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Chapter Text

Zeus sat on his throne high above Olympus, gazing at the vast horizon of clouds that stretched as far as his vision could see. The clouds carried a golden light, as if reflecting his presence. The occasional thunderclaps that crossed the sky never ceased to vibrate in harmony with his mood.

There was no need for words to command the sky; the air around him understood his will. His silence was not one of pure contemplation, but of constant awareness.

It was rare that something escaped his senses.

He knew when the slightest movement altered the order of things on Olympus, when a god approached or when the mortal world tried to gain his attention. However, what truly set him apart was not only the immeasurable power that flowed through his being, but his unique ability to hear footsteps.

The footsteps of his children.

This was not something he openly confessed. It was an ability as intrinsic as breathing or commanding the elements. When a figure ascended the steps of Olympus, Zeus did not need to look to know who it was.

He felt the cadence, the rhythm, the force with which each person's feet hit the ground, like an invisible signature, unique to each of his descendants.

Ares, for example, was unmistakable.

His steps carried a particular weight, like the sound of a shield hitting the ground. There was a frenetic and determined rhythm, but also a note of impatience, as if the very act of walking was a distraction from something more important. Zeus always knew when the son of war was approaching, even when he tried to disguise his emotions.

But what was most striking was the strength contained in Ares's steps, a strength that never wavered, but that also never found rest. Ares was a constant storm, and Zeus felt the tension in his steps even before his presence appeared before the throne.

It was curious how the most action-oriented son recently brought truly unexpected news. Ares carried everything in plain sight: his anger, his frustration, his wounded pride.

But Zeus knew that, beneath this armor of brutality, there was something more. He could hear in Ares's steps the vulnerability that the god of war would never admit. An internal struggle that not even a thousand external battles could resolve.

Hera had seen it coming countless times from his apparent complacency with Ares.

“You let him err because he is your reflection, Zeus,” she had said in one of their more heated debates. Zeus would not deny it. There was something undeniably familiar about Ares’s restlessness, something he himself had felt in those moments when Olympus seemed too small to contain him.

Hermes was the complete opposite.

His last breaths were light, almost nonexistent, like the whisper of a breeze dancing along the columns of Olympus. But this could not be unnoticed by Zeus. He recognized the absence of sound as a signature in itself.

Hermes was a constant, fluid, unpredictable energy, and Zeus knew that even when his son seemed to be there, his mind was already elsewhere, making plans or plotting pranks. It was Hermes who tried most to surprise him. He would appear with unexpected gifts, tales of adventures that were not always plausible, or exaggerated declarations of filial devotion.

Zeus had recently been fooled. The king of the gods recognized the distinctive sound of Hermes’s shifting weight, a slight hesitation that preceded a correct entry. To Zeus, it was almost like hearing the sound of a coin spinning before it fell to the ground.

But Hermes had something that few of his other sons possessed: a lightness that made him seem free from the responsibilities of divine blood.

Yet Zeus knew this was an illusion. He had noticed, in rare, quiet moments, the need for approval that lay beneath Hermes’s easygoing demeanor. It was a need that Zeus himself understood all too well, even if he rarely admitted it.

Apollo’s steps were steady, measured, and purposeful. He walked as if he carried the light with him, radiating a confidence that could be both inspiring and oppressive.

Zeus often reminded him that Apollo was an extension of his own majesty, a reflection of everything he expected in a successor. And yet, there was something in the sun god’s stride that made him hesitate.

Apollo was brilliant, but his absolute confidence often alienated him from others. His steps, though powerful, had a note of solitude that Zeus could not ignore.

He remembered the many times his son had come to the throne, bringing songs, oracles, or news from mortals. Zeus heard the perfect harmony in Apollo’s steps, but he also recognized the hollowness that echoed in the background, like a string that vibrated without ever finding its complete melody.

Artemis, on the other hand, was an enigma. Her steps were almost as silent as Hermes’s, but there was a precision in them that set her apart. Artemis never hesitated, never missed a step. She was like an arrow in flight, determined to hit her target without straying.

