Blood Brothers

There was the smell of liquor and sweat in the air. Also filling the thick, heavy atmosphere was laughter, a dozen conversations, and soft but jaunty harpsichord music. The ambiance brought a grin to the scarred soldier's lips as he poured his drink between them.

The bartender lowered a glass she had finished wiping down just as his emptied tankard was set aside. Then, glancing at the scarred soldier, she stepped in his direction and placed a hand on the polished horn handle. "Need another?"

Nodding, the soldier bit his lower lip.

"Coming right up," she said, taking the tankard with her as she strolled away. "Red Barrel mead, right?"

The soldier kept biting his lip as he nodded, chuckling to himself as he turned on his stool and propped an elbow and forearm on the bar. Taking stock of the many soldiers and mercenaries that frequented the place, the scarred soldier saw he chose the right place for his drink. He had seen garrisons with fewer soldiers than this establishment. Looking at the decorations on the wall, old shields, and rusty weaponry, the soldier could see this tavern had a long, storied history with men and women in uniform.

"Here you go," said the bartender, returning the tankard to her patron.

Turning on his stool, he thanked her with a nod and wrapped his fingers around the stein's handle. "How long has this place been here?" he asked, now sensing a certain familiarity about the place.

"Oh," she chuckled and shrugged, "that's hard to say," she admitted as she picked up another glass and wiped it clean. "Been in my family for three or four generations."

The soldier sampled the drink and paused, staring at a wall littered with framed photographs. Beyond the various images in shades of brown and tan was a dark gray brick wall that was different from the red brick structure of the rest of the room's edges. "This place used to be bigger, didn't it?"

The bartender nodded and chuckled. "It did," she paused to fill another patron's glass but soon returned. "You realize that wall is newer than the others, huh? Sharp eyes there, old timer."

"Old timer?" he paused and lifted his eyebrow.

"I meant no offense," she said with a concerned expression as she showed her palms. Then, a gradual smile returned to her face. "You just have the look of one out to relive your glory days."

Glancing at his uniform, the soldier realized he had a deeper fade than those being worn by the other patrons. In addition, his patches had been hand-sewn, and the stitching was frayed, where the others had been the work of factory machinery. He wondered how much time had passed since this uniform had seen the light of day.

"I, uh, suppose you're right," he said before taking a deep drink from his tankard. "Time, uh, has a way of slipping past you."

"Yeah," she said, nodding with no small measure of understanding. "So, my grandfather sold half the space when I was still a little girl, before my father bought the place," she explained. "It's rather weird... Trying to remember what this place looked like back then. I barely remember it."

He remembered it in greater detail with every moment that passed. There had been a fireplace on the far end, a place he would lean against as he shared a drink with his brother and discussed plans for the future. This place had a kitchen back then, too. They used to make a delicious stew once a week to make this place crowded and rowdy.

"Good stew," he said with a nod, recalling the taste in his mouth as he said it aloud.

"Stew?" she asked with a chuckle. "Oh, wow... You are older than I thought. My grandfather used to sell a venison stew here, but I never had any served here. He closed up the kitchen when my grandmother died... that must've been forty years ago. Before I was even a glimmer in my father's eye."

The scarred soldier chuckled as he slid off his stool and wandered away with the tankard in hand, pressing it to his lips at odd intervals. He weaved through the tables, soaking various bits and fragments from the tables that fell in earshot. Finally, as his feet were rendered still, the soldier in the tattered uniform found himself in front of the pictured wall. His fingers were tracing a wooden frame without consciously willing it as his eyes were soaking in the much more faded picture. Its imagery was much more faded than the others, indicating its significant age.

He dismissed what little was left of his notion that the barkeeper had somehow been mistaken with a chuckle. But, of course, the fault was his own. It was a bitter thing to swallow, admitting he was wrong, but the tall stein of Red Barrel helped improve the taste.

"Hey, gramps," said an officer from a nearby table. He was a broad man with thick black hair aside from a shock of white and gray over one eyebrow. "Why don't you sit with us?" he asked, motioning to the four others sitting around his table. "I'll buy you drinks if you have stories to share."

