Jenifer
**╔════════════════════════╗**
 *𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗕𝗮𝗹𝗹𝗮𝗱 𝗼𝗳 𝗮 𝗗𝗲𝗺𝗶-𝗚𝗼𝗱*
**╚════════════════════════╝**
*╒════════════╕*
 Pings ~ 
 Notes ~ the words didn't word but I hope this is good enough ❤️
*╘════════════╛*

**TW // Mentions of death/gore.**

Nothing could have prepared Alexios for the **Carnage**. Not being a demi-god, not living through 700 plus years of his life— not even seeing countless wars, battlefields, and demolished cities. Alexi had seen entire neighborhoods be burnt to ashes, hundreds, if not thousands, of corpses all in one place. None of it ever phased him, so why did this steal the oxygen from his lungs. It turned his breath in sharp, harsh influxs as he tried to understand what happened— maybe it was just the residual smoke still seeping into his lungs, or maybe, it was because this was all **Personal**. Alexios had witnessed more death than any mortal could, but these deaths? It hit him harder than it had any right to. This Sanctum was one of the largest in the Skyline district. It housed over a hundred men, women, children, and demigods alike. They were *His* People. Mortals, and immortals, who relied solely on him to make sure they were safe and provided for. They were *His* Responsibility to keep **Alive**. They put their trust in him, they put their lives in his hands. 

And yet, they still died, and there was nothing he could do about it. 

The feeling was heart-wrenching. Knowing he could have hidden the Sanctum better, put more guards, something. Anything. It was his first true lick of failure in the war, and it was likely only the beginning. As the sadness came and went, followed by the regret and hopelessness, a new emotion came to fill the void. One that stemmed from anger, one that demanded some sort of payment for the misdeeds done. An eye for an eye didn't even come close to what he was looking for, not anymore. He needed something more. 
_ _ _ _

Alexios nudged the door open to the Sanctum. The building was an old warehouse, repurposed for the Mortal Bloods' own uses. Sanctums like this one were spread across all of Olympian, some smaller than others— this one happened to be the largest in the Skylines district. The outside looked mostly intact, save for the busted-out windows and the indication of the fire that leaped out of them. The inside was still beholden by smoke and soot, the walls were painted harshly with the black charcoal dust. Alexi grimaced, his fingers trailing along the edges of the doorframe. His pale green eyes instinctively narrowed at the sides of it. The doors had been locked shut from the outside, large steel rods being run across it so they couldn't escape from the inferno. They were trapped inside, likely left to pound at the metal doors for an escape, only to never achieve it. 

This wasn't some *Accident* Like the news suggested. There was no chemical spill that caught fire. This was vividly intentional. Someone had taken the first shot at the Champions, and by extension, Alexios himself. They were peacekeepers, they helped *Refugees*. He couldn't fathom who would lack the humanity to do such a thing, even the most feral and treacherous of gods had their limits. Burning their own worshippers was usually among them.
_ _ _ _

Alexios stepped into the large, primary room. It was long and narrow, surrounded by bricks and steel beams. The old bed-cots were burnt down to just their metallic frames. The entire room was devoid of any bright colors or fabrics, and everything felt misplaced. Alexi stepped over a corpse, they were barely discernible, covered in large mounds of ash that barely resembled their old selves. They were commonplace at this point, and the police had given up on trying to identify the bodies. Probably for the best, given what might happen should they find a pile of bones that dated well over a thousand years old. Alexi bent over, snatching up a sword from the ground. It was bent outright by the heat, deformed and its edge long since lost, but it was the only thing left that was reminiscent of the people who lived here— everything else burnt to a crisp. 

