Disclaimer: Hercules the Legendary Journeys and its characters belong to MCA/Universal and Renaissance Pictures. The Kirra's Journey series is a profit-free endeavor to have fun with the characters and pass it on to my readers. The character of Kirra, however, and any other original characters in this series belong solely to me. I do have future episodes completely planned taking Kirra throughout the entire television series. So, any ideas you may have for additional episodes would be great (and subject to author's approval, of course).

This episode of Kirra's Journey is a side story to the HTLJ episode "Not Fade Away."

In the research I did for this episode, I realized I made a mistake in the last chapter of Outsider Looking In. I mentioned that on a distant hilltop were the graves of Hercules's wife and children, and that Kirra had visited them once out of curiosity and respect. According to the episode, Not Fade Away, their graves are located on a distant hilltop, but the location is in Thebes, not Corinth where Alcmene moved to live with Jason. As soon as I possibly can, I will make the correction to that chapter. I apologize.

Kirra's Journey

Episode 4: The Longest Journey

Chapter 1

It sat atop the clouds. Tall spires of gold-flecked stone reached into the blue sky. Great arched monuments nestled precariously on jagged mountain peaks, and glorious sunlight reflected from its many windows. At night, stars brightened pathways of the purest marble. Distant nebulae gathered like cloud formations, their billowy brightness shimmering across walls of refined gold.

Mount Olympus.

This is where she made her home…for the most part. Her slippered feet glided upon a pale marbled pathway which stood in direct contrast to the iridescent hem of her long and flowing black dress. Others came and went along the same path. They stopped in their tracks, curtsied or bowed before her, as they should. She was after all the supreme goddess, the patron of marriage and childbirth, and Queen of all Greek gods. Many idiot mortals had ascribed to her such sacred animals as the cow, but the one she was most proud of, the one she touted in her look as well as in her calling card, was the peacock.

"Hera, my Queen!" came a call from behind. It brought her to a halt.

Yes, it was her name. Hera, wife of the King, the treacherous Zeus. Yet, she did not quite appreciate the manner in which he pronounced her name. Not here. Not out in the open with the sun above casting its blinding light on her day. She had been on her way to see Zeus. She had been summoned, and though she knew quite well what it was about, she was not looking forward to the confrontation. Some forms of vengeance must remain secret even if her scheming was already well known. But this…this calling of her name was ill mannered and uncalled for.

Hera turned a pair of icy eyes, as cold as the fingers of death, to the source of the voice. Had he not wore the color of one of her honor guards—red, the color of blood—she might have smote him where he stood.

"Yes?"

Bowed low, seeking her favor, the honor guard extended toward her a note. Hera snatched it and shooed the man away. The note was of iron and the words upon it had been emblazoned with the heat of a forge. What it read was undeniable, curling Hera's lips into an insidious smile.

"It's ready."

She turned from her path toward the King's throne. Zeus could wait.

Unlike her lesser counterparts, Hera did not appear or disappear at will. She preferred the long road to her destination. Appearances were inconsequential if you weren't present. Hera preferred to be seen. However, in the case of her new destination, it would not do to take the long road. She had no desire to traverse the steep steps of Mount Olympus to descend into the land of the mortals. Yet, nor would she zap out of space and time in front of a crowd of onlookers.

Hera exited to the comfort of her own chamber high in the tallest spire of her kingdom, through double doors made of the finest oak and over floors of the cleanest ivory. She shooed away all her attendants save for two of her most trusted honor guards. Spears in hand, they took their station beside her and without even a flick of her finger or a wrinkle in her brow, the three of them disappeared in a spectrum of electricity and color.

Deep in the bowels of the earth, she reappeared, smirking reprehensibly at her surroundings. The ambiance here held none of the riches of her home far above. Her slippered feet glided not upon marble or ivory but crunched in black dirt. Walls of rock surrounded her in a tunnel made black with soot. As she descended further, sconces of flame leading her forward, Hera eventually entered into a chamber made bright only by the roar of a kiln.

The space was sparsely decorated save for the fruits of his labor. Spears and swords held fast to their iron racks in one alcove, and in another iron shields in a dozen shapes and sizes held fast to the black rock wall. Tunnels branched away at either side. She knew not where they led. Hera very rarely ventured any further than the main chamber.

