On nights such as these the gods, as has already been pointed out, play
games other than chess with the fates of mortals and the thrones of
kings. It is important to remember that they always cheat, right up to
the end...
-- (Terry Pratchett, Wyrd
Sisters)
"It's a god-eat-god world."
-- (Terry Pratchett, Small Gods)
The rosemary and salt scented air was filled with the soft sound of waves lapping against the beach, the cry of a bird as it swooped down, a splash as it dove under the water, emerging triumphantly with a silver fish flashing in its beak. Sunlight caressed the white sand, shimmering in the afternoon light, and an occasional soft, fluffy cloud threw only a shadow of a shadow. Apollo breathed deeply as he relaxed contentedly into the sand, enjoying the quiet and solitude. There were days when only the beauty of nature could soothe him, and today was one of those days. He needed the isolation to escape from the constant din of those annoying mortals who surrounded him, like a hive of highly vocal bees, with their little insect-like demands and concerns.
The peace was shattered by the discordant note of metal upon metal, the grunts and screams and cries of men fighting and dying. Apollo reluctantly opened one eye, unwilling to move, unwilling to let the paltry annoyances disturb him. But the noise moved closer, ever closer. He was forced to sit up, trying to curb his annoyance, and watched as they spilled out of the woods like a swarm of cockroaches, their filthy bodies polluting his private beach.
Apollo finally stood, reaching for his bow and nocking an arrow. He took careful aim, not because he had to but because it gave him satisfaction. If the mortal survived the battle he would carry a plague back to his home and he and everyone around him would die in exquisite paroxysms of agony, blood spilling from their noses and mouths as they learned the price of despoiling the private sanctuary of a god.
Before he loosed his arrow, he heard another noise, felt a surge of energy. When he looked up, Ares stood in the midst of the carnage, grinning like the lunatic he was, covered with blood and gore, glowing with power. Apollo scarcely noticed that he'd relaxed and dropped his arm, his attention riveted on his brother.
Ares was everything that Apollo disliked. He was too big, too bulky, too dark and rough. He bulged too much. Aesthetically he was disproportionate, a portrait of excess. The same and more could be said of his personality. Yet Apollo watched, mesmerized, as Ares moved with surprising grace. His huge sword swung effortlessly toward a hapless mortal, who could only close his eyes and mutter a prayer before the sword separated his head from his shoulders. A geyser of crimson shone in the golden sunlight and bathed Ares, who grinned maniacally in satisfaction and moved on to his next victim. It was erotic and hypnotic, and there should be no poetry and beauty in violence and yet there it was.
The blood continued to flow from mortal wounds, defiling the sand of his beach, yet Apollo could do nothing but watch as Ares fought, leaving a trail of carcasses. Apollo's crows fell upon the dead, their beaks ripping and rending flesh, their calls adding to the cacophony in the air. And finally, hours later, it was over. A group of mortals, filthy and bloody, threw their arms up and raised their voices in a celebratory hymn to Ares.
Suddenly Ares stood behind him, pressed into him, and Apollo couldn't breathe. He knew Ares was only slightly taller, yet he felt dwarfed by his brother. And the hard bulge pressing against him made him uncomfortably aware that Ares had a certain...effect on him. One he didn't like. Ares was too chaotic, completely without control. He was an undisciplined lout, not to mention that he was an egomaniacal asshole. Apollo reminded himself of all of Ares' undesirable traits, and it was an extremely long list, yet he still felt reluctant as he pulled away and turned to face his brother.
"Quite a fight," Ares said, and he looked Apollo up and down, his gaze lingering on Apollo's half-swollen cock as it pressed against his trousers. He licked his lips hungrily. "You wanna fight, little brother?" He paused, head tilted to the side. "Maybe something else?" He moved closer, crowding, and Apollo hated himself for stepping back.
"You ever hear the words 'private beach', you moron? Or can't you even read?"
Ares bared his teeth in something that didn't even bear a passing resemblance to a smile. "Didn't know you'd be here." He took another step forward. "Besides, it'll clean up."
"You couldn't get them to move?" Apollo held his ground and forced himself not to look up at Ares.
Ares threw his head back and laughed, a short bark that spoke as much of contempt as humor. "You don't just move battles, even you should know that."
"The men should be punished," Apollo said. "This is my private sanctuary and they knew it, yet they brought their fight here."
Ares shrugged. "Fair enough."
Apollo raised his bow, forgotten since the battle had begun, and again nocked an arrow, searching for a target. He scanned the ranks of men, who had started a fire and were tending the wounded, looking for a healthy one. One who would be feeling cocky, now that he had escaped the fight unscathed. He settled upon a tall, dark-haired man who resembled Ares. That would give him some satisfaction, imagining he was shooting Ares with one of his diseased arrows. But before he could loose the arrow, Ares was pressed against him again, his big, hard, bloody hand closing over Apollo's so that he couldn't shoot.
