Margaret
Location: Ares' Grand Estate
Who: Ares, Douglas
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Ares returns from an obscure quest changed, his once familiar temperament now laced with a mysterious severity, as he embarks on a relentless search through his sons' sanctuaries, driven by suspicions ignited by a simple mortal jacket.
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Cecelia
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Lightning cracked the clouds, sending heaven's light through the storm. It came with a sepia hint to the silver-black sky, as if it already knew the winds and rain it wrought would echo for eternity. The storm grew vast, surging as the spring melt river, the air in tight eddies, its playful vortices unaware of their own strength. It was a Tuesday. Known to the Greeks as the day of Ares, Tuesday held the favor of the god of war, a time when the roll of dice and the swing of fate were believed to lean his way. 
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On such a day, all who knew him awaited his return, weekly anticipating the resonance of his steps. Ares had left on a quest marked by divine whispers and uncharted impulses. Amidst vague reasons and silent departures, not even the murmurs of his impending madness could deter his singular resolve as he departed the realm of deities, guided solely by instinct.
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Many cycles of the moon later, Ares returned, not just weeks but parts of a year having passed. Although his absence stretched beyond mortal predictions, it ended, as prophesied, on a Tuesday. Curiosity surrounded his return, his divine lineage included, eager for tales of the unknown. Yet, Ares shared nothing. His aura remained largely unchanged to the casual observer, no different than after countless battles.
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However, those closest noticed a subtle shift—a deeper solemnity, a clipped humor, a patience frayed further still. His interactions, unpredictable as ever, were now laced with a peculiar test: grievances disguised as jests, where laughter from the listener drew his ire, misunderstanding their reaction as mockery.
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Few thought it possible for the War God to grow more formidable. Some speculated his changes were mere echoes of his journey, perhaps fleeting. Yet, those who knew him best understood this new temperament was theirs to bear. On a seemingly ordinary day, Ares delved into the quarters of his offspring, his mind set upon an artifact he once bestowed upon a favored son. As to which of them it was, however, eluded him, lost in the fog of divine memory.
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Rather than summon each progeny before him—an endeavor both tedious and time-consuming—he opted for a simpler, more solitary pursuit: a thorough search through their personal belongings. It was in his son Douglas' quarters that he would very suddenly stumble upon something that worked to infuriate him to his core. Not the artifact that he was searching for, but a jacket. A mortal creation that was intended to keep them warm from the cold. It wasn't the jacket itself that peaked his nerves, but symbols that covered almost half of the backside; a collection of flowers that fluctuated in height, with stems that stretched between the pedals.

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Flowers . . Like those of the wreaths that Antheia fancies as crowns. A sign of delicacy, femininity, softness. In possession of his son? The discovery stirred suspicions of altered filial affections—his once reverent son now stuttered and averted his gaze. A boy that once worshipped the very ground that he walked on now spoke to him in stammers and could hardly even keep eye contact. Was this why? With a roar that could shake the foundations of Olympus, Ares bellowed, "DOUGLAS!" His indistinguishable shout, honed in battles, ensured that no corner of the divine abode could muffle its reach.
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As he struggled with the notion that Douglas, a warrior forged in his own image, could own such an item, he wavered between denial and confrontation. *Perhaps . . It belonged to someone else.* Would become the only doubt that made him capable of holding himself back enough to speak to his son in a way that merely mimicked calmness. Ares first glanced over his shoulder, spotting his son in his peripherals.
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He then completely turned around, holding the jacket aloft in a manner that made the flower embedding immediately seeable. In a quiet tone, pulsating with the suppression of rage, he asked "To whom does this belong, son?" His voice barely contained the storm within. His eyes, dark as obsidian, bore an unsettling stillness, reminiscent of a serpent lying in wait, their depths devoid of any warmth or benevolence towards his own blood.
Willis
Douglas had been spending a lot of time out in the training fields, the armory, and the workshop outside his father's training area. Each day brought new drills, exercises, and rigorous training sessions. It was a routine that Douglas knew well, one that had once been a source of solace for him. The relentless paces Ares had always pushed him through, the grueling workouts, the never-ending emphasis on strength and dominance.

From the very beginning, Ares had been the one constant in Douglas' life. His voice was ingrained in his memories, always guiding and teaching him. Without Ares, he would have been left to die as an abandoned infant. Douglas felt a deep sense of gratitude towards his Father for taking him in and raising him. Ares, for better or for worse- and many people would argue it was for the worse- was his role model and his mentor and his one constant growing up.

But then his Father left, called away on yet another mission, another call for aid, another battle and another war to fight in. It wasn't the first time Douglas had been left 'alone' as the God of War was often called away and in high demand. However, this time felt different. Ares' absence was longer and more profound with each passing phase of the moon. As the days stretched on and on, Douglas began to feel a growing void in his life, like a crumbling dirt hole around the sturdy foundations he had always relied on. The absence of his father, his mentor and role model, left him feeling lost and adrift in a sea of uncertainty, teetering on the edge of that great void.

