Kitsugi Prologue: The cripple who is whole.
CLANG.
All of existence, at one point or another, struggled to answer a single question.
CLANG.
A simple enough question really. Nothing unusual about it.
CLANG.
It did not ask of the on high the secrets of the universe.
CLANG.
It did not ask the make of sound or color.
CLANG.
It was simple, short, and sweet.
CLANG.
Why was I born? What was my purpose. Why…am I here?
CLANG.
For many, that was an answer that they strove to discover throughout the rest of their lives. For others, it was a question whose answer defined their life.
CLANG.
Mortals only had so much time, so their rush was understandable.
CLANG.
But a God was different. They were immortal and ageless. The concept of time held little meaning. Their very existence was defined from the very beginning. They knew precisely what they were, precisely what they represented.
CLANG! CRUNCH! CLANG.
But he was different beyond even the gods, very much so in comparison to their perceived perfection. Hephaestus was simply the God that should not have been born.
CLANG!
This was not a statement born from a deep-seated depression, or a disgust of the self. It was merely a fact. A genuine one. All gods, no matter their origin, were formed from a spark, a core!
CLANG.
The shape, color, design, and even make of the core itself was always unique to the God in question. Some could argue that it was the equivalent of the soul for the divine. But it was always perfect…or at the very least free of any imperfections. A god could not live any other way. Their forms, power, even their ability to heal was all derived from that core state. They were polymorphic entities, beings made of pure "energy", though not of the energy known to man.
To alter that state was to damage them. Kronos was a brilliant example. He had been shattered, bruised, and eviscerated to the point his core became a brittle twisted thing. Barely able to form any strength because of it, not to mention his broken pieces were spread across Tartarus. So, when one such as he was born…it was a given. To even see an imperfect core within a child was impossible, because the child could not be born from such a thing. It was like fire without fuel. A child of divine origins could not survive without a stable core, any injuries sustained to it would result in their immediate death. It was why divine children grew so quickly and were sheltered so thoroughly. He shouldn't be alive, for nothing should have formed from his barren broken core.
CRUNCH!
…and yet here he was. Thrown away simply because he was different. He was the impossible made possible.
The metal of his hammer screeched at the pressure of his grip. Hephaestus, as one would imagine, was not the healthiest god around. Unlike the other gods, Hephaestus could not take a non-corporeal form. He was solid. A human form was his default state, any other form required concentration to maintain. Yet, such a form came with its own problems. His back ached and his shoulders could never rotate fully. His lungs burned whenever he breathed, his legs a malformed twisted amalgamation of flesh, and his face…well. To call his face a walking bruise was giving bruises credit. There was no other way to describe it. He was, even by human standards, ugly. He knew that. He knew all of that…but even so he wouldn't buckle…he would not yield to the hand destiny had seen to give him. He would bring down the woman that made him suffer, if nothing else! The woman who had abandoned him! The woman who decided it was alright to do the impossible and then toss him aside when he wasn't to her standard.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
He hit the throne he was building with as much strength as his twisted body could handle. Considering the fluctuations the sea around him tremored from, it was substantial. Secluded in his underwater forge, the God worked his master plan. Yet, he fell for his guilty pleasure, of the contentment that came with wallowing in his strife. He imagined it, the idea of the imperial Goddess reduced to a trapped and helpless woman. Her façade of perfection stripped with a vengeance that would taste oh so sweet. He should have known even that slight reprieve was too much to ask for in this life. He struck a little too hard at just the right angle. A shard, more a sliver, shot off his grand creation and pierced him through the chest. If this was any other divine metal, it wouldn't have stung nearly as badly, but the truth was that this was an original metal of his own creation. Potent enough to restrict the core of the gods.
By proxy, this also implied its ability to do harm to said cores…as Hephaestus could attest. He coughed, a bright crimson flowing from his chest. He screwed his eyes shut at the sight, a permanent reminder of just how far his imperfections ran. He couldn't even bleed right for chaos's sake. He held his hand over his chest, concentrating on his core. Due to its fragmented nature, the process of healing was a more involved process. It was akin to a computer program, a series of steps that needed to be completed for the operation to execute. Because his core was…the way it was, his divinity instinctively sought out its "missing parts", as if he was incomplete, rather than a disgusting mess. It always-
"URK!"