"Not that one," Ares whispered into his ear, his rough beard tickling Apollo's cheek. "Any of the others, but not that one."
Apollo's finger itched to loose the arrow, to infect the mortal, but he couldn't, not with Ares' hand holding his. "Why not that one?"
"He's mine."
"Your what?" Apollo briefly imagined the man bent over an altar while Ares thrust into him. Yes, Ares did like them big, hairy and rough, and the resemblance would probably turn him on, the simple boor.
"My son."
The image dissolved as Apollo let his bow drop so he could turn and stare at his brother.
"That's your son?" He looked again at the mortal, noticing that the resemblance was more than passing.
"Yeah," Ares said, pride evident in his voice. "He's a good minor league warlord. This battle should help him make the jump to playing with the big boys." He paused and contemplated his son. "He'll probably end up fighting some of his brothers and sisters, but once it makes it to that point I don't play favorites."
Apollo knew that Ares followed the lives of his children, something that made no sense to him. It was the begetting that was interesting, after that it went downhill. But Ares was known for watching his children and grooming them, training them as warlords.
"You're saying you have several offspring who are successful warlords? What about the others? Any peace-loving children worshipping Hestia?" Apollo liked poking at Ares, wondering how many of his children were farmers, or even artists. That would be fun...being the patron of a mediocre artist who sprang from Ares' loins. One that looked like his father but was...cleaner.
Ares looked offended. "They're all warriors of some sort. They can't help it, not with my blood in them."
"You're kidding."
"What?" Ares stood back, looking irritated.
"Every single child you father turns into a warrior?" Apollo really had trouble believing that. Athena could probably rattle off statistics, but he was sure that the odds were against such a thing happening. After all, while he didn't keep track of all of the children he had fathered over the millennia, he knew that few of them had turned into artists or healers. Ares was bound to have at least one farmer in his family tree, whether he liked to admit it or not.
"Every single child I father turns into a warrior of some sort." Ares' jaw had taken on that mulish look that Apollo knew so well.
This had potential. Apollo chose his words carefully, baiting his trap.
"Maybe," he said, "that's because you show up and tell them that you're their father and then train them as warriors. Maybe they would follow different paths, given a choice."
"Bullshit," Ares said succinctly, leaving no room for argument. "Even if they didn't know who fathered them, blood will tell."
Apollo tried not to smile, preparing to close the jaws of his trap. "Would you like to bet on that?"
The gods often placed bets. It was easy amusement, a simple diversion from the dreary monotony of dealing with mortals day after day. And the stakes tended to be creative, which added to the entertainment value.
Ares raised an eyebrow. "What'd you have in mind?"
"We find one of your children and announce that I'm the father. The child is raised as if he were mine, and we see if he turns into a warrior or an artist. That should tell us if it's truly your blood in their veins that makes them what they are, or if it's training."
Ares smirked, obviously believing he had no chance of losing. "Sounds like a bet. What're the stakes?"
"The loser must act as the winner's slave for one year."
Ares' smirk grew to epic proportions, then transformed itself into a leer as he looked over Apollo possessively.
"I like that idea," Ares said, his voice low and husky. "I'm looking forward to having you at my mercy."
The two gods shook on the terms of the bet, and Apollo suppressed his triumphant grin. Ares didn't even try to do the same.
"I'll find someone and get back to you," Ares said. "For now, I have plans." Apollo followed his gaze to a young man who had stripped and was wandering toward the water.Days passed without word from Ares, and Apollo began to wonder if his brother hadn't forgotten their bet. Ares wasn't known for his brains, after all. Or perhaps he'd realized he'd lose. Maybe he'd checked up on his offspring and found that there were plenty of farmers and tradesmen in there after all. It would be a pity, because Apollo had plans for when he won their bet, and they involved Ares spending a lot of time on his knees.
Apollo reclined on a chaise in one of his temples, listening to Euterpe and Polyhymnia playing a new song on their lyres, and relaxed as he let their music transport him. The interplay of harmony and melody was complex and yet subtle, and Polyhymnia's soft lyrics wove among the notes of the song, adding yet another layer to their creation. He sighed, wondering what kind of music Ares' children would create. Probably something simple and loud that would give the listener a headache. But it would be fun to watch as Ares was forced to listen.
If Ares was dragging his feet, Apollo would just have to go to him and make sure that their wager wasn't forgotten. He sat up and stared into his scrying pool, finding his brother at the site of yet another battle, covered in gore, leading his men to victory over what appeared to be a village of goat herders. Child's play. Ares always enjoyed picking on those least able to defend themselves, which was part of why Apollo so anticipated having his brother at his mercy. He quickly disappeared, much to Euterpe and Polyhymnia's confusion, and joined his brother.
At the village, the smell of burning flesh assailed his nose, and Apollo winced as he filtered out the stench. The battle had just ended and the crows and ravens were feasting on the dead while the victors looted and raped. Ares, naturally, stood in the epicenter of the carnage, and Apollo was certain that his brother stunk so much that he could be smelled on Mount Olympus.
