Eh, I'm a mom now?
The night sky shimmered like it had been brushed by divine hands... cloudless, cold, and vast, a canvas for the stars to sing upon. Zoë Nightshade sat beneath the silvery hush of pine trees, her arms wrapped around her knees as the campfire crackled softly beside her. The moon was at its zenith, luminous and watchful. The Hunt was still.
Her sisters slept in a crescent pattern, a formation they'd followed for centuries. Yet tonight, the quiet didn't comfort her. It pressed in too closely. Her thoughts refused to rest, spiraling like leaves in a gust of wind.
She thought of her mistress. Her goddess. Her mother in all but name.
Artemis.
To follow Artemis was to shed what the world demanded of young girls. No longing, no vanity, no warmth of a man's hand. Only the forest. The stars. The bow and the silence. In return, they were gifted strength, freedom, immortality... of a kind. A wild, eternal sisterhood beneath the gaze of the virgin moon.
Zoë had sworn her oath centuries ago, her blood still ringing with betrayal and grief. She had followed Artemis not out of desperation, but reverence. Devotion. The goddess had been her anchor when the world felt too vast, too cruel. And she had served her faithfully, without question, even as time folded upon itself.
But now… things had changed.
And it began, as all mythic stories do, in the most unexpected way.
It happened a day ago.
Their goddess had arrived from the shadows, as she always did, silent and serene. The Hunt had been sharpening blades and whispering songs to the wind. Zoë remembered lifting her gaze instinctively when she felt the air tighten with divinity.
But what she saw stunned her to stillness.
Gone was the slim, elfin form of a divine maiden who looked not much older than her Huntresses. Artemis had always presented herself that way, Zoë suspected, to put her followers at ease. She had wanted to seem like them—equal in stature, if not power.
But now…
The woman who walked through the clearing was radiant. Timeless. Her white hair flowed like spun moonlight down to her waist, her skin pale as starlight, and her eyes deep as forgotten oceans. She no longer wore the modest chiton of a hunter, but a flowing, near ethereal garment, laced in silver with intricate folds that shimmered as she moved. It was a marvelous dress, albeit far too revealing for what was expected of their goddess. It didn't help that her features grew more 'buxom' compared to before. It reminded her of the goddess Aphrodite at times, yet this felt oddly fitting, even if it didn't fit the image that Zoë had of her Goddess in any form.
Her bow was still slung at her back, but it looked like an ornament now. A relic carried more from memory than needed. It even looked like a halo surrounded her in part. Like one of those paintings that the Abrahamic Religions depicted their God to have.
All in all, she looked like a goddess.
No—she looked like the goddess she must have always been, stripped of the layers she wore for their sake. As if she were granting them all a glimpse of her true form distilled enough for them to see her without perishing. It was... grand, almost spectacular to her eyes. And the world around her shifted to meet that grandness. There was reverence in the way even the air bent around her.
And Zoë, for one shameful second, felt jealousy.
Not because of the beauty. No, she had always known Artemis was peerless. But because… because this beauty was so unreachable, so deeply woven into her bones, that it made the Hunt feel like shadows beside her.
Still, Zoë had knelt, and so had the others.
Yet something inside her wavered. Her goddess looked disoriented at first, much to their worry, until she spoke.
"Where—?" she had breathed.
Her gaze swept over the Huntresses, her body swaying ever so slightly like a deer adjusting to a sudden noise.
And then—blink.
"Oh," she said.
Then she looked down at herself, felt the wind ripple through her divine clothes, saw the half-circle of kneeling Huntresses at her feet.
"Oh no."
It wasn't fear or regret. Just a kind of comedic despair. The kind people wore when they realized they'd accidentally hit "Reply All" on a divine-scale email. The kind of email that made wave... controversy.
Artemis looked like she had an eternal war brewing inside of her until she halted herself, then… her eyes focused.
Recognition bloomed in part (much to her acting).
Like she had just remembered who she was supposed to be.
The goddess blinked again, slower this time, and when she finally spoke, her voice was gentler than any of them had ever heard in their time with her as part of the Hunt.
"My dears... my precious dears. Are you all right? Have you all eaten today?"
The Huntresses, still kneeling, looked at one another in confusion.
Zoë had been the one to rise first, her brows furrowed. "Milady?"
"You look pale," Artemis said, smiling gently, or as much as she had learned when she remembered speaking to Lady Hera and Lady Demeter. "That won't do. Not for my precious daughters."
Daughters.
Not warriors. Not Huntresses.
Daughters.
To say that Zoë and the rest of the huntresses were confused was an understatement.
