Archive of Our Own ^beta

Ares is in the middle of cleaving a gryphon’s skull in twain when he realizes he’s in a dream. It does not stop his motion- he separates bone from bone, blood from veins, life from creature, with an easy swing of his axe. As the momentum carries him, he allows himself to turn with it, surveying the dreamscape around him in a whirlwind of melted colors and sounds that stand apparent and obvious once he knows what to look for. The edges of the battlefield are hazy, wavering as the marble of his palace floor does on a hot summer day, and the combatants around him give the illusion of death and nothing more. As he steps away from his conquest, the blood of the gryphon splattered across his face, he searches for what has brought him from his revelry, his dance, his beloved violence and shattered bone and sweet, wet noises of the dying. Even in his dreams, to hear the cry of the dying ring around him brings nothing but the sweetest of pleasures to mind.

It’s easy enough to learn what’s wrong with the dream, what has sent him tumbling out of the dance. There’s a slight creature hovering on the battlefield, a little slip of a thing with a head full of cloud-like curls and skin the shade of the dying night sky. Ares has never seen this godling before but he can easily recognize him as such; one of the cthonics, even, judging by the color of his skin and the power he feels nestled inside of the small thing. The cloud drifts towards him across the battlefield, curled up into himself so that the edges of his chiton do not drag in the pools of blood drying on the grass.

Ares watches as Hypnos approaches. He’s never met the god of sleep in person but he knows of him, mostly tales from the mouth of Thanatos who gripes and groans over his brother’s perceived lack of duty. There was that whole business with his father a few centuries back that he knows had the king of the gods calling for the chthonic god’s head for a while before he managed to move on. In his mind, he’d built a picture of a god without Thanatos’ drive but with Hermes’ skill for mischief and left it at that. He had the utmost respect for Hypnos’ brother, his mother, his origins, everything that the chthonic gods were- but Hypnos himself didn’t seem to cross his path much.

Even though he doesn’t know him, Ares can tell there is something wrong. The little god comes to a stop in front of him, hovering a few feet away, out of arm’s reach unless War was truly motivated to close the distance and grab for him. There’s an exhaustion in his face that does not seem to belong there, dark circles nearly as black as his mother’s night ringing his eyes and a mouth that droops despite laugh-lines that betray its usual position. The cloud-like curls are matted and among the pure white strands he can see traces of dirt and what he easily recognizes to be dried blood. Both the dark brown of flaking human blood and the sickly shade of yellow of dried ichor are caught up in Hypnos’ hair.

Most surprising of all, Ares thinks, is the aura of violence that hangs about him. There’s an anger in Hypnos, a desperation, that he would not have expected from such a wisp of a god. From his brother’s accounts, Sleep is a layabout, incapable of such things; the one in front of him has been entwisted in violence for so long that it has begun to change the very edges of his aura.

It is interesting, to see such a bundle of contradictions here in front of him. Hypnos does not seem inclined to speak and so Ares does, never one to back down from a challenge presented. He wonders, absently, if this has anything to do with the uproar he knows the underworld has been in as of late. His associate has hardly tended to his duties at all in the past few months, behavior most unlike him.

“Lord Hypnos,” Ares greets, raising his voice to be heard over the clashing of the monsters around them. A chimera bounds past with its claws outstretched, glinting in the light of the blood red sun.

Hypnos seems to startle as if he weren’t expecting Ares to speak to him, losing a few inches of hovering height before he seemingly recovers from the shock. The war god searches for the fear in his eyes that he is accustomed to receiving from those unfamiliar with him and finds it there aplenty. It is a strange mix of feelings that arise within him at the sight: the pride that comes with being feared, the knowledge that he is thought of as a beast. Confusion at seeing these emotions from a chthonic, of all beings- Ares knows better than the rest of the Olympians that the cthonics will last far longer than he and the rest of his ilk. It is odd to him that Hypnos shrinks so at the mere sound of his voice. The curled little god in front of him hardly seems to be part of such an illustrious legacy, disheveled and shaking in the air.

“Ha-ha, hiya Lord Ares!” Hypnos chirps, clearly striving for a cheerful tone. As he opens his mouth, Ares sees the shine of ichor on his teeth, glittering atop his tongue. It belies teeth marks that he hasn’t noticed until now, evidence of the godling biting down and ripping open his own lip many times over. He does it now, falling silent, seeming unaware of the way he savages his bottom lip with teeth that are suddenly far sharper than they were before. It’s clear there’s something bothering the wisp of cloud in front of him and he waits patiently for Hypnos to decide what he wants to say. Curiosity burns at him, wondering what could possibly drive the god of sleep to seek him out in this way, but he will not break the silence first.

“So, uh, given the current predicament!” Hypnos continues eventually, waving down the length of himself as if Ares should know what he’s talking about. “I figured I owe you an apology! I mean, I don’t really know what I’m apologizing for, but I do know you’re as pissed at me as a raging bull, so I figure I should make one!”

He’s laughing as he finishes talking but Ares recognizes the hysteria evident in his voice from a mile off, the edge of someone who’s been pushed to the absolute brink of their sanity. He’s already frowning before the god has finished speaking, but he feels it spread into a scowl as Hypnos drops into a deep bow in front of him. The little god sweeps so low to the ground that a bit of the blood dotting the grass stains into his hair, bleeding the tips of his white strands crimson. He floats still but practically folds himself in half to bow in front of Ares, showing deference and respect that he would welcome with pride had it come from anyone else.

“It would be great if we could sort this out!” Hypnos continues from his bent position, seeming to hardly dare to rise up once more. “Really great in fact! I have duties at the house, you know how that is, and I think my brother’s about ready to tear all his hair out, which would be an interesting sight but I don’t wish that on him, you know? And I’d really love to go home and get a nap, not that being your guest hasn’t been lovely and all, really, the hospitality is great, but I’ve got a whole bed setup that I’m not using and it just seems like a waste. So I’m really sorry for what I did that pissed you off!”

He loosens his grip on the battle axe, dropping it to the ground below so that when he reaches his hand towards Hypnos, he does not hold a weapon. Calloused fingers tuck underneath a chin with skin so soft that it almost feels like silk beneath his hand. Clearly the godling wasn’t expecting it, for he starts and very nearly shies away from Ares’ touch before he seems to decide that doing so might enrage the god further.

As if he had any anger towards the kneeling little cloud to begin with. As if he understands what is going on here at all.

“Rise, dear Sleep,” Ares says, and gently guides Hypnos upright with the pressure of his fingers against Sleep’s skin. He’s careful with his strength- he can feel the godling trembling beneath his touch and knows that something terrible has happened to the wisp of a cloud in front of him.

“A pretty apology, except I do not know why you make it to me. I know nothing of what you speak of. Stand tall, son of Nyx. You should not bow your head for anyone, least of all me.”

Hypnos makes clutching motions, reaching behind himself to grasp at the air as though he were used to finding something beneath his touch. When he doesn’t find it, Ares expects him to make it- he is the lord of this realm, after all, commander of all that happens here. Instead, he seems to crumble.

“It’s been a great joke, Lord Ares, really! But I think its gone on far too long, maybe? If you could just tell him to let me go, I’m sure this whole thing will blow over in a century or two! I’m replaceable at the house, sure, anyone can go down a list, but Mother Nyx is probably not going to be too happy with me unless I get home soon!”

He sees the god’s bluish skin tinge darker as he speaks of his mother, continues to babble on about Hades and the underworld and other things that make no sense at all. Hypnos talks at length about chains and cages and adverse effects on the mortals and returns to the idea of apologizing to Ares several times, until the war god reaches forward to clutch both his shoulders tight to keep him upright. Even if his words mean no sense, he can read the other god’s mannerisms as easily as he can read the tide of battle.

Fear, apologizing for everything and nothing. A disheveled appearance, red chiton unwashed, hair in disarray. Desperation for it to end, for the bonds to be broken, for anything that could set him free. Even, it seems, the person he apparently thinks has put him in bonds in the first place. Ares recognizes someone in captivity the way he recognizes the glance of a prisoner of war, men huddled together as though being among their fellows will loosen the fetters about their wrists and spring open the shackles at their ankles. He glances at the god’s thin wrists and sees scars there, thick bands of light blue tissue that haven’t yet adopted the shade of the god’s skin. Healing wounds that he knows come from thick cuffs that bind. There are a set of his own on his skin when he so chooses to let them show.

Anger flares hot and thick in his blood. The feeling is familiar, nothing new at all to the war god, but rarely does it spring to him with such intensity so suddenly. There is nothing more that he wants to do then to rip, to tear and rend whatever stands in his path- he is vengeance and fury, spinning broken flesh and torrents of blood in his wake as he carves his path throughout the world. Ares inhales deeply and releases Hypnos’ chin, taking a step away from Sleep to compose himself as he realizes the truth of the matter. Sleep seems to have been a captive for some time- and for some reason, he believes Ares to be his tormentor.

It makes sense, if he thinks back to Thanatos’ odd behavior, the strange stirrings in the underworld. Hades has been sending more correspondence to his father as of late, Hermes flitting to and fro nearly every hour with armloads of parchment. His associate has hardly shown himself at the battlefield and nearly always left when his work was done, eyes far from Ares when he attempts to speak with Death. The night lingers, her veil cast long since past when her daughter, Dawn, should have inherited the sky. And the mortals have been having trouble sleeping for some time.

He should think it right that they have trouble sleeping, if their master in such matters is in such a state as this.

The slip of a god seems afraid of him as Ares works to control his temper, reigning in his bloodlust enough so that he can speak, find the truth of the matter, set things to right once more. There will be time enough to rend flesh from form and sever the strings of life.

“Who holds you, little one?” He asks, his voice not nearly gentle enough and yet as soft as he can make it. Hypnos flinches at his words, shrinks further into himself, fumbles for the edges of something in the air that is not there. Almost on instinct, Ares unclasps the cape fastened to his armor and drapes it about the smaller god’s shoulders. Sleep reaches for the edges of the makeshift blanket, uncaring of the bloodstaining its fabric as he wraps it around himself as tight as he can manage.

“You, Lord Ares! At least, I thought it was you, though now I’m not so sure!”

He still sounds as though he is trying to laugh, as tears brim below the surface of his voice.

“He’s one of yours, anyway, so I just assumed you told him to do it! He does that whole red glowy thing your people do when they fight. He had one of my feathers and summoned me and it had been real weird, you know, getting summoned? It’s strange, I don’t think I’ve been topside in at least a couple centuries! They’ve mastered all sorts of things now! He seemed so sweet, gave me some wine and said he found my feather on the ground. Real weird thing to find lying on the ground since I haven’t been there! Asked me to bless him. Wanted to sleep with his eyes open so he could see his enemies coming. So I said sure, you know, it’s not that hard! Gave him one of my poppies and boom! Thought I could go back till he said he wanted to worship me first. Asked if he could get an offering from his tent real quick. You know your soldier boys, always with their nightmares, so I figured there was no harm in sticking around to give him a good night’s sleep too. Payment for the wine, you know!”

Hypnos is prattling on and Ares cannot find it within himself to stop him. He is ill-equipped to stop the tears that come streaming down Sleep’s face, the god himself seemingly completely unaware of the way he sobs as he tells his story. He has the impression that Hypnos is used to keeping a smile on his face.

“But wouldn’t you know it, he thinks a face full of chains is an offering. Some people, they just don’t know. Next thing I know, I’m cuffed and shackled and stuffed in a cage! You know at first, I thought it was a joke my brother was playing! Not that he’s ever had a sense of humor, mind you, and he’s certainly not one to put so much effort into something involving me lately, but there wasn’t another way to get around it! I just kicked back and took a nap and waited for dear ol’ bro to break me out, except I just kept on waiting. Weird thing about waiting, really, zoning out never seems to make the time go any faster. Well, I just nap and wake up and nap and wake up, and you know, it should be paradise, except the chains are really starting to chafe and he’s locked this thing around my neck while I was sleeping and the next time I go to sleep, I can’t get up! Not enough power! I keep hopping from dream to dream but I haven’t been able to find Than’s or mom’s, or even Charon, or anyone really, and I don’t know how long its been but I figure I’m late for my shift by now and I’d really like to get home!”

Sleep tumbles forward when he finishes speaking and Ares braces him easily, hands still in place on his shoulders. The little god is a mess, sniffling as he peers up at the war god through tearful golden eyes, holding Ares’ cape so tight around him that the fabric might rip underneath his grip. He is ill-equipped to stop tears, but he does the only thing he thinks himself capable of- he defends. Ares wraps his arms around Hypnos, pulling the bundle of the smaller god into a tight embrace. He tries to overwhelm him with his presence, tries to show that he is everywhere here, on watch for anything that might come along to creep towards the little godling. Defending is as natural to him as attacking, as odd as that may sound to those who think him nothing but a mindless brute. He has done it for his children on the occasion of their nightmares and he does it for Sleep now, turning himself into the larger threat, immovable stone in between him and what he fears.

