The Family Sword, Tag Deimos

[Ares]

The bustling community of Harrods was all around him, elegant in their clothing and wanting the best of everything. For that is why they would be here, of all places in London. Seeking that only they could afford as the middle and upper class of the country. He was there, of course, not for the clothing or the food, the fashion accessories or the additions to life which made thing easier for an obscene amount of money. His lifestyle was a Spartan one, as could be expected, and aside from the basic clothing he used to remain inconspicuous amongst the other people, he was rather hidden as far as anyone would care to inspect him. He wasn't much one for taking what he could avoid and leave, and as thus he'd established a rather pretty penny in his bank accounts.

As it was, today, he was looking her to find one of the few stores in the entire country capable of selling weaponry. Not guns, obviously, but more than just kitchen knives. Here he intended on purchasing something for protection that was easily concealable, and preferably something he'd been accustomed to in the past. All that there was, though, were a handful of true items which he'd feel comfortable actually trying out in a real-life situation. He was a master of all weapons, but that didn't mean he trusted them to actually work for him in the event that he'd want to use them. Some of them were just horribly designed... like barchides, or tridents. He couldn't figure why anyone would ever want them.

He was currently looking at a set of bronze javelins which could collapse into something less than twelve inches along. And it didn't take him much time to decide to purchase them. Even if they weren't going to be the perfect density and balance, he was happy to have something that he could pull out and use if the need arose than trying to fight his way out of a situation with bare hands and harsh swearing. He was good at those too, obviously, but a Spartan without his blade was a poor quality, and even moreso for the modern day where if he didn't have a weapon, the other person probably would. Swiping his card and paying, he bagged up the dozen compact javelins and left the store.

He rested just outside on a small stone bench, random individuals passing by and paying no attention to the man in black clothing checking his shopping. He removed one of the bronze cylinders, pointed at one and, and with a button about 6 inches from each side. Holding it vertical before him, he pressed it, and the rest of the javelin dropped out of the bottom, at just over 4 feet of bronze which tapered off to a point at the other end too. With a release of the button he tested the rigidity and found that, yes, it was basically a javelin now. Horrendously balanced and probably not good for more than 60feet of throw, but he'd manage with it fine and would be happy with them. They'd even fit in a bag where golf clubs tended to be kept. Assuming he bought one of those, too.

[Deimos]

Deimos frowned as he pushed past some of the mortals. They were constantly in his way and everywhere. Like pests. They would breed and breed but not always do anything. Which was a shame, because given their numbers they could have large battles like those that use to occur in the past. But the last major battle would have been WWII, the war that was being fought now hardly qualified as a war at all…at least in his opinion. He had a tendency to gage wars on a scale that only took into account how much fun he had. Fighting to him, or rather the feeling he got from fighting was much like the same pleasurable experience others got from intercourse. It was the entire release of emotions that made the experience, at least for him, enjoyable. Not to mention that he was male and so anytime he could release frustration and cause pain to someone else was okay by him. It was, he supposed, in his nature to be both vain and aggressive thanks to his parents. Because of this he found that mortal men and women both had their uses but the men could satisfy better then the females, just because they were too fragile.

One of the shops that he passed by caught his attention. It seemed that it was a place where one could get actual weapons. Weapons were in his opinion necessary. He had been trained to fight and properly use weapons by his father, who had rigorous standards that him and his siblings had to uphold. Deimos also had training in modern weapons, though given a choice he would always choose older weapons, what he considered proper weaponry. Things like spears, swords, daggers and similar objects. There was a comfort to having them around. Deciding that, as he was in no rush for the day, he would look around the shop. It was pitiful, Deimos was sure that he had a better collection in his home, but still they were hard to find. Naturally he preferred the spear and shield combination that he was first taught to fight with, but he was sure carrying around those two objects would look a bit suspicious. Deimos had taken a liking to daggers, which could be concealed easily, and we’re, in his opinion slightly versatile. Not that he had much choice when it came to easily concealed old-fashioned weapons. Shaking his head slightly at the sad array of weapons before him, Deimos left the shop without buying anything.

