"Let's give him godly strength, held back by his mortal body," a goddess giggled, delighted as she sprinkled some of her essence into a clay figure. "He'll get it all once he joins us here!"
"The battle smarts of the finest warriors, unlocked as he ages," a god grabbed a strand of his hair, letting it drop to the figure and meld into the clay. "One to remain undefeated and unconquered before we take him."
"Make him perfect. Let us make the perfect symbol of strength. Let us add more to the recipe," another deity spoke, humming to herself. "Oh? Maybe the guile to covet the devotion of countless women? Seems fitting," she yawned, stretching as she spat onto the clay.
"Of course, make him a proper warrior that is ready to lead armies!" A god bellowed, his voice booming loudly. "This'll do the trick!" He wiped a bead of sweat off his forehead before wiping it on the figure. "There! Now, he can lead everything to victory!"
"We can't forget immeasurable courage," a sultry voice chimes in, blowing smoke onto the clay. "He will face any adversary. He will bring the foes down with a courageous smile. His people will never see him falter."
"What else?"
"Let us brainstorm!"
"Wait! What would we name him?"
A silence followed, before a god clicked his tongue, fingers snapping at the idea.
"Oh! How about...Beowulf? Our mortal hero...and soon to be brethren here in the Divine Realms!"
...
Beowulf stared onto the land of his people. His calloused hands opened and closed, his red eyes narrowing. A sigh escaped his nostrils, his voice now strained as the slow poison of ageing had made its way to his being.
It has been a long time since King Hygelac and his son, King Heardred, perished in battle. Yet, the memory burned fresh within his mind. The way they marched towards certain deaths-facing the consequences of their choices, Beowulf cannot help but admire the two.
King Hygelac, his uncle, was ambushed and slain. The man died protecting his people as they raised hell in their raid on Frisia. Though, Beowulf fought valiantly even after King Hygelac fell.
As loyal as he is to King Hygelac, Beowulf feels the stabbing pain within his soul. The screams of his slain foes rang, embedded into his mind. The looks of their faces as they perished under his blade etched themselves deep within his memories.
"A hero, eh?" Beowulf scoffed at his title. "What kind of hero sees the flames of life, and still extinguishes it?" He grumbled, pressing his face onto his palms. "I wish I had never had these eyes," he groaned, guilt lacing his tone. "Would've been easier to slay people. I wouldn't be able to see their fire flicker and die as they do."
Then, his grip tightened, squeezing his face-iron-like hands squeezing his eyes. The man sighed deeply and almost choked. Standing on his castle's balcony, he felt his shoulders slump.
"The weight of leadership," he grumbled, looking at his hands. "This strength and power is a burden," he scoffed, letting his fist fall onto the stone railings. The man watched the stone crack under the slightest pressure from his strength.
The man scoffed at the sight, fists shaking as he turned around.
"I...am no hero," he grunted, disappearing into the dark confines of his stone fortress.
...
A punch to the gut makes Mars puke out blood as he is lifted up. Beowulf laughs as he swings overhead, carrying the god of war and slamming him down to the ground. The earth shook at the force that is Beowulf, rumbling in pain as it cracked under the pressure of two figures clashing again and again.
Mars holds strong, slamming both palms on the mortal's arm, snapping it in three. Though his heartbeat steadies, his power dwindles without his confines ripped off from its seams. Still, the god grins through the pain-fights through the challenges posed by the mighty warrior of epic tales.
Even with shards of bones protruding from his flesh, Beowulf grins, teeth grinding as each broken section snaps back with a forceful regeneration. His hand finds its way to Mars's neck. Not a moment later, the man drags the god through the earth, mowing the ground with Mars.
"You got something right and wrong, Mars," Beowulf chuckles, a glint of sadness shimmering within his red eyes. "I am a warrior, correct," he throws the god up and in front of him, "but I can never be called a hero," he says, barely any bravado left in his tone.
Beowulf's fist drills into Mars's gut, rattling the god's insides for the umpteenth time. The air blows and the sound barrier shatters with Mars flying as a streak of broken red streak across the ruined earth. Mars meets the ground with a shattering crash, his body barreling away in multiple skips.
Mars's vision is blurry, but as he is airborne, his eyes see the faint figure of Beowulf from above. Soon, his body feels two fists hammering deep into its chest, caving in the torso and snapping the ribs with the squelching of flesh and the cracking of bones. Mars finds himself deep in the earth, Beowulf looking at him with his usual grin.
Along the smile is a lone, red, glossy eye.
