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Hephaestus I
🕑 Added 2024-07-25 03:13:05 +0000 UTCHephaestus I
The forge was a symphony of fire and metal, a cacophony of creation where Hephaestus found both solace and purpose. The heat, the rhythmic hammering, the hiss of steam—each element was a balm to his weary soul, a constant in a world that was shifting beneath the feet of even the gods.
A mere cyclops, a mere monster fighting an Olympian, reaching the level of strength of one with just his hard work, with just his pride.
A mere cyclops who won. The child of Poseidon may have died, but victory still had been his.
The monster had struck in the end at his essence, at what could be called the equivalent of his soul.
Immortals, as their name implied, were eternal, endless. They were beings beyond the shadow of Death. Oblivion could only come for them if they let it do so.
This is why the crooked one had been cut into pieces by his rebellious spawns before being thrown into the stomach of the pit.
This is why the children of the sky and the Earth, their divine servants and allies had been imprisoned and not slain.
Olympus would have if they could. Even though he was different, even though he was a twisted parody of a god, Hephaestus was still an immortal.
This is why it was so surprising that he was actually dying, like a foolish mortal stabbed in an alley and watching with quiet horror and realization as their life-blood slowly left the confines of their veins.
The cyclops, no, the one called Aras, had done something almost impossible to do even for a god—a miracle or a curse even amongst the divine, depending on whom you asked.
The last strike of the cyclops had hurt the son of Hera in such a way that his natural constitution wouldn’t, couldn’t save him.
This is why he had immediately teleported to one of his remote forges after being struck.
This is why he was hammering in his forge as he, Hephaestus, was dying, trying to create something that would allow him to survive.
He felt a familiar presence appear in his forge, her presence long before he saw her, one he once had longed for like a dying man in a desert but now that only made motes of bitterness bloom in him.
Hera's aura was a cold, sharp intrusion in the sweltering heat of the forge. She stood at the entrance, a silhouette of regal disdain against the flickering glow of the flames.
She did not step inside; instead, she surveyed the cluttered workshop with a gaze that was both critical and detached, her lips curled in a semblance of a smile that held no warmth, one he was so used to.
"So, this is where you hide yourself away, Ἡφαίστε," she said, her voice like a blade wrapped in silk.
Hephaestus did not look up from the anvil, his hammer striking with a precise, weary rhythm. His body ached from the recent battle, wounds still fresh and painful, though he hid his discomfort well.
He wouldn't show weakness to her. He would never do so anymore even if dying. "It's not hiding if I have nowhere else to go, Μητέρα."
Hera's laugh was brittle, like glass breaking. "Always so clever with words. I suppose it's the only weapon you have left." She stepped closer, her eyes sliding over the half-finished creations scattered about. "Such grotesque little things you make. Fitting, I suppose."
Hephaestus paused, lifting his head to meet her gaze. The weariness in his eyes was matched by a spark of defiance. "Grotesque, perhaps. But they serve their purpose, unlike the pretty baubles of Ὄλυμπος."
Hera's eyes narrowed, but the smile remained. "Purpose? Is that what you call it? Is that what you think you've found here, in your squalid little workshop?"
Hephaestus sighed, setting down his hammer. He wiped his brow with a soot-stained hand and turned fully to face her. Despite the pain from his recent wounds, he stood tall, his expression a mask of tired resignation. "What do you want, Hera?"
The use of her name was not lost on her. She tilted her head, her expression one of mock surprise. "What, no 'Mother'? No 'Goddess'?" She chuckled softly, a sound devoid of warmth. "I wanted to see what had become of you. To see if the little scuffle you had with one of Poseidon’s spawns had left even more traces of shame in the creature I created."
"Creature," Hephaestus echoed, bitterness edging his voice. "Is that all I am to you?"
Hera's eyes glittered dangerously. "What else could you be? From the moment you were born, you were a disappointment, a reminder of my own failure. I wanted to love you, truly. But every time I looked at you, I felt only disgust and shame."
Hephaestus flinched, but the movement was barely perceptible. The words were familiar ones. He just wished that after all those millennia, they would stop stinging. "Your feelings are your own, Hera. They have nothing to do with me."
