Chapter 23 #2
It slides between his careless fingers, the intricate figures and twisting pattern of gems ignored. I hate watching him wield it, hate the way I can feel Hephaestus tense at my side, hate the way that Zeus drinks in his discomfort like the wine that’s flowed down his throat all evening.
“Perhaps,” I answer, “we prefer to be in each other’s company rather than join you.”
“Ha!” At Zeus’ bark of mirth, Hephaestus’ fingers tighten around the curved arm of his throne. I slide my hand across his.
Zeus falters briefly, a frown creasing his forehead, and it’s enough.
I turn to Hephaestus and pull his face to mine. Before he has time to act on his panic and bewilderment, I press my lips to his and twist my fingers into his hair. It may look like an act of passion but it is a clear instruction to Hephaestus: Remember, this is a game and we aren’t going to lose.
At first, he’s frozen, but then I feel him melt into the kiss. My fist loosens, my hand clasping the nape of his neck now. His lips are soft and warm against mine. I smell woodsmoke and autumn, and against my closed eyelids I see a hazy sky, the sun sinking through rose-hued clouds.
My eyes flutter open as the kiss ends. We are still, our faces just a breath apart.
Zeus snorts with disgust, and it jolts me back to reality.
I did that for our audience, but it felt like they all disappeared. Now the noise and the tumult flood back in, washing away those fragile seconds of peace as though they never existed at all.
“Very romantic.” The sneer that twists his mouth belies his words, but all the better. Zeus’ irritation is balm to my fractured soul.
“I think so,” I agree.
Zeus tosses the staff back at Hephaestus, not caring that it strikes the throne with a discordant clang, before striding back toward the throng of reveling gods.
“That got rid of him,” I say.
Hephaestus watches him leave. “I suppose it did.”
He smiles at me, a real—if tentative—smile, and I remember how comforting he always was. Ready with a friendly welcome, generous with his gifts and his willingness to listen.
I’m sick of Mount Olympus and its conniving gods, sick of my own treacherous heart and the sadness that seeps into my bones at the thought of Ares, a sadness that dims the world around me so that everything feels gray and dreary and hopeless.
I don’t want any of it anymore. Not the wine, not the dancing, not the whispers or the plots, not even the little victory over Zeus or the kind words of my attendants.
I take Hephaestus’ hand and rise to my feet. “I want,” I say to him, “to go home.”
“Then let’s go,” he says.
And we walk out together.
—
We slip through the courtyard to the stables, dodging any attempt at a bridal procession.
I look for the chariot of Hephaestus—sturdy and plain, like its owner, but he gestures toward one I’ve never seen before.
My own four doves are harnessed to it, but, beautiful though my normal chariot is, this one’s far more elaborate, with its bright golden wheels spoked with silver, and crystals sparkling from the harness like the stars above us.
“You made this for me?”
He looks at the ground. “A wedding present.”
I picture him crafting this in the heart of the volcano after I told him I’d never forgive him.
“Well, come on,” I say, and I step in, beckoning him to follow.
He hesitates but climbs in, so broad that I’m pressed against his bulk. His own horses stir, pacing their hooves in expectation, but I keep hold of his hand.
“To Cyprus?” he asks me. “I can leave you there.”
“No,” I say. “We’ll go to Sicily.” It’s a wedding. The bride is taken to her husband’s home; he knows that. And I won’t give Zeus the opportunity to declare this a charade. He’ll see that I keep my oath.
I’ve been resolute that Zeus won’t see me humbled and weak, begging to be freed from my obligation or weeping at my fate. Nor will he glory in any humiliation of Hephaestus either—I won’t let him mock his son for being despised by his own wife.
But now we’re leaving, and the determination that has carried me through the evening wavers as I watch the light of Olympus recede until it’s swallowed up by darkness.
In the silence, there is only us. Alone together.
Wispy clouds drift past. If I let the memories of all my chariot flights with Ares linger in my mind, they’ll take root and spread like a poisonous fungus.
I clench my fingers around the wooden rail as I trace the path of the constellations, shimmering ghosts of lovelorn women and fallen heroes, until tears blur my vision.
When we land, I look around, startled. “This isn’t Sicily,” I say.
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.