The Real Labor -3-: Digging My Own Grave
Suddenly, Heracles had raised his beloved wife's expectations sky-high, digging his own grave in the process. He grew desperate. He had to find a way to finish the hammer all by himself. But there was no way a novice blacksmith who'd failed for the past six months could come up with a solution in a single day. Yet, as the saying goes, necessity is the mother of invention—a flash of knowledge from a TV show in his previous life struck him like lightning.
"Using saltwater makes water quenching a bit easier. It reduces the bubbles."
He didn't know the exact principle, but the lifesaving wisdom from a foreign TV show he'd loved popped into his head. This just might work. First, Heracles bolted to the kitchen and grabbed the salt jar, dumping it straight into the quenching tub.
"Thank goodness salt's so plentiful in Sicily."
Even as a blacksmith, he wouldn't have dared waste such precious salt like this anywhere but this beautiful island of Sicily. But salt was abundant on the isle smack in the middle of the Mediterranean—exaggeration aside, you could practically dig it up from the ground.
"Alright then... let's get started."
Heracles gripped the forging hammer, his expression more resolute than ever.
Meanwhile, Adamantia had been lost in admiration for her husband's brilliant idea, but after a while, her excitement faded, and she remembered he was still a novice blacksmith. He'd probably brought it up to ask for help, but she'd realized too late. Feeling awkward, she scratched her beautiful silver hair and headed to his forging station. There, Heracles was hard at work hammering away.
"...Man, he's a natural at swinging that hammer."
Heracles wasn't a master of all martial arts for nothing—he adapted to physical labor in no time. It was the same with forging. He'd instantly mimicked her unique rhythm, figured out the force of each strike just from the sound, and replicated that too. He adapted to forging at a terrifying speed. Even after just two years of training, his skills had advanced to a level Adamantia had to acknowledge.
But the reason Heracles was only a half-baked blacksmith lay elsewhere.
"His quenching is just too sloppy... Quenching isn't just dunking it in water."
Quenching was delicate work. The massive temperature difference between the water and the red-hot metal required sprinkling clay to cool it gradually, quick dips followed by more forging, and repeating the process—a tedious, precise task. Yet somehow, for the past six months, Heracles had been doing the horrific blunder of just splashing it straight into plain water. Since quenching knowledge was crucial, Adamantia never verbally corrected him. He had to figure it out himself—that was the only way it would stick. Frustrating as it was, there was no helping it.
"...What are you doing?"
Adamantia had come to offer at least a little help, but Heracles was up to something strange. He'd run off with the salt jar and dumped it into the quenching tub. Even she, with thousands of years as a blacksmith, had never seen anything like it. Intrigued, she held her breath and watched him closely.
Heracles, having poured in heaps of salt, shaped the forged hammer head. At last, it was time for quenching. Please don't just dunk it like an idiot this time, Adamantia thought anxiously.
"Huh?"
"...Careful, careful now."
Heracles's quenching technique had changed. He was finally doing proper water quenching—dipping lightly, pulling out, and repeating with forging. His shoulders were tense with fear of failure, which was why he'd never done it right before, but this was the correct sequence nonetheless.
What really caught Adamantia's eye, though, was something else.
"Why are there so few bubbles? They're visible even from here..."
Thanks to his innate physical prowess, Heracles quenched at high speed, so bubbles should have clung to the hammer head. Those bubbles were the blacksmith's eternal enemy, even for Adamantia. But there were hardly any. Unusually few bubbles stuck to Heracles's hammer head.
Struck like she'd been hit by lightning, Adamantia slipped away from the spot. She went to her own station, grabbed the salt bowl she kept for warding off dizziness during work, and emptied it all into the quenching tub. Then she spent the entire day forging a hammer head identical to her husband's.
The goddess of the forge's quenching and shaping were flawless and swift. And on that night, with torches blazing brightly, it was finally time for her quenching.
Adamantia was more tense than ever.
"If there really are no bubbles... this would be a massive discovery."
With trembling care, she began quenching the forged hammer in the saltwater. Her sharp eyes narrowed further. She could feel through the vibrations in her fingertips that it cooled much faster than plain cold water. She had to move her hands even quicker. Covering the heated blade with clay to cool it, dipping in water, repeating—the process grew faster still.
The overall difficulty of quenching had actually increased. But even to her eye, far fewer bubbles clung to it.
"If this works, even Heracles might be able to do it."
Joy crept into her voice. After two years, her husband's path out of novicehood was in sight. And perhaps the god of blacksmithing she'd longed for would finally be born.
But the surprises didn't end there.
The hammer head quenched in saltwater turned out superior to anything Adamantia had ever made before.
"Ahh, Heracles! You're a genius!"
The emotion in Adamantia's thrilled voice was an infinite roar of love for the husband she'd worried over all this time.
Meanwhile, deep into that night when Adamantia succeeded with her husband's futuristic knowledge experiment, surrounded by torches and the glow of the furnace, Heracles knelt, staring blankly at the hammer head he'd finally completed. His soot-blackened face showed awkwardness, elation, and profound emotion. Tears welled up unbidden.
And a gentle hand wiped away his husband's tears.
"...Adamantia?"
"You did it, Heracles. No need to check—it's a resounding success!"
"Really?"
"Yes, Heracles. You succeeded. You're finally a true blacksmith."
"I can't believe it. One hammer head moving me like this."
"That's the heart of a craftsman. Your own creation will endlessly move its maker."
For the first time, Heracles tasted the joy of craftsmanship his wife had tried to teach him. It was praiseworthy. He'd finally become a true artisan. The road to completing the warhammer was still long, but after days of grueling effort, the hammer head was perfect.
And Adamantia pulled an identical hammer head from her bosom.
"Adamantia? What's this?"
"Truth is, I watched you work the whole time and made one just like it. You're a genius. My love for you has grown even deeper. It won't change now."
"Adamantia..."
"This warhammer will be my symbol—and yours too. The mark of us truly becoming husband and wife."
"Is something like this okay?"
"I guess I'm just not one for marriage vows or rings. This suits me better."
Before being a goddess or a Protogenoi of Sicily, Adamantia was a craftswoman. For thousands of years, she'd never left this forge—her identity as an artisan always came first. To her, this hammer head was priceless.
"It's my love confession. Accept it, dear. I'll become the master of this battle hammer too."
"I never thought I'd say this, but it's the best wedding gift ever, Adamantia."
"I can't exactly lose to Mom or my siblings, either."
It was true. Her first real romance had been with this man, to whom she'd eagerly given her purity. She loved him deeply, but a sliver of doubt lingered—was it just the fever Eros had planted? Heracles felt the same, which had been another heartache for her.
But now it was different. Seeing Heracles grasp a craftsman's joy, his mindset, and unleash genius new ideas—he was more lovable than ever. And to Heracles, her shyly proffered hammer head made her face both cute and alluring.
On that night with torches and the forge fire roaring, the two gods were truly bound.