"Careful, you don't want to get dirty," Ares taunted.
Apollo didn't give him the satisfaction of a reaction. "I just thought I'd see if you'd found a suitable candidate for our bet," he replied, then paused. "Unless you'd rather back out of it?"
"Not a chance. I have plans for you."
"I could say the same."
They held each others' gazes, neither willing to look away, until Ares threw back his head and laughed. It was, like Ares, a harsh, loud, discordant sound.
"Fine, I've got someone. Come with me."
The two of them traveled to a small village far away, where mortals scurried around planting their fields and doing -- whatever mortals did when they weren't worshipping their gods.
"That one there," Ares whispered to Apollo as he pointed at a young woman.
She was tall, with curly black hair and dark almond-shaped eyes, high cheekbones and full lips. Apollo wondered if Ares wasn't hedging his bets by impregnating his own daughter or granddaughter, although he wasn't sure that would really help.
"Her name's Coronis," Ares said. "Daughter of Phlegyas, the deposed king of Thessaly. They came here because they had guards from the area whose families agreed to give them shelter. The old man left last spring to try and take his throne back and she's been here ever since, living like a peasant."
Apollo studied Coronis, noticing the blisters on her feet, the hands that had fewer calluses than the rest of the villagers, the way she moved with supreme self-assurance. She was an excellent choice for a god. As he studied her, using senses that couldn't even be fathomed by mere mortals, he saw that she was, indeed, pregnant with the child of a god.
"I told her I was you," Ares said with one of his smirks. "She was a good little virgin until I finished with her. There's no doubt it's mine."
Apollo nodded, wishing he could wipe the annoying look off Ares' face. But he knew better than to let his brother goad him. If he stayed calm and collected he'd win this bet easily and then Ares would be his.
Months passed, as Apollo tried, unsuccessfully, to ignore Ares. His brother was easy to dismiss, easy to deride, but impossible to ignore. He always seemed to be around, on the fringes of Apollo's life, smirking and grinning, being irritating and obnoxious, and generally driving Apollo to distraction. He was as bad as the mortals, always there in the periphery of Apollo's vision, his voice always standing out as he yelled and raged, the scent of blood and smoke and death lingering wherever he walked.
It was an obsession. Apollo recognized the symptoms, having been obsessed before. But it had always been mortals who captured his attention; beautiful, pliable, ephemeral mortals. Ares was nothing like them, his power and presence dwarfing any mortal's, and this obsession dwarfed Apollo's previous obsessions. It distracted him, and others began to notice.
He couldn't help himself. When they were in a room together, he was drawn to Ares like a mortal to a god, like a moth to a flame, both attracted and repulsed. After all, Ares was completely lacking in redeeming qualities.
Apollo sighed and closed his eyes, reaching out with his power. Mist coalesced before him, slowly solidifying and changing color, building an exact replica of Ares from the tips of his dirty boots to the top of his unwashed head. Apollo examined it critically, again cataloguing his brother's many flaws.
Too many muscles bulged from his biceps and thighs, veins standing out in sharp relief against his tanned, roughened skin. Far too much hair, all over his body, made him look bestial. The long curly hair that flowed down his back often turned into a frizzy rat's nest. His nose was too big, and a bit lumpy. Not only were his teeth too big and badly spaced, but Apollo suspected that Ares had a few more teeth crammed into his mouth than a mortal would.
It didn't help, listing Ares' imperfections. Nor did it help when the simulacrum knelt at Apollo's feet and rubbed its cheek against his thigh, sending a burst of desire rushing through Apollo's groin. He groaned and reached down, wrapping the long, rough hair around his fingers, pulling its face closer. It responded by nuzzling his crotch and nipping at his cock, which threatened to burst out of his too-tight trousers.
Looking down at the dark head bowed submissively before him, Apollo knew it wasn't really Ares. But it would be. Someday the real Ares would kneel before him and suck him like a whore, would submit to his every desire. His breathing grew ragged as the replica whimpered, a small, needy sound, rubbing its face against the crotch of Apollo's trousers, begging wordlessly to suck his cock into its imperfect, overly generous mouth.
The moment was shattered by the flutter of wings and the caw of a crow.
"Boss?" The crow cawed, but Apollo understood it.
"Go the fuck away. I'm busy." He suppressed the urge to fry its impudent feathery ass.
"It's that girl, Coronis?" The crow sounded both hesitant and eager.
"Who?"
"The pregnant one you wanted me to keep an eye on?"
"What about her?"
"She's getting married."
Rage enveloped him, more powerful than his previous lust, and the simulacrum dissolved into dust, swirling at Apollo's feet as he disappeared in a ball of fire, reappearing at the village.
Coronis, nearly ready to deliver, clutched a bedraggled bouquet of flowers as she gazed adoringly at a young man with bad teeth. The rest of the village stood around, bearing witness as Hera's priest prepared to begin the ceremony.
