Hephaestus stepped up the sides of Olympus on feet that were suddenly light. He simply could not believe his luck. It was genius, pure genius. Hephaestus could still remember the moment, several skins of wine into the night, when Dionysos had said it. He remembered the exact words, despite the ringing of the grapes in his ears: "Well, I guess if you let her out, then you would earn the reward." The wine god had said it offhandedly, as if it meant little. But the thought had been an explosion in Hephaestus's mind that had instantly swept the wine away and left him as clear as the night of the new moon.
He would do it. He would release Hera from the throne. And they would be forced to give him Aphrodite's hand. Not that thick-necked oaf, Ares, not clever Hermes, not any god who had undoubtedly strained his divine muscles at the bonds Hephaestus had forged. No, it would be Hephaestus who would do what none of them could.
Hephaestus was not possessed of a quicksilver wit, or even a bit of wile, like many of his Greek brethren. It occurred to him that if he was, if he had been as clever as Hermes perhaps, he would have planned this from the start. It seemed perfectly natural now that he looked back at it. What better reason to trap his mother, his queen, than to earn his place on Olympus? To earn a wife. Not just any wife, but Aphrodite. The most wonderful prize in all the world. What better reason?
But Hephaestus was no Hermes, or even Dionysos. In fact there had been no clever plan brewing in Hephaestus's mind. It was just hot, mean, spiteful revenge. Had he ever planned on releasing her? He couldn't quite answer that question, though he'd spent many a day seemingly working at his forge while he stewed over it.
But all of that was the past, and washed away by Dionysos's words. Because today Hephaestus stepped up Mount Olympus to the home of the gods and today he would claim his prize. He had refused the offers of help from Dionsysos. He had refused his golden skinned attendants who would have helped him up these steep slopes. He had even refused his own mind, which had almost instantly devised a vehicle which could have conveyed him in great style and grandeur from earth to the very peak of the mountain.
Instead, Hephaestus walked, though it took him all of a day. He walked, though his lame feet could hardly move forward at times, the way was too steep or too rocky. He walked, and he only wished Hera could watch him make his way up the shattered slopes on his twisted legs. This, this was something they would never understand, those perfect beings living there in the bright luxurious sun. They did not understand work. They did not understand pride--not pride in your perfection, but pride in the obstacles you defeated. These gods, they could bound from one mountain to the next with a step of their sandaled feet. But they had never had to struggle from the base to the peak when everything inside them screamed to stop and when only pride and determination could keep you going. He came to claim his inheritance, to claim his seat on these hallowed slopes. But he did not want to forget who he was.
He stopped to catch his breath just before he reached the sunlit peaks of Olympus. They would see how he had toiled, but he would not have them laugh at his wheezing, twisted form. Only when he felt he could walk again with his head held high, then he stepped into the fair grassy fields.