Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rumors flew around Olympus faster than the wind. Nymphs, naiads, dryads and every spirit in between twittered between themselves, passing word from down the mountain to river, streams and forest groves. In their gossiping even the mortals of the world below overheard the whispered words.

A challenge! A challenge to the King of Gods! The God of War challenges the King of Gods!

The mortals quavered in fear. They knelt at temples and burned sacrifices until the skies were dark with smoke. There had been no challenge to the King of Gods since before humans existed, the last challenge was the prophecy that the King of God’s next child would destroy him if it were a son but then the Goddess of Wisdom was born and crisis adverted. The God of War was the most recent one, the previous God of War had been corrupted and his divine essence reborn in the form of a man. For years the legendary warrior had been the fear of all mortals, invulnerable, invincible, fighting in every conflict without loyalty to king or city only to bloodshed and who would provide it to him. His ascension to Olympus had been a relief. War temples had been built in his honor and incense lit to pray he never returned to walk among them again.

That had been only a handful of seasons ago.

Had the God of War’s lust for power really been so great? The answer was, clearly, yes. Even in the home of the gods he couldn’t quell his need for war.

The God Deathstroke, formerly known as Slade Wilson, was not satisfied. He had ascended, surpassed every threat and monster the mortal world could throw him and awakened his divine spark to be granted a realm to rule and a place in Olympus. He was no longer limited by the weaknesses of humanity, he saw every struggle in the mortal realm from the movements of armies in formation to the struggles of a single soldier against their foe, and granted victory to whoever he felt was more worthy of it. He had temples worshiping his name, priests and generals alike burning offerings to try and hire his favor for the battles ahead. Inside every desperate struggle to survive was a prayer to him and still he wasn’t satisfied.

He blamed the King of Gods, after all he was the one who made this divine spark full of the need to conquer. He was not born an obedient soldier, happy to obey orders, he was born a mercenary and he didn’t fight for free.

The King of Gods may have given him his divine spark but that doesn’t mean he owed him anything. He was the one who cultivated that spark into a burning flame of divinity. His godhood was his own and no-one else’s and he would not kneel to the King of Gods because of it.

That had been the first of the rumors, spread among the gods but not widely enough to reach mortal ears; Deathstroke would not kneel. Not to his fellow gods, not to the King of Gods himself, he had declared that he was a warrior that could not be defeated and he would not kneel before those who couldn’t defeat him.

At first the other gods had laughed at him and made comments about poor mortal etiquette and that he’d learn proper manners soon enough but Deathstroke hadn’t budged. As time passed the other gods had come to realize he was serious. He had no respect for the King of Gods. In the frescoes of temples the King of Gods was shown as a giant with the head and wings of a bat with stars within, the lord of the heavens who wore the night as a cape. The Cowl of Shadows was far less impressive in person, probably because he too was now infinite, now it was just a mask and a cape to him and the King of Gods no more intimidating or powerful than any of these other gods. Deathstroke owed him no fealty and had no fear telling him that to his face. The rules of the Gods weak enough to kowtow to their so-called King just to avoid a conflict were not rules he was going to follow. Their attempts to advise him were nothing more than the annoying buzzing of gnats. He wouldn’t not rule in the ways they did, he would not give or withhold his favor based on the opinion of the God of Justice who did nothing but sit on his throne.

Deathstroke’s domain was War. From the smallest skirmish to the mightiest battle, in a fight of any size he could see it all, all was under his control, and he knew none of them could beat him, not even the King of the Gods himself.

The King of Gods had started off trying to be condescendingly paternal, shifted to a disapproving icy silence and, now that has failed to reign him in, the King of the Gods greeted him with a dark glare every time he saw him. He’d even started to wear the Cowl around him now. It was meant as a threat but Deathstroke just sees someone so insecure in his own power he feels the need to wear armor around him. He knows if they fought who would win. He’s not going to take orders from someone who can only glare at him and if he had no way to defend it what claim did the King of Gods have to a throne?

Deathstroke didn’t care about the shocked gasps or the rumors that flew around the shining marble halls of Olympus. He isn’t going to pass up the chance to ascend further to true King of the Gods. He’d made his challenge in full view of the Pantheon. The coward wouldn’t get off his throne to fight him. He made excuses about a proper time and place and Deathstroke had let him. He wasn’t going to back down no matter how much the other Gods wailed and lamented that he was angering the King of Gods.

Now finally the time has come.

Deathstroke dons his armor and summons his weapon, his own Godly implement forged by the God of the Forge to celebrate his ascension. Its name was his name and his name was its name, he’d given his mortal self to the forge to create it. It was capable of killing even a God. He would prove that.

The God of War proceeds to the throne room in full parade readiness. The disbelieving eyes of Gods and Goddesses watch him from the eaves. Whispers flew across the corridors like birds. Let them talk, he’ll teach them to show proper respect when he was on the throne.

The tall golden doors of the Throne Room are wide open and Deathstroke walks straight in.

He was expecting to see the full Cowl of Shadows, a weak little God trying a last desperate attempt to intimidate him out of the fight. The King of Gods is here, still in his throne and still in his silly little cape, but his own legendary weapons are nowhere to be seen. Pathetic. Deathstroke wasn’t going to spare him just because he’d arrogantly forgone his arms. If the King of Gods wanted to bring bare fists to a knife fight he was going to get cut . Deathstroke won’t put down his sword for him. He isn’t even looking at him, he’s talking to another minor God.

It isn’t hard to recognize what the Nightwing was God of. He was the pure perfect ideal of the Eromenos, forever young, beautiful and pure, forever in the bloom of adolescence where his body had some of the strength of maturity but all the softness and flexibility of youth. His lips were plump, his eyes dark and tantalizing and the faint smile that tugged the corners of his lips when he saw you staring inflamed the heart. He was God of Love but more strongly than that God of all forms of Sexual desire to the point the smooth androgyny of features kindled the lust one feels for a woman and the lust one feels for a boy at the same time.

H e was only a minor God though, not one of the ruling council for all the king of Gods treated him as a firstborn son Nightwing was not born of the gods but from the blood of a Titan . As a mortal Slade hadn’t cared much about the minor Gods enough to remember their origins. He thinks it was something to do with ejaculating into the ocean? Either way it didn’t matter. He didn’t care if the son witnessed the fall of the father. If he thought he had any claim on Deathstroke’s throne he would have to prove it like any other. He’d never lost a fight to an eromenos , they weren’t fighters, they were the prizes won by conquest.

Deathstroke points his naked blade at the throne.

“I challenge you for the throne oh King of Gods.” he reiterates in case the thronebound monarch has somehow forgotten. "Face me on your feet or die sitting.”

The King of Gods glares at him but Deathstroke is long past being intimidated by glowing eyes.

“As the challenged I have the right to choose a champion.” The King of Gods says.

Deathstroke can’t believe he’s hearing this. The King of Gods, ruler of the Heavens, was too much of a coward to face him in person. He was so weak he wouldn’t even lose to him in person, he’d send another to get cut down in his place. Deathstroke hates him.

“Fine.” He bites out, not bothering to keep his hate from his voice. “Name your champion.”

The King of Gods turns to the God of Love and he steps forwards.

“I’m his champion.” Nightwing says in a voice like honey. “The terms of the battle are the first to kneel loses.”

They couldn’t make a stronger contrast; Deathstroke in his golden breastplate sculpted to match his physique, his orange and black plumed helmet, Deathstroke the sword that could pierce any defense in one hand, Ikon the shield that could deflect any blow in the other, the figure of a proud warrior ready for war facing...this.

The God of Love was clad in nothing more than a fluttering fine white gauze as light as a cloud that draped over his body in a mimicry of a toga, though the fabric was near entirely transparent and just served to tint the body underneath, from the rosy plump nipples down the sculpted muscle to the perfectly slender manhood that rested in his hairless crotch. His soft skin glistened with scented oils, his hair uncovered by even a string of jewels cascaded down his back in a wave of black curls like a waterfall. He carried no weapons or even tools. There was nothing on him but that fine layer of cloth, not even sandals.

This was an insult.

He was going to let the King of Gods live in a diminished capacity of course, but still. Even that tiny flicker of mercy has been snuffed out.

He was going to kill the God of Boytoys then he was going to kill him. Let the Erastes cry in the streets, this insult would be avenged.

Deathstroke raises his sword for a killing blow. The King of Gods raises a hand and gestures for the match to begin, like Deathstroke was waiting for his permission.

He brings the sword down. It is not blocked. It slices down and through the God of Love and the chintzy fabric parts effortlessly and falls to the ground in long rolls.

The God of Love smiles at him, reaches up and touches his cheek. Deathstroke growls and reaches out a hand to throttle him but, despite the soft warmth of the God of Love’s hand on his skin, he touches nothing but seafoam. It parts easily for his fingers, airy and insubstantial.

“From foam I was born and to foam I will return.” The God of Love’s voice is husky. “I am God of Love and none may touch me without my favor.”

His dark eyes, still wide and doelike, hold a tiny hidden glimmer of malice and Deathstroke knows what he’s done. The King of Gods has matched him against a God that he physically couldn’t fight. Deathstroke was God of War, none could best him in battle so the King of Gods has trapped him in a match that will last forever. His rage boils over but he can’t do anything to relieve it. It had been done within the terms of a duel and as much as he wanted to charge the throne and cut that scheming King of Gods in half he won’t discard the rules of the duel to do so. He was God of War, a God of Honor and if he was going to win it must be according to the rules of engagement for others to recognize the legitimacy of his claim. He could sit on that throne all he wanted, the title of King of Gods was meaningless unless the other gods obeyed him.

Without saying a further word he turns on his heels and stiffly strides out of the throne room.

Chapter Text

Time passes, not as relevant to an immortal as it was to the ones they ruled over, and word of the King of Gods ploy echoed as far as the news of Deathstroke’s challenge had.

The mortals had breathed collective sighs of relief and stopped planning for the end times and resumed their usual patterns of prayer, sacrifice and bloodshed. Maybe, if Deathstroke admitted he’d counted, there were less sacrifices being offered to him and more offered to Nightwing but he tried not to keep track of these things. A god that counted their sacrifices was seen as terribly petty, after all the one who got the most sacrifices was always the King of Gods.

Deathstroke found himself grinding his teeth when he thought of it. While the mortals celebrated a ‘clever trick’ he despaired at the utter lack of honour the King of Gods had.

What the mortals touted as the victory of love over hate he knew as nothing but the ploy of a coward to avoid losing a fight. Deathstroke wishes he could spit in his face but the King of Gods took great care not to be alone with him. Deathstroke hated that, just because he’d made a legitimate challenge and the God of Cowards got scared doesn’t mean he was going to try and kill him anyway like some kind of blood crazed lunatic. He at least had honour.

Deathstroke can admit that for a while he’d reacted to the insult with the grace of Achilles and had kept his distance from the other gods. He’d barely answered the prayers of mortals and when he did he did it halfheartedly. Sure, a few guaranteed victories here and there, a miraculous healing of a wound that was a favorite, but he didn’t do it in the same grandiose way he had before. He wasn’t looking to bolster his worship like nothing had happened, he didn’t want mortal offerings to soothe a bruised ego.

No, he was planning for revenge.

His challenge wasn’t done, his duel wasn’t over.

No matter how many years it took he would make Nightwing kneel before him.

Deathstroke was no stranger to love, he’d even been married and had kids back when he’d been a mortal. He supposes those kids are now demigods and hopes the sudden inheritance of divine blood had been an adequate compensation for never getting to see their father again. He could manifest on earth if he wanted to but seeing as Addie had killed him by shooting out his eye he didn't expect to be siring any more children with her.

He’d had other loves too, loves he’d cherished regardless if it was a love for years or a single night. He’d been the erastes to more than one eromenos before. He’d seen something of them in Nightwing...

