"The Hephaistos Heresy" by James S Hayward

The Hephaistos Heresy

By

James S Hayward

            A forge is never truly silent. It speaks with tongues of flame, in tones of iron and bronze. Anyone can hear it speak, but only the best of smiths can tell what it speaks of. Hephaistos was the best of smiths; the God of Fire and the Forge, no less. His forge was quiet, with only one fire burning. The roar of the furnace was loud by most standards, but it was but a whisper, a susurrus compared to the usual clamour of this place. To Hephaistos it whispered of death, of endings. He wished that he had not sent away his mortal apprentices, but no one could know of this, his final project, save those who were safe from Zeus. Few could claim such. Even he, Zeus’ own son, had been cast from Olympus for as petty a matter as siding with his mother. The fall to earth had broken his spirit and his spine, rendering him lame and bitter. He had spent many a year wondering why Zeus acted as he did, but had eventually given up. Trying to understand a being who had manifested as a shower of gold, and turned a lover into a cow, was a pointless exercise. One may as well try to chart the clouds.

And so Hephaistos had removed his thoughts from Olympus, turning instead to his new sanctuary of Earth. He had been shocked to learn that the whims of gods held sway just as strongly here as on Olympus. Satyrs and centaurs danced between the trees, whilst Phoenix and Pegasus graced the air. Dark things lurked in dark places, and all the while humanity, the true race of earth, languished. Ironically, they actually believed themselves to be blessed by the gods’ interference. Hephaistos smiled wryly. It was easy to believe, if you couldn’t see what might have been. The secrets of the world lay just out of the mental reach of humanity, beyond a gate blocked by gods. Humanity needed only to ask ‘why?’, and they would find these secrets. As long as interfering gods such as Zeus and Apollo remained, they would find no answer beyond ‘Because the Gods make it so!’

            The forge was calling him now, and Hephaistos returned his attention to the metal, which was now glowing white in the furnace. He reached for the iron, and hesitated. There were two possible outcomes from this project, and both were dangerous for him. Was his goal worth the costs? He did not need to consider for long. The salvation of Humanity was worth any price. With that thought he reached into the furnace and pulled out the metal, holding it on the anvil with his bare hands. White sparks skittered across the floor of the forge with each ringing strike of the hammer, and Hephaistos imagined them as gods, fleeing his creation. He shook his head, concentrating once more on the task at hand. The sword would be useless if not made correctly, and it would be remiss of him to fall on the first step.

            And so the process began, Hephaistos folding the meteoric iron again and again, the sound of the hammer ceasing only while the metal was reheated. After a day and a night of endless toil, Hephaistos was satisfied. He studied the cooling sword blank with a practiced eye, but he found no flaw, no blemish in the metal. He smiled to himself as he slotted the sword into its ornate hilt, locking it in place with a sapphire pin.

“The first step has been taken,” he said to the empty air. His voice echoed in the cavernous forge.

“And taken by one who cannot walk,” said a voice from behind him, “So you actually intend to carry out your revenge upon my brother?” The voice that spoke was sweet, melodic. It spoke of grace and beauty, and Hephaistos knew it well.

“Mother,” he said by way of greeting. He would have turned to face her, were it possible. “I act altruistically. My deed shall benefit humanity, by ridding them of the influence of their insane pantheon.”

A lady in a diaphanous white dress swept past him, moving to stand in front of him. Her alabaster skin reflected the firelight oddly. Piercing blue eyes gazed at the crippled smith.

“I think your hatred for Zeus drives you, not any fanciful notions of the greater good.”

Hephaistos smiled. “I do not hate my father, even after what he did to me. I merely think that he, and several other gods, are no longer capable of lucid thought.”

He noted the sceptical look on the divine countenance before him.

“You do not believe me?” he asked, “Have you heard of a nymph called Daphne?”

His mother shook her head.

“She was rumoured to be the most beautiful of the Fay, and Apollo lusted after her greatly. This desire was not reciprocated, however, and Daphne fled from Apollo, who chased her tirelessly.