Something just shot inside of him, something mortal…something powerful. It melded with such ease that Hephaestus couldn't stop it even if he wanted to. His mind exploded as his existence melded with the fragments. He roared as he bled from the eyes, his core twisting and churning with his broken flesh, the skin bubbling and cracking. The water began to boil from the surge of heat that escaped him. His inner fire, the one source of pride that he had as a God. None among the Olympians could compete against the heat he could generate, not even Helios. Because of this Hephaestus never let it release under any circumstances, for fear of the damage it could do to the environment around him.
Cracks lined his body, spewing a blue fire that burned with otherworldly energy. Was it hours? Days? He couldn't tell. His body was still twisting in a painful attempt to realign with his core. His mind was no better, living each new experience within him at a rapid pace. Shirou Emiya…no…this…he…they…they…he was not that man anymore. They, he, cast that name aside. He remembered the fire, of a promise given to a man that inspired him…dear gods, he remembered a father. A school? A battle between figures of legend. A life lived in the service of others, enforcing his justice across his short-lived life…only to be chained forevermore after death. He began to despise his dreams, despise himself. He wanted to end it, to die…even nonexistence was preferable to the complete desecration of the dream he carried. No….perhaps it was more simple than that. He had lost all autonomy. What semblance of free will he retained was merely the choice of how to execute the mission given…rather than reject or accept the mission itself. He could gripe all he wanted to, but in the end, he acquitted to the will of Alaya. Even if he agreed with the will of humanity, how was he to know that agreement was even his, and not some form of subtle brainwashing or something.
Hundreds and thousands of repetitions, millions of missions, trillions of years. It would have destroyed any sane mind…but the man he was…he was anything but sane…he was anything but WEAK. Eventually in the sea of memories, Hephaestus endured his final memory. The final mission…Chaldea. For most Heroic spirits it was another day to live outside the throne and be heroes once more. For Hephaestus, it was a never-ending loop that allowed him the greatest expression of freedom in his unending existence. It was like a time loop. Each iteration of the Chaldea missions he completed; he was resummoned to a different time with similar parameters. As usual there was a strong memory block at first, subtle mental reminders not to discuss his previous summonings, but it was Chaldea all the same. Some were identical, others so vastly different it was a joke to refer to it as Chaldea. Chaldea was…it was perfect. It was here he was honed to the peak of his power. His saint graph evolved to his complete state. Here, he was summoned to a loss belt where the Greek Gods were machines…wait…what?
"ABSURD!"
The word echoed through the chambers with the force of a missile. The water shuddered at the force he was now able to exert, the memories settling. His eyes opened and his body settled. He looked at his unmarred hands. His muscular arms. He could rotate his upper body completely, his lungs comfortable even without air. He was an existence not too dissimilar to Gilgamesh of his memory, a man more akin to a God than a mere mortal, but still a physical being rather than a spiritual one. They were not the same, but the comparison was the closest that he could make. Hephaestus looked down at his legs. They were still marred and twisted. More muscular perhaps, but still marred beyond use. A remnant of his birth perhaps. What he once looked at with revulsion was now…indifference.
"Interesting," he whispered, touching his face and feeling his leg as he floated in his underwater forge. There was a human saying that he…remembered. Time healed all wounds. In the last few moments, he had lived countless lifetimes. They say with age came wisdom…but Hephaestus was wise enough to know that it was not with age that wisdom was born...but rather with mistakes was wisdom forged. By that logic, he must be the wisest to have ever lived with the mountain of mistakes that were perpetrated by his hand. There was no we, no concept of me or you. This…fusion was so utter and complete that Hephaestus was certain. His concept of self had overtaken the one known as EMIYA…but that did not mean that EMIYA was consumed. Rather, it was merely that Hephaestus divine core was too great for EMIYA to overwhelm, and EMIYA was too powerful to be destroyed. If EMIYA's spirit core was non-compatible then this would be a different story. However, their level of synchrony was nothing short of miraculous. Their compatibility was perfect, resulting in his core becoming a solution, rather than a mechanical mixture. A Pseudo Servant…yes…that was the closest that he could call what he had become. An existence like the one once known as Mash.