Though Deimos hadn’t been around many gods, it was easy to identify them. Most of them hadn’t changed much, sure outer appearances sometimes changed (most gods were vain and tried to stay as close to their original appearance as possible himself included). But there was more to anyone then just their appearance; mannerisms were harder to change over time and easier to pick up upon. Not that all of this really mattered much, but Deimos liked being observant, it always was helpful especially during a fight or battle. He was aware that there were other gods in London so it amused him to find one in particular sitting on a bench. Normally Deimos would simply walk away; after all he didn’t associate with very many gods. But this one was differently. He made his way over to where he was sitting, absent-mindedly looking at his hand, which had a few scars. Though his body, which was currently covered up by clothes had a lot more scars from times when he was ‘disobedient’ or disrespectful’ and regular training.

Deimos sat down on the bench without invitation not really caring to ask permission. He wasn’t sure how the other god would react to his presence; after all it had been awhile. “Father.”

[Ares]

He was far too busy inspecting his new purchase to notice what was going on around him. What might have been a buzzing was obscured by his thought processes looking up and down the metal for imperfections, and the golden glow he usually noticed in peripheral vision was obscured by the colour of the javelin. As it was, he was paying little attention to the world outside until his private space with invaded by someone who seemed quite willing to park themselves alongside him. He glanced to the side, seeing a man there, and slowly retracted the javelin, returning it to its shortened form. Just what someone was doing without invitation he didn't know, and he was torn between giving them a rather immediate piece of his mind which involved sharp sticks and big fists, or simply walking away without acknowledging them.

The spoken words did that for him, however, and the decision was made at the tone of the voice. He turned, seeing the familiar face of his son whom sat there. How he'd managed to find him, he'd not figured, but he was almost overwhelmed seeing his own flesh and blood sitting alongside him as though nothing had happened in all those years. "Deimos..." he murmured, the name sounding foreign to his lips. Terror incarnate, and often referred to as Diablo in some circles for his tendency to induce dread into cultures. He had hoped Phobos might have appeared at his other side, but that seemed to not be the case. Either way, he looked upon his son as though seeing a ghost, and his eyes shone a little with a pride that hadn't been seen for centuries.

He embraced his child, feeling the familiar body of a soldier trained by his own hand. A warrior worthy of every honour available, for both valour and skill. He trained his children harder than he had trained any mortal man, and he was proud to be their father knowing they had inherited the skills he was so famous and worshipped for. Their reunion hug lasted a few seconds, and Ares was glad to feel the familiar skin against him after so long. His mind was almost unable to think as he pulled away, looking the other man in the eyes and considering whether he was just imagining this. Meeting other Gods was more of a formality, at least compared to this meeting. There was a magic here that was greater than any number of deities, and Ares was quick to free his hand of the weapon he had bought, placing it back into the bag with its brethren.

"My son... it has truly been too long." The last time he had seen Deimos? He couldn't even remember, it had been so many days and weeks. Years which blended against one another and moulded his memory into mixtures of hearsay and fact, and none of it what he was interested in, but had to be aware of. The mortal times had taken their toll on him, the face of his son not one that had been easily remembered by him, though it now shone brightly before him like a blazing sphere of light, and for that moment there was nothing his son could have said to remove from Ares's mind that he was the greatest of his children, and hence greatest of Olympus.

He looked up and down the man now, the figure slightly less broad than he recalled and not as defined. He supposed the clothing choices might have been to blame, but he looked at him warily, hoping for his sake he'd been keeping up with the training regimes that had been enforced to the letter since he was old enough to hold a sword. "You look like you've put on weight." he warned, and if they had been elsewhere he would have demanded to see his son's physical strength in a spar. He'd suffice that he was healthy, for now. It would take a lot to keep Ares happy, and he expected nothing but the best from his children. Though he had a wide smile now, with his son present, the back of his mind was fraught with danger, and if there'd been the slightest deviation, he'd be instigating an emergency practice.