“So- you were the first one I found-“ Hypnos forces out between hiccupping gasps, face pressed into the war god’s chest. “And… And I thought if I said sorry… I thought I could… I thought if I said sorry I could go home. I’m really tired.”

Ares is angry. Now that there is no danger of Hypnos being afeard of his expression, he snarls with crooked fangs that cut into his lips. A glow returns to his eyes as he considers what he has learned, considers the godling in his arms who clings to his armor as though he will not let go of it again. A follower of his has dared- not even a follower, he reminds himself. One of his blessed, his chosen. One of them has dared to defile divinity. To profane a god who would last longer than even the mighty Olympians, hold captive one who was born before the world and would see it die. Ares knew his views on the Cthonics were not shared by the rest of the family. But he considered them untouchable- if Thanatos were a general, Ares was his devoted solider. If Lady Night gave the command, Ares would gladly follow in her wake. And as little interaction as he has had with the wisp in his arms, if Hypnos needed, Ares would be a shield.

He remembers the burn and sting of the chains as clear as day, though he wishes he could not.

“Do you know his name, little dream?” Ares asks. His blessed are few and far between, but if Hypnos gives him a name, he can go straight to the man’s camp upon waking. He must spread his chosen out across the world, lest too many of them overpower the wars their Lord has so carefully sewn. But the bond created when he bestows his gifts will let him find the man anywhere in the world.

“E-Endymion,” Hypnos shudders against the war god’s chest. The name brings to mind for him a shepherd, one taken from his home for conscription into one of Ares’ wars, one who delighted in sewing destruction over the earth once he threw his crook aside for a sword. Ares had liked the man for his ruthlessness, for the gleam in his eye when he thrust his blade into a fellow’s stomach, for his willingness to do anything for the cause. He’d blessed him with battle rage likely to cut down everything in his path, a gift for his loyalty, his donations to Ares’ worthy cause.

Now, he would rip the man apart with his bare hands.

“Wake me, Lord Hypnos,” Ares says. The godling wails against him, drawing the cape tighter, pushing closer against Ares’ breastplate as if he could press himself through it. In another scene, he might have enjoyed the sight of a sweet little thing pressing himself to Ares, but this wasn’t the time for such things. He had vengeance to enact.

“Wake me, please,” he begs again. War settles his hand atop Sleep’s hair, gently working through the few curls not matted down by dirt and dried blood. “I will come to you. I will come find you, son of Nyx. I’ll bring you home. But you must let me awaken first.”

“O-Oh, geez,” Hypnos mumbles into the breastplate. “You’d do that for little ol’ me? I suppose its only right, it is your own follower and all, but I’m flattered!”

Even through the feigned bravado, Ares can hear the shaking in his voice. It takes all his effort to keep his words calm- his anger is not directed towards the one here, the one who shakes like a leaf even as he tilts his head back to meet War’s gaze. Crimson looks into gold and he sees that Sleep tries to smile.

“It is only right,” he agrees. One hand settles underneath that chin so that Hypnos cannot tuck himself away again from Ares’ sight. He is a pretty thing to look at even now, even like this.

He feels it when Hypnos gives in to his demands, feels the way the dream around them begins to melt in on itself. The edge of awareness slices through him as sharp as any knife’s blade and he only has seconds more to feel the presence in his arms before he’s awake, shoved back into the mortal world with nary another word goodbye. He’d gone to sleep in a war camp, taking a cot meant for a soldier who would never again return to the fight. Ares had intended to join the skirmish he could feel would break out that day, had meant to rise and fight with the rest of the regiment until their inevitable defeat at the hands of the enemy. He could read the tide of battle- he knew the men stood no chance.

It is the dead of night now and soldiers still sleep around him, men in light chitons with their armor and weapons within close reach. Ares can still feel the anticipation underneath his skin as he glances around himself, as if he will find Hypnos shivering in a corner. When he doesn’t, he grunts to himself and sits up. The men stand no chance without him he knows- they don’t even stand a chance with him.

But there is something more important that needs his attention now. He climbs from the bed and gathers his helm and swords. His bracers and grieves are rarely worn but he plucks them from the ether anyway, buckling them on his calves and forearms with practiced ease. For a task such as the one he is about to set himself to, he thinks it right he should be properly attired. It seems to be the least he owes the little wisp who’d visited him in his dreams.

Ares pauses when he is dressed. He reaches for the anger he’d kept at bay and coaxes it forward, feels the lust for battle wash through him as though someone has doused him with scalding water. He rolls the man’s name around on his tongue- Endymion- for a moment before he speaks it aloud, finding the bond they share easily enough and plucking at it. He is gone from the camp in the next moment, gone to find the one who would even dare to place a hand on a god.

--
He arrives in a camp at the throes of dusk. He is not so focused on time or place, or else he would recognize that Endymion has led his band far afield of Greece and her borders. The sun is just beginning to set as Ares crouches in the trees, surveying the collection of tents and fires in front of him as he formulates a plan. His sister would have the world believe that he rushes into every battle with his dick out and his brain full of nothing but bloodlust, but Ares can appreciate situations that require finesse and some degree of planning. Wars are not fought only on the battlefield but in the movement of troops and the words of generals.

It is only that he agrees far less with Athena on the number of situations that require him to plan. But if ever there was one, he supposes this would be it. Facing a mortal in possession of chains capable of binding gods requires at least a little bit of preparation.

There appear to be about thirty men in total milling about the camp, some working over roasting pots of food and some tending to weaponry and armor that needs care. They chatter as they walk, seemingly unaware of the danger lurking mere feet from them. He creeps about the perimeter, assessing weak points, mapping in his mind where the soldiers cluster. Endymion is not visible, though he can feel their bond thrum at their proximity- Ares assumes the largest tent in the center of camp belongs to him. It hangs his sigil proudly, stitched banners waving in the wind, and he cannot fault Hypnos at all for assuming the capture had been ordered by Ares when signs of him are all around the place. He feels the god’s power too, though it seems far fainter than what he’d felt in the dream, resonating from the largest tent in the camp.

His target settled, War straightens his back and steps out from behind the trees in front of a trio of soldiers. They’re gathered around a pot of stew as it roils over an open fire, cutting purple fruits into the mix. They barely look up as Ares strides out from the woods, his influence making him appear as just another of their fellows. He feels the mortal’s gaze slide off of him and back to their cooking as he strides through camp, creeping ever closer to the tent in the center. When he reaches the dyed red fabric of Endymion’s tent, he secludes himself on the side with the least amount of people. With a dagger pulled from the sheath at his thigh, he slices a hole in the canvas to peer through.

Ares sees first a man sitting at a desk, scribbling away on parchment by the light of a small lamp. He recognizes Endymion, though it’s been a few years since last he saw the mortal in the flesh. The piece of himself that he’d left with the human calls out to him but he ignores it for now, scanning the rest of the tent for threats. Beyond where Endymion hunches over his work, his light blonde hair falling into his eyes and his lips set into a frown, a low cot sits just outside the reach of the firelight. It is piled high with blankets and pillows, a fluffy red comforter in disarray at the top of the mountain. Clothes and sandals and pieces of the man’s armor are scattered over the ground of the tent, resting atop colored carpets that shield the man’s feet from the bare ground. Clearly, the band of soldiers have been occupying the clearing for a while if the place has been made as comfortable as this. But Ares’ attention is drawn to a large shape in the middle of the room, a shape and a figure within it that draws most of his attention.

Hypnos rests on his side in midair, curled into himself as if trying to defend from prying eyes. Around him curl the bars of an enormous cage, gilded and gleaming, as golden as the god’s eyes in Ares’ dream. There does not seem to be any floor to the massive construction, the whole thing a mass of intertwining bars and superfluous decoration meant to contain its occupant rather than give comfort. It is little wonder that Sleep twitches restlessly in his slumber, forced to hover in midair rather than lay against the hard bars. Around his wrists, Ares sees lengths of chain- familiar chain, thick and unyielding- that shackle him to the top of the cage. He is enraged to see a collar closed around the wisp’s slender neck, the same thick iron as the rest of the chains, seemingly melted into place.

He burns with fury. He burns with the rage of battle. He would charge in within the space of the next breath and rend Endymion into dust if he didn’t know how those chains felt around his own wrists. It is because he knows how those chains feel that he will grind every last one of the mortals in this camp into dust beneath his sandals. Still, he sucks in a breath and grits his teeth, and searches for where the key might be so that he can free Sleep.

A man enters the tent behind Endymion and the mortal turns to greet him, slouching easily in his chair. Neither of them glance towards where Hypnos floats but they discuss something in low tones, gesturing with their hands every few seconds. The conversation turns heated after only a moment, and then Endymion sighs and sets aside his quill. He rises from his chair and draws something slender and gold from his pocket, setting it into the lock of the gilded cage. It springs open without the human needing to turn it, the door creaking open to allow the man to reach inside.

He grabs the edge of Hypnos’ chiton and draws him down from where’s been floating. Ares bites his lip hard enough to draw ichor to the wound as Endymion gathers the god into his arms as though he were a sack of flour, pulling him from the cage. The length of the chains seems to stretch as he turns towards a high-backed chair set towards the entrance of the tent, giving him the maneuvering room needed to sit down with Sleep in his lap. If Ares were not so distracted by the careless way the mortal pulls the god against his chest, tucking matted white curls underneath his chin as though the god had chosen to curl against him, he would make note of the magical properties of the cage. Clearly, though this isn’t his work, a god has had their hand in this.

Endymion winds one white curl around his finger and nods towards the man who’d come into the tent. The soldier nods back and leaves, and Ares draws away from his view inside to follow where the man goes. He watches as he gathers up the bunches of soldiers from around camp, directing them towards the center and away from their cooking fires for the moment. War joins in with one group, glamouring himself to appear as just another of their number as they all crowd at the entrance to the red tent emblazoned with his sigil.

“Friends,” the mortal calls to them all when it seems every soul has been brought before him. He reclines in the chair, showing off the way the god in his lap rests against him. As if Hypnos has had a choice in the matter, as if the chains around his wrists and the collar at his throat are nothing more than decoration.

“I’m told some among you have doubts,” he says. Some of the soldiers shift uneasily and Ares can practically smell the indecision radiating off of them in waves. “Doubts about the little pet we keep here and the purpose given to us.”

He releases the curl pulled taunt around his finger and it bounces back into place among the rest of Sleep’s cloud-like wisps. Ares again sees dried blood, red and gold, among the strands.

“Take heart. Our war prize was bestowed upon us by Ares himself as he raided Tartarus, stealing Sleep away to take as his spoils. That we are graced with the honor of guarding him speaks volumes about the trust our lord has in us.”

He has done no such thing. He grits his teeth so hard that bits of his tongue come away, filling his mouth with ichor that he swallows down. Endymion will face the depths of despair before War is done with him- to use his name for such a thing, to lie like this… It is only by sheer willpower that he has not snapped entirely, sliced through them all with the blades in his hands to teach them what his true desires are.

“I know you grow uncertain, waiting so long for our next orders. But it is not time yet to bring him out into the dark before his mother, nor under the glow of Helios. We must wait until our Lord calls us to the battle against the depths, until it is time to vanquish the realm beneath our feet once and for all.”

Endymion’s men give a cheer at his words, the speech seemingly familiar to them but the reminder of their purpose welcome. He is content no longer to watch and wait, memories of chains around his own wrists be damned. Ares joins his own voice to the call, throat breaking with the force of his scream, and the raw, shattered call of a vulture diving down for a meal breaks through the humans. They turn as one to see him standing at the back of their mob in his full regalia, head crowed with his helm, eyes aglow in the fading light of the sun. Night has nearly fallen but the remains of the sunset can be seen streaked across the sky at his back, blood-red clouds that herald a clear day ahead for this part of the world.

He has waited and acted like his sister for long enough- now he will act like himself.

“I see you cheer my name,” he calls once he has all eyes on him.

As one, the men drop to their knees as they register his presence. Ares surveys them kneeling in front of him- kneeling before a god like they should have been doing all along, like they should have done for the slip of a thing in their leader’s arms- and considers how easy it would be to take their heads with one stroke of his blade. But that is far too kind of a death for them and so he picks his way through the ranks, passing between men until he stands in front of Endymion and Hypnos.

He expects nervousness from the man. He expects fear, now that he knows he has been discovered in his lies by Ares. He expects excuses and terror and perhaps a fight Endymion must know he cannot win.

He is greeted with a smile.

“My lord!” The solider crows. He shifts in his chair, unwrapping his arm from about Hypnos’ waist. Without the tether, the god’s body shifts upwards once more, returning to floating gently above the seat as Endymion extricates himself from around Sleep. He abandons the sleeping god to face Ares and bows deep, eyes alight with glee.

