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The afternoon light slanted in through the half drawn curtains, warm and syrupy, turning the royal chambers into something far gentler than a throne room. This wasn’t Olympus in its ceremonial glory — this was the private heart of the palace, where the king and queen of all gods had willingly surrendered their thrones for a nest of cushions on the floor.
Hera sat cross legged on a thick woven blanket, her gown pooled around her like calm water. Zeus lounged beside her, one knee propped up, one arm braced behind him. Pillows were scattered around them in a loose circle, toys strewn here and there — carved wooden animals, a tiny ball of yarn, a rattle shaped like a pomegranate. Nothing matched. Everything was warm, softened by use, touched by affection.
And at the center of it all lay Hebe.
She was on her back, nestling in the folds of a small blanket, her little legs kicking with that chaotic enthusiasm only a five month old could manage. Every new movement seemed to surprise her. She kicked, gasped, kicked harder, then squealed when she managed to fling one foot higher than the other.
Zeus watched her like she was an eclipse, a comet, a miracle. Hera watched her like she was her heart walking around outside her body. And every time Hebe flailed or babbled, both of them smiled without even knowing they were smiling.
A tray sat beside them: figs sliced open like blooming flowers, strawberries glistening with juice, pearls of soft pear arranged neatly by Hera’s hand. A pitcher of nectar steamed faintly, the scent sweet and comforting. No feasts, no ceremony — just an easy, lazy offering to be shared while they sat on the floor with their daughter.
Hebe noticed them noticing her.
Which, of course, meant she had to turn the dial on her excitement all the way up.
She windmilled her legs so hard her tiny toes kept brushing the edge of her blanket. Her hands—dimpled, impossibly small—fluttered like startled birds. She kicked again, as if announcing a profound truth: Look at me! I exist!
Hera laughed under her breath, leaning forward and brushing a kiss onto the soft curls at the top of Hebe’s head. “She’s never this energetic with anyone else.”
“She’s a performer.” Zeus murmured, absolutely besotted. “An audience of two is still an audience.”
Hebe stared up at them, eyes wide and bright as little moons. Hera traced a fingertip along her daughter’s cheek, marveling at how warm and new her skin was. Zeus gently tapped her tiny foot, pretending to be shocked when she kicked him. Hebe squealed at that, thrilled to be the center of everything.
It was a lazy afternoon—quiet, slow, unhurried.
And woven through the gentleness was something deeper, something soft on the edges and heavy with meaning. A sense that this child, this tiny late born daughter, had changed the entire rhythm of their lives.
She had arrived long, long after the chaos. After the wars and betrayals, after the storms they’d both created and endured. There had been peace before her—but not this kind.
This was a different peace.
A warm, low tide peace. A hearth instead of thunder. Something tender that neither of them had expected anymore, especially not together.
Hera leaned her shoulder lightly against Zeus’s. He didn’t comment on it—didn’t need to. His hand came to rest softly over hers, without ceremony, without a spark of grand divine display. Just a touch. Just them.
Hebe kicked again, issuing tiny squeaks of delight at her own existence.
Zeus watched her with an expression Hera hadn’t seen on him since the very early days of their marriage, before the world demanded too much of them, before their pride and pain built walls they never meant to raise. It was an expression of uncomplicated wonder.
Hebe let out a babbling coo right on cue, her arms flapping in a way that could almost be interpreted as, Look at me again, please. Hera leaned forward and brushed a fingertip across her round cheek, and Hebe’s eyes immediately brightened, a smile blooming so quickly it seemed to surprise her.
Zeus chuckled. “She has your charm.”
“She has your dramatic flair.” Hera countered. “Did you see the way she flings herself back? That was pure theatrics.”
As if demonstrating, Hebe gave another delighted kick, grabbed both her feet as though she’d just discovered them, and squealed triumphantly.
Hera’s laughter was soft and golden. Zeus’s matched it like low thunder softened by distance.
This was the part of the day they never hurried through—this radiant, warm slice of existence where the king and queen sat on the floor, barefoot, crowned only by sunlight, marveling at the tiny miracle giggling between them.
Their late little one. Their peaceful new era wrapped in a baby blanket.
Hera shifted forward on the cushions, gathering Hebe into her hands with infinite care. The baby let out a soft coo of confusion, legs kicking in slow, lazy arcs as she was lifted. Hera cupped her under the arms and guided her into a sitting position on the blanket between them.
“Well then,” Hera murmured with ceremonial gravity, “let’s try something new, little star.”
Hebe blinked up at her, eyes enormous, mouth a perfect round o of fascination. She had absolutely no idea what was happening but she was ready to participate with the full chaotic commitment of a five month old.
Hera steadied her gently, both palms braced at Hebe’s sides to keep her upright. For a glorious moment, their daughter sat proudly — back straight, chin lifted, as if she were attempting to mimic the queen’s posture.
