GOD'S MISTAKE.

HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE FORGOTTEN               ?       independent and headcanon heavy portrayal of    hephaestus,    greek god of   blacksmith,   metalworking,    craftsmen,   artisan,   and fire.     abandoned   son of hera.    established before in a multimuse,   now rewritten in 2022.

despite her dominian, marriage had never been something that aphrodite had ever truly wanted. she’d never once pictured herself a sweet little housewife, doting on a husband ( or wife, for that matter ). really, she had quite enjoyed everyone falling all over themselves for her, begging her for a mere chance to have her as a wife. she’d been almost resentful when zeus had given her away as if she was a trophy. she’d been even more resentful that it was clear he had picked hephaestus for the only reason that he clearly felt some guilt about something that had nothing to do with her. as if she was a toy a deadbeat dad could pick up in an attempt to soothe a kid he’d abandoned.

and if she had been resentful over that, she’d been furious when hephaestus did not seem suitably grateful that he’d gotten her as a wife. anger seeped in further when he seemed almost eager to be rid of her. did he not think her suitably attractive? ( despite being the goddess of beauty, aphrodite had always felt comically insecure about this - always compared to others, always the go to whenever a guy needed to flatter his lover about how his lover is simply more beautiful than aphrodite … ) side note aside, aphrodite grit her teeth when he remarked they did not have to acknowledge it.

❝ i have not truly thought about what to do with this marriage. ❞

it was a bitter statement ( and a lie ), delivered in a sickly sweet manner. her smile was brittle, like a tree in the dead of winter. it was bordering on contempt. she had thought about it, actually. she’d been consumed with how she’d managed to start a fight with her mere existence. how badly so many people had wanted to impress her. and yet he did not seem interested in doing so. it frustrated her that he seemed to have no true interest in her, even if she was nothing more than an apology note from a father who clearly sucked at his job. ❝ surely you do not want to be rid of me so easily, right ? ❞

she is sharp :   clearly a goddess who knows what she wants.

hephaestus does not flinch under her answer,   though his head lowers the longer this interaction continues,   chin moving closer to the top of his collarbone.   he supposes,   outwards looking in,  there would be no other way to describe this subtle action aside from dictating it as a sign of submission.   for the smithing god however,  it is simply   -    a helpless effort to hide.

but how can he,  really ?   with a burly body,  and an ugly demeanour ?   he is as obvious as a sore thumb;   as eye-catching as,   he believes,   she is attractive.   where she goes,   hephaestus is sure,   many gaze follow.   he knows the feeling.   but she is enchanting,   captivating to the eyes,   easy to worship and admire.   what a pair they’ve made.   his mother’s husband is certainly cruel,  to have them be tied together.

and hephaestus is the fool who’d said yes;   who had thought that the ruler of all olympians were merely pulling at his leg.    idiot.

❝    getting rid of you would   ...   would be the last of my intention.   ❞    he admits,  and though he does not meet her in the eyes,   his freckled cheeks burn scarlet.   shame courses through him,  thinking of how awkward and ridiculous he must look :   this misshapen god revealing even a speck of desire to be with the goddess of love and beauty.   even after everything   ...   he dare seek love ?

❝    i am   ...    unfit.   ❞    he pats his chest  -  a huge motion,   and he feels it,  the despair and anguish at the centre of him.   how he wishes,  so desperately,  he were   ...    more.    something someone will not discard;   something someone would not mock at with a sham marriage hoping,  surely,  to humiliate him.   to humiliate his wife.   oh,  his wife.   she does not deserve the title   -    she does not deserve to be dragged into this cruel trick.   

but how could he fix it ?    what,   truly,   can these beastly hands do ?

she is  ...    radiant.

something untouched,   and gentle.   hephaestus feels   ...    not shame,   but it is near,   to think that she would step foot in the smithy,   that she should want to :   where things are full of soot,   and ashes,   and the heat can be overwhelming.   he turns away,   but never quite able to do so fully,   because as much as he would like to hide himself and this wretched unwanted body,   he still    (   so childishly   )    wants to see her.   the closest thing he has had to a -  a pleasant companion.

why is she here,   he wonders ?    to ask him what he is doing ?    but why the interest ?   perhaps it is only mild curiosity.   they are allowed that,   do they not ?    hephaestus should not get ahead of himself to think that perhaps her interest may go further.    that,   much like the time they’ve crossed paths,   he had built himself enough of a decent reputation to perhaps attract her to   ...   to him.   just him.  not the angry god,   and not the broken thing that was cast away.

