Hundreds of acts of wrath and I had never left my throne to witness the aftermath. Until now. It was not enough to know he suffered. No. The storm within would not be abated until I looked into his eyes and he knew whose fault it truly was. A deep green cloak decorated with a thousand eyed feathers spilled around my feet as I appeared in the doorway. Their many shades of blue and chartreuse shone, winking in the lamp light. I made no attempt to conceal myself from immortals or men. There was no shame in a queen exerting her will on her subjects. Was that not what made her a queen after all? It could not be the devotion of her king. The diamond encrusted crown of silver, sparkling with the lightning bolts that forged it, might have disagreed. I knew better. My nose wrinkled at the stench of mortal blood. I scanned the room, hoping to be overwhelmed with the sight of the carnage. He had a reputation, after all. A frown tugged at my lips. Overturned furniture. A broken table. Feathers floating from their torn pillows. But no trail of bodies. No rivers of blood. It was underwhelming. Then I caught sight of it. Hope was restored. At the base of a wall whose tiles were stained with a smear of blood was a bundle that I recognized instantly. No larger than a cat, wrapped in linen for the night. If I had not known better, it might have been asleep. Yet its unnatural stillness and silence reassured me. I would not be disappointed after all. It was the starting point of a struggle, the path leading through the room with more smears of blood. My gaze came to rest upon another, this one bigger. A foot, small and bare, nearly hidden by an upturned chaise. I made motion with my scepter and it moved to reveal the child. Neck bent in an aberrant way. Lips blue. Fingers still clutched a wooden horse. I searched for more, knowing there would be one, at least. An agonized moan drifted from an adjoining room. Eager anticipation pulled me to it as a moth to flame. The sight was one to behold. The mutilated body of a woman lay broken at the foot of a bed. Wet blood glistened on the white marble floors, still fresh. Upon my arrival I worried I was too late. Clearly I was right on time to witness what I craved. “Father, oh Gods, what have I done?” His back was to me, bare and glistening from sweat and streaks of blood that were not his own. He hunched over the body, heaving with a wail that fought for freedom. I stood in silence, waiting for it as one would await the rising of the sun. It broke, and the room echoed with the sounds of a wounded animal. Primal, enraged, pained. I relished in the sound as if listening to one of my favorite hymns. It went on for a time, and when he paused to catch his breath I said, “I expected much from you, Herakles, but you have absolutely outdone yourself.” Startling him with my presence delighted me. He turned, on his knees and one hand still clutching the fresh corpse of his wife. Eyes bloodshot and filled with tears, evident that he had only just come down from the fit of insanity I bestowed upon him. Blood coated his trembling fingers. Ever the son of Zeus, he dared to meet my gaze. “You made me do this.” His breathing came out in ragged spurts. “Why?” A question for the ages. I laughed, short and sharp. His face paled. I owed him no explanation. Even so, he would not understand the complexities of the tapestry he was merely a thread in. No matter how shining and special he seemed. I stepped closer, pulling the hem of my sapphire and silver robes from being dirtied. “I had hoped you would kill your wife,” I said with an pleasantly impressed tone, “but your children-“ “What have you done?” He shouted over me as he leapt to his feet, eyes aflame with a hysteria I did not provide. Rushing from the room, he shouted their names with a desperation in his voice that made my skin crawl. Another anguished scream brought a satisfied smile to my face. From the doorway I glimpsed him clutching the smallest one to his chest, rocking on his knees beside the other. Wails filled the room, ebbing and flowing in intensity as a river on its tumultuous journey to the sea. Then his eyes fell to me and the sight triggered the rage that I revelled in. Still clinging to the bundle of linen with one hulking hand, he took up a shard of ceramic pot in the other. “What justification you use to wound me so, I know not, but I know I will earn it.” He snarled and leapt over the chaise, lunging at me with the wild madness of grief. A flick of my wrist and he flung into the wall. There was a crack of bone and breaking plaster. I could not decide, at that moment, whether to be amused or infuriated. Not even the lowliest nymph dared to cast so much as a glare in my direction. The arrogance. And a