“I have long since missed your presence. I am glad you have come to see how I have carried out your instructions.”

“My instructions,” Ares muses, watching the human. There are new lines on the man’s face where he did not have them before, evidence of years passed between now and when he saw the mortal last. Then, Endymion was a boy filled with the bright lust of battle- now he is a man who commands his own legion, it seems. Were he here under different circumstances, perhaps Ares would be proud.

“Yes! The feather you gave me, the chains. Worked like a charm. I told your messenger as much when she returned with the cage for him.”

“My messenger.”

If Endymion notices how lackluster his lord’s replies are, he doesn’t give any indication. He turns to his men and raises his fist into the air to lead them in a cry of Ares’ name and War feels their adulation wash over him, a familiar battle hymn that would normally make his blood sing. Now, he leans into the edge of his anger, honing his mind against the razor-sharp blade until he is all angles and sharpness and vicious retribution.

Ares reaches out and grabs Endymion by the throat in the middle of his hymn. The words cut off with a strangled yelp as the god’s fingers dig into his windpipe. War knows exactly how hard he can press before the man pops like a grape and he rides that line as expertly as he’d ride his warhorse. A fearful, hushed murmur falls over the soldiers as they watch him wring the man’s neck. As an afterthought, he extends his aura over the whole of the camp to ensure that anyone who might try and flee won’t get far.

They gasp as he tosses Endymion aside once his lips have begun to turn blue, their commander landing hard on the carpet at Ares’ feet.
He lifts one sandaled foot and presses it against the mortal’s face, grinding him down into the fabric.

“My instructions, my messenger,” Ares repeats quietly. “Tell me what this messenger looked like. Why you were so sure I sent her to you.”

“A woman, my lord!” The shepherd cries out to him. “With golden wings and a coat of many colors she kept drawn about her! She gave me your letter with your seal, handed me the feather and chains you wrote about!”

Iris springs to mind; a messenger when Hermes isn’t available, or when Zeus’ son can’t be trusted with the knowledge that the message has been sent. Ares knows her as a titan, loyal to the Olympians as Nyx is to Hades. Ares knows her as someone trusted by his lord father and lady mother and by a few of the other gods of their family. Never by himself.

“It was not my letter,” he leans down to hiss the words into Endymion’s ear. Though he means for his voice to be quiet, the force of his anger carries the words over the watching crowd. Words as resonant as the battle cry he’d called them to attention with, he shoves the mortal further into the ground with every syllable.

“Not my message. Not my orders. Do you think I would do such a thing? Give you the means to trap a god? A worm like you?”

Something cracks as he presses down. Endymion gives a cry of pain underneath his foot, hands reaching up to clutch on to the war god’s ankle. As if he can shove him off, as if he has the strength to move Ares. To change the course of inevitability once Ares has decided it for him.
Nonetheless, he does not want the man to die just yet. Spitting down at the groveling thing beneath him, he kicks his hands away and removes his sandal from Endymion’s face. None of the men move forward to help their leader as blood pours from one side of his nose, no doubt the result of whatever inside of him that’s broken. Ares is unsatisfied with their response. By the whole situation, truly, which screams of machinations he’ll no doubt have to bear the consequences of. He draws his blade, watching the way the men seem to understand, finally, that he is not here to praise them.

A few try to run. A few try to fight. Most of them can do nothing but scream and gurgle and choke pitifully on their own blood as he dances through them. Endymion, he is saving for last- he will waltz a slow movement with him, take the man through every pain Ares knows how to give. The rest of them will die in agony first.

--
It is morning when Ares looks up from the slaughter. Endymion wheezes out his last breath, slumped forward in the chair where only hours before he’d held Sleep in his arms. War spares the man but a passing glance as he dies, ripping himself from the violent rage to take in his surroundings. Below him the carpets are so stained with blood that it oozes from the fabric as he steps closer to the desk, echoing sloshing noises in his wake that make it sound as though he were walking through a puddle. Ares feels the part of his power he’d lent to the mortal return to him as he sorts through the papers with blood-stained fingers, uncaring of the marks he leaves behind in his wake. In one of the drawers, he finds a letter written in black ink, on blood-stained parchment. He laughs humorlessly to himself as he reads the details of what Endymion should do to ensnare Sleep, how he should bind the god and keep him safe for Ares until he’s ready to wage his final war on the hideous underworld and its denizens. It is all signed at the bottom with his sigil, glowing dimly red in the darkened tent.

Someone has been impersonating him.

Someone has been impersonating him well.

He has a few ideas on who the culprit might be. But Ares has returned to himself now, though the temptation is there to lean into the rage once more and let it drive him onwards. He’d wager he could get at least part of the way through the halls of Olympus before his kin managed to stop his rampage. There are other matters for him to tend to first.

War looks to where he has left Sleep, floating above Endymion’s bed. The chains still connect him to the roof of the cage, still clasped shut around the small god’s wrists. Ares knows now that there is no key for them to be found here- it was not among the supplies ‘he’ had given to Endymion. He’d spent hours drawing every bit of information he could out of the mortal before he finally granted him death. The wrist shackles came with no key or way to unlatched them once they’d been locked about Hypnos. The collar was the man’s own addition, and for it Ares burned a collar of his own into the shepherd’s flesh, first carefully flaying the skin from about his neck and shoulders before pressing a hot iron down onto the newly revealed muscle. It was the power he’d given to Endymion that kept him alive and aware throughout the whole thing, the mortal unable to escape even into unconsciousness thanks to the battle rage that had served him until that point.

Ares cannot hope to break shackles such as the ones on Sleep’s wrists, even with his own beastly strength. They are made to contain titans, supposed to be found only in the deepest depths of Tartarus. They sting and burn and sap away god-strength and his own markings ache with the reminder of how they feel. Ignoring it, he tucks the letter with his sigil into his armor and makes for the cage in the center of the room.
He’d broken the bars earlier so that he could use them to smash Endymion’s joints and there is a hole larger enough for him to lean inside.

Ares reaches up to the point where the chains are connected and finds them only looped through a bit of gold at the uppermost point of the cage. It is a simple enough matter to break the metal and the links fall into his hands, as cold and unyielding as they were when he felt them on his own flesh. War suppresses a shudder and extricates himself from the cage, noting how cramped the insides are. Hypnos is a great deal smaller than he is; his chest and arms take up most of the space inside, never mind the rest of him. That a god was forced to endure such conditions, even if he is a little slip of a thing, is enough to bring a snarl to his lips.

For now, there is nothing he can do about the wrist chains but to leave the links on the floor. Ares approaches where Sleep hovers and leans down to inspect the collar closed around his neck. It does not hold the same burning cold as the wrist shackles do when he touches it. He studies the line where the metal was melted closed and discovers that whoever had done the work had slipped with their heat in the process- there is a nasty burn on the back of the god’s neck that oozes ichor in small droplets, the blood nearly transparent and shimmering rather than the solid gold it should be. His flesh has tried to heal itself around the wound but has only succeeded part of the way, likely due to the interruption of Hypnos’ abilities, and the result is that the collar has become fused to the godling’s neck. Blue flesh grows over the iron collar, inflamed and warm to the touch when he places his fingers gently against it.

He’s going to need to cut it away before he can remove the collar, lest he risk ripping out a chunk of Hypnos’ neck along with it.

Swearing oaths foul enough to make milk curdle, he draws his as-yet unused sword. Ares would not profane little Sleep further by cutting into him with a weapon drenched with mortal blood. He drops to his knees beside the bed and pushes the neck of Hypnos’ chiton down as far as he can to expose the burn, casting his eye over the mangle of his flesh to decide where it would be best to cut.

As gently as he can, he slices where the skin has grown over the iron. Hands that had divested many of their lives that night work quickly to free Sleep, lest he prolong the godling’s pain. In the right circumstances, he would revel in the pain he brings; now, he only wishes to finish this grim work. Even in the throes of sleep, he can tell that Hypnos does not rest- the wisp’s lips curl in a frown, dark circles under his eyes as deep and black as they’d been in his dreams. Ares wonders if they are as golden in real life.

When the flesh has been stripped away, he places both hands on the iron collar, curling his fingers under its edge. The backs of his hands rest against Hypnos’ throat and he feels a pulse underneath his touch, fluttering as fast as a bird in flight. In one motion, he pulls his hands apart and feels the iron wrench open underneath his strength.

He dresses the wound he’s made, an expert at appropriating bed linens for bandages when times called for it. Ares patches the burn mark too, though there is little he can do for the raw skin underneath the godling’s shackles until they are removed. He sits back on his heels and watches Sleep for a moment longer, resisting the urge to reach over and smooth the frown on his face out with his thumb. He hadn’t known chthonic gods could be as Hypnos was.

He’s stalling, he realizes after a moment. Stalling because he doesn’t want to do what he must do next. Ares chastises himself for his delay and turns away from Sleep to clamber back up from the carpet. Selfish of him to spend a moment watching the godling when he’d promised to bring him home. He casts about for the feather his brother had given him, eons before when Hermes first began delivering messages for the rest of the gods. It has been so rarely used that it takes him nearly a full five minutes to find which pocket he’s placed it in, but at last War comes up with an abused orange feather in his fist. The poor thing has been nearly stripped during its time in Ares’ pocket but he knows the magic is still there as he calls for his brother and waits.

It isn’t a long one- it never is with Hermes.

With the sound of rustling feathers and sandaled feet stepping in the pools of blood left in Ares’ wake, a whirlwind descends upon the tent in the form of his half-brother. Hermes skids to a stop in the tent entrance, eyes fixed upon the shell of Endymion left behind in the chair. With an expression as though he’d been forced to eat something unpleasant, the god of swiftness glances about him at the gore littering the camp as he bounces at the entrance of the tent. Clearly he is impatient to be gone.

“Hey bro! Long time no call! Can’t stick around to catch up, been picking up some slack for Uncle Hades and to be real with you, blood’s hard to get out of my sandals. You good if I-“

He looks inside the tent, to where Ares kneels calmly beside the bed upon which Sleep rests. Hermes’ face goes blank and for perhaps the first time in his life, War sees his younger brother speechless. Hermes opens and closes his mouth as if he were a fish, swallowing hard at the glint of the cage in the room and the unmistakable sheen of the chains around the little god’s wrists. He would laugh were he of the right mood, but he is not and so he only waits for Hermes to find his voice again. When the messenger does, it is to spout an endless stream of babble that War can barely understand, leaping forward across the blood-soaked carpets to the side of the bed.

“You found him! How did you find him? Why did you find him? Oh, Charon’s going to be so happy, he’s been gone for months! What happened, why’s he asleep? Why’s he bleeding? We’ve got to take him back right now, they’re all losing their minds down there!”

“It was my intention to take him home, yes,” Ares says, and clambers to his feet beside Hermes. The messenger god flits up and down the bed though he can cross the length in a step and a half, seemingly feeling both the need to run and the desire to remain by Hypnos. The result is an orange blur that makes Ares slightly nauseous as he watches Hermes move. It is only when the other’s god’s foot nudges the links of the chain still lying on the floor, resulting in a tug on them that makes Hypnos groan even in his sleep, that he reaches out to stop his brother.

Hermes shies away from the hand on his shoulder, half-guilty for hurting the godling and half-uncomfortable with War’s touch. Snapped from his frantic pacing, he looks around the room again, seems to take note this time of the sigils of Ares stitched onto the tent, the weapons strew about. Again he looks at the chains on the floor, sees the shimmer to them. When he next looks at Ares, there is something like accusation in his gaze, partially formed but growing.

“Ares, did you…?”

“No,” he cuts the line of thinking off at the pass, though the implication that he would do such a thing burns him even when snipped short. None on Olympus hold the Cthonics with the respect they deserve; Ares even considers himself lacking on that aspect, willing as he is to offer himself unto the splendor of Chaos’ line. War without Chaos and their lineage would not be War at all. More so than that, though, Hermes of all the gods should know that he would never bind a fellow immortal as Hypnos is bound. As he had been bound. It is a fate worse than anything Tartarus could offer, anything that awaits Endymion below. For it, he wishes he could resurrect the man to grind him into paste once more.

He says as much to his brother, ignoring the way Hermes’ face is changed by something horribly close to pity as he speaks.

“He was one of my blessed,” the war god explains, gesturing with a nod of his head to Endymion’s corpse. “Leader of the band. He swore to me with every oath one could make that he believed he did it under my orders.”

“Where’d he get these things?” Hermes asks, nudging one of the lengths of chain with his toe as though it would rear up like a snake and strike at him.

Ares laughs ruefully.

“From our lord father, I expect. Delivered by Iris’ hand so as to avoid you having knowledge of it, along with a letter signed with my sigil detailing how he should catch and hold Sleep prisoner.”

