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The first time Ares sees Aphrodite, she is sitting beside Dionysus at a feast on Olympus. Her neighbour plies her with wine until she laughs. Later, Ares can’t say whether it was her face or that laugh that drew his attention. In the end, it doesn’t matter; he is enamoured of both, and from that moment a slave to her beauty.
Women have never posed a challenge for Ares. They are as easily overcome as the enemies he faces on the battlefield. But when he approaches Aphrodite to make his greeting, she arches one perfect eyebrow and smirks.
“If you think I will entertain any of the sons of Zeus in my bed, you are mistaken,” she says, brazenly interrupting him in a way that few dare. “Be on your way and play with your little armies. I’ve more important things to do than amuse you.”
Ares bows and backs away, his heart beating fast. He’s used to the rejection he faces at the hands of the other Olympians—even his own father—but something about Aphrodite’s dismissal injures him more deeply than any of the thousands of harsh words he’s heard before. Nonetheless, when the day’s battles are won, he lies in bed and dreams of her mischievous grin.
*
Kore disappears and Demeter brings forth winter. For Ares, it is a boon: the mortals grow desperate and fight over the world’s meagre resources. He picks sides according to his whims and pursues his foes to the edge of their endurance, eager for the discord that their panic sows.
The years stretch on and he fights. Over time, he notices something odd. Even in midst of the worst war in mortal memory, the humans think of warm hearths and hearts; the ones they leave behind; better days ahead. Children to carry on stories and names.
It is hope—hope weaves a thick blanket over the hostility he craves.
Frustrated, Ares seeks the reason. He follows the thread straight from the fields of war, to find the last being he expects at its end: Aphrodite. She’s alone in a glade on the surface, wading in a pond at its centre. The sage-coloured skirts of her peplos glide on the surface of the water. Shining, blushing hair tumbles about her shoulders, held from her face with roses, whose beauty fades in comparison to the one who wears them.
Ares stands in the shade of the forest’s trees and stares. He knows Aphrodite is aware of his presence. It’s impossible to miss the clatter of his armour and tread of his footsteps. He is loud and forceful and uncouth compared to the peace of the forest.
But she doesn’t look up at him. As though he isn’t there, she drifts deeper into the pond until submerged to the waist. Under his gaze, she catches water in her hands and shapes it into a dove. When she lifts it towards the sky, it takes wing and darts up to Helios’ light.
Her gaze lifts and Ares’ breath catches as their eyes meet. She bestows him a smile. But it isn’t kind, or glad. It is amused.
“Have you come to disturb my solitude, Miaiphonos?” she asks.
It is right that she calls him blood-stained. His armour is splattered with gore and his sword dirty. In normal circumstances, it would not bother him. But in this glade where she wanders, he feels ashamed—a sentiment entirely at odds with his nature—and it is too late to remedy his appearance.
“You are responsible for the mortals’ hope,” he says, quashing his discomfort. “It disturbs the battle.”
Aphrodite moves towards him, her fingers skimming the water’s surface. Foam ripples in her wake.
“Hope is a natural offshoot of love,” she says. “Expectation and desire. Trust. If you love someone, you must believe that there is good to come, or else fall into despair.”
The water releases her. Her gown must cling to her figure, but Ares cannot tear his attention from the stunning eyes that graze across his face.
“What do you seek here, Miaiphonos?” Aphrodite asks as she draws closer. “To temper my power with your own?”
“No,” he answers, honestly.
“Yet you storm into this place, sacred to me, with the fury of war on your heels.”
Ares swallows. “Forgive me, my lady. It is true I sought the cause of the mortals’ passions in earnest that I might counter their effect. But from you, I seek only friendship.”
Aphrodite’s brow furrows. She regards him in silence for a long moment, before finally sighing.
“What an odd creature you are,” she tuts.
“My lady?”
“No man has ever asked such a thing of me,” she says, spreading her hands as though in defeat. Ares is dismayed that the gesture awakens hope—the very thing he came to destroy. But he cannot fight it.
“What do they ask of you, my lady?” he asks.
Aphrodite folds her arms and glances over his armour. He braces himself for her disgust, expecting it because of previous experiences. However, when her eyes lift once more to his, they carry only curiosity.
“I think you know,” she answers.
*
For more than a score years, Lord Hades has been absent from the feast. Ares’ Lord Father Zeus, King of the Gods, and sky, law and destiny, is angry that his brother has distanced himself from the family. Knowing that sooner or later his wrath will turn and find a new object, and aware of who that object is likely to be, Ares seeks respite at his home in Thrace.
In his younger godhood, Ares sought his family’s approval with a desperation that bordered on madness. He went against his natural inclinations and sought to behave in a way that would please them. But nothing he did earned their praise; he was forever deemed too violent, too wild, untamed and bloodthirsty.
