The air whistled past his ears as Hephaestus ran. His limp should have slowed him, but the power within him surged, balancing out his twisted stride. The rhythm of his feet was uneven, almost percussive, one leg pounding firm and the other dragging just slightly, but his speed was undeniable. Behind him, the shouts of pursuit grew louder. Boots slammed against cobblestone, gravel scattered under hurried feet, and voices;rough, furious, insistent;barked out his condemnation. "Kleptis!" Thief!
Then, silence. The scene rewound itself, back to the beginning.
He had left the market with empty hands and a gnawing in his belly that rivaled the pain in his leg. The mockery still echoed faintly in his mind, laughter that clung like cobwebs. No one would give him food. No one believed his intentions were innocent. He was strange, and to the villagers, strange meant dangerous.
The outskirts of the town faded into stretches of cultivated land, divided and parceled with diligence. Olive trees swayed in lazy unison. Rows of corn stalks reached up like skeletal fingers. Beyond them, golden patches of wheat trembled in the breeze. There were tomatoes bursting red with ripeness, fig trees with twisting limbs, and patches of onions half-buried in tilled earth.
His wandering led him deeper into the plantation, pulled not by direction but desperation. His nose twitched at the scent of sweetness, and he followed it like a hound. Nestled in a more humid corner of the fields were vines coiled low to the ground, their leaves broad and green, cradling orbs of striped emerald: watermelons. Large, full, and heavy with juice.
Without a thought, he dropped to his knees and tore one free. The stem snapped. He found a sharp stone, cracked the fruit open with clumsy power, and plunged his hands into its crimson heart. The juice spilled over his fingers and down his wrists. He ate like a starving animal, grunting softly between bites, eyes half-lidded in brief euphoria.
He didn't hear the boy approach until the whisper broke the moment. "Kleftis," the boy said. His voice was barely audible. The boy's grip tightened on the hoe. This wasn't some stray dog gnawing at scraps; this was a man, wild-eyed and desperate. His master's warnings echoed: Thieves steal more than food. They steal peace.
Hephaestus looked up slowly, juice smeared across his chin. The boy was maybe ten or eleven, bony and sun-dark, shirt too large for his shoulders, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His bare feet were dirty, soles hardened from field work. His eyes were wide, one hand clenched tightly around the edge of a hoe.
"Kleftis!" the boy said again, louder this time.
Hephaestus rose to his feet, startled, his brace creaking slightly as he stood unevenly. "No... I was hungry. That's all. I meant no harm."
The boy took a step back but didn't answer. His mouth opened, then shut. His gaze flicked to the broken fruit, then back to Hephaestus, then beyond where shouts began to rise.
"Stop him!"
"Thief!"
"Bastard!"
The stampede of anger grew louder, closer. Hephaestus turned, saw movement in the rows of crops. Men. Four, maybe five of them, in earth-colored shirts and rolled-up trousers, wielding crude tools, hoes, rakes, a scythe or two. They ran with purpose, chins low, eyes burning.
Instinct kicked in. He ran.
He forgot the pain. His bad leg had no say in this. The brace, cobbled together from driftwood and melted nails, groaned under the effort but held. He darted between rows, leapt over trenches, burst through a line of stalks, and sprinted across the outer path leading back into the village. He meant to veer left, towards the thickets and safety, but his panic misled him. He ran straight into town.
Near the road, two men sat lazily beneath a canvas of shade, each wearing the uniform of the Chorofylakí—the lawmen. One held a long baton across his lap like a prop, the other had his jacket open and belly bulging over his belt. They barely noticed the disturbance until the cries of the farmhands reached their ears.
"Kleftis!"
"There! There he is!"
Hephaestus shot past them. A blur of grime, seaweed-strung cloth, and wild black curls. One officer stood too late, staggering as he reached for his baton.
"Stamata!" the officer shouted, with all the force he could summon, which wasn't much. "Stop!"
They began to chase, their boots thudding on the sun-baked path, joined by the furious farmers.
The village came alive.
Children dashed alongside, laughing at the absurdity. Women peered out from windows. A man stepped aside just in time to avoid collision, muttering curses. Chickens scattered, a cart tilted as a mule brayed in panic. Hephaestus ducked through a narrow alley, his breath ragged but his speed unrelenting.
"Grab him!" one voice shrieked.
He turned a sharp corner, then another, losing track of the angles. He could still hear them, but the distance was growing. He scanned the walls. To his right, a crumbling plaster fence. He surged forward and leapt, his fingers catching the top. He pulled himself over with a grunt and tumbled down into a quiet garden.
He lay there for a second, chest rising and falling, until he heard only his own breath.
The garden was calm. Ivy crawled up lattice posts. White stones lined a small path. Flowers bloomed in orderly patches, violets and carnations with sleepy heads. There was a wooden pagoda draped with wisteria, the vines hanging like whispers.
Behind it stood a structure unlike the village homes. The house was broad and elegant, a fusion of eastern and western sensibilities. Wooden beams shaped like those in eastern temples met the marble pillars of Greek design. The roof curved slightly at the corners, and windchimes clinked softly in the breeze.
In one corner of the garden, an old man knelt beside a shallow box of herbs. He wore long robes in pale beige, the hem muddied slightly at the edges. His beard was long and silver, his skin sun-worn but unwrinkled. He moved with the silence of a priest, hands tending gently to his plants.
Hephaestus rose slowly, unsure if he should hide or speak. The old man looked over his shoulder but didn't speak. His gaze lingered on the stranger for a breath, then he returned to his watering. The old man's fingers stilled among the herbs. Another lost soul washed ashore, then. The gods sent them often; broken things, sharp-edged and half-starved. This one had a craftsman's hands, though. Interesting.
Hephaestus stepped closer. He tried his tongue.
"Chairete," he said in the tongue of his time. "Ego eimi… xenios. Peinō."
The old man chuckled, a dry and low sound.
"What an interesting accent you have," he said, in a slow, clear Greek.
He stood and examined Hephaestus fully now, eyes glinting behind thick brows. He didn't flinch at the brace or the tangled hair. He didn't recoil at the strange garments or the wild look in his eyes.
He turned away without another word and walked up the steps to his door. At the threshold, he paused.
"Are you coming in?"
Hephaestus blinked.
The words were Greek. But not the harsh, unfamiliar noise he had heard all day. They were fluent to his ears.
The dialect was new, but somehow… it was his.
He stepped forward.