"Yes, I was made a god among men," the mortal laughs, raising an arm, "but they made me the way I am. Ever caring, yet bound with eyes that ensured every life I took is engraved within the depths of my soul!"
His fist hammers down, knuckles knocking off some teeth from Mars. Then, another one, and another.
"All of those screams, Mars. I can still hear them from the moment their flames were snuffed for the sake of heroism!" A tear might have fallen on Mars, but so do strikes from the man. "So, if I am the favorite that you claim I am, I wish I had never been from the start!" He lets out a laugh that regains its usual strength. "But we're not here for sob stories, right?! We're here to fight for what we believe in!"
The man crosses his arms, blocking a kick from the god below him. His form skids back, his arms hanging limply as their bones shattered, their flesh shredded by the attack. Though, with a flick of both arms, they slowly heal to usable states.
As Mars stands up, Beowulf launches himself towards his opponent. Within a fraction of a second, Mars finds the man towering in front of him once more. The god can only mirror the man's grin through the pain coursing through his divine, albeit weak, body.
"Sadly for you, I refuse to see another set of flames flicker within humanity! So, prepare, Mars! Beowulf and Thrúd are not holding back!"
With a grin, teeth incomplete, yet still shimmering under the sun's rays, Beowulf reels back his fist, his other hand grabbing Mars's throat without a warning. His grip is tight, but he never intends to crush the windpipe as he rockets his fist towards Mars's face.
The god parries with a palm, slapping the fist to the side as he hops and dropkicks Beowulf, two feet digging into the man's chest and blasting a hole open on the front. The man stumbles back, but his wounds are tended by Thrúd in mere seconds.
"And it seems like you're faltering, Mars," Beowulf grins, rising from his crouch as Mars rises as well. "Let's end this once and for all, shall we?"
"End...? Me...?" Mars chuckles, coughing out blood as his ragged breaths make it hard to focus. "War doesn't end—I refuse to end," he wheezes, struggling to get up as he stumbles forward a few times before finally steadying himself. "You're a funny mortal, Beowulf. I'll give you that one," he sighs through a fit of chuckles.
"Eh, I try to be," Beowulf snorts, spitting out blood. "The kids love it."
"I'm sure they do," Mars steps forward before breaking into a sprint.
"You wouldn't be wrong about that," Beowulf meets him halfway.
Thus, the battle rages on.
...
An older Beowulf stepped forward into the ruination of his land which had become. Flames licked every surface he could see, but it did not bring him the joy he used to feel when seeing flames. No, these flames were not of lives and souls he cherished.
These flames took the lives of his people.
A scarlet sea of hellish fire covers the once lush, abundant forests. Houses that served as homes to laughter and love, all burned and charred alongside the inhabitants. Not even stone walls withstood the judgment given to them by the hellish spawn that ravaged their land.
"No more," Beowulf snarled, gone was his jovial facade. He had no people to show his smile, therefore it faded like the lives lost on this day of ash and flames.
His red eyes found the monster that dared to ruin the flames he cherished dearly. Golden red scales-jagged, sharp, and armored. Eyes-unforgiving, uncaring, and beast-like in nature-a true monster in his eyes. Flames...that Beowulf wished to extinguish forever. He saw the flame of life within the monster, yet...he wanted to snuff it out. He wanted to end a life, more than he ever wanted.
"BEAST! DRAGON! MONSTER!" Beowulf stepped forward, his voice rumbling like the thunder that plagued the darkened, ashen sky. "THIS ENDS NOW! NO MORE DEATH! NO MORE HAVOC! NO MORE...YOU!"
And with that, his mortal body sailed through the air as he forced it to defy its limits. No price was too steep. If his body gave out, then so be it.
His arm reeled back, sword positioned to break open anything that dared stand in his way. With a mighty cleave, the air seemed to wail in agony as the space shook under the force of nature disguised as a mere, mortal man. Thus, the fight between man and monster began once more—an old dance that Beowulf is quite familiar with.
...
"The fisticuffs rage on, folks!" Heimdall screeches with glee, hovering just outside the shockwaves of blow after blow. "But it seems like Mars cannot find his second wind! Beowulf has been on the offensive ever since the first moment our god faltered!"
Heimdall watches as Beowulf's blows threaten to break open Mars, but the god of war holds on with sheer grit, guts, and willpower as he trades blows with his opponent. A sickening crunch resonates as Mars's knuckles catch the side of Beowulf's jaw, knocking off one hinge as the man's jaw hangs from one cheek. Though, a swift reattachment corrects the injury, courtesy of Thrúd's power.