Zeus admired her deeply for this, but he also knew that this determination pushed the world around her away. Artemis was his daughter and, at the same time, a force of nature that seemed distant, untouchable. When she climbed the stairs of Olympus, Zeus felt the presence of something eternal, something that he himself could not control.

Athena's steps were a mystery that Zeus could never fully unravel.

Unlike her other children, the steps of the goddess of wisdom did not immediately announce her arrival, but when they were surgical, they had a presence that made everything around her fall silent.

Each of Athena's movements was calculated, unhurried, but also without hesitation.

It was as if her feet were in perfect harmony with the world around her, touching the ground with a delicacy that hid her immense strength. There was something fascinating about the way Athena moved. There was no necessary weight, no trace of uncertainty, just a quiet confidence, for each step was part of a greater strategy. Zeus knew that she always came prepared, with sharp words and arguments as firm as a well-forged blade.

When Athena approached, he felt the weight of her mind, more than her body. Her steps did not echo like Ares's, nor float like Hermes's; they were like the sound of a quill being placed on parchment, soft but full of meaning.

But there was something more.

Beneath her outward perfection, Zeus sensed a quiet melancholy. Athena’s steps, though steady, bore the mark of someone who never allowed herself to falter. She was perhaps most like him in that regard: always carrying the burden of leadership, always expecting more of herself than anyone else could ask. Zeus sensed this in the quietest moments, when no one was paying attention.

Athena never missed a step, but Zeus knew that in her pursuit of perfection, she rarely allowed herself to rest. And when he heard her approach, he always felt a mixture of pride and concern. She was his daughter, his masterpiece, but also a mirror of his own responsibilities. Athena’s steps reminded him that wisdom was both a gift and a burden, something she carried with a grace few could match.

And that was what made Athena’s steps unique. They not only echoed wisdom and strength; they carried the sound of someone who understood the cost of being flawless. Zeus, even as the king of the gods, recognized this internal struggle and respected it deeply. Because, in the end, Athena walked as someone who could never do wrong—but who, perhaps, desired she could.

Zeus always listened to Dionysus' footsteps with a certain curiosity. Unlike his other sons, who approached with firmness, determination or a clear purpose, Dionysus' steps carried a mystery, an unpredictable lightness that seemed to change according to the mood of the god of wine and madness. Sometimes they sounded like a disorderly dance, as if the ground itself were in celebration. Other times they were silent, almost ghostly, leaving Zeus uncertain as to when, exactly, his son would reach him.

There was something unique about Dionysus' steps that Zeus could not ignore. They brought with them not only the chaos of which he was the god, but also something deeper: a kind of freedom that few dared to embrace. To Zeus, Dionysus was like the wind that swept through Olympus unconstrained by rules or expectations.

But what intrigued Zeus most was Dionysus' ability to balance these extremes with a peculiar grace. They carried not only the vibrant energy of a party, but also the scars of the invisible battles Dionysus had fought to be accepted among the gods.

As Dionysus approached, Zeus felt something rare: a mixture of pride and an almost uncomfortable admiration. Because, deep down, he knew that Dionysus was not just his son; he was a reminder that chaos and order, party and pain, were inseparable parts of the world that Zeus ruled. Dionysus’s steps, light and unpredictable, were an echo of this, a reminder that even the king of the gods needed madness to maintain his balance.

To Zeus, Hebe’s footsteps were a break in the chaos. They were light, almost like the sound of drops of water falling gently into a still lake. There was a youthful, radiant energy in her steps that seemed to light up even the darkest corners of Olympus.

To Zeus, Hebe was like a cool breeze on a hot day, a reminder that not everything in the cosmos was about war, power, or responsibility.