Approaching carefully, the scarred soldier eyed those at the table. Three of five were young—two boys and a girl, barely out of training. The officer who invited him wore a leather topcoat with captain insignia on his sleeves. A veteran brigadier was sitting next to the captain, sporting a white beard and disheveled uniform.

The brigadier kept his eyes down, staring at his drink.

"What are you drinking?" asked the captain.

The scarred soldier pulled the only free chair away and lowered himself into it, sitting between the female and a male hoplite. "Red Barrel," he said as he placed the tankard down and gave everyone a more thorough look as they did the same to him—everyone except the brigadier, whose focus was entirely on his drink.

"I should have guessed," said the captain as he nudged the senior officer on his left. "All you old timers drink that swill, don't you?"

The hoplites got a good laugh at the joke. The brigadier even smirked briefly. The scarred soldier scoffed but did so with a smile. "It's not the best, but it gets the job done," he said.

"True that," said the captain. "I'll drink to such wisdom," he added with a nod. "I just lost my taste for the stuff after the Corinthian Conflict. It was all my battalion had to last us through a long siege. By the time I was back on imperial soil, I couldn't stomach another gulp. I needed something harder."

"War can do that to you," said the brigadier in a raspy voice, still not raising his eyes.

"Then why do you still drink it?" asked the hoplite sitting next to the captain, a young man with dark red hair and a distinctive nose that indicated he had some relation to the captain, probably his younger brother. "Surely you have seen enough war, sir."

"Everything has lost its taste to me," came the raspy reply that the hoplite had not expected to hear. "This one just comes with the best memories for me... It reminds me of drinks shared with those who are gone."

"Oh," said the red-haired hoplite, now saddened as he looked at the other two hoplites. The scarred soldier could read him like a book at that moment. This was when he realized that he or one of his dear friends might not live to the brigadier's age, and those that did would be just as burdened with losses of their own.

The captain placed a hand on the young man's shoulder. "A reminder that not all scars are clear to see. It's a hard life we live in service of the gods."

"Glory to Mars!" said the hoplite sitting next to the outsider at the table. The young man had brown hair, tanned skin, amber eyes, and a tuft of hair on his chin. He looked more like a bard than a soldier, and there was a certain rhythm as he slapped his hand on the table. This left the scarred soldier to conclude that this young man had come from a family of performers before conscripting into service.

"Glory to Mars," said the female. She had an olive complexion with dirty blonde hair, sporting an undercut style over her left ear and a long braid on her right, resting on her shoulder.

The other hoplites at the table echoed the call, as did others from nearby tables. But the captain and brigadier said nothing. The brigadier mumbled some words, but he definitely did not praise the patron god of their empire.

Taking note of this, the scarred soldier drank.

"Forgive us," said the friendly brown-haired hoplite, putting his hand on the outsider's shoulder. "We should introduce ourselves. I am Xander Dorian. At my left is Linus and his brother Ozias, both of the Calix family."

The scarred one nodded. "Ah, yes, I have known many a Calix. Strong military family."

"Aye," said Ozias, the captain. "That we are... No family more foolish than ours, eh, brother?" he said, gripping his brother's forearm as he laughed at his own joke.

"That sourpuss is Elias Basil," continued the chatty hoplite between gulps of his drink.

"Caution is advised, Dorian," warned the old man, only then raising his eyes enough for the scarred soldier to see his left eye was whited and glassy. "I really don't want to break your jaw, but just remember I still got enough fight in me to do it..."

"Forgive my choice of words," said Xander, placing his hand on his chest as he feigned remorse. "I should have said, 'here we have the great and crotchety Elias Basil,'" he said with a snicker to punctuate the revised introduction.

The old brigadier managed a smile and a faint laugh as he shook his head. "You're an obnoxious shit, to be sure, Dorian," he said before briefly glancing at the scarred soldier. Then, averting his good eye's gaze, he focused on his glass and drank deeply from his stein.

