- hah! Hahah! Can't be!”
Bile rises in his throat. Aphrodite's expression is something desperate. Manic.
…Horrified.
“...Right?” She whispers, her grip on his arm painful.
What is he supposed to say, with his lips so incapable of merely parting?
It should've been him. It should be his body broken by his father in front of countless to see, should've been him at the wrath of his father's bolts. Not Athena, never Athena- why is it Athena?
He had expected her to dodge, to move while lightning sparked countless and overwhelming behind the throne, but she had been…rooted. If Ares was a more foolish man, he'd dare to believe it'd been fear, the same ice cold dread that'd frozen Aphrodite beside him and made him stiffen- is it the same? Did his sister feel the same paralyzing terror he does, every time their father, king of the gods, catches wind of his misgivings?
…She couldn't have. Couldn't have been. Athena doesn't- feel fear, doesn't do emotions- shouldn't. She shouldn't.
(So why did she? Why does he recall Athena's look of upset when he'd brought insult to her imprisoned hero's son? Why is she doing this?)
He feels sick. Like the moments he becomes keenly aware of his body coated in mortal blood after war and the exhilaration of battle fades, when it leaves just him and the sticky, too-hot warmth of crimson staining him like it'll never be washed away. The soldiers- they'd had families.
Athena is his family.
And Ares doesn't-
“...want her to die. I never- no one wanted her to die,” Aphrodite is muttering. Ares tries to work his jaw, to speak.
He can't.
He pulls her close, tugs her against his armor (armor that had failed to protect his sister from their father's anger) and holds her there instead.
His lover, goddess of beauty- of passion, of love, chokes out a strangled rasp of a sob-
she, too, loved Athena.