10. Underworld: A door closes

Part 2: Chapter 10

Persefóni is dropping into your Inbox on a Friday this week, because on Tuesday the SMALL & SCARY / BIG AND BEASTLY challenge went live. You can find a list of all the horror and dark fantasy short stories on TiF, including ‘Skin Deep’ by yours truly (and a lovely review of the story here). It was an honour and a blast to take part in this. Thanks to Garen Marie for organising!

This is Part 2: Chapter 10 of the serialised YA Fantasy Fiction novel ‘Underworld’, a reimagining (not a retelling) of the myth of Persefóni. Use the button below to access the Table of Contents. For SHORT STORY content click here instead.

In the previous chapter… Persefóni learned that she is looking at a future as a fertility goddess at her mother’s side. Unwilling to accept this destiny, she sought out the god of foresight who showed her a vision. Later, she saw the three Fates in a dream, and they gave her a prophecy … or was it a challenge?

CHAPTER 10: A door closes

As spring arrives in a riot of wildflowers, I finish my broadsword. Ífaistos’ workshop has become a haven for me, a place of simplicity in the tangle of lies and intrigues that is the Court of Ólimbos. It’s somewhere I feel safe. Ífaistos, for all his condescension, is someone I feel safe with. I even tell him my real name.

I sometimes feel guilty when he looks at me, though—not greedily. There is something softer in his eyes and his touch. I’m starting to understand what that means, and it saddens me. I dread the day when he will voice his feelings, because I know it will change everything between us, but nevertheless, that day arrives.

I go to the workshop every morning to find Ífaistos has already lit the forge and is waiting for me. This morning, however, when I push open the door, I can’t see him. Unusually, the forge is cold. I go to the workbench and pick up the tools one by one, reminding myself of their uses. Ífaistos isn’t tidy, and I straighten the tools as I go, making them into a neat line across the top of the bench.

I hear his uneven footfalls approaching from the back of the workshop and I smile. He comes to stand next to me, and his hand covers mine, warm and solid, and I know my time is up.

"I need to talk to you,” he says.

“Ífaistos, don’t.”

I think, if I can just stop him speaking the words, they’ll have no power, and I can go on pretending.

“Persefóni, I need to say this.”

“No, you don’t. … I already know.”

His eyes search my face for the thing he so desperately wants to find there, but I have nothing to show him except regret. He understands, and his face falls.

“Yes,” he says. “It was foolish of me to imagine … You are so beautiful, and I am injured and deformed, marked by age.”

“That isn’t the reason,” I say gently, and it's true. The lines on his face, his grey hair, his stoop and limp have never mattered to me like they do to the other gods. Perhaps it's because I grew up among mortals—I don't expect anyone to be flawless. I know birth, and living, leave their marks, and they aren’t ugly. They tell stories, making every being unique.

"What is it then?" His voice has an edge to it now—he thinks I’m lying to him. "Am I too dull for you, too lowly? You want someone with more power? A sea-god, perhaps?"

"No!" His words anger me. How dare he say that? I told him about Poseidónas in confidence. "You know that's not what I care about! This isn't about power! ... It's just … I never meant … What I need you to be is—” Ánitos. All this time, that’s how I’ve thought of him: a pale copy of the man I love most in all the world—my guardian, my father in everything but name.

“A friend?” he says, and the bitterness in his tone makes me flinch. I nod. That isn’t exactly the word, but I can think of nothing closer.

His jaw clenches in misery and humiliation, and I feel tears welling in my eyes. In the end, we want the same thing, Ífaistos and I—to be loved and desired for who we are, regardless of how we appear on the outside. The fact that I understand that, but can’t give him what he hungers for, hurts me somehow.

“I think you should go now,” he says, his voice coarse as if he, too, is trying not to cry.

---

I retreat to the darkness of the pine forest. The sky is overcast today, and the air is still cold up here on the mountain. I wander the woods all day, climbing trees and drowning in a slew of half-understood emotions. I’m angry at the unfairness of it all. It’s unfair to me, and to Ífaistos, and there isn’t even anyone to blame. I’m grieving for the loss of the comfort and safety I felt in his presence. Also, selfishly, I don’t want to lose the warmth of the forge and the delight I experience in mastering new skills. So, as twilight creeps across the sky, I return to the workshop.

The doors are closed, but I can hear the pounding of the hammer coming from inside. I push open the door and a wall of hot air hits me, snatching my breath. Ífaistos looks around when he sees the shaft of light falling through the opening, but when he realises it’s me, he turns away. His hammer strikes the metal again and again, the sound ringing in my ears. I don't think he's even making anything, just hammering and hammering in the heat and ruddy gloom.

I go closer, raising my voice above the clang of metal on metal and the roar of the forge. "Ífaistos! I need to talk to you! Please!"

He gives the misshapen disc of bronze one final, resounding blow, then casts the hammer aside.

"What is there to say?"

It’s a good question.

“I don’t want this to change anything between us—”

“I think it’s too late for that.” He’s embarrassed, but I want him to understand that he has nothing to be ashamed of.

"Don’t say that! Please, I can’t lose this: the forge, our lessons. You—you make me feel safe."

His face twists with what I think is longing.

"Then why not stay with me?" he says, softly now, his own voice catching in his throat. “I am no match for the other gods, but if you bound yourself to me, I would take care of you, as best I could.”

I’m infinitely sad, because I’m sure he would.

“You don’t have to answer me now. I can wait, Kóri. I have endless years ..."

I understand this is my way out, a way to be almost as we were for years and years to come. Should I play the game? Keep up the pretence? It wouldn’t be difficult. But Ífaistos' feelings are real. To make light of them would make me no better than the gods I despise. To use his emotions for my own ends would make me monstrous.

I draw in a shaky breath.

"It wouldn't be fair. If I told you that one day I might change my mind, it would be a lie."

"I've been lied to before."

"Not by me. Surely you wouldn't rather I tried to make you believe something that isn't real?"

He doesn't answer. Perhaps he would.

He bends stiffly to retrieve the hammer from the floor. He doesn't look at me as he says, "Please don’t come here again."

"What?" I gasp, shock and hurt snatching my breath.

"Stay away from the forge."

"But our lessons! My new sword—I've barely started it. Ífaistos, please—don't send me away. I need this place, I need—"

"No!" He shouts the word, slamming his hammer down on the anvil, and I start back. “I don’t care! I don’t care what you need! You can have anything you want, and you will. This—all of this—was foolishness. A waste of time!"

I can’t believe that he’d dismiss our friendship like that, all the hours I’ve spent in his company and everything we’ve shared.

“Ífaistos, you don’t mean—”

“Get out!” he bellows, and I cower before his hopeless sorrow masquerading as anger. “Go! And leave me be!” His voice breaks on the last word and his eyes meet mine, full of anguish and humiliation.

He gestures towards the door with his hammer and, for the second time that day, I leave the forge with tears in my eyes, my guilt not assuaged by the encounter, but compounded. It feels like a weight pressing down on my chest and I can't sleep that night, thinking of all I've lost: the haven of the forge, the craft I was learning, and the friendship of the only god who has shown me any kindness.

To be continued …