Every time Hebe approached, Zeus felt something different. There was a purity in her steps that contrasted with the weight of the world he carried. She seemed to bring a piece of the simplest and most beautiful of the universe, a sense of renewal that he found. Although Zeus was known for his strength and authority, he knew that Hebe possessed a kind of power that he himself did not: the ability to make others feel young, alive, and hopeful.

Zeus often found himself smiling when he heard her footsteps, even if it was not something he openly showed. To him, Hebe was a reminder of the good in his own creation, proof that despite his flaws, something beautiful and pure could emerge from his choices. And though she may not have been told, her footsteps were a source of comfort to the king of the gods, a sound that gave him the strength to continue facing the challenges of his position.

Eileithyia’s steps, to Zeus, had a special, almost ceremonial rhythm. They were neither hurried nor light, but carried a steady cadence that made Zeus think of the cycle of life itself. As the goddess of birth, Eileithyia was a symbol of renewal and continuity, and her steps reflected that. There was something almost hypnotic about the sound of her movements, like the psyche of a heart that kept the cosmos functioning.

Zeus had a deep respect for Eileithyia, and this was reflected in the way he listened to her footsteps.

Where other children brought with them the sound of war, wisdom, or lightness, Eileithyia brought the promise of new beginnings. To Zeus, her steps were a reminder that even in the face of eternity, there were cycles that never ended. And as a father, he felt a special pride in watching her fulfill such an essential role in both the divine and mortal worlds. But Eileithyia’s steps also brought Zeus a certain weight.

He knew that his daughter bore a silent burden, the responsibility of being present in moments of pain and joy, in the births that shaped the destinies of mortals. Zeus recognized the strength it took to deal with these opposing emotions, and that was why he considered her one of his most resilient daughters.

Whenever he heard her footsteps, Zeus felt that, amid the chaos of his existence, there was a constancy that he could admire and trust.

To Zeus, Eileithyia’s footsteps were not just a sound. They were an affirmation that life, in all its forms, continued. And even as king of the gods, he knew that this continuity was something he himself could not control alone. It was Eileithyia who maintained this balance, and Zeus was grateful for it in a way he could never fully express.

Hercules' steps, by other hand, were an echo of challenges overcome. There was something mortal and divine in them, a weight that carried both the pains of his earthly existence and the strength gained through his deeds.

Unlike his other children, Hercules was not born with the certainty of his place among the gods. Each step Hercules took bore the mark of a struggle, as if he had carved his own path to Olympus with his bare hands. Zeus always felt a mixture of pride and melancholy when he heard Hercules' steps.

He knew that his son would face more than any other, that his early mortality would make him vulnerable to human weaknesses and, at the same time, more resilient than many immortals. When Hercules walked on Olympus, there was no sound of his footsteps—something that made Zeus register the battles his son fought—the strength with which he defeated monsters, the pain of losing those he loved, and the unwavering determination to carry on.

But what caught Zeus's attention most was the purpose in Hercules's steps.

Unlike other gods, who walked with the assurance of their own security, Hercules always seemed to walk as if he still had something to prove, even when it wasn't necessary. Zeus saw this as a reflection of himself, of the burden of being a leader who can never fully rest. And although he expressed his feelings openly, there were times when Zeus wanted to tell his son that he was enough, that he didn't necessarily have to carry the weight of his existence alone.

Each of his sons left a unique impression, but there was one Zeus rarely heard: Hephaestus. Not because his footsteps were light, but because he simply didn’t appear often. When he did, his steps were heavy and uneven, like the sound of metal being hammered on an anvil.

There was something painful in Hephaestus’s movements, something that reminded Zeus of his own mistakes. He knew he had failed Hephaestus in ways that no gift could ever atone for.

The forge god’s footsteps carried the weight of abandonment, and Zeus felt that pain like distant thunder, ever present but impossible to erase.

Zeus often wondered if the other gods understood the depth of his connection to his children.

