Hephaestus' heart aches, and he knows that no one will give him even a shred of love to ease the agonizing pain of his wife's infidelity with his own brother Ares.

Hephaestus himself had caught them, and all of Olympus had laughed until there were tears in Zeus's eyes. But Hephaestus could not blame Aphrodite, the perfect and beautiful goddess of love, for not being able to love him.

Who could love him? His mother, Hera, had thrown him off Olympus at birth, disgusted by the sight of her son. His face is scarred, and his hands severely burned from all the blacksmithing he had done for the other gods. An injury to his leg causes him to limp, and sometimes he even forgets to shave.

Hephaestus considers himself disgusting, and knows that he does not deserve pity or even a shred of love. But, he cannot help being selfish and wanting at least a mere embrace from a loved one to ease the deep pain of his withered soul.

And now that Aphrodite had flown from his side, the nights were longer and the days lonelier. No one asked him when he got home to his dark home how his day had gone. So Hephaestus decided to work behind the gods' backs.

He had created Pandora, Prometheus's punishment. So why couldn't he create someone else? Someone capable of loving him?

His hands molded the clay that shaped you. Every curve, every stroke of skin, every lash in your eyes; Hephaestus had created it. He added freckles to your body, softness to your hands; wanting your fingers to slide over the scars on his face and whisper that he is precious.

And finally you open your eyes. A perfect being made of clay. The representation of his love.

His fingers, still stained from the clay he had used, Hephaestus reaches up and touches your cheek, a nervous smile on his face. "My love." he whispers, almost cautiously. "Please don't run away from me."

He wants so badly for you to love him, but a little voice in his head reminds him that he is so hideous. But oh, how he wishes you would look at him with love. Even if you are just clay.