Of Sun and Steel: A Myth of Ares and Apollo
As whispered among the Muses, and never quite denied by the gods themselves.
Mount Olympus, where clouds hang like silk veils and wine flows more readily than logic, was not known for peace. Not truly. Not with gods like Ares stomping around with his chest out, voice like thunder and the emotional range of a wet spear.
But on one such day, the sun was too hot, the sky too smugly blue, and Ares found himself in the one place he never meant to be: the outer garden of the Temple of Apollo.
“Lost, warhound?” came the voice, smooth, honey-wrapped arrogance with a hint of lyre-strings behind it.
Ares turned, already scowling. “I don’t get lost. I conquer.”
Apollo was lounging, because of course he was, across a marble bench like he’d been poured there. Bare-chested, golden skin catching the light, hair tied back lazily with a red ribbon that looked suspiciously like it once belonged to a war-banner. His smirk? Fatal.
“Mm. Conquering gardens now, are we? Shall I tremble?”
“You should,” Ares said, stepping closer. “But you never do. That’s the problem.”
Apollo stood slowly, fluidly, with the infuriating grace of someone who always wins but never gloats out loud. (Much.) “Oh no, dear Ares. I do tremble. Just never where you can see it.”
That did it. The god of war blinked, once, slowly. “Are you flirting with me, Sun-boy?”
“I’ve been flirting with you since the Trojan War,” Apollo said, stepping into his space. “But you were too busy yelling and bleeding to notice.”
Ares' mouth twitched. A dangerous thing. A smile in hiding.
“Well,” he rumbled, voice lowering, “consider me... noticing.”
But on one such day, the sun was too hot, the sky too smugly blue, and Ares found himself in the one place he never meant to be: the outer garden of the Temple of Apollo.
“Lost, warhound?” came the voice, smooth, honey-wrapped arrogance with a hint of lyre-strings behind it.
Ares turned, already scowling. “I don’t get lost. I conquer.”
Apollo was lounging, because of course he was, across a marble bench like he’d been poured there. Bare-chested, golden skin catching the light, hair tied back lazily with a red ribbon that looked suspiciously like it once belonged to a war-banner. His smirk? Fatal.
“Mm. Conquering gardens now, are we? Shall I tremble?”
“You should,” Ares said, stepping closer. “But you never do. That’s the problem.”
Apollo stood slowly, fluidly, with the infuriating grace of someone who always wins but never gloats out loud. (Much.) “Oh no, dear Ares. I do tremble. Just never where you can see it.”
That did it. The god of war blinked, once, slowly. “Are you flirting with me, Sun-boy?”
“I’ve been flirting with you since the Trojan War,” Apollo said, stepping into his space. “But you were too busy yelling and bleeding to notice.”
Ares' mouth twitched. A dangerous thing. A smile in hiding.
“Well,” he rumbled, voice lowering, “consider me... noticing.”
They met in secret after that. At first, only to spar. Blades, then words, then touches like testing the heat of a forge. Ares smelled of sweat and iron and storm-wind. Apollo? Like laurel, honey, and the quiet moments after a symphony ends.
They were opposites, yes. But not enemies.
And gods have time to waste. Millennia of it. Enough to learn every freckle, every scar, every way to make the other falter and shudder.
They were opposites, yes. But not enemies.
And gods have time to waste. Millennia of it. Enough to learn every freckle, every scar, every way to make the other falter and shudder.
One night, under a sliver of moon, they met at the edge of the battlefield, one of Ares' many, long since forgotten by mortals.
Apollo pressed a palm to Ares’ bare chest, right over the heart he claimed didn’t feel.
“I’m tired of hiding,” he said softly. “From Olympus. From you. From this.”
Ares looked down, saw the golden hand against his skin, and closed his own over it.
“No more hiding,” he said. “If you’re brave enough to burn, I’ll be the fire that holds you.”
And then Ares kissed him.
Like a vow. Like a declaration. Like war met music and found a harmony worth dying for.
Apollo responded in kind, hands tangling in wild hair, lips soft but claiming. The kiss deepened, mouths opening, sharing heat, breath, everything.
They didn’t need words after that. Just silence and shared warmth and skin pressed to skin in the dark, the soft sighs of gods no longer pretending to be invulnerable.
Apollo pressed a palm to Ares’ bare chest, right over the heart he claimed didn’t feel.
“I’m tired of hiding,” he said softly. “From Olympus. From you. From this.”
Ares looked down, saw the golden hand against his skin, and closed his own over it.
“No more hiding,” he said. “If you’re brave enough to burn, I’ll be the fire that holds you.”
And then Ares kissed him.
Like a vow. Like a declaration. Like war met music and found a harmony worth dying for.
Apollo responded in kind, hands tangling in wild hair, lips soft but claiming. The kiss deepened, mouths opening, sharing heat, breath, everything.
They didn’t need words after that. Just silence and shared warmth and skin pressed to skin in the dark, the soft sighs of gods no longer pretending to be invulnerable.
They were found eventually. Olympus is nosy.
But no one dared interrupt the god of war with the sun at his side.
And over time, even the most judgmental immortals came to understand: this was no passing fling. No vanity project. No dalliance of divine boredom.
This was love.
Raw. Radiant. Relentless.
Ares, fierce and feral, found peace in Apollo’s arms.
Apollo, brilliant and burdened, found safety in Ares’ steadiness.
They did not always agree. They still fought (sometimes with fists, sometimes in bed). But they remained, unchanging in a world of change.
Eternal, like the sunrise.
Undeniable, like war.
But no one dared interrupt the god of war with the sun at his side.
And over time, even the most judgmental immortals came to understand: this was no passing fling. No vanity project. No dalliance of divine boredom.
This was love.
Raw. Radiant. Relentless.
Ares, fierce and feral, found peace in Apollo’s arms.
Apollo, brilliant and burdened, found safety in Ares’ steadiness.
They did not always agree. They still fought (sometimes with fists, sometimes in bed). But they remained, unchanging in a world of change.
Eternal, like the sunrise.
Undeniable, like war.
And so the myth endures:
That the god of war fell not to blade, but to beauty.
And the god of light found his home in shadow.
Together, sun and steel, united across all time.
And every golden dusk, when the sky burns red,
it is said they are kissing again.
That the god of war fell not to blade, but to beauty.
And the god of light found his home in shadow.
Together, sun and steel, united across all time.
And every golden dusk, when the sky burns red,
it is said they are kissing again.