The moon was high over their camp, vast and silver and unblinking. A goddess's eye, watching. Or judging. Zoë Nightshade couldn't tell which.
She sat cross-legged on a bed of pine needles, sharpening a silver-tipped arrow while her sisters whispered around the fire. The air was cold, but no Huntress of Artemis feared the cold. It was part of them, like moonlight in the veins.
Normally, this would be a sacred hour of stillness—of whispered jokes, quiet maintenance, and stargazing. But tonight, even the trees seemed to hold their breath.
Because their goddess had changed.
And they didn't know why.
"She offered me tea," muttered Linnea, the youngest among them. "Tea. With lavender."
"She… asked me how I was feeling," said another.
"She kissed my forehead."
"She knitted me socks," Calla grumbled, poking the fire with a stick. "They had tiny owls on them. Said they were 'personalized'."
"She tried to braid my hair," murmured a mortified Talia, who still bore the war paint from their last monster ambush. "And then apologized when she messed up and offered to summon a celestial hairstylist."
A chorus of groans followed.
Zoë, oldest among them—by centuries—folded her arms tightly. "I don't understand. She has never behaved this way. Not even during Solstice feasts. And now she… hums lullabies?"
"She hugged me this morning," someone said, voice half reverent, half traumatized. "Hugged. I didn't even do anything. Just… stood there."
Zoë remained silent.
"She's still Artemis," Talia said, quieter now. "I can feel it. But she's also… something else. Like she's looking at us differently."
"She called me her daughter," whispered one of the newer Huntresses. "She sounded like she meant it."
The silence that followed was thicker than snow.
Zoë finally spoke, her voice low. "She did mean it."
The fire flickered as if reacting to the truth of it.
"I spoke to her alone," Zoë added, reluctantly. The others leaned in, sensing the weight of her words. "After she first appeared."
...
Zoë had stayed up later than the others that night, unable to sleep, her thoughts clawing at her. When the moonlight shifted, she noticed Artemis sitting alone by a fallen log, quietly humming as she carved something with her fingers into the bark.
A rabbit. A crude one. With big floppy ears.
Zoë stepped forward.
"You are troubled," Artemis said, without turning.
Zoë hesitated, but then approached. "I am not. I serve."
"You are troubled," Artemis repeated, her voice soft but firm. "And… I am the reason."
Zoë didn't answer. She sat down beside her, legs crossed, spine stiff.
Artemis sighed. "You have always been my fiercest. My most loyal. I see the weight in your eyes now, and I—" Her voice cracked. "I worry I've broken something."
"…You have changed."
"I know." The goddess folded her hands in her lap. "I feel it like a storm under my skin. I woke up one day and I saw you—not the soldier, but the girl. The daughter I never allowed myself to truly love."
Zoë's breath hitched.
"I failed you," Artemis whispered. "All of you. For so long, I kept my distance. I told myself it was necessary—that affection would soften you, make you weak. But I was wrong."
"You were strong," Zoë said firmly. "You taught us strength."
"I taught you discipline," Artemis said. "But not warmth. You were never just warriors to me, Zoë. But I treated you like tools. And now, I… I want to make up for that."
Zoë turned her face away. "You are a goddess. You do not owe—"
"I do. To you. To the girl who has never once asked for anything."
She reached out, touching Zoë's cheek. "You never got to be young, Zoë. Not truly. Not even when you first joined me. And yet… you smiled when I gave you a new quiver. You glared when I offered you a flower crown. You didn't understand it then, but that was me trying."
Zoë looked at her. "You gave me a sword forged in Titan blood. And then tried to braid my hair."
Artemis blinked. "Yes. I—may have panicked a little."
"…You got it stuck. I had to cut it free."
Artemis winced. "I was nervous."
"…You're a goddess."
"And you are my daughter," Artemis said gently. "Which is far more terrifying."
Silence fell.
Zoë closed her eyes. She didn't cry. She hadn't cried in over a century. But for a moment, she let herself rest against Artemis's shoulder.
The moon watched them both.
...
Daughter.
Daughter... those words still echoed in her head.
"She looked so proud when she said it," Zoë murmured aloud now, blinking at the fire. "Like she had just discovered something long lost."
"What did you do?" Calla asked.
"She braided my hair until I didn't notice myself sleeping on her lap." she then stiffened. "She didn't leave until I woke up early today as I usually do."
A ripple of snickers came from the younger huntresses. Zoë didn't mind them as the older huntresses glared back in her stead.
"She told me I never got to be a girl," Zoë added quietly, brushing her fingers along the fletching of her arrow. "Said she should have loved us better. That she failed us by making us feel like tools, not daughters."
