Authors: Lanette Curington
Even under the best of circumstances, Aglaia had trouble aetherizing. Before she could begin to clear her mind and concentrate on summoning the energy, Phlius dropped a rope around her and wound it tight, the strands biting into her flesh. When he had knotted the ends securely, the rope crisscrossed her arms and torso from shoulder to wrist.
Aglaia groaned, but met the queen's eyes. "You don't know who I am—"
"You're right," the queen sneered. "I don't know you and I don't care who you think you are. You are nothing to me, but you've insinuated your way into my daughter's life thinking you know what's best for her when you've barely just met her. You have interfered with my plans enough. You thought I wouldn't notice how you spoke with my daughter and niece and the princes earlier."
"You have no idea what you're doing," Aglaia warned. The queen nodded and Phlius stuffed a dirty rag into her mouth, effectively closing off her last chance to help herself. She could only summon another immortal by speaking aloud.
"I don't have the time or the inclination to listen to your drivel, you insignificant little nobody," Queen Eupompe said disdainfully. "You have done enough damage, and I won't give you the chance to do more. Everyone knows you stayed behind to take a walk along the cliffs, and everyone will be concerned when you don't return. I'll send out a search party, naturally. Prince Oileus and his nothing brother will join in the search, and they'll be shocked to find a piece of your clothing caught on a rock."
The queen reached for Aglaia's hem and tore a piece free. Aglaia's eyes widened and she struggled against her captors, but the two held her fast. Surely, Eupompe was only threatening her again, using Croco and Phlius to show Aglaia that she was not to be taken lightly.
The queen motioned toward the pile of boulders and Croco and Phlius dragged Aglaia to the top, standing her on the brink of the precipice. Queen Eupompe followed them and wedged the ragged piece of cloth between the edges of two sharp rocks.
"You will be mourned when they realize you slipped and fell to the rocks below and your body has washed out to sea," the queen murmured near Aglaia's ear. "I will shed tears for you, of course, so that no one knows how delighted I am to be rid of you and your meddling once and for all. My daughter will be grief-stricken and want to postpone the wedding, but I will assure her that you would want her to carry forth with the most important day of her life. You will be missed for a brief time, but life will resume without you."
The queen couldn't actually mean to toss her over the cliff! She had carried the threat as far as it could go and would command Croco and Phlius to release her at any moment. If the queen's intention was to frighten her, then Aglaia would act frightened and—
"Farewell, Lady Aglaia."
Suddenly, Croco's and Phlius' brutal hands left her body, and Aglaia, catapulted over the edge, was falling, falling. Instinctively, she screamed, but the muffled sound was cut short when she hit the rocks below and her breath was knocked from her body. Pain surged through her and her lower limbs bounced and turned unnaturally. Her torso folded in half then bent backwards and incredible pain flared hotter and sharper. More pain than she thought anyone could ever bear.
Unable to help herself, she slid down. Soothing cold water covered her completely, marginally relieving the searing pain that wracked her body. She was a goddess and immortal. She couldn't die, but she could be battered and broken. And she could hurt.
Aglaia floated, the bright flames of the sinking sun reflecting brilliantly off the water the last thing she saw before she mercifully passed out at last.
II
Hephaestus sat atop a boulder at the water's edge and watched the sun slip toward the sea while the breeze dried his long black hair. This was his favorite part of the day, sitting in solitude after his evening swim. He savored the smell of salt spray, the blazing colors of the setting sun, and the quiet.
After a time, he gathered the wavy locks in front and drew them tight to the back of his head, securing them with a leather thong. The rest he left to hang loose down his back as usual.
He scowled as he reached for the modified bronze greave leaning against the boulder and stood it in the sand before him. Drawing a deep breath, he seized his crooked foot and twisted it as far forward as his mighty strength could force it, then pushed his leg into the greave and snapped shut the closures. Breathing heavily, he leaned back against the boulder as the pain burned its way through his ankle and up his leg.
The throbbing would diminish in awhile although a niggling ache always remained as long as he wore the specially made greave. Forging armor had given him the idea of designing a leg brace from the shin guards that soldiers wore for protection. He had lengthened the basic design so that the greave also encased his foot, straightening its deformity and allowing him to walk without dragging the leg behind. With the greave clamped to his leg, he had a noticeable limp, but it was minor compared to his awkward gait without it.
By the time he heaved himself off the boulder, the sun was halfway in the sea. He started up the stretch of sand, but just as he turned to follow the path to the left leading to his caverns, a movement on the right caught his eye. When he looked, he saw nothing and started to turn away when another gust of wind caused something pale to flutter from behind a large rock.
Debris washed up from the sea, he decided, and turned to the left. He shook his head. What would be the point of walking around the rocks only to find a scrap of sailcloth flapping in the breeze? Still, it had looked like a more delicate fabric than sailcloth. Sighing, he swung his heavy greave-clad leg to the right and carefully stepped among the assorted rocks scattered along the shoreline.
Behind one of the bigger rocks, a female body lay prone with limbs sprawled in unnatural ways. A light colored chiton was half torn away and wrapped tightly around her thighs and the lush curves of her hips. The ebbing waters lapped at her feet then receded to reveal that one of her ankles was discolored and grossly swollen.
Her head was turned away from him, wrapped with long, tangling strands of wet-dark red hair. He limped closer and knelt beside her. Reverently, he reached out and lifted a dripping curl. This close he could see her skin was almost completely covered in a mosaic of bruises, cuts, and scrapes. Long, deep welts overlapped on her arms.
As much time as he spent on Lemnos, this was the first time the sea had expelled a dead body upon his shore. Dead. She had to be dead. No mortal body could have taken such a beating from the sea and survived. He wanted to hold her and breathe life back into her, but he didn't have the power. He could forge creatures of gold or bronze and bestow them with artificial intelligence and life, but he couldn't bring back the dead.
