The hero’s sword lies on the ground with
other debris that rattled loose during the eruption, its blade
forgotten. The hammer he’d used to work the steel into submission
is buried beneath rubble, the anvil covered in a coat of soot and
ash. The fires have banked, untended for days. Neglect settles over
the workshop like dust, waiting for Hephaestus to return.
He broods alone in his room, away from the
source of his power. His body burns with the memory of Aean’s
touch—when he lies in his narrow bed, he feels the water god above
him, drowning him like the sea. As emasculated as he feels, he
hates to admit a part of him wants to feel Aean in him again. He
needs it, the sensation of suffocation, of giving up, of giving in.
To be taken so forcefully, to be wanted.
More than anythi
