Chapter Text
The trouble with metaphor and symbolism is that it so rarely translates well, dependant as it is on language, on history, on culture.
The Gods could not have children, every Greek knew this. Oh, there had been the odd exception over the years, the few lucky children that had survived the curse to gain domains of their own. But they were rare, and their existence all the more precious for it.
But, though their efforts were futile, the longing for children never faded from the gods and though their wrath may fall on their followers, children were ever spared their anger. Some, a very lucky few, even impressed them. These children became favoured by the gods. Were given blessings and tools and favours by them, treated with care and watched over as they grew from children into mighty heroes. It is said that the gods treated them almost like children of their own. Almost. Over time it became common to see these ‘children’ of the gods. Hercules, ‘child’ of Zeus, gifted strength and courage, Bellerophon, 'child' of Poseidon, blessed with his loyal, Pegasus companion, Oenomaus 'child' of Ares and gifted with a godly chariot.
The trouble with knowledge that everyone knows – it is not written down.
Who would think to? Who would dare? Who would ever consign the gods’ greatest shame, their greatest tragedy, to pottery and stone, and not immediately feel the gods’ wrath for immortalising their grief.
And so, many years past the height of Greece’s power, a new power took hold in the lands. And when these foreigners, these not-yet-Romans, heard tale of the mighty legends of heroes. Heard tale of these sons and daughters of the gods. They took it as fact. And as they adopted the Greek godsas their own, some things were lost in the telling. Minerva, lost her warfare, Mars lost his bloodlust and the curse, that was lost to history.
So, when the first demi-god child was born amongst the people of not-yet-Rome, these new, changed gods, did not see the miracle before them. They merely saw the latest in a long line of godly children, the latest in a long line of warriors and weapons.
Trapped beneath the chains of their Roman counterparts, the Greek gods watched and seethed.
XXX
To the surprise of the entire pantheon, it was Ares who found a solution first.
On the slopes of the Palatine hill, two young men fought. If they could truly be called ‘men’. Both still clung to the gangly, coltishness of youth their bodies just faintly disproportionate in a way that spoke of a recent growth spurt. Though one had the faintest shadow of future stubble clinging to his cheeks, the other’s face – almost identical in all other aspects – was bare. Metal clashed against metal as their swords met, one giving an inarticulate bellow of pure rage as the two separated.
A short distance away, settled in the boughs of an ash tree a large vulture ruffled its wings and watched on with beady eyes. Behind those eyes, a second consciousness stirred in its chains.
“What are you doing?!” Ares demanded, as the sight of the battle filtered down to him. “Stop. Stop!” He threw himself furiously forward and let out an inarticulate growl of rage when he found himself buffeted backwards. “They are going to kill each other.”
“That is the point, pest,” Mars returned coldly, beady eyes not leaving the fight even as his vulture form felt a twinge of pain from the struggle raging in his mind. Still. They were on Italian soil. The irritation would be easily held back. “Now quiet.”
One of the men – the boys – faltered, his grip on his sword faltering as he took a step back, a sheepish half smile almost rising to his face as he looked towards his brother whose anger faltered in the face of his brother’s hesitation. No. That would not do at all. With a clack of the vulture’s beak Mars’ aura reached out, twining around the boys and stoking their bloodlust higher. One boy’s face twisted into a snarl, eerily reminiscent of his foster mother’s teeth, and attacked again.
“The winner will be twice cursed, fool!” Ares yelled, thrashing ineffectually in his prison. “Oathbreaker. Kinslayer. What reason could there possibly be –”
“A great nation will come from these lands,” Mars snapped back, spine straightening. “A great people, undefeatable in battle, unprecedented in statecraft, whose innovation and might will spread across many lands, uniting them under one banner. The banner of whichever of my sons proves himself worthy. Proves himself strong.”
