Chapter Text
Hephaestus's Forge. The Foot of Olympus. Day sixty-three.
The thunder of the hammer echoed throughout the surrounding area.
Hephaestus hadn't stopped for two weeks. Ever since Zeus approved the evacuation of mortals to Olympus, the god of smiths had been working without sleep or rest. His mighty hands, stained with soot and metal dust, clenched the hammer again and again, forging piece after piece.
Boats.
Enormous boats, incredibly large, capable of holding hundreds of people at a time. Not just boats—amphibious vessels that could navigate the stormy seas and hover above the water if the waves became too dangerous.
Ares came to him in the third week.
"Hephaestus," the god of war said, without his usual impudence. "I need you to make ships. Lots of ships. Ships that won't sink."
"Why do you need that?" "Hephaestus asked, not raising his head from the anvil.
"Save people." Ares hesitated. "I... I promised Hera. And I want to myself. I don't know how to save people. But if it has to be done, then it has to be done."
Hephaestus then raised his head and looked at his half-brother with a long gaze.
"Are you serious?"
"For the first time in my life." Ares chuckled. "And, you know, it doesn't even hurt."
Hephaestus chuckled and got to work.
Now, on the sixty-third day, dozens of hulls towered around him. Some were already finished, shining with fresh metal. Others were in the process of being assembled. Still others were only on blueprints, spread throughout the workshop.
"Hephaestus!"
A voice from the entrance stopped his hammer mid-stroke.
He would have recognized that voice among a thousand. Melodious, sweet, maddening—the voice that once made his heart beat faster. The voice that whispered sweet words to him while she waited for him to make her another piece of jewelry.
Aphrodite.
He didn't turn around. He simply continued hammering, pretending not to hear.
"Hephaestus, I know you can hear me." She came closer, and the scent of her perfume filled the workshop, drowning out the smell of metal and sweat. "Stop pretending."
"I'm working," he muttered without turning around. "If you need trinkets, ask someone else. I don't have time."
"I don't need trinkets." Aphrodite walked around him and stood directly in front of the anvil, blocking the light. "I need to talk."
Hephaestus finally raised his head.
She was beautiful. As always. Golden hair, radiant skin, eyes the color of the morning sea—even now, when the world was crumbling, she managed to look as if she had just emerged from the sea foam.
"About what?" he asked wearily.
"About us."
Hephaestus blinked. Then he blinked again. Then he put down his hammer and crossed his arms over his chest.
"Sorry, I think I overheated in the forge. I thought you said 'about us.'"
"You heard me right." Aphrodite stepped closer. "I've been thinking a lot lately. About what happened. About how I treated you. About how I was... wrong."
Hephaestus looked at her and felt a familiar wave rise within him. Pain. Resentment. Anger. And somewhere deep, deep inside—a tiny spark of hope that he couldn't extinguish, no matter how hard he tried.
"You were wrong," he repeated slowly. "You cheated on me with my brother. In front of everyone. Systematically. You made me the laughingstock of all Olympus. And now, millennia later, you come and say you were wrong?"
"I've changed, Hephaestus." She placed her hand on his chest. "I realized you were the only one who truly cared for me. Ares... he's just using me. And you... you've always been kind to me."
Hephaestus took her hand, removed it from his chest, and gently but firmly pushed it aside.
"What do you want, Aphrodite?"
She blinked, feigning offense.
"I told you—I want to fix our relationship."
"No." He shook his head. "I know you. You never do anything without a reason. What do you want?"
She paused, and something flickered in her eyes—annoyance? irritation? — but it quickly disappeared, replaced by the same sweet smile.
— Okay. You're right. I need your help.
— What kind?
— Ares and I need armor. Special armor. Something that warms the body. It's very cold down there. The water is icy, the wind is piercing. And we're trying to save people, but we're freezing. I'm not used to this kind of cold, Hephaestus. I'm the goddess of love, not winter.
Hephaestus looked at her and felt his insides boil.
— Armor, he repeated. — For you and Ares.
— Yes. You're the best blacksmith. No one can make it better than you.
— And that's why you decided to 'make things right'? His voice rang with metal. "So I can make armor for you and your lover?"
— Hephaestus...
— No. He turned abruptly and walked back to the anvil. "No." I couldn't forge.
"What?"
