She kept her face as stone when she heard the sound of her son approaching. It was impossible not to know that it was him, given the way he had to move his lame body in order to approximate walking. It was not a confident stride like his brother possessed, nor the precise yet predatory stalk of Enyo, or the bouncing exuberance of either Eris or Hebe. It was certainly not the delicate step Ilithyia had perfected. It was unlike any other walk on or off of Olympus, because it was not truly a walk at all. But it was the best he could do, she supposed, and that deserved some credit.
On another day, Hera might have been proud of his efforts. Doubly so had she known he'd walked the entire way there, which would also account for his appearance so late in the day. But she did not know that, and today, she would have considered it just the beginning of his rightful punishment for what he had done.
There was a great inner turmoil roiling in Hera's heart at that moment, a struggle between a hurt mother and an affronted queen. The mother in her understood why he'd done as he had, and though she was still deeply pained and wished for an apology at the very least, she could see a future in which she could forgive her son. Because he was her son. And she did love him. Though it was plain now that he had not understood the surreptitious ways she'd tried to show him that precise thing. And she could not be any less subtle for fear of losing what little leverage she had with Zeus in regards to the rest of her children. She had to maintain a strong, forceful front, or he would break her down. If she was at all weak, she would lose him, she would lose her place as queen, and then how would she protect any of her children? These were things Hephaestus did not, could not, understand. And she could not explain. All she could manage was to continue giving favor as she could to him, and hope in time he'd be able to look back and see the pattern. That's what cut her deepest about this wretched throne: she'd hoped it was a new beginning.
But it was not only a trick, it was an attack. Something she could manage to forgive as a mother, but could not be tolerated a queen. Hera had to maintain her position carefully, because strength was not only admired, it was expected. Any crack in the foundation of that power would be an opportunity for those that wished to see her removed from the throne. Her actual throne, not this horridly effective creation with which her son had gifted her. As a queen, the response had to be strong and harsh. She could not afford to be otherwise. Could she? No. She could not. And in this way, she would be allowed to vent the anger, though not the hurt, caused by her son.
First, however, she needed to get off the damn thing.
There was an urge to call for her attendants to bring Hephaestus a chair. Hera always wished she could find a way to ease the struggles of his body. But not only did she doubt his pride would allow it, hers certainly would not. So he would stand while she sat. Instead, she commanded those who had been tending to her night and day since her entrapment to leave the room entirely. While she waited for them to comply, her eyes remained on the face of the son before her, wondering if he would say anything at all.
The room emptied, and silence settled then stretched. When it became apparent he would not be starting the conversation, Hera arched a brow at her child and said in a deceptively benign tone, “This is quite a clever creation, isn't it.”