Changed forever by the spirit within…but that too would imply there was a spirit…a second other. There was no such existence within him. He was complete, one and true. He looked towards the throne…it was once so sweet the idea of his vengeance…he destroyed it without a second thought. He had been a slave to his ideals, a slave to a higher power, he would not be a slave to his vengeance. To the other him that had lived…he promised this much.
He would not bend the knee…no matter who it was. The stories of the gods across the various heroes were useless here. His old world was too different, too…distinct to allow the mistake of following his weapons history to a t to dictate his actions. Come what may, he would suffer the consequences of the choices he makes and the responsibility for them. His hammer was cool to the touch, fitting perfectly into his non calloused hand. He glared at it, detesting this new untested flesh. As a true God, he could in theory simply will callouses on his hand. Yet, the polymorphic power that came as naturally as breathing to Gods was not his to command.
Much like this other self, Hephaestus was geared to specific abilities, tied to his domains. In this case, the ability to create. The walls around his forge cracked with the weakened power of their sigils, he sighed at the idea of how to fix such things, as the creation of his forge was done by the Cyclops and their brethren. While his power surpassed the cyclops collectively, his knowledge was lacking. Gods were geared towards a singular or collection of concepts. Anything within that domain, a God could learn instantly and quickly. However, that did not mean they were talented. Oh no, it went beyond that. With a miniscule amount of effort, a God can learn their domains, improving and enhancing it with something as simple as a breath. They embodied it, are an aspect of it, the concept itself interwoven into their very existence. But that was the catch. They did not improve in the absence of effort, merely in the barest application of it. It was like dealing with a savant. They were, without question, otherworldly in the means of their skillset…but if they did nothing with it, someone with effort would surpass them. It was difficult, mostly impossible for the vast majority, but it was technically doable.
It was something that had happened to Athena, in a world beyond this one. Arachne, a woman from ancient Greece, had surpassed some variant of Athena in weaving. This was not because she was, somehow, more talented. No, it was because Athena rarely entertained her craftsman aspect and instead adhered almost stringently to her aspects of war and strategy. As such, the effort and talent of Arachne surpassed that of the Goddess. The sad truth was that it was barely a win. A little trick that allowed Arachne to apply new patterns and weaves that Athena did not know was what allowed her the victory in truth. The myth of that world portrayed the Goddess having lost handily in most variants of the story; the truth was that it was far closer than humans likely wanted to portray. In the very end, Athena had outstripped Arachne of her skill, showing a second round to display as such. Using her loss to fuel greater inspiration and skill growth, she leaped far beyond Arachne. She cursed the woman than for her Hubris. Hephaestus would not fall short of the same lesson that Athena failed to learn.
He would not be so arrogant to assume that he somehow had surpassed the centuries of knowledge the Cyclops had amassed…wait. Hephaestus closed his eyes and felt within himself. In his core, was a world filled with blades and weapons. Their history carried the knowledge of thousands, perhaps even millions of craftsmen of both the current age and beyond. He tried analyzing a weapon. It was a sword, made in the Mesopotamian era. Their resident god crafted the blade…the history of it absorbed into his consciousness. EMIYA could not retain the knowledge and history of his blades continuously. It was simply too much for a mortal's brain to handle, Heroic spirit or otherwise.
Hephaestus was different. He didn't know how long he was there, but he had relieved the entirety of that experience crafting that blade. He looked at his hand, feeling within it the ability to reenact that entire experience at will without recalling the blade itself. All that skill and knowledge at the tip of his fingers…ready to be used and twisted to whatever he needed it to be. Two things struck him at that moment. The first was that he needed to disappear, at least for a while. He needed to ensure that he had an absolute understanding of what had just happened to him and what he was now capable of. He didn't want to pressure or strong armed into making something that he wasn't fully prepared for. This was the age of Gods and Hephaestus, while strong, was by no means the pinnacle of divine power.
