DAEDALUS HAD NEVER been a particularly pious man, scorned and cursed as he was. That wasn't to say that he did not believe in all those Northern Gods, he did, he knew them and their powers well, only that he thought them unworthy of worship.
They fed off cruelty; for what need does a happy man have for Gods? Of course, a happy man would be grateful for a time, but a time to man is no time at all to the Gods, all too soon these happy men grow content, complacent. They think their blessings earned. They stop giving as graciously, and then, they stop giving at all. But a poor man, will starve his family of bread for a month to pour the libations these Northern Gods decree.

Daedalus knew these tricky Gods, knew them well, he'd felt their cruelty more times than most, which is why he knew best of all that they could not be trusted.

• • •

"I WONDER WHAT the King has him working on now..." Muses Ascella, peering around the corner of the bookcase so that she may steal a better look at the handsome craftsman.

"Something for you, is it not?" I say, just as greedy as my sister with looks, "A harp, I think the King said."

Daedalus drags a hand down his well, worn face, seemingly frustrated with whatever it is that eats away at his days.

"No, look." Andromeda squints, eagle-eyed as always, but from such a distance it is almost impossible to make out what lies on his papers, "That is not a harp at all, it's... I do not know what that is."

"If it's for the King then I do not doubt it will be a weapon of sorts, something undoubtedly cruel." The words taste bitter on my tongue, bloody for all the half-sated wickedness that is not my own, but instead, the King's.

"We should join him," Ascella suggests, "After all, if you are to share his bed tonight, Andromeda, it would only be proper to speak with the man first, do you not agree?"

My eldest sister goes to protest, the words folding over the tip of her tongue, "Ascella, do not —," but it is already too late, Ascella has already covered half of the distance between us and the craftsman.

"Daedalus, is it not?" She smiles sweetly, feigning all the grace that Pala instilled, "I believe you know my sister," She cocked her head in our direction and we tried our best to bury our mortification, "May we join you?"

He had no choice, really. Ascella had not given him one. But nonetheless, he smiled politely, "Yes, of course. I think it would be nice to have some company."

So locked away from the rest of the world as he was, perhaps this was not a lie. The Cretan King, Minos, had trapped Daedalus as little more than a slave, bound to Knossos by the threat of losing his son, Icarus. Of course, the boy had died anyway in the end, though some may argue whether or not Daedalus was to fault. The wings that faltered were of course by the craftsman's own creation, yes, however, he was not to know the boy's becoming.
How was he to know his son's ignorance — that he would be blinded by joy and the sun on his skin so much so that he could not feel the damage that was being done, couldn't smell the tang of melting wax or feel the brush of one thousand feathers disentangling themselves across his skin as piece by piece his wings came undone.

As I look to Daedalus I imagine him grief-stricken and torn apart by regret, it is not hard to picture for part of itself still homes itself there, in all those well-worn lines of his face. Each tells a story. Each holds another night's agony. They say he lost his wife, too, no sooner were they married than she died in childbirth.

"You desire sons though? For what man does not?" The Spartan King's words echo over, like ripples of a stone thrown into a pond, only the stone he throws lodges itself deep in the pit of my stomach, rooted so strongly I fear I may never get it out.

The craftsman's reply resonates much quieter, he had said it so softly, so entirely sadly, that there was hardly enough weight to stir even the slightest of waters, "I had a son..."

I remember the way the King's grin stretched and sneered with a sickening glee, wicked and awful and something that could only be seen from a beast like him, "— Lost one too, I heard. She may bare you another, as many as you wish."

I tried to imagine Daedalus younger, less worn, prideful of the babe my sister had born him. Perhaps it could be, someday, though not under this King's merciless reign. The craftsman's last son had been used as a pawn, a plaything or leash to control him. I doubted very much he would see it be again.

"What is it that you're working on?" Andromeda takes the seat next to him as Ascella and I take the two across.

"Nothing of particular importance," He smiles, setting down his scrolls and pushing his ink aside. He does not say it in that usual way of men, that way that says without words that we could not possibly ever understand, lesser-minded as we are. Instead, it is almost bashful.

"Do tell," Ascella urges, trying not so subtly to read his writings upside down.

"Well," He says uncomfortably, a hand that is thick and full of calluses finding its way to grasp the back of his neck, "It was meant to be a surprise for someone..."

"For who?" Says Ascella eagerly, listening so well to his words that she misses the terse set of his body entirely.

"Ascella," I urge quietly, "Perhaps it may be best not to ask."

Instantly she deflates, "Oh yes, of course, sorry."

"No, it's quite all right," Daedalus says in his usual, gentle manner, like a low tide lapping over sand, "It is only that it was meant to be a surprise for you,"

Andromeda looks up at this, at the craftsman's earthy eyes on hers, warm and pressing and wise beyond mortal years, "For me?"

Daedalus smiles, the smallest twitch of a movement, yet it lights up the room. There is no flash or threat of teeth, no ill-intent or scarcely veiled threat, he is a man unlike the Spartan King or his cold-shouldered soldier, Deimos. His smile is not blinding, nor garish, instead, mellowed like the light of the moon, all round edges and tempered modesty.
I think, if I was that way inclined — and if I had my choice of men — that Daedalus is one I should like to marry. Andromeda is one of the lucky few that get that oh-so-rare glimpse of happiness, whilst the rest of us rot away in the shadows.

