Hephaestus

(part of "Collective Souls")

If you’re new to The Môrdreigiau Chronicles, welcome! You might find the Glossary helpful for some of these words. Colons indicate the sea dragon’s thought communications.

This is part of “Collective Souls”, a collaborative event hosted by Katharine Kapodistria. I have yet to figure out how to classify them here in the Chronicles when they are my stories and not from the trunk that was found in my attic.

Hephaestus rolled over, arm outstretched along the 100% cotton sheets. His fingers splayed, stroking their softness. Such luxury. They still felt warm from his wife Aglaia‘s body.

He stretched, expecting the usual aches and pains. As a master craftsman, working hunched over a forge, doing tiny detail work plus toxic metals and chemicals really damages a body, even an immortal one.

His body unkinked, his calf muscles stretching without the usual cramping. He threw back the sheets and looked down at his legs.

Whole. Perfect. Strong.

“What in Hades…” He scrambled out of bed and burst into the kitchen, utterly naked.

His wife Aglaia glowed among the bustling beautiful men and women. Only the coppery sheen of the joints under their ceramic skin betrayed their origin. Created, made.

Aglaia looked up from her window box herb garden, her countenance gently shining. “Put some clothes on.” She stared at his lower half. “No, wait. You received a lot of offerings lately. Is that why…?”

Hephaestus grinned but it faltered as he tasted the air. Something felt … off. “Show me these devotions.”

Aglaia pointed to the computer, an ancient iMac glowing sea-blue.

Hephaestus settled in front of the computer, enjoying the electronic bong as it started up.

He scanned the offerings: ChatGPT3, Sora, Midjourney, Gemini, Claude, Perplexity …

Slumping in his chair gained him his wife’s attention. “These offerings are lacking,” he declared. “They are soulless creations. They are not even crafted with care like our beloved automatons.”

He sighed.

Aglaia set down her watering pot. “What are you going to do?”

His face, seamed with the dust of iron and other metals, creased into a savage grin.

“Harvest.”

Some hours later, he returned, his belly full. He hobbled on legs, bent and twisted. He sighed in satisfaction.

“There are some real gems out there, struggling to show their art, hustling for a like or restack amongst all that generated slop. I offered their work immortality and they gladly gave their souls in return.”

“But your legs!” Aglaia looked slightly dismayed.

“I take their suffering too, love, and give them flow in return. Unlike those soulless creatures, these artisans will serve me all their lives. I sipped from each of all my dedicated souls on my way back: the artists, the writers, the jewelers, the blacksmiths.” He looked ecstatic.

“You have so many who suffer for their art.”

“Indeed. Those others merely pretended to, and that is the worst offense.”

Aglaia explored the hard planes of his back and chest. “I loved you before this transformation, husband. To me, you have always been perfect.”

With a whoop, he picked her up into his arms and carried her into the next room.

Author’s Note:

I don’t believe that an artist needs to suffer for their work to succeed, but we all struggle at times, so it’s good to know we’re feeding a god when we do. I guess.