"I said NO." He grabbed the hammer and struck the hot metal with all his might. Sparks flew everywhere. "I don't have time to forge armor for you and him. See this?" He gestured around the workshop. "These are boats. Enormous boats that will save thousands of lives. I've been working on them for two weeks without sleep. Ares commissioned them to pull people out of the water. And you come asking for trinkets to keep you warm while your lover does the real work?"
Aphrodite stepped back. and a step.
"You don't understand..."
"I understand everything." Hephaestus turned to her. His eyes burned with a fury she'd never seen before. "You've never changed. You've always thought only of yourself. Your comfort. Your beauty. And when the world collapses, you come to the one you betrayed and ask for a favor. And you think your smile is enough."
She opened her mouth to answer, but he didn't give it to her.
"Ares, by the way, didn't ask for armor." Hephaestus smiled bitterly. "He came and asked for boats. For others. For salvation. He, Ares, the god of war, who only knows how to kill—he came and asked for tools for salvation. And you, the goddess of love, ask for warmth."
The silence in the workshop became deafening.
Aphrodite looked at him, and for the first time, something real appeared in her eyes. Not a game. Not pretense. Confusion.
"I..." she began.
"Go away," Hephaestus said quietly. "Just go away. And don't come back."
She stood for another minute, looking at him. Then she turned and left. Her footsteps faded into the distance, and the scent of perfume gradually dissipated, giving way to the familiar smell of metal and sweat.
Hephaestus stood at the anvil, gripping the hammer so tightly his knuckles turned white.
"You're a good boy," a voice came from the entrance.
He turned around abruptly.
Ares stood in the doorway. The God of War, his clothes soaking wet, with drops of water in his hair, but with an expression Hephaestus had never seen on his face. Respect.
"Did you hear?" Hephaestus asked.
"That's it." Ares entered and leaned against the wall. "I was going to check on the boats." I heard her voice. Decided not to interfere.
"And rightly so." Hephaestus put down his hammer and wiped the sweat from his brow. "She asked for armor. For the two of you. To keep warm."
Ares snorted.
"Armor? Seriously? I told her we didn't need it. That we could handle it. But she..." He waved his hand. "She always thinks a pretty smile solves all problems."
"You didn't ask for armor."
"I didn't."
"You asked for boats."
"I did."
Hephaestus looked at him longingly.
"You've changed, Ares."
"Getting old, I guess." Ares chuckled. "Or maybe I've just realized that killing can't last forever. Sometimes you have to save, too."
They were silent.
"Are the boats ready?" Ares asked.
"Ten of them. Another twenty are in the works." Hephaestus nodded at the hulls. "They can hold up to five hundred people each. They can swim, they can fly. I've built in mechanisms that lift them above the water in strong waves."
Ares approached the nearest boat and ran his hand along the side.
"Beautiful," he said. "Reliable."
"I tried my best."
Ares turned to him.
"Thank you, brother. Truly. We couldn't have done it without you."
Hephaestus raised an eyebrow in surprise. Ares never thanked anyone. Anyone. Never.
"Are you sure you're Ares?" he asked. "You haven't been replaced?"
"Go away." Ares chuckled, but without malice. "It's just... when the world is crumbling, you realize what's truly important. And what's important is family. Even a broken family like ours."
Hephaestus nodded.
"Go save people," he said. "And I'll keep forging."
"Have you even had a rest?"
"No time."
"Hephaestus..."
"Ares." He looked at his brother. "People are dying down there. While I'm resting, someone's drowning. I'll sleep when it's all over."
Ares wanted to object, but thought better of it. He simply clapped him on the shoulder (almost knocking him down—the god of war still had plenty of strength) and headed for the exit.
He paused at the door.
"Hephaestus."
"Huh?"
"You did the right thing sending her away." He didn't turn around. "She doesn't deserve you. She never did."
And he left.
Hephaestus stood in the silence of his workshop, looking at the door behind which the god of war had disappeared. The god of war who had just spoken kind words to him. The god of war who saved people. The god of war who had changed.
"The world has truly gone mad," Hephaestus muttered, picking up his hammer again.
The roar resumed.
Strike. Another strike. Another.
The metal rang, sparks flew, and there was something soothing in the rhythm. Something eternal. Something that said: as long as there is work, there is hope.