[Deimos]

Having his dad embrace him showed Deimos how much he was missed better then any words could. Though he was surprised that he wasn’t being dragged outside somewhere remote so that Ares could see how lax his training had been. But he shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth as the mortal saying went. He knew that his father could pretty much beat him anytime. In fact Deimos was convinced that Ares could beat him in a fight blindfold, though not a theory he really wanted to test because if he was right then his pride and ego would take a beating. That and Ares (or any of his siblings if they found out) would ever let him forget it. But there was the slight small (very small) possibility that his dad was not keeping up with his own exercise regiment. The thought almost made him laugh. The chances of Phebos really being a girl were higher.

He saw his dad look over to his other side and knew what, or rather whom, he was expecting to see. Of course Deimos knew they wouldn’t show, he hadn’t seen his bother Phebos in centuries. They had gone their separate ways at one point and had not met up again. Deimos wasn’t even sure Phebos was in London. The two of them were close, how could they not be as their titles went hand in hand. How could you have terror without fear. He always liked having his brother beside him in battle, they never needed to use words to know what the other was thinking when they were fighting. If Deimos stopped to think about it, it had been a long time since he fought along side any of his siblings. Or his father.

It had been too long since he had seen them as well. Deimos wasn’t sure who the last of his family was. He was fairly positive that it was Phebos but he couldn’t say for sure. How did a family whose bond was forged in battle loose touch so easily? He obviously didn’t have an answer to the question but he rather fix it then figure out the answer. But what were the odds that the rest of his siblings would be in London as well. Chances were they weren’t but Deimos couldn’t help but have a little bit of hope that they were.

Deimos rolled his eyes when his father commented about his weight. Sure he wasn’t as strict with his exercise regiment and diet as he had been in the past, but that didn’t mean the weight gain was substantial. He was still very fit, his overall weight gain that his father was fussing over was very minute, and it was almost not noticeable. Of course he should have figured that if anyone would be able to notice it would be the god sitting next to him. “I hope that’s not how you would tell my sisters.” Though if that was how he was planning on telling his sisters Deimos wanted to be there as it would certainly be entertaining if nothing else. Females tended to be extremely conscious about their appearance and he knew his sisters would not take to kindly to essentially being told they were getting fat.

[Ares]

The embrace didn't seem to be reciprocated as fully by his son as Ares had applied it, and he figured that either he had surprised the child, or was not necessarily in his good books for whatever reason. Ares could only suppose. He was in the negative areas with many Gods, and there were things he was blamed for which even he wasn't aware of. But Deimos had sought him out, and as such he expected that his son was at least of neutral opinion to him. If not, well... they'd have a rather interesting fight right now, and he was not necessarily one looking forwards to it. Not right after meeting, but then nothing was preferable. He waved the idea off for now, making a mental note to keep an eye on the relationship he observed. If there was anything out of the ordinary, his quick eyes would know.

He could read on his face the same look he saw in himself. Their family had been together always, at one time, and though they were in two obviously different professions, they were still close. He and Aphrodite had produced wonderful children, and she had taken those associated with love, beauty and peace under her wing. He had taken the children of battle, and each had spread their own paths across the lands. Either of great love and harmony, or as the case dictated, a path of slaughter and overwhelming violence. Of course, there was love there too, but it was the love for a God of War and his battle, the love for his children whom inspired fear and terror, chaos and vengeance.

The eye roll wasn't something Ares caught, but that was a fortunate event for Deimos. Ares wasn't above striking a child to correct behaviour, feeling that a brisk correction was better than a lifetime of poor choices. "I would tell your sisters what they should hear." he responded, knowing full well he didn't care whether they threw a tantrum. He could out-shout them and they were aware of it. "If they were such, I would tell them they're starting training in the morning, and they'd adhere to it or I'd make sure they never saw my good side in a thousand years." He was deadly serious. No son or daughter of his, trained for war, would become a disgrace to their family name, nor to themselves. It would be as Hermes arriving late, or Artemis missing a shot, or Hephaestus manufacturing a dull blade.

