This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(74)

I don’t know who he is anymore and I don’t know what I’ll find. Somehow, the last thing I expect is to see him in his workshop, the same as he’s ever been. Leaning more heavily on his staff, the fading traces of bruises discoloring his immortal flesh like a soft shadow, but Hephaestus still. Broad and hulking, an apology haunting his eyes with an honesty that disarms me.

“I’m sorry,” he says, the moment I swing open the oak door. It’s too well-crafted to slam into the rocky wall, the hinges rolling too smoothly, denying me the resounding crash I want to hear.

“You’re sorry? How could you do this, and think ‘sorry’ could make any difference?”

He winces, holding up a hand as though to shield himself from the blistering fury in my voice. “I was very, very drunk. Dionysus—”

“Dionysus persuaded you to do this?” My voice is scathing.

“No, not exactly. I don’t think so.” Hephaestus furrows his brow, the effort of searching through his fragmented memories too great. “We were drinking. First, it soothed the pain, after Ares. It was like floating away on a cloud.”

My heart beats wildly. Any sympathy I had for his injuries has petrified into solid rock.

“I know that’s no excuse, I’m just telling you what happened. He didn’t persuade me, he just let me talk. I was angry and then maudlin, and somewhere along the way I decided it was all too much effort to keep up. I decided to let her go.”

“So it was just an impulse?” I ask. “A drunken act of spontaneity?” I shake my head. “And you didn’t think, not for a second, about what it would mean? After I was here, after Ares beat you into the ground, you didn’t think about what freeing her would do?”

He doesn’t meet my eyes. There is a long and painful silence.

Into it, I whisper, “You did know.”

“I hadn’t forgotten,” he says quietly. “And after so much wine, it seemed like the answer.”

“The answer to what?”

He lets out a shaky sigh.

“The answer to what, Hephaestus?” I ask again. “You knew that going up there, letting her out and telling Zeus it was your decision would make you the winner.”

He still says nothing.

“Why?”

He keeps his eyes fixed on the ground. “You know that I stepped in front of Hera when Zeus was beating her, just to stop you from jumping in his way.” His fingers flex around the handle of his staff, nervous and twisting. “I saw that you were about to do it, and I couldn’t let you.”

My heart is racing, my anger acid in my veins. “Is it revenge?” The words tumble out, jerky and painful. “Because you were hurt saving me, even though I never asked you to? Or is it about Ares? Is this some kind of sick way of winning—beating him in this contest—is that it?”

His eyes widen. “No,” he protests. “No, it’s not about Ares.” He pauses, taking a deep breath. “Maybe. In part.” He must register how I tense my body, my fingers curling into fists, and he hurries to finish speaking. “Not like that, not for revenge. But…but I warned you about him. And you stayed with him. Even after you saw what he did to me, everything that he’s capable of, you still love him.”

“Do you think you can stop me?” I demand.

He slumps his rounded shoulders. “Not now. Everything seemed different then. It was bravado. It was idiocy. I just thought that maybe you’d see.”

“See what?”

Finally, he meets my eyes. “That I love you. More than he ever could.”

I know he believes what he’s saying. But if he’s appealing to my heart, it has already shriveled to ashes in the furnace of my wrath. “And this is how you get what you want.” The harshness makes him flinch.

He shakes his head, frantic. “No.”

“You’ve trapped me into marrying you.”

“You don’t have to.” He sounds desperate.

“But I do.” I can’t take back what I did. “You know I’m bound. You know I have no choice.”

The color drains from his face at the truth of what I’m saying, and tears rise in his eyes, slipping unheeded down his cheeks. I’ve seen him shattered, first by Zeus, then by Ares. But I don’t know that I’ve ever seen him so bereft as this.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

And, in the stunned silence, I walk away.



* * *



—

Last night, in the aftermath of the fight between the brothers, I stayed away from Thrace. I didn’t know if the god I saw raging in that volcano was one I wanted to keep.

But in my devastation now, Ares is the only comfort I crave.

He hurries out into the gloomy courtyard as I approach, as though he’s been listening for the soft beat of dove-wings, and I know I made the right choice. There’s no sign of the wrathful god he’d been when he stalked out of the volcano, and no sign of Eris either.

He folds me into an embrace, the worn leather of his tunic soft against my cheek, the familiar scent of earth and bronze anchoring me in place.

“No breastplate,” I murmur into his collarbone. “No spear, no helmet. I thought I’d find you ready for war.”

He shakes his head. “It doesn’t have to be a fight,” he says.