Chapter 15 #2
She’s so deceptively gentle; radiating warmth in every lilting syllable, enveloping me in a comforting cloud of sweet wild lavender and earthy thyme. But I sense that, underneath, she is as immovable as the ancient oaks that surround us.
“I wouldn’t anyway,” I say.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t,” she replies. “And you won’t mention it to Ares, will you?”
“What? Why would I?” I bluster.
“Oh, Aphrodite, I know about you two.” She reads the surprise on my face. “You don’t conceal your feelings well. You never have. And he’s softened, for the first time in his existence. It was very clear.”
“Has he?” I scrabble for words, my throat suddenly dry.
“He came back to Olympus when he saw Zeus’ storm,” she says.
“He knew there was danger, and he rushed to the heavens without even getting rid of Eris. Who there would he want to protect? None of us. Besides, I saw the flower in your hair. Not one that could exist anywhere else on earth but in the War God’s kingdom. ”
The Goddess of the Harvest knows every growing thing in the soil. She must have seen immediately that the flower was something different, something new. She might have even felt the moment I coaxed it into existence on Ares’ mountain, the way I feel the spark of new love wherever it blooms.
Her brow furrows as she goes on. “You make your own choices; we all do. But this seems like a risky one.”
I tense. “It isn’t that simple.” My voice is colder than I intend it to be.
She nods. “Forgive me. I’d never presume to tell you what to do, any more than I’d take your advice on how to cultivate crops or when to bring the rains. I’m just surprised that you’d choose Ares. A god so bloodthirsty, so fueled by violence. It seems at odds with who you are.”
She isn’t saying anything I haven’t considered, but somehow her words needle. She doesn’t know. She can’t understand. “Is that how you see him?” I ask. “Is that all you see?”
“He’s never shown us anything else,” she answers. “From the moment he was born, he was full of fury. He has no time for any of us—except for you.” She drops her gaze, her voice gentle. “But I wonder how long that can last.”
I flinch. But I’m the expert in this situation, not her. I won’t listen to any more from her, not about Ares.
Nor will I risk confiding in her about Hephaestus. I don’t need any further judgment of my behavior. “You’re so perceptive, Demeter,” I say sweetly. “So tell me what you think about my coming here today. What should I do?”
She inclines her head, accepting that the conversation on Ares is closed. “I don’t think you should throw yourself into a volcano for Hephaestus,” she says.
“Do nothing, then? That’s your advice?”
“Wait,” she says, “for Zeus to change his mind, or Hephaestus to free himself.” In her voice, I can hear the patience of the seasons, the long-abiding calm of a slow and quiet winter and the steady faith that change will come in the end.
But then it’s easy for her to be patient about this. Nothing that she holds dear is under threat.
—
When I reach Olympus, I start with the food of the gods. To replenish the golden ichor that runs through our veins, we need to feast on nectar and ambrosia. While it’s usually served to us at the banquet table by our attendants, I know where the storerooms are.
We’re careless with our wealth. No need for guards, or anyone to keep a tally of our supplies.
When I slip inside the silent room, it’s lined with brimming jars, there for the taking.
After we overthrew the Titans, Zeus made us a fortress at the top of the world. No enemy could ever make it this far. And he must be so sure that none of us would dare to defy his order that he hasn’t put anything in place to stop me from doing exactly what I’m here to do.
I pick two of the smaller jars from a shelf, raising the lid to inhale the sweet scent. It floods my nose, the vapor as bright and sparkling as light. I think of Hephaestus, collapsed in the dark, and the relief makes me giddy. This will lift him. It will nourish him, sustain him and heal him.
I waste no time in returning to the volcano, eager to bring Hephaestus what he needs. I note how rapidly color flushes into his cheeks as he drinks. “It’s working already,” I say. “Gods heal fast.”
“Maybe,” he says.
“It’s true. Your voice is stronger.” I duck down and look at him intently. “Your eyes are focused, you look more like yourself.”
He takes another sip. “You weren’t a dream,” he says. “None of it was.”
“Of course it wasn’t.” I reach out to brush the hair from his eyes, but he flinches away from me.
“You haven’t told Ares that you’ve found me?” he asks. So neither he nor Demeter was fooled, then. I feel a prickle of foreboding. If they’ve seen the truth, so will others.
“You weren’t supposed to know about me and Ares,” I say.
A spark kindles in Hephaestus’ eyes, fire from the nectar catching inside him, blooming into a steady flame. “When you saw his chariot in the sky,” he says, “you couldn’t get away from me fast enough.”
“What? That’s not…” A frown creases my forehead.
“He was all you could look at when Zeus called his councils.” He speaks slowly, like every word is heavy. “If Ares spoke, you listened. It was like no one else was in the room.”