"She said that?" Calla blinked. "The same Artemis who once glared at me for laughing too loud?"
"Yes." she admitted much to the shock and murmurs of the entire camp.
There was a long pause, broken only by the crackling fire and the occasional chirp of a distant owl.
"So… what do we do?" one Huntress whispered.
"We fix it, obviously," Talia said, ever the pragmatist. "Something's wrong. A curse? A divine parasite? Maybe Apollo left his memories of mom-coms lying around and she inhaled them."
Calla wrinkled her nose. "Do we ask him?"
The group recoiled in unison.
"Absolutely not," Linnea said. "He'd never let us live it down."
"Or worse," Talia added, "he'd join us."
"Can we reach out to Hestia?" another asked. "She's at least maternal in a normal way."
Zoë sighed, rising slowly to her feet. "None of this will help if she overhears us."
"Too late!" came the voice they all dreaded—and adored—in equal measure.
Artemis strode into the clearing like a snowball of divine chaos, her hair tied up in a perfect ponytail, her blouse tucked into light jeans, and over it all, a pristine white apron that read: "Proud to be a MOM!" in glittering moon runes that sparkled obnoxiously.
The Huntresses froze.
"I have a brilliant idea!" she chirped. "Tomorrow, we're going shopping!"
Absolute silence.
Artemis clasped her hands in front of her chest, glowing with enthusiasm. "I read somewhere that mortal mothers bond with their daughters by taking them out for new outfits and treats! So we'll do just that! Consider this an important hunting project. Operation: Mama Artemis's Moonlight Mall March!"
Someone audibly choked.
"My treat!" she added, absolutely radiant with joy. "Dresses, hot dogs, plushies, magical reindeer slippers—whatever your heart's desire!"
Talia buried her face in her hands. Calla audibly whimpered. Linnea stared into the fire like she was questioning her vow of eternal maidenhood.
Even Zoë, ancient daughter of Atlas, fearless leader of the Hunt… felt something inside her break just a little.
"Lady Artemis," she began, voice brittle with dread, "please tell me you're joking."
"Would a joking mother do this?" Artemis snapped her fingers and summoned a floating clipboard, covered in sparkly stickers and titled 'Bonding Itinerary!'
"I… I want to scream," whispered Talia.
"No screaming!" Artemis beamed. "Only joy!"
The Huntresses groaned in collective resignation, shoulders sagging like they had just returned from a battle with two Minotaurs and an ex-boyfriend.
Zoë looked up at the moon and muttered in Ancient Greek:
"Mother above. What have we done to deserve this?"
And far above, the moon glowed kindly back.
The mall smelled like deep-fried tragedy and glittering temptation.
Zoë Nightshade had seen battlefields soaked in ichor. She had watched titans fall, watched sisters die for their vows, and braved the yawning dark of Tartarus itself.
But nothing—not even Atlas's burden—could have prepared her for this.
"Aren't these precious?" Artemis cooed, holding up a pair of sparkly moon-and-star-print leggings to a wide-eyed Huntress.
The mortal shopping center, with its mortal people and mortal rules, had become something else entirely. Zoë could feel the Mist coiling around them, half-panicked, half-desperate to cloak the impossible divine force parading through its corridors.
Artemis... her goddess, glided from shop to shop like she'd been born to conquer suburban consumerism. She wore a powder-blue sweater that said #1 MOM across the chest, jeans that fit a little too well, and a celestial hair scrunchie glowing faintly with mana. Her ponytail bounced with righteous conviction.
And worst of all: she was happy.
Utterly, tragically, cosmically happy.
"My darlings," she called to the Huntresses, who trailed behind her like a flock of very traumatized ducklings. "Anything you want—clothes, snacks, enchanted hairpins, matching jackets—we shall acquire it all! No soul leaves empty-handed!"
Linnea squeaked.
Calla walked straight into a mannequin.
Talia stared into the abyss (which, at the moment, was a Sephora mirror) and tried to mentally disown her life.
And Zoë… Zoë walked on.
Expression blank. Dignity—hanging by a thread.
They passed a group of mortal teens who did a double-take so synchronized it could have been choreographed. One of them elbowed his friend and pointed toward Artemis.
"Holy crap. That mom's like… a goddess."
"Jesus, is that really their mom? Who's the dad then?"
Zoë's eye twitched. "You don't know the half of it," she muttered, mostly to herself, as on a good day she would have scolded those boys with more than just a glare for even daring to insinuate anything of their goddess' chastity, but she was far too emotionally broken right now to care.
It wasn't just that their goddess was different. It was how she was different. She wasn't cold or distant anymore. She wasn't untouchable. She was everywhere—cheering, encouraging, laughing too loudly, bragging about her daughters to total strangers.
