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To many, Hephaistos is a standoffish soul.
Few and far between are the moments where he graces even those who are his peers with conversation, and even then, his words are ever of the curt sort, precise and to the point in a manner some would call clinical. They say, in hushed voices when he has rounded the corner and is out of sight, that with his nose pressed so far into tomes and journals and papers, he is fortunate that the mask perched over his face does not bear the ink. They give him a wide berth, her Hephaistos— always scuttling to one side of the hallway or the next when he walks the Akadaemia, and are content to let him have his own little world when he splays his project material over a table.
He is a brilliant mind, of this none would dare dispute. But, they will all seemingly agree, he is a star best admired from afar.
Athena, in her wisdom, finds this position to be a grossly inaccurate one. Laughably so, even.
In her recollection, he has never been standoffish or trite— simply a man who values his time and all that can be achieved within greatly. Her Hephaistos is a man who values action and progression, and in this they are kindred spirits. Where others will meekly peek over the tops of their books in his direction, it is Athena who fearlessly claims a place at his table, always sitting opposite him, always seeking to meet his gaze, always seeking his conversation in a way no one else could ever hope to do.
When they first began to collaborate, the confusion writ upon the furrow of his brow was reward enough. But she is Athena, and Athena is ever ceaseless, ever tireless, ever in the pursuit of progress. Each time the legs of the chair scraped the floor to signify her appearance and claiming of her spot, she would immediately seek out his gaze, eager for it, ravenous even, for the moment where the spark of confusion and irritation in his eyes flickered for a spell upon her before it immediately ignited into recognition.
With such vivid detail can Athena recall the day that she had taken her usual spot opposite of Hephaistos, and she’d not even received the bat of an eyelash, the turn of his head. While his tenacity to his work was admirable, the hand that hid beneath the table had curled in reaction, a fist so furious that her knuckles went white and her fingernails pressed unkind crescents into her palm. Brilliant blue eyes narrowed to the most dark of glares before, still without even looking unto her, he had set aside his pen and begun gathering his papers.
There was a moment where all time fell still— had he tired of her?
Had she outgrown her usefulness?
No… certainly not… she was the only mind in the Akadaemia that could hope to keep up with him…
Her inward spiraling been cut into screeching silence by the appearance of a stack of papers thrust forward, practically into her face. Haphazard in the way they were barely kept together in Hephaistos’ grip, and finally, finally he had looked to her. And his gaze was fervent, eager, it very nearly rivaled her own.
It was thrilling.
“ Read these. “ Hephaistos has never said please before, but Athena had known without even a shadow of doubt that there could have easily been one unspoken then. How could she ask for such pleasantries, when the words he had followed after with were of infinitely more importance to her:
“ I want to know what you think. “
It was a well known fact in Amaurot, nay, their society as a whole: one did not present their opinions on another’s creation before it was formally submitted to the Bureau for screening. To do so any time before was highly disrespectful— not unlike judging the rough draft of a thesis with the rubric designed for the final copy.
And Hephaistos, her Hephaistos, had intentionally invited her opinion.
He had valued her opinion.
She had taken to his work like a woman starved.
For the second time that afternoon, her chair’s legs had scraped the ground in angry fashion, had very nearly toppled the entire seat in her eagerness, leaning over the table and splaying out his sheets everywhere she could manage, eyes flicking to each individual sheet in such rapid fashion that it had seemed as though she could scarcely soak up the information fast enough.
It was his biggest project yet. Ever in search of new peaks, Hephaistos was crafting a new familiar, unlike any he had created before— and let there be no doubt that Athena was familiar with each and every creation attributed to that brilliant mind of his. Most exciting of all were his blueprints of this creature, the proposed muscle and bone structure, where each spindly finger of the nervous system would reach, intimate and detailed studies of myriad serpents and avian creations, both base concepts and those of higher creativity. The formally written conceptual papers were all but discarded in favor of the scrawlings in the margins, those hastily written notes above early diagrams told more story of Hephaistos’ inner mind than his proper writing could ever hope to.
From her understanding of it, Hephaistos sought to create some form of chimera … some manner of serpent that could crawl upon the ground and then spout wings to take to the skies and leave no domain unchallenged. It reminded her so very much of him— perhaps that was why she was so enamored with this creation.
She recalls, too, the day he presented it to her.
There were many chambers within the Akadaemia, not quite aether-dampened, but with neutralizing walls, such that any creation within could not breach them. The perfect testing hall for Hephaistos’ masterwork.
Hephaistos, her Hephaistos, was ever a man of action, but not needless action. Many within the Akadaemia would make outlandish flourishes, create some few familiars under the guise of warming their magick reserves to prepare for their grand presentation. Athena had, on no few occasions, even heard him voice his ceaseless displeasure for such grandiose and ultimately useless theatrics.
It is always a pleasure to watch him work, but to be so close, so, so close that she could reach out and card a hand through his burgundy red hair? It was sublime.