Yes, he was no stranger to love.

Deathstroke started to plan his conquest like a general plans a war. He was immortal, he would make the God of Love kneel before him and claim the throne.

He doesn’t ask for permission. He just gathers his weapons and his armor and manifests in the mortal realm. He didn’t have an entourage of nymphs or naiads but the God of Madness was happy to lend him some Maenads. The warrior women didn’t seem surprised to see him, wearing nothing but animal hides and carrying nothing but weapons they had clearly run for many days just to meet him and didn’t seem awed by his godly presence. Three of them barely look up from the dead deer they were eating raw.

He’d have to see about getting some followers of his own. Maybe some mortal heroes might enjoy being part of his hunting party, or those Amazons, they were at least sane.

Deathstroke did not underestimate insanity. The God of Madness was insufferable of course, but as much as he insisted he was just the God of Wine mortals feared him more than the God of the Dead. The God of the Dead merely ruled their souls after death. The God of Madness did worse. Even as a mortal he’d heard the stories...Safer for mortals to call him the God of Wine.

The watching woman look at him with eyes like feral dogs, wary, vicious animals but capable of being commanded if not tamed. He was a God and he was hunting.

If he was going to court the God of Love he was going to need an offering. He’d observed the mortal realm looking for something suitable. A God deserved a Godly gift and after years of searching he found a suitable option. There was a menagerie worth of monsters in the mortal world. As a mortal he’d enjoyed hunting them, it made a change of pace to pit your mind and might against a powerful beast instead of a mere man.

The God of War looks the Realm of Mortal Men once more. Thirty feet tall he glowed with divine light and the scent of blood surrounded him like a cloak. Maenad ran like hunting dogs at his feet and wherever he stepped fair winds blew only for the warships and ground that was rocky and treacherous for most became smooth and even under the feet of marching armies. The victors sacrificed every last livestock taken from the cities they sacked in his honor.

Deathstroke ignored them. He was hunting the only worthy prey for a God of War.

The mountain was neither as high nor as majestic as Mount Olympus but it was still too steep for mortals to climb. There was only one pass through the mountains and that was where his prey was hiding, preying on the mortals that had to use the pass for their living and could only pray it did not get them.

The mortals might not know what it was but he had the eyes of Olympus. Snowfur, The Beast of the Pass was a giant mountain cat with the wings and tail of a rooster and nine human heads on serpentine necks. It could mimic human voices and would call out for help to lure the faint-hearted away from the caravans. Its skin turned away spears, swords and arrows and its teeth crunched through bone and armour alike. That wasn’t why Deathstroke hunted it though. That invulnerable pelt gleamed like finest marble in the mountain sun. It would make a fine gift to open a courtship.

The mortals may have accepted the monster but they were not fool enough to get in the way of a God. The maenads had lured the first head out of hiding and Deathstroke had struck to cut it off. After that the monster knew fear for the first time in its life. The hunter became the hunted. He’d led his maenads like soldiers into battle. Ruthlessly and systematically he hunted the beast. One by one he cut off its heads until finally he tracked down the thing in its desperate final last stand and slew it. He left the meat and the bones to the maenads and, using his sword, took the hide for himself and ascended back to Olympus.

He bargained with the minor gods of crafts to turn it into a worthy gift. They didn’t like him much but once he’d explained who it was for they’d given in. Some of them believed he was getting soft or had given up on his challenge. Some even believed that after getting beaten he’d become enamoured of the God of Love’s cleverness and wanted to court him. They were half right. He was trying to court the God of Love.

In the halls of Olympus, from time to time, they would meet and Nightwing would meet his eyes and give him a soft little smile like he was thinking of their fight and wasn’t going to be so crass at to laugh at him in public. It’s hard to say Deathstroke been noticing him more, the god of Love was always at the maximum level of being noticeable, but he’d started paying more attention to more than Nightwing’s perfectly desirable body while he planned his war.

The God of Love was not part of the ruling council because he wasn’t truly a god. He and his siblings were technically closer to the titans than the gods, granted clemency in the Titanomachy for their shared blood and younger age.

The pantheon of the Titanblooded was a minor group of new gods and goddesses born from the death of the King of Titans. They were half siblings to the Gods, sharing a father in the King of Titans but of many mothers. Where the blood had fallen it had impregnated and the Titanblooded had been born into the world of mortals. The older generation were the Titans, the younger generation the God and this newest generation, well they were half and half. The Gods were waiting to see if they were going to turn overthrowing your parents into a family tradition.

They’d been the principle deities worshipped in the region he’d been born in. When he conquered the region he’d had their temples torn down, their icons burned and their priests and priestesses put to the sword. Now the only worship in the region was worship of him as a god and their names were not even spoken. It hadn’t been personal but Deathstroke still felt a little uncomfortable when he came across one of them and saw the undisguised hate in their eyes. It was one thing to deny a God when you were a brash youth trying to claim dominance over the world by rejecting the symbols of old superstitions, it was another when said God was someone you saw on a regular basis.

Deathstroke had to admit it wasn’t a good start to base a relationship on, especially a relationship based entirely on whether or not he can persuade Nightwing to kneel for him.

He had to carefully wait for the opportunity to get the God of Love alone. He was a popular God, possibly the most popular. He always had someone seeking out his company. Deathstroke relentlessly stalked him and, once he’d determined getting him alone was going to take centuries, he’d taken the next opportunity to talk when he was only surrounded by Nymphs.

The God of Love had just emerged from his morning bath, rumoured to restore his virginity. It’d be lost again by the end of the day, everyone knew.

The attendant nymphs flinch away when they see him. He was a God after all and one known to have a temper. He technically had the authority to command them and unlike a God nymphs weren’t immortal. He dismisses them with a curt gesture.

The God of Love raises an eyebrow.

“I don’t remember giving you the authority to dismiss my servants.” He says in a voice like the singing of nightingales.

“I wanted a private moment with you.” Deathstroke explains.

The God of Love runs his fingers through his still damp hair. Soft black curls flow over his fingers.

“If you’re going to try and fight me again at least get it over with before I get dressed.” He says and slips the covering towel from his body and puts it aside. “My body may be invulnerable but my poor clothes are not.”

Deathstroke focuses very hard on his mission and not the God of Love’s perfect bare body.

“That’s why I’m here.” He says, then clears his throat, straightens up to full military readiness and tries to sound more serious. “The clothes I mean, not the fighting.”

He takes the fur cloak from behind his back. In the sunlight of the mortal world it had shone like purest marble, in the torchlight of the God’s bathhouse it seems more of a dirty cream. He feels a prickle of self-consciousness at giving it to the God of Love. Surely anything perfect already belonged to Nightwing, leaving everything else as imperfect things he had no desire for.

The God of Love reaches out one finger and touches the pelt.

“Cute.” He says with a faint trace of a smile. “Did you hunt it yourself?”

“I did.” Deathstroke confirms, still holding his gift out towards him.

The God of Love turns over a corner of the hide to see the tanned skin underneath.

“But you didn’t tan it or stitch it or make it into a cloak on your own. I recognize this handiwork.” The God of Love takes the offering from him and unfurls it to give it a better look.

“I’m the God of War, not the God of Cloaks.” Deathstroke admits. “My domain does not generate many gifts, unless you’d like some slaves.”

“Hmm no, I’m good for servants.” The God of Love says. He drapes the cloak around his shoulders. The fur picks up the same kind of lustre. He plucks one of the rooster feathers from it’s collar, the deep green nearly black under torchlight, and tucks it behind Deathstroke’s ear. “I accept your offering but if you’re trying to court me you’re going to have to try harder. You’re the God of War, I know you’re good at killing things but not even making your own offering? Tsk, tsk.”

The God of Love pats Deathstroke on the forearm and, wearing nothing but the fur cape, strides out of the bathhouse.

“Do try harder next time and maybe you’ll get to touch me this century. Maybe try writing a poem without begging another God to do it for you.”

As soon as he steps into the light he’s immediately surrounded by his eager nymphs again. They cluster in close, asking what the God of War wanted and calling him scary while they checked to see Nightwing was alright.

Deathstroke waits and plans. It wasn’t the best outcome, he will admit, but he hadn’t been rejected and that meant there was still hope. He just had to try harder at his conquest.

Chapter Text

His first step was to get himself some servants. The previous God of War’s domain had been entirely cleared after their corruption and whatever servants they’d had went with it. He’d reshaped the realm into what was comfortable for him, a Spartan styled estate like the one he’d had in the mortal world. Beyond that he hadn’t felt the need to define his realm like other Gods did and had just left it the unshaped metaphysical realm of war.

His experience getting the pelt taught him that while he was unmistakeably the best warrior in existence doing everything himself was time consuming, boring and inefficient. A general didn’t need to fight every fight personally to be the head of the army and a king didn’t harvest every grain by hand to be the head of a country.

He couldn’t keep borrowing servants from the other Gods, even though there was no chance of them running out. Instead he’d scheduled a visit to the Underworld. The Chthonic Gods, Gods of Night and Death, weren’t specifically banned from Olympus but they showed up rarely. Their domain was one of the darkness under the earth, the airy bright Olympus was not to their taste to dwell. Instead the Court of Night held their own position in the hierarchy of Gods. Still, if he wanted to commandeer mortal souls he’d need the permission of the God of the Dead.

The King of Gods might not ask permission to take mortal souls to Olympus but he wasn’t King of the Gods yet. Instead he’d had a stuffy formal dinner with the accountant of souls and been allowed to take some mortal shades provided he took care of them. The God of the Dead didn’t particularly care about one mortal soul over another but there’d be paperwork if any of them were lost.

After that he was granted formal permission to raise his army. He’d started by hunting down the shades of those he’d served with, they recognized him and were happy to follow him again, then his worthy enemies who were less eager but understood there was no dishonor in losing to the God of War, then finally any soldiers of note he could remember from history. Heroes went to Elysium, their own position of honor, but only those acknowledged by the gods got that position. Those who had been strong and loyal, good soldiers through and through but no demigods, no men of legend aside from among their fellow soldiers? He found them easily.

He entered the Underworld alone and left with an army. He set them to conquering the realm, turning the emptiness of his domain into something more respectable. A thousand warrior kings, a thousand new kingdoms shaped from the raw firmament.

After that is the hard part; Deathstroke has to write a poem.

He’d woken up this morning with a raging erection, ‘being brushed by Night’s Wing’ as the mortals called it. It was supposed to be a sign of divine favor but Deathstroke is pretty sure he’s being mocked. Nightwing could touch him all he wanted and Deathstroke couldn’t touch him at all.

Deathstroke had gifted love poems before, but even as a mortal he hadn’t written them himself. He was not...artistically gifted. After days of struggling he had swallowed his pride and made a visit to the muses. Erato, muse of love poems, had smirked at him and told him he would have to manage without divine inspiration like the mortal did all the time. He’d been too embarrassed to admit he had never read a love poem before and wanted to know what they were like.

He’d asked the mortals for help in the end. It wasn’t like they unaware of the situation, they just didn’t understand it fully. The mortals already thought he had a thing for the God of War and he was going to take advantage of it. Mortals requesting his favor were already burning sacrifices, he picked the Shade least likely to make fun of him for it and sent them to the mortal world to request they sacrifice him love poems.

Once the burnt offerings has risen to the heavens and he had reconstituted them into the original scrolls he got to work. The problem was not that he lacked inspiration. The God of Love was, naturally, perfect in every way. Love poetry was invented to talk about him, literally. Erato had been born when a mortal saw Nightwing for the first time and gave birth to the first love poem.

Hunting down the Beast of the Pass, that had been in his domain, he’d planned it and pursued it like a war. His epithet, his name of deed, was Deathstroke, the killing blow used on one suffering beyond salvation. The last word in violence was his.

