beautiful thing Hera had ever seen, but she was afraid to sit on it. She couldn’t believe Hephaestus was being so friendly to her.
Nevertheless, all the other gods were spinning across the room, having a great time, so finally she relented. “Very well, my…er, my son. The throne is beautiful.”
She sat down. Immediately invisible cables lashed around her so tightly, she couldn’t breathe.
“Agghhh,” she gasped.
She tried to change shape. No luck. The more she resisted, the more the cables tightened. She tried to relax. The invisible cables squeezed until her face turned pale, her eyes bugged out, and all the ichor in her body pooled in her hands and feet.
“Mother?” Ares asked. “Why are you so sitting so still? And why are your hands and feet swelling up and glowing gold?”
Hera could only whimper, “Help.”
The gods turned to Hephaestus.
“All right,” Zeus grumbled. “What did you do?”
Hephaestus raised his bushy eyebrows. “Why, Father, I thought you’d approve. You’ll have a much quieter wife now. In fact, she’ll never get out of that chair again.”
Hera squeaked in alarm.
“You threw me away,” Hephaestus reminded her. “I was ugly and crippled, so you tossed me off the mountain. I want you to suffer for that, dear mother. Think about all the things I could’ve made for you if you’d treated me well. Then maybe you’ll understand that you threw away something valuable. You should never judge a god by the way he looks.”
With that, Hephaestus limped over to his donkey and saddled up to leave.
None of the other gods tried to stop him. Maybe they were worried that their own thrones would explode, or their seats would sprout Vitamix blender blades.
Hephaestus journeyed down to the mortal world and set up shop in one of the Greek cities. There he made horseshoes, nails, and other simple stuff that wouldn’t require much thought. He had hoped his revenge would make him feel better, but it hadn’t. He felt even emptier and angrier than before.
Meanwhile in Olympus, the other gods got tired of listening to Hera whimper. They tried everything to free her—bolt cutters, lightning, bacon grease, WD-40. Nothing worked.
Finally Zeus said, “Enough is enough. Ares, go find your brother Hephaestus and convince him to release your mother.”
Ares smiled cruelly. “Oh, I’ll convince him, all right.”
Ares readied his war chariot. He donned his burning golden armor, got his bloody spear, and his shield that dripped gore. His sons Phobos and Deimos hitched up the fire-breathing horses, and off they went.
They rode through the city of mortals, causing panic, trampling everyone in their path. They burst into the courtyard of Hephaestus’s blacksmith shop, where the crippled god was repairing a teapot.
The horses reared and breathed fire. Phobos and Deimos unleashed waves of pure terror that caused sixty-five heart attacks in the surrounding neighborhood.
Ares leveled his spear at Hephaestus. “YOU WILL FREE HERA!”
Hephaestus glanced up. “Go away, Ares.” He kept hammering on his teapot.
Phobos and Deimos exchanged confused looks.
Ares’s spear wavered. He’d been expecting a different reaction.
He tried again. “FREE HERA OR FACE MY WRATH!”
His horses blew fire all over Hephaestus, but the flames only tickled him.
The blacksmith god sighed. “Ares, first of all, I don’t respond well to threats. Secondly, do you think you’re strong because you fight a lot? Try working in a forge all day. Threaten me again, and I’ll show you strong.” Hephaestus flexed his arms and chest, which rippled with muscles.
“Thirdly,” he continued, “I’m the god of fire. I have to be, since I melt metal for a living. I’ve forged iron and bronze weapons in the heart of underwater volcanoes, so don’t try to scare me with your little ponies.”
Hephaestus waved toward Ares like he was shooing away a fly. A wall of fire roared from the ground and washed over the war god’s chariot. When the flames died, the horses’ manes were seared off. The chariot’s wheels had flattened into ovals. Phobos’s and Deimos’s helmets were melted onto their heads like fried eggs, and their skin was covered in a fine layer of charcoal.
Ares’s armor steamed. The beautiful crest of his war helmet was smoldering.
“Last chance,” Hephaestus said. “Go away.”
Ares turned and fled, his chariot ka-chunk ka-chunking on its lopsided wheels, leaving a definite smell of charbroiled war god in the air.
The Olympians tried different tactics to convince Hephaestus to free his mother. They sent different ambassadors.
Hephaestus would not be persuaded.
Up on Olympus, Zeus spread his hands and sighed. “Well, I guess Hera will have to stay on that cursed throne forever.”
“Mrpphh!”