Hermes is moving again before he’s even finished speaking, pacing the length of the tent so quickly that Ares can only see brief flashes of his form. The strobe effect of it is disorienting and so he looks away, back to where Sleep floats over the bed.

“Dad wouldn’t- I mean, yeah, he would, but why would he- I mean, there was that thing a few centuries ago, he definitely holds grudges but to kidnap- Though if it’s done by your man, with your sigil on the letter, then no one would look at him and- Yeah, the cage is definitely not your style but dad likes gaudy and showy and things that put people in their place and-“

On and on Hermes goes, beginning one train of thought only to interrupt himself and start on another tangent. Ares does not fault him for it- it is the way his mind works, as fast as his legs, bolting down every corridor that appears in front of it. He would let his brother continue working through his thoughts were ichor not spilling from one of Sleep’s wrists again where the inadvertent tug on the shackle has reopened a wound. Cursing to himself, he strips more bandages from the sheet and stuffs them around the cuff. Hermes stops to watch.

“Dad tried to frame you,” he says.

“I gathered,” Ares snips back. His brother’s fingers replace his at Sleep’s wrist, Hermes pushing him out of the way. A surge of anger rises within him at the sight of fingers other than his own tending to the wound but he tamps it down nearly immediately, recognizing it as irrational. Hermes’ fingers are thinner than his own, able to slip wads of the cloth down into the cuff further than Ares can. Sleep is not his to defend in this moment, at least not from someone who wishes to do him no harm.

“There’s gonna be hell to pay, Ares, when they find out,” Hermes says as he re-wraps the other wrist for good measure. “Nyx is… And Thanatos… He’s been barely gathering souls, he’s out looking for Hypnos every night. Nyx won’t let him out during the day. I’ve been picking up the slack where I can but they’re falling apart down there trying to find him. When they find out Zeus had him kidnapped and locked in a cage by a human?”

His brother whistles, long and low. Ares finds a grin within his being in spite of himself.

“There will be war, brother.”

“Yeah, there just might be.”

When the wounds are tended, there are few matters left in the camp for them. Ares directs his brother to gather the souls of the soldiers he’d slain, to ensure a swift delivery straight into the depths of Tartarus. It was the whole reason he’d summoned Hermes in the first place- Thanatos was a rare sight these days and he certainly didn’t want the souls to have the respite of a wait while Death caught up with his backlog.

As Hermes flits around the camp, he grabs a bag from where it leans against Endymion’s tent. Dumping the contents out on the floor, War grits his teeth and reaches for the dangling lengths of chain. He gathers them into the bag and then slings it over his shoulder so that they will not dangle or catch on anything as they move.

Finally, he gathers Hypnos against his chest. The godling weighs no more than a cloud- a light breeze might pull him from Ares’ arms if it blows a certain way with a certain strength. He wraps his fingers around Sleep’s forearm to keep him there.

Hermes appears at the entrance to the tent, his messenger bag considerably fuller than it had been upon his arrival. He looks at Hypnos in Ares’ arms and then glances past him, to the bed he’d been lying on and the red blanket thrown atop the rest.

“Hold on, I think that’s his too. Pretty sure I’ve seen him wear it,” the messenger says. War has to suppress a shudder- Endymion had stolen from Sleep, taken his blanket for his own. He recalls the way Hypnos grabbed for something about his shoulders that wasn’t there in the dream and he seethes for a quiet, quick, infinite moment. When he can breathe without the copper-burn of anger searing his throat, he shifts Sleep to one arm and gathers the red blanket up. It’s heavier than he expected it to be, doubtlessly weighed down with something unseen woven into the cloth. It settles over Hypnos like a cocoon, a mass of red fabric that completely covers his entire body.

They leave the camp, littered with the pieces of the soldier’s bodies, in a strange sort of procession. Hermes leads the way through the underbrush, guiding them to the sound of rushing water that he swears is ‘just up ahead’ every time Ares asks how long they have to go. Ares follows with his burden, swaddled in bright red. He is still stained with the blood of the mortals but it doesn’t bother him even as it dries against his skin and underneath his armor. He dodges branches and steps over tree roots and has a few moments when he wonders whether his brother is leading him on before they arrive at the edge of a river that runs as red as the fabric in his arms.

“The Styx runs through this area?” He murmurs, surprised at the sight as his brother fishes about in his bag for something. Hermes produces two obols and tosses them into the water, watching them vanish beneath the rushing tide with a fond grin.

“Nah, not usually. It’s how I get to deliver my souls, it comes to find me when I call it. Thanatos can do his whole teleporting thing but I’ve got to follow the route the old-fashioned way.”

Ares hums in his throat. He has been to the underworld only once before, during the banquet their cousin had thrown for the whole of the mountain. It had been a rare opportunity to see the world he’d admired for so long, one that he had hoped to repeat if he were able- the land of death, the shadows that refused to be fully chased away by torchlight, the slither of something unknown just out of sight… It called to him like nothing on Olympus ever had. Hypnos had been absent from that night, he remembers now. He’d hoped to be introduced on his next visit as he was the only one of Lady Night’s children Ares had not yet had the pleasure of meeting.

“Do you think it counts, if I’ve only met him in a dream?” He asks as his brother scans the horizon downriver. Hermes spares him only a glance, lips drawn into a frown at the weird question. Ares lets the point go without explaining further.

It isn’t long before they’re graced by a figure on the horizon, one that grows slowly closer as the rushing water carries its boat forward. Hermes hops up and down excitedly, waving his arms at the figure in a manner reminiscent of an excited orange bird. He flags down the boatman as though there could be anyone else on this shore that he might stop for, as though Charon might perhaps not see them standing against the green foliage.

Ares takes an automatic step back from the river when he recognizes the boatman has seen what he has in his arms- the paddle moves faster in the Styx than it ever has before, Charon seemingly no longer content to wait for the river’s pace to carry him forward. The water responds to its ferryman, swells around his boat and practically slingshots it to a stop in front of the pair. War has met the boatman once, also on the night of the banquet. Normally he’d have bowed before the other god but with Hypnos in his arms, he is unable to do anything but incline his head towards the son of Nyx. Charon swings his oar up from the river and directs it at Ares, a cloud of purple steam billowing out from underneath the wide-brimmed hat he wears. Murderous intent: he can recognize it well and works to maintain a straight back, instincts commanding him to slip into a fighting stance at the challenge. It is the weight in his arms that helps the most, reminds him of the task ahead of him.

Hermes, thankfully, takes to the second task that Ares had called him for without ever needing to be asked. The flighty orange god zips from the shore to the deck of the boat in the blink of an eye, drumming his heels against the wood below to catch the ferryman’s attention away from Ares.

“Hey, none of that now! He’s okay, he’s just asleep! Ares is the one who saved him! Called me and I brought them straight to you!”

Another wave of steam pours forth, Charon’s groaning incomprehensible to War but apparently perfectly understandable to his brother.

“Really, boss, come on now! You punish a guy for doing a good deed, he won’t do anymore! Cross my heart, hope to die, he’s fine! Let’s get him home and then if you really want to spar, I’m sure Ares wouldn’t mind a bit, okay?”

Hermes places his hands on the boatman’s arm and physically presses down on it, the wings behind his head fluttering in effort as he tries to push Charon’s oar away from Ares. All involved know that the god of swiftness efforts are not what makes it drift gradually down after a few tense moments, but drift down it does. The ferryman gives one final moan before he beckons Ares forward.

“I thank you for the invitation, my lord,” he says.

He’d known none would believe he was not involved if he came melting out of the jungle with Sleep in his arms after the little god had spent so much time away. Something Hermes said earlier is bothering him and as he carefully steps into the boat, balancing his weight so that he will neither upset the occupants inside or Hypnos in his arms, he focuses on that instead of the burn of accusation. Dwelling on how quick others are to blame him will always end in a foul mood.

But Hermes- Hermes had said that Hypnos had been gone for months. Thanatos had only been absent from the surface world for the past two or three. Lady Nyx’s long nights have only extended this time as well.

Endymion, before he died, had confessed that he’d had Lord Sleep in captivity for a bit longer than a year.

Charon steps away from his post at the back of the boat as Ares settles himself onto a seat, splaying Hypnos across his lap. The ferryman leans over his brother and War holds himself still, letting Sleep’s kin reach out to peel the blanket away from his form. At the sight of the shackles on his wrists and the bandages at his throat, the river quakes beneath them. Hermes has to grab for the sides of the boat as Charon slams the end of his oar down on the wood, eyes alight with wicked flame.

“Chains of Tartarus,” Ares explains, uncowed by the display. “We have no key for them. I freed his other bonds, wrapped the wounds as best I could. He has little power left to heal himself, I expect. He’s been bound for over a year.”

Hermes gasps softly, eyes going wide as he looks at Charon.

“I thought he went missing a couple months ago!”

An issuance of smoke. The oarsman makes his way back to his post, dipping his pole back into the river’s water to begin their journey down the Styx.

“What do you mean that’s just when they noticed he was missing?” His brother’s voice is shrill and grating but the edge of it helps him to keep his temper in check as his suspicions are confirmed. Thanatos has told him of how his twin shirks responsibility, lazes around, can’t be trusted to keep to his schedule. Ares wonders if this means it took them nearly nine months to check on his whereabouts after he went missing.

“Yes, I know you don’t go into the house, I’m not saying that you should have noticed but-” Hermes hisses quietly to Charon, huddled with the ferryman in the back. Ares tunes their conversation out once more, uninterested in hearing merely half of the exchange and certain the excuses given will only drive him further to the boiling point. Resting on a simmer, he shifts the way he holds Hypnos so that he can right the edge of the blanket that Charon had pulled down. It bothers him more than he’d have expected to see the shackles around Sleep’s thin wrists. It bothers him more than he’d have expected to hear of such neglect from the little god’s kin.

--
He remembers little of their trip through the underworld. His disinterest surprises him- he had gawked like a child the first trip here, hiding his wonder in pointed glances that he wouldn’t have to hear comments about from his family. Ares had wished to be without them all so that he could truly marvel at the beauty around them on the trip, take in the sights of a world that had always felt just out of his reach. A conqueror to the bone he was, and the underworld was the prize that he’d never be able to hold.

But he glances up to stare at a shade milling about the shores, wandering near the foggy waters of the Lethe, and finds his attention grabbed right back by the god in his lap. Sleep’s expression has changed as they’ve descended, the little frown in his lips smoothing out into a line as they leave the mortal realm. Something in his face shifts with every little bit closer they draw to the House of Hades, navigating rivers of lava and streams of blood and water to chase away even the deepest set of pains. He shifts against Ares, curling up tighter underneath the weight of his blanket, and the movement brings his full weight against War for the first time. It is still not enough to weigh more than a breath to the larger god, but there is something in Sleep resting his full weight against him that takes his breath away. He’s had to tether the little wisp to him throughout the whole journey, worried he’ll float away with the breeze- now as he fulfills his promise to Hypnos, he feels the godling against him for the first time.

Ares wonders at himself, when he looks up to see that they are approaching the dock of the House, and at his folly. To be so attached in such a short amount of time; it is not fitting. He risks falling into the trap of linking himself with Hypnos, finding anything within him for a little god who trembled before him in a dream. He straightens, standing tall and proud as he rises in the boat with his burden. Hermes zips past him, a blur as always as he launches himself forward from the tip of vessel. He’s moving so fast that his sandaled feet tap against the Styx’s surface, once, twice, thrice, before he can reach the dock, running as swift as Ares has ever seen him move across the water.

“We found him!” His brother shouts, voice as shrill as a swallow’s call and sure to wake every shade in this portion of the underworld. By the time Charon has steered the boat to its dock and Ares is stepping out onto the wood, a small crowd has gathered in front of them. He recognizes Zagreus, the cousin who blinks at him with wide eyes and his mouth hanging open, but Ares has little time to acknowledge him before others converge. A little gorgon’s head he’d seen during the banquet flies off the instant he meets her gaze with a small noise, disappearing into the throng of shades lined up in front of Hades’ desk. The spirits move aside for him as he continues further into the House.

From a hallway to the side, his brother emerges with a woman not far behind. Ares recognizes Lady Nyx and affords her the same nod he’d given her son, though she hardly seems to be focused on him. Rather, her eyes alight on the bundle in his arms and she rushes towards him, her hair whirling around her as though caught in a wild storm.

“My son!” She cries, her form splintering enough that the words seem to come from many separate throats all at once. Nyx drifts forward to press her hand on Hypnos’ forehead, a gesture Ares has seen mortal women do for their ill children.

Zagreus comes up to his elbow.

“You found him!” He says, his voice full of relief. “We’ve been- we’ve been worried sick, mate!”

“He’s fading,” the titaness worries, interrupting Ares’ words for his cousin. “What’s wrong with him? What has happened to him?”

“Not here,” War says. He would spare the little god the shame of his captivity being revealed before a crowd. “Show me to his room and I will explain there.”