Worse, she did that to every store that they went to.
To every single clerk or mortal that they passed.
Even in the store that they were in now. A popularly 'hip' mortal establishment that sold dresses and clothes popular in the modern age.
"Look at them!" Artemis announced proudly to a thoroughly confused store clerk. A boy much to her dismay. Said boy not even trying to meet her gaze (good on him) but was also heavily blushing while looking away (which was terrible). "Aren't they divine? My girls are the bravest, strongest, most beautiful warriors you'll ever meet! Especially this one—"
A silver-painted hand landed squarely on Zoë's shoulder.
Zoë froze.
"This one," Artemis said with genuine warmth, "has held the line for millennia. Has bled for me more times than I can count. And still keeps marching. Isn't she just…" Her voice softened. "Isn't she just wonderful?"
Zoë flushed.
Actual heat bloomed beneath her skin.
She cleared her throat. "Lady Artemis, that is… unnecessary."
"Oh, nonsense!" Artemis beamed, holding up a dress. "Try this on."
It was… purple.
And flowing.
And it sparkled like starlight bottled in silk.
Zoë looked at it like it might sprout fangs.
"I must respectfully decline."
"You will respectfully comply," Artemis replied sweetly. "Please? For me?"
The please was too gentle. Too mortal.
Zoë accepted the dress with a sigh and trudged into the changing room.
The silence on the other side was long.
And then—
"I will kill her," Zoë muttered.
Another beat.
"She'll probably hug me if I try."
Moments later, the door creaked open.
Zoë stepped out, arms folded tightly across her waist.
The dress fit. Annoyingly well.
Artemis clasped her hands together like she was witnessing a miracle. "Oh my stars. Look at you!"
The other Huntresses gawked. Some whistled. Calla let out a dramatic gasp and fake-fainted onto a beanbag.
Zoë bristled. "Say one word, and I will turn this dress into cinders."
"You look…" Linnea began, voice soft, "beautiful."
Zoë stared.
"…Truly," the girl added. "Like moonlight walking."
A pause. Zoë glanced at her reflection in the mirror. She didn't recognize the girl staring back.
But maybe that was the point.
Maybe she really liked seeing herself in this dress, strange as that sounded in her head.
Or maybe she was just trying to cope with the fact that her Lady was just... this now. Whatever even 'this' meant anymore. Perhaps it was both.
…
The food court was an explosion of mortal chaos—children with ice cream, teens with pretzels, a boy sobbing over dropped nuggets.
In the center of it all sat Artemis, regal as ever, spoon-feeding herself an impossibly large banana split.
Around her, the Huntresses devoured their share with alarming joy. Linnea had whipped cream on her nose. Talia, after some initial resistance, had eaten two slices of pizza and was now deeply invested in a debate about which frozen yogurt flavor "tasted the most divine."
Even Zoë, though seated stiffly, found herself nibbling on a churro.
"This is… tolerable," she admitted.
"High praise from you," Artemis said, licking whipped cream from her spoon. "You're warming up to me."
"I tolerate you," Zoë corrected.
"Progress!"
Zoë couldn't help it—she smiled.
Just a little.
The laughter of her sisters echoed around her like music—light, sincere, unburdened. It had been years, maybe even centuries, since she had seen the Huntresses so at ease. Their usual solemnity had been replaced with something... bright.
Maybe this strange new Artemis—this goddess who called herself their mother—wasn't a curse.
Maybe…
Maybe she was a blessing in disguise.
Zoë watched Artemis argue with the frozen yogurt machine, insisting on conjuring drachmas for "authenticity," and then proceeding to absolutely destroy a triple-chocolate sundae like it was an enemy of the moon. The goddess giggled when she got sprinkles on her nose.
For the briefest moment, Zoë forgot that she was two thousand years old.
For the briefest moment, she felt young.
She glanced around at the Huntresses—her sisters—and saw the same flicker in their expressions. Wonder. Contentment. A peace they rarely afforded themselves.
Maybe this strange new world wasn't so terrible after all.
And then—
She noticed it.
A few feet away, near a pretzel kiosk, stood Elara.
One of the newest recruits. Barely sworn in a month.
She was laughing.
With a boy.
A mortal boy.
The same mortal boy that was the clerk of the clothing store they visited just earlier. The one who didn't meet her eyes and blushed profusely.
The nerve of that boy.
Zoë blinked. Her expression dropped like a stone into a well.
The food, the warmth, the illusion—it shattered.
In a breath, she was on her feet. Crossing the court like a shadow. Her boots hit tile with cold precision, each step deliberate and sharp.