Second, he had knowledge. Suddenly a thirst washed over him. A drive to experiment and hone his skillset. As EMIYA, he felt no pride in his creations. They were, after all, mere copies. They were tools for a greater purpose…and even that purpose was nothing more than a hollowed-out sham. A Faker was an appropriate title for what he was. Yet…this feeling spread from within with such warmth and fever that he could be swept away in a second if he let it. It was…to call it satisfying was not accurate. No…this is what it must feel like to be whole. He…he needed to leave. The nature of his experiments would attract the attention of the divine. The creations he wanted to make would certainly bring him to the doorsteps of Olympus…a consequence that the god wanted very little of. To be an Olympian would not be the worst thing…but at the same time he had utter freedom as a nameless smith. No…he needed to leave and find a secluded enough place that he would be unbothered for the most part. If he didn't…this feeling would overtake him, and he would start right here and now. This…reality marble was effectively a portable forge. The very nature of it lending itself well to a mostly spiritual existence as he was now.
But the Gods were not blind, nor stupid. While the use of a reality marble was mostly undetectable to mages, the divine would sense his encroaching reality upon theirs in seconds. For a moment, the thought of the Nymph that raised him echoed through Hephaestus head…but it was a thought that was only brief. She had not seen him in eight years now. He was effectively twelve years old in human terms when she left him here, in the hands of the Cyclops. One would think that the broken God would find some comradery with the Cyclops, considering their similar reputations and comparisons in appearance…but no. The Cyclops merely looked at him with disdain, one that he now understood. The idea that someone could simply learn what they did in mere moments…was probably a betrayal of their own efforts.
No…the Nymph known as Thetis had ample opportunity to show motherly affection. Thetis was famous for her slight precognitive abilities. That and the judgement of fates is what pushed Thetis to dip her son into the river stix. He didn't know what kind of relationship Thetis had with the fates, but it was enough to at least challenge her son's destiny. There was a genuine possibility that Thetis only raised him as a means of procuring protection for her sons' ankle. A complete stretch by any logical measure but considering the beings that he was dealing with here, an all too genuine possibility. She had the means to communicate with him, so he would leave the ball in her court so to speak. The Cyclops were much the same, in the regard that Hephaestus felt little for leaving them. Yes…it was time to leave!
His legs barely functioned as they should, but the power of a God was not merely within one's flesh. With an application of pure divine power, Hephaestus shot forth from his forge, taking with him every tool and power held therein. He was not as fast as an ocean nymph, but he was more than sufficient to travel through the ocean. But as he left, he did not notice the strangeness that overtook the domain of Poseidon. The great God of the sea stiffened as he felt a surge of divine might. He stared in the distance, his sea green eyes glowing as they narrowed in the general direction of Hephaestus. For a moment the god lifted his hand to destroy the interloper…but stopped. The being was leaving, and the feel of their power held no malicious intent. There was little point in starting a feud for something so small. Still, the memory of a God was not something to be underestimated. As he forced himself through the ocean, Hephaestus felt for the first time utterly free. His first goal…to find a place secluded from the Gods…a place that was far easier said than done.
Chapter One: A Place called Home.
Her name was Calliope. Her two children, Agatha and Adamantious, followed behind her in a stricken haste. Their cloths were disheveled and torn, their skin dirtied and cut. Their village had just been destroyed and her husband died fending off the bandits that attacked it. To say that their day was going horribly was sufficient, to say the least. They had retreated into the forests at night, a death sentence. But she would rather her family die here at the hands of nature than at the hands of men. There were fates worse than death. But…if there was even a sliver of a chance that they could live…if even a sliver of that! She would take it. Her dry eyes began to well up again, at the thought of her family. Her husband was a drunk bastard, complained daily about his pains, and did little to show her love and affection.
He always had something negative to say about her and her daughter. She never gave him enough sons, as he was too keen to point out. Then the fucking bastard gave her clothes, food, and a small dagger when they heard the others screaming. He rushed back from the forge, throwing their children at her. He told her to run, take the children, that he would remain behind. She remembered looking back, seeing him speared through the chest but still roaring and slashing at the bandits that surrounded him. As the trees began to block their vision, she still saw him moving…or at least she hoped it was him. The longer he fought, the more time they had.
