Working on a story that will tackle the birth of Hephaestus. Will be out soon hopefully. Exploration of Hera’s post partum depression, povs from both parents. How they handled/mishandled the situation with each other emotionally. And a little “fix-it” at the end for a certain event that happened between Hera and Hephaestus on a high cliff.
The cradle stands near the bed, close enough that she does not have to move to see it. She has positioned it that way herself, though she does not remember making the decision.
Hephaestus lies within it, small and swaddled, his breaths soft and uneven in the quiet.
Hera’s gaze does not leave him.
Not in the way a mother might watch in awe or affection.
There is no softness to it.
It is something else entirely.
Her eyes track every movement. Every shift of his tiny limbs, every faint sound, every rise and fall of his chest. She counts the breaths without meaning to. Measures the spaces between them. Watches for any sign—any deviation—that might confirm or deny the thing that has lodged itself deep in her mind.
Or that something else is wrong.
Her thoughts circle, relentless.
The question comes without permission, sharp and immediate, cutting through whatever thin layer of calm she tries to maintain.
That one follows quickly. It always does.
It settles heavier. Closer. More dangerous.
She searches herself for an answer she cannot name. Something missed. Something flawed. Something that would explain this, justify it, make it make sense.
Only the absence of understanding.
That question lingers longer.
It curls into her chest and stays there, quiet and suffocating, painting futures she cannot fully see but already fears.
And beneath all of it—quieter, more insidious than the rest—another thought begins to take shape.
Why don’t I feel what I should feel?
It arrives softly. Almost gently.
Her gaze drops to him again, to the smallness of him, the fragility, the undeniable reality of his existence.
The word does not settle.
She waits for something to rise in her chest—something instinctive, undeniable, the kind of certainty she has seen in others, the kind that does not require thought or effort.
There is awareness. Recognition.
There is even a distant, abstract understanding that this child is hers, that he matters, that he should be everything.
But the feeling—the immediate, consuming love she expects, the connection that should bind them without question—
And that absence terrifies her more than anything else.
(First chapter is out now!)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
andulkaphoto
jacobvanloon
2087
origamiaround
titsay
annaxmalina
