Work Text:
“Let him go. Please. Let him… go…”
Hera should not be able to hear Athena, not from up in the stands, but one of the quirks of godhood is that if one of them wants to be heard, they will be. Athena is not projecting her voice, exactly, but in her desperation to reach her father she has imbued her words with a resonance that shakes the arena’s high walls and sets the foundations trembling. It is not, Hera thinks, intentional. Intentionality would require forethought, would require planning, and while these things usually come as naturally to Athena as blinking (perhaps more so — rumour has it that she once got into a stare-off with a wild owl she sought to tame. The owl didn’t win) it’s clear that they have fallen by the wayside. Even from a distance, Hera can see that Athena is being held together by adrenaline alone. There’s no room under her skin for anything else. It is enough to get her up the steps, enough to hold her upright as she drags each word from her throat, letting them tumble like rocks from her mouth. But it is not enough to keep her standing beyond that. She has barely squeezed that last go through her teeth before she crumples like yesterday’s laundry, discarded on the floor.
Somewhere behind Hera, Aphrodite screams.
The arena vanishes. They are in a courtyard on Olympus, a warm, bright space, devoid of the multitude of spectators. Only a handful remain to see Athena as she lies unmoving at Zeus’ feet: Hera, of course, and Aphrodite and Ares, Hephaestus and Apollo. A few others, too. Out of the corner of her eye, Hera can see Hestia, hands pressed to her mouth in horror. Then there’s Aeolus, frozen atop a cloud that’s turned storm grey instead of its usual wispy white. Their knuckles are pale as they grip the cloud’s sides, all traces of playfulness drained from their expression. Iris stands just below that cloud, wings half extended as though arrested in the act of taking flight. Artemis is nearby, her face slack, as though she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing. Hera understands how she feels, though that understanding is born of recognition rather than empathy. For despite the myriad of emotions Hera is experiencing right now, surprise is not among them.
It’s not that she saw this coming. It is only that she knows her husband.
From across the courtyard, Zeus catches her eye. He only holds her gaze a moment before looking away, but that brief instant of eye contact is all she needs to confirm her suspicions. To the others, his calling lightning down upon his own daughter probably looked like a loss of control. A terrible act, but one committed in senseless rage. He was lashing out, they might tell themselves. He was angry. He did not mean it.
But Hera knows something they don’t: everything Zeus does is intentional. Oh, she doesn’t doubt that his fury was genuine, but that does not mean he acted in the heat of the moment. He knew precisely what he was doing, because he always does. He has made many mistakes, but he made them on purpose, in full knowledge of the consequences. That is who he is.
She might find it easier to forgive his many transgressions if she believed he was ruled by emotion. If so, she would search down the back of the sofa for excuses for him and blame for herself. He can’t help falling for other women. When he threatens me, both in private and in front of the pantheon, he is only saying words. He can’t help it. It’s just who he is. I’m at fault for expecting him to change his nature.
It is his nature. His nature to make and carry out such decisions.
If only, she thinks, I did not love him. It would be much more tolerable if I were merely angry and afraid.
But she is all too aware that that love is what protects her now. It’s what protects them all. For if the pantheon did not love Zeus — husband, brother, father, family — they might fight him for what he has done today, and while Hera has no talent for prophecy, she knows how that would end. Love restrains them. Love prevents them from joining Athena, unconscious on the floor.
Oh, Fates, let her be unconscious! Don’t let her be dead! It’s nigh impossible to kill a god, but they all know that Zeus could, if he got it into his head to do so. And Athena is so very still. Yet the death of a god results in the total destruction of their body, leaving nothing to mourn, the resulting shockwave laying waste to everything within a hundred miles. Athena is right there in front of them, Hera reassures herself. She is alive.
But she might not stay that way unless someone helps her, and soon.
Hera has a certain reputation among mortals — a reputation that follows her around Olympus, if she’s honest with herself. Those who know of it might be surprised to learn of how her heart clenches as she looks down at her stepdaughter. Isn’t she supposed to be the wicked stepmother, bitter and jealous and devoted to making life a misery for her husband’s children? She has been all those things, she does not deny it. But she isn’t made of stone.
