Another child born. Another glowing mother. Another father doting on his new family, holding his wife close and kissing his child on the head. Hera saw all of these new births, these new families, and sighed.
She could remember the last time her own husband had gazed upon her that way – all love and devotion and caring… It was after she had given birth to Hebe, and he had gazed upon their child in adoration before taking her into his arms and kissing her with a passion she now lacked. That had been centuries ago, and even the births of Ares and Eileithyia did not return that look to his eyes.
Perhaps another child would make him love her again? She sighed once more, knowing that would be hard to manage. He was barely home on Olympus these long days, searching for distraction below in the mortal world, only coming up when there was Council, and rarely ever returning to his and Hera's home when his duties as a god were complete.
She had truly believed he loved her, once, when he was still courting her for her hand in marriage. They were all still young, new to the power that ruling Olympus offered, and he had been chosen as their king. Zeus could have chosen any goddess he wanted, yet he had decided to choose her.
She had felt beautiful then, with all of his affection and love showered onto her in heaps, coming in the forms of gifts and soft compliments and stolen kisses on her knuckles and cheeks. Yet she did not yield to him, at least, not right away.
Despite his lavish temptations, she did not falter and stood her ground, denying him every other day when he was certain to ask for her. She was scared his heart was not true, on some level. Terrified that he would bed her and leave for another goddess more beautiful or another mortal much younger.
And she was certain that after so many rejections he would relent, and all of her fears would come true, and she would never hear him tell her that she was the loveliest thing he had ever set his eyes on again.
Once again, she was proven wrong, because he… he did not leave her for a much easier goddess. He stayed, he continued to show his love, and affection, and she in turn fell in love with him, opened up to him like a flower blooming under his constant attentions. She had been so foolish.
Their wedding night was full and splendorous and lavish, everything she had ever dreamed of, and it was on that night that she swore on the River Styx that she would always love him, that there would never be anybody but him that would hold her heart. He did not profess the same vow, and they danced into the night until they returned to their chambers to revel in their love, together.
She believed for so long that he loved her. Despite the mistresses, the lovers, the countless bastard children, some part of her dreamed and hoped that he loved her at least a fraction of how much she loved him, adored him, could not live without him.
And a part of her wondered when he began to lie through his teeth. When the mistresses had begun taking all of his attentions, when she was no longer beautiful enough for him. Never enough for him.
Each time Zeus would return to her, spouting nonsense about his everlasting love for her, how he did not feel for his mortal consorts the way his heart yearned for her, and every time she believed, allowed him again to love her, if that was what it even was to him anymore.
So the brunt of her wrath was felt by the very mistresses Zeus slept with, her anger seeping through her veins in a twisted show of love. She tortured those women, played inquisitor to their actions and affairs, and perhaps worst of all shadowed many of their children for being products of Zeus's infidelities, some remembrance of long-ago love that she could never again give to him herself.
As Hera thought about her actions, she grew weary and tired, knowing it was never really their faults. They were probably ensnared by Zeus much the same way she had been. Her stomach turned with guilt, unsettled and uncomfortable, and she knew it would take much time to ask forgiveness from the very women she hurt, their children who had no say in their own creations, but in the end it would be worth it.
Centuries passed, and even Zeus stopped trying to placate her anger and rage, stopped trying to tell her empty excuses and simply visited their home to bed her and be done with it. Even those moments were rare now.
And now she was simply tired. She no longer felt that spark of defiance and stubbornness and determination that the other gods had so admired her for, and that perhaps made Zeus enamoured with her, and gone was the anger and rage and madness that had manifested from those very qualities due to Zeus's twisted form of love.
She was broken, in a way, and she knew it. But there was nothing to do about it, really. Zeus was gone, away with another mortal no doubt, and she knew in her aching heart he was the only one who would be able to fix it. She was broken, and no one could really help her, even if she tried to do it herself. Somewhere along the line, she had stopped being the independent goddess she so treasured and had become dependent on her husband and his love.
