Chapter 7 A Burning Promise #2
A shower of sparks greeted Hermes as he stepped into Hephaestus’ forge. The cavernous room was carved into the mountain rock below the palace of Olympus. Nymphs with soot-encrusted faces rushed around the workshop, manipulating the bellows and tinkering with various mechanical contraptions.
Hephaestus was the second child born from the union of Zeus and Hera, the King and Queen of Heaven.
He was, in Hermes’ mind, far superior to his brutish older brother, Ares.
It was Hephaestus who had created the Olympians’ armour, having discovered a way to smelt the gold while imbuing it with life-threads so it could channel, store and amplify the wearer’s power.
The God of Craftsmen leant over a central workbench. He wore a leather apron over his large torso and a bronze mask protected his face. As Hermes bounded down the stairs, his half-brother set down the axe he was grinding and slid up his face-covering.
‘What do you want, Pip?’ It was a pet name born from Hermes’ diminutive stature and his love of playing the pipes.
Hermes pointed to the golden wings attached to the ankle of his left boot. ‘I need you to look at the wing joint. Something’s not right when I fly long distances, I keep veering off at an angle.’
Hephaestus raised a grizzled eyebrow. ‘Nothing wrong with the boots, it’s your flying technique.’
Hermes scowled. ‘It is not.’
It had been a devastating blow to Hermes to discover after his divinity ceremony that he would remain as he was forever: an ageless man trapped in the body of an undersized youth.
He had isolated himself in his chambers for weeks, until Hephaestus visited with his newly forged armour.
His brother had told him that his suit was special because it had wings, and if he were any larger, they wouldn’t have supported him.
The very next day, Hermes had left his chambers to practise.
It had taken a good year and many broken bones before he conquered the agility of flight.
And that was before testing the boots outside of the safety of Olympus’ walls, where he was at the mercy of the wind.
But what were years to a god? Now he could soar higher than any bird, any winged horse. He alone was master of the sky.
Hephaestus made a dismissive grunt, flicked down his visor and turned back to the axe. ‘I’m busy, come back later.’
‘What’s that?’ Hermes pointed at the weapon.
Once more, Hephaestus pushed back his face-covering. ‘It’s called an axe and you use it to chop –’
‘You know what I mean.’ Hermes stepped closer. An axe crafted by Hephaestus was never just an axe.
His brother’s face stretched into a lopsided grin, and he grasped the weapon in his left hand. He clicked his fingers and beckoned to a couple of nymphs, the bronze brace supporting his right arm reflecting the firelight of the forge.
Hundreds of years ago, Hephaestus had tried to steal a golden apple from their father and uncover the secrets of its divine gifts.
As punishment Zeus had thrown him from the palace walls.
When Hephaestus had crawled back up the slope of Mount Olympus, Zeus had forbidden him access to the mortals kept prisoner in the Olympus vault.
So, without draining the life-threads of another, Hephaestus’ body had mended with all the agonizing twists and aches of a mortal recovery.
After years of rehabilitation and self-designed apparatus to support his damaged muscles and broken bones, he had taught himself to walk again, but his body could not be remade as it once was.
Hermes swallowed as he thought of how close he’d come to incurring his father’s wrath that morning. Hephaestus’ disability was a permanent reminder of just how hot Zeus’ anger could burn.
His brother spun the axe between his fingers as the nymphs carried over a plank of wood, stopping in front of him to hold it at waist height.
Hephaestus pulled down his visor then swung the weapon over his head.
The blade sank into the wood with a soft thud.
Hermes frowned. Hephaestus hadn’t even tried to break the plank, and the nymphs barely even staggered under the blow. How disappointing.
Then the wood exploded.
The nymphs cried out as thousands of needle-sharp splinters shot across the room, embedding in their unprotected flesh.
Hermes grinned. ‘Nice.’
Hephaestus returned the axe to the workbench then picked several shards of wood from his scarred forearms. ‘Before you ask, no you can’t. It’s for Ares.’
Hermes’ elation soured. ‘You could make it faulty …’
Hephaestus chuckled. ‘As much as I’d like to blow him up, I don’t think Father would approve.’ He removed his metal visor and ran a hand through his sweaty hair. ‘I must get on. Come back tomorrow.’
Hermes drew himself up. ‘Ares can wait. Father has tasked me with a secret mission.’
Hephaestus paused. ‘You? A secret mission?’
‘Yes.’
A strange look crossed his brother’s face. ‘Fine,’ he sighed. ‘I’ll take a look at the wing now.’
Hermes grinned and set about tugging off his boot.
Hephaestus set it on the workbench and hunched over it. Hermes waited while his brother tinkered, twisting his fingers behind his back to prevent himself fiddling with things he shouldn’t.
After several minutes Hephaestus held out the boot. ‘Done. One of the feathers was out of place.’
‘Ha, I knew it!’ Hermes slipped his foot back into the boot and rose into the air, the metallic wings vibrating at his heels. ‘Thank you.’ Then he added, ‘Father will be most pleased.’
As he soared across the workshop Hephaestus called, ‘Take care of yourself, Pip.’
Something in his tone made Hermes turn back, but his brother had already returned to grinding Ares’ axe.