Apollo appeared in a burst of flame, his eyes glowing red as he turned the full force of his anger upon the young couple, killing them instantly with a thought. Their bodies flew back, knocking over the priest, and people ran, screaming, from his wrath. Apollo used his arrows, shooting them, infecting their bodies with diseases that would make them beg for mercy and for death, neither of which he would give them. Such was their punishment for allowing his woman to marry another man.
His crows circled, again looking forward to a good meal, and as Apollo prepared to leave, one of them spoke.
"What about the baby?"
Damn. He'd completely forgotten. Apollo strode to the corpses, lying together in death, and ripped the child from Coronis' still-warm body, holding the bloody, slimy thing aloft and forcing it to breathe. It screamed, a loud noise that made Apollo wince, and he regarded 'his' son with distaste. If not for the prospect of Ares on his knees, he'd happily kill the squalling little mortal.
And that was a problem. He couldn't be expected to raise the child himself; he'd kill it before it was a year old. No, he needed a minion, one he could trust and one who knew about mortal children. That meant Chiron.
Chiron was ancient, even by the reckoning of centaurs. He was also wise and loyal, the latter prized more by Apollo than the former. His fur and hair were both gray with age, but serving Apollo meant that he suffered no infirmities or illnesses. Apollo could heal him, but even he couldn't forestall age. Apollo took his squirming burden to Chiron's mountain home, startling the centaur as he bowed respectfully.
"Lord Apollo," Chiron said quietly. "How may I serve you?"
Apollo loved it when they volunteered to serve. He so wanted Ares to say those words, but for now he had to take care of the screaming, bloody little howler.
"This," Apollo said, "is my son." He thrust it at Chiron, who held the infant and began to make small noises of reassurance to it. "I want you to raise him and teach him. When you're done, he's going to be the best artist, musician or poet in Greece." The 'or else' was left unspoken.
Chiron nodded obediently. "As you wish. I assume you'll be providing a wet nurse?"
"Of course," Apollo said, trying to sound as if he'd already thought of that. One of Chiron's great strengths was that he managed to think of everything and yet give credit to Apollo. A good trait in a minion, Apollo thought.
Chiron trotted to a nearby table and poured some water onto a cloth and began cleaning the squirming baby. It responded by flailing its tiny arms and legs and screaming louder, the sound high-pitched and annoying. Apollo winced. The child certainly sounded a lot like its father.
"What's his name?"
Apollo paused. He hadn't really thought much about that. "What would you suggest?"
Chiron continued cleaning the child, gently turning it over and holding its tiny body as he stroked the warm, wet cloth over its reddened skin.
"What about Asclepius?"
"Fine. We'll call him Asclepius. Make sure to remind him that he's my son, and I expect great things from him."
Chiron didn't respond, he just continued cleaning the child as Apollo returned home.
Time passed. A few months flew by as Apollo returned to his usual duties, as well as joining Aphrodite for some occasional surfing off the coast. He returned home one day to find Ares waiting for him, slouched nonchalantly in his golden throne.
"That's my chair," Apollo said. His breath quickened as he tried to sound nonchalant. Did Ares have to wear clothes that were so tight?
"I know," Ares replied, the look on his face stating plainly that he didn't care. "Heard you toasted my girl."
It took a few seconds for Apollo to understand what Ares was talking about. "Oh. Her. She was marrying someone else."
"The kid?"
"He's fine. Chiron's got him." Apollo couldn't resist a small dig. "He's being groomed to be an artist or musician. Or maybe a poet. How'd you like a poet for a son?"
Ares stood, again surprisingly graceful considering his bulk, and walked closer, too close. Apollo could smell him. He smelled like sweat and violence and death, and sex. He was close enough that their bodies almost touched, and Apollo almost stepped back before he caught himself and held his ground.
"I'm not worried," Ares whispered in his ear. "The kid's gonna be a killer, just like his old man."
Apollo swayed, wishing Ares would step back, or maybe wishing that he'd step a little closer. His wish came true as Ares moved, and they were pressed chest to chest, hardness to hardness."Know what?" Ares continued to whisper in his ear, his voice low and seductive. "I'm going to spend an entire year fucking you in every single one of your temples. I'm going to bend you over your altar and make you beg for it, then I'm going to fuck your tight ass until you scream and come in front of your priests."
It was like a splash of cold water. He was Apollo, he did the fucking. As for his priests, he wasn't going to let anyone witness his humiliation and live to tell the tale. Killing off all of his priests would be a huge inconvenience. He took a few steps back and gathered his wits.
"I'm not worried," he replied, glad that his voice sounded cold and smooth. "If anyone's going to get fucked over his own altar, it's you."
Ares laughed. "I always liked your sense of humor." Then he disappeared in a flashy lightshow, and Apollo summoned ten of his temple virgins.
