Hephaestus was glad that his mother ordered her attendants to leave. He stood quietly watching them each as they filed away, their movements prompt and precise as he imagined anyone that served Hera would have to be. He had practiced his speech to his mother a trillion times, and often imagined it in front of all the gods of Olympus. With them around him he thought he would perhaps be emboldened, and his mother forced to watch her tongue. The servants, however, would not work in his favor. Hera could probably forget they even existed, but Hephaestus had lived among the mortals for so long, he could not ignore even the humblest. With them here he would hesitate to say his piece, but his mother would not. Advantage Hera. Better to be alone.
"Apparently so," he answered when the last had left the hall and his mother finally spoke. "Too strong for your strongest, too subtle for your cleverest. Rather an embarrassment for Olympus, wouldn't you say, my Queen?" Clearly there was something missing on the mountain, and that something was Hephaestus. But his thoughts of joining the gods were forgotten now, his joy turned to ash. The sound of her voice had called back all the hurt that turned him to stone from inside to out. He no longer cared to claim his prize. He longed to hear her beg him, to cry forgiveness or at the very least plead for mercy. But he knew she never would and the fact infuriated him.
"So you sent your splendid son, girded for war, to pry the key out of me. But that didn't work either, did it?" That had been most delicious of all to Hephaestus, to watch Ares try to reach his forge, only to be rebuffed time and time again by the forge god's defenses. The thought of the war god's trampled pride burned warmly in Hephaestus's heart. It must have stung Hera, whether she would admit it or not.
Yet there she was, somehow managing to sit on the throne as if it was of her choice, as proud and regal as ever. It galled Hephaestus to see it, no sign of hurt or desperation. He longed to make her flinch, to wound her. "That must have hurt most of all, to see your golden boy fail so miserably. What sort of war god cannot defeat a cripple? All your beautiful children, your perfect gods, and none of them can help."