The hole was large, impossible to ignore and at first, Douglas had simply stood where he had always stood, waiting. But hole remained and Douglas tentatively began to edge around its crumbling edges, trying to find a way past it. With cautious steps, he maneuvered around the jagged rocks and loose earth, determined to forge his own path despite the obstacle in front of him.

As time passed, the hole remained but slowly became covered and concealed. It no longer gaped wide and raw, but instead was covered and concealed by layers of time and distraction... But it was still there . With each step he took away from the path his Father had set him on, Douglas couldn't help but feel a sense of uncertainty. The apathy that had taken hold during his training made him question everything he had worked for, and doubt and questioning had always been out of the question, never allowed or tolerated by the God of War. But in the freedom, however temporary it might have been, Douglas found himself starting to doubt and starting to question. And as he struggled with confusing emotions whenever he was around his fellow demigods, he couldn't ignore the fact that the hole in his heart was still there.

It was like standing on shaky ground, knowing that at any moment it could give way and swallow him back into its depths. Despite the distractions and pursuits of daily life, Douglas couldn't escape the constant reminder of the hole within him, always waiting to consume him once again. The first real sign of that possibility was looming closer than he thought was the whispered rumors of his Father's return at last. 

The confirmation that the hole was there still ready to swallow him whole once more came when he heard that familiar voice bellowing out his name, the power reverberating through the entire place. Even out in the training field by the house, Douglas felt that impact in his chest almost like a physical strike that knocked the wind out of him for a moment. Looking at the sword and shield he had been attempting to train with, he debated for all of two seconds what to do with them and then opted to leave them there for the servants to gather up later as he sprinted towards the house. His heart was pounding in his chest as he entered the family home, eyes darting around to see where his Father was.

Douglas felt his heart sink when he saw Ares in his room, obviously having gone through much of his things with apparent care as to whether Douglas knew he had or not. "Father... You're back!" He said, trying to cover the fear with a look of excitement at his Father's final return. 

It was then his eyes fell on the item Ares was holding aloft and Douglas could feel the color drain from his face. Of all the things he didn't want his father to find, that jacket was probably one of the main ones... Along with the yoga mat in the closet...

"To whom does this belong, son?"

Douglas felt a chill run through his entire body as he looked from the jacket to his father and back to the jacket. 

"It... It's... " Douglas swallowed hard as he looked at his father. "Aurora made it" He said softly then added "She made it for me... I... I told her I wanted a new jacket... I asked her to make it for me." 

A small lie, mostly truth though as he had gladly accepted the gift and gladly wore it for her on several occasions. Douglas wasn't going to let Aurora take the fall for this. 

"The jacket is mine, Father. I've already been wearing it for a bit now." Douglas stood there, trying to meet Ares' gaze, hoping he wasn't trembling as much as it felt like he was just then as he tried not to shrink back from his father as he saw the look in his eyes.

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Cecelia
Blazing like a tempestuous flame, Ares' gaze lingered, statuesque and unyielding, as he absorbed the entirety of the scene before him. He scrutinized the expression on his son's face, the tone in his voice, and even the frequency of his stammers. He paid meticulous attention to every detail, like a predator keenly assessing its prey. He cared not for who had made offerings to Douglas, for godhood inherently involves receiving such tributes. What mattered to him was his son's response to such offerings. 
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Which of them he accepted, and which he declined. To learn that he not only accepted it willingly, but went as far as to actually wear it. It seems Douglas had overshared that detail, causing Ares' eyebrows to raise momentarily in reaction. As the boy hesitated and stumbled through his cautious words, Ares perceived only weakness in the quivering utterances. 
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The stillness of the room shattered as Ares moved, like a lion in a cage, to a cabinet in his son's bedroom. There, he retrieved three logs from the lowest shelf and brought them to the fireplace. With the logs tucked securely under his left arm, he knelt, reaching for the fire starter beside the hearth. With a deft flick of his wrist, he struck the flint against the steel, sending a shower of sparks raining down onto the tinder below. The air crackled with electric energy as the sparks danced and flickered, igniting the dry kindling in a triumphant burst of flame.

