This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(83)

“Well,” he says, “I can go. We can take turns being on Lemnos. I can be in Sicily, you can go to Cyprus, he can think we’re together without its being true.”

“I will go to Cyprus,” I say. “I have my work there; I won’t neglect my followers. But this is my home now too, and it’s yours as well. I don’t need you to leave, Hephaestus.” I take a deep breath. “I know I said I’d never forgive you, and maybe I won’t—not completely. But I don’t hate you.”

Relief floods his face. Perhaps he’s lost the optimistic enthusiasm he always possessed. But I feel like he seems even stronger now, his strength forged and honed into something harder. Less breakable.

“I’m glad,” he says.

I smile, and, in between the cracks around the forge’s entrance, flowers begin to emerge. They poke their heads through, sinuous and stretching, fiery spikes of vivid orange and deep blue. Hephaestus turns to watch them, fascinated.

Deep in the forest, I feel a shudder of awakening. A wolf slinking through the fringes of the trees lifts her muzzle to the air, the scent of her mate drifting irresistibly toward her. A familiar thrumming takes hold inside me, a delightful anticipation that builds and then all of a sudden dwindles away. The bright petals curl and wilt, and the wolf sniffs the empty air before turning back in disappointment. Cicadas hum in the undergrowth, their song building up to a crescendo that stays tantalizingly out of reach, and a stag paws at the earth, rubbing its antlers against a tree’s branches in frustration.

I frown. Something isn’t right. My tendrils of power snake and curl across the island, stirring all its creatures, but then they dissipate. Fading away before they can fully take hold.

“What is it?” Hephaestus asks.

“I don’t know.” I cock my head and concentrate on summoning it again, but there is only a shiver, rippling into emptiness.

“Aphrodite?”

I shake myself out of it. “It’s nothing,” I say with false brightness.

But I feel a prickling on the nape of my neck; a certainty that whatever this is, it cannot bode well.



* * *



—

I come to know Lemnos, wandering from coast to coast across the island. I find a beach where the sands are tinged with red and springs where the water is heated by molten earth. I bathe as I breathe in the faint scent of crushed petals, and the warmth cradles me. High dunes, sculpted by the winds, stretch out like a desert; the land is full of charred and twisted rocks, rugged forests and lonely shores.

Villages are scattered here and there, and in the center of each there are statues to Hephaestus—and, at his side, hastily erected carvings of me. There’s always smoke rising from the blacksmith’s forge, and often I’ll see Hephaestus there, patiently wielding tools and demonstrating techniques, his forearms smeared with soot as though he’s one of the mortals who gather, awestruck and captivated, to hear his lessons.

My husband, as brooding and powerful as the barren cliffs pounded by waves out in the bay, speaks with kindness to his worshipping disciples and never betrays so much as a moment’s frustration when they fumble or tire in the face of his unending stamina.

I like it when he doesn’t notice I’m there, when his face lights up with pleasure as an apprentice boy shows him the sword or double-headed axe he’s forged. The process is so slow; no other god would take such time to impart their skills and knowledge into simpler human minds.

“How long were you watching?” he once asked when he spied me, and I laughed.

“I didn’t know any other gods loved mortals the way that I do,” I told him.

But my delight in mortals is usually briefer, more fleeting. I like to spark a fire inside them and move on, not stay to cultivate the flames. I hear the prayers of the inhabitants of Lemnos, shy at first as they grow used to my presence, tentatively asking for love like their god has been blessed with.

I wince, and try to grant them something better.

I summon the Horae to Lemnos, and their chatter and smiles enliven our quiet mountaintop home. I notice how often Dysis visits the forge, and quickly deduce that Kedalion, the metalworking god who serves as Hephaestus’ attendant, is the lure. Their eyes meet across a stream of molten metal, and I feel a familiar surge of excitement, one I feared was gone forever. I drag Hephaestus out of the workshop on a flimsy excuse, taking a moment to embolden the hopeful lovers’ hearts before we leave them alone together. I’m delighted to see them later, emerging from the forests under the moonlight, his arm around her shoulder.

“Your doing?” Hephaestus asks me, and I nod. He smiles approvingly. “I almost forgot,” he says. “I made this for you.”

He holds out his hand, and I gasp. His fingers loop through the circlet of a golden crown and, as he tilts it toward me, I see gems glittering on each of the nine points, as bright and dazzling as fire.

“Hephaestus,” I say, “why?”

He shrugs, and I see the warmth flushing his cheeks in the dim twilight. “I thought you’d like it.”

“I do,” I say. I can’t take my eyes off it. It’s utterly spectacular. “I love it,” I say. “But you’ve made enough jewelry for me already. Don’t give me something else.”

He looks at me seriously. “What will I do with it, then?” he asks. “It won’t suit me.”