This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(69)

He carries on as though I haven’t spoken. “She won’t know,” he says, “what it feels like. Not unless I make her understand.”

I shift, uneasy. “Hephaestus, this isn’t like you,” I say.

His eyes meet mine. “But it is,” he answers.

“No,” I say. “You sound like her. But you’re better than she is, you always have been. And you’re far better than Zeus.”

“And look where it got me,” he says.

“Yes,” I say. “Look. You’ve made this place. It’s not an Olympian throne, but it’s yours. And if you free Hera, you can have your seat again. You can have everything.”

There’s a distance in his gaze, as though he’s somewhere I can’t reach. “If I let her go,” he says, “I prove them right.”

“Right about what?”

“About me.” He snaps back to himself, not remote and far away, but still resolute. “To them, mercy is weakness. I won’t do it.”

“But, Hephaestus—”

“I’m sorry, Aphrodite. I’m sorry they’ve made you a part of this. But I won’t let her go.”

“You have to,” I say.

“I don’t.” He sounds harsh for a moment, then softens. “But you have nothing to worry about. No god can make me free her, so no god can collect the prize.”

I close my eyes, a heavy weariness dragging in the pit of my stomach. “Oh, Hephaestus,” I say. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” He’s determined, I can see, but, when it comes to facing Zeus’ wrath again, I don’t know if he’ll be able to withstand it.

He frowns. “I don’t care what Zeus has planned,” he says.

It’s easy for him to say that now, and I’m sure he means it. But Zeus has had many centuries to practice his brutalities, and the long-suffering gods and mortals in Tartarus can bear testament to how effective they are. Prometheus’ fate has been held over us since the birth of humanity and it has lost no power since the moment Zeus declared it. If anything, the horror has only grown with every relentless day that passes for the beleaguered Titan. The banality of repetition, of agony inflicted over and over again, makes it worse than a more creative alternative.

However, I won’t let it come to that. Not for Hephaestus. Definitely not for me.

“Tell me how to unlock the chair. I’ll free Hera, not you. You won’t be capitulating to them.”

His silence unnerves me. I was so confident that I could make him see sense, my oath didn’t even seem like an impulsive decision. But now I can feel those shadowy silver waters rising around me, trapping me in place.

Did I gamble my own freedom on blind faith that I could talk Hephaestus round? I went to him when he was broken, I brought him sustenance and gave him hope for his future. How could he do this to me now? Hephaestus, the god I saved?

Or is it Hephaestus, the god I spurned, doing this? Whose heart I broke in this very cavern?

“Listen,” I say, desperation threading through my tone now. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t give you what you wanted. But please, please don’t punish me like this.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not about that. It’s not about you.”

“But it is now,” I protest. “Zeus brought me into this, and everyone else too. It’s not just between you and them anymore. Every other god is trying to set her free.”

He waves my words away. “It doesn’t matter if every other god on Olympus is against me,” he says. “It’s no different from how it’s always been.”

“It is different,” I say. “I was always on your side before.”

He won’t look me in the face. He turns away, and a dizziness tilts me off-balance, like I’m mired in sinking sands, clawing to stay upright.

Out in the forge, the hammers fall silent and the great hiss of the bellows ceases. A voice calls out “Aphrodite?” and Hephaestus recognizes it the same moment that I do.

Ares is here.





20


“He said he would wait outside,” I say at once.

“Of course.” Hephaestus’ disbelief cuts me to the quick as he shakes his head and reaches for the door handle.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

Now he looks at me. “Going out there,” he says. “Before my brother tears apart a volcano in search of me.”

“He’s not going to do that,” I protest. “This isn’t his battle.”

A muscle jumps in Hephaestus’ jaw. “To Ares, every battle is his.” He yanks the door open before I can stop him. His fist is clenched tightly around his silver staff, his shoulders thrown back and his head high, color flaring in his cheeks as he steps into the quiet forge.

I hurry behind him through the doorway, darting to his side as I take in the scene.

Ares stands in the entrance, his broad shoulders and wide shield blocking the light behind. It streams around the edges of his silhouette, limning him in flashing bronze where it glints off his armor.

Four Cyclopes stand, wary and tense at their stations, their eyes sliding to Hephaestus for instruction on how to deal with the intruder.

“You said you weren’t coming in.” My voice rings off the cavernous walls that tower above us.