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Ares steps heavily upon the path leading towards the mouth of the sea. This latest war has proven especially tedious, stalling and starting. He grows hungry for bloodshed, for violence and this conflict has yielded very little thus far. His frustration is bright, though cooling now as he nears the tranquility of water.
Though he so immensely enjoys plains of worn earth stained with blood, and the groaning of cities crumbling to dust, he finds unique pleasure in the crashing of waves against the shore. This small stretch of coast is where he goes to seek solitude, to reassess plans and soothe the aching hunger inside him, for blood and for something else he cannot name.
As the salt air thickens and the roar of waves grows with his proximity, his step falters. Disbelieving, he stares at the elegant shape held in the arms of the sea. It is Lady Aphrodite, so breathtaking and serene, kneeling in the lapping waves.
He has never encountered her in this place before, having laid silent claim to it as he so often finds himself here alone. Ares has only allowed Hermes and Apollo to find him here, to disrupt his brooding.
Surely she had noticed his approach, the padding of his steps against sand, and the huff of each worn exhale. She gives no acknowledgment of his presence, delicate eyelids closed as she tips her face towards the sun.
Ares stands unmoving, uncertain. He stares, ashamedly helpless to her magnetism as sunlight dapples across her naked skin, casting the suppleness of her stomach in a warm kaleidoscope of pale pink. Droplets of water arch along the curve of her backside and glimmer like pearls.
It is nearly inaudible, a sharp intake of breath that passes from Ares’ lips. The slightest of sounds, a whisper of surprised desire, and he is betrayed.
She glances over her shoulder, tangles of hair spilling across her skin. Amusement flashes in her eyes, tugging at the corner of her mouth. The expression suits her.
“My apologies, Lady Aphrodite.” He says quickly, ashamed of his own tactlessness and flagrant lust written upon his face.
She laughs, a bright, delightful sound. It shapes the winds around them and seems to glow brighter than the light of the afternoon haze. It pours upon him thickly like honey, warming his skin.
She smiles truly now, baring teeth. She tips her head as she asks, “whatever for?”
The sea ripples with the wind, catching a few of her pink curls and bringing them to swirl around her, as though beckoning.
A most tempting offer.
“I do not mean to intrude,” he says sincerely, head bowed demurely to avert his eyes from her bareness.
She stands, unfurling her limbs, delicate in appearance but deadly in their strength. She is still smiling, genuine and pleased. It is an unfamiliar expression. She wears a grin comfortably, her own sort of shield and armor. He knows it well from their brief encounters upon Olympus, his eyes snaring on her gaze, but he has never seen her smile . Her eyes are alight like a flame, almost fond.
“You could not, Lord Ares.”
Their stares settle heavily upon one another. She looks soft, supple like ripe fruit. She settles her hands on her hips, almost expectant.
Ares considers. Considers plucking her from the forbidden tree, holding her in careful hands and pressing his lips to her skin, tasting her.
Just as quickly he smothers any kindling of passion, stomping out sparks. He cannot afford to tangle himself in such distracting affairs, not when there is always war begging to be made.
Hastily, he excuses himself, politely waving away any suggested advances. He returns along the path he came, thinking of her all the way.
It is a foolish thing, desire.
He does care to dwell long upon Olympus, the whispers and darkened glares of his kin creep along the halls and seep into his chambers. Here, he is always alone but somehow always accompanied by their bitter disfavor. Like lingering and restless ghosts and he is haunted.
He has long been avoiding her, the feeling of unfurling roses tamped down and crushed with a resolute fist. Despite his best efforts, she comes to him, suddenly and unexpectedly and without pretense.
His chambers are situated at the far side of the acropolis, as though to cast the stench of blood and the cloud of anger that lingers after him to the furthest corner of the palace. This necessary trek across the palace seemingly does little to deter her, appearing in shimmering fabrics and wearing an honest smile on her comely face. She slips into the room with the ghosts of loneliness and anger, casting them away.
Her sudden appearance is unnerving, her name spoken softly with an air of breathless surprise. He is wretchedly exposed and vulnerable with his armor discarded, showing constellations of scars across his torso. She smiles even more brightly at his kind but anxious curiosity, a slight quirk of her mouth that seems to wholly take her face and deepen her beauty.
They study one another for a moment, a test of wills, stares fixed with curious fascination. They are both stubborn and daring in their own regards, the winds, the sea, and the sky all seem to pause and hold their breath in anticipation of who will welcome this dangerous affair first. Courage or passion? A fierce contest.
Finally, it is Aphrodite who approaches, her dress whispering against her skin, as though taken by some indiscernible breeze. It is Ares who watches, mesmerized.
“Hello, Ares,” she says and Ares is certain his expression betrays his deep fondness for the way his name shapes her lips.
“Are you well?” She asks, drawing near the foot of his lonely bed to take a seat and examine the linens absentmindedly between her elegant fingers. She seems to have little regard for etiquette, though he supposes her propensity for flirtatious behavior and trysts with gods and mortals alike would explain away any need for formalities.
The rich fabric dressing the bed looks crude beside her skin. He can fleetingly imagine his scarred hands, blood red like the bedding, misplaced and uncouth against her touch. The tips of her toes hardly graze the floor as she swings her legs from her perch, and her expression softens into something almost coy when she notices his smile.