Hermes landed on the steps of the aviary: a stone tower built onto the western wing of the palace. He really should have set off on his father’s quest by now, but he’d left his pipes here and he loathed long journeys without them.
He heaved open the oak door and was greeted by a cacophony of caws, chirrups and coos.
Wings ruffled and beaked heads twitched at the disruption, feathers drifting through the cavity of the room like blossom shaken from a peach tree.
Hermes looked up to the large window at the top of the tower, where the birds entered and exited to relay their messages.
Nearest this portal of sky, resting on perches secured to the walls, were Zeus’ eagles.
Below them were Artemis’ buzzards and Ares’ falcons, and beneath them an iron grate sliced the tower horizontally in two to prevent the birds of prey attacking their smaller cousins below.
Great care had to be taken with the comings and goings around the tower to protect the more vulnerable birds.
The eagles were particularly aggressive.
Hermes stepped around a fresh pile of droppings splattered across the stone floor.
As he took the steps that curved upwards along the wall, he strummed the chains of the dangling homing medallions, leaving a chiming discord in his wake.
The pendants were emblazoned with each of the Olympians’ sigils, given mainly to kings and priestesses so they could convey messages to the Twelve.
He stopped still. He’d been so absorbed in his thoughts he hadn’t noticed the figure sitting on the ledge of one of the barred windows further up the steps.
Aphrodite’s face glowed in the sunlight, her undulating copper hair dancing like flames in the breeze, her white dress pouring over her curves to drape across the steps below. She held a dove in her hands, smoothing the creature’s feathers.
What Hermes would give to be that bird.
Aphrodite was married to Hephaestus, but Ares was the one who shared her bed. It was one of life’s greatest cruelties that a bastard like the God of War got to lay his hands on the sweetest, most beautiful woman who’d ever breathed.
Hermes found being in her presence rather like being tugged in several different directions while a fire was lit beneath his feet. It was too much, trying to hold loyalty for Hephaestus, hatred for Ares and desire for Aphrodite inside him all at once.
His cheeks flushed beneath his helm as Aphrodite’s emerald eyes met his. She smiled.
‘Hello.’
‘Hello,’ he replied, hating the way his voice always cracked up an octave when he was in her presence. He coughed and tried to think of something clever to say.
‘You weren’t at the feast today.’
Aphrodite sighed. ‘I doubt I was missed.’
Tell her you missed her, whispered the voice.
Hermes clenched his jaw. The voice inside his head that had awoken the day he was made divine had grown quieter with the passing years, yet Aphrodite’s presence always seemed to aggravate it.
‘Have you … er … been to earth recently?’
Aphrodite’s eyes flashed and she looked pointedly over his shoulder. Hermes glanced back. He spotted a shimmer where the staircase curved up the opposite wall. A shade. He’d noticed more of them lurking about the palace recently.
‘Aren’t you allowed to go anywhere on your own?’
Aphrodite let out a tinkle of joyless laughter. ‘You know I’m not.’
She looked so sad. If he hadn’t been so self-conscious, he’d have embraced her.
For twenty years the Goddess of Love had been kept under a guard of shades, ever since she stole from the sky palace and ran away with a shepherd.
Ares had discovered her living with her mortal lover at the base of Mount Ida.
They’d had a child. The God of War had forced her to return to Olympus, leaving her son and his father behind.
For a while Aphrodite had her priestesses send her word of the herder and their boy, but the King of the Gods soon put a stop to that.
As far as Hermes knew, the child was last known to be living in the city of Troy with his father.
Aphrodite released her dove into the air, where it fluttered up to an empty perch.
‘Hermes,’ she whispered, her eyes glistening like two green lakes, ‘will you do something for me?’
He allowed himself to step closer. ‘That depends …’ he said in his huskiest voice.
‘Will you take a message to my boy?’
His heart sank. Not that, anything but that.
‘I … I’m sorry. You know I can’t.’
Aphrodite stared at him for a moment, then blinked the tears from her eyes.
She took a last lingering look out of the window, before rising to her feet.
Hermes felt a familiar tingle in the base of his stomach as she swayed down the steps towards him.
The breeze carried her scent: rosewater and sandalwood.
Wouldn’t you like to make her smile? Wouldn’t you like to make her moan?
Hermes clenched his fists.
Aphrodite placed a hand on his arm. ‘I understand.’
The tingle became an ache.
He wasn’t a fool. He knew Aphrodite didn’t see him in the way he wished.
He didn’t blame her. He was forever trapped in the body of a youth, doomed to remain on the cusp of manhood.
But perhaps, if he became someone she relied on, someone she trusted, then one day she might look beyond his wanting exterior.
He would have to be thorough in his search for the Underworld creature. So thorough it would be remiss of him not to at least pass through Troy.
‘Perhaps …’ he glanced over his shoulder at the shade, then whispered, ‘I could try.’
The smile that spread across Aphrodite’s face was dazzling. Hermes gazed at her, only blinking when the Goddess of Love pressed something into his hand. His pipes.
‘I found these. I believe they belong to you.’
‘Yes,’ he rasped, staring as she moved past him down the steps.
When she’d gone, and he noticed the edge of a curled piece of parchment tucked inside one of the barrels, Hermes realized that she must have known he was going to say yes.