The goddess rolled her eyes. "You are not going to speak to me in poetry now, are you? Spare me, and leave the arts to Apollo. You’ve no talent for them, dearest."

Her efforts to get under his skin proved ineffective, and his chuckling persisted. He breathed deep at the end of it. "I cannot count the number of times that I have asked you the very question you now pose to me. And I have asked Zeus, and Mother, and many a god and mortal. I have searched myself for the answer, and every answer I have found has been nothing but vain hope."

He turned himself to face her more fully. His tense smile offset the pain behind his placid gaze. "You have accepted the finest crafts from me. I have given you gifts the likes of which mortals like this newest trifle of yours could only dream. And yet, it is all as nothing to you, who holds herself entitled to all creation. You are right. I have gifted mortals with the works of my hands before, and the awe, the wonder, the adulation on their faces is worth it every time.” He scoffed. "With you, on the contrary, it is as if I have dumped fresh mud into your lap."

"That simply isn’t true!" Aphrodite rebutted. "Who could fail to admire the lustrous crafts of the God of the Forge, the patron of craftsmen? Your gems and jewels, and your bracelets, and your crowns: I am grateful for all. And the girdle…” She adopted a coy smile. "The girdle is a particular favorite of mine."

Hephaestus ran his fingers through his coarse beard. "Mmm.” He uttered, brows drawing together. "It is the least a husband can do to lavish his wife with gifts and affection. And it is the least a wife can do to return that affection."

"I am here with you now, am I not?” Aphrodite reached for his arm. When he felt her touch, he jerked away. He summoned his staff to his hand and leaned upon it so that he might rise and gain some distance from the goddess. His eyes were aflame when he turned to her again, though he forced stoicism upon his face of flint.

"Who is the father?" he asked.

"W-What?"

Aphrodite’s stutter betrayed her. With greater fervor, Hephaestus questioned her again. "Who is the father?"

Her voice faltered as she struggled after a reply to the sudden accusation. "How dare you levy such spiteful accusations at me," she said. "I have seen others walk into your chambers and leave with creations for mortals they favor more times than I can count. Do you insult all who seek your aid, or am I your favorite victim?"

"You are my most deserving victim, and you would do well to dispense with your deceptions. Your wiles work wonders on all men and gods who cross your path, but I am not so easily manipulated. I see through the wool you seek to pull over my eyes. Were you Athena or even Artemis, I might put my faith in your words, but the would-be champions of Aphrodite are never soldiers."

Aphrodite crossed her arms, no longer able to meet his gaze. He narrowed his eyes in return. "For whom have you betrayed me this time?" he asked. The goddess gave no answer. Baring his teeth, Hephaestus slammed his fist against the wall, leaving a nasty crack in the stone. "Who?!" he demanded. Aphrodite bit her lip.

"Anchises," she muttered.

"Speak up!"

"Anchises! He is a mortal. He is the father.”

Hephaestus exhaled sharply, grunted, and wiped his mouth. He let out a dry chuckle, his voice wholly devoid of mirth. "A mortal," he repeated. He chuckled again. "I never imagined you, of all the ever-living gods, would ever deign to fraternize with mortals. It would nearly be noble were it not such a foul circumstance."

He hobbled toward his fountain, muttering under his breath all the while. Aphrodite’s gaze remained focused on the surface of the bed the two would never share. She idly fingered her golden locks and wondered at his thoughts. Hephaestus stooped low to wash his face and hands once more. His unwanted visitor finally looked up.

"This was inevitable," said Aphrodite. "Ares, Hermes, and now, Anchises: they were all inevitable. I am Love, Hephaestus. Even the King of the Gods presumes too much when he imagines he can simply hand Love over for one god to possess."

There was truth to her words. Hephaestus had known her nature from the start: coquettish, licentious, and infinitely passionate. Where the notion of coupling with her set the hearts of all other gods and mortals afire, he, the God of Fire, had always regarded her rather coldly. A being like her could never be more than trouble. Her ilk were and would ever be a cause of countless conflicts.

Zeus had given her over to be his wife specifically because Hephaestus had been beyond such baseless quarreling, though the leverage he’d gained by imprisoning his own callous mother hadn’t hurt. Nearly every day since, however, he found himself wishing that he was more like his mercurial kin. Aphrodite would never have been handed to him then. Better yet, she might even have loved him.

Sighing and squinting, he pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort to will away the mounting tension. "I don’t know what I expected, really," he conceded. "I suppose I hoped that you would come to embody something else in time. With ease, I can temper gold, steel, diamond, bronze, all manner of gems and metals that exist within the Earth. Perhaps I believed that I could temper your wild heart as well."

He lowered his hand and gazed into the font to see his haggard, mangy reflection staring back at him. He winced at the sight. "Perhaps I was a fool."

Aphrodite pursed her lips as she received his words. "Hephaestus," she began. The forge god raised a hand to cut her off.

"No," he interrupted. "It matters not. You can beg or plead or coo. You can weave whatever sweet words you’d like. You will not leave this room with any creation of mine, and never in a thousand years shall any bastard child of yours wield the works of my hands for himself. He will have to find his great destiny without my aid."

