“Get a hold of yourself, Eutostea! Are you willing to throw yourself into that river to be torn apart?”
Dionysus turned pale and grabbed her waist. The spinning stream that was tearing her body calmed down. The god of the river has disappeared. Only the remains of the cow’s hooves by the river proved he was once there. A stepping stone appeared like a silver platter. Eutostea thought the road was open. She tried to walk through. But Dionysus didn’t let go. His arm clasped her waist like a noose.
“Don’t go. You can’t go. Don’t go, Eutostea,” he murmured in a low whisper. It felt like he was talking to himself.
Eutostea shrieked deafeningly and floundered as she tried to get away from him. Lord Dionysus. Lord Dionysus. She begged him with desperate entreaties. To let her go because she had to leave. Dionysus grabbed her soft cotton ball-like fist and delivered a hit to her back, tightly holding onto her collapsed body. Gathering the woman closer to him, he entered the forest path. Everywhere he walked, tree branches grew, forming thick leaves. Vine thickened and multiplied. They rose, supporting the temple from all sides, as thick as pillars. He carried out what he had said. A comfortable prison
The only prison in the world to lock up his priest.
I will be with you forever in it, Eutostea.
***
The helmet covering his head, face, and chin, was a natural yellowy brass color. The thin piece of metal clung to the wearer’s face like a second skin. The area around the eyes and ears was cut into round openings that made a T-shape when seen from the front. The fan-shaped white feather ornament was stiffly fixed on top of the helmet. But it looked all red. The reason why the helmet lost its color is due to the blood covering that other shed which hardened and clotted.
Ares pulled out a spear lodged in the chest of a dying soldier. Warm blood spurted like a fountain. He kicked the body, which had been laying like an obstacle at his feet with his military boots and continued his way through his path.
He was standing on the ground. A little while ago, the chariot he was riding earlier was moving forward, with its owner missing, waving the reins. Blood-excited warlords were stamping the hooves of their horses high and trampling everything in front of their eyes.
The bodies of the fallen enemy were stretched out in the place where his military boots had stepped on. Thebes’ blue flag was also seen.
Among the corpses that fell on the battlefield, there were only a few soldiers from the Marean Empire. It’s the second close game they had. Ares has yet to decide on a victor.
He struck up the shield of the disk he had fixed on his arm to block the arrow from pouring over his head. The archer was alive. He identified the position of the arrow peeping over the top of the small half-moon-shaped shield. He could see the archer’s back, trying to escape. Ares threw a spear at him. It pierced right through his body and he screamed his last breath. He bent over and held a new sword before the spear that knocked the archer down was inserted into the floor. A short sword the length of a forearm.
“Father!”
Deimos, riding on his brass chariot and crossing the battlefield, picked up his horn and called him. He nodded to his son. Ares jumped into a mess where the enemy and his forces were entangled. His sword was drawn sideways. The blade ripped the flesh wherever it struck, tore the muscles, and broke the bones. His side emptied. He blocked the soldier’s rushing spear from the edge. As he turned around, Ares weighed himself on the shield and sent three humans who jumped at him flying.
The horn of Deimos rang. Thebes’ soldiers groaned and closed their ears. It was the moment of disarming. Ares raised the sword high above his head and then lowered it mercilessly. The blade dug into the soldiers like an ax. Blood, muscle dregs, and pieces of skin scattered like rain whenever the sword was wielded. He threw away the sword when he thought it had become dull. He picked up the spear and stabbed it, aiming at the abdomen and sides of the chest. He wiped out the people within the radius that his spear could reach.
For Thebes, he must have seemed like the manifestation of fear itself, but he took easy steps with a lightness of foot as if he were wearing the golden sandals of Hephaestus and not the heavy military boots which made him look like a disciplined dancer. His movements were aimed to kill, but at the same time, they held a grotesque beauty.
In the midst of his and his sons’ struggle, the war seemed to have been completely overtaken by the Mareans. Then, their left wing collapsed.
“For Thebes!”
It was a thunderous roar.