In the center, sat a throne of iron and stone. Three spires of stone made up its back, etched into the semblance of stone wings, showcasing its master's craftsmanship. Beside it, a golden bust formed into a likeness more than familiar to Hera. She frowned at the sight of it, for the bust was of her stepdaughter, Aphrodite.

"Hephaestus," she said into the gloominess of the chamber. The place was a tomb, and fittingly so. The god of fire, a man she struggled to call son, was content to rot in it. She called his name once again, louder this time. "I am here. Show yourself."

The crunch of feet on a sandy floor greeted her ears. From one of the tunnels, Hephaestus appeared dressed in his ragged best of leather and metal. It suited one so disfigured. Were it not for his scar and his disabilities, one might call Hephaestus handsome. Hera could not see it. She was certain he had been born out of her hatred for Zeus. To look at him was to be reminded of it.

"Mother," he said, lowering his bright blue eyes in her presence.

Hera regretted that he felt the need to do so. His eyes were the only other light in the room, and so like her own. Hephaestus limped across the chamber, past the kiln and the exquisite art that was his throne, and came to stand beside her.

"Did you get my message?"

"Yes," she said, her voice an eerie echo in the enclosed space. "I take it you've finished."

"It's taken some time," he said, his shoulders lowered, as had been those of the honor guard who had delivered the note. Always seeking her favor, Hephaestus was, seeking the love of a mother who cared little for showing motherly affection. "I apologize for my slowness."

Hera slipped passed him, running a hand over a newly crafted sword laid across an anvil, and took her seat in the only rightful place for her. Her son's throne. The honor guards took station at either side of her. "What of your new apprentice, my son?" she asked, throwing in a seldom used epithet. "The one I gifted you after the loss of Iagos. Has he not assisted you?"

A figure appeared from a separate tunnel, but unlike Iagos who had been short and rotund and incapable of silencing his overactive tongue, this man was a taciturn beast. He was no leaner than her son's original slave, but he made up for it in brawn and sheer strength, as well as a penchant for speaking only when spoken to. Hera smiled at him, and though he didn't return it, there was comfort in knowing he might soon become a useful ally.

"Yes, my Queen," Hephaestus answered. "Ahriam has performed well. He has helped me to complete your newest weapon."

Hera returned her gaze to the fire god. "So, it is complete, then?"

"Yes," he said, lowering his gaze. "You need only to give it life."

Ice-blue eyes fairly glowed with anticipation. "Show me."

"As you wish." Hephaestus bowed, but did not return his gaze to his mother. Her lust for vengeance was as bright as the rays of the sun. "However…it will require the strength of us both to bring it into the world."

Hera raised an eyebrow. "Indeed. I see you've planned this quite well, Hephaestus. With a portion of your power, you have partial control."

"Of course not," he answered with a vigorous shake of his head. "I merely give it form. It is you who must give it breath. I only ask that you…use it wisely. It can be destructive…and vindictive."

Hera's suspicion morphed into a smile of great pleasure. "Perfect," she said and rose from the throne. "What do I need to do?"

With a sigh, Hephaestus led her toward the flaming kiln. Though he knew the heat would not harm her, he kept her from getting to close with a cautious hand. They would need the distance when it arrived.

"Here," he said and extended his arm toward the flame. "Concentrate your power in the center of the flame." He watched her raise one black-clad arm, the orange reflection of flame dancing across the iridescent fabric like Sprites on a dark night. Before she began, he rested a cautious hand upon the fabric. "Please, Mother," he said, hoping this title would calm her vengeful desire. "Promise me you will not use this against mortals."

It had the opposite effect.

Hephaestus had become used to the heat of flame, enjoyed the warmth of it, the way it radiated throughout the entirety of the cavern and filled him with a sense of reassurance in a way Mount Olympus, with its blinding sun and brilliant blue skies, never could. Yet, he would never grow accustomed to the chill of hatred that flowed from his mother. Her ice-blue eyes were colder than either of the northern or southern hemispheres. They chilled his fingers where they rested on her arm and sent tendrils of ice through his veins, up his arm, to his shoulder and then to his very face when her eyes met his.

