Pale Eyes

by James Welsh

As Athena made her way through the glowing tunnels, she wondered if she was making a mistake. The winding paths deep inside the volcano were exactly as she pictured them: just as narrow as they were shallow. This proved to be a problem, as streams of running magma covered the ground like rugs, engulfing the caverns in a loud light. She thought of the warning that Hermes gave: if she let one drop of the sticky magma touch her, she could very well be trapped in the burning rivers, maybe forever.

  “Well,” she muttered to herself, “at least I’m not in the dark.”

  She was glad that she took Hermes’ advice about the sandals. If she had used her owl transformation, the low ceilings would have meant her flying too close to the heat. The last thing Athena wanted was burning off all of the owl’s feathers and the bird, and her spirit, tumbling into the magma.

  In her goddess form, the magma just felt uncomfortable, but it was awkward flying. She was not used to the winged sandals that Hermes had given her. There were several times when she bumped into the wall or the ceiling and almost fell into the heat. It took all of her nerve to keep going, even though her brain was screaming at her to turn and leave. The tunnels were so tight, though, that she doubted she could even turn – not without wading in the magma.

  At first the thought was a small one, in the back of her mind – then it began to grow and take over. When she had first dove into the volcano’s mouth, she had found several tunnels at the base. She didn’t spend a lot of time choosing one tunnel over the others – she just felt that the tunnel to the right was the one to use. Again, it went against all of her logic, because nothing distinguished that tunnel from the others. For all she knew, she could have been going down the wrong tunnel – and what would happen if she reached a dead end? Could she find Hephaestus in time?

  I guess I have to know where I’m at first before I can find Hephaestus, Athena thought with gritted teeth. The magma beneath her popped, and Athena swerved to avoid the melting plaster. She hit the wall hard, but she managed to regain her balance. But her breathing began picking up again when she looked back and noticed smoke coming from her left foot. The burst of magma had caught her sandal and now the wings were on fire.

  Athena swore and awkwardly tried reaching back to extinguish the flames. But she quickly realized that she couldn’t do that – not without dipping into the magma and catching the rest of her clothes on fire. Athena alternated between looking back at her fiery shoe and looking forward, desperately hoping to reach dry ground sooner rather than later. Already, she could feel the wings disintegrating from the intense heat, and the sandal began to limp. While she was still floating in the hot air, she could certainly feel a stutter in her sandals. She wondered how much longer she could fly on one winged sandal.

  “I hope Hephaestus can fix broken wings,” Athena mumbled. She was not looking forward to the same trip back to the mainland, especially if she only had one good shoe to fly on. And that was when she saw it: a darkness at the far end of the tunnel. There must be a cave or something at the end, Athena wondered. At least it doesn’t look like there’s lava there.

  Encouraged by this, Athena willed her remaining wings onward. The sandals flapped as hard as they could, and Athena propelled herself the rest of the way down the tunnel. The darkness grew and grew until Athena flung herself out of the tunnel and skidded across a hard stone floor. She was still for a moment, just grateful to be on a floor that wasn’t trying to hurt her. Then, she slowly got up and looked around, and what she saw was wonderful.

  It was Hephaestus’ fabled workshop, filling every inch of the vast cavern. Athena walked slowly past the shelves and shelves of raw materials, all of which towered high above her, just scraping against the tall ceiling. The shelves held a hoard of gold and silver and bronze and iron and a thousand other metals and precious stones for which men have killed each other for centuries. Athena wondered if the reason why the stones were so rare and precious in the outside world was because they were all stored in this volcanic chamber.

  “How does he reach the tallest shelves?” Athena whispered to herself as she walked through the library of metals.

  “I have my assistants,” a voice called out, through a shelf next to Athena. The goddess jumped, startled, and she looked through the shelf to the next aisle. She saw a slouched man, whose face was soft and pushed around like clay.

  Athena said nothing but watched as the hunchbacked figure shuffled into the aisle where she was standing. Hephaestus, the smith-god, continued what he was saying. “I have an assistant, someone who can climb to the tallest shelf with ease.”

  “Who’s that?” Athena asked.

  Hephaestus pointed to a massive, hulking figure in the shadows of the room. Even in the dim darkness, Athena saw clearly that the figure gleamed with a shiny bronze. For a moment, she forgot the reason why she was in the workshop. She wondered out loud, “That thing, it moves?”

  Hephaestus smiled widely, showing a rare moment of pride. Then, his smile faltered a little. “Yes! He’s a wonderful assistant – that is, he’s wonderful when he’s awake.”

  “He can sleep?” Athena asked, not realizing that she was addressing a statue as if it was an actual individual.