The goddess turned from him, pouting like a child denied. "Fine," she said. "I bet he will."

"Also, I am going to stand before Zeus this very eve. I am going to go to the King of Gods and demand that he annul my bond with you and return to me the bride price I was compelled to exchange for your hand."

He might as well have spat on her for the look that she gave him. "You’ll do what?" she uttered in disbelief.

"I’ll do as I’ve said," he replied. "I will not remain bound to you any longer, for you have denied your bond to me at every turn. I’ll not stand here and suffer this obligation while you shirk it with every comely male who looks your way."

Aphrodite once more found herself at a loss for words, though her mouth hung open in anticipation of those which her mind had yet to find. Hephaestus stared coldly on, searching her features for some sign of her thoughts on the matter. He saw her awe, but not its nature. His features twisted into a scowl the moment before he turned his back on her.

"Now, get out. I’ve work to do."

He limped toward the Golden Maidens he’d left frozen there and placed his thumb against their foreheads one after the other. Each once again sprung to life at his touch, giggling and bouncing as if they’d just been playing pretend all along. As much as they did to bring relief to his hardened heart, he was not much in a mood for them at the moment. "Find your sisters," he ordered somberly. "Prepare the forge. I wish to finish my project."

He’d meant to take more time to rest, but with so much on his mind, there was scarcely a chance that he would be able to set himself at ease. The forge was his place of labor, but it was also his sanctuary. There, he was safe from all of the disappointments and tribulations that seemed to plague no god but him. He could lose himself in the heat, the sweat, the pure craft that had won him his place on Olympus. There, he was the king, and all others were supplicants before his throne of iron.

"How could you?” The words Aphrodite finally chose failed to regain Hephaestus’ gaze, though he did perk up slightly. She slid to the nearest edge of the bed to him, her thinly-veiled legs hanging daintily over the side. She folded her hands together and watched him with earnest eyes. It was a more serious expression than she was used to, and it quickly grew uncomfortable against her delicate countenance. She maintained it all the same, sincere in her inquiry.

"How could I what?" Hephaestus replied after a moment.

"How could you deny me? I am lust and desire given form. The others threatened to war over me before Zeus saw fit to bind me to you. No man or god but you has ever refused a chance to know my touch. I lie here offering myself freely to you, and you respond with a desire to see our marriage broken up. How do you resist?"

"Not even a god can resist that which was never offered him," replied the lame divine. He spun slowly to face Aphrodite, and she recoiled when she saw how much his features had darkened.

"We have consummated our marriage. We have lain together since. But your embrace is barren to me. I look into your eyes and see nothing when we are together. Before me, you are not lust, nor are you desire. You are not love or beauty or temptation. You are just…cold."

Aphrodite raised her hand to her face, and her fingers slipped lightly against her parted lips. Hephaestus’ gaze only grew harsher. "Colder than the Styx," he concluded, "and thrice as wide for all the men who have entered your temple."

The accusation pierced her like a needle to the heart, forcing a gasp from the goddess. It actually granted Hephaestus a certain sense of satisfaction, evidenced by the mild softening in his features. He turned to move to his wall and soon busied himself with the task of rearranging the objects on his display rack to make space for some new creations.

"You know, I am not wholly incapable of understanding you," he said. "You are beautiful and spirited. I am homely and lame. I see now that I could never have been enough for you. I only wish for your sake that there existed a being who could."

Aphrodite regarded her husband with glassy eyes. His words cut deeper than she ever realized they could, proving his tongue to be as effective a weapon as any his hands could craft. She sat and endured as he took her apart and laid her bare, and when he was done, her soft gaze turned to stone. Her features darkened in contempt, but the object of her ire would not face her to receive her wrath.

"You are not as clever as you think you are," she seethed. "You do not know me, and you do not understand my nature."

Hephaestus let out a dry chuckle. "That is perhaps the saddest thing about our shared predicament," he said. "I know you better than any other."

"You do not. And you certainly know not my fate. I am more than content to be free of you and to choose my lovers as I please. Mine is not a heart to be tamed."

The forge god answered her with a shrug. At last, he turned to face her again, and though he found himself unsettled by the marked change in her demeanor, he did not let the weight of her emotion further burden his heavy heart.

"Will you leave now?" he asked coldly.

"If you will continue to refuse my bastard a proper weapon, then yes. I suppose there’s hardly a point in keeping your sterile company."

She slid off of the bed, her fingers curled into the closest approximation of a fist the dainty goddess ever achieved. The couple regarded one another for a few moments longer, each carrying considerations that neither would ever admit: thoughts of a life together, wherein he might be more pleasant and she more grounded. They both knew that they could never reach one another, but for just a moment, they wished together that they could.

Aphrodite turned on her heel and left in a huff, a quiet storm of grace and poise. Hephaestus watched her through narrowed eyes. His fingers tightened around the handle of his staff before he, too, turned to leave the chamber.

It was back to the forge for him, the only place where he might find sanctuary. Athena still needed her weapon.

…And maybe a lucky mortal might get to borrow it if he proved his cunning in battle.