"For you," He confirms, "It is only a small thing, though I hope it will bring you some joy."

"You are too kind, Daedalus, really, you did not have to."
"I did not," His eyes glitter, "But I wanted to,"

"What is it?" Ascella asks, ever the curious child.

He winks, "Ah well, I suppose you will have to wait and see..."
"Our sister was never too good at patience," I grin as Ascella shoots me a look but says nothing, she cannot deny it. When she was a child she would sit in the field and talk to the wildflowers, begging them to grow faster, to stay longer — at least, until her mother found her there one day; muddy-kneed and with hair wild as a lion's. After that Ascella sat in silence when she visited the fields.
"Somehow that does not surprise me, though I'm certain she possesses several dearer virtues," When Ascella looks confused he elaborates, "I saw what you did in the throne room, needless to say, I was impressed. You must tell me sometime how you managed to cast the faces of the people in such clarity, each and everyone told its own story."

"Thank you," Ascella's cheeks flush a fire-licked shade of red, "Though I do not doubt you yourself have enough stories for all of Sparta combined."

He laughs, "That I do."

"Will you tell us some? It's just that for all its grandeur, this place can be so terribly boring."

"I suppose I can ease your boredom, at least for a little while. The King's men will come for me soon, Gods-forbid I be left alone for too long." A tired sigh leaves the craftsman, though the brightness in his eyes does not once dwindle.

Well, I think, you escaped from one King, what is to stop him abandoning another? Though somehow I know that escape from the Spartan King may not come quite so easily.

Casually as I can, I say, "What do you know about him, then? — The Spartan King I mean."

It is a strange look that Daedalus gives me, "More than most mortal men, I suppose, it just depends what it is you would like to know."

Everything. All of it. None of it. "What of his marks?" Despite the emptiness of the library, I find myself whispering, "I have never seen a man wear art like that before."

"Ah, those were a gift from his dear father, Zeus, as punishment for his deceptions, he cursed his son to wear his truths like scars, so that all the world could see. You may look at him and read all those tales, cast in skin and ink and blood, if only you are brave enough to look. The Spartan King is a book that bites back."

"For what a curse they should be he makes little effort to hide them..." Mumbles Ascella.

"If he hides them then all the world should know his shame," Says Andromeda, slowly putting the pieces of the puzzle together, "But if he bares them, he may portray them as something else... A rarity of sorts, maybe even a gift to those who do not know the whole story."

"Most don't." Nods the craftsman, "He wears them as armour, and so that is what they have become. Some show what has been, others what will be — a few even Ares himself is yet to know the meaning of."

"You call him Ares, son of Zeus..." A frown creases my brow, even I know those names, feared the world over, "But that cannot be true, those are just stories — tales of gods and monsters to keep the men loyal by fear. No man would ever rise against a King if he believed him to be God-born."

"Oh dear girl, just because they are tales does not mean they are not true. Gods and monsters walk among us for all to see, they do not hide like in all those stories," Worry seeps warning into the craftsman's words, a parental edge that I am not certain I like, "In fact, they openly proclaim themselves to be as such, only a fool would dare disbelieve them."

I tell myself it is only because Daedalus is said to have played with all those Northern Gods and lost, they stole his son, denied him of his body, too, for a time. Of course he would fear them.

"If what you say is true then what interest would a God have in lowering himself to be a king? Kings worship Gods, not the other way around..."

"Who said he had a choice?" Daedalus' eyes turn dark, light-struck like coal torches reflecting in those earthy pools, "Ares was the first of the eight children sent down by Zeus to rule over the cities of Greece, only whilst the others came down from Olympus by choice — considering it to be a great honour bestowed upon them — Ares did not come quite so willing."

"I have not heard this before." Mumbles Andromeda, propping her head in her hand, utterly fascinated. We all knew the tale — or at least, the bare bones of it — the God of war; strongest of the Olympians except for Zeus himself, condemned to rule in the mortal way; by way of crowns and gold and fear-forged loyalty. Nowhere in the version Pala used to tell did she mention the Spartan King being forced from his Olympic home.

Daedalus' eyes dart about the library for a moment, then his voice lowers, we lean in closer to hear, hanging off his every word, "Ares was exiled from Mount Olympus, that is why he now rules here."

His confession is not as much of a shock to me as it is to my sisters. Andromeda and Ascella both gasp, eyes wide as they wait dogged for the explanation. However, to me, it all makes sense. No blood-born King could lounge and liaise the way the Spartan King does, as if he has not a care in the world — no usurpers to eye, not a man in the kingdom that could best him.

"I do not claim to know many of the Spartan King's stories, though there is one," His eyes meet mine, "Have you seen the drawing of the tree across his ribs?"

"Yes." The word comes all too fast, all too eager. I clear my throat, slower this time, "Yes, I think so."

I can see it now, can picture him draped across his throne, skin bronze as sun on water, muscles taught just below the surface like tightly coiled springs. And there, at his ribs, only a breath away from where his heart beats beneath all that glory, a tree. The lines are dark and yet fine, all too precise, divinely made.

"Supposedly, the tree represents the tale of Ares' lost lover..."

***
QOTD- Who do you think is going to be Ares lost lover?