“Eventually, in desperation, Daphne prayed to the gods for aid. Can you guess what happened?”

“Obviously something illogical, else you would not be using it as an example.” Hera smiled slightly. “But no, I cannot guess.”

“Zeus took pity on Daphne,” Hephaistos continued, “and so, to protect her from Apollo, she was turned into a shrub.”

Hera raised a slender eyebrow.

“A laurel bush, to be exact,” Hephaistos concluded.

“An interesting example,” Hera conceded, “but you cannot judge all the gods on the actions of one.”

“I do no such thing,” Hephaistos said indignantly, “Many of the gods have inanities to their credit. Take Athena, supposedly the Goddess of wisdom and handicrafts.

“Athena prides herself on her spinning, and considers herself foremost in the craft. However, there was once a mortal spinstress whose skills exceeded hers, Arachne. Athena, in a fit of pique, destroyed all of the girl’s creations.”

“Mere jealousy, not insanity,” interjected Hera.

“True,” he admitted, “But the tale does not end there. When Athena realized how she had ruined the girl’s life, she took pity on her, and turned her into a spider!” He chuckled. “It seems to me that pity is usually more appropriate after divine intervention.”

“And for these whims you would topple Olympus, and burn the Elysium Fields?”

“These whims are crippling Humanity, but I intend nothing so dramatic, I assure you.”

“But you are willing to commit patricide.”

“Willing? Perhaps. I would certainly feel little grief at his passing.”

“If you expect me to help you kill my husband-”

Hephaistos held up a hand, cutting his mother off.

“I only said I was willing to kill him,” he explained, “I never claimed for it to be my intention.”

Hera frowned. “How do you intend to stop the gods if not by slaying them? Certainly nothing else will keep them from this world.”

“There you are wrong,” he said, “The beauty of my plan is that only the gods who choose to die will be destroyed.”

“None will be so foolish,” insisted Hera.

“The alternative is ostracism from this world.”

“So what is the secret of this great plan?” Hera asked, mockingly, “It must indeed be great, for it can enforce the segregation of the gods with nothing more than a mortal weapon which cannot harm them!” She lightly tapped the sword, sending a sweet, ringing note echoing around the forge.

“Do not ply me for details,” Hephaistos requested, “The less you know, the less Zeus can find from you.”

“If you won’t tell me how your plan works, why should I aid you with it?” she demanded.

“Without your help, this project will fail,” said Hephaistos seriously, “If it fails, humanity will be consigned to reside under the yoke of whimsical deities for aeons. You and I both know they are destined for greater things, and we both share the goal of letting them achieve that. Why else would you be here?”

He paused to let this sink in.

“Will you help them?”

“I will,” replied Hera, mollified.

~*~

            Hector strode through the Elysium Fields, running his hand through the tall rye grass that lined the path. Yesterday, if such a concept could exist in this timeless place, Achilles had slain him before the walls of Ilium, and ended his life of death. Today he walked in green fields free from blood, under a blue sky bereft of crows. The wold stretched out endlessly, rolling green hills reaching to the horizon and beyond, broken only by small settlements. A clean, fresh wind blew, carrying the scent of cooking and wood smoke from the nearest of these hamlets. Hector inhaled deeply, savouring. He was in a place of peace and contentment. He looked at his accoutrements. Armour and weapons seemed incongruous here, but something deep in his soul knew that he would always be a man of the sword, even after death. Stroking the embossed bronze breastplate, he wondered if all heroes suffered this dichotomy.

“Hector, son of Priam,” called a sensual voice from ahead of him, “Welcome!”

He looked up, startled. On the path ahead of him stood the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her long black hair attenuated her pale skin, and the flowing white robe she wore highlighted graceful curves. A gentle, golden aura surrounded her. Hector knew this to be Hera, wife of Zeus. He bowed low.

“Aphrodite,” he greeted, hoping to flatter.

The woman smiled. “I am Hera, as well you know, but I thank you for the compliment.”

The woman was silent for a moment whilst Hector stood erect again.

