[Completed]
An alchemist who poisoned himself, an assassin who stabbed his own heart, an arsonist who burned herself, and a hero who couldn't defeat his inner monster.
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( A re-enact of Hades...
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WARNING: This chapter will contain dark violence, readers discretion is advised!! Please tell me if this chapter is too dark or too much for you, and I'll gladly edit it. I split the last chapter into 2 because this is almost 10k, I'll upload the second one within 24 hours. So, enjoy. <3
Ichor slipped through his fingers, not the gilded and golden as he was used to, it was mortals. Crimson, coppery and pungent—it reeked of weakness, wrath, and greed. Between the Gods of Olympus court, it was not Thanatos who would feast over the mortals' death, watching the war like a theatrical show while fiddling a glass of mulled wine in his hand. Ares. It was Ares. He was tooling vengeance and hatred into a good-old-sweet barricade of frontline soldiers.
Foolish.
How easy war erupted between their fickle being when a heated debate remained unsettled. They raised their knives, plunged the aether with shiny swords, then rained catapults of fire upon meadowes before it bloomed into a sea of flames. They polished their seemingly impenetrable armor and sharp iron rods with pride—ignoring all the lives, all the souls, all the orphans and widowers back at home. All because of mankind's ego.
Stupid mortal feelings, and Morphine Avery's unending war begun with the same rationale.
The boy was birthed and warped in silk cloth and galleons pot awaited right after his first cry, his dear mother patched her love into his robes like a medal. With nobility on his attire, he was as blinding as the sun, yet, Ares was not Apollo—who would chase darkness from lonely souls. No, if Apollo was the sun, Ares was dusk. He was the ever-changing sky, saturated chroma from cotton candy, to golden urns, faltered to purple, before he bleaked and swallowed by darkness nettled in his being.
But what caused the dark to bead out of his pores, coursing such hatred, enough to harden his gentle heart? Words. Out of every weapon in the world, your tongue—that boneless muscle, was the deadliest weapon, it was traceless and precise—after all, it was a weapon made by the celestials. Young Avery's wrath was assembled out of words, a slip of his father's tongue, the strangers' phlegmatic gaze, and a golden Irish witch. It was akin to a dose of morphine shot to his marrow, the more he listened to his father's cutthroat words towards him, the more he became numb.
There was a short pause when the young boy questioned his mother before bed as to why his father behaved that way, but Theodora Avery would only purse her lips and diverted the topic. Though, the lady would glance at the empty bottles of fertility potions stuffed in her vanity drawer, with gloom lingered on her eyes. Often, she would be at their manor's backyard, under the oak tree, watering the blossoming daisy bushes—a memoir of their unborn heiress.
