Pale Eyes

by James Welsh

As the years wore on, little Hephaestus grew, but not by much. His legs still remained misshapen, so much so that whenever he walked, he limped. Still, this did not stop him from his morning strolls with his mother Hera around the palace. As they walked, the other Olympians, the servant-girls, the guests from the world below – they all bowed and honored Hera and her son as the pair walked past. As soon as mother and child walked out of earshot, though, the rumors sprung up as they always did.

  “How can he be one of us, when he’s so flawed?”

  “He can barely walk; how can he succeed his father as king?”

  “Zeus would never let him be king. He would sooner let the world fall apart.”

  “Hera must have had an affair. Children like that are fated as punishment.”

  “Did you see how rough and dirty his skin is?”

  Hera knew about the rumors, but she never said anything. She knew that, no matter what, they had all decided to turn against her. They now trusted her as much as Zeus trusted her, as much as she trusted Zeus. Olympus was crumbling apart from the swirling doubt. And she thought it was ironic that there were rumors swirling about infidelity – after all of the years she suspected Zeus of being unfaithful, she was now the one branded with the insult.

  She could only hope, though, that Hephaestus, her darling Hephaestus, wasn’t paying attention to any of the mockery. She knew his spirits were as weak as his legs. But Hephaestus knew – he knew the looks that were, by then, becoming familiar, he knew the difference between pity and ridicule, he knew what he could and couldn’t do. But none of that mattered or at least it didn’t seem to. Because, as weak as his legs were, his arms were stronger – he was a child with a man’s arms, able to lift any hammer and any sword with one hand. He was an unchartered beast – no one knew just how strong he could be.

  And he had his mother for company, too. Sure, he had talked to the servants – Hebe, especially, was always nice to him – but Hera was the only one he could talk with. She knew what he loved, what he hated, what he feared. Hera knew that Hephaestus loved to put his hands into fire. It was strange, because even gods could burn their fingers, but Hephaestus never felt it. If anything, the fire cleansed his hands the way water washes yours. Hera was careful around Hephaestus when he played with his fire – after all, if he was careless and hugged her, his burning hands could melt her neck and shoulders. She knew that Hephaestus hated mirrors as much as he loved fire – she wondered if this meant he hated himself.

  And she knew what Hephaestus was afraid of – he was terrified of that god in particular, looking out from his balcony, high over the courtyard, the god who was twitching with agitation. Hera had only seen Zeus like that once, and it was so long ago that she almost forgot the look. Zeus had burned with that hatred when he threw their father into the deep prisons of Earth. Their father was ugly, but in other ways.

  Late one morning – when Hera was still asleep, exhausted from a late night of laughing with her sisters – the childish Hephaestus took his first walk of the courtyards alone. He had always wanted to, but his mother would never let him – Hephaestus gave up asking her why, because she would never answer. And the air felt so crisp, and the world smelled so much like apples.

  Hephaestus timidly opened the door of the palace and crept outside. The chill numbed the pain in his legs. He was all alone in a courtyard that stretched for miles around him. As he walked, he suddenly noticed a sparkle in the grasses ahead. It disappeared, and he thought he was imagining things. Then, the spark snapped back – it was slithering between the blades of grass. Curious, Hephaestus followed the shine, wanting to know what it was – he had never seen such a thing, in all of his short years as a god.

  And he followed the spark through the empty courtyard that was never empty. And he followed the spark through the open outer gate that was never open. And he followed the spark through the silent forest of the summit that was never silent. The spark slowed enough that Hephaestus could see it in detail – it wasn’t a spark, but a necklace, its jewels catching in the sunlight. All the while, the necklace kept slithering, much as a snake would – Hephaestus had never been down in the mortal world, and so he had never seen a snake before, but he heard that was how they moved, and he believed all that he was told.

  Hephaestus was so consumed with catching the necklace that he didn’t know that he was stumbling closer and closer to the summit’s edge. Now, parts of the edge, as dangerous as they were, were still sloped enough to make the climb difficult but possible. This edge, though, this was where the summit simply ended – from there, it would be a straight fall, thousands of feet down to the mortal world, where there was only hurt and death. But Hephaestus didn’t know this – if someone had never seen death before, they wouldn’t believe such a terrible thing could exist.