As he spoke, a flicker of memory passed between them. Mars, fully armoured, knee bent and head bowed at the foot of their father’s throne. At four times Mars’ height, Jupiter looked down on them, face hidden beneath swirling clouds, body draped in royal purple his symbol of power clutched in one hand as he spoke. As he gave Mars his orders. It was a king, speaking to a subject. A general, speaking to a soldier. Not a father, speaking to his son. It made bile burn hot in the back of Ares’ throat to watch and he tore his attention back to the battle – unable to see his father reduced to – to that.
A scream from the hill. Ares’ attention snapped forwards in time to see one son fall back in a spray of blood. His brother’s sword hung in the air, sharp blade having slashed across his enemy’s chest, severing skin and fat and muscle. A mortal wound.
Ares let our a scream of his own, rage boiling and bubbling like the magma of his own brother’s favoured workshop, consuming all around it. There was a flash of alarm and surprise from Mars before he was forced back and Ares took control, throwing them forwards towards their sons.
As Remus fell backwards, two great wings curved forwards to surround him, cradling him, covering him from view. For a second, Ares saw the bloodlust fade from his older son’s eyes, replaced with a shattered devastation and guilt.
And then Ares and Remus vanished, leaving Romulus standing alone in the foundations of his city.
XXX
He carried his son in his arms to his grove in Geronthrae. There were still many places where the Greeks held sway. And he needed somewhere where he could be sure that that parasite could not take over.
Remus did not wake on the journey, did not wake when Ares lay him on the soft ground and began to treat his wounds. Ares was no Apollo, could not heal with a song or a snap of the fingers. But he dare not call his brother when he did not yet know which version of him may arrive. Besides, Ares knew a great deal about the kinds of wounds a soldier may receive. With barely a flick of his hand, supplies appeared around him.
He washed the wound with water and vinegar. The heat did not bother him, but he lay protection over his son’s skin, so that the boiling water did not burn him – the better to burn away infection. Once cleaned he packed the wound with honey and yarrow and thyme, before binding it tightly. His son did stir then, a faint groan of pain as Ares was forced to move him to wrap his torso liberally in bandages. With a frown, Ares nudged the child’s consciousness further from waking, pressing one gentle finger against the boy’s pulse. It was fluttery and faint, but still there.
His shoulder’s relaxed. For now, at least, his son would live.
With the danger – if not banished, at least locked outside the door – Ares took a moment to finally see his son proper. That interfering parasite always pushed him down when he had shown an interest in the twins. Ares had been forced to resign himself to distant glimpses. He had never even gotten close enough to see his features echoed in their faces. He could see it now, though. The boy had his chin, his nose, his strong jaw and heavy brow. The hair, though, curly springs of bark-brown, that he had inherited from his mother. He brushed his hand gently across it, something warm glowing in his chest at the feel of the soft hair, the small skull beneath his palm.
He had held his Eros like this once, when his son was much young, almost small enough to fit in the palm of Ares hand. Harmonia had been too fragile. A small thing that had come too soon, who’s breath has caught in her throat and who’s vein had been visible beneath too-pale skin. Dearest-Aphrodite had not allowed the child to leave her arms for the first three years of her life.
Ares knew he was luckier than some. With one son, and one daughter had already outpaced his uncle, and several of his siblings. But that did not stop the burn of anger at the injustice of it when he sometimes saw a mortal man place a blade into their son’s hand for the first time, or guide his daughter through their first steps. This child, Remus, was almost a man-grown. So much of his childhood had been stolen from Ares and for what? To be raised in the woods by a wild beast? To be taken in by peasants? When the luxuries of Olympus should have been his.
Such precious gifts these new gods had, and they squandered them all.
Ares lips twisted into a snarl as he looked down at his son, making sure to keep his hands gentle against the demi-god’s skin. He could his feel his counterpart’s claim on the boy – almost, like his own, but…wrong. It was like a shadow, distorted by uneven ground. Like a river meeting the sea, freshwater mingling with salt. It was his, and not his all at once. Snarl growing, Ares reached out on instinct and tore that parasite’s claim from their child.