  “Yes, a bit too much actually. He’s up and moving for a few hours every day, but then he sleeps for the rest. He’s like a newborn. I have to figure out how to build some motivation into him.”

  Suddenly, Athena remembered why she was there in the first place. Urgency in her voice, Athena said abruptly, “I need your help, Hephaestus – now.”

  A bit taken back, Hephaestus asked, “Help with what?”

  “You remember that night many years ago? When you hit Zeus in the head with your axe?”

  Hephaestus said darkly, “Yes.”

  “I need you to do that now, to me.”

  Hephaestus took a step back in shock. He squeaked, “What? Why?”

  For the second time that day, Athena had to explain what it was that the Fates had told her. She went through the explanation quickly, knowing that no matter how slow she said it, no matter how many times she said it, Hephaestus would have trouble believing her. And she was right, because when she finished telling her story, Hephaestus shook his head and said, “No, no, no. I refuse to help you with this.”

  “Why?” Athena demanded. “This is what needs to be done.”

  Hephaestus had a look on his face as if Athena had just insulted him. He spat, “You expect me to help you bring back Zeus? Don’t you know what you’re asking of me? He’s the god who threw me from the summit of Olympus! He’s the god who refuses to let me back into that palace, the god who refuses to let me see my mother again. As long as he’s imprisoned in whatever hellhole he’s in, I’m free to go wherever I want, free to do whatever I want.”

  “Then why haven’t you?”

  “Why haven’t I what?”

  “You said so yourself, that with Zeus gone, you’re free. So why not come back to the palace? Why won’t you visit your mother again? Why stay here in the darkness when you can come back into the light?”

  Hephaestus flinched at the questions, at how close Athena was getting to the truth. Even with his jailor imprisoned, Hephaestus still felt very much trapped. Hephaestus thought that all this time Zeus was the cause for his exile, but with the King God gone, Hephaestus saw that there were other reasons. He wanted to say so many things to Athena: he wanted to tell her that he loved her, that he wanted to spend the rest of his infinite life with her, that he wanted to walk into the palace atop Mount Olympus with his hand clasped in hers. He had always madly loved her, perhaps too madly – even though she was born from Zeus’ mind and, when he looked at her, Hephaestus swore he saw Zeus’ glare flash in her eyes. He loved her, even though they were too similar – both of them coming from the same family. He loved her, even though they were too different – she was beautiful and clever, and he felt ugly and awkward. Love should have liberated Hephae
stus, it should have made him rise and enter his glory. But all his secret love for Athena did was trap him in questions and drown him with doubt.

  “I have a confession to make,” Hephaestus growled. “When I heard that Zeus died, I showed the world what I looked like when I mourned. But, on the inside, in my heart, I cheered because my oppressor was gone. I refuse to have another person take his place, I refuse to have you order me around, to tell me what to think and do.”

  Hephaestus spat these words, even though he wanted her to tell him what to think and do. But she couldn’t know that, not right then – if she knew, everything would change, everything could be ruined.

  Athena walked slowly towards Hephaestus, looking at him with venomous eyes. Hephaestus wanted to shrink away from the gaze, but there was a shelf right behind him. And so the god stood his ground, not because he was brave but because he was trapped.

  “I understand why you hate my father,” Athena said. “I understand that he has done terrible things to you over the years, like taking you away from your mother and exiling you from the palace. I know that he has taken so much away from you and still he has asked for more. I know that he has come here before, demanding weapons and furniture from you. I know all of this, and I understand it all. Your whole life has been a reaction to what my father has said and done. That’s why you haven’t stepped out of this workshop since Zeus died, even though you want to enter the outside world again. You’ve become nothing more than a reflex over the years. So, of course, when Zeus hits you, you move as he wants you to. Now that he’s gone, you realize that you don’t know how to move, because you’ve never done so on your own.”

  Athena was close enough that Hephaestus could see every perfect pore on her face. The goddess asked softly, “How close am I to the truth?”

  “Very,” came back the whisper.

  “I’m asking you to do something for the right reasons. I’m asking you to break my father free from my mind, so that he can rule over this world again. There are terrible things going on in the Underworld, Hephaestus, things that we cannot understand on our own. We need Zeus here, not only to guide us, but to protect us as well. The world almost fell apart with his death, and it still could, unless we bring him back. Those are the right reasons to do this. But you don’t have to do it for those reasons. You can do it for the smart reasons. You can do it so that you can say, ‘Yes, I made a decision that Zeus had not forced upon me.’ Not only can you make that decision on your own, but you will have Zeus in your debt, forever. My father always acknowledges his debts, even though it might not seem like it. Imagine what you can do, independent and in Zeus’ good graces? You can do all of this, just with one swing of your axe.”