Love poems were very much in the God of Love’s domain. He had proven mastery in his own domain and now Nightwing had challenged him to show at least competence in his domain.

Deathstroke was not going to back down from the challenge.

No, the problem wasn’t that he wasn’t inspired by his subject, the problem was that there was nothing he could say that hadn’t already been said.

Eventually he puts down what he can into deeply etched thick dark letters as he carves his feelings into parchment.

‘You are beyond compare’, he writes. ‘Comparisons are made for you. Your smile isn’t warm like a summer day, a summer day is warm because its is like your smile.’

It’s crude, he was far more used to writing military reports than any kind of poetry. He thinks of the dream he had the night before. He’s not naive enough to think that dream occurred naturally without Nightwing’s interference. Everyone knows erotic dreams were made by Nightwing’s little winged boy. It was a tease, perhaps, a taste of what he could look forward to if he succeeded in his courtship.

The role of Eromenos and Erastes was mythic in origin, performed in mimicry of the relationship between the God of Love and the King of Gods. Their courtship was the exemplar that all pedastry derived from. To win Nightwing he would have to be a better Erastes than the first Erastes himself.

This wasn’t his first time romancing a boy, he knows how this was done. A virtuous Eraste proved himself a mentor, guardian and provider, and a virtuous Eromenos would reject the advances of anyone who hadn’t proved themselves in all three. A weak Erastes was one who lacked determination and gave up their pursuit for the embrace of a prostitute, a weak Eromenos was one who gave his virtue away to unworthy men and in doing so diminished it to worthlessness.

He had proved his strength to the God of Love, through the gift of the cloak he had been declaring his ability as a provider. He had shown he was attentive to Nightwing’s needs by offering a thoughtful present. Now he had to prove himself intellectually, to show the God of Love he had something to learn if he would let Deathstroke teach him.

Deathstroke finds himself abandoning the familiar fixed forms of love poems. What did he have that Nightwing didn’t? He’d been mortal, even from the moment of his first emerging from the ocean Nightwing had been a full God. He may have disguised himself as a mortal before but he’d never lived thinking he was one.

Deathstroke writes about what it is like to be in love and be mortal, how tiny and frail and unimportant you were compared to a god, how short your life is, and how despite that there was love. More than legacy, more than leaving a physical mark on the earth, or creating great art what mattered to the mortals was love. He’d spent what he thought was the all too limited days of a mortal life in pursuit of it. That fact alone was something that the God of Love knew about but could never feel, to be loved the way the mortal loved the divine by a mortal that had become divine.

Once he finally etched the last of the feelings onto the page he quickly blew on the ink to force it to dry and rolled the scroll up before he had to look at it any more. He was no artist but anything less than perfection stung his pride.

He slammed it into a scroll case and took a bad mannered walk to the pavilion of the gods. The realms of each individual gods orbited like spokes on a wheel around the hub of Mount Olympus, the common ground. All gods could tread the sacred soil of the mountaintop and enjoy the various facilities therein but access directly to a Gods realm was limited to the God, their children, and invited visitors.

He wasn’t invited, not yet anyway, and that meant either staking out Olympus until Nightwing next visited or doing the more respectable thing and getting the Messenger of the Gods to take his message to him. The Messenger of the Gods was allowed everywhere, even in his own realm. The Messengers of the Gods, Gods, there was too many of them, featured as little more than flashes of color zipping around the mountain. The Messenger of the Gods was worshipped in many different forms by different names. Instead of being one entity with many names and faces he’d chosen to split his duties and powers between many different forms. It made delivering messages easier, they all agreed. To Slade it meant there were just more chances to run into the uniquely annoying God. Gods. Gods.

Knowing there was no such thing as a non-irritating Messenger of the Gods Slade cautiously approached the Speedster’s realm. Just like the Messenger of the Gods could enter every realm, their realm could be entered by any god.

He hopes he at least gets one of the sensible ones but he must have offended the Fates to have the luck he does.

The aspect before him was the same aspect that had appeared around the same time as the Titanblooded and been counted in their number. This was the specific aspect of the Messenger of the Gods whose temple he had burned and it was clear that the God remembered it.

“I have a m-” Slade starts to say, hoping formalities can smooth over some of their grudge.

“A message yes, a message for the messenger of the gods, why else would you visit?” The Messenger of the Gods snaps. His words are fast, as if he resents needing to leave space between them, and to a mortal they would have blended together in a multisyllabic rush. Even to godly ears the whole sentence took the same amount of time to say as Deathstroke’s three words. “Mr High and Mighty God of War would never visit to just talk, huh? No you burn our temples then still expect to order us around.”

In a flash the scroll case is no longer in Deathstroke’s hand, the messenger of the gods is spinning it on the tip of one finger.

“Nightwing’s too polite to tell you to fuck off to your face. I’m not.”

In another flash the Messenger of the Gods is close enough for Deathstroke to see the lighting in his eyes.

“Fuck. Off.” The Messenger of the Gods says slowly and deliberately so the God of War can read his lips. Another flash and before he can retaliate the Messenger of the Gods is out of reach.

“You lost your challenge, the King and Nightwing played you like a cheap fiddle. Whatever game you think you’re playing, it’s not going to work. You’re just making yourself look pathetic. We’re his friends and more than friends. You hurt us. He’s not going to forgive you.”

The Messenger of the Gods tosses the scroll case up into the air and catches it. For a moment Deathstroke feels his temper flare at the thought the Messenger of the Gods was going to destroy it. The Messenger of the Gods catches his tiny twitch of movement to snatch it back.

“Oh, I’m going to give him this,” The Messenger of the Gods toys with the scroll case. “I’m sure he’ll have a good laugh over it. I just wanted to let you know how completely out of your league he is.” He idly inspects his nails. Despite his speed Deathstroke is sure he could still grab the Messenger of the Gods and bash his head against the floor. He restrains the impulse. “So either you can give up or keep humiliating yourself. I don’t care which.”

The Messenger of the Gods finally puts the scroll case into his messenger bag. There’s a cluster of other scrolls there for other gods.

Deathstroke grins at him. His teeth are bloody.

“Thanks for the warning but I’m not backing down from a fight.”

The Messenger of the Gods thinks h im pathetic? Deathstroke thinks that his attempt to get him to give up is pathetic. The Messenger of the Gods and the God of Love were close friends, everyone knew that, and maybe they’d even shared a bed a few times but this attempt just reeked of jealousy . The Messenger of the Gods feel threatened by him.

Good.

He should be afraid. The young Messenger of the Gods could play at protector but he was just as young and inexperienced as the God of Love. He was no Erastes and no real rival to Deathstroke’s conquest.

“The God of Love might not be able to be touched without consent. Can you say the same?”

The Messenger of the Gods eyes flash.

“I’m going to tell him you said that!”

And in a flash of red and gold he’s gone.

Chapter Text

Deathstroke is surprised to receive an invitation to the God of Love’s realm, held in the beak of the sacred white dove. He is woken up by a spray of feathers and a loud screeching as his own sacred black hawk, having pursued the peaceful bird across the skies of his realm, bursts in through a window in hot pursuit. His sacred pet swoops down and pins the cooing dove to his bed sheets with a taloned claw, then looks up at him for approval.

Deathstroke pets its feathered head as he carefully extricates the dove from the hawk’s claws and then even more carefully extracts the message from the dove’s beak. The divine animal, god of all mortal doves, looks up at him with wide black dumb animal eyes and bites his finger before flying off. His hawk cries plaintively, clearly upset that he’d let the wonderful gift of live prey escape, and Deathstroke sucks the spilled drop of golden ichor from his finger as he strokes the hawk to calm it down. He’d been a competent falconer in his mortal days but finding he’d inherited the black-feathered father of hawks had been a surprise. Sacred animals weren’t chosen by the gods, they were gods in their own rights, just the gods of animals instead of men. One choosing to join a god was more an alliance between two divine powers then him picking out a pet for himself. It had simply decided it liked his realm enough to settle down and make a nest and had, in that moment, become the sacred animal of War.

The bird in the mortal realm was large enough to carry off an elephant and had done so in his sight. Now it hunted for him and at his side, always on the look out for the next opportunity to fight and kill. He even lent its powers to mortal heroes on occasion.

His war hawk was a good pet but he doubts he’d be receiving any more invitations from the God of Love if he let it eat the dove of peace.

“Let that one go.” He orders the bird.

It screeches at him in protest. Deathstroke had to admit that a plump defenceless dove would be both an easy and tasty meal.

“No complaining.” He scolds the bird. It shuffles its claws in his bedding, leaving tiny pinprick holes in the divine cloth. Deathstroke gets up, flexes and reaches for his armor. “If you’re that hungry we can go on a hunting trip to the mortal world and catch you an elephant.” He tickles the divine hawk under the chin. “You’d like that wouldn’t you?”

The hawk of war fixes him with a yellow eye and fluffs out its feathers but it doesn’t try and take off after the dove so Deathstroke calls it a win.

He takes his armor, his sword and shield, and a few shades with him while they go hunting. Vultures perch on his helmet while his pet ate ravenously. A nearby mortal fishing boat points him out and discusses something in hushed tones. Deathstroke knows what they were thinking, he didn’t think he was the type to end up with a pet Roc either.

The God of War contemplates what to do next. Being invited to the God of Love’s realm means that Nightwing is, at least, not ignoring him. If he chose to believe whatever the Messenger of the Gods said than he could have expected to get no reply beyond a return of the shredded remains of his poem. If the God of Love wanted to berate or mock him he could do it in public where all of Olympus could hear his grievances. An invitation meant whatever he wanted to say he wanted it to be private, or at least between them and anyone else he’d invited.

The laws of hospitality applied even to Gods. Enforcing that was one of the duties of the King of Gods. He reportedly went down to the mortal realm in mortal disguise to give wonderful blessings to good hosts and call down divine judgement on the bad hosts. While divine wrath wasn’t generally on the table between deities he was still prepared to receive guests, if anyone was interested in visiting. It was just the polite thing to do.

He feels a sting of bitterness that the reason he’s not afraid of what the God of Love might be planning is because of the King of the Gods’ orders. Good hospitality was something he was going to keep when he was King of the Gods. He might dispense with the appearing in mortal form and just stick to the smiting though, especially if the practise was enough to get him more time to work on Nightwing.

He grants a few prayers, provides some miracles and checks in on a few conflicts that might become full wars before he realizes he’s stalling and just takes the plunge. He puts one of his more trusted shades in charge of the others and steps out to Mount Olympus. The seat of the gods is looking fine today, whenever the King of Gods sulked (which he often did) the mountain was consumed by thick dark thunderclouds and lightning flared. Gods stayed in their realms on those days.

Deathstroke keeps his face impassive and level as he holds the invitation out to the air and the gate to the God of Love’s Realm opened like a clamshell or a flower.

Beyond a gate of marble twined with roses the sky of the God of Love’s realm was always the gentle dim of duck or dawn, a deep blue sky sprinkled with stars with soft puffy clouds around a bright full moon on one side of the horizon and the other still touched with rose and gold clouds around the pale glow of a setting sun, or perhaps a rising one. It showed no signs of moving on the horizon. He doubted it ever would. This place, air still warm with summer heat and perfumed by the hanging flowers, with fireflies twinkling like grounded stars, would always be in twilight.

It’s a place of gentle peace. Deathstroke tightens his grip on his spear. These warm and sleeping streets, the stones glowing with pale moonlight, surrounded by houses with candlelights flickering in windows, makes him feel like an invader here. The red of his cape stands out against the soft blues and blacks like a bloodstain.