She hated him. She hated him for making her love him at that moment, or at least whatever this feeling was if not that. The tears flowed, but she kept moving. Her daughter did not complain, and her son was vigilant. Both were only seven summers old, twins. It was a miracle that she had survived their births. It was another miracle she was banking on. The fact that they had not been attacked by predators was a miracle in and of itself. She needed shelter…but how far was far enough? They couldn't fight those men off, not just her with a measly knife. Her son perked up.
"I smell smoke mother."
She began to pale. No…they didn't find them already? Did they? Her daughter, her beautiful and STUPID daughter, rushed to in the direction of some smoke without a thought.
"AGNES NO!"
She tried to grab her, but she was of course too fast for her. Adamantious rushed behind her, trying to catch up. It was a fool's errand, that girl was faster than anyone if she put her mind to it. There wasn't a thought in her actions. She drew the knife, dropping the clothing and food. She rushed forward, right behind her son, intent on stabbing the bastards. She burst through the foliage, coming face to face with a…hooded man? She assumed it was a man. The clothes it wore was…strange. As if someone had tailored multiple parts together. He wore a different pieces of clothing like those savages she had heard about. No…that wasn't entirely correct. It may have looked as such, but in truth it was just a large toga, elaborately wrapped around him to create the image of a cloak and hood. The material looked soft and extremely well made. Did they happen upon a king, hiding from his subjects?
No…in the middle of these dangerous woods? They most likely came across an affluent bandit or a well-off mercenary. She gripped the small shabby knife, ready to lunge at the man…only to lose her strength as she watched him hand her daughter food off of some kind of disk.
"Eat," his deep voice rumbled, hoarse from smoke. She recognized the raspiness…after all her husband had been a blacksmith for the village. His hours breathing in the smoke had left a raspy tinge to his voice. A tinge she was missing. She sucked in a harsh breath, she turned to warn her son, her own exhausted state showing, as if she had just realized the danger. But of course, she had to have birthed another idiot. For the boy was now sitting beside his sister, eating away at the leg of a boar. The creature was of usual size, but the man was spinning the creature over a large fire, spinning it on some kind of metal contraption, and placing grass and weeds on it like a madman. Only the lower portion of his face was visible, showing a sparsely grown beard growing on his chin. She stared at it, amazed at the shade of red. She had never seen hair so crimson before, regardless of how splotchy the beard looked. Considering his flawless skin and youthful tone…this man must have been young and well off. She didn't care anymore. All this thinking was exhausting. He was sitting on a fallen log, her own children crouched on the grass, chewing their food ravenously. She stared up, noticing for the first time that it was STILL dark out. They had run from their home hours ago…it may have been night, but she knew they had run long enough for Helios to bring the day. She tried to move quickly, but her exhaustion began to weigh on her heavily. She slumped behind her children, the knife still at the ready, no matter how much her body rebelled.
"You seem distressed," murmured the man, his hood still obscuring most of his face, "and injured. I do not know what brought you to this point, but I promise safe sanctuary for as long as I remain here."
She scoffed internally…but another one escaped as she noticed the man in full. His legs were twisted ugly things. She had seen such deformities only once in her life, when a neighbor had given birth to a child with a curled and twisted lip. It was unable to feed from their mother…so he had been abandoned into the woods. Now she knew for certain that she was dealing with a foolish noble who knew nothing of the world, sheltered by parents who had the resources necessary to raise such a crippled child. The woman took a deep breath, letting the tears flow from her eyes. This man was giving her food, warmth, and sanctuary. No matter how brittle it was…this was a kindness a "normal" person would not likely give anyone like her. She felt her heart relax as she looked at the man with all the sincerity she could muster. Her cruel thoughts had no place here.
"I….thank you," she whispered. She didn't know where he produced the food, but he held out to her another disk with pieces of boar meat cut and ready. They were cut into thin slices with a strange viscous liquid atop it. She didn't care. She popped it into her mouth and felt her tongue and cheeks explode with sensation. It hurt for a moment before she was able to taste the food. Shew whimpered a bit, the taste beyond anything she had ever had in her life. The tears flowed stronger.
"I apologize," said the man, "I do not mean to come off as…unfeeling. But…do you happen to know the location of the one called Leto?"