  As Athena said all of this, emotion began creeping into her voice, like invisible hands choking her. It took all of her strength not to break down in her pleas for help, and Hephaestus noticed this. He couldn’t bear to see Athena so ruined, and he loved the thought of having Zeus’ future in his hands. Still, he could miss with the axe and hurt, possibly even kill, Athena. Still, he could win the respect of Olympus and win his way back home, finally earning his godly blood.

  And so, with some hesitation, Hephaestus said, “Lean your head against the anvil, and I’ll get my axe.”

  Athena took long strides towards the anvil-stone, her heart racing even more than her feet. She leaned over the stone, her heartbeat thumping against the surface. Through the commotion inside of her, she could hear the approach footsteps of Hephaestus. With the footsteps, she felt her freedom stepping closer. She would once more be free from obligation. She would be once more free from guilt.

  The shuffling footsteps stopped next to Athena. She heard Hephaestus’ timid voice ask, “Are you sure this is what you want to do?”

  “I’m sure,” Athena said, her voice somewhat muffled by the stone. “Just please hurry up. And remember what you did the last time you did this.”

  “Don’t worry,” Hephaestus said. His words were contradicted by the shakiness in his voice, and Athena wondered if Hephaestus was going to back away from their deal at the last moment.

  The moment she thought this, though, she could hear a thin slash through the air as an impossibly thin axe came thundering down towards Athena’s head. The axe’s blade was so thin that Athena barely felt it as it slipped past her skull. She certainly felt it, though, when it crunched into the infinite hardness of her brain. Athena screamed with agony she thought she would never feel, with curses she thought she never knew. She fell from the slab of rock and collapsed on the floor, clutching her head with both of her hands. She pressed her head with her hands, as if to keep her head with bursting open. There was certainly an exploding pain in the wound, and Athena felt as if she was in a thousand different places at once. And, for the first but not last time, Athena wondered if she was staring death in the face.

  Through the agonies, Athena heard Hephaestus yelping, then she felt something cold pressed against her head. Her screaming subsided and her vision cleared, slowly but noticeably. It took her a few moments to realize that she was sprawled out on the stone floor. She still twitched from the pain, but she was aware of herself now. Once again, she had full control of her limbs. Sobbing from both pain and relief, Athena looked up at a panicked Hephaestus, who was pressing something against the side of her head.

  “Keep still!” Hephaestus begged. “Please be still for a few more minutes.”

  If Athena could see what Hephaestus was actually doing, she would know that he was pressing crushed herbs against the wounds on her head. They were rare herbs, so uncommon that Athena forgot their name. But she knew that the herbs were used to wipe rust off of metal. Those who had pneumonia could smell the herbs and be cured of their sickness. Those who wanted their fields to grow in a drought could grind up the herb and scatter it in the ground, to rejuvenate the soil. It was prized medicine, and if Athena could see what was happening at the moment, she would have appreciated Hephaestus for the care.

  But while Hephaestus was able to relieve the pain, he could do nothing to stop the flow of ichor from Athena’s head. He tried to hold his hands over the cut, but more and more ichor slipped through his fingers and pooled on the floor around them. Feeling that he was losing his secret love, Hephaestus rocked back and forth over the dying body, closer than ever to true tears.

  “Please don’t die, please don’t die, please don’t die,” Hephaestus begged softly.

  But in spite of the blood around her growing deeper, Athena didn’t look like she was dying at all. If anything, there was something of a serene look on her face. At first, Hephaestus thought that she was going into shock, but then Athena turned and said, “Don’t worry. He’s come back.”

  “What? Who?” Hephaestus asked, not understanding.

  “Look.”

  Hephaestus looked behind him, and that was when he saw something that was more than magic. Athena’s ichor that had gathered on the floor had snaked in little streams past the gods and swirled into a puddle a few feet away. Hephaestus watched as the puddle began to gain dimensions and grow. Almost as if entranced, Hephaestus got up and stumbled to where the puddle was forming. Athena, still on the floor and holding the herbs to her wound, said, “You did wonderfully, brother.”

  Hephaestus didn’t turn back to ask Athena what she meant, although he certainly thought she was mistaken. After all, Athena was in a mess of her own pain and blood – things were far from wonderful. And that was when Hephaestus saw it: the puddle had stopped forming and he realized that it had turned into a silhouette pressed into the ground. The outline was of a tall man with massive arms and legs, a hero’s shadow if nothing else. The silhouette of silvery blood inflated until it looked like a statue that had fallen over. The statue of blood hardened and began to crackle, until the shell of ichor broke apart.

  Hephaestus watched in shock and Athena watched with delight as Zeus climbed out of the broken piec
e of the statue, coughing as he breathed fresh air again.

  Book 14