Then her entire torso began to wobble.
Not a subtle wobble. The kind of wobble that looked like her spine had turned to soft jelly and her head was suddenly far too heavy for her body. Her arms did not help; they flared out in opposite directions like she was trying to take flight.
Zeus leaned in, watching with the focused intensity of a man observing a sacred rite. “Look at her,” he whispered, “holding herself like a champion.”
Hebe, meanwhile, wobbled harder.
Hera tried to correct her balance with tiny guiding touches — the same way she steadied saplings in her sacred groves — but Hebe was committed to gravity’s embrace.
She listed left.
Hera adjusted.
Then right.
Zeus leaned.
Then forward.
Zeus’s hands twitched like he was resisting the urge to dive.
And then finally — dramatically, almost artistically — Hebe tipped backward.
Not fast. Not suddenly. It was the world’s slowest fall, like she was performing an interpretive dance titled The Inevitability of Gravity.
Zeus snatched her with lightning reflexes before she even touched the blanket behind her, sweeping one giant hand under her to scoop her upright with impossible gentleness.
Hebe burst into delighted laughter.
The fall had been the funniest thing to ever happen in her existence.
Her tiny fist batted at Zeus’s chin as if thanking him for the ride.
“That,” Zeus said with complete sincerity, “was a heroic effort.”
Hera leaned in to kiss the curls at the crown of Hebe’s head, her voice warm and soft. “A triumph.” she agreed. “Truly worthy of hymns.”
Hebe beamed, mouth gummy and proud, clearly convinced she had accomplished something monumental.
Hera adjusted her so she could try again, brushing her thumb over one rosy cheek. “Ready for another go, little goddess?”
Hebe squealed in pure confidence — as if she were absolutely certain that this time, this time, she would master sitting like the grown ups.
Zeus settled back, smiling with that molten tenderness he tried so hard to hide. “Let her try.” he murmured, almost reverent.
Hebe lifted her head.
Her body wiggled with anticipation.
The training continued.
They reorganized the battlefield.
Hera gathered every cushion in reach — embroidered ones, soft downy ones, one that looked suspiciously like it had migrated from Zeus’s throne — and arranged them in a ring around their daughter. It was a fortress, a strategic perimeter, an entire defensive system constructed purely to protect one baby’s attempt at uprightness.
Zeus surveyed the setup like a general approving troop formation. “Excellent.” he said. “If she falls now, she’ll bounce.”
Hebe, still in Hera’s arms, kicked her feet urgently, desperate to be put down again. She had tasted the thrill of almost sitting. She wanted another shot.
“All right, little conqueror,” Hera murmured, lowering her carefully into the center of the pillow ring. “Your throne awaits.”
Hebe touched down, wobbled a little… then caught herself with both palms flat on the blanket. For a heartbeat, she stayed balanced.
For two heartbeats, she held.
For eight entire seconds, she sat upright, round and determined and very, very proud of herself.
Zeus actually counted under his breath, too stunned to blink. “One, two, three— she’s doing it— four, five— she’s still doing it— six— oh, look at her— seven— eight—!”
Hera clapped softly, almost breathless. “She’s brilliant.”
And then—
Hebe leaned backward.
At first the lean was gentle. Then more intentional. Then fully committed. It was as if she had discovered a new personal tactic: surrender to gravity dramatically and trust the gods to have placed pillows.
She drifted back like a little feather.
And then—
fwmp.
She disappeared into a mountain of cushions.
Perfectly safe.
Perfectly comfortable.
Perfectly smug.
Her wide eyes stared up from between the pillows, her tiny mouth curled in unmistakable triumph. Then a babble of absolute satisfaction spilled out of her—soft, delighted, endlessly pleased with herself.
Zeus pressed a hand to his mouth. Hera covered her lips with her fingertips.
And then both of them cracked — soft laughter, helpless and warm, breaking out at the same time.
Hebe wiggled her toes in response, pleased that her audience was impressed.
Hera exhaled, brushing a curl behind her ear as the laughter settled. Zeus’s smile softened into something molten and quiet. Their eyes met over their daughter — over the tiny goddess lounging like a victorious hero after a minor battle with physics.
Not the sharp, worried looks they used to trade over older children, back in eras soaked in conflict. Not the constant readiness for the next crisis, the next war, the next cosmic disaster.
This was different.
A quiet understanding passed between them: I forgot it could feel like this again.
Parenting without bracing.
Parenting without fear.
Just love. Just sunlight. Just this tiny goddess sinking proudly into a pillow fortress, babbling at nothing and everything.
Hera rested her head briefly against Zeus’s shoulder. Zeus leaned back into her without thinking.
Hebe flailed a hand as if calling for their attention.
They both looked down instantly, smiling.
The world had softened for them.
And they let it.