It is hard to spend centuries, millennia around people and not care for them at all. And besides, she has always liked Athena. Perhaps it’s because Athena was never a child. It’s horrifically easy to resent an infant, a tiny, unreasonable creature that only knows how to cry and sleep and demand attention at all hours of the day and night. But Athena was born an adult, and in those early days she had the wisdom to stay out of Hera’s way. People say she got her brains from her mother, Metis, but sometimes Hera wonders if she’s more like Zeus: aware of the consequences of her every breath, acting in full knowledge of those consequences.
Did she know what would happen, when she stepped into that arena? Did Zeus truly catch her off guard, or did Athena calculate the risk and choose to take it anyway? Hera doesn’t know which is worse.
What she does know is why Athena was willing to face Zeus. She knows, though she doesn’t quite understand it. Though Athena would never admit it — not before today, at least — she gets so attached to her mortal favourites. And this one, Odysseus… Hera is sure Athena sees him as a friend. She saw how Athena was with him during the war in Troy, the two of them forever plotting and scheming together. He was, Hera observed, on Athena’s wavelength in a way that few others, mortal or immortal, were. But it went beyond him. They would sometimes speak of his wife, Penelope, and Hera remembers overhearing Athena saying to Odysseus, “She reminds me of you. She is clever, too — but she possesses a quality you lack.”
Odysseus raised an eyebrow. “And that’s… what, exactly?”
Athena smirked. “Common sense.”
He’d cracked up laughing at that, said Penelope would likely agree. Still laughing, he’d begged Athena not to repeat that comment to Penelope — “I know she’s too good for me, there’s no need to remind her of that.” Athena said she’d think about it, but it would depend on how well he followed her advice throughout the rest of the war.
So, yes, Hera knows that Athena cares for this mortal, for his wife, and, it seems, his son. Two weeks ago, Athena disappeared to Ithaca, and whatever happened there seems to have prompted her to petition Zeus on Odysseus’ behalf.
Athena is not unlike her father, in her possessiveness of the people she loves. Anyone who so much as looks at the Ithacan royal family the wrong way will not live long enough to regret it. But the love itself is not destructive the way Zeus’ is. Athena may have a short temper — when pushed, she’s liable to tell people exactly what she thinks of them, to devastating effect — but she would never hurt her mortals the way Zeus has hurt her.
When Athena is truly angry, she shuts down. She does not catch fire, but turns to ice. Any reckless decisions she makes are not, then, born of fury, but of other extremes of emotion. Love, Hera supposes, and desperation. They make for a dangerous combination, and Hera and the others are staring, horrorstruck, at the results.
Zeus is the first to break the awful silence. “Iris,” he says, calm as a summer sky, and the messenger snaps out of her trance in a flutter of wings, almost jumping to attention. “I am sending you to Ogygia. Tell Calypso she is to set Odysseus free. Immediately,” he adds, in answer to a question no one asked.
There are startled murmurs from the little crowd, but Hera doesn’t bat an eyelid. Zeus has done what he set out to do. Now that he has taught Athena a lesson, now that he has put her in her place, he will honour his promise. She convinced Apollo, Hephaestus, Aphrodite, Ares and Hera that Odysseus should be released, so Zeus will see that it happens. But he was never going to do so without first reminding her of what it means to set herself against him.
Iris gives a little squeak of acknowledgment and crouches, preparing to spring into the air, when a weak voice calls out, “Wait!”
Far in the distance and deep inside her own mind, Hera hears the sound of a ticking clock. Judging by their faces, the others hear it, too, just as they feel it as time wavers and ripples around them. It only lasts a second before sputtering out, but it’s long enough for Hera to realise what’s happening and to leave her torn between laughing and weeping, because really? Is Athena really trying to use Quick Thought now?
“Wait,” Athena repeats, her voice smaller than ever. Hera cannot see her face — she is looking up at Zeus — but her helmet is dented, and burns are visible on the back of her neck, and on her arms as she pushes her upper body, trembling, off the floor. Hera’s breath catches. She knew it was bad, but with the movement, the air shifts around Athena and the stench of burned flesh wafts towards her. It is not like when a human burns on their funeral pyre, or when an animal sacrifice is cooked over a fire. Those smells are neutral, at least to Hera. Mortal bodies are meant to burn. Immortal bodies are not, and it’s all Hera can do not to turn away.
“Not Iris,” Athena manages, each word twice the effort of the one before. “Send Hermes. He knows Hermes. Better that he sees… a familiar face…” She slumps to the ground again. There’s a sickening thud as her face hits the marble floor.
