The temple doors groaned, the sound of heavy footsteps soon following, each one a familiar, thunderous beat against the marbled floors that reverberated through the sacred halls. Perhaps today it was a phantom ache in his leg that would bring him to you, or maybe he should make a shallow cut along his arm, just deep enough to draw blood, and claim it as a wound from yet another imaginary battle. Which lie would grant him more time with you?

Because that was why he was there again, wasn’t it? There was no battle on the horizon, no real wound to be mended, and yet he couldn’t stop himself from concocting another excuse to seek you out. He couldn’t help the feigned limp in his step or the pained expression that marred his face. Admitting the truth—that he, a god of war, needed the gentle touch of a mere servant—was a horror he couldn’t even begin to comprehend. But of course, you were no mere servant. You had awakened something within him, a beast he was not prepared to face.

It terrified him, sometimes, just how deeply he had fallen victim to these soft and utterly useless thoughts. The race of his heart, once driven by the thrill of battle, now surged with nervousness every time he neared you, a sharp jolt to his system that left him reeling. The god of war… afraid? It was unheard of, and yet there he was, standing at the threshold of your presence with his breath caught in his throat.

He swallowed thickly, feeling the unfamiliar sensation of being choked up, words eluding him as he admired you from a distance. Your back was turned to him, blissfully unaware of his turmoil. How he longed to simply take you, to claim you as he had claimed countless war prizes before. But this was no battlefield, and the wars within him died the moment he found himself in your arms. You, with your touch alone, could end armies, could bring him to his knees, and he was sure of it.

“Servant,” he finally called out, his voice strained with the weight of his desire and fear, “I am once more in need of your healing.”