This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(56)

I waste no time in returning to the volcano, eager to bring Hephaestus what he needs. I note how rapidly color flushes into his cheeks as he drinks. “It’s working already,” I say. “Gods heal fast.”

“Maybe,” he says.

“It’s true. Your voice is stronger.” I duck down and look at him intently. “Your eyes are focused, you look more like yourself.”

He takes another sip. “You weren’t a dream,” he says. “None of it was.”

“Of course it wasn’t.” I reach out to brush the hair from his eyes, but he flinches away from me.

“You haven’t told Ares that you’ve found me?” he asks. So neither he nor Demeter was fooled, then. I feel a prickle of foreboding. If they’ve seen the truth, so will others.

“You weren’t supposed to know about me and Ares,” I say.

A spark kindles in Hephaestus’ eyes, fire from the nectar catching inside him, blooming into a steady flame. “When you saw his chariot in the sky,” he says, “you couldn’t get away from me fast enough.”

“What? That’s not…” A frown creases my forehead.

“He was all you could look at when Zeus called his councils.” He speaks slowly, like every word is heavy. “If Ares spoke, you listened. It was like no one else was in the room.”

I rock back on my heels. “So we weren’t very good at keeping it a secret. It doesn’t matter, though, not really.” There’s a bitterness in his tone; one I’m trying to sweeten.

“You weren’t. He didn’t give anything away. Almost as though he didn’t care.”

Warmth tingles across my skin; a flush of embarrassment and surprise. It’s not what Demeter said. She noticed a difference in Ares too—what was it she said? A softening. I suppose Hephaestus has been paying more attention to me than to his brother.

“He hides his feelings from the rest of the gods,” I say. I stand up again, stiff and unaccountably awkward.

“He doesn’t have any feelings to hide.” Hephaestus drinks again, looking away from me.

“You don’t really know him—”

“I know he’s dangerous,” he cuts in before I can say more, and behind him the oozing lava spits and hisses in agitation. “I know he’s cruel.”

“But he isn’t,” I protest. “Not always.” I want to explain that I’ve seen behind his hard exterior, but how can I make Hephaestus understand? It’s only me who’s seen Ares that way, who’s felt the gentleness of his touch and seen the need in him, the loosening by firelight when he is mine and no one else’s. “And besides,” I say, “it’s not what you think it is.” I can’t grasp the words to define what it is, though—something that should have died down already, but somehow keeps burning on.

“Where is he now?” He raises his head, watchful. “Is he near, is he waiting for you?”

“No,” I tell him. “Ares is gone. Zeus sent him to capture a man—a criminal.”

Hephaestus nods, satisfied. “That’s what he’s good for,” he says. “Punishment. Violence.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” He takes another long sip, swallowing with effort as he builds himself up to say more. “I dedicated my life to creating things. I teach mortals my skills and the world fills up with objects that are beautiful or useful or both.” He pauses, catches his breath. “What can he do but destroy it all? His only talent is to tear the world to pieces.”

“No,” I insist, even though I’ve said the same thing to Ares myself. It’s the truth in Hephaestus’ words that makes them hurt so deeply, that makes me want to prove him wrong.

“He revels in it,” Hephaestus continues. “Then simply moves on to the next. Do you know what’s left behind after every war? Lives broken and mangled, lost or ruined.” There’s an undercurrent in his voice as relentless as the clash and swirl of rocks becoming thick and molten, flowing with ease as he gathers pace. “I’ve picked up the pieces many times, tried to fit them back together or build something new from the ashes in his wake. Knowing all the while, he’ll come back to smash it into fragments again. Cities rise, and he razes them to the ground. It’s gods like you and me who try to make things better. But what’s the point, when there are gods like him poised to rip it apart?”

“He’s the God of War,” I say quietly. “He didn’t choose it, any more than we chose our realms.”

“But you don’t have to choose him.” His lips quirk into a painful smile.

I blink. The roar and tumult of the volcano recedes, muffled into a dull ringing in my ears.

In different circumstances, I might be angry with him. If he wasn’t crumpled before me, weakened and in pain, I could be moved to outrage by the way he’s speaking. I could give a passionate defense, or a furious dismissal. It has never been for Hephaestus to stand in judgment over me.

But compassion washes through me like a wave; any anger I might feel slipping away with the tide, lost in the pity I feel for him.

“Forget about Ares,” I say. “What does it matter to you? All you need is to recover your strength and reclaim your throne.”