  And still, Hephaestus got closer and closer. The necklace was suspended against the edge, and Hephaestus almost had his fingers around it…

  A pair of arms curled around the young god and yanked him backwards. Hephaestus found himself sprawled in the blanket of the grass, looking upwards, seeing his mother’s silhouette in the sunlight.

  Hera cried, “Hephaestus, what were you thinking? You could have fallen! What would I have done if you had fallen?”

  Tears were streaming down Hera’s face – she was hysterical in the eyes. Hephaestus hadn’t seen her like that in a long time, perhaps never. His mother frightened him more than the thought of falling over the edge.

  Hephaestus sputtered, “I-I-I-I…”

  Although his voice was shaky, his finger was steady. He pointed past Hera, towards the necklace that was tucked into the grass nearby. Hera snatched up the necklace and immediately recognized it – it was the one that went missing from her chambers just the day before.

  Still, Hera did not understand. She waved the necklace in front of Hephaestus’ eyes. “Did you take my necklace?”

  “No, mother, I-I-I saw it just a few minutes ago. It w-w-w-was moving, by itself.”

  “It was moving?”

  “Yes, mother.”

  Hera looked down at the jewelry. She couldn’t believe that her favorite necklace would try and kill her child. “But Hephaestus, a necklace cannot move by itself. Someone would have to throw it…”

  “There are other ways,” a quiet voice said from behind Hera.

  Hera spun and saw Zeus standing near the edge, his arms folded across his chest, his face granite.

  Hera looked down at the necklace, dumbfounded, before a moment of fury seized her. Suddenly understanding everything, she balled up the necklace in her hand and threw it at Zeus – the necklace bounced off his shoulder and fell over the edge, where it was lost for good.

  “You, you,” Hera began through clenched teeth, “you tried to kill my son. How dare you!”

  “You know why,” Zeus said coldly, rationally. “Every moment your son stands atop this rock, our palace crumbles a little more. We cannot be the lords of the world when that…thing walks among us. You know that. You know that we can silence one mortal who mocks us. But we cannot kill them all, not without destroying ourselves. We need every soul in this world to worship us – their prayers are our breath – the columns of their temples are our veins – their sacrifices are our food. We can’t destroy them, but they can destroy us, they can end us just by laughing. And they will laugh at your son the moment they see him. No prince from their world would be so weak as your Hephaestus, they wouldn’t allow it…”

  Hera stood as tall as she could, between her quivering son and her furious husband.

  “He is my son, Zeus, mine! I have always told you that, and I forever will. And for once, you have no say. You can decide for the skies and the thunderstorms and the fate of this world, but you will not decide the life of my son. How can you, when you didn’t even conceive him with me?”

  Zeus was silent for a moment. “So, you want to know why I don’t love you?”

/>   Hera didn’t answer, but Zeus continued.

  “I cannot love a wife with that chill in her eyes. I cannot love a wife who looks at me suspiciously, no matter what I do, no matter what I have done. I could make this world spin the other way for you, and you wouldn’t trust me. You could never trust me. If you were mortal, I would strike you down for your blasphemy.”

  “Some days I wish I was mortal!” Hera screamed. “If I was mortal, I would fight you just to show you how weak you are!”

  Zeus’ eyes flared. With one hand, he shoved Hera to the side, his wife hitting the ground with her shoulder. Zeus turned towards Hephaestus and reached for the boy, saying, “This needs to be done. You must understand. This needs to be…”

  Petrified with fear, Hephaestus could only watch as the thing that scared him most was reaching out for him. The fingers were hypnotic, seeming to drag him in. The spell was shattered, though, as Hera reached around Zeus’ massive arm, trying to yank her husband away. Zeus roared and, with a massive push, tossed Hera into the air. The goddess skidded along the grass, before coming to a stop as a quivering heap.

