This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(81)

Too soon, because Zeus is in front of us, bearded and resplendent and so very cruel. “You won’t dance, Aphrodite.” His voice booms over the clatter of feet, the raucous song and the clash of cymbals.

“I prefer to watch how much everyone is enjoying my wedding,” I tell him. “I get the best view from here. And, after your great generosity in hosting this feast for us, I’d hate to miss any of it.”

“Is that it?” he says, his voice soaked with wine and laughter. “Or rather that your husband is incapable?” He picks up the staff propped up against Hephaestus’ throne, heartily amused.

It slides between his careless fingers, the intricate figures and twisting pattern of gems ignored. I hate watching him wield it, hate the way I can feel Hephaestus tense at my side, hate the way that Zeus drinks in his discomfort like the wine that’s flowed down his throat all evening.

“Perhaps,” I answer, “we prefer to be in each other’s company rather than join you.”

“Ha!” At Zeus’ bark of mirth, Hephaestus’ fingers tighten around the curved arm of his throne. I slide my hand across his.

Zeus falters briefly, a frown creasing his forehead, and it’s enough.

I turn to Hephaestus and pull his face to mine. Before he has time to act on his panic and bewilderment, I press my lips to his and twist my fingers into his hair. It may look like an act of passion but it is a clear instruction to Hephaestus: Remember, this is a game and we aren’t going to lose.

At first, he’s frozen, but then I feel him melt into the kiss. My fist loosens, my hand clasping the nape of his neck now. His lips are soft and warm against mine. I smell woodsmoke and autumn, and against my closed eyelids I see a hazy sky, the sun sinking through rose-hued clouds.

My eyes flutter open as the kiss ends. We are still, our faces just a breath apart.

Zeus snorts with disgust, and it jolts me back to reality.

I did that for our audience, but it felt like they all disappeared. Now the noise and the tumult flood back in, washing away those fragile seconds of peace as though they never existed at all.

“Very romantic.” The sneer that twists his mouth belies his words, but all the better. Zeus’ irritation is balm to my fractured soul.

“I think so,” I agree.

Zeus tosses the staff back at Hephaestus, not caring that it strikes the throne with a discordant clang, before striding back toward the throng of reveling gods.

“That got rid of him,” I say.

Hephaestus watches him leave. “I suppose it did.”

He smiles at me, a real—if tentative—smile, and I remember how comforting he always was. Ready with a friendly welcome, generous with his gifts and his willingness to listen.

I’m sick of Mount Olympus and its conniving gods, sick of my own treacherous heart and the sadness that seeps into my bones at the thought of Ares, a sadness that dims the world around me so that everything feels gray and dreary and hopeless. I don’t want any of it anymore. Not the wine, not the dancing, not the whispers or the plots, not even the little victory over Zeus or the kind words of my attendants.

I take Hephaestus’ hand and rise to my feet. “I want,” I say to him, “to go home.”

“Then let’s go,” he says.

And we walk out together.



* * *



—

We slip through the courtyard to the stables, dodging any attempt at a bridal procession. I look for the chariot of Hephaestus—sturdy and plain, like its owner, but he gestures toward one I’ve never seen before. My own four doves are harnessed to it, but, beautiful though my normal chariot is, this one’s far more elaborate, with its bright golden wheels spoked with silver, and crystals sparkling from the harness like the stars above us.

“You made this for me?”

He looks at the ground. “A wedding present.”

I picture him crafting this in the heart of the volcano after I told him I’d never forgive him.

“Well, come on,” I say, and I step in, beckoning him to follow.

He hesitates but climbs in, so broad that I’m pressed against his bulk. His own horses stir, pacing their hooves in expectation, but I keep hold of his hand.

“To Cyprus?” he asks me. “I can leave you there.”

“No,” I say. “We’ll go to Sicily.” It’s a wedding. The bride is taken to her husband’s home; he knows that. And I won’t give Zeus the opportunity to declare this a charade. He’ll see that I keep my oath.

I’ve been resolute that Zeus won’t see me humbled and weak, begging to be freed from my obligation or weeping at my fate. Nor will he glory in any humiliation of Hephaestus either—I won’t let him mock his son for being despised by his own wife.

But now we’re leaving, and the determination that has carried me through the evening wavers as I watch the light of Olympus recede until it’s swallowed up by darkness.

In the silence, there is only us. Alone together.

Wispy clouds drift past. If I let the memories of all my chariot flights with Ares linger in my mind, they’ll take root and spread like a poisonous fungus. I clench my fingers around the wooden rail as I trace the path of the constellations, shimmering ghosts of lovelorn women and fallen heroes, until tears blur my vision.

When we land, I look around, startled. “This isn’t Sicily,” I say.