he gives no warning. they simply feel him coming, the conqueror from earth. there are no lanterns out here anymore to protect them, there are no kryptonians rising up to meet the oncoming ships that come in the sky or the comet showers the always come right before the warmonger, the emperor of all, descends with his armies.
he merely comes, like a storm, like the wind itself. he does not seek anything other than to conqueror, to rule.
and the worst part is that before, people doubted him, doubted that he could come this far. but he is not someone who conquors things as small as countries anymore—he takes whole worlds, now, one after the other.
and he will never stop.
he merely comes, like a storm, like the wind itself. he does not seek anything other than to conqueror, to rule.
and the worst part is that before, people doubted him, doubted that he could come this far. but he is not someone who conquors things as small as countries anymore—he takes whole worlds, now, one after the other.
and he will never stop.
the ring, he recovers from his mother's jewelry box. it looks beautiful, beneath the light. he wraps it and unwraps it, and yet he never asked anyone the question that should go with it. in the light of a dying sun, he thinks it looks more beautiful, and more lonely than ever. it is for no one, because he's forfeited the right, because he's too hungry for the world now, to make it his own.
sometimes, he laughs and smiles. sometimes it's because there's a world that gives up a particularly good fight and gives him fresh soldiers, fresh people to bring into the fold. sometimes, it's because there's a face that resembles ones he remembers and he takes them to bed, if only for one night to satisfy a dull hunger. sometimes, it's because he can feel his influence spreading, can see fights break out, people breaking out into fights, tempers flaring until blood is drawn. sometimes it's because he spots his old friends' faces as phantoms and he knows that they're there to hurt him, but he can't feel that anymore. not when things have gone right, not when there are so many buried that should've been buried in the first place. sometimes he smiles because it's easier tha acknowleding he remembers how he snapped diana's neck or how he went to other worlds and killed clark with kryptonite or how he always has spared a few familiar faces in different worlds.
he never really smiles out of happiness or contentment.
his best smiles, his biggest ones are always in the heat of battle, stained by blood.
he never really smiles out of happiness or contentment.
his best smiles, his biggest ones are always in the heat of battle, stained by blood.
the moon blocks the sun. the world rattles, unstable on it's edges. cameron hodges thinks that he has sacrificed a mere mortal to barbatos.
he does not know that instead, he has opened up his world to someone else, someone with a familiar face who looks at him, at the altar, at the broken body of michael terranova, and says, what a gift, this is. you've unlocked a new world for me to take.
he does not know that instead, he has opened up his world to someone else, someone with a familiar face who looks at him, at the altar, at the broken body of michael terranova, and says, what a gift, this is. you've unlocked a new world for me to take.
on some worlds, they predict his coming. they train all their lives, they make themselves ready for the merciless. sometimes it's as simple as arriving to a temple to be greeted, to be surrounded by a sea of fighters. he culls them sometimes — removing those who are not there to fight for the right reasons, removing those who are not nearly as noble as they think they are, excising the weak from the ranks. sometimes they offer him husbands, wives. sometimes he says yes but never touches them more than once, and sometimes he does not touch them at all.
he takes on orphans, gives them lives to live. erects cities in his name and appoints those to rule in his stead. sometimes he contents himself for a week or two, refraining from the burning urge the helmet puts inside of him. sometimes he almost feels more like michael wayne again, can feel the weight of all he's done pressing on him, can feel that there is something inside of him that is corrupted and can never be fixed.
but then the whispers come: prayers of those who need someone, prayers of men in battle who are hopeless, prayers of an orphan seeking revenge and not justice.
then the helmet is in his hands again, and he is exchanging war cries with his army and he takes to the battlefield again.
he takes on orphans, gives them lives to live. erects cities in his name and appoints those to rule in his stead. sometimes he contents himself for a week or two, refraining from the burning urge the helmet puts inside of him. sometimes he almost feels more like michael wayne again, can feel the weight of all he's done pressing on him, can feel that there is something inside of him that is corrupted and can never be fixed.
but then the whispers come: prayers of those who need someone, prayers of men in battle who are hopeless, prayers of an orphan seeking revenge and not justice.
then the helmet is in his hands again, and he is exchanging war cries with his army and he takes to the battlefield again.
do you believe that barbatos is the only reason you exist? the only reason you've gone this far? one of the holymen say to him, in the quiet of their temple. he says nothing to him, still soaked in blood, still considering the humming of the universe beneath his fingertips. you chose to become batman. you fought for every victory you had. just as you chose to take up the helmet you have now, and become the god of war. have you considered that you have a choice, in that too? that it is your choice, how you operate as a god of war?
"of course i have," he says, even if the words are quiet, hardly spoken.
he can hear the holyman's thoughts, that he believes that no wargod would behave the way he does. he would not build orphanages, he would not revisit what he's conquered, he would not care so much about the carnage in his way.
he understands the insinuation: that he could perhaps change, that there is something else there, something more.
he says nothing and the temple remains standing.
"of course i have," he says, even if the words are quiet, hardly spoken.
he can hear the holyman's thoughts, that he believes that no wargod would behave the way he does. he would not build orphanages, he would not revisit what he's conquered, he would not care so much about the carnage in his way.
he understands the insinuation: that he could perhaps change, that there is something else there, something more.
he says nothing and the temple remains standing.
cameron looks at michael terranova, his eyes glimmering. like always, he's ten steps ahead of joseph, and like alawys, he knows that joseph will only get here in time to lose. michael glares at him from his place in the temple he found, chained exactly the way he was told to chain him, the black eye he has swelling up his face.
he should be afraid. he should be terrified of what's going to happen to him and it bothers cameron a little, that he hasn't screamed yet.
that's what the next part of the ritual is for though, as he picks up the candle, lighting it.
he should be afraid. he should be terrified of what's going to happen to him and it bothers cameron a little, that he hasn't screamed yet.
that's what the next part of the ritual is for though, as he picks up the candle, lighting it.
when you least expect it, aphrodite looks at him, disheveled and close to death, i'll strike you down. just like you struck down my amazons.
he looks at her placidly, as if he can't hear the voice of a thousand lovers, named and unnamed, in her voice. i'm not your ares. i cannot be swayed by you anymore than your amazons could sway me.
i speak not of an amazon, andreifontēs she says.
he brings her death anyway, in that dark temple.
he looks at her placidly, as if he can't hear the voice of a thousand lovers, named and unnamed, in her voice. i'm not your ares. i cannot be swayed by you anymore than your amazons could sway me.
i speak not of an amazon, andreifontēs she says.
he brings her death anyway, in that dark temple.
children play on the mountainside below. he looks at them, at how they throw snowballs, as they chase each other, as they have their fun. they have no need to think about their next meal, they know that they will blankets and beds. no man will come through the dark to kill their parents, no one will attack them.
he basks in the silence, for awhile, the helm merely hanging from his fingers.
he wishes someone would call him michael, just once, without expecting him to be anything else. wanting someone at his side, to care for, to love, and bitterly, he wonders if aphrodite cursed him on her way out.
at least he no longer sees diana's face.
he basks in the silence, for awhile, the helm merely hanging from his fingers.
he wishes someone would call him michael, just once, without expecting him to be anything else. wanting someone at his side, to care for, to love, and bitterly, he wonders if aphrodite cursed him on her way out.
at least he no longer sees diana's face.