The scent of her perfumes and oils lingers in the stillness between them, intoxicating and overwhelming.
When he gives no suggestion of an answer she looks towards him again with an expectant expression.
“I am well.” He says softly, unblinking towards her gaze.
She peers around the room with vague interest, the space is cold and uninhabited. It is devoid of any well-loved possessions, nothing to give the impression of refuge for the god of war.
Aphrodite is sharp and assessing, eyes landing steadily upon Ares to pin him with the sparkling suggestion of displeasure.
She says, “you really are a poor liar, my dear.”
Ares is shocked into laughter and the shape of it is foreign in his mouth, rough and scraping in his throat and into the air.
“I am not often asked such a question.”
Aphrodite frowns and it is so misplaced on her face, Ares wishes it away, would give anything to drive the feeling in it from her forever.
“I am most sorry to hear that, truly.”
Perhaps the rest of the Olympians, save a few, do not feel inclined to ask because they presume, see the determination and anguish plain in him and understand nothing but tactlessness and barbarity.
He nods, for there is nothing for him to say. Nothing he could do to inspire change in the cemented way the rest have come to understand him.
He is unsure as to what to say next, the silence uncertain and swelling. He settles his stare upon his armor, greaves and bracers strewn upon the floor. It is strange to be seen by another without it, guarding him against the disgusted appraisal of his war-marked, repeatedly rewoven skin.
She follows his gaze.
“I am sorry, my lady. I was not expecting company.”
There is that sweet laughter of hers again, like the trickle of a stream, the caress of wind in an olive grove. It is all things pleasant and soft.
He can feel her warm-hued gaze linger upon his naked torso. Much like his kin, he is dangerously proud, but in her overwhelmingly divine presence, he feels almost inclined to cower, to bow in a show of contrition.
He cannot say why.
Beaming with pleasant and veiled surprise, she startles him once again when she pats the space beside her and asks without preamble, “I understand you are leaving Olympus, Ares?”
He takes a few measured steps to be seated beside her, refusing to meet her eyes as they trace the strong lines of his profile.
“I do not often stay long, I have frequent obligations in the mortal realm,” he says firmly, finally turning to look at her fine face and her imploring expression.
Her mouth downturns into the suggestion of a frown and she coos, “you must visit again soon.”
He offers a polite, regretful smile, “Olympus does not often require my presence.” And perhaps more truthfully, he cannot bear to dwell in this gilded place, preferring the rhythm of labor and pleasant sweat of the mortal realm.
Her fingertips brush his, splayed upon the bedding between them. Just the slightest suggestion of warmth.
“No, Olympus may not,” she remarks with a parting coquettish smile.
Her touch burns long after she has left.
“Tell me more of this war,” Aphrodite says, waves lapping at her delicate ankles.
She frolics at the mouth of the sea with little regard for his solitude. Despite this, he finds that he does not resent her interruptions, a thrill swelling in his chest whenever she floats along the sandy, sunbaked footpath towards him.
The breeze is restless, slicing into the sea with a practiced warrior’s precision. It is soothing to watch, his mind wandering and troubles taken by the winds to free him of the deep and unrelenting torment of racing thoughts.
Aphrodite blooms rosy against the backdrop of the churning sea, and perhaps if she were anyone else, even the siblings he is most fond of, he would cast her away. Perhaps even scorn her for distracting the sea breeze with her beauty.
Instead, he is utterly and guilelessly taken by her charm. Like so many others, mortal and divine, he is smitten. He wants so badly to be ashamed but finds that he cannot, for who would be sorry to adore such an exquisite creature?
Ares watches her, unable to tear his gaze away as he fervently drinks in the shape of her. The glitter of sunlight upon the water gives her inquisitive expression and soft smile a halo, as though all the realms shape themselves to suit her.
Sand sifts through his fingers as they scramble for purchase, desperately trying to abate the desire to reach towards her.
He matches her subdued smile, genuine and tentative, “which one?”
She tips her head, curiosity ripe on her lips as she dances from the retreating shoreline. As though displeased with her sudden absence, the sea tosses itself and reaches back toward her with frothy fingers. Ares notices the hem of her dress, stained with the salty sea that bore her as it drags carelessly behind her. She is a perfect portrait of recklessly delightful divinity.
He wishes himself that carefree, he is constantly caught in threads of meticulous plans and calculations. He often ponders what would crumble and smolder to ash if he were to abandon his scrupulousness. Which melody of war would break down into instrumental chaos?
Something foreign and agonizing burns bright within Ares. Something richer than desire, more deeply rooted than lust as he looks upon her.
When she fixes him with that soft and resigned sort of smile of hers, he knows with certainty that she is not loved as she should be, for who could possess such power? No mortal or god would ever deserve to bask in such radiance. Ares does not think himself worthy and knows that his brother is not.
“Your favorite.” She answers finally. The sweet chime of her voice draws him forth, reaches into the darkest recesses of his mind, and brings him toward the light.
“I could not dare choose, it is as though you have asked me to decide upon my favorite child.”
She laughs, his favorite sound.