More time passed, and Apollo went to visit 'his' son. It had been a year, and he hoped that the child was making progress toward a career as an artist, even if only a mediocre or even spectacularly bad one. What mattered was the child had to want it, had to desire a career as an artist or musician or anything that didn't involve bashing people with sharp weapons.
He found Chiron and the child together, listening to three musicians playing a pleasant yet basic tune on lyres, flutes and pipes. The tune was simple and catchy, popular with children, from what Apollo gathered. It should have held the child's attention, but it didn't. Instead, he looked bored and sullen, his dark eyes rather vacuous, much like Ares', Apollo thought smugly. The child's hair was dark and curly, and it was a good thing that he looked like his mother because he also looked a lot like his father.
The musicians finished and stood quietly as Chiron produced a reed pipe. He raised it to his lips and blew a few notes, echoing the song the musicians had just played, and showed the still uninterested child how to hold the instrument and how to blow into it. Then he handed the pipe to the child.
Who proceeded to bash it against the floor, reed splintering and breaking under his onslaught. He crowed gleefully, looking on with delight and giggling as the instrument broke in his grip, and held one half in each chubby hand and waved them above his head, laughing.
Apollo began to worry.
More time passed, time when he did his best to avoid Ares, a task that proved to be impossible. Everywhere he went, Ares happened to show up, his insufferable grin plainly announcing that it was no accident that they were both there. Apollo began to feel like a hare being hunted by a large, smelly, obnoxious hound. He didn't like it, so one day he decided to turn the tables on Ares and take control of the situation.
He went to Ares' temple in Sparta, hoping to confront his brother and recapture some of his lost pride. When he arrived, he found Ares naked, thrusting into a woman draped over his altar.
Apollo's gaze was drawn to Ares' cock. Like the rest of him, it was too big, too bulky. Dark and purple, it was engorged with blood. He thrust rhythmically, and he gripped the woman's hips hard enough that bruises were already forming. Finesse wasn't in Ares' vocabulary. But the pure sexuality of the scene made Apollo draw in his breath, and that was enough for Ares to notice him.
Ares turned to him, eyes half-closed, his face flushed, and licked his lips. "You like watching?" He whispered it so low that no mortal could hear the words,but a god could.
Apollo moved his head, but was unsure if he'd indicated yes or no. Yes, he liked watching. No, he didn't want to watch Ares fucking some mortal. He wanted Ares to fuck...
Before he could say anything, Ares pulled out of the woman and turned to face him, slowly stroking his cock. It glistened with the woman's moisture, and both gods ignored her whimpered protests. Ares stared into Apollo's eyes, and Apollo realized he'd just made a serious mistake. He couldn't tear his gaze away from his brother, his eyes drawn to the huge, straining cock, his ears hearing nothing but the small grunts as Ares pleasured himself.
"Wanna suck me?"
Apollo almost gave in. Almost. But the superior look on Ares' face brought him back to reality just in time.
He retaliated by stroking himself through his trousers, lewdly thrusting his hips toward Ares. It felt like his erection was going to burst free without any help from him, and the thought of Ares on his knees was enough to make him whimper.
"I think you should suck me."
Ares grinned, shark-like, then turned back to the mortal. He sheathed himself in her with one long stroke and she cried out as he pulled out and slammed back in, over and over, and Apollo watched, stroking himself in time with his brothers' thrusts.
Apollo left before he made even more of a fool of himself. As he disappeared, he heard Ares' mocking laughter.
More time passed, several years gone in the blink of a god's eye. Apollo didn't go to visit Ares again, instead spending most of his time sunning on his beach or surfing with Aphrodite. He observed mortal children and concluded that at one year of age they were all violent, vicious little creatures, no matter who their parents were. Asclepius' brutal, destructive impulses were perfectly natural for a mortal child. He told himself that repeatedly, but sometimes he wondered if he weren't repeating it to himself too often.
He finally went back to visit Chiron and Asclepius on a fall day when the child was five years old. Five was old enough to have learned some measure of control and to begin to master the violent impulses common to all mortals, Apollo told himself.
Apollo approached them, confident that the child was at least interested in art or music, and was gratified to see that he was playing with a lump of clay. Chiron patiently showed the child how to roll the clay into a ball, and then how to poke his thumbs into the ball and mold a crude...something. Maybe it was a bowl or plate, Apollo really couldn't tell. What mattered was that the child was attempting to mold the material into a new form.He was less than impressed when Asclepius screeched loudly, tore the ball in half and threw each half across the room. Upon looking closer, he saw marks where countless balls of clay had splattered against the wall, leaving small pieces of themselves behind.
Apollo told himself that he was a god, and gods don't get headaches. But his head did feel...odd. He returned home and poured himself an extremely large goblet of fine wine.