  “No!” Hephaestus screamed, finding his voice. He jumped up, his fingers aiming for Zeus’ throat, but the king was quicker. Zeus deftly grabbed Hephaestus by the arm and dragged him towards the edge, where the fall was waiting.

  “No,” Hera rasped, as she struggled to stand.

  As Zeus walked, he spoke to Hephaestus. Zeus tried to comfort him with talk of fate, softly saying that it was decided the moment Hephaestus was born, but there was no engine of sincerity behind Zeus’ words. There was only tension as Zeus spoke, as he found a struggling and growling Hephaestus in his grasp. This surprised Zeus: he never expected Hera’s son to fight back, and to fight back so harshly. Even Zeus, king of all, was having trouble keeping a steady grip, as light as Hephaestus weighed. This scared Zeus as much as Hera’s tears scared Hephaestus.

  Still, Zeus reached the edge and, without wasting another moment, he threw Hephaestus as if the young god was just another discus. As Hephaestus dove through the air, Olympus disappeared behind him in the clouds, and even his mother’s screams grew softer.

  And yes, Hephaestus was terrified, although he shouldn’t have been. Zeus may have thrown Hephaestus as if the young god was nothing, but nothing fell quite like this crippled god. The winds caught his tiny frame and he tumbled madly through the clouds, like a dandelion seed in a hurricane. At one point even, Hephaestus felt himself floating up, and he thought that the wind was handing him back to Hera and the other Olympians. But then the wind continued pushing and pulling him along.

  He fell like this for nine days and nine evenings. Through the occasional break in the thick clouds, Hephaestus could see the forests far below, then he saw the grasslands, then he saw the shores, then he saw the sea. The winds began to die and so Hephaestus began to fall, slowly at first but picking up more and more speed. As he fell, the world spun around him, until he couldn’t tell the seas apart from the skies.

  Meanwhile, a galley was skimming the waters. It was small compared to its peers, only having one row of oarsmen on each side, a crew of sixty altogether. She was more of an arrow and less of a ship, with sleek sides and a pointed hull – even the foamy wake behind the ship resembled feathers. The men themselves were more pirates than sailors – they took to raiding ports along the coastline, bringing the stolen goods with them back to their secret base, tucked into the side of a volcanic island far out to sea. The pirates were anxious to touch friendly shores again – during their last raid, one of their numbers – a young, hilarious man – had been killed in the fight. None of the captured cargo in their galley could bring him back. The men were so caught up in their grief that neither the slap of seawater across their face or the hug of sunlight could wake them up.

  What caught their attention, though, was a loud splash off to the port side. Several of the oarsmen turned sharply, their oars suspended in the air just above the choppy waters. The rest of the crew soon took notice and someone shouted, “What made you stop?”

  “Something fell in the water!”

  Curious, the crew made a shallow turn and rowed back towards the impact. At first, they didn’t see anything, and the witnesses feared that they had been mistaken, and that they would be punished for the folly, which cost the boat precious time. But, as they got closer, they could see something bobbing in the waters. They got even closer, and they realized that it was someone in the water. One of the oarsmen sprang into action, jumping off the deck and into the waters. The rest of the crew abandoned their oars – a rarity on any galley – and leaned over the side, trying to get a better view. There were so many oarsmen on the port side of the galley, actually, that the ship began to lean somewhat.

  The oarsman in the water grabbed a hold of the person and began awkwardly swimming back towards the ship. The crew helped the man and mysterious person onto the deck. They look over their sudden guest – it was a boy, his sunken eyes closed, barely breathing but still alive – the crew noticed that his legs were horribly mangled too. The one thing that the crew didn’t notice was that their guest had dry robes on – dry, even though the oarsman who rescued him was himself salty and soaked from the seawater. The boy coughed up some seawater, sputtered a little bit, although his eyes were still closed, as if stuck in a dream between life and death.

  The crew was not sure what to do. One of them finally said, “We should toss him back in the water. It is where we found him, after all.”

  “Don’t be foolish.”