"Elara," she hissed.
The girl flinched. "L-Lady Zoë—"
"What are you doing?" Zoë's voice was low, but thunderous. "Flirting? After your vows? After you swore—"
"I wasn't—!"
Zoë turned to the mortal boy, who shrank back like he'd stepped into a lion's den. "Leave," she snapped.
He bolted. Fast.
Elara looked like she might cry. "He just—he said my hair was nice—"
"You think that makes it acceptable?" Zoë barked. "Do you think vows are casual? That our sisterhood is a joke? You dishonor the Hunt—"
"Zoë."
The voice didn't rise. It didn't cut like hers had.
But it froze the air all the same.
Artemis stood behind them now, her apron still bearing its ridiculous proclamation. But the warmth in her features had gone still.
Not angry.
Not even disappointed.
Just… stern.
And for Zoë, somehow… that was worse.
"My dear daughter," Artemis said, her tone dipped in gravity. "...What are you doing?"
Chapter 2: Hello, is it me you're looking for?
There was a particular melancholy that lingered in rooms long left untouched—like memories soaked into silk. Hebe stood in the middle of hers, arms wrapped around herself, trying not to breathe in too deeply. Even though she knew no dust dared settle in Olympus, it still smelled... stale. Old. Like her.
The goddess of youth. Eternal spring. Rejuvenation incarnate.
And yet, as she stood before her ornate mirror—untouched for decades, her untouched reflection stared back with hollow familiarity—she felt ancient. Her hands trembled not with age but with hesitation. Fear, even. An emotion she hadn't let herself indulge in for centuries. But now, the weight of Olympus sat in her gut like stone.
She was going to see him again.
Hercules.
Or... Herakles, as the Greeks would still stubbornly call him.
Her husband.
The thought tasted foreign now. Not sour, not bitter. Just... numb. Distant. Like trying to remember the heat of a fire long since extinguished.
They hadn't fought. Not really. That would've required passion. What they had was far more dangerous: the slow, dull erosion of intimacy. The love had been real once, back when he had ascended, when the gods welcomed him into the heavens as a hero's prize. And Hebe—dutiful daughter, perfect bride—had accepted the role assigned to her by Fate, by Zeus, by the entire Pantheon.
And for a while, it even worked.
But Heracles, bless him, was too mortal even in divinity. Too much his father's son. Prone to bursts of laughter that could crack stone, to silences that drowned oceans. And like Zeus, he wandered—if not in body, then in soul.
The storms, the rage, the stubbornness—he had inherited all of it. Even the loneliness. He wasn't cruel, but he was closed. He didn't cheat as extensively as Zeus, but he didn't try being a good husband either. The affection faded. The conversation died. Eventually, the visits did too.
He grew bitter. Grew unsociable. Grew angry and resentful of every God or mortal that reminded him of the painful excuse that was his existence. It was for this reason that their marriage faltered. It was this reason that their relationship could be considered less as husband and wife, but merely just strangers.
Strangers trapped in the depths of time.
Hebe tried. By the Fates, she tried. As the goddess of youth, she always believed in fresh starts. In second chances. In the new. She poured herself into rekindling whatever warmth had once existed. She even fought for the shadows of their marriage in private, begging Hera (which was a bad idea looking back at it) to intervene when things fell apart. But nothing worked.
The last time she saw him, he barely spoke. He had stared out at the sea, the vast ocean beyond the Gates he'd once opened with his own hands, and said only,
"The world moved on without me Why should I care?"
And it had. The gods had shifted Olympus to America. New York now bore their celestial weight, and the Pillars of Hercules—his domain—guarded nothing. No monsters crossed the threshold. No threats loomed. He was a doorman to a door that no longer opened. His task—his punishment—had become a joke. A remnant. A relic.
Just like their love.
"I hate this," Hebe whispered. Not to anyone. Just to the satchel. Just to herself.
And still… she went.
She rose, wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie (emblazoned in mortal pink with the words Hebe Jeebies Arcade: Drink Up!), and slung the bag over her shoulder. It was light. Her heart was not.
As she walked the halls of Olympus for the first time in decades, passing mosaics of stories she no longer believed in, she nearly missed the familiar swish of robes and click of heeled sandals around the corner.
"Mom?" she asked, blinking.
Hera stood mid-stride, golden robes slightly rumpled, her ornate hair pins askew. It was rare to see the Queen of the Heavens look… distracted. Even rarer to see her startled. It was also the point when Hebe herself realized that it had been quite a while too, seeing her mother personally.
She didn't know how to feel about it.