Zeus appraises her, his expression unreadable. “Iris,” he says, not taking his eyes off Athena, “find Hermes. Send him to Calypso with the same instructions I gave you.”
Iris doesn’t need to be asked twice. In a blink, she is in the air, rainbows trailing behind her as she flees the courtyard. Hera almost envies her.
When she is gone, Zeus turns to the others. Though he is looking directly at Hera, he is talking to all of them when he says, “I will return shortly. I expect this place to be cleaned up when I do.”
He holds Hera’s gaze just a fraction longer, making sure she understands. He is giving them permission to help Athena. Hera gives an almost imperceptible tilt of her head, and he leaves, walking away before she has even finished nodding.
The instant he is out of sight, Hera takes a step towards Athena, but Apollo flings out an arm to block her way.
“Don’t touch her,” he says, his voice uncharacteristically tight. “She could still be live.”
Hera wants to shake him, tell him to stop talking nonsense — of course she is alive! They have to go to her! Then she realises what he said. Live. Still humming with the lightning’s electricity. As if on cue, a spark jumps from the raw skin of Athena’s wrist, and everyone flinches.
“How do we…?” Ares sounds lost. “What can we do?”
“We need to get her helmet off her.” Hephaestus speaks quietly, but there’s no mistaking the urgency in his voice. “Metal conducts electricity.”
“Okay, but…” It is, Hera thinks, testament to the gravity of the situation that Ares does not argue with Hephaestus. “How do we do that without touching her?”
“I’ve got this!” Aeolus has found their voice at last. The cloud disintegrates beneath them, and in a blur of movement, they are beside Athena. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to guide the winds towards her. The helmet is eased off, the motion gentle until it’s clear of Athena’s head, then it skids across the floor and hits the wall with a clatter that makes everyone wince. Hera expects Aeolus to back away, but they don’t, their hands continuing to twist and turn. She doesn’t understand why until she sees Athena’s inert form lift slightly off the ground, sparks cascading from every inch of skin before disappearing into the air. One of them catches Aeolus on the wrist and they yelp, nearly dropping Athena, but Artemis is already there to take her sister’s weight in her arms. She lowers Athena carefully to the floor, turning her onto her back as the others gather, as hesitant and fearful as they are eager to help.
Ares gets there first, calling Athena’s name, asking if she can hear him. Hera’s about to tell him not to be ridiculous, of course she can’t, then stops abruptly as she catches onto what he’s doing. This is how he, and any mortals he has taught to do the same, approach an injured person after a battle. First, ascertain whether they can be roused and if they’re aware of their surroundings. What happens next depends almost entirely on the answer. Ares must have done this hundreds of times, or guided mortals to do so. In fact, Hera recalls him doing so during the war with the giants, whenever someone got hit. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, whoever it was would say yes, they were okay, and after taking a moment to get their bearings they would be on their feet again. More than once, Athena brushed Ares off, snapping that she didn’t need help from him . This time, she does not move. If she knows he — or any of them — are there, she gives no sign.
There are owl feathers along her hairline, brown with darker patches, blending into her hair. She must have been on the verge of transforming when Zeus’ assault rained down on her, perhaps thinking that her owl form would be small enough to evade the attack. Then another possibility occurs to Hera, one that pitches her heart into her throat. Maybe Athena was about to shift forms when she changed her mind, thinking it better to root herself to the spot and take the full force of her father’s wrath. Did she know that accepting the punishment was the only way to save Odysseus?
One particularly vicious burn slashes across her right eye, slicing from the eyebrow down to her chin. Almost as if she lifted her face as the lightning arched towards her.
There’s not as much ichor as Hera expected, and somehow, that makes it worse, because now she cannot help but imagine the damage she can’t see. Based on the grim set of Apollo’s mouth, he’s thinking along the same lines. Artemis steps out of the way and he takes her place at Athena’s side, feeling for a pulse.
“Well?” Hera demands. “Is she—?” Is she what? Hera has no idea how to finish that sentence.
Apollo’s eyebrows draw together. “Her pulse is erratic,” he mutters, not looking up. “Not surprising, considering…” His frown deepens, and his hands briefly glow and Athena shudders before going limp once more. “That’s a little better,” Apollo mumbles, half to himself, as he presses two fingers to the side of Athena’s neck. “Not great, but it’ll do for now.”