She comes to sit beside him, and her hair tumbles along her shoulders, swathing her arms as the breeze brings it to whisper secrets against his skin.
She smells sweet, of roses and salt air. Like pleasant and warm memories he has forgotten, or perhaps never had. Beside her, he can imagine a softer existence, a kinder past, and a hopeful future. She is intoxicating, the blinding sight of her, the alluring scent of her, the sounds of her, the melody of her voice, and the bright chirp of her laughter. He has fallen into her and cannot touch the bottom, drowning, for she is boundless.
“You must have a favorite, even if you will not admit it,” she says with a knowing quirk of her lips.
“Perhaps,” he concedes, “and you?”
She peers at him strangely for a moment, almost forlorn when she reminds him, “I do not have children.”
Forgive him, for he cannot keep up with the numberless exploits of his kin upon Olympus, nor the results of their various unions. He had sincerely expected Aphrodite’s freeness with her affections to have resulted in numerous precious offspring in her image.
He asks, “would you like to?”
“Yes.” It is a simple reply.
They are silent for a long time. A breath of time during which he does not dare let his mind wander towards tender and aching delusions of his battle-worn hands cradling a delicate infant they share, the glow of motherhood about her as she beams upon them with immeasurable pride.
He sends such thoughts forcibly away, fiercely snuffing out the flame that gives light to such improbable visions.
In an effort of redirection, he asks, “what is it you would like to know about war, Aphrodite?”
She gives pause, tapping her chin and humming in exaggerated consideration.
He loves when she is like this, wishing he could forever hold the feelings of contentment and boyish joy that she sparks warm within him.
She decides, “tell me the ugliest parts.”
“Surely you do not care to know such terrible things.”
“There is beauty in even the most dreadful of things, I imagine war to be abound with passion. Not unlike love, driven by desire.”
“Yes,” he grins at her, “it is.”
She smiles indulgently in return and he finds he cannot speak, only stares.
It is an agonizing thing, adoration.
Ares has orchestrated temporary peace in this latest carefully woven war of his, a thread of reprieve unspooled to tempt the mortals with hope, with resolution. There is no war without peace, without love, or without moments to cherish such. A soldier must be reminded of what he is fighting so diligently for.
Aphrodite visits in these tastes of peace, sweetening the ephemeral pleasure of the moment. Slipping into the mortal realm to exercise her influence with renewed delight.
She lingers increasingly in Ares’ company, a most dangerous tendency they have fallen into. One that he cannot bring himself to object to or attempt to stop.
It is not an especially pleasant place, the tang of blood thick in the air and smoke clinging to the sky to dampen the brilliance of the afternoon’s sunlight. It is a modest tent like any other nestled close to the battlefield, occupying the precipice of enemy territory. Inside, it is strewn with carefully crafted battle plans and preparations, housing a myriad of weapons and a humble pallet dressed with furs. It is a more unforgiving glimpse at him than his dwelling among the gods on Olympus.
Aphrodite is splayed upon his pallet, often dozing in the afternoon's lull. Her chest rises slightly with each gentle inhale and falls like the tumble of spring blossoms from delicate tree limbs. The rhythm of her breathing is familiar, a forbidden comfort he indulges in. Her hair spills upon the bedding in tendrils of pink, and he knows the sweet scent of her will linger long after she has left, swathing him as he tries in vain to chase sleep.
He is sitting at the far side of the tent, a respectable distance from where she lies with loose and beckoning limbs.
Aphrodite asks after some time, “do I not tempt you, Ares?” She breaks the spell of quiet, her question fraught with indignation and deep consideration as though it has plagued her thoughts. He is one of the few upon Olympus not in reckless pursuit, instead nurturing a quiet yearning that she is unaccustomed to.
Looking up with cautious surprise from the gleam of the dagger he is intently polishing, he finds her expression soured with displeasure. It twists the elegance of her face and glimpses a far less pleasant side of her, a side of her he adores all the same. His breath quickens and his chest aches at the suggestion of hurt sullying the melody of her voice.
“You ask a foolish question, my lady,” Ares says with great care, weighing the dagger in his palm. It weighs the thousands of mortal lives it has taken, bronze echoing with screams of terror and agony, of war cries that ring in the ears of victims forever. Whatever purpose the composition of this blade had served before meant little, for it was always meant to be melded and shaped into a weapon, like Ares.
Aphrodite fixes a pout prettily on her mouth, sighing softly.
“You will not even look at me.”
Ares confronts his frown in the warped reflection of the blade, seeing himself in the weapon. The licking flame of desire burns hotly in his belly despite his best efforts to snuff it out. He does not dare speak, best to bury his truths behind his gritted teeth until he can taste ichor with the effort of keeping his words concealed.
When she stands and approaches, he chances a glance at her. Her hips sway with each graceful step, a wry smile fixed on her lips and he is captivated. The warmth of desire creeps along the slope of his neck and towards his face to burn steadily in his gaze. The honesty in his expression reveals more than his words ever could.
She reaches toward him, errant fingers trailing teasingly along his forearm. Her fingertips settle at the point of the knife still clutched tightly in his hand, she fondles it idly with the same trailing touch along the flat of the blade.
“Ares,” she says in a murmur and he swallows roughly, “would you have me?”