He hears wings and turns, expecting to see the dove of peace but instead coming face to face with a youth drawing back a bow. He tenses as his very nature screams to throw his spear and impale them through the chest like a bird but he holds himself in check. He was the God of War, in the armor of war, he could take an arrow, but he wasn’t going to be the one to break the truce of hospitality.

“Put down the spear.” The boy says warningly. His wings flutter to keep him aloft but his bow is dead steady. “I don’t want to have to shoot you.”

Deathstroke’s eye adjusts to the dim light and he suddenly recognizes the archer. He was always hanging around Nightwing whenever possible and the God of Love doted on him. The arrow pointing at him is tipped with gold.

“You’re Robin, the God of Attraction.” He names him. “And that’s a Love Arrow.”

“I really don’t want to have to shoot you.” The winged god reiterates.

For a god of love, tasked with shooting mortals with the arrow of love to bond new couples with erotic desire, he looked admirably warlike. Deathstroke had seen icons of him only at temples of the God of Love, where he was a chubby smiling boy with a blindfold sat at the God of Love’s feet. The god in the flesh had that look particular to boys who were not old enough to be respected but were old enough to notice it and feel they deserved better. It wasn’t just love arrows in that quiver, Deathstroke knew, the lead tipped arrows of hate were in that quiver too. There was more of him in the kid than he’d thought and he come to a chilling recollection. The ‘mother’ of the God of Attraction was the God of Love but his ‘father’ had been the previous God of War.

After he’d incarnated he’d had the whole thing explained to him by the God of the Dead. In the simplest terms a God (or Goddess) had one soul and one domain intrinsically tied to it, the core essence of them as a divinity. That part of them couldn’t die but their appearance, their personality, even their gender, that could die. The previous God of War had died but while his aspect was still part of the mortal realm their essence attached itself to a human soul. That was how he’d come to be born and, after his human body had died, he’d incarnated like a bird hatching from an egg, shaped by its time in the shell. The previous God of War was in a very real way still him. There was part of his divine essence, part of his domain, his very being as the God of War, that he shared with this God he’d never met.

He has no memory of being them but he looks at this kid and feels like he should give him a spanking for being a smartass to his father.

“This is the least hospitable giving of weapons I’ve ever seen.” He instead says dryly and sees to his delight the kid look a touch embarrassed. He hides it well behind a glare that seems so familiar.

Deathstroke wasn’t expecting to be able to keep the spear, giving up your weapons to the host for the duration of the stay was one of the obligations of a guest, but he did feel so named without it. He hands it over haft first and the winged youth nearly shoots himself in the foot trying to juggle bow, arrow and spear.

“Right, good.” Robin ruffles his wing feathers and tries to glare best he could like any small bird trying to appear bigger. “This way.”

With a flutter of wings he leads the way through the sleeping streets. Deathstroke wonders if anyone actually lived in the buildings or if they were just decoration. Either could be true but regardless of what the answer is the city streets remain empty. The intention is cozy but to Deathstroke peace was merely the moments between wars and he found himself waiting, watching for the moment everything would go wrong and this peaceful night would be shattered with flames and screams and the wails of the dying.

He never wandered the streets at twilight for non nefarious reasons.

The Palace of Love was easy to spot, it was the centre of this strange city and all the streets were arranged around it like it was a town square. All the streets gently sloped towards it, making walking towards it the easiest way to move. Deathstroke feels like he’s in a spider’s web.

A God had full control over their Realm. If Nightwing wanted to then everything could turn to seafoam around him and he’d be falling without ever reaching the ground until the God of Love decided to release him. He’s entirely dependant on the laws of hospitality, which means he has to trust the God of Love is being genuine.

Despite the eternal twilight the gardens of the Palace of Love are all in bloom. Mountain springs and marble fountains gurgle side by side and Deathstroke gets his first look at the residents of this realm.

The gardens are filled with flower dryads and copulating nymphs and satyrs and all around them the winged youths that were the Minor Gods and Goddesses of Love. He’d never understand how Gods could be so casual about splitting their souls into so many parts just to have someone to look after the minutiae of their domain. He was God of War and had no inclination to ‘give birth’ to a thousand Gods of War just to have someone to look after the cavalry charges and someone else to look after exclusively the naval battles and so on.

Conversations turn to hushed whispers as he walks by. He stands tall despite the pointing and staring, there was nothing they could do to him, but he doesn’t acknowledge them. They weren’t the ones he’d come to see.

He steps onto the front step and all of a sudden they aren’t in the centre of a sleeping city any more, they’re on an island surrounded by sea. The foaming dark waves glitter with reflected starlight and churn onto pristine white sands around them. The air is filled with the smell of sea salt and a faint trace of flowers. The Palace appeared white from a distance, up close it shines with the rainbow shimmer of nacre. The whole thing is made of mother-of-pearl as if it was the inside of some bizarre giant seashell. The columns are in the corinthian style, topped with flowers and fruit and leaf decorations that swayed gently with the breeze and glittered with all colors of pearl like bunches of fruit.

Deathstroke supposes it was good to remember your roots.

Robin leads him in the entrance, past the impluvium and the eyes of several startled nymph attendants, and towards a room that smells of steam. They step through the door and the steam billows up around them. It takes a moment for Deathstroke’s eyes to adjust to the gloom.

The bathhouse is equally opulent, resembling a hotspring more than a public, or even private, bath. Water flows from one smooth natural depression to another, cascading down the center of the room in a shimmering waterfall. It’s all very tasteful but he is getting sick of the ostentatious decoration everywhere. He’d barely added mosaic floors or wall hangings, let alone statues and silk and flowers everywhere. It’s much more relaxing to be able to pretend he’s just found a natural hotspring somewhere in the mortal world and he can just relax.

Two nymphs with arms full of towels see him and try to leave. The God of Attraction flares his wings so they can’t fit past him and get through the doorway. He glares and the two try to act like they weren’t trying to get away.

“Welcome honored guest.” They say and bow.

Deathstroke’s face clearly shows how unimpressed he is. He gives Robin a look that wordlessly says ‘Am I invited here or not?’. The God of Attraction scowls back at him, flicks his wings like a posturing rooster and glowers back at the nymphs.

“Please help our honoured guest bathe.” He orders. Deathstroke’s glad to see that no matter what his personal feelings on him are the God of attraction at least knows Nightwing invited him and that meant treating him like any other guest. “I will return to escort him to the dining room once a meal has been prepared.”

He grits his teeth but turns back to Deathstroke and bows also. His back is ramrod straight.

“Esteemed guest if there is any you require please do not hesitate to ask. The palace of Love is at your command.”

“Attaboy.” The God of War tells him cheerfully.

Robin looks up with lightning flaring in his eyes but Deathstroke just reaches over and ruffles his hair. He feels an odd twist in his guts, the memory of doing the same thing to his mortal son suddenly so clear it hurts. He pulls his hand back and tries to hide how affected he was.

“Tell Nightwing I look forward to seeing him soon.” He tells the young god.

Robin’s feathers stand out stiffly for a moment then he just glares sullenly and nods. He gives the nymphs another glare, it seems to be his default mode of expression, then his tawny wings flap once, twice, and he is winging away down the corridor to find his ‘mother’.

Deathstroke stretches and gives the nymphs a meaningful look.

“I’m not going to murder you.” He points out calmly. “I’m the God of honorable combat not crazed murderers.”

The nymphs flinch.

“Our apologies Honoured Guest.” They chime in unison.

Deathstroke snorts and tries to focus on enjoying Nightwing’s hospitality, lacking as it was in wellmannered servants.

A proper bath still felt like a luxury to him. He was a God now, technically he could wave his hand and create a bath more luxurious than the mortal realm could contain inside his realm but he hadn’t even thought of it. He had thought to conjure himself literal mountains of gold and gems and everything considered precious by mortals but he’d unmade it soon after. He had been a mercenary fighting for coin yes, but the gold was never the point, the gold was just a way of keeping score. The more gold he made the less worth it had to him. A bath was like that, something he’d saved his pay for, a rare treat between jobs when he was flush with victory and wanting to commemorate his survival with a bit of frivolity. It didn’t mean as much when he could just have it whenever he wanted.

The God of War idly strokes his finger across the surface of the water.

Now that he thinks about it he had been morose. He was not a God that could be content with peace and happiness and stillness and stagnation. Even if it was what everyone else wanted, he was happier when everything was terrible but he at least had something to do and someone to fight.

There’d always been someone to fight in the mortal realm but who could be fight now he was a God? Any foe could be killed in a single blow. The world was still full of skirmishes and ambushes and raids and desperate last stands and unexpected rescues. He could feel them all, he was part of them all but he could never be there the same way he was as a mercenary. He could never feel the fear of death and therefore never be courageous in the face of it, never fight not knowing what the outcome would be, never be part of a desperate struggle to victory side by side with his brothers in arms not knowing who would survive.

It was the way he’d lived for so long, now a featureless eternity stretched in front of him and without War Deathstroke doesn’t know what to do with himself. He would find purpose in something else. He would rule. He would rule.

The God of War rises from his bath with renewed vigour. He dresses for dinner like he’s arming for war. The little love archer is waiting for him outside with the same sullen but resigned expression. Deathstroke feels a twinge of pity for him, it can’t be easy being an immortal teenager.

”This way.” The God of Attraction says stiffly. He keeps his wings held wide as he leads the way to the dining hall. Nymphs and other lesser loves carefully avoid them. Robin’s green eyes decry them for cowards.

He straightens up, holds himself as proudly as a skinny permateenager can, spreads his wings wide and declares.

“Presenting our most honoured guest, Deathstroke the God of War.” He declares calmly and clearly then goes to the seat of honour and gestures for him to sit down.

Deathstroke smiles at him as he takes the offered seat. Robin snorts and takes his own seat next to Nightwing. The God of War leans over, whispers something unheard into his ear and ruffles his hair. The God of Attraction looks far less annoyed at him doing it.

He helps himself to the meal set before him, loading up a plate of Ambrosia and sacrificial offerings and pouring himself a tall glass of golden nectar wine before he looks over the table. In addition to him and the God of Attraction the other seats at the table are filled by the God of Love, looking at him with a faint sweet smile, and a pretty goddess with steel in her eyes.

As soon as he sees her Deathstroke can practically hear a blade being sharpened.

“I don’t believe we’ve met.” He says diplomatically.

“Goddess of knowledge, goddess of the forge and Nightwing’s wife.” The seated goddess introduces herself.

Ah, right, he should have known.

It was easy to forget Nightwing was married because it was easy to forget Oracle. The Goddess of the Forge was a major player but only from the shadows. After losing her legs in her fall from Olympus she had returned with a vengeance and reportedly held the King of Gods captive until he’d appeased her wrath by giving her the God of Love in marriage. It seems that the King of the Gods had been relying on the God of Love to solve his problems for aeons.

Deathstroke feels a little wary under the Goddess’s sharp gaze. Everyone knows Nightwing was hardly a faithful husband, keeping his love to only one other wasn’t in his nature but that didn’t mean she’d welcome him gaining another suitor. Nightwing may have countless legions of lovers and beloveds but he only had one wife and her sharp glare says he will only ever have one wife.

Good thing he wasn’t a woman. He can only imagine how ruthless she must be to other goddesses flirting with her husband.

“Pleased to met you.” Deathstroke replies.

The Goddess’s snort clearly shows her disbelief.

“Look, we’ve all heard about your little showdown with our King,” is it just him or is there disdain in her tone when she says it, “What I want to know is what your intentions are with my husband.”

The God of War raises an eyebrow.

“Aren’t you supposed to wait until after dinner before starting the interrogation?”

“I like to get to the point.” The Goddess of the Forge says pointedly.

“Fair enough.” He remembers how the stories said she’d trapped the King of Gods in a boobytrapped chair and he was sitting in one right now. He wasn’t sure what would count as a violation of hospitality but he doesn’t want to find out. “I intend to woo him.”