“He hasn’t got one here,” Zagreus says, at the same time as Night explains “He makes his home in Elysium.”

Ares quirks an eyebrow, flexes the hands underneath Hypnos. Even he has a place on Olympus, at least.

Hermes darts back into the room, this time with the master and lady of the house. Evidently, they were asleep when the messenger had roused them for Queen Persephone is pulling a shawl over her shoulders and Lord Hades’ beard is un-plaited. They catch sight of the unusual retinue standing in their hall, Ares and Hermes, Nyx and Zagreus, Hypnos as pale and still as death underneath his blanket.

“Oh, poor thing!” The queen cries, covering her mouth with her hand. “Come, come, put him down in our room,”

She begins to usher Ares the way that she and her husband have come though the man grumbles something inaudible. War automatically turns to follow her, but a cool hand lands on his shoulder. Nyx holds her arms out for her son, and to his credit there is only a moment of hesitance before he places Sleep in his mother’s embrace. She draws him close, tucking his head underneath her chin, as the whole group travels to a bedroom. Ares tries to tell himself he does not notice the loss of the bundle in his arms.

Hypnos is laid out on a bed with rumpled sheets, a large portrait of the Underworld family hanging in the corner. He floats a few inches above the mattress, the brilliant red of his blanket falling on either side of him like the draping of a tablecloth. Nyx fusses over him, smoothing curls of hair away from his face, tapping his cheeks with pale, slender fingers. When he does not blink his eyes open to look at her, she purses her lips into a line and looks over at Ares for explanation.

“I found him captured in a mortal’s camp,” he explains, aware of many gazes upon him. Zagreus and his parents have followed them into the bedroom, though Hermes appears to have disappeared somewhere while they moved, and all assembled have grim expressions as he speaks.

“The man summoned him with one of his feathers, tricked him into chains from Tartarus. He had no keys for them or I’d have released them already.”

Ares reaches to lift the edge of the blanket, flashing the cuffs fastened around Hypnos’ wrists to the rest. Persephone gasps and Hades mumbles out something like ‘blood and darkness’. The Lord of the Underworld turns to his son.

“Have Charon take you to Tartarus, boy. Find one of the Furies and bring her here on my order. Megaera is at her post; else we could have the keys from her immediately.”

Zagreus straightens his back at his father’s words and dashes from the room, sparks flying up from the ground where he steps.

“He’s been bound for long enough that he does not have the power to awaken anymore, I expect. Nor heal the wounds he received.”

Nyx’s eyes have not missed the strips of linen at Hypnos’ throat. Ares watches as Lady Night leans over the god’s form to inspect the bandages, her fingers prodding gently at inflamed skin. Even now Hypnos’ blood is beginning to soak through them, light golden shimmer staining War’s careful work.

“How long?” Night asked him, her voice strained. With a nail as sharp as any blade Ares had ever carried, she slices the fabric away to see the extent of the wound- the inflammation and heat telltale to burns that radiated from charred flesh, the more recent cuts that oozed their pale, sickly golden blood.

“A little over a year, my lady, according to the information I was able to glean from his captor.”

It is not often Night loses herself, but her wail of grief shakes the walls of the house around him. It is a sound he recognizes for what it is- the sound of a mother who knows she has failed her child, who cradles them as they lie broken in their arms and believes it is her fault for not protecting them. In this instance, Ares quite agrees with Nyx. He has seen mothers who lose children through war and watched them grieve a loss caused by something beyond their control. It is rare he watches one go to pieces over injuries they might have easily prevented.
He cannot help but reach out to dig his fingers further into the wound in front of him, not when it is so readily presented, and his own anger is running deep.

“The wound is from the collar,” Ares says coolly, letting no trace of emotion slip into his voice. Lady Persephone murmurs something behind him and he hears her move quietly across the room to rustle through a chest of drawers. His focus, though, is on the way Nyx bends in front of him, bowed over her son. He would rend the sun apart if she asked him to, so great is the respect he holds for her and her kin, but in this moment it is her War takes apart, bit by bit.

“They welded it in place and slipped with the heat, I suspect. A mortal construct unlike the shackles, easily dispatched, but I had to cut away a bit where he’d tried to heal it. His body grew over it, locked in place over the burn as it was.”

The queen pushes past him with a look of reproach, as if she knows exactly what Ares is doing. He breathes in the feeling of Nyx’s pain as Persephone offers fresh linen and pots of ointment that smell strongly of herbs. At his side, Hades is suspiciously silent, though he eyes War with an unreadable gaze. He returns it with his own polite smile, ever controlled, ever civilized as they all required of him and never quite expected.
They are saved from making conversation when the sound of a familiar bell resounds through the chambers. A flash of green light plays over the room and the chambers suddenly become crowded once more, Thanatos with his scythe in hand, Hermes flitting through space after him. Ares has only a moment to register that his brother looks nervous before there is a blade at his neck, murderous intent deep enough to be felt by everyone in the room spilling from gentle Death.

War tilts his head up to allow his Lord access to the vein of lifeblood that runs up the side of his throat, meeting thunderous golden eyes with calmer red ones.

“You!” Thanatos seethes.

“Thanatos, he saved him!” Persephone cries, ever the peacekeeper of the house. Death does not listen to his queen, pressing the scythe forward until trickles of ichor spring from underneath Ares’ skin. He sighs deeply as the pain of the act rolls through his body, wishing he could savor watching Death’s weapon draw blood for the first time. Gentle Death is not so gentle now.

“I feel a soul tied to his power among the dead Hermes collected. Hypnos’ captor was one of his blessed!”

Ares hums low in his throat. He raises one hand to rest against the scythe, power flowing in the metal beneath his fingertips. The blade is a work of art- truly, something fitting for the god of Death. Nyx’s head snaps up from where she is hunched over Sleep, her attention grabbed by her son’s words.

“Certainly, he was,” War agrees. He is shoved backwards for his trouble, pushed against the wall of the chamber hard enough to make paintings and portraits rattle throughout the house.

“I’ll tear you to pieces and toss you to the Keres,” Thanatos threatens, his gaunt face drawn tight with fury.

“What is the meaning of this, Ares?” Hades booms, stepping up behind his servant though he makes no move to stop Death’s assault. War rolls his red eyes to the god of the domain reluctantly, loathe to miss even a single moment of the exquisite, beautiful rage that seethes across Thanatos’ face. To see control break, give way to anger and resentment, is a beautiful thing.

“I was not trying to hide it from you, Lord Uncle. Nor you, my associate. The man was one of my blessed. It is why Lord Sleep sought me out in my dreams, to right whatever wrong I believed he’d done to me. Upon learning of his confinement, I sought the man out and dispatched him myself. My brother then delivered me here as quickly as he would any missive, that I might return your brother to you.”

“Lies,” Thanatos snarls. “How could you not know? One of your blessed would not act in such a way without your orders!”

“Okay, okay guys,” Hermes tries to insert himself between them, bending down to wiggle his small frame into the meager space between Thanatos and Ares. “Ares isn’t responsible for this, scout’s honor!”

“On the contrary, dear Death, he had my orders,” War continues, ignoring his brother’s efforts easily. “At least, he believed he did. May I?”
He flicks his hand towards his armor, letting Thanatos read his intentions before he acts. If he loses his head now to a blow from the scythe, he’ll end up on Olympus to reform- away from where he feels conflict brewing, nearer to the source that has set him in the middle of it. Ares loves his father’s machinations. He despises the man more.

Death allows him to reach underneath his breastplate and pull the letter on red parchment from within. He hands it to Lord Hades instead of Thanatos, certain that the chthonic will not be coaxed to remove his scythe by anything that could be on it. Hades scans the note and frowns, looking between all in the room.

“This is my brother’s hand,” the lord announces to the room. Before anyone can protest, Hades passes his palm over the glowing sigil at the bottom of the parchment. As his fingers trail over the ink, it warps and shifts in their wake, burning red shifting to shimmering gold. The smell of ozone fills the air as a lightning bolt appears in place of Ares’ blades at the bottom of the letter.

Ares hears Persephone curse for perhaps the first time since he came to know her. Thanatos stares at the sigil of Zeus, unblinking, golden eyes wide and half-crazed as he takes in the information. With a snarl, he digs the scythe into Ares’ throat until it cuts into his windpipe, severs muscle and rends veins so that ichor flows freely down War’s front. He would speak, except the newly made hole in his throat allows for nothing more than an undignified gasp. Thanatos whirls away from Ares once the wound is made, stalking towards the bed on which his brother lies as if he means to shake the little god awake.

He turns his back to War, and Ares sees a place where his nails can rend and tear once more. A hand comes up to cup his cut throat, pressing hard enough to seal his vocal cords back into place so that he might speak.

“Are you angry because you truly believe I am to blame for your brother’s kidnapping?” He calls to Death’s back and is graced with a vision of the other god going stiff. “Or because you are angry that it was by my hand, and not yours, that he was freed?”

Zagreus darts back into the room in time to see Thanatos throw himself at Ares.

The war god is already pressed against the wall and so they do not tumble across the floor. He catches Death easily about the waist and moves with his momentum, turning them both on quick feet. His partner in the dance snarls but the scythe is less effective up close, less able to maneuver without harming its wielder. Ares steps a minuet around Thanatos, keeping him at a distance while the fire-stepping prince rushes to pull his lover away. The grip of Death remains strong about one of War’s wrists, inescapable to all with blood in their veins. Even the gods are no different. But Ares does not attempt to break the hold, simply lets Thanatos clutch at him with one gauntleted arm while Zagreus whispers in his ear.

“Swear it,” Thanatos finally says, now burning with anger that has no direction at all but himself. “Swear on the river Styx you had nothing to do with it.”

“I swear,” Ares makes his oath. A bit of blood dribbles from between his teeth as he says it, red and mortal as it drips down his lips. A sign of the river’s water in his mouth, ready to bind him to his words. “I swear on the Styx, I did not harm the god Hypnos except to release him.”
His mouth fills with a torrent of the river’s depths and dutifully Ares swallows it down. All in the room wait for the oath to strike him down, for the river’s waters to turn to poison in his belly and sear him from the inside- and as the seconds drag on with War still well and whole, they understand he does not lie.

“Zeus dares,” Nyx says, her voice trembling in something that could be either pain or anger, and it sounds to Ares’ ears as if she’s blown a war horn.

When Thanatos divests himself from Ares once more, Zagreus rushes to the doorway. From behind the ornately carved doors he ushers a creature with hollow green skin and brilliantly glowing hair of the same color, the light so bright that it begins to sear Ares eyes as he looks at her. Uncaring of the pain, he watches as his cousin leads the Fury towards the bed where they’ve lain Hypnos. She asks a question but only manages to hiss out a familiar word once, twice, and then again when Nyx pulls the blanket away to show the shackles binding Sleep.
Murder…

“Give us a key for the chains, Tisiphone,” Hades commands. The shade jerks her way across the floor as she walks, moving limbs that seem unaccustomed to anything but the flick of a whip. At her belt swings a ring of keys, from which she selects a rusted, brownish one with sharp teeth. Evidently the keys for prisoner’s chains are not often used for she has trouble fitting it into the lock, hands shaking at being asked to do anything other than the task she has devoted herself to. Finally it slides home, springing open the lock with a soft click that Ares thinks he can almost feel in his gut. The shackles slip free and Thanatos is quick to pull them away from Hypnos, hissing quietly at the feeling of their cool iron in his hands. No doubt remembering his own encounter with such things, so many years ago.

If the occupants of the room were expecting the god of sleep to spring from the bed well and whole, they are sorely mistaken when all that happens is a slight shifting in the god’s position. He moves a little under the blanket before he quiets once more, golden eyes still tightly closed, breath soft and even in rest. The linens that Ares and Hermes had pressed to the wounds on his wrists still cling to the weeping sores there, soaked in enough of his ichor to make them sticky and sodden.

No doubt Queen Persephone will tend his wounds with her bandages and herbs. Ares feels strangely empty as he watches the denizens of the Underworld crowd Hypnos’ bed, watching as people who apparently did not love the little god enough to look for him when he went missing now smooth his curls and arrange his blankets just so. He knows this isn’t a particularly fair assessment- he is not the god of love but he can feel the intensity of emotion. Nyx and her son burn with care for the little wisp. They burn with care and with regret for what they have done, and with guilt that even as they will those golden eyes to open, once they do they will be held accountable for their inaction.

His task has been completed, his promise fulfilled. Still, War presses himself against the wall of the room and leans against it, watching as they bustle about the room. As he expected, the queen and Nyx begin to tend to the weeping wounds as Thanatos takes Sleep’s hand. Hermes slips out the door and holds it open for the fury who stumbles her way back out into the hall with Zagreus on her heels. He is left to keep a vigil with the lord of the house, his uncle pressing himself likewise into a wall to let the others work. Ares knows better than to think Hades is simply watching, but he is content to do that himself until he must return to the Underworld and deal with the consequences of the day.

