Chapter 11: Revenge of Hephaestus

“The other gods parted to let the ugly little creature hobble through to where Hera sat imprisoned in her throne of gold. At the touch of his fingers, the arms of the golden throne swung open, and Hera was free.”Stephen Fry, Mythos: The Greek Myths Retold (2017). Copyright © Stephen Fry, 2017. Published by Michael Joseph, an imprint of Penguin Books.

Zeus’ palace had held many petitioners in the past. On this day, gods and goddesses from every corner of Olympus had gathered in celebration.

The courtyard sprawled outward with supplicating gods wanting the affection of their leader. Zeus stood at the heart of the gathering, towering above the throngs at the entrance to his palace. He wore his tunic of white and gold. Upon his head was his wreath of gold.

“Welcome!” Zeus called. His very voice cracked the thunder through the skies. The gods and goddesses halted their conversations.

When the King of Olympus spoke, the throngs of the public listened. The ripple of anticipation passed through the crowd as the gods straightened up like reprimanded children.

“Listen well, Olympus!” Zeus announced with the force of a storm. “For twelve days of revelry, we shall celebrate the many deeds of the gods since the Great War. We shall celebrate my mother and Gaia. We shall celebrate my siblings and their power. We shall celebrate my children and their great deeds. We shall cheer on the honorable like Prometheus, Cratus, and Pontus. When these twelve days are over, I shall declare the Olympians, who will sit at my side to guide this realm.”

A murmur rippled through the assembled gods. Some were eager, some anticipated a chance, others were suspicious, and the last few were excited. The consensus was that the Olympians would be the highest of the high. There was talk that the twelve would govern the heavens and the earth.

Not a single part of his announcement was taken lightly by the public.

“Let the festivities begin!” he declared with arms stretched to the skies.

Applause broke free from most and the revelry had begun

There were an elite few who looked on with much more knowledge of the situation.

Athena knew as the daughter of Zeus’ great love, Metis, she would likely be named. She would end up standing by her father’s side as his counselor. This was entirely obvious to her that she was bewildered by how no one else could see it.

Prometheus, for his part, stood in the background. He knew Zeus needed to make an announcement to look strong. With Hera missing the last few days, there was no controlling him. This was as simple as it was. He shook his head at his king’s erratic behavior. There would be no saving him in the future. Gaia and Rhea were right ... There would come a day when he needs to be removed.

Ares was the young god of war. He knew he breathed conflict wherever he was. This was his very nature, and when he embraced it, he could not be disappointed. When it came to his father, he did not see conflict as strategic; however, Ares could see the pattern of it all. Conflict begot power, power created stability, stability invited challenge, and challenge led to conflict. His father was using his power and stability to never invite challenge. He would be a part of that.

Hermes dozed off under the shade of a tree. The cool marble of the bench actually comforted his sleeping body.

The shining son, Apollo, smiled. He was being flocked by the adoring goddesses who wanted to bed him and the young gods that wanted to be him. He knew he would be chosen for his father’s council, whatever that meant. He planned to enjoy the accolades as they came.

Artemis was nowhere to be found. She was out in a private pavilion nowhere near her father. She was shooting arrow after arrow. There were make-shift targets for her. There was cheering in the background, and she did not listen as she shot one arrow into the air and then another. The second arrow hit the first, adjusting its course to hit her dummy of hay. Her second shot was so incredibly perfect that it moved the first arrow and found a trajectory for itself to return to Artemis. She smirked at her own perfection.

He was slow when he entered. He heard the cheers, and he did not know what they meant, but Hephaestus would find out soon enough. To know Olympus was his goal, and he would succeed.

Hera’s voice echoed through the halls of her palace, It was a chilling cry of frustration and fury.

She was still bound on her gilded throne. Her wrists were bound by multiple magical chains of the chair’s maker. The space that had served as a symbol of her power was serving as a prison to her trusting foolishness.

Her curly brown hair fell in wild, scattered coils around her face. The blue-gold wreath had fallen to the floor, mocking her as a reminder of her position as queen status. She strained against the bonds that pinned her to the chair in whatever defiance she could muster.