"Don't they?" she retorted, stepping closer, one of her hands cupping softly, almost maternally, the side of the bloody mess that was his face. Maybe he would have found solace in her touch if it hadn’t come from her.
"You were supposed to be my triumph, my revenge against Ζεύς. The proof that I didn't need him, that I was, could be complete just by myself. You were supposed to prove that I'm not their lesser. Instead, you were a twisted parody of the divine, a joke that everyone could see but no one would dare speak of in front of me."
Hephaestus met her gaze steadily, his eyes weary but unwavering. "You never gave me a chance. From the moment I was born, you cast me aside, threw me from Ὄλυμπος as if I were nothing."
"And you think that changed anything?" Hera's voice was sharp, slicing through the air. "Look at you, Ἡφαίστε. Look at what you've become. You think you can escape what you are, but even gods cannot change their nature, even more failed ones like you. The proof is that you lost against a cyclops."
Hephaestus's laughter was a dry, hollow sound. "Nature, you say. And what is your nature, Hera? To tear down what you cannot control? To poison what you cannot love? Did it work? Did he finally stay loyal? Did he finally love you, goddess of marriage?"
Hera's face twisted with rage, but she quickly regained her composure, her smile returning, more cruel than ever. "You think yourself wise, but you understand so little. All of you are so young,” she spat almost like a curse “so naive. You, our children, were coddled with ignorance, with pride but the world is changing, Ἡφαίστε. Even we, the immortals, cannot escape it. The old ways are fading, and with them, the power we once held so easily and honestly, I rejoice, childe. This war, I can feel, is but a beginning to something greater. Change is the reason why some may fall but it is also the one where others may rise. Chaos is nothing but a ladder."
Hephaestus nodded slowly. Hephaestus, even though he hated agreeing with his mother, knew that something was different. The world almost had a different taste to it. "I know. I feel it too. The mortals grow more restless, more demanding. Same thing with the members of our pantheon. They seek knowledge, power... freedom." And this was the least of their problems. The son of Hera didn't even mention the other pantheons who rightfully loathed them, who had been waiting for thousands of years just to make them pay. Olympus was the West’s civilization and the West’s civilization didn't expand, didn't gain domination over the entire world at every level by being kind.
The flame of the West didn't stay lit with kindness. It was emboldened, fed with destruction and chaos, with conquest.
It was one born of the slaughter of hundreds of millions, if not more. It wasn’t a question of being hated. It was instead one of knowing if this hatred was strong enough to extinguish them.
Hera's eyes flashed with something akin to anger and fear, but it was quickly masked by scorn. "And what do you think of them, smith god? Do you want to help them? Do you think they will accept you, you, the god of the forge, the lame smith? What can you offer them but more chains, more tools for their bondage?" After all, it had been with Hephaestus’s invention that the world had been conquered.
Maybe it was indirect, but it was more than likely that of all his brethren, he was the one to bring more cruelty to this world when in the beginning, he just had wanted to create beautiful things.
Beautiful things didn't, shouldn’t be the cause of suffering, but the contrary. The smiths who had nursed him after his fall, Thetis and Eurynome, the ones he considered more as parents than Hera and Zeus, they would be so ashamed, disgusted by what he became.
You try to make things better, to realize your dreams. In the beginning, it all seems simple, deceptively so until you encounter an obstacle and have to compromise to go further.
You tell yourself this is because of your dream, because of a greater cause, that the actions you've taken now will be repaired when you reach your dream, your goal.
You tell yourself that until you reach the dream you fought, bled, struggled, and lied for, it stops mattering—the good you first intended—because the person at the beginning and the end of the journey are different.
The dream may be one of paradise, of salvation, but should it be realized when the one now capable of doing so was as vile and foolish as the worst Daemon in the pit?
Hephaestus shook his head. "No, not chains. Tools, yes, but for building, for creating. The world is changing, Mother. We can either help shape it or be left behind."
