The night air on Mount Olympus was crisp, carrying the scent of ambrosia and the faint whispers of divine laughter from distant halls.
Hephaestus stepped out of his forge, the heat of his sanctuary retreating behind him as the cold embraced his skin.
He stood still for a moment, allowing his gaze to drift across the vast expanse of Olympus. Even in darkness, the golden halls of the gods shimmered under the silver glow of the moon, their beauty untouched by time.
He had always admired this view, how the heavens stretched infinitely above, how the stars burned with a light that seemed eternal.
But tonight, none of it stirred him.
The realization settled in his chest like cooled iron: Olympus had never felt like home.
His home, or rather, the place where he and Aphrodite lived, stood at the far end of the peak, separated from his forge by a long, winding path. It had been her request No, herdemand.
"Idon'twantyourforgenearourhome, Hephaestus. Thepoundingofmetal, theheat… it'sunbearable."
Hephaestus had agreed without question. He had convinced himself that her reasoning was valid, that his craft was disruptive, that his fire would sully the elegance of their shared space.
But standing here now, as the cool night air wrapped around him, he allowed himself to wonder.
Had it truly been the heat and noise she despised?
Or had she simply not wanted him near her at all?
The thought settled deep, but he did not push it away. Not this time. He had spent centuries excusing the distance between them, pretending that if he worked hard enough, if he proved himself enough, she would one day look at him the way she looked at Ares, Adonis, or any of the countless others.
But he was done pretending.
Taking a deep breath, he started down the path.
With each step, memories surfaced.
He had built their palace himself, crafted from marble, gold, and bronze, a structure that rivaled even Zeus's halls in beauty.
Every pillar, every carving, every intricate detail had been made with his own hands. Not for himself, but for her.
It was a labor of love.
And yet, love had never lived within those walls.
As he approached the grand structure, its towering columns illuminated in soft golden light, his eyes drifted upward. A single window stood out against the darkness, its glow spilling into the night.
Aphrodite's chamber.
Even now, even at this hour, her room was still lit.
Hephaestus stopped in his tracks.
They had never shared a bed. Not once.
"Ineedmyownspace," shehadsaid. "Wecan'tbeexpectedtosleeptogetherjustbecausewe'remarried."
He had accepted it without argument. He had told himself it was normal, that he should respect her wishes.
He had spent countless nights in solitude, convincing himself that one day, she would open her doors to him, not out of obligation, but out of love.
That day had never come.
Now, as he stood before the palace he had built with his own hands, he felt it more than ever, this was not his home.
He was merely a craftsman who had built something magnificent for another to enjoy.
And perhaps, at this very moment, someone else was enjoying it.
The thought sent a slow, creeping numbness through him.
His love for her, though battered and worn, had still lingered. He had clung to it as one clings to dying embers, afraid to admit that the fire had already gone out.
But standing here, staring up at that window, he felt something shift.
The numbness did not pass. It did not fade. It settled, heavy and final.
Perhaps love could withstand time. Perhaps it could survive pain.
But even the brightest flame could not burn forever once its spark was lost.
And millennia had passed.
Hephaestus exhaled, his breath visible in the cold air.
For the first time in his immortal life, he did not wish to step inside that palace.
For the first time, he realized, he no longer belonged there