“Help!” Hera roared in cracking desperation. Her violet eyes burned with molten rage. Within those small orbs was intensity enough to rival Zeus’ thunderbolts.

For all of her struggles, the bonds held her with indifference to her wrath. Each attempt to free herself left her breathing harder from indignant exertion.

When she relented to her shackles, she looked at the room, mocking her in its silence. She glared at the throne’s golden armrests, its silver inlay, the electrum mix, and the adamantine wraps that held her in place.

She had ruled Olympus as its queen and bent most of the unruly gods to her will. Her reign was not some falsity like Gaia or Rhea’s. She held sway over the other deities, both younger and older, the men, the women, and the shapeshifting ones.

In that briefest of moments, she simply sat in the chair. Powerless was too small of a word to describe her dignity stripped away and having the ability to so much as move being stolen from her.

Her fury simmered into a low growl. This moment was just another sign in the plethora of signs adding to the culmination of Hera’s lamentation. Metis, Rhea, Gaia, Zeus, Leto, so on and so forth ... The list went on and on and on. They stole from her. They all had stolen from her.

Tears of anger and humiliation stung her eyes. In her loneliness, she realized that this was one of the few moments in her life where it would be okay to cry, and who was she to deny such a gift?

Is this what she deserved? With the question ringing in her mind, she slumped back into the throne. While she knew she would not be in that chair forever, she stared out, knowing that her liberation would not come from railing and ranting. She was aware that she had failed over and over. Not only with the throne, but with Leto and Zeus.

The last question she had to ask herself was: Would she give in or rise up?

Despite his king’s declaration, Prometheus realized that somehow Zeus had stumbled onto the correct path. Gods and titans alike were coming to shower Zeus with praise and presents. All were supplicating themselves to him in an attempt to be named one of his Olympians. They could not know that every position was already filled.

For Zeus’ purposes, this would have worked fine. No one would know that their acts of loyalty and invocation for favor.

One thing he noticed was missing, well person, was Hera. She had been nowhere to be seen or found during Zeus’ big announcement.

When Prometheus entered Hera’s palace and found his way to her throne room, he suspected that he would not be welcome. The room was sparsely lit. The torches had been allowed to burn out. He could see how that might be a problem and would need a solution.

A single look up showed Prometheus that Hera sat bound to her throne. Her wrists were shackled to the armrests by adamantine chains. The fire titan could see the faint pulse of magic.

Her violet eyes snapped to Prometheus when she could see someone had come.

“Well, this is not ideal,” Prometheus said dryly. While he was being sarcastic, he could see the look of concern on Hera’s face.

He waved at her to signal that he would be helpful. He approached slowly with sharp eyes that studied every detail of the chains and the throne. He analyzed how the wrappings that contained Hera seemed to move when his hand grew near.

“Whoever did this to you did a fantastic job,” Prometheus mused with impressed curiosity.

Hera’s voice was as sharp as a blade when she hissed at him. “If you’re here to mock me, titan, I suggest you leave me be because I will kill you once I am free!”

Prometheus crouched beside the throne. He was careful when his fingers brushed over the chains with care. They seemed to tighten on Hera rather than loosen at his touch. When he released them, they slackened.

“No, my queen, I am not mocking you,” Prometheus remarked. He was far more focused on the fascinating workmanship rather than the queen herself. “I see you are in need of assistance, and I mean to give it if I might.”

“Can’t you just summon your unstoppable Flame to free me, melt the metal?” Hera almost whined.

Prometheus shook his head. “Not if you want to live. It would melt the metal and consume you until there was nothing left,” Prometheus explained. He shook his head when she seemed to not believe it. “The Flame of Olympus is not a toy, Hera. Hestia and I are the only ones to harness it. That required a lot of time and patience.”

“I don’t have time for patience,” Hera shot back.

“I suppose not,” Prometheus conceded. “That was always your problem. You want to be like Zeus and act.”

“We can’t all be you and do nothing, Prometheus.

“Sometimes, doing nothing is the hardest, yet most productive thing we can do,” Prometheus said back. “But you know me, Hera,” Prometheus scoffed. “I don’t see everything the same way you and Zeus do. I’ve always been better at playing the long game.” His tone softened just slightly for her. She needed to see how much he emphasized. “If there’s anyone who understands what the abuse of power looks like, what it means to be bound up by power beyond their own, it is me, my queen.”