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As the fire roared to life, casting its warm, golden glow across the room, Ares beckoned Douglas with a singular come hither motion of his index finger, his eyes intense with unspoken demands. As the flames crackled and popped, Ares rose to his full height, searching his son's eyes for a glint of the familiar determination he once knew. He placed a firm hand on his son's shoulder while pressing the jacket against his chest with the other. 
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"You will burn it," He commanded, his voice calm but laden with an intensity that matched the flickering firelight, his gaze piercing into his son's soul. The room seemed to tighten around them, filled with the tension of a looming test. Ares' eyes bore into his son, overanalyzing every twitch and expression. This was a trial, a moment that would reveal how far Douglas had strayed from his intended path. The Douglas of old would have done it eagerly, a smile playing on his lips, but now, Ares awaited the outcome, his heart heavy with foreboding as he searched for a hint of the boy he once knew. 
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As Ares stood there, enveloped in the warm, dancing light of the fire, the room felt alive with anticipation, like a garden poised for a coming storm, the flowers billowing gaily, yet anchored and resilient in the face of the approaching tempest. The scene stretched, as if time itself had slowed, each second elongating with the weight of unspoken words and unfulfilled expectations. The atmosphere was thick with the heady scent of burning wood, and the golden hues of the firelight seemed to spill over, painting everything in shades of molten gold and deep umber, as father and son stood on the precipice of an uncertain future, their souls as intertwined and conflicted as the crackling flames before them.
Willis
The air was thick and enveloping, laced with the deep, smoky scent of burning timber. The warm, flickering fire cast a golden sheen over everything in its path, illuminating the figures of father and son as they stood side by side. Douglas could almost taste the expectation in the air and could feel the waves of judgement and disdain that came off Ares at that moment. Their faces were lit by the fiery glow, one reflective of disappointment and anger, the other reflective of fear and apprehension. The flames danced and swirled in front of them, mirroring the entwined yet conflicted emotions within their hearts.

Douglas stood rigid, his body coiled like a tightly wound spring as he faced the roaring inferno in front of him. The intense heat from the flames contrasted sharply with the icy grip of his father's hand on his shoulder, pinning him down with an unyielding force. His eyes fixated on the jacket, its vivid hues pulsating with life in the flickering shadows and dancing embers around them. It was a breathtaking creation, skillfully molded by Aurora's gifted hands, and Douglas felt a surge of something flash through him.

Douglas had always known his father's temper, and he was sure the jacket would not survive. His suspicions were confirmed as he watched Ares' muscular arms stoke the flames with a fierce determination. But instead of destroying the jacket himself, his father turned to Douglas with a sudden shift in demeanor. The towering figure commanded him with a single glance and a few simple words to do the deed instead. Douglas felt small and insignificant in comparison, but his heart raced as he slowly reached for the jacket, uncertain of his father's intentions. The tension between them was palpable, each crackle of the fire echoing in the silence like an accusation. A sense of foreboding weighed heavily on Douglas as stood there staring from the jacket to the fire and back to the jacket.

But it was too late. The damage had already been done and Douglas could feel the weight of his mistake crushing him. Desperate for a way out, he pleaded with his father once more. "Let me talk to Aurora. I'll give the jacket back and tell her I don't want it anymore." He tried to soften the anger brewing in his father's eyes, but it seemed futile against the fiery storm within.

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Cecelia
In that instant, a sharp, piercing pang clutched at Ares' heart, plunging it deep into the abyss of his stomach. His eyes widened slightly, eyebrows arched in an expression of disbelief as his once unwavering gaze fractured, scattering into a desperate search within his son's eyes. The strength in his grip around Douglas' collarbone wavered, loosening as a tremor of shock passed through him. Douglas' mere suggestion told Ares all that he needed to know; it was a glaring testament to how far his son had fallen from his father's image..
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Softly, almost inaudibly, Ares whispered, "No..." Not in reply to Douglas' question, but a faint echo of his spiraling disbelief. The word floated in the air, fragile and laden with a growing despair. His visage crumbled from shock into heartbreak, and this heartbreak quickly transformed into a fiery rage. His hand, which had been resting on his son's shoulder, moved to grab his jaw with the startling speed of a lunging snake, clasping it just slightly underneath the weight that would've allowed him to break it.
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Pulling Douglas' head down, Ares brought his mouth close to his son's ear, his breath warm and urgent. "BURN ITTTT, NOW!!!" He roared with a violent intensity that vibrated through the air like the hammering clang of a smith's anvil. When the force of his shout and the strength in his grip caused Douglas' posture to buckle under the pain, Ares took advantage of this and maneuvered Douglas against the fireplace. He used his pelvis to pin him to the stone mantle, pressing with a calculated force that left no room for escape. The warmth of the fire nearby flickered reflections of golden light across the tense tableau, mirroring the fiery forge burning within Ares.
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As the scene unfolded, it was as if the very essence of their conflict was absorbed by the surrounding atmosphere, each second laden with the weight of years, expectations, and heartbreak, all converging in a tumultuous crescendo. The urgency of Ares' command lingered in the air, reverberating like the deep gong of a cathedral bell in the quiet that followed his outburst, leaving a resonant echo that seemed to hang suspended, as poignant and laden as the solemn hush of a chapel before prayer.
Willis
The searing pain radiated through his muscles, a reminder of Ares' unparalleled strength. A stark reminder that though he was his son and his champion, Douglas was still little more than a demigod compared to the power his father wielded that made him tremble uncontrollably. At one time, not so long ago, he had longed for that sort of power, to be able to bend others to his will, as he was being bent and broken in that moment. There had been a time when all Douglas wanted was his Father's approval and to stand beside him as co-victors. That had not been that long ago... And in a fleeting moment Douglas was reminded why others feared Ares as they did.