As this is going on, Heimdall does notice something different.
"Did you catch that, ladies and gents?!" Heimdall flies closer, feeling the rattling of each shockwave. "Beowulf's healing seems to have been slowing down as well! Wounds are still present! Bruises are visible!"
True to his words, Heimdall's purplish smoke shows the ever-growing wounds littering Beowulf's body. They do not heal as fast as before, or completely halt their regeneration as the warrior pushes through the onslaught Mars represents.
"Mars is faltering, his heartbeat wavering with each passing second! Beowulf's healing and protection are slowly dwindling, his wounds growing more grievous with each exchange!" Heimdall's fist shakes with excitement, his eyes twinkling under his goggles as Gjallarhorn shakes within his grip. "Just a little bit more, folks! A few more exchanges and we'll have our winner! Come on! Cheer on, folks!"
Heimdall lowers Gjallarhorn, his surroundings drowning within the roars of humanity. Still, barely a voice rises within the divines. The act gets a sigh of defeat from the referee, his eyes lingering a little longer on Mars's weakening frame.
"This sucks," he groans, massaging his forehead. "How can a god fight with his all if his kind can't even cheer for him? This is totally bogus," the sigh of defeat lengthens as he brings Gjallarhorn back, in front of his mouth as he clears his throat.
"Ouch! That blow to the neck should stagger Mars momentarily! Beowulf takes the opportunity—he pummels Mars to the ground and delivers a mean hammer fist one after the other!" Heimdall watches as their divine champion is beaten to the ground. "Is this it?! Mars seems to be unable to fight back the earth-shattering strikes from Beowulf!"
Just as he announces, Beowulf has Mars trapped under him as he pummels the god with hammering fists.
One after another, his fists desire to end these exchanges once and for all, but Mars simply refuses to fall. Gritting his remaining teeth, Mars mirrors the grin of his opponent. Within Mars's fiery, golden eyes, Beowulf sees the unwavering determination to push forth and hold on. The man is sure of it—Mars will not fall like this.
"You are incredible!" Beowulf laughs as he smashes his fist onto Mars's face. "This determination...this willpower! Astonishing! I've never seen such conviction since-"
"Shut up!" Mars cackles, headbutting the incoming fist, breaking Beowulf's arm in different sections. "You're one to talk, mortal! Determination, conviction—you possess everything! You are made...perfect!"
Mars grabs both arms of Beowulf, crushing both before kicking the man off him. The god rises from his position, eyes keeping watch as Beowulf skids back, arms slowly snapping into their correct places. Mars hums in acknowledgement, seeing the process slowing down further.
"See? You're matching someone you claim to be perfect," Beowulf chuckles, spitting blood. 'I...hardly have any juice left, Thrúd,' he whispers deep within his mind—a hidden fear under his bravado.
'When has that stopped you, though?' Thrúd chuckles back, her tone lowering as her power dwindles with every injury. 'You never back down. You never stop until you cannot push forward anymore. I think this is not your last stand, Beowulf,' she reassured him, fixing his wounds to the best of her abilities. 'Go get 'em, bear.'
"I will," Beowulf says under his breath, lowering his stance. "You are a special one, Mars," he begins as they begin circling one another. "Your kind barely cares. They seem not to believe in your capabilities as a warrior and yet you still prove again and again that you are worthy of their respect."
"I couldn't care less about their respect," Mars chuckles at that. "The only respect I need is from myself, and my pantheon. The others? Irrelevant. Unwanted. Unheard. Unneeded!"
Hearing this, Beowulf's grin blossoms further. "Now, that is a warrior's mindset!" He cackles, arms widening, his right foot stomping and breaking the ground. "But mindset can only bring us so far! Let's see the last of your strengths, Mars!"
"Warrior's mindset," Mars's eyes shake, excitement bubbling from his tone as he takes a step. "Mortal, I am the collection of every mindset possible," he laughs, launching himself into a dash. "I am Mars—war incarnate!"
Beowulf blocks a fist, his arms bending in such a way that makes him flinch. The pain envelopes his body as his chest caves in. His legs buckle under the strength of the deity he is facing, his body shooting back and plummeting to the ground with a thunderous crash.
"Beowulf!" Mars laughs, his joy mixing with a maniacal edge. "I am a one-man army!"
Mars shoots forward and appears above Beowulf, fists reeling back for an attack.
"Mars of wars! Legion of one!"
...
Beowulf stood over the sliced corpse of the dragon. His body, unmoved as he remained standing in front of the dragon's maw. His body is licked by flames, his armor charred, and his skin wrinkled and peeled by the searing torrents of fire.