"Finally," continued Xander, "we have the princess herself... Acantha."

"Oh," said the scarred soldier, glancing at the young woman to his right. "I had no indication we were in the presence of royalty."

The woman rolled her eyes. "Obnoxious shit is an insult to good excrement," Acantha said with a sigh. "Ignore Xander. He sometimes falls prey to the illusion that we think he's funny."

The other four at the table, other than Xander, laughed at the bardish soldier's expense.

"It's a dumb joke of his," Acantha explained. "My father was Aeneas... the thirteenth. He used to be emperor, but that was lifetimes ago. All I knew him as a drunk and all-around asshole."

"That's the curse of having a heroic soul," said Elias, lightly turning his tankard on the table's top. "Some of us have the chance of dying before everyone gets wise to what insufferable pricks we all are. But heroes' flaws will always come to light sooner or later."

"So true," said Ozias Calix. "I wonder when my brother will cease to worship me. Some day he will realize that my shit stinks like everyone else's," he said, pulling his brother close to him as he grimaced through a loud release of fart.

Linus coughed and retched as he shoved away from his brother and vacated his seat. The table erupted into laughter, with the scarred one joining their ruckus. After Linus walked it off, he returned to his seat, shaking his head and waving the air away from his nose. Then, looking to change the subject, Linus eyed the stranger. "How about you, sir, what's your name?"

"Adras Adrastos," said the scarred one while raising his tankard to his lips.

"Well met," said Ozias with a nod.

The others gave welcoming nods, except Elias, who only raised his head to gaze intently at the scarred stranger with his one good eye. Noticing this, Adras decided to call the brigadier on it. "Something the matter?"

A silence fell over the table as the captain and hoplites caught on to the sudden tension brewing.

Elias Basil sat upright, his weary back making audible groans as his bones and joints shifted to his change in posture. Then, as if he was looking at the stranger at their table for the first time, Elias noticed the tattered uniform and its hand-stitched patches. "I had a captain back in the day... when I was a young man."

"Oh, settle in for a history lesson, folks," said Xander, though he got no laugh or chuckle and quickly bit his lip to resist the urge to jump in with other jokes.

Elias continued, almost not even registering Xander's interruption. "His name was Adras Adrastos, too..."

"A reunion?" asked Ozias.

Acantha suddenly seemed unsettled. "Does anyone think our new friend is getting older the longer we look at him."

"Uh..." Linus' expression indicated he was experiencing the same as his female cohort. "Actually, yeah," he admitted with a nod.

"Except, Adras Adrastos died on the battlefield fifty years back," said Elias with a furrowed brow. "His neck had been broken with such force that the head nearly came off. The stranger thing? We found his body stripped down to his smallcloth."

The scarred stranger eyed his beverage. He took a deep drink, emptying it. When he lowered his tankard, the soldiers intently gazed at him around the table. With a sigh, the scarred stranger got up from his chair. "It seems I need another drink," he excused himself and strolled toward the bar.

As he walked away, he heard the table erupt into bickering. Xander suggested that this was just a matter of two people with the same name, but Elias explained that the Adras he knew would have been wearing that exact uniform. Acantha questioned the need to suggest their guest had murdered someone fifty years ago. The brothers, meanwhile, seemed to take issue with someone wearing the uniform that they had not earned.

"Barkeep," said Adras as he rested a forearm on the bar and slid his empty tankard forward.

"Red Barrel?" asked the bartender as she strolled up and collected the empty stein.

"Mm," said scarred Adras with a nod. Then, as his eyes followed the barkeeper as she walked toward the tapped keg, the weary soldier saw a broad and familiar being sitting at the end of the bar, poised in a position that would have given him a perfect vantage point of the table where Adras had been sitting moments ago. Chuckling, Adras took the few steps to close the distance to where the larger one sat. "Brother..."

"Let me guess," said the muscled figure sitting on a stool, one leg bent and relaxed, the other rigid and straight. "You gave them your name."