He did not allow her to get accustomed to his magick with cheap party trick creations … no, he immediately began the process of conjuring his project of now seven years in the making.
It was overwhelming and sublime to behold, the air dampening with the saturation of Hephaistos’ magicks. He has ever been a person more in tune with the umbral aspect of his magicks, the wild nature of his fire immediately fanning a heaviness across the room, air suddenly laden with heat.
And she, just as in touch with her Umbral magick, watched on with rapt eagerness— his magick could sear her flesh from bone, for all she cared, so long as he achieved his ends by whatever means he needed.
It was a glorious sight to behold— as visceral as she had dared hoped and then some. Creation was never as glorious and pretty a sight as some beyond the Akadaemia liked to believe. True creation, the creation of the original concept, was bound in blood and bone and body.
The magicks in the air bent and folded to Hephaistos’ design, made to form masses under the pressure of his will, until pitch black bones were formed. They assembled in the air before the two of them, and Athena had not even known her breath was held until the skeleton hung in the air, spread like a petalouda pinned to a wall. Next came the blood and muscle, winding around the ash black bones into thick cords. She had dared to move her gaze from creation to creator, and was immediately drawn to his lips, moving as they were, mouthing each individual muscle as he crafted them from scratch and molded them to suit the being in his mind. In the back of her head, Athena has curiosity— more so than the usual all-consuming variety that makes its home there, for his creation, assuredly serpentine as it was made to be, had far more mass upon it than surely it needed.
She could not speak this though, not while he was still forging his familiar. There was still the skin to create over it, and create he did. A coating of … what had it been? Feathers? Layered atop the muscle first, and then covered with row after row of thick, interlocked scales that draped over it, and then tightened against the muscle two rows beneath, practically crushing the feathers beneath.
And then he had set it all ablaze.
Athena can recall she had become still. So very, very still.
Why create one of the most beautiful things, only to immediately destroy it.
She had watched as the scales he had painstakingly formed melted beneath the fury of his flames, as the feathers that his beneath went up like brush. How they had crackled and popped audibly, spitting embers high into the air already so heavy from heat. ‘Twas not unlike standing before an active forge, the way the muscle loosened in the pyre, unraveling just barely from the charred bones beneath before incinerating. And those bones … those bones already pitch black as they were, had begun to split and crack before they too succumbed to Hephaistos’ will.
And yet … even when there was nothing left for his fires to consume wholly … still, his fires blazed. With a fascination that was once morbid, Athena watched as the fires only seemed to blaze brighter in the absence of fuel, as the flames grew higher, glowed blinding yellow… and moved as though they were alive. Hephaistos had reached his hand out to the flames and she had almost tripped over herself trying to reach for that hand— to snatch it away from his all-consuming flames, and only succeeding in reaching it at the same time the flames did.
It did not burn.
It was utterly fascinating, and she recalls having been dumbfounded for but a second before the next object of her fascination enraptured her. The flames were alive, as alive as Athena was, as alive as Hephaistos was. The flames coiled in the air, forming a serpent that looked as though it had been molten metal within a cast. But no, it was alive. There was not the rigidity of metalwork, nor the heaviness of iron or bronze— no this was something that was fluid in its motion, and moved in the air with more grace than some sky-dwelling creations on the star.
But Hephaistos, her Hephaistos, was not to be pleased so easily.
No— his voice, when he next spoke, was hoarse with the exertion such a monumental creation took. “ Rise. “
And before Athena’s very eyes, the creation let forth a screech, and its body undulated suddenly, coiling upon itself once, twice, thrice over, pressing itself into a large mass before it erupted with blinding light.
But Athena could not look away, did not dare even closing her eyes before the sight.
Wings ruptured through the serpent’s scales, tearing through in a burst of umbral fire. Its maw cracked audibly, contorting and condensing upon itself to form a solid beak from which another cry sounded, decidedly more avian than serpentine, and the scales that remained of its hide shed, dispersing lightly only to reform in the shape of plumage, smoldering still with the light of the sun. At the last, when its body was almost entirely avian, the tail that remained split in three ways, tearing and gathering the embers of its own transformation to create stunning tailfeathers that fluttered independent of any air flow in the chamber.
A metamorphosis wreathed in fire.
Life gained anew from the destruction of one form.
Ascension from the ground to the sky.
“ Magnificent. “ For there was no other word she could think of in the entirety of her vocabulary that could quite encompass the awe she felt for the creation.
And for Hephaistos, her dear Hephaistos.
He turned then, staring at their hands still gathered together, staring at her, and oh, what a sight he was. Like a god, with that brilliant phoenix beating its wings and sending stray embers into the air. A god of creation, of fire, of rebirth … he was nearest unto perfect, her Hephaistos.
He was perfect for her, just as she was unto him.
When their lips met , it was Hephaistos who initiated, but it was Athena who quickly took the lead.
And how pleased was she, to find that it was not only his magicks that were an all-consuming blaze, but every last aspect of him, too.
Kindred spirits, truly.