He inclined his head at her question. “I want to close a few smaller securities funds, move them into something larger. It’s much easier if I prove that I’m the only one on the accounts now.” It was a legitimate excuse, he supposed, though Hephaestus had spent longer than he’d like to admit thinking on how to word it as he spoke to her. “I appreciate your help.”
His interest was piqued as she ran her hand over the scar he knew his mother had had on her breast. Hephaestus’ own deformity on his ankle was more easily covered in modern clothing, though he’d felt a soreness before he remembered who he was. It was strange, he thought to himself, how easily they were able to write things off as coincidence. Hephaestus wondered, idly, if that was what his mother was doing just now. Lips quirked at the corners. “I hope it is not incredibly uncomfortable,” he said, his voice more polite than he would often use with his mother. But, as he had already established, it was likely she did not know that was who she was. “I have an old injury on my ankle,” he offered, his eyes fixed on her face, looking for any sort of recognition. “Always seems to itch when it’s about to rain.” Mother dropped me from the sky as a child and it has ached ever since.
A shrug left his shoulders as they spoke of his brother and his lips quirked in amusement. “He drinks too much that it’s a wonder he’s not needed a new liver.” Hephaestus ran his hand along his jawline, pulling at his beard. He hated feeling this uncomfortable around her, hated that he could hardly decipher what she knew and what she didn’t. “But no, he was not around much during my divorce. He’s the wily one, I’m the vengeful one, and together we’ve been told we can be unstoppable.” The laugh that left his lips was more bark than legitimate amusement, though he wondered if she would notice it. It was certainly one of the better phrases to describe his relationship with Dionysus, though Hephaestus realized that it was quite possible he was being too coded in his language.
“We’re not technically related,” he offered up, wondering if this knowledge would provide enough information for her to know he was himself [ provided, of course, that Hera knew who she was to begin with ]. “He’s the son of the man I called my father. My mother always seemed to dislike him when I was younger. But he’s my family; I look out for him regardless.” And heaven knew that Dionysus always needed looking after.
Hephaestus took a moment to clear his throat before speaking again. “Must be difficult for you at times,” he stated, his voice more his own than Brantley’s drawl and his eyes flickering with something akin to flames. “To be surrounded by so many failed marriages.”
“I can’t blame you for wanting to regain full control over your finances. A sense of security.” A safety net as they said these days, she supposed. Her son, or this mortal version of him, had a good head on his shoulders. The hint of a smile touched her lips at his thankfulness. “We’re here to help.” For a price, of course, though this time she decided to make an exception. “Seeing as this is a simple matter, we won’t be billing you.”
His kind words caught her by surprise, though his hope was in vain. Before she remembered her true self the scar had bothered Hera now and then, especially when angered. Perhaps a warning to the clueless Hermione, but to the goddess it was constant torture now as it had been from the moment Heracle’s tripple barbed arrow pierced her flesh. Her eyes widened at the mention of an old ankle injury, her breath hitching for a moment. Could her son remember? “What happened to sustain such an injury, if I may ask? Did you fall from a great height?” Hera asked, attempting to probe his memory.
She listened intently to her son as he spoke of this brother that had never been in the picture before. A brother that sounded too much like Dionysus the more she heard about him. She tapped her lips with her forefinger, mulling over her words. “He sounds like a frat boy with that love for alcohol.” Her hand dropped as more information was revealed about their relation. “As well as he sounds like someone I knew what feels more than a lifetime ago.” Her wording was deliberate, leaving a clue about having lived more than one life. Once again, assuming Hephaestus remembered his true self.
Her lips pursed at the mention of failed marriages. She spent centuries attempting to keep her own afloat, no matter how often Zeus was unfaithful to her. She was, and is, their queen. Abdicating was never an option. “Marriage itself is complex.” She murmured as she eyed him, observing his reaction. “Both parties must be involved for it grow. The moment one of them begins to neglect it, or take their spouse for granted, is when it will implode. Unless, one of them is determined to naviage through all the shit that keeps piling up to keep it together.”
Hera paused, opening a cabinet on her desk to pull out a bottle of whiskey, a twelve year old Macallan, and two glasses. She kept it there for emergencies, or if she stayed for too long at the office. Even so, not a third of the bottle had been consumed yet. “I have a feeling we might need this.”