“Prometheus...” Hera breathed. For the first time, he realized how deep the game was for him as well as her. She had judged him for the stupid Metis statue, for the games he and Epimetheus must have played, but seeing how he fought for survival and success as much her made her realize she was not alone.

“Give me time. I will get you free,” Prometheus swore.

“Of course, Prometheus. I trust you.”

And she did.

Hermes was usually a casual, go-with-the-flow kind of god. He was the most flippant, apathetic individual most of the time. He had a shorthand for speaking that the other gods simply did not understand.

In the centuries to come, they would realize that it was Hermes who invented slang in the Grecian Realm, potentially the world over, but none of that really mattered.

As he approached the great doors to Zeus’ throne chamber, he felt a great trepidation. When last he saw his father in a formal way, Zeus was busy breaking Hermes’ legs. While Hermes wanted to get his revenge on his father, he knew well enough that he could never harm the King of Olympus.

Hermes’ steps were hesitant, entirely absent of his usual air of confidence, and replaced with an uncharacteristic stiffness. Despite this, his bronze sandals barely made a sound against the floor. At five foot ten, and smaller than all of his half-brothers and sisters, Hermes’ lean frame felt smaller beneath the ceilings of his father’s grand hall.

The grand throne chamber of Zeus was bathed in golden light. Whether from the sun through the windows or his father’s blazing, empowered aura, Hermes could not say, but Hermes felt his heart pounding from the recollection of his father’s wrath.

Because of this, Hermes hesitated just outside of the threshold. The imposing figure of his father, Zeus, sat atop his towering throne. He was many things, had many titles. Zeus was the Thunderer, bearer of the Master Bolt, youngest son of Cronos and Rhea, King of Olympus, husband to Hera, and victorious leader of the gods over the Titans.

As such, he wore a wreath of gold upon his flowing white hair to signify his position as king. His tunic of white and gold was simple yet elegant on him.

“Ah, Hermes. Enter, won’t you?” Zeus said while he beckoned with a hand. His deep, booming deep voice filled the chamber with so much force that Hermes worried that he might be knocked over by the power of it. “There is no reason to linger in the doorway as if you’ve stumbled into Tartarus. Come in!”

His father’s words might have been considered an invitation if they had been spoken by anyone else, but the fleet-footed god knew better, much better, than other people.

He exhaled in order to steel himself for the interaction. When one was called before the king of the gods, one answered.

“Heya boss! Lookin’ sharp today!” Hermes quipped in his usual glib way. He knew this was a mask to protect him from his father. He only hoped his father did not believe Hermes’ bravado was hiding his sense of unease around the king. “Guess this must be important if I’m being called up, huh?”

When he approached the throne, his mind raced. Hermes was quick, and his mind was quicker still in its remembering of the last time he stood here. He recalled the crushing power of the king. His legs trembled in their own recollection, that was greater than simple fear. They could not help but twitch and shake in anticipation.

Zeus leaned toward his son slightly. “You needn’t perform, son,” he said. While his tone was calm, it was unmistakably laced with authority. “I called you here to bestow a great honor upon you, not to punish you.”

“Honor, huh? Mighty kind of you, Pops. I mean, after last time ... well, I guess we can let bygones be bygones, right?” Hermes forced a grin. His bronze eyes flicked to Zeus’ steady gaze before darting away.

Zeus gave his son a soft chuckle in response. What some would misconstrue as simple warmth, Hermes recognized as dangerous.

“You are swift in wit as in foot, my son,” Zeus said with praise. “Perhaps that is why I have chosen you for this task.”

“Which is?” Hermes asked. He was doing his best to keep back his impatience, but even he recognized a losing battle when he was in one. He knew his father would recognize the tone and punish Hermes for his impertinence.

“On the final day of revelry for Olympus, you, my fleet-footed son, shall stand before all of Olympus and announce the names of the twelve Olympians.”

Hermes blinked. His usual rapid-fire words, and quit-witted responses, were momentarily lost in his throat. “What? Me? Announce the big twelve? Wow, boss, that’s ... quite the honor. And here I thought you’d pick someone, I don’t know, taller. Prometheus, maybe!”

