The Forge and the Blessing
CLANG!
The sound was less a metallic ring and more a miniature thunderclap, compressed into the space between hammer and anvil. Cyd brought the massive forge-hammer down on the glowing orange ingot with everything he had. The impact wasn't clean; it was a brutal, flattening smash. A spray of incandescent sparks, white-hot and stinging, erupted in a radial burst. With each subsequent blow, molten slag—not mere sparks, but droplets of liquid rock the size of grapes—flew from fissures in the anvil to sizzle and pop on the stone floor.
"Angle the strike three degrees to the left," Hephaestus instructed, her eyes closed as she reclined in her intricate bronze wheelchair. Her voice was calm, analytical, cutting cleanly through the cacophony. "You're favoring your dominant side. It creates a weak grain."
"Understood, Lady Hephaestus," Cyd grunted through clenched teeth. He adjusted his grip on the hammer's haft, his knuckles white. The thing was monstrous, its head larger than his own skull, its weight seemingly increasing with every swing. He heaved it up and brought it down again, a diagonal strike this time.
KER-THUNK!
More magma-geysered. Cyd flinched, twisting his torso to avoid a globule that splattered against the floor where his foot had been a moment before. The heat in the chamber was a physical presence, a dense, shimmering wall that made the air taste of metal and ozone. He was stripped to the waist, his pale skin slick with a sheen of sweat that evaporated almost instantly, leaving behind a fine, salty grit.
"Um… my lady," he panted, pausing to wipe his forearm across his brow. "What… what exactly is the point of this?" He gestured with the hammer toward the ingot on the anvil. It was no longer a neat block. Under his inexpert blows, it had spread into a lumpy, lopsided pancake, its edges cracked and oozing semi-molten material. It looked less like the beginning of a sword and more like a metallic roadkill.
"Forging," Hephaestus replied simply, opening one molten-gold eye to regard him. Her gaze drifted over his bare torso—the lean, defined muscles earned from years with Chiron, the stark white of his skin against the soot and grime of the forge. There was a clinical appraisal in her look, the eye of a master artisan assessing material. "You are shaping metal with force and fire. The definition is quite literal."
"I meant the purpose," Cyd clarified, a note of exasperation creeping into his voice. He nodded toward a growing pile in the corner of the massive workshop. It was a haphazard stack of similar metallic atrocities—blobby daggers, twisted rods, a vaguely shield-shaped object that curled at the edges. "I've never so much as sharpened a knife. I'm creating… abstract art. Very heavy, very hot abstract art."
"Set your concerns aside. Every misshapen lump you produce will be melted down and reused," Hephaestus said, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching her scarred lips as she indicated the pile. "My resources are not so finite that your incompetence can deplete them."
"It just feels like a waste of your time," Cyd insisted, leaning on the hammer's haft. A profound, deep-seated fatigue was beginning to seep into his bones, a weariness that had nothing to do with physical exertion. It felt like his very spirit was being drained, ounce by ounce, with every reverberating clang.
"Is it?" Hephaestus mused, propping her chin on her hand. "I am currently crafting a treasure of incalculable worth. I know the artifact you desire, Cyd. A ward against divine malice. But I am not a vending machine for miracles. My aid has a price. You must meet my conditions."
"If the condition is forging a weapon that meets your standards," Cyd said with a weary laugh, "you'll be waiting until the next age of the world. Maybe the one after that."
A genuine chuckle, low and smoky, escaped her. "Do not trouble yourself with such comparisons. There is no one in this cosmos, mortal or divine, who can surpass me at this anvil. My condition is simple: you must continue to swing the hammer." Her golden eyes gleamed with a secret knowledge. "Though… I believe the requirement has just been satisfied."
CLANG—THUD.
The sound was wrong. The hammer didn't ring against metal; it slipped from Cyd's numb, trembling fingers and struck the stone floor with a dull, final thud.
Cyd's vision swam. The roaring heat of the forges, the shimmering air, the immense weight of the tool he'd been wielding for what felt like hours—it all coalesced into a wave of overwhelming dizziness. He reached out, his hand landing on the searing hot edge of the anvil for support. There was no sizzle of flesh, no smell of burning. His Styx-tempered skin merely accepted the heat, a fact he was dimly, absurdly grateful for.