“As you no doubt realise,” she said, “your heroism has earned you an eternity in Elysium. However…”

Hector was no fool. He knelt quickly. “What would you command me to do, Lady?”

Hera smiled at him. “I cannot command you, not here,” she said, “What you do and where you go from here is your choice.”

“Then what would you request that I do?”

Hera’s smile faded as she talked of grave matters. “The world you left behind you is imperilled, and the greatest of heroes are needed.”

Hector considered this. “I cannot risk the world for my pride, Lady. I would suggest Achilles, though it pains me to do so.” A wry smile touched his features. “I could not even scratch him.”

“Achilles has already agreed to help, as have Ajax and Jason. Perseus and Theseus too, and they are the sons of gods.” She gently touched his shoulder. “No single hero has the strength for this, Hector. Together, and with the craft of Hephaistos, you may yet prevail.”

“And if I choose to remain in paradise?”

“Then you shall remain, as befits a hero,” she said solemnly, “and humanity must hope that those that remain are enough.”

Hector stood, looking around Elysium. It was paradise, no less, but it would be a hollow eternity if he did not stand for in death what he stood for in life. “If I turned my back on the world of men in its hour of need, I would not be fit for Elysium.”

 Hera smiled. “Spoken by the best of men, son of Priam.” She raised a slender hand, and Hector vanished in a white glow. Hera’s smile vanished, and sorrow lined her face. She felt wretched, having deceived them all. They had truly earned Paradise, but instead they would be put to use as tools of Hephaistos. With an effort, she convinced herself that it was for the best, and hoped that she would not be judged harshly for her actions.

~*~

            Hephaistos swivelled in his chair as Hector appeared in the cage beside him. He watched as the man’s expression changed from determination to disconcertion.

“Ah, the last of the heroes,” he said, sneering slightly, “It never ceases to amaze me how easily you pathetic humans are tricked.”

Hector ran his hands down the bars that imprisoned him. “What is the meaning of this, Smith?”

“It’s a cage,” he said, “I would have thought even you could have figured that out!”

“Do no bandy words with me!” Hector shouted, “I demand to know why I am incarcerated. I have a task awaiting.”

Hephaistos shook his head slowly. “No, you do not. As I said but a few moments ago, you have been tricked.”

“What do you mean?” Hector asked, confusion etched upon his brow.

Hephaistos took a deep breath, ready for the practiced lie. “What the Gods fear the world is in danger from is, indirectly, heroes.”

“You make no sense, cripple!” Hector stormed.

“Then let me finish, human!” Hephaistos retorted with feigned anger, “The Gods are good for the world, and thus anything that can oppose the Gods is a danger to it. Are you following so far?”

Hector just glared silently.

“Heroes are the greatest of men, able to do incredible, or even impossible, things with sheer force of will. Zeus fears that enough heroes could overthrow Olympus. As such--”

“What are you talking about, Smith?” Hector asked, “Even at the battle of Ilium there were only a handful of heroes! How could there ever be enough to oppose the Gods?”

“Elysium,” Hephaistos said simply, “The resting place of heroes since the dawn of time. There are hundreds, waiting for eternity.”

“So you would destroy Paradise?”

“Not at all,” he countered, smiling cruelly, “Just its inhabitants.”

Hector let out an incoherent roar and threw himself against the bars of his prison.

“Oh, don’t be pathetic,” Hephaistos mocked, “Ajax couldn’t break out, and he was far stronger than you.”

“Damn you, Hephaistos!” Hector yelled.

Hephaistos shook his head. “Not good enough.” He muttered quietly. He raised a hand and lightning crackled from the bars.

“Your soul shall be consigned to Oblivion,” Hephaistos told Hector, “but since your soul is so strong, this will take quite some time. It will also be extremely painful.”

The lightning turned red, and Hector stepped back from the bars. It was to no avail. Every few moments, a bolt leapt from the bars to strike Hector, who was soon writhing in agony in the floor of the cage. Hephaistos watched, trying to keep his face impassive against the horrific scene he was witnessing. I’m sorry, Hector, but there is no other way.