“For now?” Ares barks, incredulous. “Can’t you fix her?”
Apollo does not so much as bristle at his tone. He’s too focused on his work. “I should be able to stabilise her, but a full healing… might be beyond even me.” Alarm flashes across his face, and suddenly he is pulling Athena’s eyelids back, using one glowing fingertip to shine a light into her unseeing eyes. The left pupil dilates in response, but the right—
“Is that…” Hera hears herself begin. She stops. Swallows. She cannot tear her gaze away from the eye that is no longer grey, but a dull, opaque white. “I mean, can you…?”
Apollo does not answer. “Normal pupil reactivity,” he says, then hesitates. “I’m… assuming both sides would respond the same way. I can’t sense anything to suggest otherwise.” This means very little to Hera, but from Artemis’ nod and Hestia’s soft, relieved exhale, she accepts it as reason for optimism. But Athena’s right eye…
“The helmet must have taken the worst of it,” Apollo goes on, and Hera knows what he means but still wants to shake him, to tell him to look at Athena, look at her face, look at her as she cannot look at him.
She doesn’t get the chance, however, as Aphrodite blurts out, “If— if you can’t fully heal her, what…” There’s a catch in her voice. “Will she be okay?” And Hera thinks of how over the years, Athena and Aphrodite have fought almost as much as Athena and Ares, not with blows but with words that cut as deeply as any sword. Her vision swims and she swipes the tears away.
Apollo keeps his eyes on Athena. “This isn’t like healing a mortal. Our bodies are resistant to interference from another god. There’s only so much I can do, especially while she’s unconscious. Maybe I’ll be able to help more when she wakes up — then we’ll have a better idea of what’s going on. Until then…” He shakes his head. “It’s all down to her.”
“Hey, so, um…” This from Aeolus, who hovers an inch or two above the ground, arms swinging nervously at their sides. “Should we, I don’t know, move her? Because I don’t really wanna be here when Zeus comes back.”
He’ll give us enough time to get her out of here, Hera is about to say, but she’s interrupted by Hestia.
“We’ll take her to my house,” she says, quiet and decisive, and nobody argues. Hestia isn’t like the rest of them. She doesn’t start fights, doesn’t stir up trouble, certainly doesn’t insert herself into other people’s business. She has always been Hera’s favourite sibling — and the others know, and they do not take offence, because she is their favourite, too. Her house is the most peaceful on Olympus — and, crucially, the most remote. It is no more than a cottage, tucked away behind a crop of rocks, and hard to find without an invitation from Hestia. It’s where Hera goes when she cannot stand to be under the same roof as Zeus. It’s where Artemis and Apollo used to hide when they got into trouble as children. When Persephone went missing, before anyone realised that she had not wandered off but was simply gone, it was one of the first places Demeter thought to check.
When something goes wrong for the gods, they invariably pitch up on Hestia’s doorstep.
And so this is where they take Athena. There’s some debate over how to move her — as Apollo says, just because she doesn’t seem to have any broken bones, doesn’t mean there aren’t any, and he’s afraid to touch her burns before he’s had a chance to clean them.
“If she were mortal, they’d be a massive infection risk,” he explains. “As things stand… I don’t know. It’s unlikely, but I don’t want to take chances. And,” he adds, oddly subdued, “I don’t want to hurt her.”
It’s Aeolus who comes up with a solution. They guide the winds around Athena so that she’s floating a few feet above the floor, holding her steady. Her hair falls in tangles behind her, its usual neat braid unravelled, and Hera can’t just leave it like that. Athena would be mortified to be seen in this state. She manoeuvres around the others and with quick, deft fingers, brushes Athena’s hair out and pulls it into a ponytail, securing it with a ribbon that Aphrodite silently hands her. It’s not Athena’s usual style, but it affords her more dignity than the knotted mess it was a moment ago.
Feathers fall out in Hera’s hands. Some of them are charred around the edges.
By unspoken agreement, they all make the journey to Hestia’s house together. It’s an awkward walk along the mountain path — particularly for Hephaestus, who is navigating it with his crutches, but he doesn’t say a word. At one point, Ares actually offers him a hand. Ah, thinks Hera, fighting a losing battle against rising hysteria, so that’s what it takes for my sons to get along. All they needed was to watch their father almost kill their sister. Why didn’t we try that years ago? A slightly unhinged giggle escapes her, but if anyone hears, they don’t comment.
