As he swam back to his island, the darkness seemed to press in around him, punctuated only by the occasional flash of bioluminescent creatures. The water's familiar caress was comforting, but his mind was elsewhere, lingering on the image of the steamboat and its human crew.
He swam back through waters he had long since memorized, every curve of coral, every school of fish, every volcanic ridge imprinted into his mind from decades of isolation. Yet his strokes tonight were less rhythmic, less meditative. His thoughts raced too quickly, churning like the currents below him.
He stopped by a small islet not far from his own. The trees here bore fig and citrus, and as he clambered up the stony shore, his bare feet crunching gravel and shells, he reached for the low-hanging fruit. The fig split in his hands as he picked it. But he barely tasted it. He kept glancing toward the east, toward the direction of the other island. Toward the smoke. The machine. The humans.
Who were they? What kind of magic could forge a floating behemoth of iron? Was it Poseidon's doing? A trick of Hermes? Or were they just men, clever and bold? He couldn't shake the image of them, laughing and working and walking across the strange boat with casual purpose.
He scoffed and dropped another fig into a palm-leaf wrap. "Fear them? No," he muttered aloud. "I am not made to fear mortals." Still, his heartbeat said otherwise. He hated that. He hated that he still felt so unsure of the world beyond.
He dove again, now swimming back to the volcanic island he called home. A small plume of steam always marked it from afar, rising from the fractured mouth of its dormant volcano. He swam with his arms knifing through kelp forests, the fishes parting around him like gleaming petals in a river of light. He thought he saw a manta ray twist through the distance. Old friends of the deep.
By the time he arrived, the sun had begun its descent, casting red across the forge's roofless mouth. His stomach growled. He caught a silver-scaled snapper with his bare hands from a tidal pool, then roasted it in a fire kindled with driftwood and embers from his forge. Alongside it, he laid strips of peeled citrus and soft figs.
As he chewed, he stared at the horizon. His thoughts spun. The ship again. How it defied logic. Iron, floating. Men, directing it. Mortals shouldn't be able to do this. Thetis had always warned him that the world of men was strange. Dangerous. Brilliant, but short-sighted. Her warnings now stung like open salt.
He frowned, biting into the fish. "How do they float?" he asked aloud, then suddenly gagged. A thin, sharp bone had lodged in his throat. He choked, coughed violently, tears springing to his eyes as he clawed for the gourd of water nearby. The thoughts were gone. The pain grounded him again in the now. He swallowed. The fish bone went down, raggedly. He stared into the fire.
****
The morning light crept over the horizon, casting a golden glow over the sea. He stood at the water's edge, the brace's leather straps biting into his skin. The pain was familiar, a constant reminder of his limitations.
His fingers wrapped around leather straps, tightening the brace around his left leg. The device was crude, hammered together from volcanic iron and stretched goat-hide. It curved along his calf, reinforcing the weakened muscles beneath. Each morning, the brace bit against his skin. Each morning, he endured it.
He sighed, tying off the last knot. The motion never got easier. This daily humiliation. He had forged the brace himself, long ago, after he realized the limb would never heal. A god, broken. A craftsman bound by his own weakness. He rose slowly, leaning on a driftwood staff, then cast it aside.
He wouldn't need it today.
The water welcomed him like kin. As he dove, the pressure of the world fell away. Again the ocean greeted him. A pair of dolphins flanked him for a while, curiously chirping before darting off. He surged forward, this time not drifting but tearing through the sea like a spear.
The island came into view. Zakynthos. Or so he would soon learn it was called.
He slowed near the port. Observing. The docks bustled, but in a new way. A different ship than the last, but similar. Men hauling crates, voices barking orders. Fishing boats, thin and crude, were being prepped. A cluster of men huddled near a stack of nets. He saw an opening. A side of the port left momentarily untended.
He went for it.
His leap from the sea was clumsy. More forceful than he'd intended. He burst from the water like a cannonball and landed with a thud several meters inland, knees bent, but his left leg buckled slightly. He stumbled, catching himself. A limp, a jerk in the brace. Heads turned instantly.
Fifteen men or more stared. Nets in hand, crates paused mid-air.
One turned to another and muttered, wide-eyed:
"Ποιος είναι αυτός ο άντρας, τι στο διάολο φοράει, είναι αυτά φύκια;" (Who is this man, what the actual hell is he wearing, are those seaweed?)
Hephaestus stepped forward, dripping, trying not to show his nerves. The salt stung his eyes. He looked at them all and tried to speak:
"Χαίρετε. Ξένος ειμι. Τί νησος εστιν αύτη;" (Greetings. I am a stranger. What island is this?)
They blinked. Some chuckled. One scoffed.
"Did you hear that? What kind of Greek is that? Sounds like a priest's riddle."
Another smirked, "Or an actor from a bad myth play."
He understood only some of it. The tones. The mockery. That cut more than the limp.
One man, older, grumbled, looking at his leg.
"Κοίτα την ποδάρα του, τον καημένο. Το σίδερο αυτό δε φαίνεται σταθερό." (Look at his leg, poor bastard. That iron thing doesn't even look stable.)
Hephaestus said nothing. He moved past them, slowly. No one stopped him, but no one welcomed him either.
The town was small but lively. Cobbled paths weaved between whitewashed houses. Blue shutters hung open. The scent of the sea clung to every wall. Children played with wooden toys while goats bleated nearby. He felt every gaze on him.
"Who is he?" "Look at his leg." "Where did he come from?" "A madman. Maybe a beggar."
He tried to pick up pieces of their chatter. He caught fragments. Phrases. Like threads of tapestry he couldn't yet read.
He turned a corner and found the market. It pulsed with life. Merchants called out. Fabric waved from tents. Brass and copper glinted in the sunlight. Women bartered. The smells of roasted olives, cheese, and sweet pastry filled the air.
The market's smells were a riot of sensations, a cacophony of scents that overwhelmed his senses. He wandered through the stalls, taking in the sights and sounds, his stomach growling with hunger.
He hadn't eaten since last night. The fish had choked him, and his stomach now roared. He spotted a stall, manned by a boy no older than twelve. The stall held small fried snacks, shaped like spirals, coated in honey and powdered sugar. He didn't know what they were, but the smell was divine.
He stepped forward and said bluntly:
"Δός μοι." (Give me.)
The boy blinked. Looked him up and down. Seaweed, salt-crusted skin, no coin.
Then snickered and called over his shoulder:
"Μάνα μου, νομίζω πως βρήκαμε τον Δία τρελό!" (Mama, I think we've found Zeus gone mad!)
Hephaestus froze.
For a second, he understood it. All of it.
Zeus. Mad.
The world tilted..