one-two rhythm his hammer makes as it hits the steel. The god mortals call Hephaestus stands before his anvil sheathed in only a dingy loincloth and an asbestos apron that protects the hair on his chest and legs from the fires around him. His strong arms work in unison, one holding the unfinished end of the steel bar he’s drawing out into a staff, the other clenched tight around the hammer’s handle. The dark hair atop his head curls from the heat, the ends dripping with sweat that courses down his back and face in beads, blazing through the soot and grime masking his skin. Every so often he shifts his weight from his good leg to put it onto his crippled left foot for a moment or two before pain flares in damaged bones and he has to shift again. Whenever he leans too heavily on his bad leg,
