This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(82)
The chariot rolls to a halt on the peak of a mountain, one I’ve never visited before. Flaming torches line a long, low wall, their light flickering across the floor. Where the wall ends, steps are cut into the steep slope, winding their way down the mountainside until they vanish in the night. What lies beneath us, I can’t tell.
Behind the wall, the craggy dome of the mountain rises above our heads, but the peak is hollowed out into a vast cave, and that’s where we stand. We’re out in the open, on a rough courtyard underneath the stars, but the roof of the mountain behind us shelters a building flanked with a graceful colonnade—one that wouldn’t look out of place on Mount Olympus. But on Olympus, our palaces jut into the sky. This one stands inside the great summit-cave, almost entirely concealed from view.
I turn from side to side, taking it in. “Did you build this?” I ask, and he nods.
Perhaps he’s learned to love his hiding places. Once flung out of sight by the gods, maybe now he seeks deliberately to evade their prying gaze. “Where are we?” I ask.
“Lemnos,” he tells me. “A volcanic island. I thought…” He pauses, clears his throat. “I thought—if you came with me—that I should bring you somewhere new. The forge on Sicily, it’s tainted with bad memories.”
“Not a marital home,” I agree.
And so he built a new one, not even knowing whether I’d ever agree to accompany him here. It’s so like Hephaestus, to see a problem and build a solution without saying a word.
“Show me,” I say.
Fires burn in deep bronze bowls along the corridors, illuminating carved statues—men, women, girls and youths, prowling animals, so lifelike that, when I reach out a hand to scratch the ears of a particularly majestic-looking hound, I’m surprised to feel hard stone instead of warm fur. Frescoes brighten every wall: the sapphire waves of the sea painted in rich cobalt, leaping fish arcing between them and scenes of verdant spring with flowers lush and vivid. There are bronze doors, golden items of furniture and tiles inlaid with sparkling gems. Woven rugs have been laid on the marble floors, rich and crimson on the gleaming white stone.
Every luxury he could conjure is here, everything perfectly proportioned and pleasing to the eye. But, despite my surroundings, I’m thinking of austere onyx columns. The glint of silver. Bear furs and shadows and grim mountain peaks.
Hephaestus opens a door and hands me a lighted taper, gesturing for me to go inside.
These must be my quarters. A wide bed, a shining oak table and a stool with three curved legs. Vases heaped with roses, their fragrance heavy in the air. He’s made it comfortable and elegant—he’s tried to make it a home. My heart squeezes painfully when I picture him doing this, wondering if I’d even see it.
He lingers at the doorway, not saying anything. I’m sure he’s thinking of the moment I kissed him at the wedding. I’m thinking of it too.
I lift my eyes to his. “Good night, Hephaestus,” I say.
“Aphrodite.” He rubs his jaw, dropping his gaze for a moment.
“Yes?” The air between us thickens, time stretching and slowing before he speaks again.
“I’m just glad,” he says, “if you aren’t angry. I don’t expect your friendship again.”
The tightness in my chest loosens a fraction. “I know,” I say.
He hesitates, his face as open and clear as a cloudless sky. He has no agenda, no grudge, no expectations. When I told him that of all the gods I could have been forced to marry, he was the best choice, it was true. “Good night,” he says and withdraws.
The door swings softly shut behind him, and I look around at my new home.
I’ve done what I swore I never would. I’m a wife, a role I fought against for my whole existence. But I’m not tethered, like a bird in a cage.
There is a life for me here: one I’ll make for myself.
24
In the morning, the clamor of the forge rings through the skies above Lemnos. I make my way from our mountain palace to the workshop Hephaestus has hollowed out of the volcano, the same as he did on Sicily. The God of the Volcano as well as the forge. Zeus’ punishment only enhanced his power in the end. Orange sparks spit and seethe from the summit, the smoke wreathing the cone in a dark cloak. The clanking of metal echoes through the surrounding forests, and the very ground beneath my feet thrums with the vibrations. The rhythm of it feels comforting; a familiar and satisfying hum of activity.
When he sees me at the entrance, he drops the tongs he’s holding onto a bench beside him, not seeming to notice that they slide to the floor with a dull clang. Picking up a rag and wiping the sweat from his forehead, he calls out something to the Cyclopes working around him, his words indistinct in the noise, and hurries toward me. I notice the imbalance in his gait and the ever-present staff in his hand, but there is hardly any awkwardness in his movement.
“Come outside,” he says, “away from the heat and the noise.”
As soon as we’re in the fresh air, he launches into an apology. “I’m sorry,” he says, “for everything that’s happened. But surely now you’ve kept your oath. You’ve done what Zeus asked. You married me. Now you can leave.”
“I thought about it,” I say.
“And?”
“I don’t know.” I run a hand through my hair, pushing it back from my face. “I haven’t come this far just to risk ending it too soon. Zeus has to be satisfied.” The waters of the Styx herself hold me in place. Will the oath be fulfilled by just one day of marriage? I can’t be sure.