The strawberry experiment begins with Hera selecting the softest one on the tray—plump, perfectly ripe, and gentle enough for tiny gums. She lifts it between two fingers and turns toward Hebe, who immediately locks onto the red fruit with eyes so round and bright she looks like a very determined baby owl.
“Someone’s curious.” Hera murmurs.
Zeus leans forward, forearms braced on his knees, watching with all the intensity of a man witnessing the dawn of civilization.
Hera brings the strawberry closer.
Hebe made a breathy “hmph!” and leaned forward so abruptly she nearly folded herself in half. Zeus reached instinctively to steady her, palm at her back, even though she probably could’ve toppled safely into the pillows. Still—the tiny determination in her leaning body made his heart do a strange, soft flip. Hera gently holds the strawberry in front of Hebe’s mouth, ready to guide her.
With all the coordination of a tiny drunk goddess, she lunges forward, grabs the strawberry with both hands, and immediately applies the legendary baby death grip—the one strength stat that surpasses all other mortals and immortals alike.
Hera blinks. “Oh.”
Zeus’s face lights up like he’s witnessing history. “By the Fates—she’s powerful.”
The strawberry does not fare as well. Juice oozes instantly, running between Hebe’s fingers and down her plump wrists in thin ruby rivers. She seems delighted by the sensation, staring at her soaked hands with reverence, as if she’s acquired forbidden, gooey knowledge.
Then she attempts to eat it.
Attempt #1: She tries to bring it to her mouth, but her arms wobble and she bonks it into her own cheek.
She pauses, confused.
Attempt #2: Tries again. Hits her chin.
Attempt #3: Success… sort of. Her mouth finds the berry, though half of it smears across her lips and nose before she finally manages a tiny nibble.
She freezes.
Her eyes widen dramatically.
She has tasted sweetness.
Hera can’t help laughing, already reaching for a cloth. “You like that, my love?”
Hebe responds by squeezing the berry again, unintentionally launching another drip down her arm. Hera wipes her chin, then her mouth, then her cheek, then her chin again because Hebe somehow re-smeared juice in the half second Hera looked away.
“Look at this mess.” she coos, trying to catch a droplet before it reaches Hebe’s elbow. “She’s going to stain every pillow we own.”
Zeus, who has been absolutely useless this entire time except for staring at the scene like it’s the most important thing he has ever witnessed, just shakes his head in awe.
“She is a genius.” he says with total seriousness.
“She is sticky.” Hera corrects, but she’s smiling so softly her argument has no weight.
Hebe, meanwhile, has gotten strawberry juice on her nose. She scrunches her face, confused by the cold, damp sensation. There’s a heartbeat of silence—
—then she sneezes.
A powerful, tiny baby sneeze.
Both parents absolutely lose it.
Zeus bursts into warm, thunder soft laughter, head thrown back. Hera leans forward, laughing into her hands as Hebe looks between them, startled but then pleased that she seems to have caused such an uproar.
Strawberry stained, triumphant, and glowing with baby pride.
Zeus wipes a last smudge of strawberry from Hebe’s wrist, then looks at her with the expression of a man who has just decided that cleaning time is over and fun time has officially begun.
“Come here, little star.” he murmurs, sliding his hands beneath her tiny arms.
Hebe lets out the tiniest squeal, a breathy, startled little chirp that instantly melts into her version of a laugh: a bubbling, hiccuppy sound that makes her whole body wiggle like a happy fish.
Hera watches from her cushion, chin resting on her palm, entirely undone by the sight of the king of gods holding their daughter like she’s made of sunlight.
Zeus brings Hebe down toward his chest, lifts her again, down again, a soft rhythmic bounce that keeps her squealing louder and louder. Her chubby hands flail with purpose—she grabs for his nose first, missing once, then latching on with alarming accuracy.
Zeus winces theatrically, eyes widening, shoulders tensing as though she’s just overpowered the king of the gods. “Oh-ho—such strength! I’m doomed.”
Hebe squeaks with triumph.
She reaches again—this time getting a good handful of his beard. She pulls. Gently for a baby, which is to say: not gently at all.
Zeus winces like he’s been struck by lightning. “Mercy! Mercy, daughter!”
Hera clears her throat, amused. “You could simply put her down.”
“Never.” Zeus says, voice nasal because his nose is still being held hostage.
He lowers her to his eye level, and for a heartbeat they simply stare at each other—storm king and infant—before Hebe suddenly leans forward and bonks her forehead directly into his.
There’s a soft thunk.
Zeus freezes.
Hebe blinks.
Hera opens her mouth to check if they’re both all right.
And then Zeus folds like he’s been mortally wounded, falling backward onto the cushions with a dramatic groan that echoes off the walls.
Hebe’s face goes from startled to delighted in one breath. She lets out a bubbling, full body giggle.