Maybe she was dying? She couldn't tell anymore.
The silk that surrounded her was comfortable, soothing the ache she felt resonating throughout her skin, but it was so cold without Zeus lying beside her, holding her close. Slowly, she uncurled herself and sat up, stretching her stiff limbs and looking out one of the many windows in their chambers.
It was becoming dark, around twilight, and she enjoyed the view of the mixture of orange and purple and the yellow of the sun setting below Olympus, Nyx bringing night and with it Hypnos to put the gods to sleep.
Hera stood up fully, walking towards the vanity that Zeus had asked Hephaestus to make her, adorned with a multitude of hearts engraved in its surface. She gazed at herself in the full length mirror, and frowned immediately at seeing her appearance.
Her chestnut hair was mussed from lying in bed for too long, sticking out in odd angles and wholly not very appealing. Her eyes were no longer a bright and alluring golden-brown, but were dull and the bags under her eyes simply accentuated her tired appearance. Her lips were turned downwards in a delicate frown, and she wished she could at least pretend to smile so that she could look prettier than she felt. She finally reached her stomach, which she kneaded through the fabric of her robe.
She sighed, realizing she was not the beautiful, young goddess she once was. No wonder Zeus no longer though she was beautiful, she really was just old and ugly.
Just then, the door to her bedchamber opened, and she startled at the sudden noise. She saw that it was Zeus entering their room, which surprised her greatly. No doubt he would be running off to some mistress at this time of day, and despite wanting to run to him and smile and kiss and love him, she knew rejection would be imminent, so her shoulders slumped and she began making her way back to bed. Where she would be spending the night. Alone.
Zeus approached her once she was again lying in the comfort of her silken sheets, and kissed her on the forehead. Her heart fluttered in joy to feel him so close, his heat radiating into her very core, but the moment ended when he again turned around to shuffle through one of his many drawers.
"Hello, dear wife. What were you doing before I arrived, in front of the mirror?" He asked, still rummaging for something or other.
His voice was so deep and soft, like velvet but better, and she wished he would talk to her until she fell asleep, lulled by his warmth and voice, like he used to. Instead she mumbled through the sheets, "Nothing, just looking at myself I suppose," her voice muffled slightly.
He turned to look at her over his shoulder then, flashing her a toothy grin that made her melt at the sight, "And what a beautiful sight it was, I suppose?" he teased.
She shuddered out a breath. She knew this routine, where he would soften her with a multitude of compliments and lovely words, and she would get angry, and he would play the victim, then disappear for the night again, leaving her here and aching for his presence.
"Mhm," she replied, wanting to get this over with already.
He turned to look at her again, surprised at her response. Hera was usually angry by this point, knowing he wanted nothing more than to escape to one of his new lovers for the night, a routine he had learned to expect and somewhat enjoyed. Now, however, she simply laid there, looking rather… sad.
It made his heart ache, and he didn't know what to do with this kind of Hera. He was ready for her anger and spit-fire, but this was different. He stared at her for a moment, truly uncomfortable. Was he to comfort her, like he should be doing every night? Like she deserved? Or would she again become angry at him, thinking he was tricking her, trying to calm her only to leave again?
His head started to ache, his wife a mystery to him more than any other woman. Or anything else for that matter.
And so he quickly collected what he was looking for, told her the usual lie of having to attend to business or something of that nature, and was off into the night, not to be seen until morning, if Hera was lucky.
And she did not stop him, for she knew that no matter how much she loved him, showed him, he would find a way to sneak away from her again.
Perhaps this is what love was? Letting him romp with whichever woman he wanted, because that is what he wanted, and hoping for someday that he would again return to the only one who really loved him unconditionally, for all his faults.
She buried her face into the pillow below her head, hoping for either her tears to stop flowing or her heart to stop aching so that she could get a good night's rest for the first time in forever.