  “What do you mean, Alexis? We cannot take the boy back with us – do you want us to raise him? To feed him? Since when did we become mothers? There is no time for rescuing children.”

  “I have been living in this world far longer than you have. And I have seen a lot of strange things, but never have I seen someone fall out of the skies and into the water. This is no ordinary boy – this, this is a sign from the gods. We must be his saviors – it has already been chosen.”

  A snort. “And what is this message the gods have given us? Should we go back to the port we just raided? There was a temple there – perhaps one of the priestesses there knows why the gods are throwing people at us.”

  “Don’t you dare jest with the gods! We have already suffered enough tragedies lately to…”

  “Quiet, the both of you!”

  The oarsmen stopped their arguing and turned to see an aging man stand in front of them. His hair salty – either from old age or from the sea, no one knew for sure – Zosimus was perhaps the most experienced and roughest of any of the sailors on the deck. The two backed away cautiously as Zosimus shuffled forward and looked down at the boy with his one good eye. He frowned for a moment, then said, “We will take him back, as Alexis suggested. We will take care of him, and, when he is old enough, he will join us as a raider. There is something strange about our guest, there is no denying that. But, I cannot help but think he is a good omen. After losing Lysandros in battle, perhaps this is the gods smiling down upon us. Perhaps he will be the sailor that we have lost in Lysandros. And we would be fools to turn away such a gift from the gods.”

  “But his legs! His legs are ruined. He will be a burden to the rest of us…”

  Zosimus glared. “Then he will become my responsibility. I will look after him, with my one good eye. Does anyone else have anything more to say?”

  He turned and looked at the crowd around him. None of them said a word. Triumphant, Zosimus shouted, “Okay then, back to your rowing! We have to reach our island before it turns dark. You there, help me revive this boy.”

  And so the sailors revived Hephaestus, and, by the time they reached their island port, Zosimus had adopted the young god as his son, unaware of the boy’s true heritage. For some time, Zosimus and the other pirates questioned Hephaestus over his origins, but time and time again, the god was silent. Perhaps Hephaestus was fearful of what the m
ortals would do to a god who walked amongst them. Or perhaps Hephaestus did not want to admit to his exile, his punishment for his looks. Whatever the reason, Hephaestus would not admit to his past life, terrified of the emotions that went with it, of the betrayal and heartbreak.

  It proved to be a challenge to raise Hephaestus – the god could not walk far on his withered legs, and so Zosimus had to tend after him for most things. It was not until several years after the rescue, though, that even Zosimus grew tired of his responsibilities. As much as he loved his adopted son, he knew that it wouldn’t be long before he himself died and Hephaestus was on his own. And so Zosimus made his son work alongside the blacksmith in the village. The other pirates jeered at this – of course, they only made jokes amongst themselves, never to Zosimus – they wondered how such a crippled young man could make the strong armor they needed. And the blacksmith, too, was a bit reluctant to take on such a weak apprentice, but Zosimus forced him – some say with his rusted dagger.

  But, as weak as Hephaestus was in the legs, he was brilliant with his arms. Hephaestus was notorious for forcing others out of the room while he was working – he felt self-conscious of others looking at him, after years and years of being taunted. It was then, and only then, that the godly blacksmith would craft his metals the way an artist sculpted marble. Although he had only a few years of experience, Hephaestus could make anything the pirates requested: he made armor out of bronze and swords out of iron. Hephaestus even helped the shipbuilders make ballistae for the pirate galleys – those giant crossbows killed countless men and ruined many enemy ships in the years to follow. Obviously, Hephaestus gained a reputation and he gained one quickly, first throughout the village, then the island, then other islands even.

  And Hephaestus did all of this work for free. Sure, he asked for food and new clothes and other necessities when he needed them. But he never asked for a single coin from any of his neighbors. He lived his early years in that village surrounded by charity – the people gladly fed him, and they kept his storeroom filled with literally tons of metals that they found in their raids. They were grateful to him, and so Hephaestus was grateful to them. And this was the way that Hephaestus lived for some time, and he liked it. This kindness to him was so great that he wondered if he should have been born a mortal instead of a god. Of course, he didn’t want to think that it was his godly nature that made him a phenomenal blacksmith.

