This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(84)
Laughter bubbles up inside me, utterly joyful. It’s such a perfect and unexpected joke, and I’m still surprised every time the earnest, steady Hephaestus makes one. “It would look ridiculous on you,” I agree, sneaking another covetous glance at its shimmering delicacy. “Why not give it to Dionysus? He needs a crown now he has a throne, doesn’t he?” I say wryly.
Once Hephaestus was restored to power, it seemed that Dionysus’ ambitions would be thwarted again, until Hestia announced that he could take her throne; she would retire to the hearth and give up her place at the council.
Hephaestus looks at me sidelong. “You know that Hestia was never interested in ruling.”
“Maybe not,” I say. It still troubles me, though, that a throne has gone from a quiet and measured goddess to the wild Dionysus. From an ally of Hera to a son of Zeus.
“Well, I will give it to him,” Hephaestus decides. He gestures for me to climb the steep steps cut into the rocky mountainside first.
“A good idea.” I pause, hovering for a moment over an apology. Sometimes it feels like we’ve fallen into the easy back-and-forth of our old friendship again, before the awkwardness rises up once more. However much he conceals it, I know my rejection of his gift stings.
A cry pierces the evening air, interrupting my thoughts: Dysis, storming away from Kedalion, tears streaming down her face.
“Go,” Hephaestus says. “I’ll see you at home.”
But I’m hurrying to her already, and when I reach her she’s wiping her tears away. “What happened?” I ask.
“He’s so insensitive,” she seethes. “Talking about how beautiful the river-nymphs are.”
“Oh, Dysis. I thought it was going so well between you.”
“It was,” she says. “It was perfect—and then suddenly, everything went awry.”
I put my arm around her shoulder. “How so?”
She sighs. “I don’t know. It was as though we were dancing together and then, all at once, there was no more music. Or it’s that we were hearing different melodies to each other.”
“That’s strange,” I say, biting my lip. Something about her words stirs something inside me, a whisper of a worry I’ve felt already.
“Let’s go back,” she says, sniffing back more tears.
“Yes,” I say, “let’s have some wine. Have you eaten?”
She shakes her head. “I just want to go to bed.”
Later, I wake from a restless sleep and fragmented dreams. It’s times like this, in the slow midnight hours, when I feel the most alone, that I’m tempted to go to Hephaestus. When I see the muscles rolling in his arms as he works at the anvil, when the sun gleams on his rich, brown hair and he looks up, smiling, I think how easy it would be.
Easy for a while. But with the potential to be as disastrous as the fictitious opening of Pandora’s jar—and, just like in Zeus’ version of that tale, it would be me to blame.
If not Hephaestus, why not visit Dionysus again? The thought occurs to me, the memory of our friendship and the lure of his mountain groves, his wine and his charm. But something always stops me before I make it to my chariot. The urge rises, then drains away to nothing.
And I notice how often, when I ride between Lemnos and Paphos, I look down from my chariot to see a swarm of warriors charging into battle on the ground below. Like the tides of the ocean, wars have always swelled and subsided across the earth. But with Eris at their center, they keep surging on, obliterating everything in their path, entirely unchecked.
The thought of Ares’ abandoned mansion haunts me. I know there’s no point in going back, but I find myself turning my chariot toward Thrace more often than I’d like. It’s an instinct, a memory that resides in my bones and muscles, no matter how hard I try to shake it free. It’s in one such moment of weakness, which takes me closer to Thrace than I’ve previously allowed myself to go, that I see a conflagration up ahead. It’s a great tower of flame in the direction of Mount Haemus, burning so high I can hear its roar from this distance and feel the shudder of warmth pulsing through the air.
The wrangling in my soul—tormenting myself by returning to the place my heart broke into pieces—gives way to a sickening lurch of fear.
At the foot of Mount Haemus lies Ares’ shrine. From his bed, I used to hear the cries of his worshippers—rapturous with victory or desolate with grief—echoing up toward us. I’d listen to the bellowing of the sacrificial bulls and smell the fumes of their roasting flesh when I was in his arms. The God of War has few sacred places, and he made his home where his followers dwelled. Most mortals fear him and shrink away from his worship, but the fervor and passion of those who dedicated their lives to him fed his power and his magnificence as though they numbered thousands more, and he rewarded them with his proximity.
I need to know if it’s his shrine that burns now. I won’t make my doves fly into the blinding smoke and heat. I land my chariot, take on feathers and fly the rest of the way myself. My eyes sting as I approach, the air thick and harsh in my throat, dizzying me as I swoop down. I make myself a goddess once more on the ground, dragging the heels of my hands across my eyes and blinking in the livid crimson light, back on Thracian soil again. It’s impossible to make anything out, but then something rolls from the inferno, coming to a halt by my foot.