"I did not raise you, nor your siblings to be lazy children. I brought you up with all that you would need to be proud of yourselves, and to make you powerful in your own rights." Self confidence, courage, skill, self-discipline, health. He had offered all of these to his children - even those Aphrodite influenced. They were of his discipline, training, and often temperament, but they had a beauty only the love Goddess could supply, and that was one thing he could not offer them. He felt himself strong, but his children were far more appeasing to the eye than he. Deimos knew these things he said, regardless. He was subject to this speech often, as were they all, and Ares felt they had probably memorised enough to probably recite it back to him.

"Regardless." he sighed, dropping that conversation there and then. He wasn't going to spend the entirety of his time arguing the case for his children to stick to their training. If they proved to be disgraces it would go against many years of proving otherwise. "Where have you been all this time? I can't imagine I haven't managed to see you up to this point. Unless you're working as a hairdresser." His eyes shot up to his son's hair, but figured that if that was the case he was a rather low-quality one. No. Not a hairdresser, surely. Even his daughters had a higher standard of themselves.

[Deimos]

He was half expecting his father to do something about the eye roll, but when nothing came Deimos relaxed his body a bit. There was only reason Ares would not have retaliated and that if he missed it all together. In a way Deimos was pleased it had happened like that. After not reciprocating the embrace like he should have, he was sure his dad was slightly wary of him. But then again Deimos was fairly certain his father could be too paranoid at times. But then again this was the first person from his ‘true’ family that Deimos had seen in awhile, and even though he would have preferred to see his brother Phebos, his father was a close second.

He was, for the most part, close with his family. Or rather close with those who associated themselves with their father and not their mother. To be honest Deimos saw what had attracted his father to his mother in the first place, but after that there wasn’t much to her. There was a physics law that stated opposite attract, which was probably why his parents produced several children together. They were about as opposite as people could come, providing the law could be applied to relationships as well. He wasn’t close with his mother, but that didn’t mean he hated her. He would suppose that the best word to describe their relationship would be indifferent. They way he saw it his family had split, and not necessarily down the middle. His mother had taken all the happy peaceful children to raise and the rest were stuck with their father. Which wasn’t the horrible thing many people made it out to be. His father had trained him and his siblings well. Of course Deimos had figured out that Ares was aware of all their weakness but didn’t correct them so if he had to fight them he had something to exploit. Which, Deimos figured, was relatively fair.

Deimos wasn’t surprised when his dad said that he would be blunt. Getting on his bad side, contrary to popular (or not thought about) belief was actually really hard to do. Sure his dad had a bit of a temper but generally it was one sharp stab and everyone moved on. To get fully on his bad side for 1000 years, one had to mess up badly. Not that Deimos doubted the ability of the god f war to hold a grudge against someone for that long. He was positive that it was entirely plausible. Throughout the entire I raised you speech as it had come to be called over the years, Deimos made sure to nod his head at all of the right places. He had, and was sure his sibling had as well, memorized the speech long ago and the wording hardly ever changed as well. In fact Deimos was absolutely convinced he could give the same speech on command, something that had never and probably would never be asked of him. He was pleased when his father dropped the subject. If he hadn’t there was no telling how long he would go on for, chance where Ares could talk about the benefits of sticking to an intense training schedule for days, and possibly even weeks. And as much as Deimos was pleased to see his father right now, if a speech lasted long the five minutes he would not be happy about it.