Immediately he froze. In one hand, Mars’ claim pulsed angrily, threatening to burn his skin, the other held his child, mercifully free of the imposter’s scent. That. Should not had been possible.
Tusk grew from Ares’ jaw, a deep, animalistic possessiveness thrumming through his chest as he crushed the false claim in his fist and leaned forward to rub his chin against his son’s cheek, rubbing his own scent, his own claim deep into the skin. A satisfied chuffing rumbled from him, eyes turning red and fiery as he pressed his own claim into his son’s soul until there was nothing to show that it had ever been otherwise.
In the back of his mind, Mars stirred, a faint objection that Ares swatted down with barely a thought, staring proudly down at his child. His child. The child he had claimed for Greece.
XXX
The sky was full of thunder. Jason peered up at it, hands clutching the hem of his shirt as he watched the dark clouds roll in.
He normally loved the rain, the crackle of lightning overhead, the boom of thunder shaking through his very bones. It felt like home. But this, something about this didn’t feel – it sent the hairs on the backs of his arms prickling, set his stomach churning like the one time he’d tried the raw meat the Lupa and the others normally ate.
“You should not be out here.”
Jason flinched violently at the voice at his shoulder, spinning around, one hand instinctively going for a knife.
“Good instincts,” Lupa said, the giant wolf looking down on him from almost twice his height. “But we will need to work on your situational awareness, again. I should not have got so close without you noticing.”
Jason winced. He hated awareness training. It mostly meant him getting dropped in the woods and Lupa and the others jumping out of the trees at him. He rubbed his arm, feeling the faint marks left over from last time, the small nips that the wolves would give him as punishment when he didn’t react fast enough. “Sorry,” he muttered, digging his toe into the dirt.
“You should not be out here,” Lupa said darkly, her gaze tilted up. “Come back to the Wolf House. Now.”
“Why?” Jason asked, shooting a glance over his shoulder as he moved obediently to her side. He didn’t see anything. Just clouds and incoming rain. “There’s nothing –”
“This is not your father’s storm,” Lupa said ominously, dropping one shoulder and allowing the eight-year-old to clamber onto her back. Her fur was so thick that Jason almost disappeared inside it, grabbing two thick fistfuls and wrapping his legs tight against her side as the wolf took off in a sprint.
“What do you mean?” Jason yelled, his words almost whipped away by the wind, only the twitch of Lupa’s ear letting him know that she had heard him.
He almost repeated the question – despite knowing how annoyed Lupa would be – when the she-wolf spoke.
“There are things out there that would be dangerous for a demi-god like you.”
“I know about the mons –”
“Not monsters,” Lupa growled, the sound rumbling up Jason’s legs and into his lungs. “Spirits. Trickesters. Things that almost wear your father’s face, but not quite. They would snatch away a demi-god like you in a heartbeat.”
Jason flinched, pressing himself deeper into the fur and trying to tell himself that his shivers were due to the cold. An image flashed through his mind. Choppy black hair, and a lopsided smile. A hand, clutching his, “Is that what happened to –" he fells silent. Romans did not share their weaknesses.
Lupa, obligingly, ignored what he had not asked. “Here at the Wolf House, you are safe. At New Rome, you will be safe. These creatures cannot cross the Tiber. But, this is why you must stay within the confines of our territory. Why, once you join the legion, you must never leave without your cohort. A lone Roman, is a taken Roman. And none taken have ever made their way home to us. They are lost forever.”
Jason swallowed, burying his face in Lupa’s fur his grip tightening. He thought of that smile again. The sister who had vanished shortly before a woman whose face he couldn’t remember had taken him from home and brought him to Lupa’s house. He hoped Lupa was wrong. Hoped that those monsters hadn’t found them.
The House loomed before them, and Lupa skidded to a stop so fast that Jason was almost thrown from her back. They were inside, the door closing firmly behind them, before the first raindrop fell.