  But, it eventually reached a point where the love became too much, even for Hephaestus. His fame resulted in streams of people sailing to the island, begging for his help in making new swords and shields for them. As much as Hephaestus wanted to please everyone, he was afraid of the attention that came with it.

  One morning, a demanding pirate from a far-flung port walked up to the little house where Hephaestus kept his workshop. It was a simple house with a complex view: built on the rocky beach at the southernmost point, you could watch the sun both rise and set over the water. But when the pirate called outside the door and no one answered, he forced his way in and found the home deserted. Everything – the bed, the amphorae of raw materials, food – it had all vanished. The pirate next went to Zosimus’ home, to ask where his adopted son had gone off to. When Zosimus heard, he was shocked. His son Hephaestus never strayed far from his little home, because the outside world was not as easy to form as a shield or a sword. And so Zosimus organized small bands of men to search the countryside, hoping to find the favorite son of the pirates. But, after days and weeks and months of walking over the island, the men reluctantly gave up their hunt for Hephaestus. The blacksmith was wiped off the face of the world.

  Yet one morning, not long after that, Zosimus left his home and found a large stockpile of gleaming armor, all sitting in front of his home. The armor was so bright, the metal so strong, that no one but Hephaestus could have crafted it. And so Zosimus, whose first and last son was Hephaestus, found hope again. But, Hephaestus was still nowhere to be found. There was only one piece of evidence that someone had delivered the armor: there were massive, but shallow, indentations in the soil, leading to and from Zosimus’ home. If you looked from the roof of the home at the slight depressions in the ground, you would notice they almost looked like footprints. More specifically, the depressions were in the shape of sandals, but they were much larger – twenty men could sit in the prints and there would still be room.

  This was the beginning of a new ritual – once a week, Zosimus would find a heap of new shields and spears and swords sitting near his home. Curious, Zosimus tried staying up for whole nights at a time, hoping to catch sight of the mysterious craftsman, hoping against hope that it was his Hephaestus. But Zosimus never saw anyone or anything deliver the stockpiles – some nights, though, he had heard what sounded like thunder nearby. During the blistering summer months, when Zosimus would lay in bed and hear the storms roll over his house like waves, he would hear the thunder, and he would smile. He was never sure if the thunder belonged to Zeus, or perhaps it was the arrival of his mysterious craftsman. Both of those he so desperately wanted to believe in.

  If Zosimus had known the truth, he would have been thrilled. Hephaestus was still alive, and he was still living on the island with all of the other pirates. He had moved his workshop, though, to the lone volcano at the center of the island. There, burrowed in the sore throat of the volcano, Hephaestus had found a massive chamber, one that was free of any magma. It did not take long for Hephaestus to civilize the room, building countless rows of shelves to house his materials. He even moved in his massive stone table, one which he himself carved and used as his anvil. With the long stretch of magma at the entrance of the chamber, the melted rock bubbling and murmuring, he turned that pool into his forge, because only the hottest flames could withstand the metals that he used. And with that tremendous forge guarding the only entrance, no mortal could enter and disturb Hephaestus while he was at work. So the workshop was silent, and this pleased Hephaestus.

  One morning – or perhaps it was night, Hephaestus never knew when he was so buried beneath the earth – the crippled god was fashioning a sword. It was going to be a beautiful sword, more art than death, when Hephaestus felt a strong, chilled breeze enter the chamber. Although his back was to the magma, he could hear the bubbling stuff ripple, its tides actually splashing against the obsidian shore of the workshop. Hephaestus stopped his work – he knew who was there without even turning.

  “Hello, Zeus.”

  The massive golden eagle landed, its sharp claws as sharp as the obsidian. It looked at Hephaestus curiously for a moment before it began to transform. The feathers clumped together into hands that reached outward, like a drowning arm clawing above the water. The talons grew into sandaled feet, the chocolate plumage into billowing robes, the beak into a proud human face, with a grizzly beard and perfect hair.

