Mighty Ares, golden helmeted rider of chariots

stout-hearted, shield-carrying, and bronze-geared savior of cities,

strong-handed and unwearying lord of the spear, bulwark of Olympos,

father of fair Victory, ad succorer of Themis.

You curb the unruly, and lead truly just men.

- Homeric Hymn to Ares, trans. Apostolos N. Athanassakis

Alcippe had not known if her mother was telling the truth. She could not countenance what it might mean to feel the divine in her body, and though there were places where she felt herself to be exceptional, different from the other girls her age - stronger, faster, with more stamina coursing through her muscles - to name any of them as evidence that she was something other than human seemed itself like hubris. She kept quiet, though, about her doubts, for she did not wish to be another voice accusing her mother of falsehood. She did not want to echo the father who had thrown her mother from the house, the young man who had refused to continue their betrothal. Alcippe was quiet, when her mother talked of Ares, of how he one day would come for his daughter and lead her to a glorious destiny. She thought, in her heart, that their would be nothing for her beyond the simple confines of her life in outskirts of Athens, work and festival and perhaps one day a marriage, if any man would have a girl without a father, a girl with a mother so arrogant as to claim such intimacy with a god.

She was seventeen and still unmarried when Halirrhothius strolled into the city. No one knew where he came from - his mother was a nymph, they whispered, and he had grown up away from humans, which accounted for his strange, unworldly beauty, his uncanny facilitating at catching fish and hunting game. Alkippe did not know when or how he heard of her mother's claims of mingling with Ares, but somehow he did, and he cornered her one day as she was fetching water.

"I know who you are," he told her, his hand catching at her elbow, his eyes catching hers, their blue deep and intent.

"What are you talking about?" she asked him, and tried to wrench herself away. She could not, and it startled her; she knew no one whose grip she could not break.

"I'm like you," he said, "I'm the son of Poseidon. You don't belong here, do you?"

Alcippe could not decide whether Halirrhothius was mocking her, or deluded, or whether he spoke the truth, and whether this was the answer to all his strangeness. She wondered what everyone saw in her, whether they whispered about her peculiarities as they did about his. "You've been listening to my mother's stories," she said hastily, the words racing out, her heart speeding at her inability to get away, "pay them no heed. She is a lonely woman, and my birth was hard for her. You can see that I'm no god's child."

"Hemitheoi," he corrected her, the word like an exhale. He was too close, and her heart was beginning to speed, "that's what we are. I can see it in you, Alcippe, Ares' daughter. It is the Fates' will that we find each other, when no one else could match us. Think of what a couple we could be. Think of the children we could have, better than ourselves, almost gods in their own right! We could win our own seat upon Olympus."

"Let me go," Alcippe told him, spitting out the words, tired of his breath against her face, of his frantic fervor, which reminded her of the feeling of working all day in the summer sun, feeling ill with heat. She wanted to think about his words, but she did not want to think about them there, with him so close.

He would not let go. It was as though he was enraptured with the fantasy of their union, and would not hear her words. They fought, and Alcippe thought of the images in the poems, of man and woman as wrestler. In that agon, she could almost believe that there was some shared heritage of the divine in both of them, for never before had she felt that someone's strength could match her own, fit to it appropriately. But it was not a wrestling match, and she could not enjoy the challenge, for she was fighting for her own safety and survival, and she was terrified.

He won, barely. Perhaps Poseidon was a stronger god than Ares.

When her strength served no more purpose, and Alcippe was consumed by desperation, she tried the final and most unlikely method could imagine, and prayed to her putative father.

Lord Ares, who delights in battle, if ever you cared for my mother or took pleasure in her presence, help me now, for I am overmatched in this battle.

It was like the sky cracking, then. He was there, hair long and wind-tangled beneath his helmet, eyes glowing like coals, his spear and breastplate shining beneath their stains. It was so fast that Alcippe could barely see, as he kicked Halirrhothius away from Alcippe, drove the spear through his belly with a battle cry that made Alcippe shudder even as she thrilled, drove the his spurred heel into the man's chest.

There was no question of his divinity, for his presence was like a hard wind rushing past her ears and pouring her hair out behind her, it was like the feeling in her chest when she had outmatched the other girls in a footrace and was edging close to the finish line. Alcippe had never seen death before, and the image of Halirrhothius' broken body before her held repulsion and horror, but she could not help but feel exalted and ecstatic, in the presence of a god, in the presence of her father.

He helped her to sit, and the touch of his hands seemed to hold a charge like lightning. Alcippe recalled her manners. "Lord, I thank you for gracing me with your presence, and your protection." Her voice sounded hoarse to her ears, and the words felt awkward and inappropriate, but she had no formula for how to behave in such a situation.

He grinned, showing his teeth. "No need for formality, daughter. Are you surprised that your father would protect you?"

Alcippe felt her eyes beginning to water, and hoped that he would not think less of her for it, that he would not think the daughter he had never met to be a weak, emotional child. She remembered the loneliness she sometimes felt, alone in the house while her mother worked her stall her in the market, the feeling of being unmoored which came with never knowing whether she came from or what her fate might be. "I didn't know," she told him, "I didn't mean to doubt you, but I didn't know."

His arms were around her, or perhaps that was only in her mind, perhaps a god could make it feel as though he was embracing you without the need for physical touch. Ares smelled like sweat and blood and she didn't care. Alcippe thought of horses, of secretly visiting the stables or coming near the gymnasium when she was a girl. "I have been watching you," the god said, "and I've seen your strength and courage. You are my daughter. You have my grace. And you will win your battles, and when you do, I shall be with you, filling you up with my breath."

Alcippe looked reluctantly at Halirrhothius' body, so broken that it was easy to forget it had been human. "What will happen now?"

Ares seemed to shrug, though Alcippe could not say that she saw him make the gesture, in truth. "Poseidon will be enraged, no doubt. My territorial uncle. But, for once, I don't think anyone will disapprove of my murder."

Alcippe had not considered any of that; conflicts between the gods were far from her mind, and it made her dizzy to try and consider them. "And to me?"

Ares helped her to stand and Alcippe found, much to her surprise, that her feet felt firm on the ground. "You'll make your own way. But remember that you are my daughter. Don't deny your strengths."

Alcippe smiled back at him, met his eyes. They were brown, like her own. "Always."

Ares kissed her forehead, and grace poured through her, and the world seemed to open up.