Zeus’ eyes narrowed ever so slightly. That was where the dangerous storm that could threaten someone like Hermes truly lay.

“You will do this because I desire it, Hermes.” He stared at his son with a rebuke waiting should Hermes decide this was an honor he did not want. “I would also like to remind you that it is a privilege to serve your King and father, is it not?”

“Right, right! Privilege, service, all that good stuff,” Hermes said with a nervous laugh, quickly saluting. “No worries, Pops, you can count on me!”

Zeus leaned back, his smile returning. “I expect nothing less. Now go, Hermes, and prepare.”

“Sure thing, boss! And, uh, thanks for the trust. Really means a lot!” Hermes said. While he wanted to already be halfway to the door, he had to stop himself. “But, uh, Pops ... Who are the twelve?”

While he did not want to sound disrespectful, it was not something that his father had addressed.

“I will tell you on the day, Hermes. You may go.”

Hermes knew his father would tell him to go again. The quick-footed son darted out of the chamber. When he was far enough, Hermes exhaled sharply, muttering to himself, “Honor, huh? Yeah ... Sure, it is.”

Mount Olympus was both nothing like Hephaestus thought and everything like he dreamed.

The air of the godly city carried a strange familiarity as Hephaestus walked about. Everyone was bustling about, trying to get presents for Zeus, who Hephaestus knew to be the King of Olympus, but otherwise, he was in the dark. There had been some announcement for something called the Olympians.

While there were not thousands upon thousands of gods, like the cattle and livestock in the Mortal Realm, there were still enough individuals to make a mountain of gifts for the ruler. For a moment, he paused to survey the horizon of the majesty that laid before him. From shimmering fountains to flourishing gardens, there were palaces that had been made for the divinities.

The gardens bloomed in eternal spring in a wide array of colors interwoven with viridescent ivy that climbed the columns and walls. Water flowed with a song from countless fountains. What caught his eye most, however, was there was a single status that caught his eye.

Before his eyes could linger on it, Hephaestus could not help but feel the pangs of envy, admiration, and longing. This place had been his birthright, but his mother had seen fit to deny him this legacy. His eyes bounced around before coming to linger on a random palace.

Despite all of the breathtaking beauty, Hephaestus felt the rejection that he had denied all his life. Had he been unworthy? His crippling debilitation had taken place after he had been thrown off the mountain. He knew that much of it because the pain of rejection rang with the rhythm in his very gait.

His hands tightened into fists as he passed laughing nymphs and gods, who took no notice of him. He was beneath them. Had they even seen a god be crippled?

At last, his wandering walk and eyes brought him to a secluded pavilion at the edge of the gardens. The statue of the Oceanid, Metis, stood tall and serene even as she loomed over all that walked by her visage. Whoever carved her into the stone had been of excellent work.

Her expression seemed so wise, and yet calm to him. She seemed to have the power to wash away anyone’s worries or cares. Her hand over her stomach looked like she might have bore a shield that was not there. She had a gaze on her face that was made to seek out knowledge. Around her feet, the grass grew greener, the flowers more vibrant, as though her very essence blessed the earth.

Hephaestus stood before the statue. He knew of her, but he did not know her. The Cyclopes and Hecatoncheires had told him that she had been instrumental during the war.

“Metis,” he murmured, the name slipping from his lips like a prayer.

The stories of her steadfast loyalty, cunning on the battlefield, and wisdom of counsel had been tales worth knowing. He wondered if she had been his mother or had known of his existence, would she have found a place for him, the dottering cripple of Olympus?

Might she have softened Hera’s disdain for his existence if Metis had been queen?

He pulled his hammer from his bag. What he did, he did not do for prestige or honor. He would do right by her. While she was gone from the world, she was not without allies of a sort.

He tapped his hammer against her form as homage to her.

The touch of the hammer sent a ripple of his magical craftsmanship through the statue. Where the carved marble once depicted her as a woman in simple flowing robes and some outline of armor, bronze inlays began to emerge in a shiny display of warmth.

The metal hugged the contours of her mighty form. She looked as formidable as she had in the days of the Great War.

