The evening sun made the mountaintop gleam like gold as he strode across Olympus towards the great hall of the gods. He felt the stares, first for his hobbling, twisted form then when they realized who it was for his very presence. Stares and whispers and running feet. He ignored them all, as if he could see nothing but the palace on which his gaze rested. But inside he smiled. No, he beamed. Soon they would understand.
The marble steps to the throne room of the gods, that was his last obstacle to surmount, and it was perhaps the most difficult. Because for all his bravado, his scorn and determination, Hephaestus was afraid of who he would meet inside. Afraid of what would happen. He'd rehearsed speeches--oh, he'd rehearsed this speech since he was a tiny lad, lying on an island below and staring up into the perfect crystal sky. He'd rehearsed this his whole life, but still his heart pounded.
The throneroom was in shadow, at least compared to outside, and he stopped to blink his eyes and accustom himself to the gloom. He could see the shape of the golden throne instantly. He knew it well. Hephaestus stepped forward, his distinctive gait sounding on the stone. He stopped before the great throne of his mother, his queen, and stared silently at her. All the words he had rehearsed seemed to disappear.