Her invitation lingers in the air long after it has been spoken aloud, a heady swirling of allure and foolishness. He breathes it deeply, the push and pull of longing are unforgiving and maddening. A soft retreat and violent crashing like the waves of the ocean. He does not know if he can bear a second more, she is everything, restless and free in her affections. She is imploring and tender with her touch.
She is another’s. His brother’s.
“I cannot,” he says softly and his voice wavers as though to betray him.
Ares does not deserve her, could not.
Her hands cradle his face, fingers smudging war paint to leave some proof of her touch, of her matching desire. She tilts his face towards her and smiles, blazing and sincere. It is too bright and he wants to look away, fearing a surrender he cannot afford.
“And if I told you that I love you?”
He laughs a little at her weightless confession, “you love many.” He does not believe her anyways, but he does not dare to challenge her authority on the subject. If it is a lie, it is a kind one and Ares is satisfied with even that.
“Well certainly, there are many to love, in many ways,” her fingertips touch his lips, teasing. “But you, my dear, truly love only one in such a way.”
Ah, all this time he has been an open book, from the moment he had intruded upon her at the mouth of the sea, perhaps even before, she knew. She could feel his desire, taste the reverence that poured from him. Of course, he has been out-maneuvered, he is out of his depth, fighting against forces he is unwitting to. Somehow her tact in this battle of theirs, her ability to outwit, only endears him further.
She leans in and replaces her fingertips with the most delicate press of her lips. She burns that soft smile against his own and the heat of it never lessens or ever dares to fade.
“And you mistakenly believe that you cannot have her.” She whispers against the awed parting of his lips, “such things are my domain after all.”
He brushes a lock of hair from her face to tuck it behind her ear. He studies the intricacies of her face, the slightest imperfections that lend themselves to the effect of her beauty. He touches the corner of her mouth, right where every smile takes shape and lifts to brighten her eyes.
“It would be war, Aphrodite. Such is my domain.”
He can still taste her on his lips, feel the ghost of her kiss.
Her stare weighs upon him, sharp and displeased. She is most unacquainted with refusal and takes his rejection poorly.
“Then you should know well that some things are worth fighting for,” her words are sickly sweet, mean in spirit, “ God of Courage .”
She has won this battle but the war has yet to be waged.
The time for idleness, for peace is over.
Yet, the Olympians feast, with little pretense for celebration, they indulge with no regard for any suggestion of disharmony that may sully their revelry.
The nectar flows and boisterous laughter rings loud against the still backdrop of the evening. A careless, hedonistic affair that will inevitably bleed into a spectacle of embarrassment, needless and messy confrontation between gods who all believe themselves the best and blameless.
Ares skirts the fringes of the evening, sowing the seeds of anger and pride but does not engage. He is intent upon another more meticulous plan, welcoming the distraction of his kin.
He keeps his eyes trained keenly upon Aphrodite, her radiance shining blindingly and unmistakably from across the impassable space. A precious gem fixed at the front of the great hall, a token beauty that every god quarrels for a glimpse at. Ares often wonders if the fatigue of being disfavored is similarly unbearable to the emptiness of being the subject of insensitive desire and cruel jealousy. He wonders if she lives in fear of the novelty fading, of those who dare to usurp her status. Her beauty is not all she has to offer, but few seem to care to search further. Underestimation of her power proves the accompanying curse of her unmatched beauty.
The first time he ever laid eyes upon her was a night not unlike this one, that evening a blur that only slowed as she swam through the evening towards him. Her sweet and imploring greeting still clings to his skin, marked in her image. Even now he can recall their lengthy conversation clearly, the profoundness of her thoughts, the sharpness of her wit. A devastating realization that her charm was more deeply rooted than mere appearances, a seedling that bloomed with intelligence and cunning.
Even then she had been promised to his brother, a hasty decision on his father’s behalf to quell any musings of Eris. Her inclination toward chaos would prove fruitful after all.
Seated at the magnificent table, Aphrodite cradles her sulking expression in a palm. Her eyes are dim as she casts about the room for any spark of interest. She is searching for him in the bustle of the divine, fine gold jewelry easily mistaken for the gleam of bronze armor in the low evening light. A brazen roar of laughter that she cannot assign to Ares, shining and delighted eyes that could never be his.
Her search grows into something quietly frantic, resentful towards her own desire.
She finds his gaze.
Ares can feel the sudden swell of anger and affection storming sharply in her breast and knows his rejection has not yet been forgiven.
He directs a furtive smile toward her, rife with promise. The ichor in his veins sings with the thrill of her passion, with the battle he will rage on her behalf. There is a unique pleasure in the threat of war, the glittering prospect of it before it actually begins and proves itself unrelenting and brutal.
Bathed in the spotlight of his smile she hurriedly excuses herself from her place at the table, politely shrugging away the zealous hand Zeus has placed upon her arm. The warmth of her anger, the sweetness of her unattended desire trail with her from the room, lingering maddeningly in the air to tempt Ares further.
He follows closely after her, alight with longing to reach for her, slow her storm and shelter her in the harbor of his embrace. The echoes of the gathering have faded from the gilded halls when she turns and confronts him with a furious expression. His hatred of this place is softened by her, the lithesome elegance of her limbs as she trembles, and the self-righteousness of her fury.
