Hephaestus, God of Fire and Craftmanship (breath_of_fire) wrote in deities_dot_com, @ 2012-09-02 22:20:00 |
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Entry tags: | ~hephaestus, ~philotes |
When You Spit in the Wind (tag: Philotes)
The wind rustled the leaves of the trees and lifted the dust of the trails as it skittered over the island of Lemnos. It would brush the surf of its beaches before passing on, on a journey that never stopped, though it had a beginning few could remember. A car sputtered, the wind taking a puff of dark exhaust with it, as it climbed up one of the winding roads of the mountains. The couple inside it laughed, on their way to market or work or simply to the cafe. Perhaps they glanced at the rutted path that branched off into the woods. Perhaps they thought of the man who lived there, kindly if they had shared a kind word with him or if he had helped them out of a jam. Or with a frown of caution if his rough face and steely eyes had turned them away. But either way their thoughts soon wandered off as did their car, leaving the dusty dirt track in silence.
They disappeared around a curve but the dirt track led up, two seeming to disappear beneath the trees until it eventually led into a clearing, a sunlit meadow peppered with outbuildings which surrounded a one-story house. The buildings were simple, but perfectly kept, built of wood and slate by their owner himself. The clearing had been cleared by his hand, the trees felled, the wood split, the foundation dug, all by his hands. Neat stacks of firewood flanked the house and smoke crept from its chimney, despite the warm day.
The door to the home was open and inside a man sat, back bent, over a table littered with tools and pieces of wood. A fire flickered in the hearth, casting a ruddy glow on the man's features and a stifling warmth to the room. Oblivious to the heat, the man stared intently at one thin piece of wood as if he intended to master it with his gaze alone. His hands were busy though, sharpening a curved draw knife with motions as well-practiced as the rocking of the waves. When his hands finally grew still he lifted the blade and turned his dark eyes upon it. He seemed to scowl at it, but a keen observer would see that in fact his face was utterly relaxed; this was simply the form his face fell into by nature, an intent furrowing of the brow, a slight twist to his lips. In fact a keen observer would see that the man's body was almost defined by the word twist. Every part of it seemed slightly askew, from his mouth to his spine to his shoulders to his hips and most of all to his legs. Yet there was no sense of infirmity in his figure which bent itself to the task of cutting the wood, his touch as nimble as a nymph's, the press of his shoulders as powerful as a titan's.
The cut was only partway made when there was a sudden movement in the room. Hephaestus never flinched from his motion, his eyes watching the cut intently, as if they were doing the cutting, not his fingers. But he sensed his two dogs springing to their feet and darting from the room. He felt the presence of another just after they did, a visitor in his clearing. He could hear them barking, the shaggy brown brothers, and hear those barks move from alarm to welcome. "A friend," Hephaestus said to himself, leaning back from his work only after the cut was finished. His back cracked dramatically as he did so, and he let out a relieved sigh. Putting down the draw knife, Hephaestus gripped his walking stick in one hand and gave a push against the floor, spinning the chair noiselessly to face the doorway. "Come in," he spoke as it was darkened by a silhouette, quickly followed by two more prancing shadows. "Friends are always welcome."