A shower of sparks greeted Hermes as he stepped into Hephaestus’ forge. The cavernous room was carved into the mountain rock below the palace of Olympus. Nymphs with soot-encrusted faces rushed around the workshop, manipulating the bellows and tinkering with various mechanical contraptions.
Hephaestus was the second child born from the union of Zeus and Hera, the King and Queen of Heaven. He was, inHermes’ mind, far superior to his brutish older brother, Ares. It was Hephaestus who had created the Olympians’ armour, having discovered a way to smelt the gold while imbuing it with life-threads so it could channel, store and amplify the wearer’s power.
The God of Craftsmen leant over a central workbench. He wore a leather apron over his large torso and a bronze mask protected his face. As Hermes bounded down the stairs, his half-brother set down the axe he was grinding and slid up his face-covering.
‘What do you want, Pip?’ It was a pet name born from Hermes’ diminutive stature and his love of playing the pipes.
Hermes pointed to the golden wings attached to the ankle of his left boot. ‘I need you to look at the wing joint. Something’s not right when I fly long distances, I keep veering off at an angle.’
Hephaestus raised a grizzled eyebrow. ‘Nothing wrong with the boots, it’s your flying technique.’
Hermes scowled. ‘It is not.’
It had been a devastating blow to Hermes to discover after his divinity ceremony that he would remain as he was forever: an ageless man trapped in the body of an undersized youth. He had isolated himself in his chambers for weeks, until Hephaestus visited with his newly forged armour. His brother had told him that his suit was special because it had wings, and if he were any larger, they wouldn’t have supported him. The very next day, Hermes had left his chambers to practise. It had taken a good year and many broken bones before he conquered the agility of flight. And that was before testing the boots outside of the safety of Olympus’ walls, where he was at the mercy of the wind. But what were years to a god? Now he could soar higher than any bird, any winged horse. He alone was master of the sky.
Hephaestus made a dismissive grunt, flicked down his visor and turned back to the axe. ‘I’m busy, come back later.’
‘What’s that?’ Hermes pointed at the weapon.
Once more, Hephaestus pushed back his face-covering. ‘It’s called anaxeand you use it to chop –’
‘You know what I mean.’ Hermes stepped closer. An axe crafted by Hephaestus was never just an axe.
His brother’s face stretched into a lopsided grin, and he grasped the weapon in his left hand. He clicked his fingers and beckoned to a couple of nymphs, the bronze brace supporting his right arm reflecting the firelight of the forge.
Hundreds of years ago, Hephaestus had tried to steal a golden apple from their father and uncover the secrets of its divine gifts. As punishment Zeus had thrown him from the palace walls. When Hephaestus had crawled back up the slope of Mount Olympus, Zeus had forbidden him access to the mortals kept prisoner in the Olympus vault. So, without draining the life-threads of another, Hephaestus’ body had mended with all the agonizing twists and aches of a mortal recovery. After years of rehabilitation and self-designed apparatus to support his damaged muscles and broken bones, he had taught himself to walk again, but his body could not be remade as it once was.
Hermes swallowed as he thought of how close he’d come to incurring his father’s wrath that morning. Hephaestus’ disability was a permanent reminder of just how hot Zeus’ anger could burn.
His brother spun the axe between his fingers as the nymphs carried over a plank of wood, stopping in front of him to hold it at waist height. Hephaestus pulled down his visor then swung the weapon over his head. The blade sank into the wood with a soft thud. Hermes frowned. Hephaestus hadn’t even tried to break the plank, and the nymphs barely even staggered under the blow. How disappointing.
Then the wood exploded.
The nymphs cried out as thousands of needle-sharp splinters shot across the room, embedding in their unprotected flesh.
Hermes grinned. ‘Nice.’
Hephaestus returned the axe to the workbench then picked several shards of wood from his scarred forearms. ‘Before you ask, no you can’t. It’s for Ares.’
Hermes’ elation soured. ‘You could make it faulty …’
Hephaestus chuckled. ‘As much as I’d like to blow him up, I don’t think Father would approve.’ He removed his metal visor and ran a hand through his sweaty hair. ‘I must get on. Come back tomorrow.’
Hermes drew himself up. ‘Ares can wait. Father has tasked me with a secret mission.’
Hephaestus paused. ‘You? A secret mission?’
‘Yes.’
A strange look crossed his brother’s face. ‘Fine,’ he sighed. ‘I’ll take a look at the wing now.’
Hermes grinned and set about tugging off his boot.
Hephaestus set it on the workbench and hunched over it. Hermes waited while his brother tinkered, twisting his fingers behind his back to prevent himself fiddling with things he shouldn’t.
After several minutes Hephaestus held out the boot. ‘Done. One of the feathers was out of place.’
‘Ha, I knew it!’ Hermes slipped his foot back into the boot and rose into the air, the metallic wings vibrating at his heels. ‘Thank you.’ Then he added, ‘Father will be most pleased.’