"Aye," said Adras, nodding as the barkeeper returned with his drink but kept herself busy so as not to interfere with his conversation. "Well," he paused and gripped his tankard's horn handle, his thumbing caressing its polish. "Not my name, but... the one that came with the uniform."

"No need to distinguish it. Anytime you give a name, whether yours or another, the enchantment begins to fade," explained the other, his thick hands gently lifting a flute of spiced wine to his lips. "The point of the trappings is to be faceless and not call attention to yourself, brother. You know this."

Nodding, Adras sighed. He took a deep sip, then put the tankard down and adjusted his thick belt as he swallowed. "Yeah, I rutted this."

The other chuckled, shaking his head. "How bad can it be?"

"They think I killed the real Adras," he replied, still adjusting his gear.

"Who?"

"Adras... The bastard whose uniform I stole," said the scarred being as he finally adjusted his gear-laden belt to his liking.

"Something wrong with your belt, brother?" asked the other, shifting on his stool and pressing on the bar as he lifted himself. Then, with a distinct limp and the moan of the shoddy leg brace he wore, he brought himself closer for inspection.

"No need to concern yourself," said Adras, pressing a hand against his brother's chest.

With the briefest of glances, the brother saw the issue. "You're sporting the Arsenal? Without adequate support... That old belt isn't sufficient to hold up that weight, brother. Orichalcum and adamant weigh more than steel and iron."

"I know," said the scarred soldier with a glare. "But I don't go anywhere without the Arsenal."

Scoffing, the brother rolled his eyes. "Fearing a Titan incursion, are we?"

"Are you mocking me?"

"Yes!" said the brother with a loud, hearty chuckle.

Sneering, Adras made his displeasure clear.

"Let's go, brother. Your disguise is compromised and they have need of us at the temple-"

"I'll finish my drink first," Adras said, shaking his head. "You should do the same."

Shaking his head, the brother disagreed. "Like I said, your disguise is failing and-"

"So what?" scoffed the soldier as he wiped the excess Red Barrel from his lips. "What would they do if I shed my trapping right here and now, brother? This is an imperial bar. They would bow before my might and stare in awe. That is what they would do."

"Exactly," said the brother with a sigh. "That is what I am trying to avoid. Your ego is already too large. I want to make sure we can go out the doorway we entered."

The soldier did not laugh at his brother's jest but hid his sour expression behind his tankard. Then, as sudden glimpses of violent imagery and rage-soaked thoughts ran through his mind, he closed his eyes and tried to quell the madness. Suddenly, his free hand tightened into an impulsive fist as voices without form or identity whispered in his mind, demanding blood be paid for the insult.

Suddenly, a hand grabbed the soldier's sleeve, tearing it partially loose from its stitching at the shoulder. Caught off-guard, the soldier was spun on his feet and brought face-to-face with Captain Ozias Calix. "What do you think you're up to, old timer? Pretending to be a soldier? Wearing a dead man's colors like this? I have half a mind to kill you where you stand."

The brother limped forward. "Easy now, you don't want to-"

"Shut up, cripple," said the captain, sneering dismissively at the intrusive new party. "This doesn't concern you."

A flash of red.

Ozias staggered backward, gasping and prodding clumsily at the gushing wound made in his abdomen. Blood seeped through his clothing, making his fate apparent to onlookers, causing gasps to slowly spread across the tavern. Finally, Ozias lost his footing and fell backward, coughing up blood as he lay on the floor, the limping one standing over him with confusion and concern.

The scarred soldier looked down at his hand, staring at the bloodied orichalcum and adamant dagger. A grin crossed his lips as blood trickled down his blade, sharing its warmth with his flesh. Then, composing himself, he looked at his victim as he stowed his blade with a fluid motion. "No one insults my brother."

"That was unnecessary," said the brother, shaking his head. Then, taking a crooked step toward his brother, his orange eyes looked into his brother's red eyes. "This will have ramifications. We should leave now. Come on."

"I still plan to finish my drink," said the scarred soldier, turning back to the bar and gripping the handle of his tankard.

As he sated his thirst, his brother turned to watch Ozias' last breaths spent choking on his own blood.