They saw him as their king, their commander, their supreme judge, but rarely as their father. Perhaps that was the result. By his own admission, fatherhood was not always a priority. The weight of ruling the cosmos was a responsibility that brooked no distractions.

et in the quiet moments, when Olympus was still and the mortal world seemed distant, Zeus felt something else. He heard the echoes of his children’s footsteps, past and present, and knew that each of them carried a part of him.

It wasn’t just their powers or their victories, but their failures, their hopes, their scars,their personalities and stories. More than that, their steps carried pieces of their souls. And so, as Zeus sat on his throne, listening to the footsteps ascending the steps of Olympus, he felt a kind of peace.

It was not the peace of a ruler content with his dominion, but that of a father who, despite his flaws, recognized the depth of his connection to those he called his children. In the end, it was not thunder or power that defined Zeus, but his ability to listen, to consider, to understand.

Because, above all, he knew that it was the footsteps of his children that kept Olympus moving, even when the world seemed to stand still.

Chapter Text

Zeus walked through Olympus as the very embodiment of divine majesty. His steady, purposeful footsteps echoed through the marble halls with an unmistakable cadence. It wasn’t just the sound of a god walking; it was the rhythm of someone carrying the weight of the cosmos on his shoulders.

Every movement, every tap of his feet on the ground, reverberated with an energy that seemed to shape the environment around him. And his children, all of them, recognized those footsteps in a unique way.

For each one, there was a distinct characteristic, a nuance that connected to the unique relationship they had with him.

To Ares, Zeus’s footsteps were a war drum.

No matter where he was or what he was doing, when he heard the sound of his father’s heavy boots approaching, his body reacted as if summoned to battle.

There was something almost tribal about the sound, a call that made his blood boil. Even when he was furious with Zeus – and that was often – Ares never ignored his footsteps. They brought back a visceral reminder of the strength that bound them, a strength that Ares respected, even if he would never admit it.
Yet there was something deeper in Ares’s perception. To him, Zeus’s footsteps were not just authoritative; they were steady in a way that reminded him of his own gait.

No matter how hard he tried to distance himself, Ares knew that his footsteps echoed his father’s. And perhaps that was what irritated him most: the inability to escape Zeus’s reflection, even when he tried to be a god in his own right.

To Hermes, Zeus’s footsteps were inevitable.

No matter how fast he ran or how far he tried to escape, his father’s footsteps always seemed to catch up with him. There was a constancy to them that both fascinated and irritated him.

While he himself walked lightly and unpredictably, Zeus’s steps were solid, grounded, as if declaring to the world, “I am here, and no one can move me.”
Hermes had a unique relationship with this sound.

He liked to pretend that he could predict Zeus’s every move, but in truth, his father’s footsteps always found him. They were a reminder that no matter how cunning he was, there was always something or someone who surpassed him.

Still, Hermes admired this. To him, Zeus’s steps were a reminder of absolute power, something he aspired to comprehend, even if in his own way.

Zeus’s steps, to Apollo, were like the first ray of sunlight breaking through the horizon at dawn: inevitable and powerful.

They carried a majesty that reflected Apollo’s own pride in his divinity. He recognized them by their rhythm, which, in his mind, sounded like a glorious hymn, a melody that only he could hear in all its perfection.
But at the same time, Zeus’s steps also carried a weight that Apollo did not always like to admit.

They reminded him that, for all his light, he was still a star orbiting the greater sun that was his father.

It silently bothered him, but it also inspired him to shine more brightly, as if he wanted to be worthy of the firm, imposing sound that announced Zeus' arrival.

Artemis heard Zeus’s footsteps in a way she never heard before.

To her, they weren’t just footsteps; they were like the sound of twigs snapping in the forest, a reminder that something immense and untamed was moving. There was a primal force to them that she deeply respected, but also a connection that reminded her of her own boundaries in nature.
When Zeus approached, Artemis felt the world around her grow silent, as if even the winds and rivers stopped to listen.

This wasn’t something she considered intimidation, but a sign of mutual respect. Zeus, in his overwhelming presence, was the only one she recognized as her equal in power, even if she would never submit to him.