❝   leaving.   ❞    he answers simply,   head bowed.    ❝   this union   ...   ❞    he refers to aphrodite,   and resolutely does not think about her wrapped in ares’ arms,   his supposedly half-brother.   it is good that he has not yet fallen for his    ...   wife.   if he does,   he wonders how much hurt will it add into the already searing pain of having been betrayed ?    ❝   ...   it will not last.   never expected it to.   ❞  

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❝   the designer to your own ruin ...   ❞    and hephaestus cannot help from it though he knows it is not what tony desires :    but in that sullen,   tragic way,   he does remind the god of smithing tragically of his brother.   the only one,   the god of war,   ares.

for so long,   it was so simple to be blinded by hatred :    by this easy assumption that his brother must’ve had it all.    their mother’s love,   the crowd’s easy adoration,   the many battles won praising his name.   even the goddess of love had been a constant lover of the god of war,   that it must’ve felt like a mockery when the one she’d tied the knot with    -    though forcefully   -   was with   the son of hera nobody wanted.

and yet   ...     years later,    perhaps centuries,   hephaestus sees the truth.    how jagged his brother has become,   how hateful he can be sometimes of himself at the instruction of his father.   their self-loathing runs differently ,   the brother :   ares could still stand a mirror,   and puff out his chest if need be.   hephaestus runs from reflection,   and he does not groom this body for anyone but for his own self-satisfaction.   and yet ,   the self-loathing runs the same.

he sees it    -     in stark.

not due to shame ,   (   more so it is guilt for having seen it ,    for somehow not being able to stop it even for a second time    )    the god of smith turns away.    he sits there by one of stark’s many tables and inventions ,   and he looks down to the hands that were holding a plan of some sorts.   it seems moot now.   if only this mouth would work ;    if only hephaestus is much more equipped with kind things to say,   and not only the dreaded history of what his birth mother has done.   stark   ...    deserves much more.

❝   tell me     -     more.    i    ...    cannot help,    not much.   but   -   listen.  i   ...   i am able.   ❞ 

❝   why      ...   why not ?   ❞    he is honest,   to the point.

brows crinkling ,   and hephaestus ,   for once ,   pauses on his work to look up to the boy.   he   ...    does not exactly know how this boy had managed to find him,   let alone be bold enough to wander in and made his presence more   ...   permanent these days ,    but the god of smithing does not mind the company.   he rarely ever does.   the only time he’d remembered being a little prickly was when dionysus had came in completely drunk,   pleading at hepheastus to join a feast or another to which he knows he will not enjoy.    he ended up going,   of course.   and he ended up regretting it,   as he’d expected it so.

(    how else would one feel left out if not during such an event like those ? surrounded by god-like creatures such as himself ,    hephaestus is sure that all they’d seen was fine dine and perfectly enchanting crowd ,    the smith god sees nothing but what he lacks.   what he will always lack.   a life that was supposed to be his a long time ago,    this divinity,   this spirit of immortality,   but was not allowed to ;    not when his own birth mother had cursed him the moment she discarded him.   a life full of guilt from things he cannot help with.    )

anyways    ...     it has been   ...   a while.    ever since lemnos fell to make way for the modern world ,    it is ever so rare that hephaestus had allowed guests which are not his siblings.   there had been the few wonderers,   certainly;   those who had came by after hours of having been lost,   or taken the wrong road.   they had even been a few stray friends,   who,   years later,  came back to hephaestus all crinkled and knowing.    but it is rare,   and the stories always ends up the same one way or another,   and yet   ...    hephaestus is attentive.   he gives space to the young   —    smith ?    no,   not quite.

he is a builder like hephaestus himself,  though.   a crafter.

so the god of smith had given him space and tools and a place to work.   it is not much.   not when you have the power that you do,   and the will to do it.   hephaestus looks to the boy again a bit more properly,    his curioisity is loud    (     why not home ?    what could be wrong with a home ?    )   ,   before his eyes gently swipe across the floor and he returns back to the drawing of a new design.   nothing he hadn’t seen before;   but he very much like tinkering with things.   it gives him something to do,   and if it brings life to his smithy,   all the more welcome.

❝   to live    ...    without a home.   it    -    can be    -    freeing.   as much as it is   ...    lonely.   ❞     and he would know,   wouldn’t he ?     body of an immortal god,   heart of a child who just wanted to be loved.

the word honey catches him off guard.   how could it not ?   hephaestus may not be so    ...    well-adversed   with the advancement of humans' speech,   but he is not nearly as ignorant enough to not understand a term of endearment when it reaches his ear.   it seems silly,   for a god known from his silent anger and skills in being a craftsmen,   that he blushes easily :  freckled skin burning as he ducks his head down to gently sip at the ale that has been given to him.

they are currently   ...    having a celebration,   hephaestus believes.   the commune.