Hera stands there, arms folded but eyes soft—so warm, so full, glowing with that deep kind of quiet love that settles into the bones. She watches Zeus lying on the floor feigning death while Hebe crawls across his chest with excited squeaks, grabbing his tunic, his beard, his cheeks, anything she can reach.
It’s chaos.
It’s domestic.
It’s sacred.
And Hera feels a warmth spread through her, serene and certain, the kind that only comes from seeing someone she loves become impossibly gentle for the sake of someone even smaller.
Hebe’s giggles slowly taper into soft, hiccupy little breaths, her limbs going from squiggly to heavy, her head wobbling forward in that unmistakable baby way that means nap incoming. She rubs her face against Zeus’s tunic then lets out a tiny sigh.
Hera is already reaching for her before the sigh even ends.
“Come here, little one.” she murmurs, scooping Hebe up with a fluid motion born of instinct rather than thought. Hebe melts against her, cheek pressed to the curve of Hera’s collarbone, fingers fumbling sleepily at her hair until they snag a dark curl. She clings to it loosely, secure in that small tug of connection.
Zeus pushes himself upright from the pillows and moves closer without speaking. The shift is natural, quiet, almost reverent. He fits himself behind Hera, his arms sliding around both her and the drowsy bundle between them.
Hera leans back into him—just a centimeter at first, then fully, letting her weight rest against his chest. His chin brushes her temple. Hebe, warm and soft and smelling faintly of fruit, settles deeper into sleep with another little puff of breath.
The three of them form a small, imperfectly shaped nest on the floor. Cushions under their backs, the afternoon light softened by half drawn curtains, the faint scent of nectar lingering in the warm air. No thrones. No crowns. Just a tangle of limbs and blankets and the steady sound of Hebe’s tiny breaths.
They look entirely undignified—Olympus’s rulers sprawled on the floor, hair tousled, fruit juice on their arms, soft blankets everywhere.
They’ve never looked more regal.
Zeus’s voice slips out in a whisper, low enough not to disturb the tiny sleeper between them. “Do you feel it?”
Hera turns her head toward him, lips brushing his temple. “The quiet?”
He nods. His thumb traces Hebe’s little spine.
Hera lets out a soft breath, half laugh, half sigh. “Calmer, certainly. I don’t remember ever feeling this settled.”
“Because we weren’t.” Zeus murmurs. “We were younger. Still fighting half the time. Still learning how to be… us.”
Hera looks down at their daughter—at the tiny fist curled in her hair, at the round cheek pressed against her chest, at the long lashes fluttering against warm skin. The soft weight of Hebe in her arms feels like something whole, something healing.
“She’s our restart.” Hera whispers. “Our gentler chapter.”
Zeus hums in agreement, tightening his arms around both of them. “Our gift.” he says softly. “After a very long century.”
Hebe shifts, lets out a tiny sleep sigh that makes both her parents still, listening, marveling.
She is safe.
They are calm.
And the king and queen of Olympus lie among scattered pillows, wrapped around the small miracle they never expected this late in their story, holding her like she is the promise of every peaceful day still to come.
The room settles into that perfect, honey thick quiet that only comes in the softest hours of the afternoon. The sun climbs a little higher, its light slipping golden through the half drawn curtains, warming the pillows, the floor, the curve of Hera’s shoulder.
Hebe is fully asleep now—mouth slightly open, cheek smushed adorably against Hera’s chest, tiny fingers still tangled in that stolen lock of her mother’s hair. Her whole body rises and falls in slow, trusting breaths.
Hera drifts not long after. Her head tilts back against Zeus’s shoulder, lashes lowering, a faint exhale leaving her as she sinks into that warm border between waking and dreaming. Her arms stay around Hebe even in sleep, protective even in rest.
Zeus remains upright behind them both, arms around his entire world, watching them with a stillness he rarely allows himself. Peace looks different on him than on most—bigger, deeper, edged with the knowledge of how fleeting such quiet can be. But in this moment, he lets it hold him.
The palace beyond their chamber is silent. No footsteps. No petitions. No thunder. Only the rhythmic sound of Hera’s breathing, the softer whisper of Hebe’s, and the warmth of two heartbeats pressed against him.
He lowers his chin, brushing the crown of Hera’s hair with it, then traces a single fingertip down the curve of Hebe’s cheek. Her tiny brows twitch at the touch, but she stays asleep, lips puckering once before settling again.
Zeus smiles—slow, unguarded, impossibly gentle.
“Let this era stay gentle for you, little one.” he murmurs, the words barely a breath.
A blessing from a god who rarely speaks blessings for free.
Hebe sighs in her sleep, leaning closer into her mother. Hera breathes out, soft and warm against Zeus’s chest.
And the king of Olympus stays perfectly still, holding his family as the sunlight pools around them, determined—just this once—to let the world wait.