As Douglas opened his mouth to speak, desperate to reason with his volatile father, Ares' other hand shot out like a vengeful serpent and seized Douglas' jaw in a merciless vice-like grip.

The godly force behind it dug into his skin, and Douglas was sure it was leaving bruises. He fought back a whimper as he realized the full extent of Ares' power over him, biting his lip, knowing any cry or sound would just anger his father more. A cold bone-chilling shiver ran through the demigod, turning his blood to ice as his father leaned over, lips to his ear, the rough wires of his beard painfully scratching as he was held fast.

The look of terror in his wide eyes spoke volumes, conveying all the words he could not bring himself to say. His father's intense gaze bore down on him, fueled by anger and disappointment. The bellowed command reverberated through his entire body, commanding him to burn the jacket or face his father's full wrath. As he sank to his knees, Douglas clutched the jacket tightly in his trembling hand, feeling its weight and significance.

But before he could make a move, his father shoved him the rest of the way down to the ground and pressed him against the hot stone mantle with a force that left him breathless. In that moment, the flames dancing before him, the heat of the stone not enough to burn him but enough to singe him, Douglas knew he was out of options and at the mercy of his father's rage.

Hands trembling with both fear and pain at that moment, Douglas slowly reached out and held the jacket over the flames once more. There was a second of hesitation and he felt Ares' body shift, his weight pinning him hard against the stones, the heat singeing his face slightly as he was held firmly in place. The unspoken command was clear. And closing his eyes Douglas released his hold on the jacket, letting it fall into the flames. Douglas didnt have to be watching to know when it happened, the flash of the fire behind his eyes and the flare of heat told him all he needed to know- the jacket was soon to be no more.

The weight of his father's anger and disapproval was crushing, pressing him down as effectively as his father's own bulk did. A single tear slipped down Douglas' cheek and was consumed by the heat of the fire. Had he been aware of it Douglas would have thanked the flames for hiding it, knowing that his grief was something he could not let his father see.

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Cecelia
Ares watched intently as the jacket met the flames. It burned in the reflection of his iris, a haunting image that he observed without wavering. Momentarily, his grip on his son slackened, his attention momentarily diverted before snapping back with renewed focus. He reached out, grabbing Douglas's arm, yanking him to his feet with a sudden force that spoke volumes of his divine strength. Ares continued to grasp his wrist firmly, his other hand clenching Douglas's right shoulder, his gaze penetrating deeply into his son's eyes.

"They've corrupted you, son. I don't know what transpired in my absence, or who or what entity has altered your essence, but you are not yourself," Ares declared, his voice a mixture of despair and determination as he searched Douglas's eyes, trying desperately to recapture his attention. With a rough hand, Ares brushed across the boy's face, cupping it in his firm grasp while maintaining an intense, unwavering stare.

"It will be alright, though, my son. I will restore you; whatever they did can be undone. Soon, you will once again be a warrior cast from my own mold. I will train and work you tirelessly, day and night, without breaks, without play, without freedoms. I will barely feed you until you prove that you deserve such sustenance. I failed by leaving you behind, and I will exhaust every power at my disposal to reform you. You have my word," Ares asserted. His handling of Douglas, though firm, carried the warmth and care of a loving father, a stark contrast to the sternness of his words. "And you will never let them weaken you again," He whispered, before giving Douglas a forceful shove and exclaiming, "Never!"

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As Ares moved past his son, his eye contact remained unbroken until he was fully behind him, heading towards the door. He stopped in the door frame, turning his head over his shoulder. "Put on your armor and meet me in the war room. We've much to do, Douglas," Ares commanded calmly as he exited the room. Leaving his son to his state of devastation, expecting none of it to enter what he had newly planned for the rest of the day, and the days coming forth. At the very least, he still exerted some control over him, and this knowledge provided Ares a twisted form of consolation.

The war god was notoriously unpopular among his kin, and the feeling was mutual. But his disdain went beyond mere familial animosity; he despised their ways. Now, he loathed them even more for how they had begun to shape his son, molding him into something far removed from the warrior he was meant to be. The realization fueled a complex brew of anger and resolve in Ares, much like a supernova bursting with the fierce urgency of its final brilliant moment before fading into the celestial void.
Margaret
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**END OF SCENE**