  Zeus stood up, transformed. He walked over and, looking over Hephaestus’ shoulder, said, “This looks like good work to me.”

  Hephaestus continued slamming his hammer against the white-hot iron.

  “Leave me alone. I can’t ruin my concentration. It’ll show in this sword.”

  “It’s just that…”

  Hephaestus suddenly picked up the piece of metal with his gloves and threw it across the room. The hot iron hit the far wall and crumpled to the ground, twisted and ruined by the impact. There was silence for a moment.

  Hephaestus asked softly, dangerously, “What?”

  “Your mother has been watching out for you, you know. She doesn’t say it, but I see her some mornings, peering over the edge of Olympus, hoping to see her child. Ever since you disappeared, she’s been up most nights, worrying for you.”

  “I’m glad I still have an advocate on Olympus.”

  “Do you still have an advocate amongst these…men?” Zeus asked, disgusted by the final syllable.

  “Yes. I always will amongst these people.”

  “Then wh
y have you hidden away from the world?” Zeus persisted, curious.

  “I left because this family here loves me too much. I needed a quiet place to work.”

  “Do you know why they really love you?”

  Hephaestus was silent, but Zeus continued.

  “Your work may be magical, but they think you are human. Great, yes, but still human. If they knew who your mother was, they wouldn’t think of you as a great mortal – they would think of you as a weak god, pitiful even.”

  Hephaestus turned and said sharply, “Why are you saying this to me?”

  Zeus shrugged. “It’s because it’s the truth. And I do not have much respect for those who serve man. You may be ruined on the surface, but inside you’re still very much a god, by virtue of your mother’s blood. The things you’ve done for these people, you’re dragging Olympus down into shame.”

  “Why are you so afraid of people who could never break you?” Hephaestus asked, incredulous.

  “I’m not afraid of them,” Zeus spat, “but you have to understand the balance. Man was put in this world to serve us. As powerful as we are, we live off their worship. And here you are, making weapons for them, weapons too beautiful for even a god to use. If you make these mortals more powerful than a god, then what happens? What are you trying to make happen?”

  Hephaestus threw up his hands. “So what will you have me do in this world, Zeus? Be a beggar like the rest of the poor men? I have seen crippled souls in the villages, their legs just as broken as mine. My mother has suffered enough because of me. I do not want her thinking that I am begging for food from mortals.”

  “What do you know of your mother’s hopes and fears? You haven’t even seen her in years,” Zeus asked, not understanding the irony in his words, that he was the reason why Hephaestus could never meet his mother again.

  Stung, Hephaestus shot back, “Don’t you remember, Zeus, how I was born from my mother’s seed alone? By that alone, I’m closer to her than you’ll ever be; I understand her more than you ever can.”

  “Don’t taunt me, boy,” Zeus snarled, his voice somehow growing even deeper. “I may have thrown you down to this world, but I can throw you even lower than this. I can always ask Hades to make space for you in the Underworld.”

  “But you won’t, will you?” Hephaestus said, shuffling up to Zeus. “Or else you would have come down sooner, to ruin what little happiness I have left.”

  “You build beautiful weaponry, Hephaestus, but for the wrong beings. These mortals do not deserve such craftwork. They cannot appreciate the art in the sword’s handle, but only how sharp the blade is. Do you not remember what happened to my brother Prometheus?”

  For once, Hephaestus looked sick with fear. He said, with some hesitation, “Yes.”

  “I don’t think you do. He stole fire from my palace, and he gave those flames to the mortals. And I have ruined him because of it. Do you know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Prometheus pitied those mortals – he thought they were animals – he wanted them to become just like us. And so he gave them fire, so that they could find their way up Olympus. He didn’t know it, but he had turned those mortals against us forever. His loneliness ruined him. Now, he is punished – he remains chained to his boulder, his liver everyday plucked out by the eagle. The liver always grows back, but only to be eaten again – his liver is now little more than a field of wheat.”

  “And tell me, Zeus, how does his liver taste? Does it taste like wheat?”