Artemis keeps her arms extended below Athena, ready to catch her if Aeolus loses concentration — and if it wasn’t Artemis, it would be Hera. She’s never had a very high opinion of the little wind god, dismissing them as a fickle, flighty thing. No one is entirely sure where they came from. They blew in on the breeze one day, evasive to any questions concerning their origins, interested only in flitting around and playing games. Hera suspects them to be another of Zeus’ illegitimate children, but he’s never claimed them as such. Not, Hera thinks sourly, that that means anything. He might simply have lost count.
Aeolus keeps up a stream of chatter the whole way, and it would grate on Hera’s nerves but for the fact that they are talking about Athena’s favourite mortal.
“I met him, once!” they say brightly. A bit too brightly. Hera squints at them. Their hands are trembling, their eyes never leaving Athena. “He showed up on my island, oh… ten years ago? I guess? I liked him, actually. I mean, as far as humans go, he was okay, and he was down for playing a game! I tried to help him, you know?” A pause. “Well. Sorta. But I did feel sorry for him. He was just trying to get home.” They bite the inside of their cheek, a childlike gesture that leaves Hera inexplicably sad. “It didn’t work out. And I just think, maybe if I’d actually tried, he’d be back already, and Athena wouldn’t…” They trail off, blinking rapidly. Hestia falls into step beside them, placing a hand on their shoulder. They look startled, then smile, and they remain close to Hestia for the rest of the walk.
The sky is growing dark when the group reaches Hestia’s door. She ushers them all inside, glancing over her shoulder as though afraid they’ve been followed, then directs Artemis and Aeolus to take Athena to one of the guest bedrooms, Apollo following in their wake. Hestia’s house is larger on the inside in a way that defies physics, something she has spent centuries cheerfully refusing to explain.
There’s a fire blazing in every hearth, and it’s only when Hera goes to stand beside the nearest fireplace that she realises how cold she is. Hestia bustles around lighting candles, asking if she can get anyone anything (“Nectar? Ambrosia? Ooh, I picked up some lovely tea blends last time I visited the mortal world, you really must try one—”) and Hera could sob with gratitude for how normal she makes things feel. Particularly because she is nowhere near as at ease as she is trying to seem. Her gaze keeps flicking down the corridor, towards the bedroom, and when she is not talking her jaw is tight with concern.
It’s several minutes before Artemis and Aeolus return, minus Apollo. “He’s trying to do something about those burns,” Artemis explains, and Hera can’t help but shudder. “Hestia, do you have any bandages around here?”
Hestia gives directions to a store cupboard on the far side of the house, and Aeolus darts off to retrieve them. Artemis turns to the others. Her face is drawn, her silver-white curls hanging limp about her shoulders.
“Apollo isn’t sure when Athena will wake up,” she says, and Hera knows she is not imagining the way Artemis stresses when, as opposed to if. “But she really shouldn’t be left alone, so he was thinking we ought to take shifts.” There is no question that they will stay. Hera just nods, and notices a few others doing the same. “Apollo will stay with her for now, but he wants to go home and get some proper healing supplies — sorry, Hestia, nothing against whatever you’ve got in the cupboard.” Hestia smiles faintly and motions for her to keep talking. “So, then someone will need to take over. Um…” Her bare feet scrunch against the rug. Artemis doesn’t do shoes, in the same way she doesn’t do sleeping indoors, or hemlines that fall below the knee, or anything else that Hera considers the absolute bare minimum standard of decency. “I could take the next shift, I suppose. But…” Her eyes wander towards the window. She needs time alone in the wilderness, the same way Apollo needs music, the way Hephaestus needs to be in his forge and Poseidon needs the ocean. It’s an imperative, not an option. That Artemis is offering, however unwillingly, to stay inside for that long is proof of how worried she is for Athena.
“No,” Hera hears herself say. “I’ll take over from Apollo.” She crosses to where Artemis is standing and takes her by the arms. Artemis stares at her and it occurs to Hera that she’s never touched her kindly before. There’s a twinge of shame in her chest as she says, “If you need to go and run around in the woods or— whatever it is you do, go. We’ll call for you if anything happens.”
Artemis’ eyes flood with relief. With a murmured thank you to Hera, she’s out the door, bounding off into the night.
