Genichi's hand moved slowly across Hephaestus's face, his fingertips tracing her jaw, then her cheekbone and temple, before coming to rest at the edge of her black eyepatch.
His touch was gentle and deliberate, as though he were handling a fragile treasure or performing a solemn ritual.
Hephaestus went rigid.
She was like a bowstring drawn to its limit, ready to snap.
Her hand shot up and clamped around his wrist. Her knuckles whitened, her nails nearly digging into his skin.
Her uncovered eye filled with panic, fear, and a plea she hadn't even realized she was making.
No. Not here. Not now. Not like this.
Genichi stopped, but he didn't withdraw his hand.
His fingertips remained at the edge of the patch, where he could feel the uneven texture of the skin beneath.
He didn't pull or try to force it off. He simply held still, his hand like a flag planted before an unconquered fortress, declaring his resolve.
"I want to know what's beneath this eyepatch."
His voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking his determination.
Hephaestus tightened her grip on his wrist.
Her breathing quickened. She looked cornered, with nowhere to retreat, yet still struggling to find a way out.
Her lips trembled. She wanted to speak, but no words would come.
What could she say?
Don't?
She had already said that. He hadn't listened.
You'll regret it?
She wasn't certain he would.
This isn't something you should see?
But she wanted him to see.
She wanted him to see her as she truly was. She wanted to know whether he would recoil, whether he really could accept her as readily as he claimed.
Genichi's hand remained motionless against the patch.
He watched her calmly, neither rushing nor pressing her. He simply waited.
He knew the decision belonged to Hephaestus now.
He could tear the patch away and ignore her resistance.
But if he did, he would lose any chance of reaching her heart.
She had to choose this herself. She had to lower her defenses and open that door of her own accord.
"If we never face this, you'll never really be able to open your heart to me. Am I right, Hephaestus?"
His voice softened.
"So give me a chance. Give yourself one too."
She trembled.
Her fingers tightened around his wrist, loosened, then tightened again. The movement repeated as a fierce struggle played out within her. Fear warred with longing, reason with emotion, the past with the future.
Genichi waited quietly.
He didn't hurry her or offer empty reassurances.
Some decisions had to be hers alone.
He could help her, encourage her, and stand beside her. He couldn't choose for her.
"Demeter told me I had to come and ask you myself."
His voice broke the silence.
Hephaestus's brow creased slightly.
Demeter. The Goddess of Agriculture, her friend.
She knew about Demeter's relationship with Genichi. She knew Demeter would help him, and she knew her friend wouldn't hurt her.
But she hadn't expected Demeter to keep this to herself.
Demeter knew what lay beneath the patch. So did Astraea and Artemis. Many of the gods knew.
Any one of them could have told Genichi if he asked.
Yet they hadn't. They had chosen to remain silent and let him face it himself.
"Demeter said that if she told me, I'd have time to prepare myself. You'd see through that when we met, and it might only make things worse."
Genichi spoke evenly, simply laying out the facts.
"So I need to see for myself what's beneath this patch. If that's all it takes to scare me away, then it only proves I'm not much of a man. You wouldn't need to waste another thought on me."
Hephaestus fell silent.
She watched him, conflicting emotions filling her visible eye.
She knew he was right.
If Demeter had told him her secret, he would have approached her with the air of someone who already knew.
No matter how well he concealed it, there would have been a hint of condescending pity, of presumed understanding, of someone magnanimously offering to accept her flaws.
Hephaestus didn't want pity. She didn't want charity, or someone convincing himself that accepting her made him a better person.
She wanted equality. Respect.
She wanted someone to see her as a whole person, an ordinary woman worthy of love, rather than a failure who deserved sympathy.
At last, her fingers slowly loosened.
Her hand dropped to her side, her fingertips trembling.
She closed her eyes. Her lashes fluttered like a butterfly's wings.
Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she raised her chin a little, waiting as though a verdict were about to decide her fate.
Genichi gently caught the edge of the patch.
It was made of black leather, worn around the edges. She had clearly been wearing it for a long time.
He lifted it slowly and carefully, uncovering a secret that had been hidden for years.
Cool air brushed the newly exposed skin.
Hephaestus flinched, but she didn't pull away. She only bit her lip.
Then Genichi saw it.
An expanse of burn scars surrounded her right eye.
The dark red skin was puckered and uneven, extending from her brow to her cheekbone, from the bridge of her nose to her temple.
The scar tissue pulled at the surrounding skin, distorting it. Her lower eyelid was turned slightly outward, revealing a thin strip of red beneath.
The eye itself was intact. Like her left, it was crimson, the color of a burning flame. But encircled by those scars, it seemed trapped amid ruins, burning on in lonely defiance.
These were no ordinary scars.
They were the marks of divine fire, an imperfection the Goddess of the Forge had borne since birth.
She had tried to repair the damage with divine power, but it was not something that power could heal.
It had become part of her very nature, an indelible mark of her existence.
Genichi brushed his fingertips gently over the scars.
He could feel their uneven ridges, the warmth of her skin, and the trembling that ran through her.
His touch was careful and tender, as though he were stroking a damaged flower or soothing an old wound.
Hephaestus's eyes reddened.
A tear spilled from her left eye and slipped down her cheek, falling onto the back of his hand.
She bit her lip to keep from making a sound. But her shoulders trembled, her breathing grew uneven, and something in her heart began to soften.
"Don't you think it's ugly?"
Her voice was hoarse, carrying bitterness, self-mockery, and a fragile hope she hadn't even recognized herself.
(End of Chapter)
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