Hephaestus reached to the side and gripped a long silver crutch that attached to his elbow and shoulder, then pushed to the other side and attached its mate. When he stood, Hermes saw the extent of the damage. His spine had twisted cruelly. The joints in his hands bulged, warping the finger bones. He could barely hold his arm braces, but he kicked aside the blanket. His legs were encased in bands of metal.

“Get that look off your face,” Hephaestus said gruffly. “Watch.” He stepped forward, and the mechanisms on his leg whirred. Despite his contorted form, the motion seemed effortless.

“You’re … Iron Man.”

“Ha!” Hephaestus grinned. “Tony Stark gets no credit. These are my own design.”

“You look good, old friend,” Hermes said. “All things considered.”

“All things considered, we both do. Both of us still handsome, from the neck up.”

A faint knock sounded and the young woman Hermes had seen leaving and returning entered, pushing a cart of silver platters. She parked it beside a dark dining table in the north end of the room.

Hephaestus walked to the table, leg braces whirring. The combination of movements with the metal arm crutches gave the impression of an ungainly silver spider. A very strong ungainly silver spider.

“Stay for lunch?” Hephaestus asked. The woman, who really wasn’t much more than a girl on closer inspection, lifted silver covers to reveal a platter of six roasted chickens and two more of white asparagus bathed in hollandaise. “I sent them out for it specially. For old times’ sake.”

“Next you’ll tell me you’ve got some of that odd German wine.”

Hephaestus’ eyes widened in horror. “Let’s try a nice New York white this time. Marie, two bottles of the Chateau Frank Riesling.”

Over the course of the meal, Hermes tried not to stuff himself, but it was difficult. He also tried not to drink too much, which was even more difficult. The Riesling paired well with the food, and being inside the grand house brought back memories of their time spent in Hephaestus’ fine German hotel.

“So, the Derbys. Are they really your family? Or just mortals you befriended and bewitched with roasted chicken?”

“They really are,” Hephaestus said. “Or at least, they’re my descendants. The first Alexander Derby II was my biological son. I’ve lived a whole saga here. Heartbreak and triumph. Wars fought and won. Generations of family.” He frowned. “And then this.” He held up his twisted and curled hand. “Now my real family comes knocking.”

“Athena was here,” Hermes said. “At the end of this past summer. Briefly.”

“I know. I felt her, luckily, before she felt me.”

“So far before?” Hermes asked. “No offense, but, steel robot legs or not, you don’t look like you can make a speedy getaway.”

“My body is twistier, that’s for certain,” Hephaestus replied. “But the limp is nothing new, and I’ve learned the need for escape plans. There are ways out of here, my friend, that you can’t even imagine. Be careful what doors you go through.”

“Sounds ominous,” Hermes said, and stuffed another bite of chicken into his mouth.

“So it does. But it’s a necessity.”

“I didn’t want to find you this way,” Hermes said. “I imagined you in a suit not so different from the one you’re wearing now. But there were no crutches, or braces. I thought … I hoped, that maybe you had a bigger cane. Maybe one of those canes with four feet at the bottom.”

“And I hoped you’d somehow been able to outrun the whole mess.” Hephaestus chuckled. “But here we are. And here it is.”

Here it is. And damn it, how I hate to ruin such a nice lunch.

“You’ve heard about the war, haven’t you,” Hermes said quietly. “And you’ve heard about your mother.”

Hephaestus looked down, and picked up his wine.

“Yes,” he said. “Hera has fallen. Shall we pour a libation for her out on the floor?” He shook his head. “I heard.”

“She didn’t try to contact you? Didn’t try to get you to come over to her side?”

“She didn’t. And I would have said no, anyway. Dying gods tearing each other’s throats out just to be the last gods standing. Even if you win, what kind of survival is that? What kind of victory? It’s vulgar. No, when Mother needed help, she didn’t turn to me. She went to her favorite son, like she always does. Like my own damned wife does, for that matter.”