Hera watches her through the window. When she’s no more than a silver speck on the horizon, Hera turns and makes her way down the corridor towards Athena’s room.
***
Sunlight is filtering through the curtains and Hera is almost asleep in the window seat when a low groan jolts her awake. In an instant, she’s at Athena’s side, taking one bandaged hand in her own as Athena claws her way to consciousness.
“Hera…?” she mumbles, her left eye glassy and out of focus. The right side of her face is covered by a bandage, buried under swathes of thick, white cloth. That, Apollo had said, was her damaged eye’s best chance: to rest and to wait. Hera could not bring herself to ask just how slim that chance was. There was no need. Deep down, she knows the truth as well as he surely does. No god can undo what another has done. “What…?”
“Hey, hey, you’re okay.” Hera runs a hand over Athena’s hair, silently calling out to Apollo. She feels it when he hears her, and the knowledge that he’s on his way echoes reassuringly through her head. “It’s all okay.”
“No… No, that’s not…” Athena’s brow furrows momentarily, then her eyes widen and she shoots upright. Before Hera can stop her, she transforms into an owl, spreading her wings to take flight — and then promptly turns back again, falling onto the pillows as she gasps for breath. There’s ichor leaking through the bandages and her face is grey and shiny with sweat, and Hera curses inwardly, shouting wordlessly for Apollo again.
“What was that about?” she demands, gripping Athena’s hand.
Athena swallows hard. “Odysseus,” she manages, then squeezes her eyes shut, gritting her teeth.
“He’s fine,” Hera assures her. Probably doing better than you, she does not add. “Zeus sent Hermes. It’s done. Your friend is free. I imagine he’s on his way back to Ithaca now.”
Athena draws in a deep breath, then begins to struggle upwards. “I have to go to him. He’ll need my help—“
“Athena, stop.” Even like this, Athena is strong, and it takes everything Hera has to keep her on the bed. Apollo, where in Hades have you got to? “If you appear to him like this, you’ll scare him.” This should not be possible. No mortal should ever see a god like this. “Is that what you want? For him to be worrying about you when he should be concentrating on getting home?”
“But he needs to know—“ Athena is sitting up now, swinging her legs out of bed despite Hera’s best efforts. “Ithaca— house full of horrible men who won’t take no for an answer— someone has to warn him. And then there’s Penelope — and Telemachus!” What little colour Athena’s face holds drains away, and she sways violently in Hera’s grasp.
“If you won’t lie down, at least lean forwards.” Apollo at last, coming to join Hera by the bed. “Head between your legs, if you can. Unless you’d rather faint?”
Athena makes a weak sound that simply does not have the conviction to be called a growl, but she lets Hera and Apollo guide her forwards, taking her weight in their hands.
“Why are there owl feathers everywhere?” Apollo asks Hera in an undertone.
“She tried to transform,” Hera whispers. “It didn’t go well.”
“Yeah, I guessed. But why —”
“Are you two done talking about me like I’m not here?” Athena snaps.
“That depends,” says Apollo. “Are you done being foolish?”
She lifts her face to glare at him. He just smiles.
“I need to talk to Odysseus,” she says flatly. Apollo shakes his head.
“Last I checked — about half an hour ago, before you ask — he was three days away from Ithaca. You can meet him on the beach. Or you can ambush him on his way into town. You can do whatever you want in three days, but until then, you are going to let me do my job.”
Three days. Will Athena be ready, so soon? Hera doubts it. She suspects Apollo does, too. But there has never been any telling Athena what to do. The only one she has ever deigned to take orders from is Zeus, and while Athena would almost certainly listen if her father told her to rest… Hera looks at Athena and has to tamp down the urge to shake her head. No. It’s out of the question.
Athena glowers a moment longer before surrendering. She doesn’t lie down, but she moves backwards so that she’s sitting on the bed. Without thinking about it, Hera reaches for the blanket and tries to pull it over Athena’s legs, but Athena shoots her a pained look that very clearly says I know you’re being nice, but I have no idea how to be looked after and there’s only so much I can cope with.
Apollo sits on the edge of the bed, holding his hands out to Athena. “Squeeze as hard as you can,” he instructs. Athena’s visible eye narrows.
“Why?”
“Fates, but you’re difficult,” he grumbles. She raises an eyebrow and he rolls his eyes. “I’m checking for nerve damage,” he says bluntly. “Which you might well have. Because you were electrocuted.”