The only thing he could do for her was to build a funeral pyre and burn her body properly so her shade, her spirit, would find eternal rest. Gently, he laid the curl on the sand. First, he would straighten her limbs and clothing and carry her farther up the sand away from the breaking water. With as easy a touch as he could manage, he rolled her onto her back.
A shallow breath made her breast rise then fall.
"
Aglaia
!" The name burst from his lips.
Hephaestus had only seen her a few times, but he instantly recognized the goddess of grace, a Charis and his former wife's personal messenger. Aphrodite had carried out her duties in her own palace on Olympus, including her contact with the Charites and any errands she might have for them. Hephaestus had rarely ventured there. He often wondered why she'd carried on her affair with Ares in
his
house. So they would be caught and
he
would have the perfect excuse to rid himself of
her
?
This certainly wasn't the time to ruminate upon old insults. He shook himself and began to straighten her limbs, hoping he didn't hurt her further while doing so. Her pale skin was colder than the depths of the sea, and she didn't make a sound as he moved her arms and legs into more comfortable positions. Then he drew the torn chiton up to cover her ample breasts.
He gathered her into his arms and lifted her from the sand, shivering from the close contact of her cold, wet body. He had to get her inside where it was warm. He hobbled around the rocks and down the path to the entrance to his caverns.
As soon as he was inside the small first cave that he called the vestibule, he shouted, "Neda!"
He had crafted twelve maids of forged gold to serve him, and he had named them all Neda to avoid having to remember so many different names and the confusion that was sure to ensue because they all looked identical. Three of the serving maids appeared immediately at his urgent call. He quickly explained what had happened and what was needed, and they hurried away in three separate directions to carry out his orders.
Hephaestus left the vestibule by one of the long passageways that led to his smithy. Torches ensconced in the walls lighted his way. The fire in his forge was burning hot, and she would need the heat to warm her up.
A couch was set against the cave wall, opposite from his forge. He laid her on the soft cushions and rubbed her wrists while saying her name over and over. Although he was engulfed in the warmth of the room as soon as he stepped in, her skin remained cold, and she didn't respond to the sound of his voice at all.
One of the Nedas ran in and informed him everything had been readied as he had instructed. The heat from the forge didn't seem to be helping, so he lifted Aglaia again and traversed another long passageway down into the bathing room.
A natural depression in the rock served as a basin large enough in which to bathe. He had found a hot springs at a higher level than this small cave and tapped into it with bronze fittings he had designed and forged. Neda had opened the fitting to fill the basin and steamy water still poured from the spout.
Hephaestus lowered Aglaia into the basin and closed the spout when the water was deep enough to cover her up to her chin. Then he lowered her even further until only her face was above the surface. He dipped water by the handful and let it pour over her forehead, cheeks, and mouth, all bruised to some degree. She moaned, and her lips rubbed together, the tip of her tongue showing between them briefly.
Her skin was still cold to his touch, although she had been almost completely submerged for some time. Now she started to shudder violently in his arms, her teeth chattering together. He whisked her from the water and she convulsed against him as soon as the relatively cooler air hit her body. Neda stood nearby and threw a woolen blanket over her, and he rushed up another passageway to his bedchamber.
The caverns were his hideaway where he could work in peace and have the solitude he craved. He had never planned to invite guests, so he had never prepared other bedchambers. The room was lighted by scores of clay lamps arranged in clusters upon rocks he had split to provide flat surfaces and in niches he had carved at random in the walls. Neda had laid a blazing fire in a large crevice in the rock wall with a natural flue that drew smoke from the room.
First, he sat on the hearth as close to the fire as he could tolerate while holding Aglaia in his lap, her head propped on his shoulder. With one hand, he repeatedly drew his fingers through her thick red hair, carefully loosening the tangles and allowing the heat to penetrate to the scalp.
Touchable fire
, he thought, fascinated by the way the light danced in the red-gold of each strand.
Neda had added more woolen blankets to the large bed and drawn them back. Now, he laid Aglaia in the center of the mattress and tucked the coverings around her up to her chin. Close to the fire, she had stopped shaking, but now she began to shiver again, and he was at a loss as to what to do next. He dared not call Zeus or even Aphrodite unless he had a good explanation for how Aglaia came to be in this condition.
Zeus would react first and ask questions later as always. Aphrodite might accuse before he could even begin to explain how he'd found her. Aglaia would heal as quickly as any immortal, and in a day or two she would be conscious and able to tell him what had happened. Then she could tell him whom she wanted him to notify. Until then he would care for her as best he could and, when she was well enough, make sure she returned to Olympus where she belonged.
Hephaestus frowned. Her shivering hadn't lessened. He turned to tell Neda to bring more blankets, but the golden serving maid had already gone. He looked down at Aglaia again. Sighing, he unfastened the belt that held up the pleated leather wrap-around apron he wore to protect his private parts while at his forge. He dropped the belt and apron to the floor. He wore a linen garment to protect himself from chafing, but didn't remove it.
He eased into the bed beside Aglaia, gathered her into his arms with her back against him, and wrapped his body around hers. When she stopped shaking, she made small, whimpering sounds. He thought she might awaken, but she only pressed into him as if seeking more warmth.
Ignoring his body's reaction to her nearness, he closed his eyes and tried to think of other things. He hadn't lain with a woman in a long time. There had been others since Aphrodite, but he had come to appreciate being alone with no one else to answer to or be responsible for.
One private part seemed to have a mind of its own and wouldn't cooperate. He shifted away from her, so that if she did awaken before he left her side, she wouldn't think he was a threat to her.