“Lady Aphrodite.” He dresses his words with an air of formality and a wicked smile that only serves to stoke the flames burning in her eyes.
“I do not care to speak to you, Lord Ares.” She says dismissively before continuing down the corridor.
He matches her stride easily, catching her wrist in his hand with a careful grip. She could easily free herself and continue along in her brooding but she does not. She hesitates, savors the warmth of his skin against hers, unable to deny even the most feeble suggestions of pleasure.
“You are angry with me,” he says and a grin still lingers at the corner of his mouth.
“I have not thought of you,”
He laughs, “and I am the poor liar?”
She turns towards him, flushed with shining and foolish anger. Her lips part as though to speak, to bitterly scorn him. She is aflame with passion, settling beautifully upon her skin and in her eyes. She wears their shared predilection magnificently. He has never loved her more.
He weaves a hand into the fine silk of her hair to draw her close. He breathes her in for a moment, the heady thrum of her heart and the smoldering anger in her eyes giving into resigned ash.
Finally, finally , he kisses her softly, open-mouthed and lingering like the taste of ambrosia.
He steals the tremble of her exhale to deepen the kiss, to taste the sweetest and furthest corners of her mouth. He gives her a taste of the courage he has mustered all for her, the war he will fight on her behalf. There is a sweeter, more frightening clarity to it now, to know her affections and return them is a bliss he cannot return from. He has taken that final headlong step and fallen. There is no path that can be forged back toward the cusp of peace, there is no return from the depth of her.
Her anger has cooled into warm fondness, still kindled by the passion that had inflamed her. With reluctant laughter, she turns her head from the wander of his lips upon her face.
“Ares,” she whispers breathlessly.
“Forgive me, Aphrodite.”
She studies him carefully and searches his eyes for sincerity. With a gentle huff of an exhale, her mouth curves into something that is not quite a smile but a promise of forgiveness.
In answer, she presses her mouth fiercely to his, drinking his flowering devotion from his lips. Worship tastes sweeter when it is reciprocated.
He kisses her nose, her chin, along her jaw, and softly against her neck. His voice wavers when he presses his confession to her skin, “I have wanted you so badly.”
“You have me.”
It is a promise that echoes along the walls of Olympus and settles deeply in his heart. The flicker of candlelight serves as witness to the whims of their affections. The shadows of their embrace and their cries of pleasure haunt this place more beautifully than any ghost that has terrorized Ares before.
Eons pass, or perhaps no time at all. Ares cannot say, love makes a fool of him. A careful warrior made reckless with the taste of pleasure. Everything, brash and meticulous alike, is done for her, an act of worship, a promise of devotion.
“I have given you a war,” Ares tells her with great pride and delight, in lieu of a formal greeting upon entering her chambers.
The first blood has been spilled upon the shores of Troy.
The smile Aphrodite gives him is shining and lovesick. He commits it to memory, pressing the shape of her lips in the air against the back of his eyelids to keep forever and it is still not enough. From her laze against the pillows and the ornate bed, she extends a hand toward him, wriggling her fingers in wordless demand.
He crosses the room, drawn to her from somewhere deep within, somewhere inevitable and demanding. In the haze of afternoon sunlight she is alight, bare skin golden and willing beneath his touch. Petal soft, like the first breath of spring, like the rosy dawn glittering upon water.
“You made quite a fine bull, my love,” she says with a giggle and his laugh is gruff in comparison. She leans up to meet him in a sweet and pliant kiss that seems to span hours, drinking deeply from each other’s lips. With each kiss, he relearns his sorriness for having denied himself the gentleness she so freely gives him. Another touch or two and he forgets that regret, coaxed into bliss.
Drawing away, Ares sits upon the edge of the bed. Bringing an errant strand of pink hair pressed between two fingers to his lips to kiss, he says, “and the young man has proven himself to have fine tastes.”
He throws a pleased grin over his shoulder towards her and she glows with pride. The outcome of this war does not seem to matter much when she has been flattered beyond measure and proven the fairest by their perfect, impartial party. With the apple, the young herdsman proved what Ares had always known.
Comfortable silence descends, punctuated by the soft whisper of her breath. Each exhale is a relief in the stillness of evenings they share, to wake from terrible musings of brutality and nightmares vivid with the stain of blood and find her breath even and steadfast beside him is an unspeakable comfort. He listens now, to carve the groove of each breath into his own chest and keep her close even when she is far.
In the serene warmth beside her, exhaustion finally catches and holds him, utterly spent with the day’s great excitement and promise. It is so often like this, she invokes feelings in him he has quelled and smothered for so long. He had taught himself to ignore the ache of exhaustion, the hollowness of solitude.
He reaches for his grieves, hands steady and resolute against the meeting of skin and metal. It is the beginning of a dearest and most methodical ritual, divesting himself of his panoply of arms piece by piece with great care to retire for the day.
He strips his greaves quietly, the sudden air cool against his skin. He sets them carefully aside, shedding a part of himself upon her chamber floor to give himself to her wholly exposed. A frightening and delightful prospect each and every time.
