He could understand why his poor, drunken mate was on the verge of a mental breakdown. Hebe was all of those things and more - she hadn’t inherited Hera’s temperament, that was for sure - and the mortals … They would enjoy breaking her, especially once they discovered her connection to Herakles. Then they would make a game of it, deriving sheer ecstasy from causing pain to those they considered beneath them. But giving into desperation, agitation, and the fear of losing a loved one wouldn’t help matters any. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Hephaestus threw out there upon recognizing the inner turmoil on his friend’s haggard face; he could practically envision the questions forming, the supposition enough to bring a scowl to his lips. “First of all, this is in no way your fault. You’ve endured hellish circumstances no one should ever be subjected to. This – all of it - can be laid at the feet of mortals … And should Hebe find herself in their clutches now, we’ll simply have to fetch her. Problem solved.” Right. Just like that. Still, it was the thing Herakles needed to hear the most right now - if he could even think in his present state.
At the mention of his dear mother, Hephaestus snorted. “Hera believes she’s entitled to the universe.” And that everyone in it ought to cater to her whims. “She also believes in a little thing I like to call an eye for a chipped tooth.” In other words, she often exaggerated the offenses others wreaked in her presence, choosing to take vengeance at a much higher cost than said offense warranted.
Herakles had never been saved from misery, on the contrary, it seemed to follow him no matter how hard he tried to run. Always at the soles of his feet, snapping its jaw teasingly, trying to sink its fangs into his skin. He knew how he was perceived by the rest, a bitter loner of a god, someone who achieved so much yet was now so little. Pushing everyone at arm’s length was his way of coping, he licked his wounds alone.
Yet. There was a need for more brewing deep inside, a longing for a companion. They are some written words that would perfectly sum the situation up; dealing with grief is not meant to be an individual process. “How can you be so sure?” Herakles questioned quietly, he had endured everything that was thrown at him, but he was at his strength’s end. He would crumple if something had happened to his wife. “I thought when I held my children in my arms after I...That, that was to be the worst. But this- this uncertainty, the impending doom, it feels as if I’m standing at the edge of a precipice. May be worse.” The alcohol in his system made his tongue looser, his children were always untouchable subjects. At his friend willingness’ to help if something were wrong with Hebe, he almost chocked up. With a strained voice he simply managed a, “Thank you, Hephaestus.”
“Thank the Fates Hebe got nothing of her.” He added in favor of the roasting of Hera. “You neither.” Herakles builded on, it was almost humorous how his best friend was the son of the person he most despised. But he never held it against him, Hephaestus couldn’t have picked his mother, just like he couldn’t have picked his father. It had already been destiny-written.