"Consciousness… is…" he slurred, his words thick. His legs buckled. The world tilted on its axis, the forge fires blurring into streaks of orange and white. He slumped, his body folding gracelessly to the soot-stained floor beside the fallen hammer. The last thing he felt was the intense, dry heat of the stone against his cheek.
"Is it not strange?" Hephaestus's voice seemed to come from far away. He heard the soft, precise whir of gears and the click of bronze wheels on stone as her chair moved. It came to a stop beside him. "The hammer you were using… it is no ordinary tool. It is the hammer that shaped Zeus's thunderbolts. That tempered Poseidon's trident. That folded the metal for Hades's helm of darkness and Apollo's sun-chariot. Every divine weapon you have heard sung of in epic poetry likely felt its kiss."
With a casual gesture of her hand, the massive hammer levitated from the floor, spinning slowly in the air before settling gently into her waiting palm. She hefted it as if it were made of balsa wood. "It is a weight meant for divine will. For a mortal to even lift it is a trial. To swing it… is to hammer upon your own spirit, to temper your essence as one tempers steel."
She glanced at the pile of misshapen "art" Cyd had created. A flicker of something like professional offense crossed her face. "To think that those were born from the same tool that forged the Aegis… it is frankly insulting." She snapped her fingers.
The pile of failed creations shuddered. Then, as one, the twisted lumps of metal rose into the air, suspended in a silent constellation of his incompetence. From a circular vent in the floor beneath them, a controlled torrent of raw, white-hot magma erupted, engulfing the metal completely. The chamber's light intensified, casting long, dancing shadows.
"Thirteen ingots of celestial iron," Hephaestus murmured, watching the magma churn. "Enough, perhaps, to craft a weapon that could rival the master bolt itself. But…" Her gaze fell to the unconscious form at her feet. "This child does not seek a weapon. He seeks a sanctuary. A blessing."
As she spoke, thirteen distinct streams of molten light—not magma, but concentrated essence of the divine metal—separated from the central mass. They spiraled through the air like fiery serpents, their paths converging on Cyd's left wrist. Where they touched, the air shimmered and solidified. The light condensed, cooled, and took form.
A bracer. It was a masterwork of impossible simplicity. Seamless, pure white, with the texture of polished moonstone or the inside of a seashell. It was neither metal nor stone, but something in between. Set into its flawless surface were thirteen small, teardrop-shaped crystals, each currently clear and empty as glass.
"The vessel is prepared," Hephaestus said, her voice soft. She looked down at Cyd, his white hair stark against the dark floor, his chest rising and falling in slow, deep breaths. A complex emotion, one she hadn't felt in eons, stirred in her chest—a blend of pity, fascination, and a fierce, protective pride in her own craftsmanship. "But to complete it… that journey is yours alone."
---
My head… feels like it's been used as an anvil.
That was Cyd's first coherent thought. The second was a sensory confusion: despite the pounding ache behind his eyes, the surface he was resting on was impossibly soft. It yielded beneath his head with a gentle firmness, and it was cool in a way the forge had never been.
He opened his eyes.
His field of vision was filled with soft, creamy white fabric. And just at the upper edge, a tantalizing, dangerous hint of curved shadow and smooth skin, the beginning of a cleavage revealed by a loosely fastened chiton.
Cyd's eyes slammed shut.
"Hm? Awake already? Your resilience is better than I estimated." Hephaestus's voice came from directly above him. He heard the soft rustle of fabric being adjusted.
"Lady… Hephaestus," Cyd managed, his voice hoarse. He tried to sit up, but his body refused the command. He could barely twitch his fingers. The realization of his position dawned with horrifying clarity: he was lying with his head in her lap. Again. "Where… am I?"
"My chambers. And…" he felt cool fingers on his face, gently prying one of his eyelids open. Her scarred, beautiful face filled his view, her amber eyes amused. "It is customary to look at a deity when you address her."
"My apologies!" The words were a reflex.
"It is of no consequence. The fact you can open your eyes at all is a testament to your stubbornness," she said, releasing his face. She then took his left wrist and lifted his arm, placing the bracer directly in his line of sight. "This. This is what you came for."
In the act of leaning over, the loose neckline of her chiton gaped further. The soft, warm swell of her breast pressed briefly, accidentally, against the side of Cyd's face.
It was… soft. And it smelled faintly of ozone, hot metal, and something else—something clean and sharp, like citrus and alpine air. The scent was dizzying.
