Business Trip

The chest sat open at the foot of his bed, a battered iron thing with dents like old scars.

Ares stared at it for a long while, arms folded, eyes glaring at it like an opponent he meant to strike down. Packing was not something he excelled at. Not a battle, not a sparring match, not a strategy board. It was order, foresight. Athena would have called it preparation. He called it tedious. Still, it had to be done.

He started with the obvious. Weapons. His hand went first to the sword propped against the wall, the one forged for him centuries ago, its grip molded to his palm. He set it in the trunk. Then a spear. Then another. He stopped, scowled. It already looked ridiculous, a war chest ready for campaign. He pulled one spear back out, leaned it against the wall. Tried again.

What am I doing, bringing half an armory to a council meeting?

But leaving them behind felt like weakness, like slicing away pieces of himself. His fingers itched. He left the sword and one spear inside.

He dragged a set of armor from the rack, bronze gleaming, the scent of oil and steel sharp in the air. He set it down, then hesitated. Armor in a council chamber. Athena would smirk. Apollo would roll his eyes. Hera would purse her lips, disappointment soft in her eyes, not hatred. She loved him still, and that was worse, because he could not stand to disappoint her again. He yanked it back out, set it aside, and shoved in a black suit instead. Tailored, pressed. The one that made him look less like a god of blood and more like a man who could stand in marble halls.

He grimaced. He hated it. He imagined Lily’s eyes on him in it, the tilt of her head when she assessed him, the way her mouth might soften in pity. He imagined her disapproval if he walked in armor instead. The suit stayed.

Boots next, heavy and worn, tossed in without thought. Then gloves, bracers, belts. Habit, not need. Each landed with a clank or a thud, the trunk filling haphazardly. He frowned down at it.

This is what they see, isn’t it? Just chaos. Just rage. Just a pile of steel and leather.

With a low growl, he pulled things out again. One by one. He folded the suit, placed the boots side by side. He wiped the oil from the armor before setting it back, even if he wouldn’t wear it. Slowly, the chaos took shape. Slowly, it looked less like a heap and more deliberate. He didn’t know why it mattered, except for the thought of Lily’s eyes on this trunk. He could feel her judgment, her disappointment. It made his chest tighten.

There was one last thing. He opened the drawer by his bed and stared. A strip of fabric, no larger than a hand. It had come from one of Lily’s tunics, left behind and torn during training, the edges faintly stained. He had kept it ever since, though he never admitted why. He shouldn’t bring it. It was foolish, weak. He closed the drawer. Opened it again. His hand moved before he could stop it. The cloth slipped into the trunk between the folded suit and the bracers, hidden as though secrecy could erase his sentiment.

He shut the trunk hard. The iron lid clanged, the sound echoing in the chamber. It looked ready now. Functional. Heavy with steel and fabric, with everything he thought he was supposed to carry. And beneath it all, buried where no one would see, the one thing he carried that felt hidden, private. An intimacy he could never speak aloud.

Ares rested his palm on the lid, the old iron cool against his skin. He wondered what she would think if she saw. Would Lily laugh, teasing him for sentiment? Would she scold him for clinging to scraps like a mortal? Or would she understand, because she, too, packed what she could not say out loud?

And yet, as he stood looking at the trunk, he knew it wasn’t just weapons and clothes inside. It was the truth he couldn’t voice: that even in the silence of his own chambers, he could not stop reaching for her.