Real Labors -2- "Let's Make a Hammer"
Heracles had boldly declared, "Let's make a hammer," but even settling on what exactly to create was a huge step forward. There's that saying about the first step being half the battle, but in truth, hammers came in all sorts of varieties. Figuring out which kind to make was its own problem.
Fortunately, a plan quickly formed in Heracles' mind.
"I'm going to make a Warhammer."
"A war hammer? Does something like that even exist?"
"Nah, I just came up with it now. I'm gonna make a hammer for fighting. With the war against the Gigantes coming up soon and all."
"Fighting with a hammer? You think that's even possible?"
In this era, the very concept of a Warhammer hadn't been born yet. It was still the Bronze Age, so even the idea of a hammer was unreliable at best. Only in Adamantia's workshop at Mount Etna, where iron—forged through intense hammering—could be worked, did they use the advanced form of hammer Heracles knew. Everywhere else, tools as a concept hadn't fully taken shape.
This era was still far from the age of iron and sophisticated tools Heracles remembered.
"It's possible. Check this out. If you had a hammer shaped like this, wouldn't it work great in battle?"
"Sure, iron's heavy, so it'd make a good weapon... but wait, what's this? You're making the hammer that long?"
"Yeah, look. If you shape it like this, you could take on armored enemies or monsters with tough scales. It needs to be this long to wield with one hand or two."
"Yeah... I could see this working in a fight. When did you even come up with something like this?"
"Honestly, it's been rattling around in my head for a bit. Things have been so hectic, it only really clicked now."
It was true. As Heracles reflected on his memories, he'd realized the immense advantages of his colossal body while awakening to its downsides during his fight with Cerberus. The serpent tails, dog fangs, and bone-crushing bite of Cerberus were nothing to Heracles' hardened flesh, which had grown numb to such things. Suckled on Hera's milk, his body resisted poisons and was tough—excessively tough.
"Not being able to fight without a club was inconvenient in all sorts of ways."
"That's a problem only you could have."
"Yeah, but clubs have their weaknesses too. Not enough lethality."
"With your strength, you could smash a monster's skull with a club."
"I've seen too many monsters whose skulls don't crack. Most of 'em are Echidna's kids, so it's awkward to put it into words."
The monsters Heracles had faced were mostly offspring of Echidna and Typhon. Typhon was now Adamantia's personal fire-breather and punching bag, but he'd once terrified even Zeus. Echidna, born from the same womb as monsters, had birthed twelve abominations that outclassed all others.
In the "old days" and "now," Heracles had slain or captured them after untold hardships, but the process had been brutal. With so many foes resistant to weapons, his only reliable tool had been his club.
"Never even thought of that. Who'd guess that the brute strength to fell monsters with a club was actually strength that needed a club to hold up?"
"Adamantia, you never dealt with stuff like this?"
"I've been working adamant for ages. If something won't do, I just make it out of adamant."
"Ah, right. You're the goddess of iron and blacksmithing. Must be nice."
Heracles felt a pang of injustice upon learning that Adamantia, whom he'd assumed shared his superhuman woes, had long mastered blacksmithing and sidestepped them entirely. It felt like he was the only one suffering. Without Adamantia there, folks might've seen a musclebound giant bawling his eyes out.
Adamantia patted her poor husband's rear reassuringly. Not long ago, she'd been a virgin goddess, but now such teasing came naturally.
"Aigoo, cheer up, Heracles. Everyone knows how much you've been through. Even Echidna doesn't hold your sins against you—she's a good wife like that."
"...Can't argue with that. Fine, no more whining. Anyway, look—I'm gonna curve the end like this."
"Now it looks like an eagle's beak or a pickaxe. Why this shape?"
"Hm, seemed practical."
Heracles' charcoal sketch of the Warhammer had the head sharply hooked on one side, like a bird's beak or pickaxe. He'd tried replicating a modern pick-like tool from his knowledge but simplified the split tip when his skills fell short. Faced with his adorable wife's earnest question as she stroked her chin, he fumbled for an answer.
But Adamantia wasn't one to let it slide.
"Practical how? Which part? Explain!"
"Uh, yeah... Well..."
"..."
This novel design was new even to the world's greatest smith. Her beautiful blue eyes sparkled with anticipation and wonder. For half a year, Heracles had seemed unreliable, but she unwaveringly believed her lovable husband would pull it off.
Heracles, meanwhile, couldn't admit he'd copied a pickaxe and desperately racked his brain.
"Y-you could smash armor with it."
"It's an iron hammer. Armor’s bronze—you could smash it swinging normally."
"It’d pierce holes! Rip guts, or smash rocks like a real pickaxe. Even against tough armor or scaly hides, slamming this head down would leave 'em wrecked!"
"Ah, yeah, that makes sense. My blind spot, honey."
"And it breaks stone too, so if humans use hammers like this later, it'll be handy beyond war—for mining or breaking stone walls."
"Hmm, intriguing. Imagining humans working iron already? Impressive."
"..."
Heracles was just spouting half-remembered ideas from his past life about war hammers, but to Adamantia, every word sounded fresh and brilliant. Multifunctional tools didn't exist in this Bronze Age; even single-purpose bronze tools were tricky to perfect. His ideas seemed all the more innovative and versatile.
She was especially shocked that he already envisioned humans wielding iron. Unbeknownst to him, his wife's love deepened, while he sweated over contradictions in his pitch.
Luckily, the awestruck Adamantia didn't press further.
Except...
"What a brilliant idea, Heracles! I can't wait to see your masterpiece!"
"Ah..."
Heracles realized his mistake. He was still a novice smith. Layers split, metal cracked or shattered at the slightest mistake, and quenching was beyond him—a total chickling.
Great ideas meant nothing without skill to realize them; the path ahead was thorny.
Yet the goddess of the forge, for whom concepts outshone crafting, gazed at her husband with boundless faith in his genius.
"..."
The hammerhead needed forging tougher than any tool, as it tempered iron itself—a finicky process.
No easy task.
But what could he do? The words were out, spilled milk.
With his wife beaming like a kid eyeing a promised toy, saying "It'll be too hard, so help me!" felt impossible—not just daunting, but humiliating.
In the end, Heracles shouted with reckless abandon.
"Just trust me! Failure's the mother of success! I'll show you how I've grown from all those flops!"
"Yeah! I always believed in you. No backing down—that's so cool. I can't wait! Forge your perfect hammer!"
"Leave it to me!"
Heracles truly wanted to make a Warhammer—no lie there. The issue was doubting he had the skill.
But a man has his pride. He couldn't beg his beloved wife for help or admit defeat.
And so, Heracles plunged into the fiery inferno.