Aphrodite’s hands are a sudden and reverent interruption upon his skin, shooing away his own fingers with a light laugh. She presses her lips to his shoulder as she deftly unclasps his cuirass. Her fingertips trail along the paths of his chest, the ladder of each rib and carving of his abdomen. Tracing constellations between scars and marks of battle, lips following fingers. She moves to draw away each bracer from his arms and pets gently at each impression the bronze has left. He has never partaken in this careful undressing with another, shivering at each featherlight touch as she undresses and anoints his skin with kisses.
He lets her. It is raw, it is real. She undresses his armor and each one of his scars.
When she has finished, she presses against his back, the curves of her supple and sure against his skin. She mouths at his neck and whispers softly into his ear, “and would you agree? Would you have chosen as Paris did?”
“Without question, my love.”
He turns his head to catch her pleased smile against his own.
It is a prize beyond measure to have the affections of the most beautiful woman in all the realms, just as Paris had understood.
Demeter’s daughter returns, again and again. The winds warm and the earth bears verdant growth and sweet fruits. The war between Acheans and Trojans lingers like the last bit of frost, Demeter’s lingering breath of anger upon the earthly realms. To the immortal, this war is hardly a knot in the thread of time, but to their mortal pawns, it is agonizing and endless. Their rage, once righteous and guided towards glory, sours, soldiers turn on one another and Ares delights in the aftermath.
As this new spring takes shape in warming waters and fragrant flowers, bloody fields and burning ships, he returns to Olympus and returns to her.
“Ares.”
A kind hand grasps his elbow, a touch laden with cautious concern.
Ares pauses in his determined stride, the rhythm of his march faltering at the severity of his brother’s expression, brow drawn and eyes solemn. This worry does not suit his face, sullying his handsomeness.
“Apollo.”
His brother tries smiling and it is hollow, wavering upon his lips.
Ares thinks that perhaps Apollo means to discuss their shared campaign against the Achaeans, it would be unprecedented but not illogical. His demeanor suggests an ill-fated premonition, rarely has Ares seen him so troubled by any such visions.
“I have a request,” Apollo begins, gaze unwavering and almost imploring. Ares nods, hesitant, for they often find themselves at odds but Ares is inclined to entertain Apollo’s musings. His opinion has always been of worth, in more ways than one. The bitter disfavor that so many of their kin seem to harbor for Ares seems to have softened into something almost like fondness on Apollo’s behalf.
Apollo glances along the corridor to ensure they are free of prying eyes and keen ears. Apprehension swells to push fitful breaths from Ares’ lungs as he waits.
Apollo continues, “I ask that you be careful.”
His meaning is quickly understood.
A jolt of fear strikes deeply in Ares’ chest, and he considers his brother’s words carefully. Pondering the weight they carry and the threat they surely promise. He straightens and nods dutifully. It is a most honest reply, “I would not risk hurting her.”
This does not seem to appease Apollo, his frown deepening. When he speaks it is hardly a whisper in the empty hall, “what of yourself, Ares?”
The question hangs heavily between them, blackening the air with unpleasant foreboding.
It is most perplexing, for Ares has always had little regard for his own jagged edges. His faults and hurt have been neglected and scarred over, never before has a soul been close enough to cut themselves upon his pieces.
When he bleeds, it will stain her too.
The echoes of war cries, whispers of pain, and the taste of ash, all seem to soften when she holds him. Her heartbeat and the soft press of her breasts beneath him are like absolution.
The stains never go away but she touches him with such gentle intention, as though she is not afraid to be stained too. Dainty fingertips blood red like roses.
She moans softly against his mouth, he catches it on his tongue and it tastes sweet. It tastes like her, luscious and intoxicating. She kisses him softly in return, tender in a way he has never before been touched. He feels as though he could weep, overwhelmed by her affections.
She reaches to draw wisps of hair from his face and he closes his eyes against the featherlight touch of her lips. Her skin is warm, so warm like a flame and he falls into her, the boundless softness of her even breaths and sweet perfume. He presses deep and she calls his name with the urgency of taking pleasure.
He tells her he loves her, the admission is a flash of teeth and tongue against her neck as he marks the elegant column of her throat with reminders of his affection.
She giggles in breathless delight and Ares loses himself in the feeling of her, his thrusts faltering in their rhythm as he drinks in the heat of her. She gives him such peace but she also gives him reason to fight, to feel such ferocity and fire.
Dusk reaches to drape a rosy curtain of fading light against the sky, and Helios’ chariot charges toward the horizon. The balcony doors of her chamber have been thrown open, the thick warmth of summer air blanketing their trembling bodies.
She presses her lips to his, a kiss that lingers into hours, boundless and tender like her love. The touch of her lips and ambrosia of her tongue are a serenity that he has never before been afforded.
The darkening sky watches the crest of their embrace, as though they are waves tumbling from the sea to crash against one another and lay bare the shore. She cries his name and it is the sweetest, most precious worship he has ever received.
He kisses her open mouth again and again and smooths the furrow of pleasure on her brow that seems to wash anew with each tremble and shiver of her body.
He falls beside her, limbs heavy with the ache of pleasure. It is always a wonderful and terribly lonely feeling that follows. He does want the bliss of it to fade so quickly, the warmth of her to cool so suddenly that he is left reeling and reaching into the darkness. For all his valor and his dominion over courage, he still feels fear.
