Even gods need a breather now and then. Hephaestus has been nowhere to be found, these past few weeks, but now he's emerged into a shallow, smooth-walled cave east of the lake, as a man might take the air on a balcony; looking, as he generally does on such occasions, a little sooty and bedraggled.

It is, on first sight, an innocuous and slightly saccharine scene, the sort one might expect of the more sanctimonious Victorian painters on a less coherent day: the dark crooked man in his antiquated draperies, seated awkwardly on the sunlit grass, all his attention bent on the blossoming crocus by his hand. The Patient Sufferer, Consoled by Dame ( Read more... )

These children, these heedless children.

I've never understood it.

I'm one of the quiet ones, the dark ones. We don't demand much, or move quickly, or give much light.

But we're always there.

*snorts*

What do they teach them in these schools?

*raises eyebrows*

I knew most of that already.

And I suppose you could mistake me for Fëanor in a dark forge.

( Confidential to Zara )

oh for the love of great-granddad's ill-fated balls.

*grumbles*

Well, she's a handsome girl, isn't she, and wise for her years. I'll wager that rough tongue gets her into trouble.

Hairpins that won't break, the child says. *tugs at own rather sooty hair, thoughtfully* Huh. I could use a bit of fine work to keep my hand in, too.

*small, secret, crooked, pleased smile*

All right then, I'm here. And only because my aunt talked me into it.