Thetis held the child close as she glided across the surface of the sea, her body moving with the effortless grace of one born to the depths. The moon hung high above, its pale silver glow reflecting off the undulating waves, painting the water in shades of ivory and midnight. The night air was crisp, tinged with the briny scent of salt and the whisper of a coming storm. Beneath her, the sea stirred, the creatures of the deep watching in silence, their glowing eyes following the goddess and her fragile burden.
The infant in her arms barely stirred. His small, twisted limbs remained curled against his body, his breaths shallow, his skin as pale as the foam that laced the waves. He had not cried since she had pulled him from the depths, nor had he opened his eyes again. Thetis felt his frailty like a weight in her chest. Gods were not meant to be this delicate. And yet, here he was—an immortal child, cast from the heavens as if he were no more than a piece of discarded refuse.
A bitter taste rose in her mouth at the thought. The cruelty of Olympus never ceased to disgust her. She had seen their arrogance, their vanity. The way they reveled in their own perfection and scorned anything that failed to meet their impossible standards. She had lived beneath their gaze for centuries, forced to bow before their so-called glory. And yet, in all her years, she had never seen something as wretched as this.
A goddess, a mother, had cast her own son from the heavens.
Thetis tightened her grip on the child, her fingers trembling with rage. No, she thought. Not wretched. He is not wretched. He is only small. Only weak for now.
A gust of wind cut through the night, ruffling the strands of her silver-blue hair as she approached the coastline. The land loomed ahead, dark and quiet, a jagged outline against the sky. She did not take him to the lands of men—no mortal village would welcome a strange child born of the gods. Instead, she sought solitude. A place where the sky did not sing with the laughter of Olympus. A place where the sea kissed the earth in quiet defiance.
A beach. Small, hidden, and untouched by time.
Thetis stepped onto the shore, her bare feet sinking into the damp sand. The beach was a crescent of silver under the moonlight, framed by towering cliffs that loomed like silent guardians. The waves lapped gently at the shore, their rhythmic whispers weaving a lullaby for the night. There were no signs of civilization here—only the sound of the wind and the distant cries of gulls.
At the water's edge, tide pools gleamed like polished obsidian, their still surfaces reflecting the heavens above. Small crabs scuttled over the rocks, and tiny fish darted in the shallows, their silver scales flashing like scattered stars. It was a place of quiet beauty, a place untouched by war or gods. A place where one could be forgotten.
Carefully, Thetis knelt in the sand and laid the child down upon a bed of smooth sea grass. He was motionless, barely more than a breath against the wind. For a long moment, she only watched him, her keen eyes studying every detail of his tiny form.
He was deformed, there was no denying it. His legs bent at odd angles, his arms too small, his fingers curled weakly. But it was his face that struck her most. There was a scar there, faint but pulsing with some unknown energy, running from his temple to his cheek. She reached out and traced it with the tip of her finger. A surge of heat pulsed beneath her touch, subtle but undeniable.
"There is fire in you," she murmured. "Even after all they've done."
She leaned back, crossing her arms over her chest as she stared out at the sea. The waves continued their endless song, but Thetis' mind was restless. She had a choice to make. If she left him here, he would die. Even gods could wither when abandoned. His body was too fragile, his spirit still too small to stand against the cruelty of the world. If she left him, she would be no better than Hera.
But if she took him… If she raised him, if she hid him from Olympus, what then? What would he become?
A part of her knew it would not be easy. She was a daughter of the sea, a nymph bound to the tides and currents. She had no place in the affairs of the land. And yet, something in her heart—some stubborn, rebellious part—refused to abandon the child. Perhaps it was the fire she had felt beneath his scar. Perhaps it was the injustice of it all. Or perhaps, she simply wanted to spit in the face of the gods who had discarded him.
Her lips curled into a smirk. "Let them think him dead," she whispered. "Let them think they have rid themselves of him. Fools."
She looked down at him again, her expression softening. "But you will not be nameless," she murmured. "No. You will have a name that carries weight, that speaks of power." She thought of fire. Of creation. Of something that could rise from the ashes of ruin.
"Hephaestus," she said at last. "That will be your name."
The wind shifted, a warm current rolling in from the sea. As if the world itself had accepted her decision.
She realised she could not keep him here. The beach was too exposed, too near the lands where men and gods wandered. He needed a place hidden from Olympus' prying eyes. A place where no god would think to look. And she knew just the place.
Gathering him in her arms, she turned back to the water. The sea parted before her as she stepped forward, the waves forming a shimmering pathway beneath her feet. She moved swiftly, the currents bending to her will as she traveled across the vast expanse.
Hours passed, the stars shifting in their eternal dance above. And then, in the distance, the shape of an island emerged from the mist. It was a place of fire and stone, a land shaped by the breath of the earth itself. Jagged cliffs rose from the water, their blackened edges kissed by the glow of molten rock. The air was thick with heat, the scent of sulfur curling through the wind. Smoke drifted from the peak of a great volcano, its depths alive with the slow, steady pulse of the world's hidden power.
It was inhospitable. It was harsh. And it was perfect.
The gods of Olympus, with all their vanity, would never set foot here. They shunned imperfection, avoided ruin. This island was wild, untamed, everything they feared. And so, here, Hephaestus would grow, away from their cruelty.
Thetis stepped onto the rocky shore, her silver eyes scanning the land. This would be his home.
She cradled the child one last time before kneeling to place him upon the warm, volcanic rock. He stirred at last, a small, broken sound escaping his lips. His feeble cry. Weak, but there.
Thetis smiled. "You will endure," she whispered. "And one day, Olympus will tremble before you." The wind howled through the island's cliffs, carrying her words into the night. And as Thetis stood, watching over the child she had claimed, the volcano rumbled in agreement.
A god had fallen. But from the fire, he would rise.