by James Welsh
Somehow, even with the pain that kicked him from the inside, Zeus managed to transform into an eagle once more and fly back to the summit at Olympus. There, he took to his room, not leaving his bed for days, drinking ambrosia constantly from the cup that never ran out. He drank until his arms felt numb, until the words slipped off his tongue. Still, even with his body paralyzed from the drink, the agony of the headache never left him. Zeus couldn’t even fall asleep, the pain being too much. At times, the headache was so swollen, so everywhere, that he felt like he was being forced out of his own mind. At those points, Zeus swore that he had left himself, that he could see his body twisted in the bed, his mouth yawning forever in pain.
Still, even with his never-ending pain, Zeus not once told anyone else what had happened. He knew that questions about his headache would lead to the revelation of Metis, and that would lead to his fear of the prophecy, and telling the truth about that would make it the truth. But, with a headache so terrible, Zeus at his best was still his worst. And with a palace as organic and living as that one, it saw Zeus’ pain but did not understand it. It was not long, then, until the gossip amongst the servants made its way to a very curious Hera.
Hera tried to gain entrance to Zeus’ chambers twice during the god’s sickness, but he had shouted her away. If anything, his dismissals only made Hera more curious – she knew that her husband was desperately trying to hide something. It would explain why he had not looked for a cure to his headaches. And already, Hera was coming up with a plan to make Zeus admit to the truth. She wasn’t sure what that truth was, but she knew it had something to do with an affair – with Zeus, it always was. And so she decided to pay her son Hephaestus a visit.
When Hephaestus heard the news about Zeus’ illness – and Hera’s idea to ‘cure’ him – he was intrigued. The blacksmith god was still angry with Zeus for his contempt – Hephaestus was eager to break Zeus’ grip on power, even if that meant breaking the King’s fingers. And so, one night, while Zeus squirmed and cried in his bed from the pain, having not slept in weeks, Hephaestus slid into his room. Hera crept in behind her son, standing in the shadowy corner of the room.
At first, Zeus did not know that Hephaestus was there, blinded with his pain. Then, the crippled Hephaestus spoke up: “Now you know what it’s like, ruined by pain.”
Hearing and recognizing the voice, Zeus slowly stopped twisting in bed. His voice muffled, with his hands pressed to his face, Zeus grunted, “You! What are you doing here?”
“I heard that you needed my help,” Hephaestus said softly as he inched closer and closer to Zeus.
“I don’t need anyone’s help! Especially from you!”
Hephaestus looked amused. It was not often that he could tower over the hated Zeus. He took a moment to enjoy the reversal. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I hold your cure in my hands. I don’t know much, but I do know that.”
“What…what are you…” Zeus began before he collapsed over the edge of the bed, vomiting onto the floor.
Hephaestus immediately smelled the stink of ambrosia, soured. He wrinkled his nose, and he continued, saying, “Look at your medicine.”
Zeus spat on the floor, and, breathing heavily, he squinted back at Hephaestus. By the moonlight streaming through the open window, he could see that Hephaestus was holding an axe, so sharp, so thin, so polished, that Zeus wasn’t sure it even existed. It was as invisible and murderous as a mortal breathing in their final breath before dying.
Zeus tried to say something, but he tumbled backwards in the bed. He moaned something – Hephaestus thought he was saying “no” over and over. It was no use – the god had to bow before the inevitable. Hephaestus whispered, “Hold still.” He raised the axe high in the air – Zeus had fainted – Hera held her breath.
And then Hephaestus brought the axe blade down like rain.
The blade was so thin, it passed through Zeus’ skull without even cracking the bone, without even scratching the skin. The axe kept sliding through until it connected with the infinite hardness of Zeus’ brain, where it stuck, fused with the mind like rust with iron. It was then that Zeus felt the axe. He screamed, his cries carrying down the long halls of the palace. The roars filled Hephaestus’ mind and he could barely think of anything else. Still, he held on as Zeus’ cries gave way to hyperventilated gasps. Then, slowly but surely, Hephaestus began to pull the axe from Zeus’ brain.
As he did this – the blade surfacing from the skull as easily as a fish jumping from the water – something happened, something that Hephaestus for the longest time could never quite believe in. A silvery oil began to trickle out of Zeus’ ears and pool on either side of him on the bed. As it happened, Zeus began to moan – Hephaestus didn’t know if it was from the pain or from relief. Curious, though, as to what the oil was, Hephaestus slowly set his axe down and reached down, to touch the oil, to understand the meaning of it.
As soon as he touched the liquid, though, it stuck fast to his fingers. Hephaestus took a step back and tried to shake the oil from his fingers. But the oil didn’t break loose – if anything, the oil began to solidify, and, as Hephaestus shook his hand from side to side, the twists in the oil became curves, and those curves became arms and legs. And there, before Hephaestus, stood a woman, formed from the shakes of oil.
She shone, not only from being drenched in oil, but from her godly glow. Hephaestus only knew of one god who was as bright as her – Zeus. But there it was, the shine burst from her muddy brown hair, her thin but strong arms, her full lips, her warrior’s stand. The oil that covered her skin began to darken and hang off of her like night-blue robes – then they became night-blue robes. Her eyes were closed at first, but when she opened them, Hephaestus felt as if he had known the stranger forever. She had a serene little smile as she said what would be the first of many words: “Hello.”
Dumbfounded, Hephaestus tried to find something to say. Behind him, he heard Hera hiss from the shadows, “Look, look on the other side of the bed!”
With some effort, Hephaestus glanced a little past the oily woman standing before him. On the other side of the bed, another woman was rising, she too formed from the oil that drained out of Zeus’ ear, warm like saltwater draining from a conch shell. By then, Zeus had fainted from the grotesque agonies of the births, but life was strong and going on without him. The second woman stood up with a bit of a stumble, as if she had forgotten how to stand. She looked around, dumbfounded, absentmindedly wringing the oil from her long, blonde hair.
Hephaestus didn’t recognize either woman, but Hera stepped out of the darkness and snarled, “Metis!”
The blonde woman, shook out of her daze, snapped in Hera’s direction and said, “Cousin, I can explain…”
“How could you!” Hera shrieked. “I should have known that Zeus was coming to you, after all of these years!”
With that, Hera raised her hand, as if to strike Metis, even though the two women were still at opposite ends of the bed. Still, Metis fell backwards, slipping on the oily floor. Hera swung in the bare air and a sudden gasp of wind blew across the room. Hephaestus protected his face with his arm – whenever he looked again, the second woman, this Metis, she was gone. Hephaestus looked around the room, but didn’t see her anywhere.
He asked, “Mother, what did you do to her? Did you make her vanish?”
“No, my son, not even a god could do such a thing. No, I did something worse to her. I took away her human shape – she does not deserve such beauty. She never did. I took away her human eyes, her human ears, and her human tongue. I reduced her down to her emotions, where she’ll be trapped, forever, as she should have been like her Titan family…”
There was a sudden flutter of wings and a loud hooting noise. Wide-eyed, Hephaestus watched as a large, snowy owl settled down on the bed. It craned its head and looked at the still-fainted Zeus, and it looked back at Hera. Hephaestus could have sworn he saw hatred in its eyes, though t
hat may have been the reflection of Hera, as the Queen looked down at the owl with contempt.
Hera had a short and bitter laugh. “You were always an owl, cousin – too clever for your own good.”
And, with that, Hera swept from out of the room, ignoring the other woman, the one who glowed brightly in the dark room, the one who stood like a warrior.