Deimos blatantly stared at his father. Was he completely serious? “Hairdressing?” He repeated just to make sure he had heard correctly. Surly his father was expected more from him or at least knew him better then that. “That’s exactly what I wanted to be.” He did not attempt to hide the sarcasm in his voice. It would probably earn him some sort of disciplinary action (like a smack on the back of the head) but it was mostly worth it. Deimos had suspicions that hairdressing was a career his sisters wouldn’t even bother with. He knew that his dad was just teasing, or at least he hoped that his dad was just teasing. His father’s opinion meant a lot to him, so as long as his dad was pleased with his career choice this time around, that was all that mattered. “I’m actually part of the SAS.” The only thing he really had to show for it was the way his hair was currently cut, and his body, which was hidden under a few layers of clothes. Deimos figured his father would approve of his career choice this time around because they were elite. In this modern setting Deimos was sure they were as close to Spartans as one could get. In other words it was something he was well suited and prepared for.

[Ares]

Ares shrugged. Hairdressing was a perfectly acceptable profession, just not for his children. Never for his children. In fact, he'd sooner see himself skewer them before he allowed them to degrade themselves to working in such a way. It was not for the children of a great man - great men and women in their own rights - to put themselves into the position of having to create incessant small-talk whilst treating the heads of obsessive women and lazy, feminine men as though they were quite simply the most important things in the universe. Hairdressing was... Ares really didn't like hairdressing, quite simply, and he didn't feel like saying much more on the subject, and so the shrug would suffice. If Deimos had really been a hairdresser at this point, he would be a wise boy to make something else up rather quickly and make it sound convincing.

The sarcasm was not lost on him. Deimos was rather correct in his presumption, and the remark was met by his father's hand running up to hit across the back of his head. Not the full hand, obviously, but certainly making the fingers contact sharply as one might bat an annoying fly. At least he hadn't said he'd applied and been rejected. That would have probably caused Ares to disown him right there and then, regardless of sarcasm. There was a reason the Gods were how they were. Casting down their unworthy and imperfect, as Hephaestus had been. He'd attempted to emulate that from places as far as Greece, Germany, America... Basically trying to enforce the idea of having a race of perfect men and women. It worked in Sparta. Hitler had taken the concept too far, but then the second World War was a happy alternative.

"The SAS?" Ares had basically founded them. Set up their training up to the current day and set their status as reconnaissance soldiers and a special task force. Spartans still had a tougher training style, but their entire lives were essentially trained up to the point they would fight. SAS men had, generally, only a few years, or sometimes months, and as such they were still not as effective as they could, or should, be. Modern warfare, electronics and battlefields tended to make up the rest of the difference concerning combat and ability. He wouldn't deny some of them were incredibly well talented, but he missed the closeness the Spartans had experienced, and their ability to march through pain. "I suppose it's a good alternative. I expect you've been out fighting." Ares would fight if he got the chance too. Would have spent centuries at a time in the army, but the lack of ageing and constantly being recognised as 'familiar' was a deterrent.

"I spent a few stints in numerous armies, but I suppose I was more hungry for the strife itself rather than just killing." There was little that hadn't been due to his influence up to this point. "I think I started quite a few important events." In fact, he knew he had. Almost every conflict for 1900 years had been through his seeping levels of aggression, from the Crusades to the Hundred Years War, Revolutionary War, Civil Wars, Napoleonic. And in the last hundred, he'd taken the shot himself which sparked the First World War, convinced Hitler during his campaign, that the Spartan race could be achieved once again, and eventually gotten America into basically every other country in the world for one invasion or another. Yes, he'd certainly been a busy bee. "So what have you been doing? I only founded the SAS a few decades ago."

[Deimos]

He was expecting the smack on the back of his head so he didn’t flinch. He knew that if he went to move away his dad would have been inclined to do a lot worse. They were taught to take a hit, especially if Ares was the one giving it. And Deimos wasn’t quite sure what the god of war would do if someone decided to avoid being hit for disciplinary action, evading in battle situations was different. None of his siblings had been brave enough, or stupid enough, to try.

“As much as I could.” Deimos replied shrugging his shoulders once. He had fought with the SAS recently, but there were numerous fights that he had gotten into over the years. Half of them where started just because he needed something to do. There had been a period of time, before the SAS actually, where he had done some underground street fighting. Illegal, sure, fun absolutely. There were times when Deimos had wondered if he was a masochist because of the pain he willingly inflicted upon himself. He supposed if he really thought about it then it all depended upon his mood. He could be a masochist, a sadist or a combination of the two.