"Daughter… right. Hebe, dear." Hera blinked again as if remembering she had a daughter. "I'm alright. Just… feeling overwhelmed."
And it seemed like Hera herself didn't know how to respond, seeing her too, given how she pretended to notice her at this very moment.
Hebe blinked. "Uh-huh…" The feeling was mutual, she inwardly thought. Agreeing with her mother on this.
Hera then paused, getting her bearings back as she stiffly made herself stand matronly in place against the gardens. Looking at her daughter as any mother would. But given how distracted she was, even the Mother of Mothers in the Greek Pantheon failed to trick her daughter into thinking anything else than worry about her current disposition.
"What about you, dear? You don't visit much anymore."
Because I have no reason to, Hebe wanted to say.
"I've been ordered by Father to visit my husband," she replied instead.
Hera froze. Her lips pulled into a thin, brittle frown. "Ah."
There was a moment of silence so profound, Hebe could almost hear the sound of her mother's immortal patience snapping.
"Ah, indeed, Mom," Hebe said with a dry chuckle.
Her mother scoffed like a tired queen being asked to clean the floors herself. Her sigh was deep. Resonating. Almost like the bellow of a crocodilian, given the weight and emotion behind it.
"Your father…" Hera muttered, voice hardening like stone, "Curse his damning loins… he appears to try and spite me today it seems. Even involving you of all people."
"Right… what exactly happened?"
Hera looked like she was about to hurl a lightning bolt without needing her husband's permission. "I don't even know, child. I… I can't express what he's doing. He's changed forms. That white hair, that calm demeanor—he must be planning something. Another mistress? A new bastard child?"
Her voice cracked like thunder. "Otherwise, he wouldn't do this."
It was then that Hebe realized that her mother's tone increased in incense and vitriol with each word and syllable. It made the goddess feel confused and curious as to what exactly pushed her mother to act and feel this way.
Given the last time she had been this emotionally and irrational-sounding was...
Oh dear Chaos above...
Since the Trojan War, she had last recalled. Nowadays, even when her father had his affairs, her mother would only silently rage, even incessantly ignoring any demigods he sired behind her back because she felt that there was no point arguing with Zeus any longer.
To push her to this point was quite impressive from her dad, to say the least. Demented as it sounds.
Hebe furrowed her brow. "What exactly did he do, Mom?"
Hera waved her hands like a prophetess caught mid-divine vision. "He—he talked to me. With kindness. Respect. Like we were equals!"
Hebe just blinked.
"He didn't even leer!" Hera screamed. "He said I was wise—and get this—he thanked me for keeping Olympus functioning! ME!"
"That's... not a bad thing, is it?"
"It's terrifying, Hebe! He's acting like a responsible ruler! That fool of a man is drafting legislation! Creating divine agendas! Not a single minor nymph has been flirted within three days! He's not even shapeshifting into farm animals anymore!"
"…and this is a problem… why?"
"THAT'S EXACTLY THE PROBLEM, HEBE!"
Hebe cringed as her mother's voice echoed like divine alarm bells. "Your father's never been this serious in his entire miserable, lightning-hurling, skirt-chasing existence. And now? NOW? He's sitting in his throne room like a sober bureaucrat, managing divine paperwork like it's a chariot roster!"
The goddess of youth slowly raised her hand like a student in class. "Okay, but, you know… maybe he's turning a new leaf?"
"NEW LEAF?!" Hera gasped. "That man doesn't have leaves, he has weapons of mass seduction! And if he's acting like Hades, it means he's plotting something."
Hebe sighed. "Mom, please. You're jumping to conclusions. Maybe he just… matured?"
"Don't patronize me. You think you have it hard? You think your marriage is in shambles?"
Hebe froze. Those words cut deep. Too deep.
Even if the words themselves were never directly meant for her. The mere fact that her mother even dared to say such things to her face made her feel wounded. Hurt. It almost made her lose her balance and step as her divine heart felt as if it was in tatters.
The silence was long enough for Hera to notice the crack she struck. Her eyes softened, barely. Guilt laced her feature as she tried reaching out to Hebe with her fingers, hoping to apologize but it stung even more to Hera when her daughter, one of her most cherished backed away with a step.
Yet before they could say anything to each other further...
There, across the Celestial Heavens that was Olympus, came a scream.
A scream so shrill and sharp it echoed like a banshee through every pillar, every marble corridor of Olympus:
"WHY DO I LOOK LIKE THIS?!"
Both goddesses stood stock-still.
"W-Was that Athena?" Hebe weakly asked.
The only response Hera gave was a glare as she crossed her arms under her chest and stared at the tower that led to the throne room in Olympus. Silently but assuredly blaming Zeus for this as she clicked her tongue, audibly.
