To Love a God

To Love a God By J.M. Snyder The fires in his forge burn like the pits of Hades themselves. Flames lick along the steel he hammers, mirrored in the red hot blade he forces into shape. Sweat drips down his back and pools beneath his arms, in his palms, between his legs. It courses down his grimy face, stinging his eyes for a moment before he wipes at it roughly with one dingy forearm. He pauses to shift his weight from his bad leg and wince at the calluses that have formed on the bottoms of his feet from standing so long in such heat. Then he leans over his anvil, hammer raised, and easily finds his rhythm again. By the time the steel cools, the blade has begun to submit to his vision. It’s far from finished, and the smithy god mortals call Hephaestus knows it will take many long hours before the sword is ready to be borne into battle. It will be a hero’s sword, commissioned by the gods themselves, paid for with this new forge deep in the heart of an island off the coast of Greece. His workshop is isolated in a lone mountain called Thera which rises like a stubborn tooth on the western side of the island. Its shade obscures the morning sun, keeping the temperatures of his forge down during the early hours. Hephaestus rises before dawn to take advantage of the weather. His fires take longer to stoke, but his leg doesn’t ache with the heat and he works faster when the temperature outside makes the forge cooler. But as Helios races across the sky, the mountain’s interior warms and even an immortal being succumbs to the flames. Shortly before dusk the forge reaches its peak—iron tools burn to the touch, and the fires sizzle with a white glow that rivals the sun. Dipping the battered blade into a nearby bucket of tepid water to harden it, Hephaestus wipes his brow with the back of his arm and grimaces at the sooty sweat that makes the hairs along his forearm stand in the heat. He leaves the blade on a nearby bench and reaches for a gnarled walking stick resting against the stone wall. He has to lean heavily on the stick, putting his weight on his good leg as the brace he wears on his left creaks with each step. The leather straps are tight against his knee and calf, the buckles searing into his skin, the metal brace itself so hot from the forge’s ambient heat that Hephaestus hobbles more than usual. What kind of god feels pain? It’s a question he’s asked himself a million times, one for which he has no answer. He is not like his kin, he knows. With one lame leg braced to keep him upright, a walking stick to keep him mobile, harsh features, brooding eyes, a wiry beard crackling with flame, and ropy muscles forged from smithing, he is nobody’s idea of perfection. Indeed, far from it. A lingering odor of burnt solder clings to him, adding to his manly stench of sweat and musk. His bed is narrow and lonely, his sheets filled with soot and regret. His wife refuses to enter his forges—even this island paradise isn’t good enough for her, the frigid b***h. Not that he wants her here. He likes being by himself, alone with his thoughts, with nothing but the sound of his hammer counting out the minutes. He likes waking when he wants, working to his own schedule. At his forge he feels complete, whole again and not just an immortal being encased in the fractured image of a man.