*"𝗪𝗵𝗼 𝗱𝗶𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀. . ."* Alexi muttered beneath his breath to himself, barely audible beneath the ruckus of the city outside. His grip instinctively tightened around the hilt in response to the thought. Someone did this, and someone was going to be held **Accountable**.
Antonio
He was inclined to the scent of sea foam. Poseidon found familiarity in the clearness of the air upon coastal dunes of sand, salty and wistful. Never could he find pleasure in the profuse invasion of soot, the only remaining evidence of subdued flames. It caused his nostrils to flare in distaste, as if he had any right to be displeased. All of it had been his doing, his order, his apathetic wave of a hand. Once flourishing bodies became skeletal remains, and he reveled in the resplendence of his kingdom as it happened. Now, he observed what remained, with little sympathy to give.
⠀
It had been ordered to be done by Ares— whether or not the God had chosen to work alone, how he chose for it to be done, it did not matter. For Poseidon, it was a statement, and whatever variations of it would not deter from the immorality of its message. To the ruler of the sea, a passive aversion to the ongoing war was not a means to be spared. The only mortals with a livelihood that he wished to preserve were the ones that spoke highly of his name. Ones of frailty, that hid in the protection of lesser demigods, were insignificant. Poseidon had always been rather apathetic in this way, but now it doubled in size in that thing he called a heart. The war was the result of their future, especially his own. There was no war without harmless casualties. In this act, he had made sure of that— but it was less about those who had been killed, and more about what their slaughter would lead to.
⠀
In times where he proudly wreaked havoc on enemies, he would not claim this atrocity. The blame would be cast on another, and it would be a stepping stone to his triumph.
⠀

He did not know the soul of Alexios, but the same could be said for many of his dispensable nieces and nephews. It felt as though the thinning of time as well as the bond made through blood reduced in livelihood alongside one another. Children were a valuable thing, kept in the peripheral of their divine fathers, but love was not so commonly displayed. Poseidon had grieved the lives of many offspring, and to him, the agony of it dwindled with each additional death. Zeus had, too, and the brothers shared a similarly sullen tongue as fathers. They could both be distant and quietly cruel. He felt that Zeus could even be more monstrous than him. Alexios was the son of Zeus, and that was all Poseidon knew. It was all he had to know. They shared royal blood, and Poseidon knew that it meant for a potential of rage. An untapped, vicious thing, to be his father's son.
⠀
The ruler of the ocean had approached the warehouse some moments after the demigod. Unusually, Poseidon was dressed in black, with an attire that lacked his anticipated touch of oceanic hues. It was as though he had readied himself for a funeral. A funeral brought more peace than this, did it not? There was little closure to be found here— for those that mourned, that is. Only a few steps had been taken, past the parted doorway to the warehouse, and once polished loafers were enveloped in dust. An open, flowing overcoat that came down to his knees began to seep in the smell of it all. The foulness of ash and the inexorable stench of death rivaled for the lasting aroma on his clothes. Eyes of an unfeeling concoction of blue and green observed the scene, and he remained expressionless and unafraid. He had seen far too many obscenities to be scarred.
⠀

The championed demigod, however, was not similar to him in this way. He was molded with the grace of humanity. Where he stood, a distance away and now in Poseidon's sight, his fury could be sensed. It quietly trembled the earth, just as Poseidon knew it would. The elder God's shoes were a detected sound, stepping over rubble and what was left of bodies. For a widespread building, swept clean of any remnants that it had been lived in, the two of them did not exactly feel alone. Death was still too pungent.
⠀
"An act of this nature was unpreventable."
⠀
The words were not from a tender heart, but they were not spoken with complete inhumanity. To a mind that was vulnerable, he might have sounded like a fortified crutch to lean on. He was known for tumultuous bitterness or an inscrutable tone, and very little lurked in–between. As it always had been, his voice was a blaring force and it stretched outward, displacing the unsettling silence. He was eyeing the square of the demigod's back, and the misshapen blade that he held in his hand. Poseidon looked to the ceiling, once touched by the ends of flames, and then back down.
⠀
"My brother has shown his discontent in this war in all forms." There was an implication that hid behind his words, and he needn't explain it. He took a step nearer to Alexios, with his eyes stuck on the end of the warped, helpless blade.
Jenifer
**╔════════════════════════╗**
 *𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗕𝗮𝗹𝗹𝗮𝗱 𝗼𝗳 𝗮 𝗗𝗲𝗺𝗶-𝗚𝗼𝗱*
**╚════════════════════════╝**
*╒════════════╕*
 Pings ~ 
 Notes ~ excuse the double ping discord is autistic
*╘════════════╛*

Alexi was having a troubling time believing it. It felt like something of a fever dream, but that was a hope that even he knew to be foolish. He had been told of what happened hours earlier, but he refused its reality— the reality that said that someone's cruelty could extend all the way to violent atrocities as vile as this. Now, as he stood there in the dusty remnants of what remained, he couldn't *Deny* Reality. Not anymore. His green hues overlooked the edges of the blade in his hands. It stood as a perfect testament to the works that were slowly forming around him, around the city. Its strong core warped in every way imaginable, its edge dulled to nothing, burnt marks that clearly indulged in its own scars, the hilt unstable and fragile. Yet, even still, it possessed danger. It left Alexios terrified of what it could mean for him, what this war might do to his own outlooks and morals— even more so, he was scared of the decisions he might make in the future. The humanity that he so tightly clung to potentially *Burnt* Away into nothing. 