The name struck a chord with her. She was a worshipper of the Titan Leto, one of the original Greek deities of motherhood. She had prayed to her and the impossible happened. She had survived the birth of her twins and more impossibly, healed completely and utterly. Most women would have been left exhausted, with one she knew of never being able to walk properly after surviving her harrowing son's birth. Not all went as such, but enough happened that it was a genuine concern, one great enough that women searched desperately with the Gods for such an outcome to not pass. Not that her husband gave a shit.
"I know she lives upon this land," said the man, "unseen by both god and man. If you happen to know of a temple or some such, I would appreciate the direction."
If that was all the man wanted…than she would give him the location.
"In the far north of our Island, the main temple for her is maintained by the priestesses. I make the pilgrimage every year. Simply follow the north path with the river…you'll make it there."
The man gave a hum. The food was more revitalizing than she assumed, because her cloudy thoughts cleared quickly. She felt more energetic than in the last three days they've been running. Yes, three days. The passing of time had been as such that she didn't even register it as she and her children kept running. The man held out a horn to her. It was massive, easily the size of her arm. Within it was water, clear and without smell. She gave it to her children who drunk it carelessly. She smiled as her daughter gave it to her, the two having only taken half. She caressed their heads, appreciating their thought. The man smiled.
"You seem like a good mother."
She jolted a bit, surprised at the comment. Also, what the fuck? Who said that in the middle of something like this.
"I…this is what a mother does. There's no need," a hand interrupted her thoughts.
"You'd be surprised how many would care less about the children they bring into this world. Be proud."
She realized that this man was large. Larger than any person she had seen in her life thus far. Her husband was a tall man, 5'7 in height with muscles built from time in his forge. This man dwarfed him. He was easily 6'5 in height, and his frame was wide, his hands thick and calloused from work. She struggled to match the upper body of this man to his lower broken shell. Suddenly voices could be heard. She screamed as another man came charging in, one of the bandits from the village rushing her. His eyes were alight with a madness and zeal of the hunt. A savage grin she knew all to well. Was it too much to ask for a life free of th-
SQUELCH.
She stared at the molten spear of rock that pierced the man through the chest. The ground was hot as the molten earth sunk back below the surface, leaving a charred surface behind. With a snap of the hooded man's fingers, the corpse was blown apart by a surge of fire. For the first time she saw his eyes…and she saw gold. Pure, and seamless but completely human. His eyes shone with power, framed by crimson hair that could not belong to a human being. It was the color of blood, rich and deep. He turned to her, giving a warm smile.
"I promised you sanctuary, no? If you stay, no harm will come to you."
He turned his head and whistled. A bird of some sort cawed in the distance.
"You are being hunted it would seem."
"You are a God," she whispered.
He rose an eyebrow.
"I assure you I am just a warlock. A magic user if you wi-"
She glared.
"I have seen the face of the divine. I know what your kind feels like."
He nodded, removing his hood. He was handsome in a human way. She had seen a god only twice in her life. The first was Leto. She had been stunning, otherworldly. Her blonde hair and blue eyes were completely alien to her, with a tan skin a few shades lighter than her own. Her body was wide and made even her, a woman, had some lust for her. The other…had been Ares. The God of War. He had been a brute, an absolute beast, a savage fighter that had shown up on the battlefield to slay a beast that had come from the depths of Hades. She had been escaping Sparta, leaving her ancestral home, sick of the practices held within…and the death of her first son at their hands. She had expected him to smite her. But instead, he had protected her, savage grin and all. She had locked eye with him, his swirling red eyes promising bloodshed…but protection at the same time. Ares was well known for being a battle junkie of the highest order…but he was also known for being a protector of women. Many would flee to his temples and find sanctuary; she had done the same on the journey to this island. The gods were cruel and mischievous. Jealous and hateful. But they could also be helpful and kind. Only a fool sought happiness with the Gods…but desperation had a way of motivating others. Most prayed to all, but as an individual she only ever paid attention to Leto and Ares.
Yet here stands a third that deserved the same, broken as he was.
"May I ask, for your name?"
She tried to bow, but he used a walking stick beside him to stop her from a distance.