Athena scowls, but takes his hands and squeezes, hard enough to make him hiss. He grins, shaking them out from the wrist.
“Great! No problems there!” He scrutinises her for a moment. “You did turn into an owl, so I’m going to go ahead and assume you have full control over your limbs.” He holds a finger in front of her face, moving it back and forth. One sharp grey eye tracks it from one side to the other, but just before Apollo can tick that off his list, Athena turns away and buries her face in her arm. Hera is with her in a heartbeat, but Athena shakes her head.
“I’m fine,” she insists, but it’s not much more than a groan. “Apollo was moving too fast. It made me dizzy, that’s all. And this” —she reaches for the bandage covering her right eye— “is not helping.”
“Leave that alone.” Athena has barely lifted her hand before Apollo has her by the wrist, gently guiding it away from her face. He does not explain why it’s there, instead adding, “And don’t lie to me, you were dizzy to begin with.” There’s a flicker in his expression, a glimmer of something rising to the surface before he drags it back under. “How’s your head?”
“It… hurts.” There’s no self-pity in Athena’s voice. She just sounds baffled. Of course she does. She can probably count the number of times she’s felt physical pain on one hand. “Everything hurts. I’d probably find it fascinating if it wasn’t so…”
“Painful?” Apollo supplies, not unkindly. Athena nods.
“Yes. That.” She tilts her head, the motion so owl-like that Hera can’t help but smile. “Perhaps I could walk it off?”
Hera starts to protest, but Apollo cuts her off. “Give it a go.” Then, low enough that only Hera can hear, “She won’t believe how bad it is unless she finds out for herself.”
Athena gathers herself, then pushes up off the mattress. She takes one step, then another, starts to pitch forward — then there’s another burst of feathers and wings and Hera barely has time to catch her before she hits the floor.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Hera demands as Athena blinks groggily up at her.
“I need to check on Odysseus,” she mumbles.
“But I told you,” Apollo says, exasperated, “just wait three days—”
“You don’t understand! ” she explodes, so violently desperate that Hera almost drops her. “He thinks I abandoned him. I did abandon him. I…” And that’s when the unthinkable happens. Athena dissolves into tears.
For an agonising second, Hera doesn’t know what to do. Then instinct takes over and she pulls Athena close, mindful of her injuries as she wraps her arms around her. Athena is not a loud crier, instead weeping soundlessly into Hera’s shoulder. After a moment, Apollo is there, rubbing Athena’s arm and encouraging her to breathe, explaining that crying will make her head worse. She pays him no heed.
“Listen,” Hera says, close to Athena’s ear. “I don’t know what happened between you and your friend. And…” She exhales slowly. “Maybe you did abandon him. But you have more than made up for it since. Athena…” She shakes her head, still unable to comprehend the words she’s about to say. “You fought your father on his behalf. We thought— we didn’t know if you were alive.” She holds her tighter, to the point where it must be uncomfortable. “Whatever debt you owe him is paid.”
“I just want to be sure he’s okay,” Athena whispers, sounding so unlike herself that Hera wants to cry, too.
“And you can,” she promises. “Three days, Athena, that’s all we’re asking.” And finally, finally, Athena acquiesces, letting Hera take her full weight as she leans into her. The front of Hera’s dress is damp with tears. She does not care.
It takes time, but eventually, Athena’s sobs begin to die down. When she finally peels her face off Hera’s shoulder, her eyes are red and swollen.
“Athena,” says Apollo, in the voice he uses to talk to wounded animals, and despite everything she still gives him a look that makes him grimace and adjust his tone. “If you want to be on your feet by the time Odysseus gets home, I need you to be honest with me. On a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst, how bad are you feeling right now?”
Hera watches Athena wrestle with her pride before biting out a grudging, “Seven.”
“I’ll take that as a nine,” Apollo mutters, not quite under his breath. Athena’s eye twitches, but she pretends not to hear. “Tingling sensation in your hands and feet?”
“Hmm,” says Athena, not quite an admission. “It’s better than it was when I woke up before, but still not… entirely gone.” Before. She remembers, then, coming around just long enough to insist that Hermes, not Iris, go to Ogygia.