The gentle noise of a footstep soon snapped him out of his own mental state, the presence of another making themselves known. His eyes flicked up from where they looked upon the blade, scanning the warehouse's length. Alexi's eyes leveled on Posiedons as he stepped out from the cover of one of the building's supportive beams, and at that moment his head fully rounded up. Alexios' posture straightened out of reflex. 
_ _ _ _

And even still, he didn't make a move. His feet remained in their place, even as the god of the ocean approached closer. There was no hint of fear in the demi-god's eyes or waver in his attention. Many feared gods feared the great three, Posiedon, some would argue the most. They became meek in his presence, eager to not step out of place or act improperly— his wrath was just too high of a risk. For a demi-god, it was nearly unheard of. At least, for the few who inevitably met him. Especially not ones, who for all intents and purposes, were against him in the war. Even if it did take on the guise of supporting the mortals. Yet, there he stood with nothing but an inquisitive gaze and a sword in his hand. Some would argue cornered, though Alexios would argue alone. Two very different things in his eyes. Alexios always embodied his father's presence of strength, even amidst the odds, even if he'd never get a chance to know it. 

*An act of this nature was unpreventable*. The words echoed in the solemn building, bouncing off its stone walls as it mimicked the way Alexi's own brain repeated it to himself. The demi-god's mind clung to the statement, wanting it to be true, but the logical part of his mind argued against it just as fiercely. He knew he could have done more, even if he refused to believe it. Posiedon was just giving his own mind a reason to believe it. Alexios turned in his step, addressing the god directly. "𝗜 𝗱𝗼𝗻'𝘁 𝗻𝗲𝗲𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗱𝗼𝗹𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲𝘀, 𝗣𝗼𝘀𝗶𝗲𝗱𝗼𝗻. 𝗜 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝘀𝗵 𝗜 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄𝗻 𝘀𝗼𝗼𝗻𝗲𝗿," Alexi's voice started off sharp. His words carried across the room with a piercing effect, but they progressively grew softer as the sentence dragged on. 
_ _ _ _

Alexios distrusted Posiedon in every way imaginable, and it showed in his speech. This war was half his fault. These deaths, and all the others that had preceded it, were half on his hands. A petty war between his uncle and father, all over ego and power while willing to risk the entire city. The fact he was even *Here* Was surprising. Alexi's mind couldn't help but listen to subtle accusations, even as the cynical part of his mind won out. This building was burnt by an inferno, and charged with every manner of details that wasn't befitting of the ocean god. He was too far from the safety of his waves and his legions and protectors, too far into the enemy territory. However, It did bring the question to the forefront of his mind. Why *Was* He here, talking with him of all people, amidst Zeus' own dedicated district. It was foolish, uncalculated. It felt out of place for a god as old as he was, and Alexios couldn't help but think there could be ulterior motives. 

Alexi's grip tightened on the sword in his hands as Poseidon's final words rang true, the things he implied singlehandedly confirming what he had already suspected— while simultaneously dragging him deeper into his own pit of worry. He knew this war was going to drag the Demi-Gods in inevitably, he just hadn't expected it so damn soon. 
_ _ _ _

"𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁?" Alexi's voice remarked in momentary disbelief, though the real question lay just behind the tone. *Who?* "𝗪𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗵 𝗼𝗻𝗲? 𝗪𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗵 𝗯𝗿𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿," His voice finally questioned, seeking out Posiedon for answers he seemed to have. His traditionally calm and composed voice had its first sign of cracks. Hints of frantic energy and confusion tuck themselves into the finely crafted layers of his speech. Part of him was concerned for the answer— both brothers, Hades and Zeus, had shared their *Discontent* With the war in their own unique ways, and Alexi wasn't sure he was ready for the answer. On one hand, he didn't want to believe his own father was capable of such cruel and unforgiving actions. At the end of the day, it was his own blood. On the other hand, if it was Hades, he had no clue what he would tell Persephone. If anything at all. By all accounts, a fiery death more than fit his methods. 

