Sun & Moon

It had been a thousand years since they’d spoken.

Not since Delphi had fallen into ruin. Not since temples had become tourist traps and worshippers became scholars. Not since the twilight years of gods who no longer walked on marble but cement, whose names were now brand labels, tattoos, or hashtags.

And not since Orion died.

Artemis watched her twin through the scope of a high-powered telescope stationed on the edge of a Vermont forest. She didn’t need it. Her divine eyes could pick him out even in the shimmering crowd of Tokyo, if she wished. But the telescope was for her campers—mortal girls who still looked at the moon with wonder in their eyes, even if they called her "Miss Artie" now.

Apollo looked the same. He always did. Unfairly golden, unfairly charming, with a smirk that could break curses and hearts in equal measure.

But she had changed.

The Camp of the Crescent Moon had been Artemis’ refuge for centuries. No boys. No Olympians. No drama. Just a sanctuary for the forgotten: runaway girls, bruised hearts, young women with nowhere else to turn. Artemis gave them space, strength, and if they wanted it—revenge.

It was on a frost-bitten January night, the kind where the stars burned brighter because the cold had stripped the air of everything impure, that he finally came.

Apollo.

Strolling up the snowy path in leather boots and a denim jacket, as if he were just another poet on retreat. The campers murmured nervously behind curtains. One or two instinctively drew silver-tipped arrows from beneath their bunks.

Artemis met him at the gate. Her silver braid coiled like a lasso down her back. Her expression was glacial.

“Turn around, sun-boy,” she said. “You’re not welcome here.”

Apollo winced, though the corner of his mouth still twitched with amusement. “You always did give the cold shoulder better than Boreas himself.”

“No jokes.”

“I brought a peace offering,” he said, gesturing to the instrument case slung over his shoulder.

“A lyre?”

“A ukulele,” he said sheepishly. “Mortals say they’re fun.”

“Leave.”

“Arty, it’s been—”

“Too long,” she cut in. “Don’t pretend to care now.”

His smile cracked. Not much, but enough. Enough for her to see the guilt beneath it.

“I do care,” he said. “I always have. I just… didn’t know if I had the right to say anything.”

Her eyes narrowed, and her hand went to the bow strapped across her back. “Because you made me kill him?”

The wind carried those words across the snow like a blade.

Orion. Her great hunt companion. The only man who'd ever earned her trust, her laughter. Perhaps even more. She never said it aloud, not even to herself.

He was mortal. Brave. Bold. Loud.

He loved to run beside her, not behind her.

And he died because Apollo lied.

He tricked her. Told her Orion had tried to take her honor. Pointed to a speck in the ocean far below and said, "Can you shoot that, sister?"

She did. One perfect arrow. Straight through the heart.

And then the tide brought his body in.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Apollo said now, years too late, as he walked beside her through the icy pines. Artemis refused to invite him into the lodge. Let him freeze. She didn’t care.

“You could’ve told the truth.”

“I thought it would protect you.”

She scoffed. “From what? Love?”

“He was going to die either way. He was mortal, Arty. You’d have watched him wither.”

“So you killed him first?” Her voice shook, not with grief, but fury. Cold, volcanic, ancient fury. “You made me kill him. My own hand.”

He flinched like the accusation was a lash. “I thought I was sparing you.”

“Sparing me from what?” she snapped. “From knowing what it’s like to lose someone without being the cause of it?”

Apollo stopped walking. The shadows of the forest played across his face.

“I was jealous,” he whispered. “You loved him more than you loved me.”

That silenced her.

For a heartbeat. Then—

“That’s not true.”

“Yes, it is. You’d stopped laughing at my jokes. You went hunting with him instead of me. We used to run together through the Thessalian glades, remember? Until him. You stopped needing me.”

Artemis stared at him. This golden twin of hers. Her brother. Her mirror. The one person who knew her better than anyone, and still—somehow—did not see her.

“You stopped needing me, Apollo,” she said. “You were always chasing mortals, lovers, praise, fame. The Oracle, the laurels, the adoration. You didn’t want a twin. You wanted an audience.”

He looked down. “I didn’t know how to be just… your brother.”

They stood in silence. Only the wind spoke.

Finally, she turned and walked ahead. “Why now? Why come back after all these years?”

“I saw a girl singing under the moonlight,” he said, following slowly. “She said she was a Huntress. Said she’d sworn loyalty to someone called Artemis. She was smiling like the moon smiled back. And I realized—I missed you.”

Artemis said nothing.

He added, “I thought maybe… maybe you could miss me too.”

That night, she let him sleep in the guest cabin. It had no insulation and one moth-eaten blanket. She left a thermos of tea on the porch, not out of kindness, but duty.

He didn’t complain.

The next day, one of the younger girls—Anna, age twelve, broken foster system, fierce shot with a crossbow—asked Artemis quietly, “Is that your brother?”

The goddess stiffened. “Yes.”

“He doesn’t seem like you.”

Artemis’s lips twitched. “We’re twins. Not copies.”

Anna nodded solemnly. “I have a brother too. He didn’t talk to me for two years after I broke his skateboard.” She paused. “We talk now. He apologized. We play cards.”

Artemis stared at the girl. Then at the forest.

That night, Apollo made a fire outside the cabin. No magic. Just mortal friction and a match. He strummed the ukulele quietly, the notes wistful. She didn’t tell him to stop.

On the third day, he cooked breakfast. Terribly. Burned eggs, rubbery toast, undercooked mushrooms. The girls mocked him mercilessly. He laughed. Took it in stride. Then challenged them to a haiku contest and beat them all.

Except Anna.

She won with:

“Moonlight on still snow—

A god sleeps under my roof.

I am not impressed.”

Artemis laughed. So did Apollo.

It was the first time in centuries they laughed together.

That night, they walked beneath the stars. She didn’t carry her bow. He didn’t wear his shades. Just two siblings, wandering.

“You should come see the Artemis program,” Apollo said suddenly.

She blinked. “NASA’s Artemis program?”

“Yeah. They named it after you, you know. It’s not just PR. Mortals still look up and think of you. You’re the moon, Arty. You matter.”

“I don’t need to matter.”

“But you do.”

She glanced at him. His voice wasn’t teasing. Just… gentle. Like it used to be, when they were young gods chasing deer and singing hymns.

“I’m not going to forgive you,” she said.

“I know.”

“And I’m not going to forget.”

“Wouldn’t ask you to.”

“But,” she added, “you can stay. For now.”

His smile wasn’t radiant this time. Just warm. Human. Real.

In the days that followed, he helped the girls compose songs for their hunt rituals. He taught them how to curse in ancient Greek (she smacked him for that). He held Anna’s hand when she had a nightmare.

He told them stories of the old days—not the glorious, rewritten myths, but the messy truth. He told them about Daphne. About Hyacinthus. About losing things you love.

And Artemis watched. Listened.

Each night, the moon rose. The sun set.

And for the first time in centuries… they weren’t alone in the sky.

One night, as they stood under a meteor shower, Artemis finally spoke without bitterness.

“Do you still see him?”

Apollo looked up. “Orion?”

She nodded.

“I placed him in the stars,” he said softly. “After you shot him. I thought… it was the least I could do.”

“I see him too,” she said. “Every clear night. Still chasing the Pleiades. Still trying to run beside me.”

“Do you hate me?”

She hesitated. Then: “Sometimes.”

“Fair.”

“But I missed you too.”

He didn’t respond. Just held out his hand.

She looked at it. Then, slowly, took it.

The stars blazed overhead. Silent witnesses to a long-overdue reunion.

And for the first time in millennia, the moon did not turn her face from the sun.

End.