Athena, on the other hand, heard Zeus’s footsteps as a logical cadence. Each one seemed to resonate with precision, as if was part of a carefully considered strategy. To her, her father’s footsteps were never just the sound of someone walking; they were a message.

She could tell when he was worried, when he was about to make an important announcement, or even when he was angry, all by the way he walked.
It was a kind of reading that came from her intellectual connection to Zeus.

To Athena, the steady, deliberate rhythm of his steps was like a line from a poem or a problem waiting to be solved. More than any of her other children, she felt the intention behind every movement.

And though she said it out loud, there were times when she found herself trying to emulate her father’s calm resolve, especially when faced with challenges that tested his leadership.

Zeus’s footsteps, to Dionysus, were like the sound of distant thunder in the midst of a chaotic party. He heard them, but he never let them interrupt his celebrations.

To Dionysus, his father’s footsteps had a presence that he respected but did not fear. In fact, there was something almost playful about them. He liked to imagine that even Zeus, for all his seriousness, would sometimes like to join in on one of his festivities.

And deep down, Dionysus recognized in Zeus’s footsteps a steadiness that contrasted with his own chaotic nature. It was like a reminder that, however disorderly it might seem, there was always something solid and unchanging at the center of his existence – and that something was Zeus.

Zeus’s footsteps, for Hebe, were a silent rupture.

Since childhood, she had associated them with security, with the comfort of knowing that no matter what happened, her father would be there to find her.

While Zeus’s other children might interpret their father’s footsteps as intimidating or majestic, for Hebe, they were almost tender. The steady, rhythmic sound carried a familiarity that made her smile, even in the most tense moments, making her feel safe, as if it were his affirmation that everything was in the right place.

For Hebe, her father’s footsteps accomplished nothing; they simply existed, like a solid anchor in a sea of ​​immortality.
But Hebe also knew that those footsteps carried a weight that Zeus had recently revealed.

Behind her security lay infinite responsibilities, difficult choices that she did not envy. And that was why, whenever her father approached, she made a point of smiling at him – a small but sincere gesture, as a way of thanking him for being the pillar that supported Olympus.

Zeus’s footsteps for Eileithyia had a different meaning.

As the goddess of birth, she dealt with chaos and pain, but also with creation and renewal. So her father’s footsteps were not just a sound to her; they were a reminder of the power that balanced the cosmos. Each step echoed like a strong, almost solemn beat, as if it marked the rhythm of the forces that kept the divine and mortal worlds functioning in harmony.

Eileithyia sensed in Zeus’s footsteps a restrained energy, a strength that only revealed itself fully when he desired it. And that was fascinating. He was at once gentle and ruthless, protective and demanding.

When she heard the sound of his approaching boots, Eileithyia knew she had to be ready, not because he would judge her, but because he expected her to maintain order in his domain. Yet there was something reassuring about Zeus’s footsteps that no one else understood as well as she did.

For Eileithyia, the steady, unwavering rhythm was an echo of the constancy of life itself – a reminder that even in the most difficult moments, there was something greater underpinning everything.

Though she said Zeus didn’t always show her obvious affection, his steps always made her feel like she had a special place on Olympus, a place where her work was recognized and needed.

And then there was Hercules, the demigod who achieved immortality and, with it, a place on Olympus.

To him, Zeus’s footsteps were a sound he had learned to respect since childhood. On Earth, they had sounded like distant thunder, a reminder that his father was always present, even if unseen. On Olympus, however, Zeus’s footsteps were real, tangible, and Hercules listened to them with silent reverence.

They were the sound of a promise fulfilled, of a bond that, despite all the hardships, had never been completely broken.

Finally, to Hephaestus, Zeus’s footsteps were like a hammer striking an anvil.

They echoed in his mind with a sound he knew well, but which also carried a pain that never quite went away. It wasn’t just the literal weight he heard; it was the symbolic weight, the weight of a relationship marked by abandonment and exclusion.