Fall passed into winter, which finally passed into spring and then summer. Apollo relaxed on his beach, basking in the sunlight, reveling in its warmth on his back and the heat reflected from the sand surrounding him. He preferred the long summer days to the short, cold winter ones, and spent as much time outdoors as he could. The sky was clear, the beach deserted, and all was right with the world. Until he felt another presence, one easily recognized as Ares if only by his scent. Apollo felt that pressure in his head again, which had become all too common recently, and decided to ignore his brother. Maybe Ares would take the hint and go away.
Ares, however, wasn't known for his ability to take hints. Instead of leaving, he moved closer, until Apollo felt his shadow blocking the rays of the sun. But he refused to show his irritation, because he wasn't going to let Ares provoke him on his beach. He started though, when he felt a hand, coated with oil, glide over his shoulder.
Ares' hands were rough and callused, the ragged edges of his fingernails lightly scraping the smooth skin of Apollo's shoulder blades, but Apollo relaxed as Ares kneaded his muscles slowly and thoroughly. Ares might be a loudmouthed braggart, but he did know how to give a backrub. Apollo relaxed as Ares rubbed his thumbs in circles at the base of his neck, the pressure teetering on the edge between pain and pleasure. He was sure that Ares was incapable of one without the other, just as he was sure that Ares had some sort of ulterior motive for giving him a backrub. But he, unlike Ares, could be patient.
Apollo felt it as Ares leaned forward and used the heels of his hands to rub oil into the area between Apollo's shoulder blades, slowly moving down toward the small of his back, his strokes hard enough to crush the spine of any puny mortal. That wasn't all that was hard. Apollo tried to wriggle unobtrusively, as his rapidly hardening cock was trapped between his stomach and the sand, but when he tried to move Ares just increased the pressure on his back, continuing to rub in silence.
Ares moved lower still, his oiled hands kneading Apollo's ass, spreading his cheeks and smoothing oil in the cleft of his ass. His thumb pressed against Apollo's opening, almost entering him but not quite, and Apollo forced himself not to arch upward, not to try and force it inside of him. Ares moved on, his hands cupping Apollo's buttocks, then unceremoniously spreading his thighs and massaging the back of his balls. Apollo almost lifted himself to allow Ares full access to his balls and now hard cock, but stopped himself just in time.
The silence unnerved him, as did Ares' slow ministrations. Ares was known for being direct, for taking what he wanted, and playing games wasn't his style. Nor was patience. Apollo was almost relieved when he felt the blunt head of Ares cock against his ass, the pressure increasing as his brother tried to slide into him, not anticipating resistance.
Apollo bucked hard, throwing Ares off balance, and quickly straddled his still surprised brother, knees planted firmly on either side of his shoulders, pinning him down. He held his cock in one hand and rubbed it in lazy circles on Ares' lips, leaving a trail of moisture and sand. Apollo watched, not breathing, as Ares' pink tongue slowly licked the moisture off. It came near the head of his cock, so close that he felt the moisture and heat, but didn't quite make contact. Then Ares smirked and disappeared from beneath him, and Apollo collapsed onto the sand, frantically jerking himself off as he cursed his brother.
The next time Apollo visited Asclepius, he found himself standing outside Chiron's door, taking long, deep, even breaths and wondering how bad it would be. The child certainly seemed to take after Ares -- he was violent, not very bright, and apparently reveled in destruction. As he stood there, undecided, he heard a blood-curdling wail, followed by a sob, and it didn't sound at all like Chiron. He decided to just go home and spend time with the Muses.
Every visit with Asclepius made Apollo worry more. He destroyed musical instruments. He threw art supplies, although he did have a disturbing fondness for red paint. One day with him left the head oracle from Delphi threatening to transfer her allegiance to Hestia. He lacked the patience to listen to poetry, much less write it. In short, he was crude, stubborn, violent, and had a limited attention span. It was like dealing with a small, mortal version of Ares. As if that wasn't enough, Apollo also had to deal with the real Ares.
No matter where he went, he always saw Ares, smirking, stroking himself, showing off. More than once Ares had arranged for Apollo to walk in on him and some mortal in the act of fucking. And that was what Ares did - he fucked. He lacked finesse or style, and while Apollo sneered at his crudity, there was an animalistic appeal to it, and to him. Ares was a violent, dirty blowhard, the opposite of everything that Apollo cherished and stood for. Yet he was also compelling, if only because of his flaws.
More than a decade passed, more summers spent outside on the beach, more winters spent inside with his obedient simulacrum. Its submissiveness excited him, the way it obeyed his every order and even anticipated his needs, although the knowledge that it wasn't really Ares left him dissatisfied. Still, it was a good way to pass the time, and much more entertaining than listening to the chittering of the pathetic mortals who always wanted something from him.
He came home and found it naked and oiled, as usual, kneeling next to his golden throne, neck bent, hands resting on its thighs. Black curls spilled loose, covering its face, and they were soft and glossy. Apollo had improved upon the original. Its skin was also soft, free of imperfections, its nose straighter, its teeth smaller. It was what Ares should have been, if he had had any taste, which he didn't.