--
It turns out that Sleep lives in a cave in Elysium, one ringed by oceans of poppy flowers. Through the glistening field of red, the foggy river Lethe winds like a serpent across the grass as it flows towards the chambers where shades collect in swarms and droves. There are none of them to be found out here, so far from the hallowed halls where they fight their ghostly battles and drink away the pains of their life with the river’s sweet waters. Ares rolls his shoulders against the wall of the cave, stretching out muscles that have begun to tighten during hours of watch.
He has, as it seems, been asked to guard the cave by the one person whose request to do so he would honor. Ares is, as he ever is, at the service of the gods who came before him and who would last after he is gone. But he has set himself as Hypnos’ shield in this moment and neither his mother’s voice nor his brother’s commands would override the voice that had whispered to him from the back of his mind as he prepared to board Charon’s boat once more.

Sleep had asked him to stand guard at the mouth of the cave and so he kneels in the dirt with his sword across his lap and waits.
He formulates a plan as he waits- there will be conflict, he is sure of that. He can already feel it sliding around beneath his skin, restless and pacing as it waits for its moment in the sun. Ares knows what he will say when Hypnos awakes and there is no longer a need for his watch. Nyx is there too, lurking in the back of the cave in the chamber that is more bed than room where they had laid the little wisp. She frets and fusses about him even now, the sound of her footsteps carrying through the cave to Ares at the entrance. He can feel it almost as a physical touch when her gaze drifts to him, wondering, perhaps, why he had agreed to her son’s request.

He will not explain himself to her.

He also cannot explain the moment he becomes aware he has slipped into a dream. Nothing changes around him, the cave clear above him and the plains of poppy flowers spread in front of him. Ares had allowed himself to watch the flowers as he kept his vigil and perhaps, they are what did it- the red gem of their blooms have become a little bit sharper against the glass, as though they catch and hold and focus the light that passes through them. The movement behind him that he has been attributing to Nyx changes, becomes the drag of fabric over the ground rather than steps on carpeted stone, and he looks up to see Sleep in front of him.

The little god still looks tired. His voice, the single sentence he’d pressed into Ares’ mind, had been cracked, shattered with exhaustion and pain. He carries the blanket around himself the wear that the war god would carry a shield, as though its weight will block out all the ills of the world around him. His curls are clean of all the blood and dirt, brushed with a loving hand and set to ring his face as prettily as a frame. On his neck in the waking world, the bandages are thick and layered with herbs to help heal his skin as his powers return. Here, the skin is bare and unmarked, a smattering of freckles dusting across the light blue.

Ares knows, even before he directs his gaze lower, that the rings of scorched flesh around the little god’s wrists are still there.

Hypnos seems to catch his glance because he smiles, a little pleasant, a little rueful, and pushes his arms out of the blanket so that War can inspect the wounds. They do not weep with blood here in the dream, two thick bands of ropey scar tissue so light a blue that they are nearly white.

“I offer my apologies, for sleeping on the job,” he says, instead of commenting on them. “I must admit, I have never before done something as shameful as sleep while I am on duty.”

The wisp laughs at him, the sound not nearly as bright as it should have been. Ares notes he favors floating even here, drifting lazily a few inches off the ground so that his blanket trails against the stone.

“Happens to the best of us, big guy,” he trills, shifting in midair. “Hang around me enough and it’ll start happening a lot frequently!”

“I look forward to fighting more battles against you, then,” Ares offers his own smile.

“You haven’t won once!” The little sleep god returns one, this grin a little more suited to his face than his previous. Not quite natural, but closer.

“None do,” he concedes, though he makes sure there is no note of surrender in his voice.

“Nope, none at all. So uh, hey, I uh… I just wanted to say thanks for dropping me off home! I asked you to take me home and you sure did, huh! Got me right into dear ol’ mom’s arms!”

Anyone unable to sense tension might not have noticed the way Hypnos’ words hitched and hiccupped, hysteria lurking beneath the syllables, but Ares does. He tilts his head and regards the other god.

“Have I done wrong to bring you back to the House of Hades?”

“No, no! Fulfilled your promise to a ‘T’, to a ‘T’! Brought me home like a lost little puppy! Now I get to wake up whenever I can pull myself on out of here and just… go on back to what I was doing! Being the family fuck up and all!”

He shakes himself, the movement sending him dangerously close to striking his head against the low cave ceiling. Hypnos doesn’t seem to notice, withdrawing his arms back into the blanket cocoon so that he can begin to run his hands up and down over the fluffy white edges of the fabric. It seems to help him somewhat, the repetitive motions soothing the anxiety within him somewhat. Ares finds himself burn again with the knowledge that Endymion had taken it away from him to adorn his own bed. He wishes he hadn’t let the man expire quite so soon.

“You don’t need to hear this, ha ha, sorry! Anyway, just wanted to thank you for being a delivery boy and maybe say sorry for accusing you of orchestrating the whole thing! I caught a little of what was going on in the waking world after you took the shackles off, seems like things are gonna get puh-ree-tee bad between Olympus and us now because of me. You know, your dad is really scary when you piss him off as bad as I did!”

“I do know,” Ares agrees.

“I mean, between him and the chewing out I’m gonna get from Than, man, I don’t think I’m ever going to hear the end of it! Oh, and mom too, mom’s-“

“Little dream.”

Hypnos stops moving, golden eyes flickering over to Ares with uncertainty written in them.

“Ayup?”

“I dislike circuitous conversation. What do you wish to speak with me about?”

“Circ- uh, circuitous conversation, that’s a real vocab word for you right there. I think that’s the name of something that killed Zag once, coulda sworn I saw it on my list...”

Ares eyes him with a raised brow. The god bobs gently in the air, trailing off when he sees the look on War’s face.

“I uh… I dunno what I want to talk to you about, I guess! I haven’t been this strong in a dream in a while, felt like wandering around to see what was going on, and stumbled into you still on guard even while you’re asleep and…”

Again, Ares’ worst nightmares play out, twice in the span of nearly twenty-four hours: Those golden, gem-like eyes shimmer with tears. Hypnos reaches up to scrub them away, pushing so hard against himself that for a moment, War fears he’ll reach even further and tear his own eyes away completely. He’s done it to himself before, in a fit of rage.

He doesn’t, of course. Ares’ mistakes and lack of control are always uniquely his own.

“I know mom’s hovering over there, waiting for me to get better but what do I even say to her? Hey mom, sorry your fuckup of a kid somehow messed up even worse this time? What do I say to Than? Hey bro, I know we were just trying to turn things around, working on me being so lazy all the time, but I think I just got set back in progress like a thousand years! Can you wait a bit longer while I pull myself together again?”

“They call you lazy?”

“Oh, well, sure, I’m always falling asleep on the job, even I know I have a tendency to take more than my fair 15 minutes on a break…”

“It is who you are, little dream. They would all be much worse off for it if you did not sleep at all, I suspect.”

Hypnos waves his words away, shrugging off Ares’ argument as though it were his blanket. The knowledge, the idea, that he is lazy is apparently so ingrained in him that he does not even question it anymore. War drops the topic, stowing it away for another time when there are fewer fresh wounds to mar the other god’s mind, and tries not to wonder what things he has accepted about himself fall into this same category.

“Your mother will be glad to have you home,” he says instead, shifting finally from his post. Ares stretches his knees out in front of him and feels them pop, complaining at being trapped underneath him for such a long period of time. “Your brother too.”

“Dunno, I don’t think you know my brother very well. He probably liked getting a break from me, I think! He doesn’t seem to like me very much anymore, I was shocked he carried me here instead of letting mom do it!”

There isn’t malice in Hypnos’ voice that Ares can hear, and his ears are well trained in picking out such things. He eyes the other god for any hint of red anger or the putrid yellow of bitterness, but Sleep’s only colors are his chiton and his golden eyes. If he was pressed to put an emotion to the words, he wasn’t sure he could come up with anything other than a sad resignation- they certainly weren’t as bright as the wisp’s voice tried to make it sound.

He decides, in that moment, that he isn’t going to leave Sleep in the Underworld if he can help it.

Ares feels kinship with the little god- more than that, he feels an obligation to protect him. He is known for his passion, his obsessions; he is known for following through with the choices that he’s made, and possibly from the moment he positioned himself as a shield for Hypnos to wield, he’s committed himself to that position. And he’s not one who usually denies himself what he wants.

It’s easy enough to admit to himself that he wants Hypnos. He’s a pretty, lithe little figure underneath his cavernous blanket, with curls fluffy enough to almost be a pillow in and of themselves. He sees the constellations of freckles on Sleep’s shoulders and wishes to connect them with his fingertips, spend hours tracing patterns between them that only he will know exist. The knowledge that he can probably connect his hands around the little wisp’s waist makes his body burn with a very different kind of heat. He knows the god would make delicious, rapturous noises as Ares leaves his mark across his body.

Perhaps he’ll get the chance to do just that, once he and Sleep flee this place. Love is a battle, just of a different type than the kind he usually spends his days in. It’s part of the reason he and Aphrodite get along so wonderfully.

He tamps down his desire for the moment- the little god has only just been delivered home after all, and its far too early to speak of things such as love. The feelings he nurtures for Sleep have only just begun to exist, no new that there is no name he can yet give them.

This is not the time to make his desires known. It is the time to sow the seeds, so that he may reap the delicious rewards; and as Hypnos floats in front of him, fretting about his shame for what’s happened, he sees the opportunity to begin his work.

Ares will drive the stake down and hammer it in place, watching as it works to splinter the bedrock beneath. He has never been a particularly kind person- he wants and he will take, and it will be sweet to go to bed with the little god in his arms and know that he is all his. Home and safe with someone who will adore him as he deserves.

“Hypnos…” He says and the god in front of him flinches as though he’s forgotten Ares was there, leaping an extra few inches into the air in surprise.

“Yeah big guy?”

“I have been debating with myself on whether to tell you this or let your family be the ones to do so,” he leans his head back and closes his eyes. “But I believe you should know.”

The poor little cloud will be hurt by what he has to say, but its all for the greater good. He deserves to know, after all, and War does not trust his family to reveal their follies as plain as he will.

“You were captive for a little over a year. I have gathered, from the conversations of your family around me, that they only began looking for you around two or three months ago.”

He thinks, as he watches Hypnos, that Sleep has stopped breathing. The smile that seems permanently plastered to his face slips for a moment, regains its place, and then falls completely into an expression that has even his own shriveled heart clenching.

“W-What? That’s not possible, big guy, ha ha!” One hand pokes out from within the blanket to begin worrying at the fluffy white edging once more as Hypnos processes the information.

“I mean, sure, Than’s made jokes about me not being irreplaceable before but- I mean, mom- Mother Nyx- wouldn’t just not ask where I was, right? She hasn’t talked to me in ages, sure, uh… Zagreus woulda noticed though! I spend a lot of time working on advice for his runs, I’m sure he missed me almost immediately!”

The tears are falling now. There are few who look anything close to presentable when they cry but Hypnos manages, blue cheeks flushed darker and head bowed to try and hide the wet tracks on his cheeks from Ares.

“A whole year?” Sleep chokes out and War nods silently. “You uh, you’re sure?”

“I am. I was quite thorough in getting a… timeline, during my questioning.”

He sniffles silently for a few moments, eyes overflowing faster than he can try to scrub the tears away. There is no sound in this dream but the noise of his sobs. Ares has dealt with tears only through his children, and he can’t very well draw the other god into his arms and throw him as high as he can into the air until he stops as he’d done when they were small. He feels he should do something anyway and so he reaches out for Hypnos, making sure to choreograph his moves so that he won’t take the little wisp by surprise.

It isn’t much- he places his hand on the other god’s shoulder and squeezes tight.

Golden eyes meet his, watery and shimmering. Hypnos takes a shuddering breath and lets it all out with a ‘whoosh’ of air.

“We have to wake up,” he murmurs. Before Ares can ask why, he tosses his hands sharply up into the air. The world around them dissolves, the mantle of sleep ripped away from both of them in one quick movement. War wakes up kneeling in front of the cave Sleep makes his home in, his sword laid across his lap.

He rises as he hears voices coming from the chambers behind him, sheathing his sword at his back as he goes. The caves are lit by luminous moss, gently glowing patches that take over at the point the sunlight fades. He follows the purple glow through several bends before he arrives at Hypnos’ bedchamber. The whole floor is one sunken pit, piles of pillows thrown about underneath more blankets than Ares would have thought it possible to find in the underworld. Feathers hang from the ceiling on beaded chains, inky black and sharp and easily identifiable as belonging to Hypnos’ twin brother. A reminder, perhaps, of the family who has seemed to have forgotten him.

