The Retellings

Fear is powerful

There was nothing left of the wild chamomiles that bloomed for the gods. East winds that used to carry the fragrance of the woods and the sounds of the wild were silenced.

Instead of freshwater feeding Gaia's soil, blood rained from the battle. Men, some barely old enough to be called youths, lay gutted open like offerings to Zeus. The victors, those favoured by Nike, marched off to celebrate, whilst the Keres flocked together to feast on the flesh of the fallen and gnaw at their naked bones.

The young Phobos, a deity entering his youth, stood beside his twin brother Deimos. Their father returned to his chariot. Words could not describe the emotions that flooded through the boys' minds as they stared at the dead.

A bloody hand grabbed onto Deimos' leg. His voice gurgled with blood, but the man kept trying to beg the boy to save him. Deimos could only stare at the dying man.

Between the gaps in his helmet, the twins could see his eyes tremble. With an audible slice, the man's eyes rolled back. His hand fell limp. Ares withdrew his spear from the man's head and shook the blood from its tip.

His heated gaze turned to his sons and their blood ran cold. They both tensed but refused to meet the god's eyes beneath his iron helmet.

Ares removed his helmet and ruffled Deimos' hair. His hands were painted with the blood of his enemies, the same men littered across the field. On their father's arms lay scars and wounds. One rather large gash looked like an eye, wide open and crying blood.

"See boys," their father's voice was as rough as the cries of war that echoed throughout the battle.

"This is what lives are all about! These mortals worship us, give us sacrifices and all to ensure that they win a foolish battle! Soon, my sons, you will join me. You will strike fear into the hearts of our enemies."

Ares' laughter at his own words caused worry to pool inside the young boys' minds. They did not want war. They wanted the love that their brother, Eros, had been granted.

***

Time passed, and by the time Persephone arise from the underworld, it would have been time for Phobos and Deimos to join their father. Yet, the more time passed, the more Phobos longed to relinquish his divine rights. The images of the torn men remained burned into Phobos' memories. The thought of being the cause of such horror made the god's stomach turn. For an immortal, he somehow attained the heart of a mortal.

Eros, his sweet, dear brother. A god respected by both mortals and gods. A god that can affect the outcome of the war and bring peace. It is he that powers people's determination softens their hearts and hardens their spirits. He can lighten the leaden reins that hold the heart back. He is even able to bring the god of the damned souls to his knees in the name of love.

How can Phobos not envy his power?

Whilst his brother rules next to their mother's side. He was left cursed to spread fear to mortals and to ride along in his father's chariot. Phobos was the pathetic fool who shackled the hearts of every poor soul. He heard them curse him under their breaths. How they wished he would vanquish, sent to rot in Tartarus like Sisyphus.

"I did not ask for this!!" Phobos cried out to the empty skies. He never asked to see his work in the eyes of young Athenians as the Sky Father rains down his might upon them. He never asked to see his work in the eyes of men as they cower in front of the beasts made by vengeful gods.

"Why mother Aphrodite?! Why must I be cursed?!" His echo mocked as it repeated his unanswered questions.

"Because," a voice softer than that of an angel spoke. Phobos did not turn to the honeyed voice. He could not face the woman who birthed him after laying down his insecurities for all to behold.

"Without fear. Man would be simple-minded." She sat down next to her son on one of the rocks of the empty mountain.

"Fear can also drive men. It makes them both blind and wise. It can either make a ruler strong or foolish." Her head rested softly atop Phobos' shoulder. Hair as pure as gold brushed against his cheek.

"You have not been cursed Phobos. You are here to help mankind. They need you as much as they need Eros. Both of you are mighty and fierce gods."

In the distance, figures approached them.

"And both of you are needed, my son. Now go with your father. Fight for the gods, destroy the enemy, and protect your allies. Your followers will come, just wait." She tilted her son's head and gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek.

The figures stood in front of them. Phobos stared in awe at his brothers and sister, all cladded in armour. Ares struck out his hand to his son and without hesitation, Phobos took his father's hand. Together the figures marched on into battle.