Linus Calix stumbled forward. Kneeling at his brother's side, he made no attempt to stop the bleeding as Ozias shook his head, signaling its futility. "Why?" he asked to no one in particular.

Xander and Acantha were standing behind their fellow hoplite. Though Xander focused on Linus, Acantha was glaring at their captain's murderer, looking past the tall and broad figure. Then, as she stepped forward to confront the scarred soldier, she seemed startled when the other limped into her path.

"Out of my way."

"You do not have to do this."

"Says you," she sneered, grabbing him by the shirt and attempting to shove him aside. However, he did not budge an inch. Then, perplexed, she looked at his eyes, nearly straining her neck to look up that high. Instead, she saw the color and intensity of coals burning in a forge and absent-mindedly stepped backward before making a direct line for the door.

Turning toward the scarred soldier, the brother limped forward. Then, throwing a generous amount of denari on the bar, he grabbed the torn sleeve and guided its arm toward the door. "She will be back with the constabulary. We should leave now, Ares."

Nodding, the scarred soldier swallowed the last of his drink. "I suppose you're right, Heph..." he chuckled and took one step away from the bar when his brother's sudden shout startled him. Reflexively, he turned and caught his massive brother as he fell into him. Looking at his brother's leg, he saw the faulty brace he wore on his leg as part of his disguise having been destroyed by some massive impact.

Nearby were Xander and Linus, both moving closer. Though it was unclear which had done this, it was clear they had been in agreement and continued to share the same intent. Simultaneously walking around either side of the fallen behemoth, they took swings at the scarred soldier.

The hits were jarring but caused no injury. Then, as Ares lowered his brother to the floor, another series of blows came. Again, they caused no wounds but staggered him and left him off-balance.

Linus grabbed the uniform's torn sleeve and ripped it off, taking advantage of this. Striking the god across the face in the process. Ares laughed through it, even as he clumsily walked off the blow and bumped into Xander, who gave him a shove into a support pillar in the middle of the small tavern.

"What's so funny?" asked Xander as he charged forward and grabbed a weapon from the scarred soldier's heavy belt. Then, without waiting for a reply, Xander sunk the blade into the god's gut. Mirroring the fatal wound on Ozias.

With blood red eyes widened as adamant and orichalcum tore his flesh open and spilled his ichor, the god's laughter ceased. A pounding impulse overwrote his thoughts, and instead, only graphic images of violence and death flooded his mind's eye. Then, tearing off his coat and tunic, the god revealed his maimed magnificent body to the tavern.

"Ares..." groaned Hephaestus, trying to get his feet under him. "Don't give in to it... Walk away."

Ares paused, looking at his brother.

The patrons and employees of the tavern let out a collective gasp, some dropping to their knees and others fleeing in terror.

Hephaestus managed to get up, even pushing Linus away from him as he did so. Then, limping over to his brother, he looked at the dagger still buried in Ares' gut. "Take control... Go to the temple... Get this treated. I'll take care of things here..."

Ares shook his head. "No, I must-"

"You must let me smooth things over," Hephaestus insisted.

"I didn't mean to kill-" Ares said, the rage draining from him. "He said-"

"I know," said Hephaestus with a sage nod. "You're a good brother. Let me return the favor."

Ares took a deep breath and stumbled toward the door. "Yes... I will. Thank you, brother..."

Hephaestus followed Ares out but stayed inside as the door closed. As he gripped the doorknob, the strong god rendered the metal and made it inoperable. He slowly turned around with that taken care of and faced the entirety of the tavern's occupants. "Now..." he said, pounding his fist into his hand. "This brings me no pleasure, but there is a matter that needs to be seen to."

"What?" asked Linus, glancing at Xander.

"We've seen a god bleed," said Elias, still sitting at the table.

"What does that mean?" asked Xander.

"It means..." Elias began but paused to down the rest of his drink. Then, getting to his feet and straightening his uniform, he continued. "We cannot tell this tale."

Linus shook his head. "What do you mean? I- I don't understand. What does that mean? We cannot tell this tale?"