Hera's laugh was sharp and cold. "Such lofty ideals. And yet here you are, hidden away in your dark little corner, making your grotesque little things—things I have to remind you didn't earn you Nike’s favour. You speak with such grandeur, such nobleness," Hera mocked, "when your defeat, the fall of one of your central forges to the hands of my brother, will only make what is coming worse."
“Change, true change, is one that is forced, one that comes with domination, with might. You think you can change the world when you are weak?"
Hephaestus met her gaze with a tired smile. "Change doesn't always come with grand gestures or mighty battles. Sometimes, it begins with a single spark, a small flame that grows into an inferno."
Hera's eyes narrowed, and for a moment, something like respect flickered in their depths. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the familiar contempt. "You are a fool, Ἡφαίστε. A dreamer in a world that has no place for dreams."
Hephaestus nodded slowly, accepting her words without flinching. "Perhaps. But I would rather be a fool with dreams than a god without hope."
Hera's face twisted with a mix of emotions—anger, sadness, perhaps even a trace of guilt. She turned away, her shoulders stiff. "Hope is a dangerous thing, my son. It blinds you to the truth, makes you see things that aren't there."
Hephaestus watched her, his heart heavy. "Maybe so. But it's all I have left."
Aras had been a wake-up call. The Cyclops had been animated by conviction, by hope. Even when Hephaestus’ victory seemed obvious, he hadn’t backed down.
Hope was the reason why he had won. Hope was the reason why humans, even though their lives were ones of constant agony and injustice, still lived on. Hope in a dream, in proving his worth. The Cyclops had reminded him.
All this time, Hephaestus had been a living corpse, more of a machine like the automatons he created, going through the motions. It was time for this to change.
“Morality, righteousness is in the end just a question of perception. It doesn’t matter if we aren’t right now. We could become such if we don’t fall. Don’t falter now Hepahestus, don’t fail me now. ”
She paused at the doorway, her back to him. For a moment, it seemed she might say something more, but then she simply shook her head. "Goodbye, Ἡφαίστε."
And with that, she was gone, leaving the forge colder and darker than before. Hephaestus stood in the silence, feeling the weight of her absence like a physical blow.
He ignored the feeling of her divinity pouring onto his skin, healing him, trying to mediate the damage he received in his encounter with the son of Poseidon.
Once, a girl had dreamt of family, one full of love. She had dreamt of being free, of never being like her sires.
She had dreamt of a world where parents would love their children, where siblings wouldn’t fight against each other, where children wouldn’t have to bathe themselves in blood due to the hatred of the world.
Once, a girl had vowed to change the world, to make it a peaceful and gentle place, a world where her siblings could thrive, where they could never be separated.
The name of the girl had been Hera. It was an unfortunate thing that she was exactly like the mother and the father she despised.
Hephaestus picked up his hammer and returned to his work, the rhythmic clang of metal against metal a fragile shield against the encroaching darkness to create a tool that would allow him to survive.
The world was changing, his mother was right, and even the gods could not escape it. But Hephaestus was a smith, a builder. If the words of his mother were true, it just meant that he had to do what he always did—build his own path.
Comments
Nova Hearth
Aras died....is poseidon going to bring him back ? 🥲😋🥲🥲🥺😭 Aras completed his dream and beat the best Smith
allen 1996
The only thing I'm going to say Is that Aras died. Saying More than that would be a spoiler
Overlord susanoo
Did SI Poseidon capture Aras as he was dying or did he leave him to tartarus?
Meruem Astro
I was referring to the fact that they are idiots. The only god of Olympus who is not cruel is Hestia, the other gods are only a little better than the titans. I mean zeus is as bad as cronus, just remember what happened to metis
allen 1996
Canonically, in PJO, the master bolt of Zeus is supposed to make a hydrogen bomb look like a fire cracker. The Greek gods in PJo are everything but weak. If you go in the demiurgw collection; there are chapters free to see too named Aras. Read it and tell me after what you think of the story
Meruem Astro
Are you going to add any other fandoms to this? Nothing against Percy Jackson, but Percy Jackson's gods are pitiful
allen 1996
Percy Jackson and the Olympians
Meruem Astro
This is from what fandom?