“Intend is right.” Oracle snorts. “Your current efforts seem to be intended more than actual. What are you really after?”

Deathstroke hasn’t been in the position of detailing to a wife exactly how he intended to fuck her husband before. He briefly considers telling her the truth, that he hadn’t given up on his challenge to the King of Gods and that he was open to alliance with a likeminded goddess, but he thinks better of it. Regardless of how she might feel about their ruler it feels risky and as God of War he trusts his tactical instincts.

“I desire him carnally.” He hedges his bets. It’s even true.

“You and most of Olympus.” Oracle snorts. “I’m not here to hear you detail how you want to fuck my husband, frankly I’ve heard it all before.”

Her eyes spear into him and Deathstroke has a disquieting feeling that she can see his thoughts like they were printed on his face.

“Deathstroke, God of War, God of Tactics and God of Logistics. By all accounts a God of Honour and a God of Order. Not so much a God of Morality.” She spears a small silver scaled fish on her fork and swallows it whole. “Seeing as you’re a God who respects contracts and natural law I feel we can reach an accord. He will never be yours, not in the way you want him.”

Deathstroke opens his mouth to protest.

“You can have sex as much as you two want but you’ll never own him. Ever. Love conquers all, not the other way around.”

“May I say something?” the God of Love chips in.

The Goddess of the Forge nods permission.

“You two are doing an awful of assuming you are the expert in the room on affairs of the heart.” The God of Love says pointedly. One hand delicately draped on a fork rolls a stray olive stone around his plate. “I feel the one who gets a say on who does or doesn’t get to control me, is me.”

He smiles at the God of War and Deathstroke feels his plan might have hope after all.

“I can decide for myself who I want. Love conquers all, isn’t that right?”

Oracle snorts but doesn’t protest. Nightwing smiles cutely at her then turns back to their guest.

“Will you come for a walk with me in the Night Garden?” He asks.

“Of course.” The God of War agrees.

Nightwing gets up from the table and Deathstroke follows like a tiger on the hunt, leaving the other two deities to pick over the rest of their offerings.

The garden is the same on the way out as it had been on the way in, expect now it was empty apart from the two of them. Deathstroke wonders if Nightwing had dismissed his servants for them or if he just had two gardens, one for them and one for him.

He wanted to believe that the kid was really that soft and naive but he remembered Troy and remembered it better than he had as a mortal. That had been a war that even the Gods fought in, hundreds died, a city in flames, he remembered it all like he’d been there even though the war had been fought before he’d been born.

The cause of that war was walking in front of him now, well it was unfair to blame everything on him, but he’d given away the heart of a woman and war had followed.

He wonders if Robin had been conceived during that time when love and war were at their strongest. Though he doesn’t recall the details he feels he, or rather the previous God of War, had been very well acquainted at the time.

Now that had been a war. He’s sorry he missed it.

“I’ve been told you threatened my friend.” The God of Love tells him.

The garden, still in vibrant bloom despite the darkness, fills the still warm air with the scent of honeysuckle. All around them is the peace and quiet of the night. Just out of sight waves lap on a distant shore, in and out like the sedate breathing of a sleeping ocean. This was a place of peace and he’d brought strife to it.

Deathstroke knows he should feel guilty about that but he doesn’t. Bringing a little of his domain into Nightwing’s makes him feel comfortable. He knew what he was and where he stood in a fight.

“He provoked me, did he mention that?” He replies.

“No, but I inferred it.” The God of Love gives a little smile.

He leans in and smells a honeysuckle flower.

“I’m not apologizing.” Deathstroke adds. He certainly didn’t come here to beg Nightwing to forgive him, for what he’d said to the Messenger of the Gods or what he’d done to their temples.

“If you were the apologizing sort you would have apologized long ago.” The God of Love pauses.

He plucks a honeysuckle bloom and holds it out to the God of War. Deatstroke takes the offering, he leans in and looks the God of Love in the eyes as he sucks the sweet nectar from the offered flower.

Nightwing smiles at him and plucks another blossom for himself.

“I did like your poem.” He confesses. “As you can imagine I read a lot of love poems but no-one has ever written me a war poem before.”

D eathstroke hadn’t been intending to write a war poem but he’d listened to more of those poems than any o th er kind so he guessed he’d written in that style without meaning to.

“You know, it is getting very hard to deny you.” The God of Love says with a pretty sigh. “I want to blame you for what you did to us but you are the God of War. Conquest is in your nature, just as forgiveness is in mine. How can I blame you for being who you are when I cannot stop being who i am?””

The God of Love looks him in the eye as he sucks the flower dry.

“You might have burned a few temples but you could never have stopped my worship. Everyone in their heart believes in love, even you. You are one of my followers after all.”

“Surely you mean I was one of your followers, back when I was mortal.” Deathstroke isn’t sure Gods could worship other gods. It seems unsavoury and a little like cheating.

“I am the God of Love, not God of men and women fucking.” Nightwing mimics him protesting his role to others. “The love a man has for a boy, the love a mother has for a child, even the love a friend has for a friend, all are worship of me.”

Nightwing smiles.

“And you still worship me, God of War, even if you won’t admit it.”

He presses Deathstroke’s hand to his chest, right over his heart.

“I feel it in here, your love. This is my temple and every living thing carries it within them.”

Deathstroke does feel it, the God of Love’s skin is soft and warm and under his fingers he feels the flutter of a heart beat like a baby bird. It beats faster as he looks into the God of Love’s eyes.

He leans in to kiss Nightwing’s cheek but tastes only sea salt.

He hears the twang of a bow being released just before he feels the stabbing pain in his chest. He scrambles at his backplate but he barely touches the arrow’s shaft before it dissolves and the wound closes over with it. Damn it. He feels at his back. There’s a little splash of drying ichor but no hole. He can feel the tip of the arrow still lodged inside his godly heart but its melting into him. He has no way to find out what arrow he’d been shot with, the golden arrow of attraction, the steel arrow of love that will never heal, the lead arrow of hate? Regardless it hurts.

Deathstroke grits his teeth and turns to fix his attacker with a steely glare.

The God of Attraction gives him a look of smug self satisfaction. ‘That’ll teach you not to look down on love.’ his eyes say. ‘Now suffer the sting of my wrath!’

‘You little brat.’ Deathstroke’s eye says back.

He takes a step towards the kid, not sure what he’s going to do but knowing it won’t be pretty when Nightwing grabs him by the hand. His grip is surprisingly strong as he swiftly leans in and kisses Deathstroke on the lips. His lips are perfectly warm and soft and his mouth still tastes like nectar wine.

Deathstroke kisses him back. His heart aches with longing but most importantly he can touch him. He can kiss him back and feel his mouth soft and yielding, he can plunge his tongue in and forcibly kiss him back.

He grabs Nightwing’s hair and pushes him back against the archway. Honeysuckle crushes under the God of Love and fills the air with the sweet scent of crushed flowers. The God of Love moans into his mouth. His body goes limp. Deathstroke hears the rapid fluttering of wings getting more distant.

He breaks the kiss and strokes a finger along the God of Love’s lower lip.

“This means war.” He says quietly.

Chapter Text

His chest starts to hurt as soon as he leaves the God of Love’s realm. He knew it would, mortals politely called it ‘heartache’ rather than ‘that fucking bastard of a god shot me with a fucking arrow’. Heartache was shorter to say and less blasphemous. Deathstroke had heard the rumors that a certain God was unlucky in love precisely because he’d once made light of the God of Attraction’s archery skills.

As much as he didn’t like it being called ‘worship’ the God of Love had been right about one thing, he was familiar with heartache. He grits his teeth. He hadn’t liked it then either.

He returns to his domain. He’s never truly deaf or blind to the prayers of his followers, whether it was the roosters and bulls sacrificed on the altar of his temples or the soldier on the front desperately praying not to die. They whispered in the corners of his mind like the buzzing of gnats and could only be satisfied by a answer from his divine power. Small miracles are as easy as breathing, a billow of smoke, a favourable wind, the flight of a hawk, this was enough to acknowledge the prayers of the temples. All they wanted was to know that the gods are listening so that when there was a real need they could count on him to help. The real prayers in need of answering were those who were fighting a war here and now, not just worried about one in the future.

His divine power wasn’t limitless but he had enough that answering prayers like this was like filling a bucket from an ocean. He takes out his frustrations on the mortals in the way only a god can. He lances battlefields with divine fire, makes weapons unbreakable, revives the wounded with divine vigor and sets his War Hawk on a besieged city to finish. The victors will chant his name in worship, the survivors will speak it in whispers of fear. No matter what they saw they believe and that belief fills him with power and yet...

His heart still hurts. He grits his teeth. He was the God of War how was he being laid low by a mere boy with a bow?

He settles himself on the the throne of twisted bronze he’d made for himself and broods. His new people, the shades of warriors past, have shaped his infant realm into something more respectable. Now from where he sat he could see the shining palaces spreading their banners. Perhaps one day soon they would war with each other, not for any material gain there could be from an infinite land of plenty but for pride and honor alone. The dead could not die twice. Any victory and any defeat would be purely symbolic but that is enough to fight for.

He feels it rather than sees it. A ripple of wind strikes the fields of golden grain, bending their full heads near to touching the ground, like the ripples of a stone dropped into a still pool. He feels the air pressure change, now the air sparks with the promise of lightning. The fluffy white clouds that had drifted in idyllic bliss over his kingdom now, like sheep being herded, converged in on a single point and turned from fluffy white to a darkening gray.

The domain was him, the part of him was divine, and he could tell right away a being had entered it that he had neither summoned nor invited. He can feel that they are not a God or Goddess or any other kind of Sprite, Monster or Spirit. Some creatures that were neither God nor Titan could move through the domains of Gods unbidden, the Fates to whom even gods must bend the knee were foremost, but this was not them.

In as much as he could feel this soul felt most like Robin had. His visitor was not him but he was of him. Deathstroke feels the divine essence of War within, only held in a much smaller vessel than himself. A drop of divinity rather than an ocean but it was still a part of him.

He moves through his realm as if the distances were nothing but mist. The clouds above him stretch to stripes of gray against the blue of the sky as he arrives at his visitor’s side and for the first time lays eye on him.

A mortal soul, small and frail but burning from within with the strength of a god, the strength of himself. His first thought is a wild spike of joy, his second thought hot on its heels is a deep abiding sadness, the third is guilt for his first thought being joy.

This is his child, a demigod of War, and he has just died. The Gods of Death did not have to grant him this but with his deal with them they had taken it for granted that he’d want the soul of his firstborn son in his domain. He hadn’t even thought to ask them for this...

His son was here and his son was dead and hates himself for feeling joy at seeing him.

The mortal looks up at him with awe and terror. Held in his trembling hand is a sword Deathstroke recognizes. It was his sword, or rather it had been when he was mortal. A weapon had a soul and he must have been buried with it for it to make this journey to this realm.

Deathstroke realizes he’s still in his godly panoply, looming tall enough for his head to reach the clouds. He tries to remember being mortal. What had it been like, how had he looked?

The mortal lowers his head and plants the tip of his sword into the earth in a gesture of respect.

“Lord Deathstroke, I honor you.” He says formally. “In word and deed I have strived to live my your code and spread your worship. I have fought for my country and when my country was at peace I fought for your temples and when your temples were secure I fought for coin as is your way. Every drop of blood this sword has shed by my hand has been in sacrifice to you.”

“Stand up.” Deathstroke tells him. “You don’t need to kneel before me, my son.”

He feels...guilt.

His ascension was a glorious thing, the shackles of a mortal life thrown off for the glory of godhood. He had new duties, new responsibilities, new followers to keep track of. He hadn’t been keeping track of the mortal life he’d left behind. He hadn’t wanted to. In some way he was aware the children he’d had as a mortal would now be demigods, their divine blood would have awakened when he did, but he’d just assumed they would be able to handle themselves and live their own lives without him.