At the statue’s base, an iron plaque materialized. Its letters were bold and precise: “Metis: Oceanid, Counselor, and Friend.”

Hephaestus stepped back to examine the work. Intention was one thing, but the end results were everything to one such as him. The technique mattered little when the final product was displayed for all to see.

The sound of quick, light footsteps broke the concentrated stillness. Turning, Hephaestus saw a figure approaching with a relaxed, easy gait.

A young god, lean and dressed simply, was striding toward him. His bronze sandals barely whispered against the path. In that, Hephaestus was jealous. He knew that no matter how he improved his craft, he would never be as athletic as his new company.

“Hey there!” the stranger called out. His voice was light and friendly as he came to a halt a few paces away. With his own critical eyes, he sized Hephaestus up and down with a curious tilt of his head. “Never seen you before. Don’t think we’ve met. Nope. Certainly never met you. I’m Hermes. You?”

Hephaestus studied the quick one for a moment. He guarded his expression for a moment before softening just slightly. This newcomer called Hermes seemed friendly. Where others had ignored him and some might have looked away in disgust, Hermes was willing to introduce himself.

“Hephaestus,” he said, his deep voice measured. “New here.”

“Ah, fresh ichor, huh? Well, welcome to Olympus,” Hermes said with a nod. He looked around, trying to be sure of something. When he could not be certain of his guess, he decided it was just best to ask. “First time here?”

Hephaestus nodded. His gaze briefly flicked back to the statue of Metis. The Oceanid seemed only to remind him of his own mother. He recalled how his mother had thrown him from the edges of Olympus in such a manner that told him that he did not matter.

As such, he gave a gruff reply. “Something like that.”

Hermes followed his gaze and whistled low. “You know, Metis? You don’t look like an Oceanid.”

“I’m not,” Hephaestus said back roughly.

“Well, either way. Always thought this was one of the finer spots up here.” He glanced back at Hephaestus with a grin. “If nothing else, you’ve got good taste.”

Hephaestus did not respond immediately. His eyes lingered on the statue. Whatever answers he needed from Hera, he would not find them there. He turned back to Hermes. “What brings you here?”

Hermes shrugged. “Business with the big guy.”

“The big guy?” Hephaestus asked, confused. He looked at this thin fast god like he was going insane.

“You know? The Big Guy. Pops? The Big Bolt Boy? The Boss? Zeus. King of Olympus.”

With each new title he gave his father, Hermes could see he was losing him until he finally said Zeus’ name.

“Oh!” was all Hephaestus could say.

“Yeah!” Hermes said, stretching out the single syllable word. “I figured I’d stretch my legs a bit after.” He gestured toward the gardens. “You should take the full tour. Might help with the, uh ... settling in. Though ... I don’t know where you’d be staying. Most gods and nymphs settle down there in the Mortal Realm. Only a few really stay up here”

He lowered his voice to a more conspiratorial whisper. “You gotta prove your worth to the big guy. Otherwise, why would you even stay in the city? Am I right?”

Hephaestus gave a slight nod. “Maybe.” Though he did not want to admit it, this quick talker was making Hephaestus smile.

“Well, Hephaestus, enjoy the view,” Hermes said with a wink, already turning to leave. “If you need something, just call for Hermes. I’m quick.”

Hephaestus stopped the other person from running off. “Before you go,” he said, taking a few seconds to kneel.

Hermes looked bewildered by Hephaestus.

However, Hephaestus paid him no mind. He gripped Hermes by the ankle, so he could not dart off. With one tap to each of his sandals, Hephaestus’ work was done. He had a suspicion about the runner. If it was right, and it was in Hermes’ nature, the sandals would change.

And so they did. Flapping wings went up and down on Hermes’ bronze sandals.

Hephaestus rose slowly. He was dusting his hands off even as Hermes yelped in surprise. The winged sandals flapped with an odd rhythm, lifting slightly off the ground. Hermes twisted his leg, peering at the fluttering wings with wide, bewildered eyes.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! What’s this? What did you do, new guy? My sandals just ... grow wings?” Hermes hopped on one foot. He was floating in the air, but he did not have all of his senses to notice. “They’re flapping! Why are they flapping? This some kind of trick?”