She knows him well, for she pulls him into an embrace, bringing his head to rest softly upon her breast. He exhales gently in contentment, in quiet relief. He places a palm on her stomach, fingers curling as though to reach for the feeling of each rise and fall of her breath, the flutter of her heartbeat.
At long last, their breathing evens and the haze of bliss settles like a cloud. He reaches a hand to splay her fingers against his, to match each rough and blemished knuckle with a velvet touch.
Daylight has faded from the room but he can still distinguish precisely where the fine, pink-hued porcelain of her skin gives into a flaw at her wrist. The place where the mortal Greek soldier had drawn ichor and sent her weeping into Ares’ arms. His goddess is now forever marked by war, wearing it upon her skin.
She returns his touch, rubs his scarred fingers and blade-marked hand, “we match now, my Ares.” She says with a soft sort of pride that makes his heart ache.
He smiles and it feels familiar on his lips.
They are caught.
He loves her so recklessly, so maddeningly, it costs him everything. War had been waged and his kingdom now crumbles to dust, all glory lost.
It is just as Apollo had foretold with a solemn expression and a carefully plucked warning, to play a most dreadful tune. Ares had not wanted to listen, to keep this perfect illusion just a bit longer, even as it slipped through his fingers.
He can feel her heart thundering against his own, an accompanying song of shame and anger that he can hear so loudly, as though it were in his own chest, a part of himself. She exhales wetly against his neck and tries desperately to disguise her quivering sobs. He keeps a palm curled at her waist, a feeble attempt at armor, at protection. He has no armor, no weapons, having shed them in the false security of her bedroom.
The swelling chaos of the scene settles into the margins, raucous laughter and jeers. Their disgust and prying eyes are familiar on his skin, the horrible haunting that has torn and shaped him into something monstrous from the wretched day Hera bore him. He never wished for her to know this pain so well, to feel it as deeply as he does.
But there, there is something else. Sweeter and louder than disgust. It burns in the foreground of this terrible moment and calls toward Ares.
It is bright, beautiful anger. He reaches towards it, the spark of it warm and familiar. It is Hermes and Apollo, fierce affection giving into horrified indignation. It is a promise, a kindness, the very emotions that shape and inform Ares’ domain, igniting his brothers to implore and bargain for their release.
He holds onto Aphrodite’s sweet, humid and trembling breaths, and grasps tightly at his brothers’ anger. His fingers fumble but he will not resign himself to loss.
He closes his eyes and fixates on the way her fingers clutch so tightly to his arm, branding her touch upon him forever. No war has ever marked and scarred him as deeply as she has. He presses his lips to her face, tastes her tears, and whispers an apology softly against her skin. Each brush of his lips stains the words there forever. Red, red, red. A stain on her skin, on her reputation.
It was all he was ever meant to be, sharp and nebulous. No one dared to reach for him, for there was nothing to hold but broken pieces. When she had finally found him and reached for him, held him, she cut herself upon his edges. She could not change his nature, unmake a weapon.
Barely a rasp in his throat, he tells her that he loves her. He is almost certain it will be the last time he is allowed to bestow the words upon her.
She was never one to forgive so easily.
Their display of shame seems to linger and stretch into eternity. Perhaps it never ends.
Even when the wretched moment slips away, time creeping forward, the ache of it remains. It is spilled blood clinging sticky to blades of grass. It stains the earth, his heart, sinks into it even after the rains come to wash it away.
She vanishes, a wisp of a flame extinguished with unspeakable shame and wrath.
She is gone but he lies upon his pallet in the thick of smoke and battle and he can still feel the fine mesh of the net slither against his skin.
Hermes gleams golden in the rosy fingers of fading sunlight. Whole and luminous, he is everything Ares is not. He does not resent him for it, could not.
Hermes smooths his chiton and smiles gently, the sea’s breeze bringing a flutter to the delicate wings nestled in his wild halo of curls. Perhaps it is the resemblance Hermes shares with his mother that lends softness to him in a way Ares could never dare mimic. Ares was born from a union of anger and soured passion and wears his own mother’s severity prominently on his face.
Hermes visits have become increasingly frequent, flimsy pretenses of letters for Ares that he has seemingly lost, correspondences he cannot remember. Waving away the blunder, he will smile sweetly and announce a few moments to spare for his brother. A pitifully veiled gimmick by the one overseeing the domain of trickery. If Ares were in better spirits he would tease Hermes for his transparency.
“She is well,” he announces quietly after some time in companionable silence, a small kindness given to soften the sadness Ares wears like war paint. And, for a few shining moments, the cold of loneliness and despair thaws with Hermes beside him.
Ares gazes out upon Helios' chariot as it begins to crest over the horizon and seemingly sink into the sea. A renewed flicker of fury kindles bright in his chest at the sight of him. To know she must look upon the same blazing chariot each day stokes that flame. He swallows against the ache in his throat, the untamable anger, and agonizing longing.
He often stands at the cliffside, at the precipice of the sea, and thinks of her, wills his love to carry itself on the wind and drift across the waters to wherever she has found shelter from the storm he has caused.