Apollo nods, the motion just shy of smug. “Thought so. Electrocution will do that to a person. You’d be dead if you were mortal, you know!” This last is almost upbeat, and Athena actually cracks a smile. Again, Apollo’s expression wavers, and Hera sees he is on the verge of telling her about her eye, only to step back from the edge and let that truth sink down into the dark once more. It’s ironic, really. He’s meant to be the god of truth. But, Hera supposes, truth and honesty are two entirely different things.
Besides, she’s not saying anything either. There is something so fragile about Athena, something that hisses not now, not yet like a snake in Hera’s ear. This glass house she finds herself in will not last long if she starts throwing stones.
“Anything else I ought to know about?” Apollo asks, and Hera smothers her guilt and speaks before Athena can say no.
“She’s a little warm,” Hera informs him, ignoring Athena’s look of betrayal. She didn’t notice before, but now it’s obvious, her skin hot beneath Hera’s hands.
“Let’s see...” Apollo reaches out and touches the back of his hand to Athena’s forehead. She looks like she wants to bat him away, but restrains herself. “Might just be the wounds healing, but we’ll keep an eye on that.” He freezes for a fraction of an instant, but to his credit, he does not visibly wince at his choice of words. He brushes it aside before asking Athena, “I know you’re dizzy” —he doesn’t bother to acknowledge her unspoken protest— “but are you experiencing any nausea?”
“No,” says Athena emphatically, then immediately gives herself away when her hand goes to her mouth and she has to take several deep breaths through her nose, sweat beading on her forehead. “Possibly,” she amends when she can talk again.
“I’ll get you something for that,” Apollo promises, “but you have to tell me if it gets worse. We haven’t totally ruled out a head injury.” He considers her, then says, “You should probably go back to bed, but let’s not kid ourselves, we’d have a full time job on our hands getting you to stay there.” He pauses. “I think the others would like to see you, if you’re up to it.”
“I’m up to it,” she says dismissively, then frowns. “Others?”
Of course. She doesn’t know. “Everyone’s here,” says Hera, shifting so that Athena can lean more comfortably against her. “Everyone who got dragged into Zeus’… game.” The word is distasteful to her, and she washes it out by elaborating. “Ares, Aphrodite, Hephaestus.”
“Artemis, too,” Apollo chimes in, and Hera belatedly remembers she was supposed to call her if anything changed. She does so now, and Artemis’ essence flickers in response. She’s close by. “And Aeolus, of all people — they were actually a lot of help getting you here. And, well, we’re in Hestia’s house.”
“They’re all worried about you,” Hera adds, in answer to Athena’s puzzled look. “They want to know you’re all right.”
“Oh.” Athena takes a moment to allow to sink in, then nods. “Well. I suppose I should assure them there’s nothing to worry about.” She steels herself, then turns to Hera. “Help me up?”
Hera didn’t need to be asked. She loops an arm around Athena and, with some effort, they get her into something resembling a standing position. Apollo positions himself just behind them, ready to catch Athena if she tips sideways.
They take it slowly, stopping every so often when Athena needs to. She won’t admit it, but it’s fairly obvious that the room is spinning around her. They’ve almost made it to the door when Athena murmurs something, too low for Hera to catch.
“What was that?” she asks.
“Thank you,” Athena repeats, louder this time. “Both of you — all of you. I’ll tell the others, too.”
Now it’s Hera’s turn to be confused. “For what?”
“For… being here.” A pause. “For not leaving me on the arena floor.”
“Athena…” Hera is lost for words. Apollo is not.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says shortly. “We’re family.” Even if, he does not add, because there is no need to, we don’t always act like it. “You’d have done the same for any of us.”
“That’s debatable,” Athena shoots back, but she’s smiling.
“Changing the subject,” says Hera, as they begin to make their way down the corridor, “you really must tell me more about your friend Odysseus. Never cheated on his wife, you said? I might have to befriend him too.”
“I’ll introduce you some time.” Athena looks thoughtful. “Actually, I should introduce you to Penelope. I think you’d get along well.”
“Oh? Tell me more.”
And that’s the conversation they’re having as they approach the room where the others are waiting, Athena propped up between Hera and Apollo, her words painting a picture of Ithaca, of Odysseus and Penelope and Telemachus, until Hera begins to truly understand why Athena was willing to put her life on the line. Perhaps Athena has not realised yet, and if so, Hera is not going to tell her.
Those mortals are family to Athena, as much as anyone on Olympus.
No, Hera is not going to be the one to point this out. Athena can figure it out for herself.