Hector suddenly threw himself up from the floor and grabbed the bars, oblivious to the searing power coruscating across them.

“Smith!” he bellowed, “You have my curse, as does all of your treacherous kind. From your hag of a mother to your madman of a father! If it is within my power, I swear that I will bring you all low!”

Hephaistos smiled. “Perfect!” He raised a hand and the lightning turned cobalt blue. Hector’s soul was blasted into opalescent fragments no bigger than a hand. The lightning stopped, and the forge was still. Then the soul fragments started to twitch. Hephaistos reached into the fire at his side and drew out the sword, laying it upon the anvil. The blade shimmered with iridescence, charged with the power of heroes’ souls. The fragments of Hector’s soul flew at Hephaistos, only to be stopped by an invisible barrier. The soul shards kept attacking, bouncing off the barrier like flies from a window pane. Reaching up, Hephaistos snatched one from the air. He laid it on the sword, where it sank in like water into cloth. He repeated the action until no soul was left in the air. He sighed deeply, placing the sword back into the fire.

The flames roared at his command, heating the sword to incandescence in seconds.

His project was almost over now; after this final beating, only the quenching remained. He flinched as the first blow of his hammer landed on the glowing blade, for it was not the sweet, true ring of metal that sounded, but a terribly real scream. A tear ran down the Smith’s cheek, but he steeled himself visibly and continued.

He managed less than a hundred strikes before the screaming forced him to stop, unable to bear the sounds of agony. It would have to do. The blade glowed strangely, mostly white, but with shifting colours flickering along its length. Hephaistos could feel almost palpable waves of hatred emanating from it, directed towards all Gods and their unnatural creations. He placed it into the fire.

“Is it done?” Hera asked, appearing beside him.

“Almost,” he replied, “I may have made it slightly too well.”

Hera raised an eyebrow in question. “How so?”

“It does not just hate Gods, but all the magical creatures. They will perish by the hand that wields my creation, unless they flee.”

“Can you not--”

“It is too late to change anything now. All that remains is the quenching. Only one more death.”

“I will not help you destroy another human life,” Hera said forcefully, “What we did to the heroes was almost too much for me to stomach.”

“Do not worry,” said Hephaistos sadly, “The death is my own.”

Hera’s eyes widened. “What? No!”

“It has to happen,” he insisted, “As things stand, Zeus cannot destroy the blade, but he can kill whoever wields it.”

Hera nodded solemnly. “And the only thing that can stop a God is another God.”

“Or this blade. My blood will give protection to the wielder.”

“But--”

“Do not argue with me,” Hephaistos said softly, “Zeus would destroy me if I returned to Olympus now, so I must stay here, within reach of this weapon. That would seal my doom as surely as divine wrath.”

Hera just stood, unsure of what to say. Hephaistos picked up the sword, and smiled nervously at his mother.

“To humanity,” he said, voice cracking slightly.

Hera nodded, tears streaming from her eyes. She blinked and turned away. Hephaistos reversed the blade and hesitated. He closed his eyes and drove the blade through his chest.

Pain lanced through his crippled form, causing him to cry out. He could feel his life slipping away, his essence being devoured by the power of the sword.

“It…works…” he breathed, dropping the sword to the floor, where it stuck, quivering. He closed his eyes and welcomed the darkness of the void.

Blinking back her tears, Hera turned to face what had been her son. She could feel the hatred from the blade in the floor at his side, and she dared not touch it. The human smiths would return here eventually, and find the sword. They would not find Hephaistos. She lifted his corpse from its chair. Zeus had forced him to live like a human, and he himself had chosen to die like one, but Hera would not allow him to rot here. Her husband may not have suffered him to live on Olympus, but she would do everything in her power to ensure that her son could enter now he was dead.

With that thought she returned to the abode of the Gods with her son’s body, leaving Humanity’s aegis stuck in the floor, glowing strangely in the firelight. The flames whispered, but there was no-one left to hear them.