Realization hit Xander just as the tall god limped over him. Xander lowered his head and nodded, accepting what came next. "I didn't know it was him... I-"

Hephaestus nodded, placing a hand on the mortal soldier's shoulder. "I know... You had no way of knowing," he said sympathetically. "But you did stab my brother... and I cannot abide that."

Xander took a deep breath. His lips parted to speak, but before he could emit a sound, the god grabbed him by the neck and hurled him headfirst into the support column he had pinned Ares against earlier. Xander Dorian's head disappeared in a mist of blood and shower of viscera and skull fragments.

Linus let out a startled gasp and stumbled backward at the sight of brutality. When he regained motor control, he made a break for the door but underestimated the god's reach. Caught by the arm, Linus felt his limb dislocate and let out a scream.

Nearly tearing the arm off, Hephaestus pulled Linus in close and threw him to the ground. The impact of the body being flung to the cold stone floor might have killed a lesser man, but Linus was a trained imperial soldier. Linus let out a final gasp with broken tailbones and shattered ribs before the god's heavy foot stomped out his life.

Three patrons bolted for the door but fumbled clumsily at the broken mechanism. The god took care of them by grabbing a lantern off the wall and tossing it toward the door. Their screams and flailing did not distract the god as he limped toward Elias Basil.

"You know this brings me no pleasure."

The old veteran nodded. "Allow me to save you the trouble," he said, reaching into his coat and withdrawing his service flintlock pistol. Then, pulling back the hammer, the old officer pressed the barrel's end to his chin and pulled the trigger.

Hephaestus closed his eyes. His body jolted at the sound of the officer's body hitting the floor. When he limped away, he saw the bartender. Letting out a long sigh as flames began to consume the bar, the god pointed to the most expensive bottle on the shelf. "I'll take that."

The bartender nodded and reached for the bottle. She handed it over with one hand as she wiped tears off her face with the other. As her hand touched the god's in the exchange, she looked into his eyes and asked, "Why me? What did I do to deserve this?"

The god accepted the bottle and shook his head. "Absolutely nothing," he admitted. Then, glancing at the flames claiming more of the tavern and smoke making it difficult to breathe, he looked back to the barkeeper. "Are you devout?"

"I am," she said, nodding. "I make weekly sacrifices to the temple."

Hephaestus nodded. "To what gods?"

Biting her lip, she hesitated.

"It's okay," he said, nodding. "Be honest."

"Bacchus, mostly. Sometimes Venus or Pluto."

The god nodded. "Bacchus is the God of Intoxicants," he said with a smile. "Makes a certain amount of sense for a bartender. So I assume Venus is to find love?"

She nodded wordlessly.

"And Pluto?" he asked curiously. "To watch over dead loved ones?"

"That and for wealth..." the bartender explained. "Many forget he is the god of wealth..."

"That they do," Hephaestus agreed. "Well, as you are devout then I can spare your life if you are willing to give that life in service to the temple."

"To the temple?" asked the bartender. "In what capacity?"

"As a templar," Hephaestus said.

The bartender began to cough, the smoke irritating her throat and lungs. Fighting through the fit of coughs, the bartender managed a nod.

Hephaestus offered his hand, and once accepted, he took her to the black brick wall. He paused as he caught sight of an old photograph featuring him and his brother. With a grin, he took the framed picture from the wall and handed it to the bartender and the bottle of expensive liquor.

The god then took a step back and threw himself at the wall, smashing through it in one try. Then, as the fire raged across the tavern, he waved the bartender to follow him. As she stepped into the darkness, Hephaestus took the bottle and photograph from her. "Do you have a name?"

"I do, Divine Vulcan," said the bartender, taking one last look at her family's tavern. "My name is Cora."

"Please," said the god, limping awkwardly as he shuffled for the exit, "I'll let you in on a secret. I never cared for that name. You may call me Hephaestus... Actually, no," he said with a smile as he wiped the blood and soot from his face, "call me Heph."

## Characters

### Gods

* Ares - God Of War
* Hephaestus