His eyes were open, but their glints were long gone like the life of his enemy. His body was stiff, but he still held his sword within his lowered arm, steel melted by the intense heat of battle. His hair is almost gone, singed and burnt near the roots.
There was no doubt about it.
Beowulf died.
The warrior king died standing in the middle of ruination. His last breaths were that of determination. The dragon wanted war, and thus he delivered.
The flames of lives mattered to him more than his life, but not a soul was present to witness it. His heartbeat halted without feeling the warmth of his home, and the love of those he cherished. Instead, his last moments were embraced by the searing golden-red flames of his adversary.
The battlefield was quiet, the sounds of falling structures and the crackling of flames being the only sounds one would have heard at this moment. The slightest gusts of wind graced the hellish landscape, and along with it was the soft sound of war horns.
Light poured out of the ashen sky, beamed down on Beowulf's standing figure. From the divine realms descended a valkyrie adorned with a sword and shield, gauntlets and boots, and an ornate circlet on her head. Her figure was one of orange, silver, and gold, her flowing blond hair fluttering as she reached the ground below.
Freya looked at Beowulf with eyes of sorrow, her lips pressed in a thin line. She sheathed her sword and stowed away her shield on her back. Her left hand in metal touched the burnt man's cheeks, watching as the slightest touch peeled off the skin.
Blue eyes stared into Beowulf's red. Freya sighed, closing her eyes in thought. Then, she opened them as she spoke, her voice laced with a somber tone.
"You died with sadness plaguing your heart, warrior," she uttered, a sad smile forming on her lips. "Perfection ruined you," she sighed, placing an index finger on the man's chest. "Worry not, warrior. You are free from any titles now. You can do whatever your heart desires, and more. Save everyone you desire. Be a hero for everyone, and not to a select few."
She pulled back her hand, and a string of jaded green followed out of Beowulf's body. Soon, the string moved and compressed into an orb, floating over Freya's palm. The orb shimmered with a faint hue of divine energy, golden and shifting like a rainbow.
"Beowulf, Son of Ecgtheow, I welcome you to Valhalla," she announced as a beam of light shot down from the sky. "You died a warrior, and not as a god they all wanted you to be. I'm proud of you."
Without hesitation, the goddess ascended once more, the soul of a fallen warrior in her care as they flew to Valhalla.
Soon, the field of fire and ruins was left in silence once more. Still, the body of Beowulf stood there, unwavering up to his final moments.
...
Beowulf's ears ring as Mars's assault starts ramping up, the war's aggression reaching an intensity that catches the mortal off guard. He is weakening, and so is his partner. Continuous pressure is not doing them anything good and more of this spells out their end.
Still, Mars's words echo within his mind.
"Legion of one, eh?" Beowulf chuckles, though he cannot hear his own voice due to his ruptured eardrums. "Well, guess what, Mars!"
He swats away Mars's punch to the side, backhanding it and breaking his own arm in the process. Still, he raises his functioning arm and delivers a punch to his opponent's side. Then, he leans back and then forwards, slamming his forehead onto Mars's skull, an audible crack and vibration travelling to the hero's head.
"I am Beowulf! And to me, defeat is never an option! Not as long as lives are on the line!" Beowulf laughs, watching the divine stagger back albeit still grinning. "The flames of life will roar! Though I apologize, for I must extinguish yours here and now!"
With a mighty dash, Beowulf hops, both legs tucked in and extending at full force as he dropkicks Mars. The war's chest cracks, and his side bursts open in a show of blood and gore. Mars lets out a gasp as he hits the ground, his eyes staring at the sky above.
Then, he hears Heimdall's voice.
"Folks! This might be it! Mars is critically wounded! Beowulf has delivered a deadly blow in the form of a dropkick!"
Still, Mars paid Heimdall no mind as his vision turned hazy.
High above the sky, in the stadium, Mars can feel someone watching over him.
'Chief...' He whispers into his mind. 'I think...I'm ready,' his thoughts run with a more jovial tone, akin to a child finding wonder. 'I think...it is time for us to finally rest. We've found our match, right, guys?'
Mars expects the voices in his head to rage on, but none come at the question.
"I-It's good to see you a-all agreeing," Mars coughs, blood spurting out of his mouth and covering his face and his eyes. Though, he refuses to blink. "I...see you, chief..."
Mars sniffs, watching as a yellow falcon circles the sky above him. The animal is nothing but a hazy dot, but war knows that it is watching.