piece of pottery? “Pathetic.” I spat, watching him wrestle against his invisible bonds. Snot, blood, and tears mixed on his face and I sneered, disgusted by his humanity. Slowly his spirit diminished. Indignation succumbed to sorrow, which surrendered to hopelessness. “Why?” He whimpered, “What have I done to wrong you?” “Your name alone would be enough to offend a lesser goddess. Glory of Hera.” I scoffed, “A slap in the face if there ever was one. Even the incessantness the braggart speaks of you was something I could overlook if he had an ounce of respect for me beyond how my powers served him.” Of all his children, Zeus loved mine the least. Those I bore him were rarely acknowledged beyond the required niceties. Ares unnerved him with his savagery, killing for the joys of it. Eileithyia’s domain of childbirth unnerved him for equally bloody reasons. Worse yet, he appointed Hebe the cupbearer of the gods as if it were a great honor. The rest of his glorious offspring that made up half of the remaining great Olympian gods? Whelped by titanesses. I could spend an age cataloging the mongrels he sired by nymphs and mortals. Princes, heroes, legends. Each a source of pride. Of all my children, the one I loved the most was the one I created alone. Hephaistos manifested in my womb from my own desires, my own yearning to hold something that was truly mine alone. He was everything I hoped he would be. A small and unassuming child, perhaps not the most beautiful but undoubtedly the one with the most raw potential. I knew he was destined for greatness from the moment I pulled him to my breast. My husband accused me of infidelity when word reached him. The irony was not lost to me. In his fury, he flung my child from the sky. I watched helplessly, chained to Mount Olympus for my supposed crimes. Sometimes in the quiet I still hear his screams on the wind. They found him on Lemnos, battered and broken. Crippled. No amount of ambrosia and nectar could restore him to his former self. My own heart shattered that day. Throat tightening at the memory, I swallowed hard. This was never about Herakles. “All your life, your father made things easy for you, the next great king of Mykenai. Your struggles have been few, moments of suffering fewer. Even gods in our eternal glory experience moments of anguish. Of loss. Yet you think your agony is unjust.” I looked down upon him in contempt, “Are you better than a god? Deserving only milk, honey, and happiness?” “Kill me then,” He said, sniveling, “Strike me down. Now. I have nothing to live for.” It certainly had been considered. I sent snakes to execute him as an infant, only to discover not only his strength but the depths of Zeus’ fascination with him. Countless mortal children, but this one was apparently different. I suffered at his hand for a fortnight for my transgression. “No. You will live to become an outcast. A disgrace. Herakles, son of Zeus, the rabid dog who murders his own kin. You will be a blight to your father’s name for the rest of your days.” Imagining my husband balking at the news brought a smile to my face. “You bitch!” He said, spitting, “Is it any wonder he seeks love elsewhere when his wife is such a cold, heartless-” His voice gurgled, an invisible hand tightening around his neck. Eyes bulging but flashed with satisfaction, he choked a quiet, “Do it.” He let out a gasp and collapsed to the floor as I regained control of my anger. A crazed laugh left his bloodied lips and he spit at me again. “Fine. I will do it myself.” He pushed the jagged edge of the ceramic to his throat, drawing blood. I sneered and grabbed him by the chin, wrenching his neck to look him in the eyes. Dark as thunderheads, they were reminiscent of his father. Resentment thrummed within my chest as I summoned my powers. “Hear me now,” I glared, fingers tingling as I poured my will into him, “You will live with what you have done this night until you are released by one who loves you as they did.” My insides roiled in conflict. I wished him nothing but pain and misery, hating him with every fiber of my being. Yet I granted him protection. Bestowed upon him invincibility and in turn, a long life. All in the name of suffering and pain. There was no better way to hurt Zeus. I released him and he pushed the shard hard against his neck again. While it drew a trickle of blood, as much as he tried he could not achieve his goal. Realization came over him and I smirked. Yes, I think my gift would serve nicely. He roared obscenities, his grief-stricken rage renewed. As he began his rampage I took my leave. Pleased with my evenings work and looking forward to seeing my husband’s dismay, I smiled to myself. Perhaps I should come to witness my acts of wrath more often.