Apollo dissolved his clothes and sprawled in his throne, thighs spread, and stroked the simulacrum's hair. It understood the signal and silently moved closer, its breath soft and warm against Apollo's balls. It knew exactly what he liked, responded to every signal perfectly. He controlled it, felt everything it felt, tasted his own skin as it reached out with its tongue and gently lapped at the skin between his thighs, reveling in the dual sensation of licking and being licked.
It stroked his flesh with its tongue, always moving close to his balls and cock, close enough that its hair stroked his straining erection, but it focused its attention on his thighs, practicing a dance that Apollo had perfected over the years. Unlike Ares, Apollo understood technique, teasing, and delayed gratification. He played with his toy, running his fingers through its hair, felt it move closer and finally swipe at the underside of his tightening balls with its warm tongue.
Apollo groaned and tightened his grip on its hair, pulling hard enough that a mortal would have cried out. But his toy felt no pain and simply moved, licking his cock from root to tip, gently sucking him. One hand wrapped around the base of his cock, pumping in a matching rhythm, and Apollo greedily plundered its mouth. They had done this hundreds of times, and Apollo still closed his eyes and imagined it was the real Ares sucking him off.
But today, he wanted more. Ever responsive, the simulacrum stopped lapping at his flesh and stood, moving back so that Apollo could watch. It wrapped its hands around its straining cock and thrust its hips forward, eyes closed, head thrown back in abandon. Apollo felt its pleasure, the sensation of hands on oiled flesh, and stroked himself in time with its thrusts.
Its breathing grew ragged, but Apollo again decided he wanted more, so it stopped stroking itself. It let go of its flesh and gripped the large black dildo that materialized in its right hand. It knelt, allowing Apollo a side view as it slid the dildo inside itself, and Apollo watched as the smooth black wood was swallowed by golden flesh. In a few moments it would be his own cock pounding inside the simulacrum, but he preferred to tease himself first.
He was preparing to stand when he felt a surge of power, and Ares stood before him. Apollo felt a brief moment of satisfaction as he watched Ares' smirk disappear, replaced by a stunned look as he took in the scene before him. But that satisfaction was short-lived, as Ares approached the simulacrum and pulled out the dildo, staring at it critically.
"I hope it can take more than that," he said, throwing it over his shoulder. Then he pulled it to its feet as he dissolved his own clothes, and thrust inside it.
Apollo felt it, the huge cock stretching the simulacrum, the way Ares pinched and twisted its nipples. He hated his brother for despoiling his toy, but the physical sensations were overwhelming. He stroked his own cock in time with Ares' thrusts, and bit his lip to keep from screaming as he and the simulacrum both came at the same time. Ares continued pumping for a few moments before grunting his own completion, and then pulling out and sweeping the simulacrum to the floor, where it dissolved into golden fog."Kinky," Ares said with a grin. He was, Apollo noted, sweaty, his hair sticking to his forehead, and there was blood crusted under his fingernails. Barbarian.
"Did you want something?" Apollo didn't even try to hide his irritation, both at Ares and at himself, for letting himself lose control and briefly allowing Ares a victory.
Ares responded with a leer as his gaze raked Apollo's body. Apollo debated clothing himself but decided that would give Ares too much power, so he remained sprawled uncomfortably on his throne.
"Hello?" Apollo waved a hand in front of Ares. "Having trouble with the big words again?"
Ares merely looked amused.
"No, just admiring the view. So, how's my kid doing?"
"Fine," Apollo lied through gritted teeth. "He's fine."
Ares nodded his head as he paced the room, and Apollo sincerely hoped he wouldn't get his filthy paw prints on any of the nicer pieces of art. "Heard he spent some time with one of your oracles a while back."
Apollo felt something throb behind his right temple. "It was several years ago. He's matured since then."
Ares plainly didn't believe it, because his grin grew, threatening to split his face. Apollo really wished he'd clothe himself because his nudity was damn distracting.
"I told you," Ares said. "My kids are all warriors." He moved closer, one hand braced on each arm of Apollo's throne, and stared down at his brother. "Give it up now. I'll play nice," he said insincerely.
Apollo fought the urge to stand, instead trying to look coolly into Ares' eyes. "He's still a kid. You haven't won yet." He paused. "Worried he'll calm down with age and you'll lose?"
Ares threw back his head and laughed. It was a raucous sound that set Apollo's teeth on edge. Only Ares could make a sound like that.
"I'm not worried. But you should be."
Apollo feigned an unconcerned look. "I'm not worried at all. He's been enthusiastic about painting, you know." In red. Asclepius loved the red paint, smearing it everywhere so that his room looked like an abattoir. "Was there anything else you wanted?"
Ares held up his hand and Apollo saw a set of silver chains. "Hephaestus owed me a favor. I called it in." He rattled he chains, a nasty look on his face making it clear that Hephaestus hadn't been very happy with the deal. "I wanted to show you these." He moved forward, and Apollo stifled an urge to scoot back further in his seat. "I plan to chain you up with them and fuck you until you can't move."