Silence followed. Even the fountains seemed to pause in reverence.
Hebe stared up at the marble ceiling, then turned to her mother.
"I was gone for what, a few decades?"
Maybe it was a bad idea after all... taking her father's request. She didn't need this right now.
She definitely didn't.
She had braced herself for heartbreak.
Her fingers had curled tightly around the handle of her bag like a drowning soul clinging to driftwood, chest tight with decades of guilt, frustration, and every quiet ache that came with being married to a legend who never knew how to come home.
The Pillars of Hercules—a realm on the furthest edge of godly relevance—wasn't even impressive anymore. Time had eroded its grandeur. The sea looked the same as it always had, but it felt like a memory. The stone pillars marking the boundary of the world stood as silent jokes, tragic monuments to a duty that didn't matter anymore. There was nothing left to guard.
She expected to find her husband sulking.
Grunting. Brooding. Shirtless and bitter like usual. Maybe spitting curses at the waves, or sleeping in the sand again, or grumbling something about how the gods had used him and forgotten him—how she had.
But instead…
She saw him.
Not Hercules, but… a man.
The first thing she noticed was the stillness. A serenity so deep it made even the crashing waves soften in reverence. The sun bowed behind him like a spotlight gifted by Helios himself. His frame was colossal, broad-shouldered and earth-splitting even by godly standards, but there was no weight to him. He didn't carry himself like a weapon. He just… was.
He sat on the shoreline, barefoot and bare-chested, long black hair dancing in the wind—though she realized there wasn't any wind. It moved on its own, a living, breathing crown of shadow and storm. His body was chiseled from battle and hardship, but he wasn't posing, wasn't posturing. He just… fished.
A handmade fishing rod rested in his grip. Efficient. Ingenious. By his side sat a mountain of freshly caught fish, some bigger than most mortal ships.
He looked like he belonged to the world itself.
Every part of him exuded quiet power, not the kind meant to awe or dominate, but to protect. He had a softness to him that shouldn't have made sense—stormy eyes filled with soul and ache, a small smile twitching on his lips like he'd just remembered something warm.
And Hebe stood there, soaked in silence, utterly still.
Was this really Hercules?
Was this the man she had married?
They felt the same. Their auras felt the same. Yet... they were different.
Too different.
How?
She took a step forward. Then another. She wasn't even aware of moving.
Her heart tripped in her chest. Not from dread. Not anymore.
The moment felt fragile. Timeless.
Then, with a sudden heave and a grin, the man stood—towering and radiant—as he pulled a fish the size of a temple from the ocean. Water exploded like a geyser around him, a thunderous cascade that drenched the shore and doused Hebe completely.
She stood sputtering in place, soaked head to toe, hair clinging to her cheeks, robe dripping with seawater. And she didn't care. She could only stare.
The man laughed—deep, rich, and kind. The kind of laugh that made the sea want to sing back.
He patted the enormous fish affectionately before ending its life with one swift, almost respectful blow of his fist, then turned to lift it onto his shoulder.
And then he noticed her.
Hebe froze. She had forgotten to breathe.
The man blinked, then walked over in measured steps. His eyes didn't glint with mischief. His face didn't scowl. There was no recognition—just concern.
"Are you alright?" he asked gently, his voice smooth, deep, and impossibly kind.
Hebe opened her mouth. Nothing came out. Her brain scrambled as if every divine neuron had short-circuited at once. She stammered. Her lips fumbled over syllables that didn't form. Her hands twitched helplessly at her sides as her blush flared with devastating betrayal.
He looked human.
His face wasn't flawless—but it was beautiful. Honest. Earnest. His features had emotion. Lines of effort. Joy. Pain. She could see it all and yet not be burdened by it. He felt so familiar and yet new all at once.
He smiled again, just slightly.
Her knees nearly gave out.
"You are a goddess of Olympus, yes?" he asked, tilting his head.
Hebe, who had debated the fate of entire pantheons, could only nod like a flustered teenager.
The man's expression shifted—into something serious. Vigilant. And then, shockingly, he knelt before her.
Even kneeling, he dwarfed her. His towering form folded gracefully as he gently reached for her hand—massive, calloused fingers closing over hers with impossible delicacy.
"I apologize then, Goddess," he said solemnly, "for leaving you in this state. It was not my intention. I was…"
He chuckled, embarrassed, looking down at their joined hands.
"…I was far too engrossed in my catch. I promise I will never do it again. You have my word."
And Hebe felt it.
The sincerity. The honor. The sheer weight behind every word he said.
