This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(60)

Someone is hammering metal beside the hearth, and I assume it’s Hephaestus. He’s tall with powerful shoulders and arms rippling with strength. But, as the light flickers across him, I see how vast he really is, the singular eye in the middle of his forehead gazing at me.

“Aphrodite?”

I turn, and there is Hephaestus. Not slumped and weakened as I saw him last but standing—though I realize as I look more closely that he rests his weight on a staff by his side.

“Hephaestus?” I say. “This place—you—it’s nearly unrecognizable.”

He smiles, not with the warmth I’m used to seeing from him, but a smile nonetheless. “Does it feel familiar?”

My eyes sweep across the vast space. It’s alive with energy, hot and smoky, thrumming with purpose. “It’s like your forge on Olympus,” I say, “only more magnificent.”

Hephaestus nods toward the Cyclops, who strides past us and through a set of doors leading further into the volcano.

“He works for you?” I ask.

“He and his brothers,” Hephaestus says. “They’re skilled and hard-working, dedicated to their craft.” He gestures to the wall of weaponry.

“Is it all forged by Cyclopes?” I ask.

“Some of it by them, some by me. We work together.”

“I’m so happy to see you like this,” I say, “and to know you aren’t alone here.”

“The Olympians abandoned me,” he says, “but they despise the Cyclopes too. They’d never think of our joining forces. They’re useful enough for hauling blocks of stone, but I remember how the gods would sneer at them.” He looks at me steadily. “The same way they sneered at me. They think we’re grotesque and ungainly, not worthy of their respect.”

It’s not an unfair assessment. “I know they’re self-centered, I know how cruel they can be. But look at you here—look at what you’ve built. If Zeus could see it—”

He snorts. “He wouldn’t understand anything beyond what he could take from here. But it isn’t just Zeus.”

“You’ve made something better here than any of us ever could,” I tell him. “I’m impressed. I’m sure the other gods would be too, even if they never admitted it.”

He walks toward me, and I see how much he relies on the staff for support. He moves with a kind of practiced ease, but one leg drags behind the other with every step. When he stops in front of me, I breathe in the familiar scent of him, smoky and comforting, reminding me of all the hours whiled away in his forge together. His warm, brown eyes are clear now—no longer clouded with pain and exhaustion.

“This would be the only thing they’d notice,” he says softly, glancing down at the staff.

Now he’s closer, I can see the ornate patterns he’s carved into the silver handle, catching the light as he moves.

“It’s another reason to hate me,” he says. “To dismiss me as broken and ugly.”

“Then they’re wrong,” I say. “You aren’t broken, and I’ve never thought of you as ugly.”

I see the impulse in his heart but don’t have time to dodge before he’s swooped to kiss me, his lips pressed against mine without warning, his free hand cupping the back of my head and holding me there.

“Hephaestus!” I splutter, wriggling free.

His face is still a fraction of an inch from mine. “Because of Ares?” he asks.

“No.” I put my hands on his shoulders and push him back. He doesn’t have to move—he feels like solid iron—but he drops his hand and steps away. My breath is coming fast and short. I know how long he’s wanted to do that, but he’s never tried before. Perhaps he feels like he has little left to lose now.

“You’re my friend,” I say.

“A friend,” he repeats. He says it as though it’s an absurd concept.

“I wanted to see you triumphant and restored,” I say. “I wanted to help, not—”

“Not be at my side when this happens,” he finishes.

He’s been broken down to fragments and clawed his way back. I don’t want to deal another blow. I take a deep breath. “Not like that. I came here to find you—”

“Not soon enough.” He cuts me off.

“What?”

“You weren’t here soon enough,” he says, “to stop this injury taking hold. Without the elixir of the gods, my leg couldn’t heal. And now look at me. Who could ever…” He doesn’t finish his sentence, and it’s only the crack in his voice and the abyss of pain quivering beneath that tempers my fury.

“I tried,” I say. The suggestion hovers on my tongue, the answer to the question he didn’t quite ask: who could love him like this? He might not be able to see inside hearts the way that I can, but hasn’t he noticed that Charis has come every day? Doesn’t he wonder why? I can’t tell him. She asked me not to interfere, and, besides, she’s no consolation prize to be offered up in exchange. My heart twists, thinking how he’s recovered under her ministrations, thinking it wouldn’t hurt for me to come back.

He rubs a hand over his eyes, his face suddenly weary. “I know,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t blame you for seeing the worst in the world right now,” I say gently. “But it isn’t as bleak as you think.”