I rock back on my heels. “So we weren’t very good at keeping it a secret. It doesn’t matter, though, not really.” There’s a bitterness in his tone; one I’m trying to sweeten.
“You weren’t. He didn’t give anything away. Almost as though he didn’t care.”
Warmth tingles across my skin; a flush of embarrassment and surprise. It’s not what Demeter said. She noticed a difference in Ares too—what was it she said? A softening. I suppose Hephaestus has been paying more attention to me than to his brother.
“He hides his feelings from the rest of the gods,” I say. I stand up again, stiff and unaccountably awkward.
“He doesn’t have any feelings to hide.” Hephaestus drinks again, looking away from me.
“You don’t really know him—”
“I know he’s dangerous,” he cuts in before I can say more, and behind him the oozing lava spits and hisses in agitation. “I know he’s cruel.”
“But he isn’t,” I protest. “Not always.” I want to explain that I’ve seen behind his hard exterior, but how can I make Hephaestus understand?
It’s only me who’s seen Ares that way, who’s felt the gentleness of his touch and seen the need in him, the loosening by firelight when he is mine and no one else’s.
“And besides,” I say, “it’s not what you think it is.
” I can’t grasp the words to define what it is, though—something that should have died down already, but somehow keeps burning on.
“Where is he now?” He raises his head, watchful. “Is he near, is he waiting for you?”
“No,” I tell him. “Ares is gone. Zeus sent him to capture a man—a criminal.”
Hephaestus nods, satisfied. “That’s what he’s good for,” he says. “Punishment. Violence.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?” He takes another long sip, swallowing with effort as he builds himself up to say more.
“I dedicated my life to creating things. I teach mortals my skills and the world fills up with objects that are beautiful or useful or both.” He pauses, catches his breath.
“What can he do but destroy it all? His only talent is to tear the world to pieces.”
“No,” I insist, even though I’ve said the same thing to Ares myself. It’s the truth in Hephaestus’ words that makes them hurt so deeply, that makes me want to prove him wrong.
“He revels in it,” Hephaestus continues.
“Then simply moves on to the next. Do you know what’s left behind after every war?
Lives broken and mangled, lost or ruined.
” There’s an undercurrent in his voice as relentless as the clash and swirl of rocks becoming thick and molten, flowing with ease as he gathers pace.
“I’ve picked up the pieces many times, tried to fit them back together or build something new from the ashes in his wake.
Knowing all the while, he’ll come back to smash it into fragments again.
Cities rise, and he razes them to the ground.
It’s gods like you and me who try to make things better.
But what’s the point, when there are gods like him poised to rip it apart? ”
“He’s the God of War,” I say quietly. “He didn’t choose it, any more than we chose our realms.”
“But you don’t have to choose him.” His lips quirk into a painful smile.
I blink. The roar and tumult of the volcano recedes, muffled into a dull ringing in my ears.
In different circumstances, I might be angry with him. If he wasn’t crumpled before me, weakened and in pain, I could be moved to outrage by the way he’s speaking. I could give a passionate defense, or a furious dismissal. It has never been for Hephaestus to stand in judgment over me.
But compassion washes through me like a wave; any anger I might feel slipping away with the tide, lost in the pity I feel for him.
“Forget about Ares,” I say. “What does it matter to you? All you need is to recover your strength and reclaim your throne.”
“I won’t go back to Olympus,” he says.
“You don’t need to decide that now.”
“I’ve decided. And”—he draws a long breath—“you know why it matters to me.”
Silence quivers between us.
I’m the one who breaks it, leaving his unspoken question unanswered. “You need to recover your strength,” I say again. “I’ll leave these jars, and I’ll bring more. If it’s difficult for me to get away, you’ll be all right for a while.” I pause. “I can send Charis instead, if you prefer.”
“It makes no difference,” he says. The heat has drained from his voice, leaving it hardened and heavy.
“I don’t have to go at once,” I say. “I can stay. I can tell you everything that’s happened on Olympus while you’ve been…or other stories, you must have been lonely here and…” I flounder, trying to think of how best to lift his spirits.
He shakes his head slightly.
“You’re too weary for conversation.”
“Maybe.” He sets down the goblet I brought him on the floor. “You should go.”
I nod.
“And I hope you come back. Send Charis if you like. But, Aphrodite.” He leans his head back against the rock pillar, looking up at me. “You should know that Ares is a terrible mistake. The worst you’ve ever made. You don’t have to believe me, but I have to tell you.”
My throat tightens. “So you’ve told me.”
“Don’t fall in love with him. Don’t let him destroy you like everything else he touches.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” I say.
“But I do.”
“Just rest,” I tell him. “I’ll be back when I can.” I try to make my voice breezy and light, as though his words won’t echo in my mind when I leave.
I won’t let it happen.
I will never fall in love with Ares.