“It’s not true, right?” He hears Sleep and turns his red eyes from the decoration to the scene in front of him. The little wisp struggles to sit up in the middle of his vast pile of blankets and pillows, physical body likely atrophied from months of disuse. His mother sits at his side, her eyes sorrowful and face drawn tight as she watches her son. One of Night’s slender hands comes up to brush away the tears on his cheeks and Hypnos leans immediately, deeply, into her touch. Evidently desperate for any of her affection, he reaches up with shaky hands to clasp her wrist, keeping her from pulling away. There are bandages here in the waking world that hide the terrible scars around his own wrists but Ares sees bigger wounds play out in front of him: the hitch of Nyx’s breath as she fails to answer, Hypnos’ stuttered sobs.

“You looked for me, mom,” he urges her to answer. “I… Mother Nyx, you… you looked for me, yeah?”

“We looked for you, child. With everything we had. We scoured the underworld and the mortal realm for you,” she assures, though her words are already too late to bring Sleep comfort. “We looked for you as soon as we knew you were missing.”

“How long did that take? How long was I gone for until you noticed?” His voice is half hysterics, half sorrow, as if he already knows the answers to the questions he asks. Ares watches quietly, standing against the wall of the room on the only part of the bedroom that is solid ground. He cannot help but stay to watch such exquisite agony.

It seems that Nyx has realized Hypnos has some idea of the delay, for she casts about for an answer helplessly for a few moments. After a while, she sighs, takes his face in both her hands, leans forward to press her lips to Sleep’s forehead.

“We thought you asleep,” she murmurs to him, trying to soften the blow. “You sleep for years at a time sometimes, we thought… we thought you were here, safe in bed, child.”

“No one came to look?” His voice raises an octave even as it gets quieter, choked off at the end. Even from here, Ares can see that Sleep is shaking with exhaustion from the effort required to hold himself in a seat position. Nyx tries to urge him to lie back but he does not let her, shaking his head in her grasp without dislodging her hands.

“It took you months to notice I wasn’t here? No one came to find me?”

“We… child, we have our own duties, we cannot-“

Hypnos explodes at the mention of duties. His golden eyes brighten, flash, glow with power that Ares has never felt before. He is pressed against the wall and the pressure in the chamber wishes to keep him there, bearing down on him with all the force of a raging bull. Nyx herself is flung away from her son, lithe body nearly shattering into darkness and starlight before she manages to reform herself and hold her shape. She looks startled, as if she had not expected her own child to be capable of such a thing. He would go to his lady, help her up, if an exhaustion more terrible and ragged than he’s ever felt in his life had not begun to press in at the edges of his consciousness. He plants his feet and draws his sword, intent on remaining conscious through the wave of Sleep’s power.

“I know you have your duties! I have my own! I tend my domain while I sleep and then I tend the house while I’m awake! I do my job and I don’t talk to you because you have forbid it! I listen to Thanatos while he tells me I do not work enough and I let him because at least he speaks to me as he does!”

He cries as he speaks, an odd resonance to his voice that Ares has difficulty parsing his words through. The tears tracking down his face have turned golden, liquid shining the same color as his eyes trailing over dusty blue cheeks.

“I don’t call you mom... I hate what I am because you hate it so much…”

“I don’t hate what you are, child, I-“

“I’m not supposed to sleep! I’m not supposed to be lazy! I’m not supposed to love you! I’m not supposed to love Than! Charon doesn’t mind but he’s never around, Zagreus can’t say more than a sentence to me at a time. Is Sleep such an inconvenience in your eyes? Am I so useless?”

Nyx is reduced to a crawl, one hand in front of the other as she attempts to fight against the siren call of her son’s domain. War follows after Night after a moment, dropping to one knee to lessen the physical resistance he feels against him. He draws his sword and plants it forward, using it for leverage to help him out into the sea of pillows and blankets. None of the inanimate objects in the room have been moved, unaffected by the rushing tidal wave of sleep, but he and his lady must fight towards the little god curled up in the center of the room.

“Hypnos, you must regain control,” Night calls out, but he is no longer listening to anything she might say. The golden tears dripping from his face stain the red of his chiton, shining gold sizzling away at the fabric as though they were molten hot.

“A year, mom,” he wails. “I was there for a year and you never came. You didn’t even notice.”

Ares reaches Sleep first. Every blink of his eyes brings the threat of being unable to open them once more and so he forces them wide. Even crouched as he is, he is still taller than Hypnos as he reaches out to grasp the wisp’s hands in his own, sword abandoned on the blankets next to him.

“Little dreamer,” he calls into Hypnos’ ear, face close enough to feel the light flutter of white curls against his skin. Ares’ fingers burn where they come into contact with the golden tears on Sleep’s skin but he pays it no mind, reaching out to grab his chin and turn his attention onto himself. Those eyes filled with liquid metal turn to him and he nods his approval as Hypnos murmurs his name, as though he’d never even noticed Ares come into the room.

“You’re too deep in yourself, Lord Sleep. In your pain. You must come back to here and now.”

He tightens his grip on the other god’s chin when Hypnos tries to break free from his grasp, attempting to turn his attention back to where his mother still struggles across the cushions. In retaliation, Ares is nearly completely overcome by an ache of tiredness that makes him feel as though his bones are collapsing. Visions flicker in the corners of his eyes, the hallucinations that affect severely sleep-deprived mortals slipping through the shadows of the bedroom. Night terrors and creatures with no shape at all roil in the dark solitude of the room, shifting unseen through the blankets around them. The cave itself begins to crack apart with the force of Hypnos’ rage and grief.

Ares does not relent. He will not lose this battle, though he may never again be able to win one against the little wisp of a god.

“I found you, Hypnos,” he murmurs, a bare rasp of his vocal chords that is all he can manage with such earth-shattering weariness slipping through him.

“It hurts,” Sleep whimpers back.

“I know.”

The golden liquid pooling in Hypnos’ eyes drains gradually as Ares holds onto him, keeping his gaze and whispering every sweet word he’s ever known in his life. He is not a gentle man and tears do not come easy to him- but he knows about control, about the madness of losing yourself to the essence of what you are, about learning to hate that essence through those around you. He tells Hypnos of the house he will build for him in the mortal realm, away from the Underworld, away from Olympus. He promises to guard the door each night if Sleep wishes, promises to lay his sword across his lap and prepare to go to war with Death, with Night, with his uncle and with all the rest.

They are both abandoned sons of their parents. Ares thinks he would wrench a star from Nyx’s sky and bring it to light the house he gave to Hypnos, if the little wisp asked it of him.

The weariness lifts as Hypnos’ sobs quiet into muffled gasps, which smooth into the rough breathing of the ill. Ares can feel his body trembling and knows Sleep has exerted himself far beyond his means- it’s a wonder he hasn’t fallen back into unconsciousness as he curls against Ares. Nyx draws herself up from the pillows and blankets and watches them with an unreadable expression. She makes a move toward the pair, reaching out with one pale white hand, and Hypnos doesn’t look up from where his face is pressed against War’s chest.

“Go away,” he murmurs to his mother, voice shaking with the effort it takes him to remain awake. Nyx seems as though she will argue with her son for a moment before she sighs and nods. After a moment, Night fades into the shadows around them in the cave and Ares is alone with Hypnos resting limp against him.

The remains of the exhaustion that had nearly pressed him flat still linger but he brushes them aside, leaning down to press his lips to Sleep’s forehead. He thinks he uses too much force for what is meant to be a kind gesture, too much of himself behind the movement, but Hypnos doesn’t seem to mind. His pretty eyes flutter as he struggles to remain awake, trying desperately to do what he thinks everyone around him wants from him.

Ares wants many things from him, but there is only one in his mind.

“Sleep,” he murmurs to the wisp of a god in his arms, and he sees the ghost of a smile across that soft face.

“That’s me,” Hypnos laughs. Only a few seconds, later, his eyelids slide closed and do not attempt to open again.
--
Hypnos sleeps for four months. It’s time enough for Ares to get things in order, choosing a house in his beloved Thrace, hiring workers to block the windows and most of the doorframes of an entire wing. He’s meant to leave Olympus for centuries now but has always found himself dragged back into his father’s affairs, ever the dutiful son though such patience has brought him no reward. Now, it is one of his father’s affairs that drives him from the mountain, gives him the reason he’s been searching for.

The little god visits him in his dreams whenever Ares lays down his head to rest, recounting the work he’s been doing throughout his domain. He learns that Hypnos is closer to his grandfather than either his mother Nyx or Thanatos- Hypnos tends to a realm so close to the original state of the world that he must physically reign in the borders of it, fight back tendrils of the unconsciousness that cling onto and try and keep the mortals that fall into it. He learns that Hypnos’ natural state is to sleep- the little god likens being awake for him to a mortal holding their breath underwater. Able to exist in that realm but for a short time before they must return to the surface for air- before he must duck back down into the waves of sleep.

He learns that the god considers himself a mercy: that he was created to be just that, born to be mercy for his brother Death.
At the end of it all, Ares has always thought it would be only Death, standing over the ruin of all; but Sleep will be there too, to offer his brother a respite. To put them both to sleep until the world starts over and it is time for them to be born once more.

“I mean, it would really suck for him if he had to be awake that whole time by himself, you know?”

The wisp reclines above him, floating a few feet above the marble floor where Ares also lies. It is a created facsimile of the house that awaits for Sleep when he wakes up, the features warped and changed through Hypnos’ imagination. War had described it for him as best he could, but his words were not perfect. There was no mosaic in this chamber in the walking world, for a start, but as he eyes the colorful stones arranged to depict a figure in gentle repose, he thinks he might order one put it.

“You are kinder to him than he has been to you,” he gives his pronouncement, looking away from the mosaic to where Hypnos floats.

“I can’t stay mad at him forever, big guy,” Sleep drawls, tucking his hands behind his head. Despite his words, Ares knows he has no intention of speaking with his brother, or his mother for that matter, anytime soon. Hypnos had whispered into their dreams his desire to leave with Ares and then War had whisked him away, planting himself at the door of their new home whenever his relatives came to visit. Night and Death attempted to see their kin many a time, but he would not let them through the door- only on Hypnos’ word would he step aside, and the sleep god had not said anything about it since.

“I could,” Ares replies thoughtfully. He holds the utmost respect for Thanatos and his mother, but respect and rage exist in him in equal measure, occupying separate places within his being. He’s quite sure that if he tried, he could make his grudge burn even into the nothingness of eternity.

“Aw, you’d do that for little ‘ol me?” Above him, Hypnos rolls over with a lazy grin until he looking down at War. The larger god resists the temptation to reach up and tuck away a stray curl of Sleep’s hair that has sprung free from its brethren. His self-restraint has held as sleep heals; he will not lose himself to it now. Hypnos has shown no interest in him as anything other than a conversation partner and he thinks it would be a shame to lose such a pretty little thing over something silly like his desires.

“If you asked it of me.”

He has no qualms about showing the depth of his devotion though: Hypnos flushes beautifully when told things like this, dark blue creeping over his cheeks as though it were another of his sleep masks.

“G-Gee, Lord Ares, keep talking like that and a guy could get the wrong idea,”

“I have the same devotion to any of your family,” he is careful in his reply, unsure whether or not Hypnos truly meant what he said or not. The little god frequently made statements off the cuff without any thought at all, and when questioned on these, he seemed confused on if he’d ever said them in the first place. He did not want to get his hopes up, only to have Sleep frown in confusion at him.

The other god’s reaction to his words makes him reconsider.

Hypnos’ face, pretty sparkling golden eyes and cupid’s bow lips, falls at his words.

“Yeah, you’re uh… pretty committed to us,” Sleep says, and disappointment is evident in his voice; evidence, perhaps, that the little god returns at least some of his interest. “’Course, I wasn’t suggesting you had any particular interest, don’t know why you would! Ha ha…”

He trails off, rotating in the air above Ares so that he does not have to face the larger god. Acting on his intuition, War reaches out to capture one of Hypnos’ dangling hands, brushing the fabric of his ever-present blanket away. As Sleep titters in surprise, he uses it to gently tug the other down in the air until they practically touch. Ares brings the hand in his to his mouth, brushing his lips against Sleep’s knuckles.

“Do not misunderstand me,” he says, holding Sleep’s hand close to his face. Cthonic gods run cold and he can feel the skin in his grasp heat up just at the momentary contact.

“I am a student of your brother’s, and I am a devotee of Chaos. It is in my nature to follow along behind them, an enthusiastic soldier among their ranks. Lady Night has long held my fascination for her connection to her parentage and the power she wields with such care.”

His breath moistens Hypnos’ hand, the little god watching him with wide eyes and a slightly open mouth, as if he can’t quite believe Ares’ actions. Taking advantage of the pause, he kisses Sleep’s small hand once more, stopping at each finger to slowly press his lips there.