Hephaestus let out a low grunt, folding his arms across his chest. “A gift,” he said, his voice steady. “Your sandals are like you: light-hearted, light-footed.”

Hermes blinked, tilting his head at Hephaestus before a grin spread across his face. This might have been a normal thing if Hermes was standing. As it was though, he was floated some six feet in the air and upside down as he elbowed the new god on the shoulder.

“That’s ... Mighty keen of you, really. Didn’t think the silent type like you would go and do something this fancy for me. Must’ve struck a soft spot, eh?” He laughed.

When he realized that he was rotating in the air, he made the most obvious observation. “Would you look at that! I’m flying!”

“You’ll be faster to run your errands,” Hephaestus said simply. He turned back to the statue. For his part, the matter was done and dealt with.

Hermes gave an exaggerated bow even if Hephaestus was not paying attention. “Hey, thanks, boss! I owe you one. Big time.” He straightened up as he feet found the ground.

He was testing the sandals again before darting off in a blur. He called out over his shoulder “I’m serious. Next time you need anything, you know who to call!”

Hephaestus watched the streak of motion vanish into the distance. Without a word, he turned back to the statue of Metis before looking across from her. It was a nice statue, but it meant nothing if no one could admire it. He looked at his hammer resting at his side and the empty area across from the monument. A bench would look lovely there.

Telling Zeus bad news was always tricky. Prometheus did his level best not to lie to his ruler. After all, a lie could end in punishment just as it did for Atlas and his family. Prometheus suspected that the death of his sister-in-law was far more dubious than Cratus and his siblings let on, but he was not in a position to challenge Zeus’ favored bodyguards.

When Prometheus went into the throne room and appraised Zeus of the situation regarding Hera, the youngest son of Cronos seemed to take it well. There was a tension as Zeus leaned back in his seat, of course, but that could not be helped. Prometheus stood before him with a calm expression.

The titan’s words hung in the air like smoke.

Zeus tapped a finger on the arm of his throne. Irritation coated his eyes and face. “Prometheus, you certainly have a talent for wrapping grim tidings in flowery speech. It’s almost charming. You’re telling me that neither I—King of Olympus, Storm-Bringer, Ruler of the Gods—nor you, with all your so-called Flame of Olympus, can undo this sorcery or destroy a chair that binds my queen?”

Prometheus might have thought this was a show of affection for Hera if this were Hades or some other deity, but from Zeus, he knew better. The king only cared that Hera’s prestige was tarnished in such a manner that it reflected poorly on him. On one hand, it made the royal couple look weak and fallible. On the other, Zeus had plans for his announcement, which would be ruined if Hera stayed in the stupid chair.

Prometheus nodded solemnly. “That is precisely what I am telling you, your majesty. The bindings are clever,” Prometheus said, trying desperately not to admire the work of the unknown craftsman. He was undoubtedly failing. “Perhaps this is the work of one who wishes to remind us all that we all have their limits.”

Zeus sighed theatrically and rose to his feet. “You paint a dismal image! Tell me, do you have solutions today, or just riddles wrapped in pessimism? Maybe a sarcastic anecdote?”

Prometheus tilted his head, unfazed. He would not be rattled just because Zeus had an abundant power at his disposal. “Your majesty, the riddle is the solution. If we are to free Hera, we must find one capable of unraveling such bindings. That person, whoever they are, may be worth a seat among the Olympians.”

Zeus let out a booming laugh, throwing his arms wide. “A seat among the Olympians? My dear titan, what an offering! Who’s to say that we would not be offering the throne to the very person who entrapped her?”

“That is a risk we should be willing to take,” Prometheus countered.

Zeus waited a few moments before responding.

“That is so very generous of me, wouldn’t you say? I imagine other gods will find it amusing when I tell them that I’ve bartered away one of the thrones.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a mock-conspiratorial tone. “Do tell me, Prometheus, which throne should I offer? Perhaps yours?”

Prometheus remained stoic as ever. “That would make the most sense, as I have said before, but the thrones are yours to bestow however you wish.”

Zeus blinked at Prometheus’ obfuscation. “Prometheus, how does this help us?”.”

Before Prometheus could respond, a shrill scream came in from outside the palace.