Her heart was hammering so hard she was half-convinced the sea could hear it.
He squeezed her hand gently. His eyes looked up, locking with hers. "May I know your name, Goddess? I don't seem to recognize you."
Hebe's breath caught. She tried to speak. Her mouth opened—closed—opened again. She could feel her skin burning red from ears to toes.
"H-Hebe…" she finally managed, voice barely a whisper.
His smile returned.
That damnable smile.
"Lady Hebe then," he said, voice dipped in reverence and ease.
And the goddess of youth—ageless, divine, eternal—blacked out.
The world spun like a childhood dream as the last thing she saw was his worried face leaning toward her, eyes wide with concern.
And for the first time in centuries…
She didn't feel like she was being left behind.
She felt like maybe, just maybe…
She had been found.
THE DIVINE FORGE
HOURS LATER…
The clang of metal rang like a heartbeat.
Steady. Relentless. Deafening.
Each strike of the hammer crashed down with purpose, sending sparks dancing in mad glory across the walls of the forge. The air sweltered—thick with divine heat, smoke, and molten breath. Even gods found this place unbearable.
But he thrived in it.
Where others flinched, Hephaestus found peace. Here in the deepest folds of Olympus—beneath the thrones, beneath the marble dreams of his shining kin—he built. Crafted. Created. The flame did not burn him. The heat did not tire him. And the world? It did not matter.
The forge was his world.
With every blow of his hammer, he drowned the noise. The memories. The illusions of beauty that had never belonged to him.
He hadn't noticed how long he'd gone without speaking. Without leaving. How many divine commissions lay stacked on bronze tables—half-finished, perfectly so—because he couldn't stop designing new ones. Because it was easier to chase perfection in steel than to dwell on the soul's failures.
The heat whispered.
He did not listen.
Until—
Aphrodite.
Her name came unbidden. A ghost in his chest. Unforgiving.
The hammer slowed.
For a moment, he just stood there—gripping it tightly, knuckles white beneath divine soot. He hadn't thought of her in ages.
Not really.
He tried not to.
The forge didn't judge him for who he was. The metal didn't recoil. The fire never lied.
But she—
She had been sunlight. He had thought, once, that even fire could crave the sun.
His mother, Hera, had gifted Aphrodite to him. Gifted. As if a goddess like that could be handed over like a trinket forged from gold. He had been happy. Can you believe that? Happy to have someone. Someone beautiful. Someone his.
But she had never been his.
Not really.
He had been the fool that thought love was something he could forge.
Ares—Ares had always been the one. The kind of god who fit her. Beautiful. Strong. War and love—two sides of the same coin. A perfect match.
He was just the coin-maker.
He sighed. A sharp, angry hiss through clenched teeth. The sword on his anvil glowed hot with godly fire.
He would not think of this again.
He raised the hammer.
Clenched.
Swung—
"…Hephaestus…"
The sound stopped the world.
The hammer hovered mid-air. The flames didn't roar. They held their breath.
It was her voice.
Soft. So terribly soft. Almost… longing.
He turned slowly.
And there she stood.
His wife—if she could still be called that.
But different.
She looked as though the heavens themselves had sculpted her anew. A shimmering, celestial queen cloaked in starlight and sorrow. Her golden-red hair flowed like divine silk, kissed with radiant strands of fire and honey. Wings stretched from her back—not white doves but crimson harpies with gilded tips, regal and unyielding. A halo of glowing hearts circled behind her like a crown, soft and trembling, as if they pulsed with a love held back too long.
Her dress was gossamer and moonlight, yet heavy with meaning. Her skin glowed like she had been reborn from her own tears.
She was glorious.
And yet—
If only her face… if only that same face from long ago matched her beauty, for she looked at him in disbelief, and dare he say it, pain.
She looked at him as if he was the last star in her night sky.
"Hephaestus…" she whispered again.
And then she ran to him.
No goddessly poise. No divine grandeur. Just Aphrodite, trembling and undone.
She threw herself into his arms like she would vanish without him.
He didn't catch her.
He couldn't move.
She clung to him, arms desperate, fingers curled around his soot-stained back like he was an anchor and she was drowning.
And then—tears.
Tears fell from the eyes of the goddess of love.
"I thought I lost you," she said, voice cracked and raw.
Hephaestus didn't breathe. Didn't blink. The hammer slipped from his hand and landed with a dull, defeated clang on the floor. Sparks flickered and died.
The forge—his world—fell silent.
Not even the flames dared speak now.
This was someone new.
Hephaestus did not speak. He only raised a hand—calloused, unsure—and cradled the back of her head gently.
The goddess shook in his arms.
And he didn't know what to do...