Page 13 of Aïdes the Unseen
“I came to see what you’ve been forging,” Ares said to Hephaestus, voice quiet, dangerous in its ease. “You’ve been underground too long. Makes a man forget the sun or beauty—or softness.”
“I remember them,” Hephaestus replied, low and even. “I just know better than to worship them.”
A flicker passed through Ares’ jaw. Not quite anger. Something older. He took a step closer, and the fire between them hissed.
Hermes muttered, “Gods save us, someone give them both something to punch.”
I moved between them, not directly or foolishly, just enough to draw Ares’ eyes back to me. “You didn’t come for the play.”
“I don’t enjoy theater,” he murmured, his voice softer now. “But I do enjoy watching people wear masks.” His eyes tracedmy face as if he could see something hidden under the surface. I held his gaze. I would not step back.
Then, with a flicker of mischief or, more likely, madness, Hermes clapped his hands and declared, “Who wants figs? I’ve got a basket of indecently ripe ones, and I’m not afraid to bribe a war god with dessert.”
It worked.
The tension cracked, just a hairline fracture, but it was enough. Some of the breath came back into the firelight, into the crowd nearby. Ares blinked, then looked to Hermes with the faintest snort of amusement.
“Keep him leashed,” he said, nodding toward Hephaestus. “Or I will.” Then he turned back to me, and his smile appeared—slow, unsettling, a blade dipped in honey. “I hope the turning doesn’t soften you too much, Kore,” he said. “You’re too lovely to be broken. But beauty doesn’t stop blades, does it?” He took one step closer, close enough that I could smell blood and myrrh, and bent his head just slightly toward mine. “Call me if the forge ever grows too cold.”
Then he was gone. No flourish, no flare. Just absence, swift and sudden, like a weapon withdrawn.
I exhaled, not realizing until then that I’d been holding the air in my lungs like a shield.
Hermes handed me a fig, solemnly.
“God of war,” he said, “still doesn’t know how to read a room.”
Hephaestus hadn’t moved.
“Are you well?” I asked.
“Yes, I always am,” he said, voice even, but the edge in it was hammered sharp.
We sat again, the three of us. The fire crackled. The music had stuttered to silence. But the night, it seemed, had remembered what else it could become.
The fires burned low behind me. Laughter echoed faintly, already fading.
I walked toward the temple, where offerings would sleep in baskets by the altar, and the marble would still be warm from the day’s sun. The air had cooled, touched with dew and a hush that felt almost sacred.
Hermes strolled beside me, hands in his sleeves, humming something tuneless.
“You don’t have to follow me,” I said softly.
“Who said I’m following?” he replied. “I’m just walking. Coincidentally in the same direction.”
I glanced at him, and he gave me that half-grin—easy, quicksilver. But he didn’t press. For once, his silence felt like a kindness. The path wound through olive trees, silver leaves fluttering like coins overhead. Crickets sang. A moth passed close to my face, its wings the color of ash.
“Did you enjoy yourself?” Hermes asked, finally.
I considered the question. “I watched. I listened. I was part of it, and not,” I said. “Like a statue someone dressed in flowers.” It was how I often felt.
“Sounds familiar,” he said, tilting his head toward the moon. “You can always tell the real gods from the ones that like to perform being gods.”
I smiled faintly. “What about you?”
“I perform so well I forget who I am most days,” he said, with a wink. “But you? You’re starting to know. That’s the difference.”
I let his words settle, dust floating on water.