He’d forgotten, or rather deliberately let himself forget, the obvious. Demigods were still mortals. Eventually their lives must come to an end. Now here he was face to face with the shade of his firstborn son, a son who’d devoted his remaining life to honoring him, and the knowledge he’d done nothing to help him ate away at his insides like the venom of a hydra. He hadn’t even noticed his son among his many followers.

As a God of Honor he feels the pain run deep. In neglecting his son he had betrayed his very nature and the pain he feels isn’t just emotional. If he was a God of Honor like he claimed he needed to act honorably. The previous God of War had died because he’d gone too far against his nature. It had torn him apart, leaving only his essence to find a new body and be reborn.

He would not suffer the same fate.

“You do me honor.” He tries to adjust his voice to soothe a mortal soul. “My son.”

The demigod’s eyes sparkle.

“I...am?” He stands up a little straighter. “I meant, I always knew that my father couldn’t be my real father.”

Confused Deathstroke reaches out with his divine senses. The divine fire he can feel within the mortal soul is definitely his. The face is older than he remembers but the important details are right.

“You ARE my son.” He says emphatically. He’s down to human size and shape now and he can put a hand on the demigod’s shoulder to get him to stand. “You have always been my son.”

“Wow, I’m a demigod?” His son breathes and Deathstroke feels a spike of pain in his soul.

How can his son not know he was his son? He was here for his birth! He was the one who first taught him how to hold a sword!

He has to think back to his time as a mortal, back before all his senses were aflame with godly power. He’d looked like...this. His divine form shrinks back into itself as he no longer sheds light but stands restrained in the shape of the mortal flesh he had left. He can’t help the last little bit of glow that shimmered around his missing eye’s empty socket. With no flesh to cover it his divine essence shines through.

He’d completely shed his mortal skin, his body had incinerated around his divinity but he still couldn’t heal his eye. Some injuries became part of your legend and shaped your divine essence accordingly. Now a brightness like a tiny star inhabited his empty eyesocket.

Still coalescing he reaches a human but still shining hand to rest on the boy’s shoulder. The boy embraces his knees and Deathstroke rests his hand on his hair.

“I’ve missed you.” He says in his entirely mortal voice. “It’s been a long time since I last held you like this my son.”

The demigod looks up and his face falls. A rainbow of emotions flashes across his face, recognition, horror, hatred, betrayal and despair before settling on denial.

“No, you can’t be!” His son says with tears glinting in his eyes. “My father was a coward who abandoned his family, I dedicated my sword to the God of War to erase that dishonor! Is this a test? Are you testing my dedication Lord Deathstroke?”

He flinches back and his features once again slip back to his divine form and away from his former humanity.

“...She told you I just...left?” His voice grows harsher and distant.

He grows larger and his armor reappears around himself as divine wrath colors his voice.

“She killed me and she told you I left?!” His voice booms like thunder. The skies above them are black as pitch now but the clouds throb like a beating heart and within them red lightning pulses like veins.

There is a hiss like the sound of a blade being sharpened and the clouds split open as it starts to pour.

It rains blood.

The crimson drops fall down hard and fast like the sky has had its throat slit. The ground is soon awash with crimson, drowning in it, the figures of the shades turning red from head to toe.

A sound like thunder rolls. Only as practised ear could tell what it really is. It’s the sounds of some vast unseen army striking their shields with their spears over and over and over again.

He grabs the boy’s shoulder again, harder than he intends and the demigod makes a pained whimpering sound he tries his hardest to suppress.

Deathstroke looks down and sees his hand has shifted from one made of flesh and bone to one with fingers made of spear points. The boy’s shoulder is bleeding but its lost in the red rain.

He tries to curb his anger and return himself to the familiar form of the boy’s father but he can’t catch a hold of it in his mind. The blood rain continues to pour as the spears rattle in the sky.

Somehow even under the blood he can tell the demigod’s face is pale. Even if he healed the wound how could he undo the disappointment his son felt to have him as a father?

He gives up on appearing human and grows back to the size he feels matches his wrath.

His shoulders scrape the sky, his head reaches beyond the clouds, his fingers are the size of mountains as he turns and runs away. As much as he says to himself this is a tactical retreat until he knows what to do he knows that he is running away.

He congeals back in his palace with his heart thudding in his chest. He snaps his fingers and summons the closest shade to him. The design of their helmet marks them as Athenian but they must be one of the good ones or they wouldn’t be there. Despite Sparta’s long enmity with Athens he wasn’t fool enough to pretend for a second that they weren’t skilled warriors and cunning generals. It would diminish his own honor to claim he warred on ants not men.

“My son is here.” He informs the general whose name currently escapes him. “He is to be given lands and honors befitting his station. Guide him and give him respect as a king among kings and warrior among warriors.”

The Athenian salutes and with another snap he is returned.

Deathstroke slouches into his throne and broods. He can’t do nothing forever, not if he was going to remain a God of Honor. He knows what had happened to the previous God of War, he had fallen piece by piece until the other Gods had no choice but to kill him. Second by second he can feel his power waning and his divine spark diminishing.

His heart throbs with pain and he thinks of Robin. His heart still held a fondness for the young God despite his attack and it was the same kind of fondness he still held for his demigod son.

He makes a decision. He is going to do the right thing and he’s not going to wait around for permission from the King of Gods to do it.

Deathstroke reaches through his realm mentally until, among the other dim sparks of other dead demigods, he finds the spark that is his. He pulls it to him and his son is here now in his throne room. He grits his teeth and exerts his will on his own divine spark. The humming power of his own soul thrums in his grasp as he grasps it and pulls.

The pain is instant and blinding. For a moment he feels the familiar background murmur of prayers that had become the background noise of his life grow fainter. Every natural instinct for his own survival screams to stop. He feels like he’d plunged a hand into his mortal chest and grabbed his own heart.

He forces himself to keep going. His divine spark burns in his fingers. The background hum of prayers is drowned out by the sound of blood rushing in his ears.

Still he has to do this, he has to make this right!

He rips and tears at his divine essence and tortuously pulls and pulls until it snaps free and he is left throbbing and exhausted with a small fraction of his soul in his palm. Impossibly fine threads connect it to him, the tiniest traces of power, but otherwise it is separated. The sounds of prayers don’t return to full volume. Responsibility for them is now the duty of the holder of this divine spark.

He takes a moment to try and catch his breath before he close his other hand around the divine spark that was the soul of his son and begins to bring the two together. Weaving was women’s work but he’d seen it done before and there was something of that and something of feeding a furnace barehanded in this.

He feels the pain of his power diminishing as he feeds it into the vessel that was the demigod’s soul. If it hurt his son anything like he was hurting now he was sorry.

He had never considered himself lucky to be dead during his own ascension.

Finally, finally after seconds that felt like eons it is done. That power is no longer his to command. Those prayers can no longer be heard by him. Those worshipers were no longer worshiping him.

He would send out signs and there would be feasting and sacrifices and shrines constructed to his son Ravager, the newest God of Pillage, Plunder and Laying Waste. To him Deathstroke gives the world.

Chapter Text

The celebrations lasted a long time, all things considered. The spoils of war were a popular subject amongst the mortals, Deathstroke remembers the anger he’d felt when he’d been denied proper spoils for a battle he’d fought in and the wrath that followed. He’d felt few furies like that.

He can focus through the constant background hum of prayers and pick out the individual requests of his worshippers. He hasn’t heard any prayers for divine judgement over the misappropriation of hard earned war prizes or the lamentations of the desperate trying to avoid the fate of being a war prize themselves. That was Ravager’s domain now.

He can feel the absence of his missing powers and responsibilities both like the space where a missing tooth used to be. He can’t keep himself from metaphorically probing it with his tongue. It feels a lot like when he had lost his eye. Even with the confusion that came with ascension it had taken some time for him to adjust. He’d even spent much of the earlier years of his godhood sitting in his throne around company solely because he didn’t want to stumble in sight of others. A lack of depth perception was a bitch even for an immortal.

He runs a finger along the pommel of his sword and reaches out through his domain until he feels the flame of the other God of War. He sends a command down the connection that linked them and tries to summon him. Ravager resists and Deathstroke lets the summons die.

He could force Ravager to his side. This was still his domain, the outward manifestation of his being, he could reconfigure the geography around him with a wave of his hand and force them into physical proximity, at least until Ravager did the same to move them apart again. He doesn’t want to do that. It reeked of desperation. He wasn’t going to come crawling before his son like a supplicant, he just wants to talk to him.

He tried every day but Ravager never answered his summons. It bothered him but honestly, he wasn’t sure what he’d say if Ravager did answer him. He just wants to see his son again.

His thoughts flick to his other son, well, his other demigod son, still alive. He’d sent signs and visions but he hadn’t felt up to making an in person appearance. He remembered how his son lost his voice, the assassin masked as a jackal from distant Egypt. He’d been too confident in his power. He was sure he could fell the man with ease. He’d been wrong, his mortal flesh too weak and too slow and he had only wrought suffering because of it.

He didn’t like thinking about it, not because many had assumed he hated being proven to be weak and wished to spare his ego but because he still felt the guilt and shame at his overconfidence burn at him. Regardless of what the other Gods might say behind his back he did know humility. He was determined not to repeat the mistakes of his past. He was determined to protect all under his power. He was determined to be there in a way he hadn’t been. He’d even privately attempted to heal the wound and restore his son’s voice but he’d failed. Like the eye it was part of his story now. No God, even the King of Gods, could overrule the Fates. Deathstroke grinds his teeth. The bloody minded bitches.

He’d visited his son in his dreams and let him know that all he had to do to see him again was go to the temple of Deathstroke and pray. So far the silence had been deafening.

His thoughts drift to his other son, the one he’s not sure if they’re his newest or oldest child. Robin. An enigma to be sure but he’s familiar now with the feeling the Fates were yanking on the thread of his life. With his forced ascension of Ravager he’d defined another part of his nature. He was a God of War, a God of Honor and now, irreversibly, a God of Family. He hadn’t heard any prayers about it but he’d felt the change in the stream of faith, like a stone had been thrown in and changed the flow of water. He already feels the faith of the soldiers going to war to protect their homes and families. They pray ‘Father of War let me come home to them again’. There are too many prayers on both sides for him to grant them all.

Deathstroke feels the tug and sits up sharply in his throne. He is being summoned, He is being summoned! Cold fury floods him. This isn’t an answering summons from Ravager, that connection is smaller and weaker and less authoritative, this was a summons from another God and there was only one other God it could be. The King of Gods wishes to see him. Deathstroke dismisses the summons sharply but after only a few breaths it returns. This will not end until he answers the call. With a snarl he dismisses the summons again. He will answer the call but he won’t let himself be called like a dog. He rises from his throne, refuting every renewed sense of summoning, and heads out of his own domain and back to the rest of Olympus. He isn’t the only one who’d been summoned. Deathstroke feels another surge of old fury when he sees Ravager step out with confusion in his eyes. He only knew Deathstroke’s realm, Deathstroke hadn’t had time to explain things to him. He had wanted to let the boy adjust to his new life and come to him before teaching him about the ways of the gods. The King of Gods had other plans for his son. How dare he!

Deathstroke unbuckles his shield from his left arm and offers it to Ravager. The boy’s eyes flash with injured pride but he was still new and had not visited the Godforge and thus had no divine armaments of his own. Deathstroke knows that Ravager would have much preferred to wield the sword that pierces all shields rather than the shield that deflects all swords but he doesn’t trust the kid not to get overzealous and end up cutting another God down for a perceived slight. At all costs he will not lose his son again.