It didn’t surprise Deimos to hear that his father had started many important events, nee fights. In fact a few of them were kind of blatantly obvious, like WWII. He himself had joined in many fights and military events over the years. Though he had never started something himself. He always left that up to others, he just added onto the event. It was mostly what he knew, his father would start some sort of conflict then it was up to him and his siblings to keep it going. It was what he was good at, letting the fear and terror take over a person so they couldn’t leave. Terror didn’t always have to root people to the spot, it could also keep them in a battle because they were afraid of what could happen to their family if they left or lost.

Of course his father had founded the SAS. Deimos was mentally beating himself up that he hadn’t figured it out sooner. How many times had he compared it to Spartans and what they were expected to be able to do? He had never thought about seeking out his father, or his siblings for that matter. Deimos couldn’t really say why he hadn’t bothered just the fact that he hadn’t. “I moved around a lot, joining different militaries and such. I had to move on every so many years because of the entire not aging thing. And then I had to wait awhile before I could go back.” He wanted to throw in that he had been a hairdresser but he doubted his father would enjoy the sarcasm, and Deimos was certain it would earn him more then a simple smack on the back of the head. In fact he was sure the punishment would be something along the lines of I’m not your father anymore get out of my sight and I never want to see you again. Gods had the habit of being both impulsive and casting out whomever they didn’t see fit, like Hephaestus. “I also took up both kickboxing and karate.” They were two sports, which he enjoyed very much. They allowed him to get out his aggression, anger and frustration.

[Ares]

He was sure Deimos had been engaged in more than just the SAS, and though he listed numerous other things he'd been doing, it was rather modern and he wondered what his son had been filling the numerous centuries with doing. Maybe other armies. He expected he had always been around conflict. Especially Europe, but then European conflicts were never a surprising thing, and it was rather amazing to find the countries united for more than 50 years without them trying to cross borders with one another. His fingers played with the javelin, eager to try them out, but similarly not wanting to make it seem as though they took priority over his son and their time together. The bronze bar flipped through the air, caught every time, as he mused over the words and nodded slightly.

"It sounds like you were pretty busy with all these things. I wonder what your weapon skill is like." The bronze flew into the air, and he made no apparent effort to catch it as it started to descend towards Deimos's lap. He wasn't going to fight his son. At least not right off, but he fished a second one of the collapsable weapons from the bag and fiddled around with this one too. It felt almost the exact same as previous, and he hoisted up the bag, and himself, to his feet. He knew of several places where the area was open enough to permit them to do what they wanted, but figured they'd probably not be left alone for too long before someone would come around and decide they didn't enjoy the pair there.

Well, that and the javelins were probably not really suited to getting embedded in concrete and the likes. But there was a park, and he could probably run home and grab his shields locked in his store room within half an hour, if the need arose and they really wanted some dangerous fighting going on. Indicating towards the doors, he offered a challenge towards the boy. "Let's see whether you can still match my throwing. And we'll see how it goes from there." Maybe it was just his aggression taking over, and maybe it was just that he was easily bored by talking, but part of it was that he knew his son better in a combat situation and at least if they were doing something vaguely related to their old days... well, it might at least make it easier for him.

"And I'll test that kickboxing as well." He was pretty well versed in unarmed combat, though he'd never say it was his preferred style of fighting. In fact, he'd sooner remove the weapons from his enemies and fight with their own tools, should he be able to manage that, but he wasn't one for declining a little bit of a punch up and some physical workouts. Whether his son was going to be interested in these things he doubted, but he was more than welcome to say no to the challenge. If he could live with the feminine names Ares would bombard him with in return. His steps began taking him towards the exit, and the park beyond, his assumption that his son would follow. "So SAS? What particular skill set?"