  Zeus glared. “It is not me who eats it.”

  “The eagle may eat it, but you are still the eagle. Its beak is your teeth, its stomach your stomach. And even as an eagle, you disgust me.”

  As if for emphasis, Hephaestus waved his arm around him, showcasing the chamber. He continued, “I have been exiled to the lowest points of this world, and why? You say it’s because I disgust you. But do you want to know what I think? I think it’s because my mother loves me more than she loves you. If you had your way, you would be every mother, every father, every friend, every lover in this world. You can’t imagine someone being loved more than you…”

  “Enough!” Zeus shouted, pounding his fist on the stone table. A crack appeared in the stone. Realizing that he had lost his temper, Zeus took a breath and said, much softer, “I didn’t come here to argue.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I need a new throne made.”

  Hephaestus laughed bitterly. “After all of your years of mocking me, you want me to help you? Why?”

  “You have been helping these wretched humans for far too long. Now you must help us – you must help the Olympians. Follow your duty.”

  Hephaestus held up the hammer in his hand. “Ah, so this is why you haven’t completely ruined me. I am little more than a hammer to you – but I am a hammer you don’t want to break.”

  “Will you help me?”

  “What choice do I have? If I refuse, you will chain me to the boulder, next to Prometheus.”

  “No, no, I won’t do that,” Zeus said, waving away the suggestion. Zeus didn’t say why, but Hephaestus figured that Zeus didn’t want to incur any more of Hera’s wrath.

  “But there are terrible things I can do to these people, Hephaestus. If I want, I can sink this whole island. Now, you may survive, but everything you love – all of those villages with all of those people – they will all die and no one will ever care or notice, because no one loves a pirate. Do you want that for a legacy?”

  Hephaestus sighed. “No.”

  “Good.”

  Zeus took some parchment from his robes. He put them down on the table. “These are the specifications. I will be back in a week to collect. Make sure you are done by then, or else.”

  “Fine.”

  Zeus turned to leave, but stop. He asked curiously, “By the way, how do you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “How do you leave this volcano? Some mornings, I look down at that one man’s house, and I see that you leave mountains of shields and swords and such. But how do you get over the magma, when your legs are ruined?”

  Hephaestus couldn’t help but smile a little, that he knew something that Zeus didn’t. He pointed to the dark recesses of the chamber. Zeus squinted into the darkness – it took him a few moments, but he could make out the vague outline of something sitting in the corner, something massive.

  “What is it?”

  “I think you mean who. It’s my assistant, Talos.”

  Zeus walked towards the hulking beast. As he got closer, he suddenly snapped, “That’s no creature – it’s only a statue!”

  “He’s only a statue when he’s asleep,” Hephaestus said, “like the rest of us.”

  “What is he made of?”

  “Mostly bronze, but whatever materials I could find, really.”

  “You made him?”

  Hephaestus snorted. “Don’t act so surprised, Zeus. I’m as much a god as you are. I too can breathe life into things. Of course, he is still learning to be useful, but he can carry anything through that magma and up to the surface.”

  As Zeus gazed up at the massive, sleeping bronze automaton, he couldn’t help but to be amazed. Hephaestus stumbled to where Zeus stood, rooted, and said, “You know, just like I have learned to be a god, the time will come when you will be humbled.”

  Zeus broke out of his trance and snarled, “Don’t you dare threaten me.”

  “You enjoy being honest with me, but you cannot handle it yourself?”

  Zeus was silent.

  Hephaestus continued, “You will fall one day, and then, and only then, will you learn what it is like to be me, or to be Prometheus, or to be any mortal. You will be chained and dreaming of power, and there will be nothing you can do about it.”

  For what was the first and last time ever, Hephaestus saw a glint of raw fear in Zeus’ eyes. But the moment came and passed too quickly, and
Hephaestus figured that he was simply imagining things.

  Still, Zeus seemed distracted. As he began his transformation into an eagle, he said, “Remember, the throne by next week.”

  Zeus had barely finished the sentence when his voice transformed into the eagle’s call.

  Book 3