The Time of Zeus Book 5: the Coup
Copyright© 2025 by Carlos Santiago
Chapter 25: The Cold and Quiet Marriage
“Hera is my wife. It’s time I started being her husband again ... I’ve made so many mistakes, Hera, and sooner or later, you’re going to remember all of them. But if you’re willing, I’ll spend eternity trying to make them up to you. Please, please, be my wife again.”
— Zeus (portrayed by Charles Keating), Hercules: The Legendary Journeys, Season 6, Episode 8: Full Circle, originally aired November 22, 1999, written by Alex Kurtzman & Roberto Orci, directed by Bruce Campbell, created by Christian Williams; based on characters and myths from Greek mythology. Copyright © 1999 Studios USA Television Distribution LLC. All rights reserved.
The soft crackle of firelight met Hera’s ears before her eyes could open. Her body felt heavy and stiff with pain. If there was ever a sign that she was not built to be mortal, her countless days and nights bound to the cold spike was all the confirmation she needed. There was still a chill clinging to her bones.
White marble and golden accents with red tapestries were the environment she was in. She found that she was in a bed with silks of many colors, but the prominent pigments were that of gray stormclouds.
She knew immediately where she was. After all, as queen, Hera had been in the bedroom many times and been intimate with the man within.
A breeze in the room told her instincts that she was not alone in the room. She had been in it a thousand times and then some, so she was aware when there was a presence in the room
Slowly, she turned her head, and there he was, confirming her concerns.
In the quiet glow of the hearth, Zeus sat. He wore his storm-gray, white, and golden tunic was all he needed to appear as king; no armor or crown were needed.
He was as strong as ever. She could not see a single mark from their battle. Whatever damage she had inflicted upon him was superficial at best. For that, she grimaced in disgust. The lack of so much as a bruise stung her ego.
Her eyes observed all of her husband. Part of her wondered if he would still be her husband and if she would be his wife by the end of the day.
She noticed that in his hand was a small vial of liquid gold, accented by sparkling silver. Ambrosia was as bright as the first dawn if Ceous and Crius were to have been believed.
Zeus rose to his feet.
Upon reflection, Hera could see a certain kindness mixed with some other quality she could not discern from him.
“We need to talk,” he said, voice low as distant thunder.
The war god’s boots struck the marble with the thunder of his father. Ares’ eyes burned red as fresh-forged metal. Each step toward Athena was measured in a deliberate manner to allow her to know that this was not some antiquated rage, but a festering anger that was finally coming to a boil.
“How is it that every report I hear says that you instigated this coup against our father and yet, you walk free?” Ares growled, the words more accusation than observation, “There’s no punishment for you, Zeus’ precious Athena!”
Athena did not turn from the polished bronze mirror she was studying, the reflection of her calm face all the answer he deserved—until she spoke.
“I did what I had to do,” she said, voice cool as a nearly frozen lake.
“Is that the best you can do for an answer?” Ares cried.
The two stared at one another in Athena’s pavilion. She was in her armor of bronze and gold and he wore a uniform of leather and some blackened metal. He appeared a commander of many legions, a warrior beyond compare, yet, somehow, before Athena, Ares looked small.
She was a being beyond reproach or recrimination. If ever there was a being meant to be a General of Olympus, it would be her. In time, she might yet be; however, as it stood, she was only a half-sister to the proper princely son of Zeus and Hera.
“It suffices to keep me out of trouble,” Athena said, turning her back on Ares. No part of her feared him. Rather, she examined a short sword, then a spear, and then her shield. “After all, for now, I am Zeus’ favorite.”
There were many facets of life Ares was willing to accept. To be reminded of his inferiority was not once of them. The god of war surged forward, fury snapping the last of his restraint.
In this single stride, he lunged. All of his muscles flexed in perfect synchronization to ensure that he was this deadly, threatening force. He commanded his arm swept to seize her throat—
—only for the goddess to pivot with precise grace, not wasting a single movement. Her hand caught his wrist, and her weight shifted in a heartbeat at her discretion. Ares’ body arced in the air before he slammed onto the stone floor at her feet.
She stood over him. There was no smirk of arrogance nor entitlement on her face. Her victory had been decided long before Ares had swung at her. She would not be one to belittle his effort even though she was certain that he would have been smug if events had gone how he wanted.
Her statement about her position and the distinction between them was not a boast but a reflection of fact. Ares was not mature enough nor wise enough to appreciate the difference.
“I have bested Apollo, who stood against Poseidon,” she went on.
She did not want to be cruel. However, as she saw him there, she realized that was where the division could be. To be Hera’s ally was altogether unrealistic for the wise goddess. That could not stop Ares though. He was strong, capable, loyal to all the wrong facets of life to his own detriment, but if in this one case, he could be maneuvered to stand by Hera, she would be protected from Zeus with another layer between them.
After all, Zeus had Cratus, Nike, Bia, and Zelus. Why should Hera not have her own cadre of defenders?
“There is no world where you would be my equal.”
That single sentence alone reverberated between them. Ares stared up at her in disgust and shame.
To be bested was one thing, but to be taunted as he was was a blow he had not expected from his bastard half-sister, yet the words lingered in his heart and mind.
Never would they leave him.
The glow of the forge was muted, but just because Mount Etna was still did not mean that Olympus was. He had given his oath to his mother’s husband to be spared Zeus’ wrath. Hera’s punishment was sign enough that his step-father could be cruel and unfeeling when he wanted to be.
The weight of danger pressing down upon all of the gods was clear enough. Defy Zeus and suffer.
Upon his return, he knew what he must do.
In the corner of his workshop, Pandora stood as a radiant yet fragile figurine, but he knew well enough that she was a living, breathing person. She was tracing a finger along the bronze walls as though to steady herself in a world that felt alien.
In many ways, she was wise and old, but in others, she was exactly what Hephaestud believed a newborn would be. She was curious, as though all of life and existence was hers to ponder.
For that, he worried. She would have no defense against one such as Zeus. He could likely look at her and destroy her.
She looked to Hephaestus with wide, questioning eyes.
“Child...”
His voice cracked when he spoke to her.
“This place is no longer for you,” he said.
There was a rush in his step as he waddled forward to start grabbing her provisions.
“But Father ... You ... made me, and you’re casting me out?”
“I did not make you,” he said far more harshly than he intended. “Someone else made you, and I found you. If I am to believe events, Zeus must have freed what was already meant to be.”
He looked from her to his workstation. He could not give her weapons, but food and fabric were his gifts to her. No one could fault him for such a small, trivial thing.
“Here and Olympus are not safe for you for now.”
“But why, Father?” she asked innocently.
“The gods plot and betray one another,” he explained. “You will not understand it all, but more powerful beings than me are in danger. I can offer you no protection against the king.”
Pandora hugged her apron-blanket closer around her shoulders.
“Then where ... where am I to go?”
The smith finally turned. A small smile touched his lips. This was something akin to taking a pet to a place he could not go. They would not die, but no longer could he see or hear of her. In that regard, his heart was breaking. He did not wish for Pandora to die, nor did he want the uncertainty of turning her away.
However, when dealing with Olympus, sentiment would not win the day, so he handled the practical as though it were the only path forward.
“Among your own kind: the mortals. That is your kin,” he explained with a kind smile. “They will see you and not fear you.”