"You're such a worrywart," he chuckles, coughing out more blood as his red essence pools around him.
He closes his eyes for a moment, and deep within his mind, something else unfolds.
...
The war between deities and mortals has brought ruin to the entirety of Mount Olympia. Blood pooled up to the point of flooding, and bodies piled up to the skies. The ruins were silent as death laid its claim to the lands.
A god clad in golden armor walked forward, making sure not to step on the bodies of the fallen warriors and deities of their land. His falcon gave a screech, signaling that it found something worth his attention. He looked up to see the animal flying towards the north.
The chief rose from the ground, lightning dancing around his figure. With a crack of thunder, he vanished and appeared just beside his falcon. He glanced down at a mountain of corpses.
Movement was present under the rotting bodies of war. Soon, the entirety of Mount Olympia rumbled and groaned in what seemed to be pain. Then, the sky cried as blood pelted down, staining everything in a deep scarlet.
Jupiter readied himself, his God Bolt appearing in his hand with a yellow flickering zap. His falcon screeched in attention, landing on his shoulder as the world around them shook violently. Rubble fell, stone cracked, lightning streaked, thunder crashed, and more.
Soon, a soul-piercing scream echoed throughout the realms. It was the scream of a man in pain, crying as the world around him threatened to break apart. Accompanying the haunting scream was the shaking of the mountain of corpses.
Jupiter took a step back, but his pure white eyes widened in shock as the blood under him seemed to move towards the moving pile of flesh. As he focused, he found the origin of the bloodcurdling scream: the mountainous flesh.
Blood was absorbed into the pile, and bodies began shambling towards it. Jupiter can only watch as each corpse fuses with the others, sculpting itself into a grotesque figure of red meat.
Winds picked up as the lightning struck the corpses. A few seconds later, the entire Mount Olympia is devoid of any blood and corpses. Though, something else graced its ground with his presence as everything quieted and calmed down.
A boy with red hair and golden eyes lay on the ground. He was without clothes, without anything at all. His hands shook as he looked at them like they never belonged to him. Then, he slowly raised his head to stare at Jupiter's imposing stance. Soon, his voice, broken and shaking, pierced through the silence.
"H-help me."
The boy whispered under his breath, but he soon broke into a fit of screams as his hands gripped the side of his head. Jupiter watched as the boy pulled on his hair, ripping it from the roots as he clawed at his head.
Thus, a being with billions of souls was born in the day of a war's aftermath.
Mars of wars, legion of one. Body, molded by countless corpses of war. Blood from every spilled drop. Soul...formed from the restless warriors that died in Mount Olympia, both mortal and divine.
...
"Let's do this."
Deep within his mind, Mars's soul whispers. Behind him stands an army of mortal and divine, lining in formation that spans for almost eternity.
"Are you quite sure, general?" A warrior spirit asks, worry lacing his tone. "If you do this..."
"Let's do this," Mars repeats, sighing. "Sound the drums. It's time my heart beats alongside the war drum's rhythm."
"I...understand. Best of luck, general," the warrior salutes, looking back to the army behind. "You heard the general! Let's do this, fellow warriors!"
And with that, billions of souls shout in unison, akin to an army going to war as the drums start resonating louder and louder.
Then, Mars's figure glows in a pinkish hue. Feeling it, Mars grins, slamming a fist onto his chest.
"Alright! Let's do this, everyone!"
The souls behind him cheer and roar. Although they can argue from time to time, their support is unwavering.
Pink flames swallowed him whole.
...
Beowulf is about to finish it all, his foot coming down to crush Mars's head. Then, his senses roar at him, and for the first time in a very long time, Beowulf is stricken with the primal feeling of fear.
The mortal diverts his foot, slamming it to the ground and propelling himself out of harm's way. Mars's form bursts into a grandeur of pink flames. Beowulf watches as the ground burns with a hiss as reality seems to burn around Mars's body.
Then, Mars's figure rises, reality melting around him and his flames.
He grins, cracking his neck.
Beowulf gulps, though a grin is present to reassure those watching the scene unfold.
"Let's do this," Mars says with a simple snort of amusement.
Thus, he shoots forward in a fit of pink flames.
{•=To Be Continued=•}
Hallo! Please, pardon my writing. Inconsistent. Still, I really enjoyed writing this chapter since, well, Mars is a favorite of mine alongside Set and Vincent van Gogh. He really found his way to my heart and I deeply cherish the warrior he has become. Tell me what you all think! Comments fuel me so well that I might start writing the moment I see them. Might. Again, thanks!