Ravager must see something of the seriousness of his intent in his eyes because he takes the shield without a word of complaint and straps it to his arm. At the same time and next to each other but not together the two step into the Seat of the Gods.

All around them other Gods and Goddesses emerge from their own realms. This summons had not been just for the Gods of War. Major and Minor divinities alike converged on the Seat of the gods. The major gods, the ruling council of twelve, take their places in a semicircle surrounding the throne of the King of Gods facing the rest of the assembly.

Despite his grudge remaining as strong as ever Ravager draws closer to him. He may hold nothing but hatred for his father in his heart but he would take the danger he knew over the ones he didn’t. Deathstroke holds the hilt of his sword, ready to draw it at the first sign of danger. He has no quarrel with most of the other Gods but if they seek to harm his son he will cut them down without mercy. He bares his teeth in the face of their curious gazes.

“Strokey, Darling!” a familiar voice call out and Deathstroke tenses his grip on the sword. “We didn’t know if you were coming!”

The God of Madness’s mismatched eyes, one bright green and one purple, focus on Ravager. He smiles like a festival mask.

“And who’s this tasty little morsel? You’ve not even been here a century and you’re already getting busy.”

“Touch him and die.” Deathstroke snarls. “Everyone says your spark is corrupt anyway, they won’t mind being rid of you.”

“Tsk tsk so protective.” The God of Madness clicks his tongue. “But I’m afraid that even your precious little pigsticker there won’t be up to the job. I am the God of Rebirth as well. Only the King of Gods can kill me and, what do you know, it’s not you sitting in the big seat!”

“Not yet.” Deathstroke corrects him.

“Not yet.” the God of Madness agrees. “So until the King of Gods lies dead lets all be friends~”

He extends a hand to Ravager in greeting.

“I’m Joker, the God of Wine. Do you you like wine little Godling?” His smile has more teeth than would fit in a mortal mouth.

Ravager looks at him with his eyes full of fear at being directly confronted by Olympus’s cruelest and most fickle God. He doesn’t say anything. The God of Madness withdraws his hand and gives Deathstroke a pat on the shoulder.

“Not very talkative is he?” Joker says conversationally. “Nevermind, I’m sure he’ll warm up to me.” he laughs like a hyena. “Come on little Godling, time for a family meeting. Come sit up front with the big kids.”

Ravager draws close to Deathstroke, closer than they had been for years, and Deathstroke stands like a soldier holding the line. The minor Gods and Goddesses still cringe away from him. The God of War used to have a place on the council, the twelve major gods who voted on the affairs of mortals, but there hadn’t been a council since Deathstroke ascended and its clear neither group of gods knew where the new Gods of War should be seated.

He looks directly at the King of Gods but the cowl doesn’t give anything away.

Deathstroke remains standing and, despite his nervousness, Ravager stands beside him or at least a little behind him.

“God of War.” The King of Gods declares. “Do you know why you’re here?”

Deathstroke stares him down.

“I gather I’m here because I love my son.” He says bluntly. “And challenge or not if you intend to harm him I’ll cut you down here and now.”

There’s a twittering of other gods and goddesses. Ravager flinches back in the mortal fear of godly retribution.

“You did not ask for permission to raise a mortal to the heights of godhood.” The King of Gods informs him.

“What, I need your permission to fuck now?” Deathstroke rolls his eye. “Last I checked it is my soul, my divine spark, and that means I decide who or what I want to share it with.”

“To create a God is no idle act.” the King of Gods points out. He’s doing his best to sound authoritative but he sounds like a disappointed father and Deathstroke couldn’t care less.

“And that’s why I didn’t do it idly.” Deathstroke tugs the sword out of its sheath just enough to show a tiny gleam of promethium. “And if you called everyone here and wasted their time just to try and scold me like a misbehaving child it won’t work. I don’t respect you enough to care about your opinion on my affairs.”

“We have laws!” The King of Gods snaps, losing his frail attempt at composure.

“Sure, rules created by and judged by you.” Deathstroke points out. “And I already have a challenge with you. I might not have knelt for your champion but neither has he knelt for me. If you want to claim authority over me so badly you need to win your challenge first.” He glares. “Or is the God of Law ignoring his own laws?”

There’s a gasp from the audience. The God of Madness laughs and applauds.

“Get him Strokey!” He crows. “There’s a good dog!”

“No, the challenge stands.” the King of Gods settles back on his throne. “But that does not give you the right to ignore the Laws of the Heavens. You may keep your child. I have judged this.”

Deathstroke glares. The King of Gods is clearly trying and failing to keep his authority in front of the audience.

“Be cautious Deathstroke.” The King of the Gods says warningly. “Your predecessor also thought himself above the Laws of the Gods.”

“I do not betray my nature by doing right by my family.” Deathstroke bites back. “Or have you not checked my domains recently.”

The King of Gods actually grinds his teeth and waves a hand to dismiss him.

“Take a seat God of War.” He orders. “We are done here.”

Deathstroke stares him down, standing stubbornly in place until he feels Ravager’s hand touch his own.

The youngest God is still new to his divinity, he responds to his father challenging the King of Gods with the fear of mortal witnessing hubris. He doesn’t understand that he is a God now and even the King of Gods can’t smite him on a whim. The King of Gods was a God of Law, he would not punish Ravager for the crimes of his father, at least not without a fair trial. Still he feels the tug of his new domain. He was a God of Family now, to neglect the fears of his children and put them in danger gave him the same corruption as neglecting any of his other domains.

He looks down at his son and smiles. Ravager flinches back and tries to pretend he wasn’t worried about him at all but he still follows Deathstroke. Deathstroke casts his eye around the hall, trying to find a place to sit that wasn’t near the God of Madness.

The God of Love smiles at him and raises a delicate hand. Deathstroke smiles.

“Come on Ravager, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Ravager snorts dismissively but he’s alone in a strange new world and he is not going to abandon his one touchstone.

The attendants part to let him pass. Nightwing still smells faintly of honeysuckle and sea salt and his seat is shimmering with nacre. The Goddess of Wisdom at his side ignores them but sat next to the God of Love the God of Attraction puffs up his wings.

“Ravager, meet your halfbrother.”

The new god folds his arms.

“Oh great another little brother.”

“I was ancient before your forefathers learnt to pick grain in the fields child.” The God of Attraction folds his arms. It doesn’t help that he looks no older than thirteen summers to Ravager’s sixteen.

“Robin, be nice.” the God of Love warns mildly.

“Robin, God of Attraction.” Robin offers Ravager a formal greeting.

“Ravager God of, uh, Ravage I guess.” Ravager returns the greeting.

“Could be worse.” Robin clicks his tongue. “You’ll get more domains and titles as you define yourself as more than the son of your father.”

Ravager glares at him and quickly unbuckles the shield and shoves it back in Deathstroke’s direction. Robin smirks smugly. He raises the wing on Ravager’s side as a welcoming gesture, like a wild bird trying to tuck a chick comfortingly under his wing. Ravager quickly takes the seat beside him before Deathstroke can. The wing stays bent over him like a shield.

‘You ungrateful little shits,’ Deathstroke thinks ‘show some gratitude to your father.’

Nightwing smiles at him and pats the seat to the other side of him. Deathstroke doesn’t want to leave Ravager alone when he doesn’t have time to teach him everything he knows about gods but he can’t bring himself to classify Robin as a threat to his family, at least no more of a threat than all siblings are to each other.

“Congratulations on the new domain.” Nightwing says with a small smile.

“I didn’t do it for a new domain,” Deathstroke points out. “I did it because it is in the nature of my soul.”

Nightwing laughs, a sound as pure as a bird call.

“You say the same thing twice.” He points out with a smile. “Your domains are drawn from the substance of your soul as much as your soul is shaped by your domains. One cannot be without the other. A God does not claim a new domain like a mortal laying siege to a foreign city. A God claims a new domain by defining themselves in this world.”

From the aether laden air of Olympus Nightwing works a small miracle and summons a flower from his garden. He tucks the tiger lily into Deathstroke’s helm.

“You’ve added a new thread to the skein the Fates spin for you.” He smiles. “And so your story grows and you grow too.” His eyes fall on Ravager who is in conversation with Robin about something hidden from their parent’s gazes by one outstretched wing. “Congratulations are in order.”

Nightwing’s tone makes it clear he’s not talking about the domain. Deathstroke feels a stirring of pride warm his chest. Despite the fear he feels for his son it is reassuring to see Robin both metaphorically and literally take Ravager under his wing.

He half listens to the other complaints the King of Gods had scared up to justify this meeting continue. It is mostly news of the mortals outlining when and where divine intervention was allowed and solving conflicts between other gods and spirits. The God of Madness gets scolded for allowing his High Priestess to attend the meeting but the God of Madness just sticks out his tongue and continues teasing the maenad sat on his knee. She doesn't look particularly happy to be here but everyone knows denying the request of the God of Madness had catastrophic consequences. He'd been born as a mortal too, after he'd ascended he'd returned to the city of his birth and had the King who'd denied his goodhood hunted down like a wild animal and torn apart by his own mother. She'd proudly carried his severed head on a spear back through the city gates, asking the guards to summon her son so she could show him the great beast she had hunted.

The King of Gods throws a lot of significant looks his way every time he mentions what is and isn’t allowed but Deathstroke is too busy proudly watching his children getting to know each other to care. He is bound by the laws of the gods only by virtue of being a God of Honour. Where his honour conflicted with the law he would follow his heart.

“Our final item on the agenda is...Celebrations are in order.” The King of Gods says reluctantly. “Despite the...unique circumstances of his ascension we still welcome a new God to the Pantheon.”

He gestures to them with one night black wing of his cape.

“Ravager, God of Ravage, step forth.”

Deathstroke reaches for his sword again but Nightwing puts a soothing hand on his. Robin casually unshoulders his bow and fingers the shaft of an arrow. Deathstroke finds that oddly reassuring. Robin’s arrows might not kill but they stung deeply.

Ravager flinches at being directly addressed by the King of Gods. Deathstroke is very tempted to give him the sword this time but Ravager stands and walks into the centre before the God of War can move.

The King of Gods smiles. It looks wrong on his face.

“The Pantheon of Olympus welcomes you, our newest God of War.” He says solemnly. “I only hope you learn more respect than your father.”

“My bloodline does not define me.” Ravager says bitterly. “I am a God on my own.”

“Are you?” The King of the Gods says archly. “Then prove you are not him. Come here, kneel at my throne and pledge fealty to the King of Olympus and be welcomed to my counsel as a full God.”

Ravager’s fists slowly clench.

“No. I will not kneel.” He says through gritted teeth. “I kneel to no-one!”

The shocked silence is broken only by the hysterical hyenalike laughter of the God of Madness. The King of Gods sighs.

“Your family is nothing but trouble.” He says mildly. “You are still a God in the eyes of this assembly but the seat on the council of major gods will remain empty to those who will not swear fealty to the order of the Heavens.”

Ravager glares the turns stiffly on his heels and walks back over to his father and new halfbrother. Joker claps slowly and sarcastically.

“Well then, let’s get on with the party!” He tips over his amphora and spills an endless wave of wine over the marble floor tiles. “Come on, why am I the only one celebrating!”

The King of Gods glares at him.

“The God of...Wine is correct.” He says through gritted teeth. “In this one specific instance only. A new God is always worth celebrating. Return here at the fall of night for the revels. There will be dancing and feasting and you may offer gifts to welcome the new God into our ranks. We will send signs to the priests. There will be a week of celebrations. Is this satisfactory to all?”

There’s an answering nod and a few rustling whispers of ascent like a flock of birds.

“Then you may go on your way and prepare as you wish. I and my council will stay here and prepare the grounds for the revels.”

He smirks. It’s smug little thing that fits far better on his face.

“Oh and Joker, stay and clean this mess up.”