"Take your hand off me," she said in a register so low no one heard it but he alone.

Hephaestus did so immediately, turning away from her freezing gaze. There was no hope for it, and he knew he had no choice. He raised his arm, sending a bolt of his power into the kiln, waiting for his mother to do the same.

As the god of fire, Hephaestus's power represented itself in flame, but Hera was no mere god. She was their Queen and with that title came a greater power. Without her son's halting hand and whining about mortals, she could turn her full attention to the business of revenge. That revenge could come from the power of her own hand. From it came a bolt of golden electricity. It was the spark of life needed to bring her plans to fruition. Zeus would not win this time. He would soon know the pain of loss the way she had. This time would not turn out like the last. Her vengeance would be sated.

Doubling her efforts, Hera poured all her power into the flame. Soon, within it a bright point of light began to manifest itself, growing in size exponentially until it eclipsed the kiln and came forward, solidifying into the familiar shape of a mortal human female.

Hera smiled. This was no ordinary woman standing before her. This was the very representation of flame and ice, its sinewy muscles rippling with the power of two gods. Hair of flickering flame and eyes the blood red color of vengeance, its body was strong, like that of a tiger.

Becoming cognizant of its surrounding, their creation examined not the rock walls or the sandy floor or the kiln from which it came. It looked down at its hand and clenched its fist, examined the muscles in its arm and flexed its bicep, testing its abilities and reveling in the flow of sentient life now coursing through its veins.

"My new Enforcer," Hera said, drawing its attention. The moment they locked eyes, she felt its reverence like a flow of energy. "What can she do?"

"She is flame," Hephaestus said, his voice strong with the pride of his creation, but there was regret in his expression. "Pierced with a sword or sawn asunder, she can reform herself. She requires none of a mortal's needs, no food or water, and her fortitude is unlimited. She is virtually indestructible."

"Virtually?"

Hephaestus cast a remorseful glance his mother. "Even Hercules can be burned by flame."

With a laugh reminiscent of little girls with their toys, Hera clasped her hands and eyed her new toy with a gleeful smile. "She is perfect. What do I call her?"

"She requires no name," Hephaestus said.

Hera stepped forward and eyed her creation, raking her hands over muscles of pure power, over arms and shoulders and abdomen, her fingers burning from the heat of it. She circled it from front to back until she stood once more before it. Not once did it budge or protest the examining touch of her hand. It stared almost lovingly into her eyes, a firm and confident smile on its perfect face.

"Whom do you serve?" Hera knew the answer. She did not have to ask. It wasn't about knowing. She wanted to hear it.

With a voice as deep and resonating as roaring fire, it said, "I serve you, Hera, my Queen."

"And upon whom shall you exact my vengeance?"

In hatred, it matched Hera's insidious smile. She was a true child of evil. "Your vengeance, my queen, will be sated upon Zeus when Hercules is dead."

Hephaestus bowed and backed away. He allowed mother and daughter their moment, their combined laughter ringing through the cavernous chamber. This is what she had reduced him to. Cowed before a mother who no more loved him than she loved the thing he had just helped her to create. He had only been an implement to her. Even his own apprentice, Ahriam, derided him for his cowardice before Hera, but it was not his disdain that pained him. Another set of eyes watched from the darkness of a nearby tunnel. A head of golden curls ringed those lovely eyes, but within them blazed an anger that he felt as palpably as the heat from his kiln.

"This is just the start, my Queen," their burning creation spoke, oblivious of its second creator's concerns. "Soon, the backsliding in worship Hercules has helped to foster will end. No one will stand in our way. For you, Hera, will rule all of Greece!"

Yes, she would rule all of Greece, but most importantly, Hera would have her revenge. She would see Zeus brought low with the death of Hercules. Her new Enforcer was stronger, more invincible than the last. It will burn through whatever and whoever to find Zeus's most beloved son. Hercules will die, be the obstacle mother or brother, even imagined daughter…

Enjoyed chapter one? Please let me know. Leave some feedback. You have no idea how important it is for a writer to hear from those who enjoy their hard work. Thanks!