Even still, he was desperate for an answer. Regardless of what it was. He needed to know who had committed these actions, and he needed to know *Exactly* Who. Alexios was more than willing to go to whatever lengths it would take to revenge these deaths, and he was not opposed to standing up to gods even as powerful as they were for a righteous enough cause. Especially one fueled by his own desires.
Antonio
In starkly different circumstances, in some unforeseen and unperceived universe, Poseidon believed that he would favor Alexios. If he would have been Poseidon's son rather than his brother's, then maybe he would have a heart to not blacken his mind with deceit. However, they were in no foreign land, and the demigod's blood did not meddle with the salty seas. He did not favor Alexios, and he never would. Poseidon would become the impassive observer to the bloodletting of father and son if he must. It would be more favorable than the spilling of his own blood. There was a crown awaiting him, a status that trampled Zeus's eminence, and he would take it.
⠀
Poseidon commended him for his gallantry. There were lesser gods with a far more brittle backbone than the son of Zeus, and he could not help but frown upon it. To Poseidon, their divinity was not only sealed by their ever–lasting mortality or faultless features, but it was to be a way of living. It was in the way that one spoke, in the way that power was meant to be displayed, and he believed that many gods did not live up to his standards. His standards were, admittedly, filled with infeasible demands. Only he could match his own desires, and that was exactly why there would be no other face to lead those that peered up to him. There was a reborn manifestation of what their world would be, and it held itself in his palms, in his straightened shoulders. It was all him, it was only him. There was an otherworldly grace in it, but it was not always so refined.
⠀
He looked saintly, in a cloak of darkness, with eyes that did not quiver and hair the color of a dissipating flame. It would have been such an awing sight, if it weren't for what surrounded him. An island of ash and remains, memories that were indisposed as flesh fell from bone.
⠀

His words had been less of a condolence and more of the telling of a harsh truth, but Poseidon would not deny them of an interpreted kindness. "This was done in such a way to ensure that you would not know of it until it was far too late."
⠀
To kill and to destroy in this way was not particularly exclusive to Poseidon. All of them, despite their unique abilities and their deficiencies, were fond of wreaking havoc. Whoever was blessed to remain did not see any gift in their survival. They were powerless, in such a debilitating way that it quaked them with shame, and the ceaseless demands to have done more. Alexios could not have watered down these flames, even if he had known eons in advance. To stand in Poseidon's path insinuated that war would follow. It was why his path was so often barren, with the sporadical opponent that was granted a slow, regretful fate.
⠀

Poseidon was aware of the years that Alexios wore beneath his belt, and the effects of time that molded them, despite a mutual lack of aging. Regardless, when the demigod questioned which of his brothers had done such a thing, Poseidon found an inflection in his tone that was similar to a young boy's. In the demigod's eyes, a child lived, and Poseidon could see it. Only for a moment. He had presumed that who he boldly accused was obvious, yet he was further questioned, between the stirring deity in the sky and the one that lurked with indifference in the underworld's depths. Perhaps it was a brief state of denial, to hope that his father could not be so beastly. It had been Poseidon, yes, but Zeus very easily could have stricken these men, women, and children.
⠀
"Hades would have no desire in taking the lives that once rested here. There is enough on his hands, and war does not interest him." It had been some time since seeing Hades, as well, but this was no lie. Another step was taken, upon more evidence of the building's destruction, and his eyes remained on the other's. In the depths of the demigod's eyes, he could see the frenzied composition of a brewing flame. If it was coaxed by Poseidon, would it be more of a storm? His face of judgment was unusually tranquil, free of a foul temper.
⠀
Poseidon looked to him as if the answer had always been so painfully clear. He gave the look of an uncritical, remindful father. What a performance it was, to seem as though he was ever a doting god. "Your father's rage has always been undomesticated. To not be shown loyalty by his own son... It can be a great offense."
⠀
The sea god persisted. "What will you do?"