“Why do you despite me?” he once demanded of his parents. “You named me for war and so made me what I am.”
“If only you were more like your sister,” his father responded.
Ares shakes his head at the memory as he strides through the halls of his palace. He was foolish and naive in his quest.
“Aatos Polemoio.”
His body freezes at the name, while fire rushes through his veins. He turns and finds Aphrodite leaning against a pillar, smirking at him.
“Lady Aphrodite,” he murmurs with a bow.
“Athena told me you came here for peace,” she says, pushing away from the column. “Yet I find you once again with war on your mind. This time against your Lord Father?”
She reaches up and cups his face.
“You are insatiable,” she laughs.
Ares knows her touch is meant only in friendship, but it fuels the heat in his blood. He wonders if she knows what he feels for her, before cursing himself for a fool. She must, as it is her dominion. That both terrifies and encourages him.
“Aren’t we all?” he questions.
Aphrodite smiles and pats his cheek once before drawing away.
“I have come to keep you company,” she says. She walks ahead of him, trailing one hand along the wall. “My lovers exhaust me beyond endurance, and I know that here I am safe from their nonsense. Tell me, why do men get so jealous?”
“You are surprised that a man would desire you for himself alone?”
Aphrodite glances over her shoulder. “No,” she admits. “It makes a certain sense. I am more surprised when a man demands only my friendship.”
Blushing, Ares follows her down the hall. “Your friendship is a prize in itself.”
“You possess pretty words, Aatos Polemoio,” Aphrodite sings. She stops and faces him. “I am of the opinion that your Lord Father, and all the rest of them, are sorely mistaken in their opinion of you.”
Ares allows her words to sink into his soul. They are so sorely needed, an ointment on a wound, rain after a drought. Aphrodite tilts her head to the side as though pondering his response, though he doesn’t speak it aloud. Nonetheless, he expects she hears it.
“Now, what diversions does this palace of yours possess?” she asks as though feasting and games and frivolity are all that are on her mind, cutting across any words he might accidentally voice.
*
Nyx’s power is drained. The Olympians sense the disturbance, but none of them seek its cause. As Lord Hades has cut himself away from the mountain, so Zeus has cut himself away from the affairs of the Underworld. It is beneath his notice.
As was his son’s disappearance.
Ares shoves Hermes away as he turns his back on his father on his throne. His brothers and sisters, each and all of them, watch as he stumbles through the hall. The sharpest gaze of all comes from Artemis. She seeks no glory, but now stands before them all victorious, the heads of the giants as trophies at her feet.
The only prizes Ares bears are marks and bruises from his long captivity. He always loses the most important battles—the ones that mean something.
It’s a small mercy that no one speaks as he leaves. Only a small one, since his family’s thoughts are loud enough that he hears them.
Athena. Perhaps this experience will curb his disturbing behaviour.
Poseidon. Thank the Fates they’re not all like him.
Demeter. He has no strategy, no wisdom.
And Artemis. I hope he doesn’t do something stupid because of this.
Only Dionysus has some sympathy, and barely that: Poor chap, I’m sure he doesn’t deserve this. I think.
Ares holds himself straight as he moves through the house, aware of gossipmongering servants who will report to his family. Only when he reaches a corner of his father’s house where he is certain he is alone does he sink down onto a bench, head in his hands, to indulge his misery.
“Obrimos.”
He winces. Aphrodite doesn’t allow him to cower, however. The sweet scent of her perfume overwhelms his senses when she sits beside him, her leg touching his. She gently takes his chin between her fingers and turns his face upwards. Her kind, shining eyes are heavy with sorrow.
“Why do you shy away from the name?” she asks.
“What is strong or mighty about being imprisoned?” Ares spits.
“You braved its terrors and returned,” she answers without hesitation.
Ares turns his eyes to the ground. “It is not what my family call it,” he says. “Their names for me are far less complimentary. Fool. Simpleton. Failure.”
“They are wrong. You took up arms against the giants to protect Olympus, to protect them all. They are the fools for not recognising your heroism. By the Fates, since when has Zeus been perfect?”
Ares chuckles, but weakly. In these circumstances, it is hard to be merry.
Aphrodite covers his hand with hers, palm to back, interlacing their fingers. Ares glances at them, then her. She rests her chin on his shoulder and returns his study.
“Shall we retire to my chambers to feast?” she asks. “A hero deserves a proper homecoming.”
“I am not a hero. And Olympus is not my home.”
Aphrodite shrugs. “Well, I think you are, and it’s mine, for as long as I desire it to be.”
When she jumps to her feet and tugs on his hand, Ares allows himself to be drawn after her.
*
Olympus’ eyes turn back to the Underworld and its small prince who fights to escape his chains. Ares feels an immediate connection to his cousin, despite having only just learned of his existence. His pride in Zagreus grows with every battle in which he prevails.
“He is like me,” he says to Aphrodite.