"None of that. I do not find worship helpful in any capacity. My name is useless for you. Once we go our separate ways, I doubt we'd see much of each other again. Still…"
The god seemed to decide. Unlike the others she had come across…he was warm. He felt natural to her, as if he was someone she could meet in the village. There was an aura of power to him that wasn't present with the other gods she had met…but it was not as overwhelming…it was if it was contained. Without it, she couldn't believe he was a God. Even his unnatural eyes and hair would have been ignored by her. Unusual, but not godly. His face was handsome, but human, his upper body was beautiful, but human. To a human he would be highly sought after for his face, if not his body. But compared to the other gods she had seen…he was normal. Maybe that was why she agreed to his offer?
"If you are being hunted, then it stands to reason that you may need some assistance. If you wish to come with me to the temple of Leto, you are welcome to travel with me."
Her son grinned, his eyes shining in earnest.
"REALLY!"
The god nodded, far more patient than she had ever given credit for a god. While she had only ever seen two, she knew of others who had discussed and even had…relations with them. They were never…so easy to talk with. So human.
"I…thank you," she said. Hephaestus raised an eyebrow and looked her over. She fell asleep. It was almost instant; the sheer stress of the last three days crashed into her and forced her into a slumber. Her children followed suit not soon after. Hephaestus looked upon them with quiet pity. Gods were not omniscient, that was why prayers rarely went answered. If they knew who was talking to them, they could hear from them during rituals and the like. It was funny in a way. The head priests of most panthodic faiths were capable of speaking with the gods, the problem lied in how often said god listens. Sacrifices were necessary in such practices to ensure that the gods could hear them. Most simply shut it off, uncaring of the mortals that worshipped them.
Hephaestus understood why, most humans simply begged for things, rarely asking for anything of substance. There was also the fact that the Gods cared little for mortal trivialities. A mortal's life was temporary, before transferring to the afterlife. Whatever difficulties they had in life would be washed away in the underworld or whichever afterlife they ended up in. But that mattered little here, not in the moment. This woman had been through a lot and considering the bandit that came rushing after her, it was best he be made aware of whatever it was she was facing.
He looked at the woman's knife, the history of the blade revealing her recent troubles. A true God, the kind these humans thought of them as, would certainly be aware of her struggles. But they were not that kind of gods. Surveillance was possible but limited in scope. So long as a God was focused on the person, knew of them by name and general appearance, a God could indeed be aware of every minute movement. Truth was, most Gods cared too little to even bother.
Still, he would not ignore what was in front of them. He would take responsibility for their safety until they were truly safe. In for a penny as some in the modern era would say. He needed to find Leto, she alone knew of the secrets of hiding from the gods. While Hera knew of her husband's deceit, she did not in fact hunt Leto down as the myths would reveal. The murder of demi-gods was not such a simple task that monsters could handle it, as the myths implied, she did. In this era, at this time, they were simply far too powerful. Not to mention extremely volatile. No, monsters always waited until they were older and more stable before consumption.
This myth also required that Hera even cared about Zeus' children in the first place. Imagine Hephaestus surprise when he learned his birth mother's horrid personality and abhorrent treatment of children were all the fabrications of men and a product of these times. After all she was the Goddess of Motherhood, successor of Leto herself. The idea that she would attack children at all was, quite literally, impossible. It completely went against the domains she represented. No Hera's powers and personality were far more than merely being "Zeus' Wife".
It was why finding Leto was proving to be such a pain, but a one well worth the effort. Leto hid herself from the world to protect her children, not from Hera, but the remnants of the Titans that would slay her and her children for the blasphemy of bedding with Zeus. According to the nymphs and air spirits that he had come across, Hera was instrumental in constructing the very realm that Leto had locked herself away in for the remainder of her pregnancy, a realm that obscured even the most powerful of divine energies. It was perfect, exactly what he was looking for! If it wasn't for the vast stores of information within the noble phantasms in his possession, Hephaestus would never have figured out her general location. Neither Apollo nor Artemis had been born yet, and as such her general area was unknown at the time. He knew where he was, knew that he was in the proper vicinity, but the specific area in which her closed dimensional gap existed, that was another matter altogether.