he is not quite sure what of   —    is it to celebrate the complete circle of the earth ?   or a harvest’s festival ?   or perhaps it is a celebration of a union of a couple somewhere that he is not quite aware of.   all that he’d known was that he had been invited that afternoon,  and the desire to have not let the eternal  (   druig,   his name is,   he has to remind himself,   because it is a name now.   it has become something he knows.   )   down by disappointing him with his lack of attendance is   ...    overwhelming.

hephaestus have been let down before.   it is not a pleasant feeling.

now that he is here though,   severely feeling like he is underdressed and soot probably still marring bits of his clothes though he had tried his best to find the cleanest thing he’d owned,   he is sure he sticks out like a sore thumb.   it is not   ...   helpful,   he thinks,   that this    ...    druig    ...    has come to him and point this out.   yes,   the smith god knows he is merely standing when everyone else is laughing,   cheering,  clapping along to the beating of the drum.   but to be called on it   ...   to be added that term of endearment,  more so.

hephaestus wants nothing more than to hide behind his forge,  right now.

❝   i   ...   dancing.   it is not   ...   ❞     he struggles with the words,   and he is sure he is simply getting redder.    what a catastrophe he must appear to be to the eternal :    the god who stutters.   ❝   watching.   i can do.   how   ...    how of you   -   ...  druig ?   ❞     

he   ...   does not need to add a term of endearment on his end too,  does he ?

it   seems   his   morning   of   his   home   will   never   fade   into   the   dark   abyss   of   which   it   dissipated   into   .   he   cannot   blame   anyone   for   the   curiosity   of   asgard’s   undoing   or   wanting   to   show   some   semblance   of   condolences   .   it   is   appreciated   .   not   all   gods   where   their   heart   on   their   sleeve   like   thor   does   and   in   ways   those   certainties   can   make   the   sentiment   a   little   more   awkward   than   it   should   be   .   

still   the   god   of   thunder   has   had   to   pick   up   the   pieces   of   his   own   shattered   heart   ,   after   he   let   himself   spiral   ,   to   be   the   KING   that   his   people   needed   .   wasting   five   years   of   progress   within   the   community   of   NEW   ASGARD   isn’t   what   he   had   intended   but   heartache   had   a   different   plan   for   that   mixed   so   toxically   with   the   stench   of   FAILURE   .      there   is   much   to   make   up   for   and   thor   isn’t   sure   that   he’ll   ever   truly   do   his   people   justice   .   

part   of   him   had   ALMOST   run   away   with   the   guardians   so   he   didn’t   have   to   truly   face   the   brunt   of   his   poor   leadership   .no.   he   is   no   coward   and   he   would   stay   to   face   it   all   and   turn   over   a   new   leaf   in   the   wake   of   all   the   destruction   and   grief   .   help   them   all   find   their   place   just   as   he   hopes   to   find   his   own   .   thor   appreciates   the   words   and   sentiment   offered   .   he   bows   his   own   head   in   acknowledgement   then   he   sips   on   the   glass   of   ale   in   his   head   .   

❝      thank   you   ,   my   friend   .   ❞   he   isn’t   sure   what   else   to   say   about   the   matter   at   hand   or   the   need   for   condolences   .   dwelling   on   the   past   has   proven   detrimental   for   him   .      ❝   moving   forward   is   the   only   way   to   survive   .   the   pain   was   enough   to   drown   in   ,   for   us   all   ,   but   we   are   still   here   and   that   is   what   matters   most   .      ❞

hephaestus has never mourned so much for what he lacks until that moment.

always the god smith that was driven mainly by anger :    he was the one who had dared to entrap his own mother to the throne just at the thought of having been abandoned so carelessly by her.   then,   he was the god smith who had ensure his brother and wife who were in bed together were humiliated by the contraption he made,   so sure of their infidelity,  and so angry of the arrogance that they have displayed to him.

now he had wished,   more than anything,   that he was the god of mercy.   maybe the god of kind and wise words,   instead of the grunts and short replies he is used to.   though thor is generous enough as to not point these flaws out,   hephaestus feels more bare than ever with all his faults.   he wrings his hands under the table,   and he listens.   that is all he could do   —   uselessly,   hopelessly listens.

❝   hm.   ❞     he could not imagine.

while olympus was not fully his home   —    no,   that was in lemnos,   a long time ago,   with the mortals who had equally worshipped him as much as they had been family,   teachers   —   it was still a place he had   ...   he had rested,  and worked,  and found his true strength at.   and,  more importantly,  it is where his siblings belonged in.  the only reason hephaestus had bothered returning for the most part.   to have it gone    ...     to see the sorrow in any of his sisters or ares’ faces.