He forced himself to focus on the bracer. Hephaestus was waving his hand slightly, as if showing off a new piece of jewelry. "A divine artifact. A ward capable of resisting, even nullifying, curses. Even those uttered by the Olympians themselves."
Cyd's heart, which had been stumbling along in a rhythm of panic and exhaustion, gave a sudden, powerful lurch.
My ordinary life… it starts now?
"Assuming it is ever completed, of course," Hephaestus added, her tone turning mischievous. She used her free hand to lightly tap his cheek, bringing his soaring hopes crashing down.
"Eh? It's not finished?!" Cyd's expression froze.
"Of course not. What you ask for borders on the conceptual. It is less an 'object' and more a 'blessing given physical form.'" She released his wrist, letting his arm fall back to his side. "A simple charm against minor hexes? I could create a dozen before my next breath. But an immunity to the focused malice of a god? That requires a foundation. A ritual."
"What… kind of ritual?" Cyd asked, a sinking feeling in his gut. His instincts, honed by years of dodging fate, screamed that he had just boarded a one-way chariot to Tartarus.
"Simple in description," Hephaestus said, a smile playing on her lips. She tapped one of the thirteen clear crystals on the bracer. "You must acquire a spoken blessing—a genuine, willingly given benediction—from each of the twelve Olympian Council members." She tapped the thirteenth, slightly larger crystal at the center of the wrist. "And one from the Lord who rules the Underworld. Thirteen blessings. Not one may be missing."
Cyd's soul seemed to leave his body for a moment. He stared at her, his eyes wide and utterly devoid of hope. "My lady… is a refund possible? I'd be perfectly happy with one of those… lumpy daggers I made. Really. No need to go to all this trouble."
"Too late," she said, not unkindly. "A blessing is also a chain. A curse can be its inverse. From the moment this bracer touched your skin, your fate was set: you will either become one blessed by the gods… or one cursed by them all. There is no middle path now."
She leaned down again, her face close to his, her breath stirring his white hair. Her intense gaze pinned him. "I… don't even remember putting it on," Cyd whispered, a broken laugh escaping him. "And what you're asking… it's impossible. No one, not even a demigod hero, could do that."
"The gods' favorite pastime," Hephaestus murmured, a genuine, almost girlish smile lighting her features, making the scars on her cheek gleam, "is watching mortals accomplish the impossible. Child of Pure White… entertain me."
A desperate, wheedling look came into Cyd's eyes. "Could I… maybe get one blessing from you? To start? A down payment?"
"Ah, that's simple enough," she said, her smile turning playful. She booped his nose with a soot-smudged finger. "Get the other twelve first. Then you'll have mine."
"No room for negotiation at all," Cyd sighed, closing his eyes. The weight of the task was a physical pressure on his chest. "But I can't go back, can I?"
"This world was not built with 'turning back' in mind," Hephaestus said softly. Her voice held a note of ancient, weary wisdom. Then, to his shock, he felt her arms slide around his head. She pulled him closer, until her cheek was resting against his. Her skin was warm, the textured scars smooth under his touch. Her scent enveloped him.
"Tradition holds," she whispered, her breath a tickle against his ear, "that a hero embarking on a great journey receives a kiss for luck from a beautiful maiden."
She paused, her voice dropping to a self-deprecating murmur. "I hope you will not find a crippled, scarred forge-goddess too poor a substitute for—"
His left hand—the one bearing the pure white bracer—rose shakily from his side. With a gentle, deliberate motion, he placed it on the back of her head, his fingers tangling in the fiery strands of her hair. It was an act of surprising intimacy, of comfort.
"I swear to the gods," he said, his voice firm despite his weakness, his eyes still closed as if to make the vow more solemn. "You are beautiful."
Hephaestus went very still. Then she let out a soft, shaky breath he felt against his neck. "To swear falsely to the gods… is to invite a curse, you know."
"I'm a coward," Cyd murmured, a faint, tired smile on his own lips. "I would never dare lie to them."
I know, Hephaestus thought, her heart doing a strange, unfamiliar flip in her chest. I've known since the first of your offerings eight years ago. Since the day you thanked the fire not for victory, but for warmth.
A small, genuine, unguarded smile touched her lips as a flush appeared on her scared face. She pulled back just enough to look down at his pale, exhausted face.
"You will become a remarkable hero, Cyd."