The God of Madness grits his teeth and looks ready to fly at the King of Gods and try to claw his eyes out.

Deathstroke can’t help but smile. As much as the King of Gods protected the God of Madness from a justly deserved death there was still no lost love between them. Their rivalry was as old as their respective ascensions.

The Gods of War stand and the Gods of Love stand too.

“Mother, Father, my brother lacks any panoply of his own. I wish to take him to the forges to address this injustice.” Robin declares.

Nightwing gives Deathstroke a Look.

“He’s young.” Deathstroke says begrudingly. “I wanted to give him time to adjust before I took him to the forges.” or dragged him kicking and screaming, Deathstroke adds privately, well aware of Ravager’s attitude towards him. He’d resist doing whatever Deathstroke wanted him to out of principle alone. To get him here he'd have to forcibly summon him anyway and he wanted to avoid doing that sort of thing.

“A young God needs a panoply more than an old one.” Robin points out. “How do you expect him to adjust if you force him to cower behind your shield for protection?”

Deathstroke gives him a stern look.

“He’s lucky then that he has a brother who will protect him on the journey.”

Robin fluffs out his wings in acknowledgement of the implicit request.

“Of course Father, I will not fail you or my little brother.” Robin puts a sibling’s fond mockery into it.

Deathstroke can tell that, regrettably, this will be a point of contention between the two for as long as they both live.

“Just be sure to be back before the revels.” Nightwing tells him fondly. “You can’t steal away the guest of honour forever.”

“What do you take me for?” Robin huffs. He offers a hand to Ravager. “Come on Brother, what are you thinking of? A sword, a shield? Spear? Armor?”

“Hmm maybe a spear.” Ravager wonders out loud as he leaves at Robin’s side with one of his halfbrother’s wings still bent protectively around his back.

He’ll be fine. No-one in Olympus, even the King of Gods, wanted a fight with him. The lead tipped arrows of hate that cursed one’s love life into an eternal state of tragic loneliness did more damage than any flesh wound a regular arrow could inflict.

Nightwing looks at him and smiles.

“I look forward to seeing you there.” He tells Deathstroke. “Maybe we could dance?”

“Maybe...” Deathstroke smiles back.

“Oh and you’ll need to bring him a gift too. You don’t want to get upstaged do you?” Nightwing winks.

“What, is part of my divine soul not enough of a gift?” Deathstroke complains.

Nightwing just smirks and sashays away, his clothes as light and airily transparent as always.

Deathstroke sighs. He guesses he needs to find something worth gifting to his son. He feels a sting of guilt that he doesn’t know anything about his son’s likes or dislikes. His memories of Ravager were memories of a grimly determined child desperate to impress his father during the training.

There’s nothing for it. For the sake of his son he’d have to...talk...with his mother. Maybe she’d remember more about him.

He grits his teeth. The things he does for his family.

He returns to his domain and sits on his throne brooding as he wonders what to do. The Messenger of the Gods could sent word to mortals but knowing his wife she wouldn’t put up with it. Announcing himself in grand fashion wouldn’t make her any more likely to talk to him and it was a slim chance already.

Finally he summons the shade of Athenian general again. If he was going to be the God of War he needed to give some impression of a chain of command. He couldn’t just summon a random shade every time or his followers would think he didn’t care about them.

“Steward, guard my realm.” He orders and bestow a title at the same time. “I’m going to visit the mortal realm.”

The Athenian salutes and Deathstroke steps out of his realm and back to the peak of Olympus. He stretches out and tries to remember how to do this.

Mortal form felt...constrictive. He’d expanded out of his mortal body when he’d ascended, his mortal flesh had burned away by the flame of his awakened divinity. There hadn’t been any body to bury.

If he was going to talk with her he couldn’t just shrink down and leave it like that. He focuses himself in the mortal realm and slowly starts to map out his mortal shell. First, of course, he has to shrink, but after he’s reached the correct size he focuses on growing skin to cover his divine flame. Slowly the light of divinity is smothered in flesh.

For the first time since his divinity manifested he uses muscles and flesh to take a breath. After a moment’s pause to remember how to do it a heartbeat stirs his chest. He draws his weapons close and dulls the shine of the god metal to something closer to human manufacture.

It’s only then that he realizes that he should have picked somewhere else to do this. With a sigh he takes up his weapons and begins the long, arduous trek down the mountain in human form.

He travels faster than any human. Without the ability for his body to tire he does not need to stop and rest, nor eat or drink or sleep, and uneven terrain becomes smooth as a flat path under his feet, but he is still authentically travel worn by the time he gets to the citystate of Sparta.

He doesn’t have to rest but he still has to pause when he sees the city. A lifetime ago it had been his home. He’d been born here, trained here, grew up running in these same streets. Even the smell of the air was so familiar it felt like a dagger in his heart.

He wouldn’t give up his divinity for anything but seeing Sparta again made him keenly aware of what he had lost. It hadn’t been long since his ascension but his home was already different.

When he’d been a mercenary soldier his colors had belonged to him alone. Now the Temple of War, the temple he’d established as mortal before he understood why it had felt so important to do, was decorated with swirling banners in his colors.

He’d made his armor in those same colors out of familiarity and, on the journey down the mountain, he’d had the thought that maybe some pious follower of his might mistakenly object to him wearing the colors of a god. Now he saw he didn’t need to worry. Many of the Spartans he sees are wearing the same colors to ask for his blessing. He fits right in.

He still remembers the way to the estate. It is, almost entirely, how he left it. For the first time since he’d descended Mount Olympus he stops. He takes a deep breath and raises his face to the sky. He closes his eyes and simply basks in the nearly forgotten feeling of the real sun on his skin.

He was here. This was what he’d left behind when he’d ascended.

He waits until a cloud drifts over the sun and the warmth fades as the light dims before he opens his eyes. No point in putting this off any longer.

Deathstroke walks the path to the front door of the home he’d built off the blood of hundreds of men slaughtered by his own hand. He rests his hand against the door and knocks.

There is sound and movement from within.

“Who is it?” The familiar voice says. The door opens a crack and there she is, same as it ever was, standing in the entranceway with her hair tied up tight and her face set in the grim determined way of a true Spartan woman.

“Addie.” Deathstroke announces his presence. “It’s me.”

His ex-wife’s turn hard as she darts to one side. She rolls defensively, reaches out and snatches up the bow and arrow resting by the door. She notches the arrow with the speed of trained solider and releases. The arrow flies straight and true and thunks into the eyehole of his helmet into the socket of his missing eye.

“Ouch.” Deathstroke says, speaking of the gesture more than any ability for mortal weapons to harm him.

The bronze head of the arrow, hitting the burning fire of his divine essence, turns to liquid and trickles down his cheek. The arrow’s wooden shaft catches fire. He lets it crackle and burn to ash without bothering to pull it out. He takes off his helmet and wipes the ash and molten metal from his cheek.

“Can I come in?” He asks.

Addie tosses the bow aside.

“Might as well.” She sighs and raises her hands in exasperated defeat. “It’s not like I can stop you.”

Deathstroke steps inside what had, until very recently, been his own home and feels like an unwelcome guest here. He holds his helmet awkwardly under one arm as he follows Addie deeper inside. If the slaves recognize him they don’t show it but he’d never been good at remembering their names or faces. Maybe these were different slaves.

Addie heads to the dining room and snaps her fingers at a slave.

“Wine.” She orders.

She takes a seat at the table and looks at him over it. Deathstroke takes his seat at the head of the table. It hasn’t been his for a long time. The slave arrives with a amphora and two cups. Addie dismisses them with a wave of her hand. The slave leaves without looking up.

Deathstroke suddenly wonders if she’d been receiving suitors enough for the slaves to not mark or care about her being alone with an unknown man in armor.

“Well?” Addie demands of him.

“I am here about...my firstborn son.” Deathstroke says carefully.

Addie’s eyes still flash with a sudden violent anger to the point where Deathstroke is sure that if the bow was close by she would have shot him again.

“You didn’t even come to his funeral!” Addie snarls at him, her face set in the grim snarl of a grieving mother.

“You shot me in the eye with an arrow,” Deathstroke feels he has to point out, “and then you told him I’m abandoned him because I was a coward.”

“That’s your excuse? The arrow didn’t work either time.” Addie snorts. “And you are a coward who left him. If you’d stayed dead I would have told him that.”

“I did die Addie.” Deathstroke says sombrely. “The me that was...” He gestures at what used to be his home. “It isn’t me any more. I’m...not human any more.”

“You’re the same asshole with or without divine powers.” Addie sneers.

“I did right by him.” Deathstroke defends himself. “He’s Ravager now.”

“I heard.” Addie sits at the table and pours herself a drink from a pitcher of wine. She doesn’t offer him any. “Is that your plan? Neglect and ignore them their entire lives then give them Godhood to try and make up for it.”

“It’s not like that.” Deathstroke protests, feeling a twinge of guilt that it was at least a little like that. “I...want to do better.”

It pains him to say but it feels right, like its in tune with his soul.

“...I came here to get him a gift.” Deathstroke says sombrely.

“The only thing that boy has ever wanted is a father that isn’t a disappointment.” Addie drains her cup. “Good luck with that.”

“...I’ll do my best.” Deathstroke confesses awkwardly.

They sit in silence for a few moments while tension fills the air like lightning.

“...How is Joey?” Deathstroke asks.

“Alive.” Addie replies bluntly. “I intend to keep him that way.”

There’s a lot unsaid between them, lots of things he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to say. He wants to say he’s sorry but he also knows Addie is too smart to believe the lie. He’s sorry for the way things had turned out between them but he knows the past is the past. She had been right to kill him for his failure to protect his family. She was right to hate him for the death of their firstborn son. In her own way she was as rigid in her honor as he was. That’s why he’d fallen in love with her and that’s why he had to leave her.

He stands from the table.

“I should go.” He says.

Addie sighs but her hand is trembling a little as she puts down her wine cup. Rage? Sorrow? Some twisted mix of them both?

“What do you expect me to do without you?” She asks.

“...Remarry better.” Deathstroke puts his helmet back on.

Addie smiles at that and Deathstroke leaves his estate for what he’s sure will be the last time.

He doesn’t bother walking back up to Olympus. His flesh bubbles and melts off his body as he releases his divine flame and burns it away. For a moment he is a brief flash of divine light like the sun had touched down on earth then he is gone, leaving nothing but a pair of molten footprints sunk into the rock he had stood upon.

He returns to his realm and sighs. He takes his helm off again just to smother his face with a palm. He feels like he’d gotten a massive weight off his chest talking to Addie but he was no closer to finding an appropriate gift to give Ravager.

He thinks back on the gifts he himself had received on his ascension. His weapons had been a gift from the Gods of the Forge and of Craft. The pantheon would be shamed if there was a god without a proper panoply and the Gods of the Forge didn’t get much chance to show off their skills. It was as much a way for them to show off their talents and how useful they were as it was a gift to the new god. He was grateful for his own excellent armor and weapons but it did mean there was nothing in that vein that he could give his son that wouldn’t seem an insult to his son and smith gods both.

He was no god of crafts. His domain held no creation, only many varied means of destruction. The closest thing his realm offered to prosperity he’d already given. He couldn’t just take a domain solely to have something to offer his son. His domains were a reflection of the truth of his soul. He’d need to fundamentally alter himself on the deepest level to do that.

Deathstroke looks out from his realm to the Hall of the Gods in Olympus below. Night is falling and flames are flickering in the marble halls. Tonight mortals would see the lights on the mountaintop and know the gods were celebrating. Deathstroke drums his fingers on the arm of his throne.

What did he, God of War, have to offer his son to show his love for him was genuine?

An idea occurs. He summons his new Steward to side again and ask him one simple question.

He does not like the answer.