The goddess glances at him in her mirror before returning her attention to the case of jewellery before her.
“In that you are Enkhespalos?” she asks, lifting a golden earring to her lobe and pondering it. “Our little godling does favour the spear lately. I would not wonder that he learned it from you.”
“Do not mock me, my lady,” Ares says, taking a seat on her bed. It hasn’t been slept in. It eases the ache in his chest a little, but not enough. She adorns herself in jewellery when preparing to meet one of her lovers. While Ares is permitted entry to her bedchamber as a friend and nothing more.
“I feel a kinship to Zagreus in a way I have never felt to any of my family on Olympus,” he explains, focussing back on their conversation. “He bears the same passion that drives me forward in war.”
“It’s hard to distinguish one passion from another,” Aphrodite remarks as she slips the earring’s pair into place. “Perhaps you are mistaken.”
“I know I am not. There is a bond between us, written in blood. I am impatient for him to arrive that we may go to battle together. In him, I may finally have a brother-in-arms. As Artemis has Calypso, and Dionysus Ariadne.”
Aphrodite drums her fingers on her dressing table. “You say brother-in-arms, but name your siblings’ lovers.”
Heat rises to Ares’ cheeks at his foolishness. “My lady, he is my cousin,” he says forcefully. “I speak of friendship.”
“Friendship?” Aphrodite repeats, and there is an edge to her voice that Ares cannot name.
“I seek a companion. Someone who will accept me as I am.”
Aphrodite turns in her seat and regards him. Her expression is unreadable, which frightens Ares. He thought he knew her better than any other being.
“You understand,” he adds hopefully, as though that will allay the tension that has formed between them and weighs like lead in the air.
Sighing, Aphrodite rises from her chair and steps towards him.
“I fear you shall face fierce competition in your quest for our godling’s companionship,” she says. She leans over and cups Ares’ cheek. “Your family, and I, are fond of him. Although, if you and he are as alike as you claim, maybe that is the reason I find myself overly protective of our young Zagreus.”
Ares’ pulse quickens. Aphrodite is mere inches away, so close he can feel the warm caress of her breath. She lingers over long, and he fights the urge to touch her, to draw her into his arms. Somehow, he knows that she would fit perfectly there.
“I must go,” she whispers.
It is a deathly blow in his internal struggle. He averts his eyes, heart sinking, and she steps away.
*
The Queen of the Underworld, once Kore, now Persephone, throws a magnificent feast and mends the rift between Olympus and her husband. Ares spends pleasant hours speaking with Zagreus, who gives him the gift of rapt attention and honest admiration. It warms him, but when he notices how his cousin seeks out Thanatos simply to know where he is in the room, and exchanges sly looks with the Fury Megaera, Ares realises that his relationship with his cousin will not amount to anything more than it already is. Zagreus has his companions in the Underworld. Ares, once again, is left alone.
He finds a moment’s solitude in the Queen’s garden. Despite its location deep under the surface of the earth, several large, hearty pomegranate trees line its borders. Ares reaches up and caresses one of their fruits. Persephone has claimed them as her symbol, snatching them away from the Goddess of Love.
“Lord Ares.”
His body freezes, but fire rushes through his veins. He winces at his reaction, so familiar, so despised. He turns slowly and stares. Aphrodite’s hair is gathered up in gold and roses, revealing the elegant column of her neck. Her eyes shimmer even in the darkness of hell. She is beautiful, he admits to himself. He is enamoured.
He is in love.
Aphrodite tilts her head to the side. Her earring, long and dangling, brushes across the delicate skin of her shoulder. He is jealous.
He laughs.
She smiles.
“I am glad to find you in good spirits,” she says. “I did not expect it. I know how much you hoped for Zagreus to join you in your wars. I am sorry it cannot be.”
Ares waves a hand through the air. “Do not be. It was a vain hope.”
“We gods are full of vanity,” Aphrodite remarks. “And hope, it seems. How else can one explain this celebration?”
“I believe the explanation is found in the impetuousness of my kin and nothing else.”
Aphrodite shakes her head and steps closer. “You attempt to change the subject, my lord,” she says. “I know you do not like to speak of hope. You have never liked it. Yet, I find myself wishing to discuss it with you above all other beings.”
Ares looks down at her. She is smaller than him, though she has always loomed large in his mind. Important. Precious.
“Hope, my lady?” he questions.
“Yes. Hope.”
She lifts a hand and rests it against his chest. His heart thunders, strong enough that she must feel it. Loud enough to strip away all pretence.
“Hope,” she whispers, tilting her face up to his, “which is born from Love. Which in turn is deeply—profoundly—intertwined with War.”
Ares catches her hand in his. “Passions all, each near indistinguishable from another,” he says.
“Indeed,” Aphrodite murmurs.
He takes her in his arms, and she fits there perfectly.