There has to be a way to the center. And what will I find when I get there?
Images of all kinds flashed through his head. He imagined ten bellows, an entire smelting operation. A wide, gray, empty room, and at the center a contorted, withered corpse that was unrecognizable as anything resembling a god or human. And then he opened a door on his right, and stumbled through.
The space was massive, walls covered with books and paintings. Great chandeliers lit it, casting a yellowed parchment color across the marble floor. Hermes leaned against a railing three floors up and looked down on it. Above him were another four floors.
“Hermes.”
Hephaestus sat in a leather wingback chair, his lap covered with a blanket. Behind him, a fireplace roughly the size of a Chevy sedan blasted heat through the space.
“Hephaestus?”
His friend smiled. “What took you so long? Is the messenger of the gods slowing down? I felt you come in twenty minutes ago. And I felt you lurking outside my walls for two days before that.”
Hermes leapt over the rail and dropped to the floor, in too big a hurry to bother with stairs or a ladder.
“All that time you knew I was here, and you didn’t come out to welcome me?” Hermes tried to smile. But the longer Hephaestus stayed in that chair, the more his apprehension grew. The other god looked all of about twenty-five except for his strange widow’s peak hairline, but he sat at an odd angle, one shoulder jutted up much higher than the other. Hermes’ eyes flickered to his legs, hidden under the blanket. “You look like a cartoon villain in that chair.”
Hephaestus reached to the side and gripped a long silver crutch that attached to his elbow and shoulder, then pushed to the other side and attached its mate. When he stood, Hermes saw the extent of the damage. His spine had twisted cruelly. The joints in his hands bulged, warping the finger bones. He could barely hold his arm braces, but he kicked aside the blanket. His legs were encased in bands of metal.
“Get that look off your face,” Hephaestus said gruffly. “Watch.” He stepped forward, and the mechanisms on his leg whirred. Despite his contorted form, the motion seemed effortless.
“You’re … Iron Man.”
“Ha!” Hephaestus grinned. “Tony Stark gets no credit. These are my own design.”
“You look good, old friend,” Hermes said. “All things considered.”
“All things considered, we both do. Both of us still handsome, from the neck up.”
A faint knock sounded and the young woman Hermes had seen leaving and returning entered, pushing a cart of silver platters. She parked it beside a dark dining table in the north end of the room.
Hephaestus walked to the table, leg braces whirring. The combination of movements with the metal arm crutches gave the impression of an ungainly silver spider. A very strong ungainly silver spider.
“Stay for lunch?” Hephaestus asked. The woman, who really wasn’t much more than a girl on closer inspection, lifted silver covers to reveal a platter of six roasted chickens and two more of white asparagus bathed in hollandaise. “I sent them out for it specially. For old times’ sake.”
“Next you’ll tell me you’ve got some of that odd German wine.”
Hephaestus’ eyes widened in horror. “Let’s try a nice New York white this time. Marie, two bottles of the Chateau Frank Riesling.”
Over the course of the meal, Hermes tried not to stuff himself, but it was difficult. He also tried not to drink too much, which was even more difficult. The Riesling paired well with the food, and being inside the grand house brought back memories of their time spent in Hephaestus’ fine German hotel.