7.75, The Thirteenth Trial(?) - A Tale of Intrigue
Schemes were difficult after all, Adamantia thought.
Adamantia was Gaia's eldest daughter. The first among the fifty Nesoi—the islands—and the first born among the Orea—the mountains. Yet to master the art of smelting the iron born from her mother's bones, she had lingered in Tartarus for ages untold. Nowadays, other gods knew she had forged her great sickle there, but none grasped just how many endless years she had spent in that abyss. That made her a goddess forever shrouded in veils. Only Gaia knew her age, and only Gaia had seen her true face. Even primordial goddesses like Nyx and Erebus, kin to her mother, had never beheld it. A goddess of such profound secrets—what thoughts did she harbor? Even Gaia, who knew her best, couldn't pierce her daughter's hidden heart.
The forge goddess Adamantia, ever patient across those long epochs, had never revealed her inner designs. Part of it was the peril of the plan; part of it, the absolute need for success.
I will become the queen of the gods.
The "Unconquerable Woman," Adamantia had nursed this ambition since the moment of her birth. She had no intention of being a hollow queen like Hera or Rhea. She dreamed of a true sovereign, ruling half the world in earnest.
That was why she had remained a virgin for so long as well—no partner had ever truly understood her. Of course, even by divine standards, those years had stretched too far, eroding her self-esteem in ways no one could have foreseen.
"Mom, don't be too heartbroken. I've got my own plans."
"That's reassuring, coming from you—after hiding those thoughts for all those ages."
"Sorry."
"...I'm not really angry right now. Just... dumbfounded."
The mother-daughter exchange had softened considerably. The goddess's fury, once raging as if to shatter the island of Sicily, had faded, replaced by a mother's pity for her child. Nothing remained but profound, selfless love for her offspring.
But Adamantia could tell. Her mother still didn't fully trust her.
"A year and a half."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Heracles served as my chamberlain for an hour each day—fetching water, chopping wood, splitting kindling, tending the fire, bringing towels to wipe my body, boiling water for me, that sort of thing."
"What? You had him doing that?"
"For the last six months, he even came into the kitchen to cook."
"..."
This time, the doting mother's face vanished, supplanted by a woman's sheer incredulity. Well, of course. What man in the world stepped foot in a kitchen for a woman? In some lights, it was so outrageous it could be seen as insulting her instead.
Adamantia drove the wedge deeper, unperturbed.
"To correct myself—I cut my own kitchen time in half over those six months."
"What?!"
"One day, I'd handle breakfast and lunch together. The next, Heracles would do the midday meal and dinner."
"Have you lost your mind?!"
Gaia's incredulity had now tipped into outright anger. No matter how much she loved Adamantia, even if this were true, it was unacceptable. A man cooking? That should never happen. It demeaned women in its own way. Gaia had to rebuke her daughter.
"Listen to me. The kitchen is a sacred space for women. It must remain purely ours. Without that, we lose our refuge to vent, our space to swallow our grievances. What in the world are you planning for the future?"
"Heracles doesn't make me cry."
"Maybe not now. But men are like that, dear. Once they win your heart, they turn more selfish than anyone."
"Mom, Heracles isn't like the men you knew. He's not Uranus."
"..."
How many times was this now? Gaia found herself speechless at her daughter's words yet again. She couldn't fathom what her eldest was thinking. Heracles and Uranus were different, sure. But at their core, Zeus and Uranus were the same. Sky gods who couldn't live without conquering women. Conquerors and hunters who needed to dominate earth goddesses to hold power. If Heracles became a god, he'd inevitably take on that same conquering divinity.
"Hear me, Adamantia. Things won't unfold as you imagine. Zeus truly loved Hera—and he still does."
"I know that. But Heracles and Zeus are truly different, Mom."
"You're not listening to your own mother. You know what sky spawn are like."
"Yeah, I do. I was the one who cut off Brother Uranus's manhood with my sickle, after all. But Mom... you've forgotten one thing."
"What on earth are you talking about?"
Gaia couldn't comprehend. Male gods were conquerors, all of them—differences only in degree. No matter that Adamantia embodied the "Unconquerable Woman," born as Etna itself, the volcano incarnate. A deified Heracles would hunger to conquer her.
Yet her peculiar daughter's mind was elsewhere entirely.
"Simple, Mom. Make Heracles a god who's no conqueror."
"Easier said than done."
"Yeah, but there's a way. I'm going to make him the god of blacksmiths. With your help, Mom, we can do it right away."
"You are the goddess of blacksmiths. Wouldn't that just mean handing your authority to a man?"
"Wrong, Mom. I'm not the goddess of blacksmiths. I'm the goddess of the Forge."
"..."
Only then did Gaia truly realize her eldest daughter wasn't just smitten, scheming to deify some man she'd fallen for. For over seven thousand years, Adamantia had been the sole smith working iron—save for her alone. Mortals and gods alike assumed she ruled over both forges and smiths. But that wasn't true.
Adamantia was a smith, yes—but that was her skill, not her divine authority. Her domain was the forge itself.
She held free reign over the space where iron was smelted, heated, and shaped—and the divinity of ordinary folk who worked there. But not the godhood of the Craftsman.
Only this daughter, now turning her mother's world upside down, knew that truth precisely.
"W-Wait, you're saying you truly lack the divinity of a blacksmith god?"
"Yes."
"Th-Then why raise an apprentice all these years?"
"Forges need blacksmiths."
It was as calm and matter-of-fact as saying, it's red, round, and sweet, so it's an apple. Gaia should have trembled at the revelation, but her daughter's utter serenity sapped the tension from her body.
No trace of anger lingered in Gaia's voice now.
"Fine. So what then—make Heracles the blacksmith god, and...?"
"Once he's a blacksmith god, he can't ascend to the heavens, Mom. He'll have to stay here on Etna."
"Right... no other place to smelt iron. ...You don't mean."
"Yeah. I'm not trying to topple Olympus, Mom. I've never even thought of it."
Adamantia paused there. She took her mother's hand—pale with shock, a blue tinge of dismay on her face—and clasped it between her own callused palms, drawing it to her chest. The steady, vigorous beat of her healthy daughter's heart soon soothed her startled mother's.
And now Adamantia revealed her true purpose to her mother.
"I'm not going to Olympus, Mom. I'm going to open a palace for the gods right here, on Etna. I'll live there with my family, in a new divine home. The gods won't dwell in the heavens anymore. They'll live on the earth, rule from the earth, lead humanity from the earth. That's my vision. That's why I need you, Mom."
"You, you...!"
"Yes. I'll share fire and iron with mortals. That's the duty of the goddess of the Forge."
"Zeus won't stand for that, Adamantia. It'll mean war."
War. At that word from Gaia, Adamantia smiled for the first time—broad and radiant. The stoic goddess's beautiful grin startled even her tense mother, flushing her cheeks; it shone with magnetic, brilliant allure. And the words she spoke, gripping her mother's hand tight, rang out strong and unyielding.
"Don't worry, Mom. I'll win."