By Jessica Noelle
The sound of sobbing cleaved the war-torn air, assailing Hephaestus’s aching and stiff joints. It wasn’t just the grief rattling him—he knew that voice. And he’d never heard her cry like this before. Pushing off his cane, he propelled himself forward, increasing the pace of his uneven limp with every step.
Smoke stung his lungs, and ash clung to his face, but he was used to those from the forge. The smell of burning flesh, however, that was unfamiliar. A mix of charcoal and sulfur clogged his nose as the sight of this carnage, this ruin, made his stomach churn. Around him, the once great city of Troy lay in shambles.
Piles of rubble littered the streets, and the fires cast dangerous shadows upon the men who still lived—Greek men drunk on wine and victory as they pillaged the fallen kingdom. Odysseus had vanished, of course, disgusted with his comrades, but Ajax… well, from what Hephaestus had gleaned from Athena, he would pay for his crimes in the Fields of Punishment.
Another wail shattered the eerie quiet as Hephaestus neared the castle. The left wall had collapsed, and flames engulfed the ramparts but the sight of his wife sobbing next to the rubble stopped Hephaestus in his tracks.
Even covered in ash, she was as radiant as the dew, her hair falling in perfect ebony ringlets. Collapsed on the ground, Aphrodite cradled a charred doll, her eyes fixed on something in the ruins. Hephaestus knelt beside her, gritting his teeth as his gnarled knees spasmed, threatening to buckle. Shifting in one last attempt to make himself comfortable, Hephaestus turned Aphrodite gently to face him.
He fought back a gasp of horror that threatened to choke him—she was staring at a lifeless child.
“It’s all my fault.” Aphrodite sobbed. “I could have stopped this.”
“No, Aphrodite.” Hephaestus kept his voice soft and soothing. “It’s not your fault.”
She looked up at him, her kaleidoscopic eyes shifting in the flickering flames. “We both know that’s a lie. It was I who promised Helen’s hand to Paris, and now look.” Aphrodite flung a hand out, gesturing at the ruins that had once been a child’s home, a royal’s home. With the other, she shoved the burnt doll toward him. He recoiled, stomach churning as Aphrodite pushed on, her voice rising with each word. “Look at this. I did this. Because I helped Paris get Helen.” She paused, examining the doll. “He got Helen, all right. And death.” She spat the last word, and Hephaestus opened his mouth to say something, anything to reassure her, but she shook her head at him, continuing, “Not just his, but everyone’s death.”
“It’s not just your fault,” Hephaestus gently lifted her chin to look her in the eyes. For once, she didn’t recoil from his grease-covered hands. “It’s all of ours. If I hadn’t made Achilles his armor, if Zeus had been faithful for more than five minutes, if Hera hadn’t been jealous, if Eris hadn’t thrown the apple, if Ares didn’t love the taste of blood so much. The list goes on and on, Aphrodite. The fault of this war is not yours alone to shoulder.”
“And yet because of me, innocent children were murdered in their beds tonight. I played a part in that, Hephaestus. I did.” Aphrodite’s voice cracked as tears tracked down her cheeks, carving salty paths through the soot.
“You cannot blame yourself.”
“How can I not blame myself? We did this, Hephaestus. How can you not blame yourself?”
“I do, Aphrodite.” Hephaestus could not meet his wife’s eyes, his words tight around the lump in his throat. “But what can we do to change the past? Nothing.”
A spark of hope flared in Aphrodite’s bloodshot eyes. “But we can change the future.”
“What?”
“That’s it!” She carefully wrapped her shawl around the child and placed the doll on top, a grave marker in the midst of the fallen city. “We can change the future. All of Troy is facing a death sentence, but we can stop that, Hephaestus.” With trembling hands, Aphrodite adjusted the cloth, whispering a blessing over the girl. Turning to face Hephaestus, she helped hoist him to his feet.
“Aphrodite, what are you planning?” he asked, hobbling along at a rough jog to keep up with her, his crippled legs aching with the sudden motion.
“To save Aeneas and the remaining Trojans,” Aphrodite called back, her lithe form flitting around the broken pieces of brick and mortar.
Hephaestus, on the other hand, stumbled over every rock, but soon they were on the outskirts of the city.
“We can still save some of Troy.” Aphrodite smiled even as tears continued down her face. “We can at least try to make up for some of our mess, some of the death and destruction that seems to haunt mortals wherever we go.”
Hephaestus nodded, not trusting his voice. For centuries, Aphrodite had made mortals fall in love. But here she was, the goddess of love, using her powers and bright spirit to try to change the world for the better, and not just through romance, but through selfless love.
Yes, they had broken the world. They had helped bring it crumbling to its knees. But they could also maybe, just maybe, help get it onto its feet again.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
What a hopeful path in the midst of a heartbreaking, dark story!
(I also laughed my butt off with the “if Zeus had been faithful for more than five minutes” part…)
Love the glimmer of hope after so much destruction and chaos. Great story!
Powerful descriptions of Troy’s tragedy! Great piece!
Tragic tale, but a nice bit of hope glimmering at the end.
Wow! I love Trojan and Greek history, and I really enjoyed the different perspective here from the gods’ point of view as they look at what they’ve wrought. This was a nice little story!
This is truly beautiful, Jessica—love the powerful themes and imagery you packed into such a short story. And this made the mythology geek in me so very happy 😍