On the day Hephaestus was born there was an immense foreboding darkness over Olympus. It was in darkness that he was cast out, so that none might see the shame of the babe's hideous features and malformed limbs. He should have been a prince among gods, Hera's only son. Instead he was the only god to be ugly, a moment's embarrassment, soon forgotten.
But Hephaestus would not be forgotten. He promised himself this long before he discovered the hidden forge in the mountain on the island, and taught himself the craft of smithery. The work gave him a sort of peace with himself; the fire and forge knew only the skill of his hands, not his lame foot or his monstrous face. Day and night young Hephaestus would train and work, sculpting his body to become strong, even if it could never be beautiful, and learning to see past his physical failings, in hopes that someday the gods would accept him as one of their own. It was while focusing his craft that Hephaestus discovered the wonder of creation and the joy of beauty, and the pain of ugliness. The day Hephaestus understood the monstrosity of his features was one that left an indelible scar on his soul.
He always knew he was not beautiful. His leg was twisted and dragged uselessly, his arms large, his back hunched. His face, he knew, was horrible to look at. And yet as a young child he played with nymphs constantly, who had saved him from the sea into which Hera had thrown him. Until one day, when he noticed that none of them would look directly at his face. He chased after each of them, demanding that they look at him. But the nymphs just screamed in mock terror and ran around him, laughing and teasing their ugly pet. He became more and more frustrated. Why would they not look at him? Wasn't he their friend? Wasn't he their god? In a fit of rage he grabbed at one, the youngest, and tossed her into the sea off the tiny island. Then the nymphs screamed in feared as one by one they ran into the protection of the forest. It was then that Hephaestus knew he was a monster. He vowed to live in solitude, with only his work to keep him company, until the day he was fit to rejoin the gods.
There were times, during the many years Hephaestus spent honing his craft, that he was sure that day would never come. His weapons, perfectly balanced and fit for a god, were neatly arranged along the walls of his forge, unused. His surprisingly delicate silver jewelry, unlike any the world had ever seen, had never touched a woman's flesh. His superior workmanship would never be noticed by the world, much less the gods. Or at least, that's what Hephaestus thought.