“Those devotions and feelings of mine for them are simply in my nature. But I choose to be here in your presence, Lord Hypnos, because I find you to be the most fascinating of them all. I regret I have not come to know you sooner. I am grateful you trust me enough with yourself to allow me to guard you as you recover. Rarely do I seek out your brother or lady mother, but I would ask to maintain our courtship for as long as you are willing.”

“Courtship?” Hypnos squeaks, his already-high voice spiking an octave. Ares flashes him a fond smile, perhaps the first such expression described that way to ever cross his face.

“I would not build a house for just anybody. I was not sure you shared in my feelings, but I am, perhaps, coming to think I was wrong?”

Sleep flushes dark blue. His head momentarily withdrawals into the blanket, hiding away like a turtle within its protective shell. It’s cute, but he would rather see Hypnos in that moment, and so he raises himself from the prone position he’s been lying in. The movement of sitting up puts him right next to where the sleep god floats and Ares peers into the hood of the blanket, searching for a trace of the other. He’s met with a deep blush and lips that are slightly parted, a pink tongue poking slightly through. Hypnos does not pull away.

“You were wrong,” he says, breathlessly, laughing a bit in the way that he does when he doesn’t know what else to say. “I don’t know why you’d be interested in me, but gosh, how could I not feel the same! Your arms are as big as my waist and really, your ass is to die for, and I’ve seen a lot of asses in mortal dreams, you know…”

“As flattering as that is, little dreamer, if you don’t cease putting yourself down in my presence, I will carry you to my own bed the second you’ve awoken and worship you properly for as long as it takes to drive such thoughts from your mind.”

Just the thought of it stirs the feelings inside him he’s shoved aside for so long- Hypnos beneath him on the black sheets Ares favors, chiton and blanket discarded, pale blue skin bared to him so that he can trace his tongue across every constellation of freckles. Holding slender legs open, the white curls he has no doubt will be waiting for him there, the noises Sleep will make as he does his best to ruin the little god for anyone else…

As the images float through his mind, he realizes that his arousal is quickly spiraling off into the dream around them. This is Ares’ imagination after all, his little part of the domain, and everything has begun to take on a hazy, vaguely pink tint belies the thoughts going on his brain. Hypnos pops his head out of the blanket to look around and then glance at Ares, a knowing glint in his eye that isn’t as sharp when accompanied by his still furiously flushing face.

“Forgive me, it seems I am eager,” War apologizes without remorse. Beneath him, the grass of the field has changed to silken sheets and he reclines on the bed. Deliberately, Ares brings one arm up to rest underneath his head, showing off the way the chords of muscle there flex with the motion. It is gratifying, the way Hypnos’ eyes follow the gesture with something akin to warm hunger, and Ares feels something inside of him soar. If he could, he would reach up and draw Hypnos down to him in that moment- but he doesn’t want to scare the sleep god, still so tender from deep wounds, still recovering. It is difficult, but he must let Sleep make the first move in this odd little courtship of theirs.

Luckily, he does not need to wait long.

With that nervous laugh of his, Hypnos descends from his floating to lie next to Ares against the bed. He stretches underneath the covering of his blanket, popping out his spine with several large cracks before he looks at War once more.

“Well, uh… I mean, if you feel that way, why wait til I can wake up, big guy?”

The kiss is gentle at first. Hypnos rolls over so that he is lying on top of Ares and War settles his hands on the smaller god’s hips, delighted to discover that he can encompass the circumference of Sleep’s waist in his grip. Pale blue lips descend down to meet his and he lets Hypnos set the pace, fighting to remain still against the sheets as his entire being screams at him to take control. Part of the reason he and Aphrodite get along so well is that she always rises to meet him with the same level of passion as he brings, is always willing to return every nip and scratch with just as much fervor.

He has not yet learned how Hypnos is as a lover.

Sleep tastes like something thick and heady, a syrupy sensation pushing over Ares as their kiss deepens. A pleasant rush of exhaustion, the sensation at the end of something strenuous but satisfying. He has never been one to give into tiredness and that spurs him on as teeth press against his lips. Taking Hypnos’ invitation, Ares forces his tongue into the other’s mouth. He rises from where he lies, lets his arms wrap around Sleep, pulls him against his chest. The press of that cool skin is sweet against War’s own perpetually hot flesh and he tangles his fingers in the feather soft white curls, as he’s been wanting to do since first lying eyes on him.

He nips experimentally at Sleep’s lips and is rewarded with a sigh of pleasure from the other god, golden eyelids fluttering at the syrupy sharpness. Encouraged, Ares pulls away from the kiss only to move on to Hypnos’ jawline, nipping and tugging at the skin there until he can pull more delicious noises from his lover. Each gasp and moan races through him, stoking the fire inside that tells him to take, to conquer, to make his name the only word Hypnos can remember.

“Hypnos,” he breathes out Sleep’s name against his neck, eyes fixed on the pretty little trail of flushed bite marks he’s left down the god’s throat. “Might I have the pleasure of fucking you? May I lay claim to you as you have laid claim to me?”

Sleep shivers against him at the words, the movement across his lap doing painful, wonderful things to the hardness between his legs. It presses up between them through Ares’ thin chiton, his armor long since lost in these dream visits between them.

“Please,” he receives in response. Its all the permission he needs.

It’s a simple matter to reverse their positions, Ares hooking his arm across Sleep’ waist and rolling them so that he hovers above the smaller god. There are entirely too many clothes adorning Hypnos for his liking and so he reaches down to rip at the red fabric of his chiton, shredding it with ease. Hypnos makes a noise somewhere between a gasp and a moan as he watches the display of strength, a smile quirking his lips.
“I could have just-“ he says and snaps his fingers. Ares’ chiton melts away, leaving him bare as he rests on his heels above the other god. It is War’s turn to laugh as he is reminded that everything around his Hypnos’ domain, easily bent to his will. He revels in the feeling of being in another’s power for once even as he traces Sleep’s hipbones with his fingers. War is not only about victory, after all, but surrender too.

“You could have, but then I could not show off for you, little dreamer,” he grins down at Hypnos and is reward with a surprised, scoffing giggle.

Ares takes in the sight against his sheets: Hypnos’ pale skin is made even lighter by the black around him, the remains of his chiton trapped underneath him. He does indeed have a patch of white curls between his legs, from which rises a slender cock that darkens to a deep blue at its tip. Unable to resist, he lowers his head to lick a stripe up the side of it and feels Hypnos shudder underneath him response. It seems he’s sensitive- the barest touch of Ares’ breath against him gets a response, necessitating War to hold down his hips against the bed so that he can take Sleep into his mouth.

He tastes as his mouth does, the odd, intoxicating mix that sets War’s head spinning and his eyelids automatically sliding shut. Keeping one hand on Hypnos’ hips to hold him steady, he looks up across Sleep’s body to watch his expressions as he licks, sucks, and works his way over his cock. He is a lover of Aphrodite- Ares prides himself on being very good with his mouth, and as he sees when Hypnos whines and shakes, he learns how best Sleep likes to be touched. He circles the tip of his cock with his tongue before taking it completely inside his mouth once more, relaxing his throat. Ares hums in satisfaction around his mouthful of cock and the vibration of it makes Hypnos jerk underneath his hand, hips working to both buck up into the warmth of Ares’ mouth and get away from it in equal measure.

It is only when his lover calls for him to stop in a thin, shaky voice that Ares relents. He pops off Hypnos with an obscene sound, searching for where he’s hurt his partner- those golden eyes find his and Hypnos offers him a smile that looks utterly wrecked already.

“Don’t wanna cum yet,” he says in explanation. “Want to last a bit longer…”

He laughs, deep in his chest, and puts his lips against Sleep’s ear. As he covers the smaller god with his body, one hand snakes between them to find his cock, still slick from Ares’ mouth.

“We are not finished when you cum,” he murmurs to Hypnos. “I told you I would lay claim to you and I intend to follow through.”

His words and the wet glide of his hand over Sleep’s cock is enough to drive the other god to his first peak, seed spurting messily over Ares’ fingers and across both their stomachs. He strokes Hypnos as the shudders and little breathy moaning in his ear subsides before he sits back, enjoying the sight of his lover so thoroughly wrecked after so little. Hypnos pants against the bedsheets, golden eyes unfocused and face flushed as he comes down from his high. After a few moments, that gaze turns to him with a fire that Ares recognizes well- there’s still desire yet to be sated in the little god below him and he’s all too happy to oblige.

“Oil,” he says and Sleep nods, a bottle appearing on the bedsheets next to them in the next moment. He reaches for some and pours it over his fingers, only to have pale blue digits land on the bottle and shove it away from his hand.

“You don’t need to stretch me,” Hypnos says, rolling over onto his stomach. The position no doubt feels strange with the cooling cum on his belly but Ares is too distracted to worry about such things- the sight of that pretty little hole waiting for him makes his cock twitch, a bead of pre oozing at the tip without being touched at all.

“I’m large,” he protests despite his desire, and presses his oil-soaked fingers against Hypnos’ entrance. To his surprise, one and then two slide in easily, Sleep’s hole stretching to accommodate his fingers.

“I’m lord of this domain,” Sleep says even as his voice shakes from the feeling of Ares pumping his fingers. Experimentally, he adds a third and finds that Hypnos is able to accommodate even that with difficulty.

“There’s literally nothing you can do to hurt me here if I don’t want you to,” Hypnos forces out as he rocks back against War’s hand, driving his fingers even deeper into the warm silkiness of him. Ares knows when he’s found Sleep’s prostate when the other god’s mouth goes slack and he clamps down on the fingers inside of him, encouraging War to continue stroking against it. The pleasure must be riding the fine line between pain and ecstasy this close to his release but Hypnos never complains, fucking himself on Ares’ hands with lazy, slow snaps of his hips.

“If you don’t get in me right now,” Hypnos pants, grabbing at the sheets beneath him. “I will wake you up and do it myself.”

With such a pretty invitation ringing in his Ares, how could he not oblige? He withdraws his fingers from Hypnos and grab the small bottle of oil again to slick himself up. His cock, which has been neglected all this time, twitches underneath his hand as he coats himself. War aligns with that inviting hole, shining with the oil from his fingers, and grips Hypnos’ hips to begin pushing his way inside.

He does not go slow- both he and the little god underneath him are eager for Ares to fill him up. In no time, he’s as deep in Hypnos as he can manage, his own hips pressing against the cthonic’s cool skin. He watches the arch of Sleep’s back, feels his clench around the intrusion and hears him keen when Ares pulls back out almost all the way and slams himself forward once more.

The pace he sets is brutal enough that it might have broken a mortal in half. Hypnos has said he doesn’t need to worry about hurting him in this space and so he takes Sleep at his word, chasing his pleasure with reckless abandon and little regard for the way his nails dig oozing gold crescents into the smaller god’s skin. He twists his hips on a particularly vicious thrust and is rewarded with a shout from Sleep, his voice cracking as he cries out with the pleasure of Ares pushing against that little bundle of nerves inside of him. War is far enough into his own pleasure, lost in the sweet, slick tightness of Hypnos around him, that he can’t manage to hit it on every thrust- but he knows when he does by the way his lover screams, savors the way his name falls from those sweet lips.

It is quick. Hypnos has already come once and so he doesn’t last long with Ares moving inside of him, another orgasm shuddering through his body. He tightens so sweetly around his cock that War is not long after, hunched over the wisp so that he can bury his teeth into Sleep’s shoulder as his own peak rips through him. He tastes the tang of ichor on his tongue, continuing to fuck into his lover’s body until the peak of pleasure has long past. Hypnos shudders with each motion of his hips but finally Ares eases his way out, admiring the shimmering bite mark and scratches he’s left for Hypnos.

They will not translate to the waking world, but that doesn’t bother him- it just means he’ll get the chance to mark that blue skin as many times as he can, over and over again.

Below him, Hypnos shuffles to the side and Ares collapses against the bedsheets. He is not usually one for cuddling but that doesn’t seem to be an option here as Sleep returns to his side at once. War draws him into his arms, holding him against his chest as their breathing returns to normal. There are tear marks on Sleep’s face but he is smiling, looking up at Ares as if he can’t believe the sight in front of his eyes.

“Rest,” he says, and places his lips against Hypnos’ forehead so that something more embarrassing will not slip out. He is awarded a small giggle, but its clear that his lover is close to following his instructions already.

The dream around them is wavering as its master settles down to sleep against Ares, sleep within a dream within his sleep that only the lord of the realm could achieve. He feels that creeping exhaustion settle into his bones once more, the pleasant warmth of it a far cry from what he might have once expected from such a thing. There is cum cooling on both of their skin, the remains of oil shining in the dim light, but he can’t imagine rising to clean them off in that moment. Ares will sleep with remnants on his skin and the little wisp in his arms, and in the morning he will rededicate himself to the task of guarding the recovering god. He has placed himself as a shield between Hypnos and the world and he will follow through.