The air on Mount Olympus was thick with the scent of ambrosia and the faint hum of divine energy, a place where the very clouds beneath the golden halls seemed to bow in reverence to the gods who ruled above. The sky was a tapestry of eternal twilight, painted in hues of gold and violet, with stars that shimmered like diamonds scattered across the heavens.
The palace of the gods stood at the peak, its spires piercing the sky, its walls adorned with intricate carvings of past triumphs and eternal glory. It was a place of perfection, where even the marble floors seemed to glow with an otherworldly light, and the laughter of the gods echoed like music.
In the heart of this grandeur, within a chamber bathed in golden light, Hera, queen of the gods, lay upon a bed of golden silk. Her face which was usually a mask of composure, was twisted in pain, her brow glistening with sweat as she clutched the edges of the bed.
The birth of a god was no simple matter, and even for Hera, whose strength was unmatched, this was a trial unlike any other. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, her chest rising and falling as the divine energy within her surged and ebbed, a tempest of creation and destruction.
Zeus, king of the gods, stood at her side, his towering frame casting a shadow over the room. His eyes, usually alight with the fury of storms, were softened with concern as he watched his wife struggle. His hand, large and calloused from wielding thunderbolts, rested on her shoulder, a gesture of support that did little to ease her pain.
Around them, the air crackled with tension, the very fabric of Olympus seeming to hold its breath as the moment of birth drew near. Hera's screams echoed through the halls, a sound so raw and primal that it silenced even the ever-present whispers of the gods. Her raven-black hair, usually meticulously arranged, clung to her face in damp strands, and her eyes, the color of a storm-tossed sea, were wide with a mixture of determination and fear.
She had borne children before—Ares, the god of war; Hebe, the goddess of youth; and Eileithyia, the goddess of childbirth—but this was different. This child, this spark of life within her, felt unlike any other. There was a fire in her womb, a heat that both comforted and terrified her.
And then, with a final, gut-wrenching cry, the child was born.
The room fell silent, the only sound the soft rustling of the silk sheets beneath Hera as she leaned back, exhausted. Zeus stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he gazed at the newborn.
The child lay in Hera's arms, his tiny form trembling as he took his first breaths. His skin was pale, almost translucent, and his limbs were twisted, his legs bent at unnatural angles. His face, though delicate and innocent, was marred by a red scar that ran from his temple to his cheek, a mark that seemed to pulse with a faint, fiery glow. Hera's breath caught in her throat as she looked down at her son. Her hands, still trembling from the exertion of childbirth, cradled him gently, her fingers brushing against his fragile skin. She had imagined this moment countless times—her child, perfect and radiant, a reflection of her own divine beauty. But this… this was not what she had envisioned. Her heart, so full of hope just moments ago, now felt as though it had been plunged into icy water. She could feel the eyes of the other gods on her, their gazes heavy with judgment.
Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty, stood near the doorway, her presence like a beacon of light in the dimly lit chamber. Her hair cascaded down her shoulders in waves of gold, and her eyes, the color of the deepest ocean, were filled with a mixture of pity and curiosity. She stepped forward, her movements graceful and deliberate, as though she were gliding on air. Her lips, painted a soft rose, parted as she spoke, her voice a melodic whisper that seemed to echo in the stillness.
"He is… unique," she said, her tone carefully neutral, though the faint curl of her lips betrayed her disdain. Hera's eyes flashed with anger, her grip tightening on the child as she glared at Aphrodite. "He is my son," she snapped, her voice trembling with a mixture of rage and sorrow. "And he will be great." She whispered almost inaudibly.
But even as she spoke the words, she could feel the doubt creeping in, a shadow that threatened to consume her. She looked down at the child again, her heart aching as she took in his frail form. He was so small, so vulnerable, and yet there was something in his eyes—a spark, a flicker of something that she couldn't quite place. It was as though he carried a fire within him, a flame that could not be put out, a flame that burned with a quiet intensity. Zeus stepped forward, his expression unreadable as he gazed at the child.
"He is strong," he said, his voice deep and resonant. "I can feel it." Hera looked up at him, her eyes searching his face for any sign of reassurance. But Zeus' gaze was cold and uncaring, it seemed his mind already elsewhere. He turned away, his hand dropping from her shoulder as he strode toward the doorway. "We will discuss his future later," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
The room fell silent once more, the weight of Zeus' words hanging in the air like a storm cloud. Hera's heart sank as she watched him leave, her mind racing with a thousand thoughts.
She looked down at the child again, her fingers brushing against his cheek. He stirred at her touch, his tiny hand reaching up to grasp her finger. The gesture was so innocent, so pure, that it brought tears to her eyes. But the moment was shattered by the sound of laughter. It was soft at first, but it grew louder, more mocking. Hera's head snapped up, her eyes narrowing as she searched for the source of the sound.
It was Ares, the god of war, leaning against the doorway with a smirk on his face. His armor gleamed in the golden light, and his eyes, the color of blood, were filled with amusement. "What is this?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "A new plaything for the mortals to worship?" Hera's jaw tightened, her hands trembling with rage as she clutched the child to her chest. "Leave," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "Now."
Ares chuckled, pushed himself off the doorway and strolled into the room, seemingly unbothered by Hera's piercing stare. He stopped a few feet away, his gaze lingering on the child with a mixture of curiosity and disdain.
"He's weak," he said, his tone matter-of-fact. "A cripple. What use is he to us?" Hera's eyes blazed with fury, her voice rising as she spoke. "He is my son," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "And he will be greater than you could ever imagine." Ares raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. "We'll see," he said, before turning on his heel and striding out of the room.
The silence that followed was deafening, the weight of Ares' words settling over Hera like a shroud. She looked down at the child again, her heart aching as she took in his fragile form. He was so small, so vulnerable, he had no one to hold on to except his mother But as the laughter of the gods echoed in her ears, Hera felt a cold dread settle in her chest. She had always prided herself on her strength, her ability to rise above any challenge. But this… this was a challenge unlike any other. Her son, her child, was imperfect, and in the eyes of the gods, imperfection was a sin.
Tears streamed down her face as she held him close, her mind racing with a thousand thoughts. She could feel the weight of the gods' judgment pressing down on her, their whispers filling the air like a poison. And in that moment, as she gazed down at her son, she made a decision—one that would change the course of his life forever.
With a trembling breath, she rose from the bed, her legs wobbly and unsteady beneath her. The child stirred in her arms, his tiny hand clutching at her robe as she carried him to the edge of the chamber. The golden light of Olympus streamed through the windows, casting long shadows across the floor. Hera's heart pounded in her chest as she stepped onto the balcony, the cool breeze brushing against her skin. She looked down at the child one last time, her fingers brushing against his scar
"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice breaking. "But this is the only way."
And with that, she released him, her heart shattering as she watched him fall, his tiny form disappearing into the clouds below.