"Nice fantasy," Apollo drawled, hoping that his face didn't betray his sudden near-panic. "But it won't be happening."
"We'll see." Ares laughed. "By the way, I like your toy." He vanished in a flashy lightshow.
Apollo tried to relax, but failed. Instead, he noticed that he had developed a nasty habit of chewing on his fingernails whenever he thought about Asclepius. He pushed his anxiety to the back of his mind and deliberately focused instead on the beauty of the music and art surrounding him. His mind betrayed him, however, and he kept returning to images of Asclepius' red room and Ares' chains. Maybe, he acknowledged to himself, this bet had not been his best idea. He slouched lower into his throne, gnawing on his right index finger and ignoring the headache blossoming behind his eyes.
Apollo materialized in Chiron's home and was immediately accosted by a fox kit with a crudely bandaged leg. A chicken with a splint on one wing slept in a cage balanced on a chair nearby, and Apollo saw several bowls of unguents on the long wooden table, surrounded by fresh and dried herbs. This was different. Apollo allowed himself a moment of hope as he proceeded into Chiron's makeshift classroom. He was surprised to see Asclepius hunched over a parchment, chewing on the end of a quill and studying the words in front of him intently.
For the first time in years, Apollo allowed himself to be visible to the boy, who gasped when he looked up. The noise was enough to alert Chiron to his presence. Asclepius scrambled to his feet and prostrated himself at Apollo's feet, and Apollo was surprised at the look on the boy's face. He actually looked a bit intelligent; less animalistic than he had when he was younger.
"What are you doing?" Apollo looked down at the scroll, noticing that Asclepius was taking painstaking and almost-illegible notes regarding the use of ginger to relieve toothaches.
"Studying medicinal herbs..." Asclepius trailed off, obviously unsure how to address his 'father'.
Apollo nodded, a triumphant smile spreading across his face.
"So it's to be healing, is it? Good choice." He absently patted the boy on his shoulder, and Asclepius beamed proudly, suddenly looking nothing at all like Ares. Ares never smiled, not like that. Apollo was taken aback at the open look on his face, the glow in his eyes.
"I need to speak with Chiron for a few moments," he said, and Asclepius looked disappointed.
"Of course," he mumbled.
"I'll be back later," Apollo said, and was gratified to see that smile again.
He and Chiron left the room, and Chiron's hooves woke the chicken, which clucked irritably at them. Apollo again surveyed the herbs on the tabletop, this time noticing that some had been tied unevenly to dry, and many were labeled with what he now recognized as Asclepius' atrocious handwriting.
"What's happened?"
Chiron shifted his weight from foot to foot, glaring at the fox kit that kept trying to play with his tail.
"I took him hunting last summer," he said, "and he seemed to enjoy it."
That figured, Apollo thought. All the blood.
"But then," Chiron continued, "he shot a pheasant with his arrow, and when he retrieved it he saw that it was still alive. He began crying and insisted that I fix it for him. I brought it back here and showed him how to make a poultice, and he changed its dressings and stayed up with it for three nights, until he finally collapsed from exhaustion."
"Really?" Apollo perked up. This was wonderful news!
"Since then, he's refused to eat meat. He takes in injured animals and tries to patch them up. He's been reading everything he can find on medicine and I even let him work with the healer in the village nearby a few days a week. The healer tells me that Asclepius has a great natural talent for healing."
Apollo resisted the urge to jump in the air and whoop with triumph.
Chiron bowed. "It appears that he truly is the son of the God of Healing."
Apollo loved minions who could flatter him. And he especially loved minions who gave him good news like this.
"I'd like to present my son to my family, show off his talents. When do you think he'll be ready to do that?"
Chiron thought for a few minutes. "Soon. He's been observing surgery on men with combat wounds lately, and the village healer is confident that Asclepius' abilities will soon exceed his own. He'll be ready to move on to a better teacher."
"What does he think of war?" Apollo asked casually. "Since he's working on veterans, has he developed any philosophies of his own?"
"He's decided that war is barbaric," Chiron responded. "And while he is disappointed that he lacks the ability to create beauty, as you may have wished, he is dedicated to healing and to repairing the damage done by war."
This was so beautiful, Apollo worried that he might explode from the triumph. Ares' son, a pacifist who refused to eat meat! Soon he would introduce Asclepius to his family and then he wouldn't need his now-despoiled toy anymore. He'd have Ares himself kneeling obediently by his throne. But the image lacked... something. He thought for a second and then realized what it was.
"Wonderful work, Chiron. Carry on. I'll be back soon to train him myself. Meanwhile, I have to go see Hephaestus."
He needed a gold collar and chain to attach to his throne. And he had a feeling that Hephaestus would be more than happy to accommodate him once he explained what they were for.