When Hephaestus heard his father’s footsteps, he felt a mix of emotions.

Part of him wanted to ignore them, to keep working in his forges and pretend he hadn’t done anything. But another part – deeper and quieter – hoped that, someday, Zeus’s footsteps would be accompanied by something more than orders or requests.

He wanted to hear, in his father’s footsteps, something that resembled regret. Something that showed that Zeus recognized his pain.

Each of Zeus’s children heard his footsteps in a unique way, but they all shared something in common: they recognized his presence before they even saw him.

Zeus’s footsteps were not just a sound; they were a mark of his revelation, his authority, and, above all, his role as a father.

For each of them, these footsteps carried a different meaning, reflecting the complexity of their relationship.
And Zeus, in turn, knew this.

He walked with the certainty that, even when he was far away, his children felt his presence. And, silently, he was grateful for this connection.

Because, in the end, it was his children’s footsteps that shaped his own.

Chapter Text

Zeus never needed to hear Hera’s footsteps to know she was near. Her presence was deeper than any sound, more rooted than a shadow. When she walked, the air seemed to thicken, charged with something Zeus could only describe as contained power. Hera needed no thunder or extravagant display to reassert her position; her every move was a silent declaration of strength and authority.

To Zeus, Hera’s steps were like a silent storm. There was no rush, but there was no hesitation either. Each one was deliberate, as if the world was meant to shape itself around her as she passed. Even when their opinions differed – and they often did – Zeus never failed to consider the impact she had. He felt it not just on Olympus, but throughout the cosmos; Hera was the goddess who maintained order where he sometimes brought chaos.

But what impressed Zeus most about Hera’s steps was not her authority. It was her resilience. He knew that she bore more than anyone else, that her role as queen of the gods was both a privilege and a burden. That he was often the one who added to her burden. There was a quiet strength in the way she walked, something that made him feel simultaneously proud and worried.

Hera not only challenged him, but also supported him, even when he didn’t deserve it.

His wife was the only one who made him feel small at times, not by diminishing his greatness, but by being a constant reminder that despite his absolute power, he still had flaws. And it was in her footsteps, in the firm and constant sound, that he found both a mirror and a support.

Zeus might rule the heavens, but it was Hera who held the foundation of everything they had built as king and queen of Olympus, with a strength he admired, even if he rarely admitted it.

To Hera, Zeus’s footsteps were unmistakable. It wasn’t just the sound of his divine boots on the marble of Olympus, but the weight that each movement carried. When Zeus walked, he carried with him the presence of someone who knew the world revolved around him, but also the weariness of someone who bore the burden of keeping it running.

To Hera, her husband’s footsteps were both a proclamation of his authority and a reminder of his responsibilities.

Hera knew Zeus’s rhythm better than anyone else. She knew when he was angry, when he was thoughtful, and when he approached that almost unbearable confidence that she had learned to tolerate but never completely ignore.

There were times when his footsteps made her roll her eyes, especially when they were followed by lame excuses or stories he invented to justify his escapades. But even then, there was something in the sound of his walk that she could not deny: a genuine power, a force that, despite everything, drew her to him.

But what struck Hera most was the duality in Zeus’s stride.

There was an unwavering steadiness, but also a vulnerability that few noticed. She knew that beneath all the pomp and thunder, he was a god who feared failure, who bore the burden of impossible decisions.

When Zeus walked alone on Olympus, Hera heard a hesitation in his steps that was absent when he was surrounded by others. These moments, for her, were a reminder that despite his strength, he was also someone who needed her, even if he never said it out loud.

Hera could not ignore Zeus’s impact on her life, both for good and for ill. His steps irritated her, challenged her, but also moved her. Because deep down, Zeus was more than the king of the gods to her. He was a constant presence, a living paradox that she loved and despised in equal measure.

And even on the hardest days, when she wished her footsteps would disappear, Hera knew the silence would be far more unbearable.