                 awareness     preceded     interest ,        smug     traces     yet     kept     at     bay     at     odds     with     plain     words     to     cut       through   silence   grasping   split - seconds   of   thus   far   pleasant   afternoon .        in   contrast   to   other   periodic   visitors ,        current   one   beared   something   different :         ancient ,       nonmortal   much   like   eternal   presence .       [   &  powerful   alike ,        moving   under   threads   to   mismatch   earth’s   self   made   and   so   called   heroes   ] .        being   before   him   was   no   simple   mutant        ―        nor   result   of   human   interaction ,       born   or   made :        but   rather   godly ,        enough   to      set   motion   upon   protective   instincts      cultivated    throughout   millennia   to   run   under   druig’s   skin .

blue   to   gold ,        minds   were      subdued   and   united   under   the   weight   of   unfading   one           ―        expressionless   features   to   hold   stranger’s   presence   within   the   course   of    a   broken   moment ,        not   friendly   nor   hostile ,        but   carrying   a      subtle   warning   aback   vacant   traces  .        even   as   stance   shifted ,        reigned   by   bashfulness   or   apprehension ,        druig’s   remained   the   same :       aloofness   holding   head   up   right ,        hands   crossed   behind   his   back   whilst   standing   still   between   his   people   and   the   outside  world .

                                    ❝    a   strange   place   to   have   a   smithy …      or   to      go   for   a   walk  ,       don’t    you    think ?    ❞

the olympian smith does not flinch at the other’s words,   although he feels,   had he been any other person,   any other entity,   he might’ve had.

it isn’t that this   ...   ageless ?   @druisg​  (    what do they call him ?    hermes must know.   helios.   anyone.   hephaestus suddenly could not help from blaming himself from never asking more on what has been happening.   perhaps then,   he would be prepared.   perhaps then,   he would be able to speak more properly and know what he is dealt with.    )     is particularly fearful,   but attention is attention all the same.

and when it does not come from his siblings nor the curious   -    but usually kind   -   demi-gods who are looking for an answer to their heritage,   hephaestus wishes he could have the power of invisibility.   just so there is no reason for anyone to voice out their suspicion whenever he seeks to escape,   or point all the focus on him.    why must he be born ugly ?   he could not help the sudden thought from emerging.   why must he be so big,  and so bearded,  and freckled,  and one leg wrongly shaped ?  

maybe then,   if he’d been anybody but himself,   those eyes   ...    that voice    ...   it would not have him wish he would not use this way after all.     (     maybe the legends should take away all what is said of him :   call him the cowardly god.   call him the one who has been abandoned,   and how he has lived in the ghost of it for centuries.    )

                           reminded      of      the     asgardians     ,     demeter     sits     quietly   :     listening        to     his      words      before     thinking       about       the      similarities       that       they         possess.       the      greek       gods    ,       they’ve       always       been     here   …      the     prayers        she’s      heard         and       the    worshiping    she’s      invoked  ,      being      present       /       they       looked      at      her       as    if     to      represent        the       greek        god        demeter      ,     a       completely        different       figure      than       herself.                “      does      that     mean    ,    you      are     free      of       burden ?      ”    while      she      follows      the      words      of     arishem    ,      demeter    questioned    their    involvement    to    an    extend.        

                           scarier  ?      whiskey       hues      gaze    at    his     face       “     what   about       me   ?          am     i    scary     or    . .    ”      she    holds      the    cup     to       her    mouth    ,       taking     a    sip.       brows    raise  ,    hoping    to   hear   his   answer.     she   really     didn’t    give    off    a    terrifying    feeling.       the      complete       opposite    actually   !      maybe     a    little    obsessed      with     creating       something      new    but       that         was      it!

hephaestus is a body of shame  —   he wishes he knows more.

wishes he could answer more thoroughly on why the olympians have mostly kept themselves hidden.    would demeter,   the goddess the smith knew,   not want to speak up when there is another with the same name and similar skill to her ?   or,   like the likes of athena,   hephaestus can imagine her merely smiling a secretive smile had she known,   content and wise all at the same time.   knowing that even if they’ve spoken up on it,   nothing of the circumstances would change   ...    ?

was this why the olympians never interject ?   despite the similarity in these eternals with the people hephaestus knew ?   he could almost feel his cheeks burn under the weight of his beard   -   do they not have an eternal with hephaestus’ own name and skill,  as well ?    how curious.    though hephaestus hopes that the eternal is more equipped to walk among mortals.   less clumsy than hephaestus is,   and    ...    he hopes that eternal shall never know the burden to live with knowing the taste of abandonment.

❝   burden   ...   ?   ❞    hephaestus hums.    ❝   does conversing with zeus count as one ?   ❞  

a joke.   a terrible one.   as soon as the smith god says them aloud,   he coughs.   turning his head away from the curiosity in her eyes.   how would this eternal    ...    demeter,   her name is,   so familiar yet so different     ....    know of what zeus is like outside the whispers of his mythology ?   although,   the tales itself must speak plenty,   does it not ?   still,   to assume   ...   hephaestus is,  once again,   ashamed.