It is a miserable thing, guilt.
“She asked after you,” Hermes confesses after another cautious pause, his gaze set upon Ares, assessing. It seems there is more he would like to say, the words catching in his throat and tangling upon his tongue. His fingers fiddle with the strap of his bag, brimming with letters and obligations he ignores in favor of a few moments with his brother.
Ares glances sideways at him, lips pursed firmly and expression passive so as not to betray his hope.
“I told her you were well,” Hermes says, and a grin takes his mouth when he continues, “she told me that you were always a poor, ineffectual liar.”
Ares laughs, sudden and unfamiliar, and it tastes heartbroken, cautiously hopeful on his tongue.
“Indeed, I am.”
“Anything you would like me to tell her?”
Ares shakes his head, “nothing that she is not already certain of.”
Hermes makes to stand, placing a hand on Ares’ shoulder in a gesture of quiet affection, “perhaps she would like to hear it again anyways.”
Ares stares out upon the wine-dark sea, the fading sunlight giving a warm hue to the sky, slashes of pink and red.
Rumors had found him even in the mortal realm, whispers of her return to Olympus. He could not stay away, try as he might. Despite this, he is careful to avoid crossing paths with others at the palace, unable to bring himself into a bitter confrontation with his kin. He does not think he could summon the fight from within himself.
Hermes had said that Hephaestus had asked their father for his bride price to be returned. Zeus had found this especially bothersome and Ares would certainly be the subject of such disdain should he involve himself in affairs within the palace again. His absence is hardly unusual anyways, it is easy to avoid the other Olympians when they do not expect his company.
He hopes that Aphrodite will notice his absence though, and soon. What a relief it would be to have proof that she still cares enough for him to seek him upon her return. He hopes that she will go in search of him here, however foolish this hope may be.
He misses her, most profoundly. It is a terrible, lingering feeling, a wound always aching. The feeling never dares to fade or falter, always bleeding.
In this anguish, other rumors have reached him too. He would like to see their truths for himself. Hermes has not spoken of it and he does not dare allow himself the indulgence of hope, should a particular whisper be true.
It is a tremendous relief that he does not have to wallow in this misery much longer, gashes of sunlight still streaking the sky when he hears the merciful familiarity of delicate footsteps behind him.
His fingers clench into fists, heart swelling with long burning anticipation. It has been so long, he has been so lonely in his uncertain forgiveness. For Aphrodite to even acknowledge him, however bitter, would be an honor he did not deserve.
He summons his last reserves of courage and turns to kneel in the direction of her approach.
“Lady Aphrodite,” he says softly, head bowed in a show of humility. If it is bad, let it be over quickly.
It is quiet for a breath, an endless moment of torment. When he chances a glance toward her she is smiling. A blinding thing, water for a man dying of thirst.
She is as beautiful as the last time he saw her, even then with tears streaking her delicate face, he had been helpless to her. Her eyes are warm and familiar, a homecoming after so long away at war. He is reminded so suddenly of her depth, drowning again in her presence.
She is glowing in the low evening light, with unmistakable pride and divinity. Ares can see at once that the rumor he has most agonized over proves true.
“Stand so I may see you, dear.” She says sweetly, reaching to draw tender and featherlight knuckles against his cheek. Her touch is absolution.
Her hands are delicate and kind against his scarred and anguished face but they do not look misplaced, her fingers are gentle and they are right where they belong.
She could not unmake a weapon but she could love him for the shape of him, the gleam of his blade and the craftsmanship of his hilt. To love him because of his nature, not in spite of it.
Ares stands and looks carefully at her, the attention of his stare immediate.
He reaches a cautious hand toward her, desperate to feel her softness beneath the calloused pads of his fingers. He thinks better of it, leaving an outstretched hand hovering between them. His voice is hardly a whisper when he says, “you are with child.”
She takes his hand, weaving their fingers together in wordless promise. A quiet sort of pride shows bright upon her face and Ares can hardly breathe.
”I am to birth twin sons,” she says and he knows her well enough to decipher the whisper of fear buried deeply beneath pride. He tries so desperately to lend his courage to her, willing her to take it from his hand. When she smiles, there is a fondness in her face that seems to outweigh any apprehension.
She leans close, as though to exchange a secret, “already such restless and powerful boys, the sons of a warrior.”
Ares does not dare hope, not even now as she brings their entwined fingers to her lips.
She smiles against their hands, easily dissecting the caution heavy upon his brow, the flicker of hope in his eye.
“Your sons,” she says softly, unmistakably.
“Truly?”
She squeezes his hand in her own, as though to piece him back together. She places his palm gently upon the fabric dressing her swollen belly and Ares reaches for the flourish of his blood beneath his fingertips.
“It is you in every part of them, making them strong.”
He smiles, full and proud upon his face. It feels strange on his lips after so long. What a gift she has given him, what a gift she is.
He gazes at her, assessing all the little quirks and flaws that give her beauty depth, all the smallest parts of her that lend themselves to her rarity. He had clung so tightly to his memories of her, begged them not to forsake him or slip away.
A weightless confession leaps from his tongue, “I have missed you.”
“You have me,” she breathes against his lips.
It is a delightful thing, love.