“Get a hold of yourself, Eutostea! Are you willing to throw yourself into that river to be torn apart?”
Dionysus turned pale and grabbed her waist. The spinning stream that was tearing her body calmed down. The god of the river has disappeared. Only the remains of the cow’s hooves by the river proved he was once there. A stepping stone appeared like a silver platter. Eutostea thought the road was open. She tried to walk through. But Dionysus didn’t let go. His arm clasped her waist like a noose.
“Don’t go. You can’t go. Don’t go, Eutostea,” he murmured in a low whisper. It felt like he was talking to himself.
Eutostea shrieked deafeningly and floundered as she tried to get away from him. Lord Dionysus. Lord Dionysus. She begged him with desperate entreaties. To let her go because she had to leave. Dionysus grabbed her soft cotton ball-like fist and delivered a hit to her back, tightly holding onto her collapsed body. Gathering the woman closer to him, he entered the forest path. Everywhere he walked, tree branches grew, forming thick leaves. Vine thickened and multiplied. They rose, supporting the temple from all sides, as thick as pillars. He carried out what he had said. A comfortable prison
The only prison in the world to lock up his priest.
I will be with you forever in it, Eutostea.
***
The helmet covering his head, face, and chin, was a natural yellowy brass color. The thin piece of metal clung to the wearer’s face like a second skin. The area around the eyes and ears was cut into round openings that made a T-shape when seen from the front. The fan-shaped white feather ornament was stiffly fixed on top of the helmet. But it looked all red. The reason why the helmet lost its color is due to the blood covering that other shed which hardened and clotted.
Ares pulled out a spear lodged in the chest of a dying soldier. Warm blood spurted like a fountain. He kicked the body, which had been laying like an obstacle at his feet with his military boots and continued his way through his path.
He was standing on the ground. A little while ago, the chariot he was riding earlier was moving forward, with its owner missing, waving the reins. Blood-excited warlords were stamping the hooves of their horses high and trampling everything in front of their eyes.
The bodies of the fallen enemy were stretched out in the place where his military boots had stepped on. Thebes’ blue flag was also seen.
Among the corpses that fell on the battlefield, there were only a few soldiers from the Marean Empire. It’s the second close game they had. Ares has yet to decide on a victor.
He struck up the shield of the disk he had fixed on his arm to block the arrow from pouring over his head. The archer was alive. He identified the position of the arrow peeping over the top of the small half-moon-shaped shield. He could see the archer’s back, trying to escape. Ares threw a spear at him. It pierced right through his body and he screamed his last breath. He bent over and held a new sword before the spear that knocked the archer down was inserted into the floor. A short sword the length of a forearm.
“Father!”
Deimos, riding on his brass chariot and crossing the battlefield, picked up his horn and called him. He nodded to his son. Ares jumped into a mess where the enemy and his forces were entangled. His sword was drawn sideways. The blade ripped the flesh wherever it struck, tore the muscles, and broke the bones. His side emptied. He blocked the soldier’s rushing spear from the edge. As he turned around, Ares weighed himself on the shield and sent three humans who jumped at him flying.
The horn of Deimos rang. Thebes’ soldiers groaned and closed their ears. It was the moment of disarming. Ares raised the sword high above his head and then lowered it mercilessly. The blade dug into the soldiers like an ax. Blood, muscle dregs, and pieces of skin scattered like rain whenever the sword was wielded. He threw away the sword when he thought it had become dull. He picked up the spear and stabbed it, aiming at the abdomen and sides of the chest. He wiped out the people within the radius that his spear could reach.
For Thebes, he must have seemed like the manifestation of fear itself, but he took easy steps with a lightness of foot as if he were wearing the golden sandals of Hephaestus and not the heavy military boots which made him look like a disciplined dancer. His movements were aimed to kill, but at the same time, they held a grotesque beauty.
In the midst of his and his sons’ struggle, the war seemed to have been completely overtaken by the Mareans. Then, their left wing collapsed.
“For Thebes!”
It was a thunderous roar.
