A God on Trial

Judgment: Divine Acquittal (Or, A Farewell to Mars's Long Stay in Cancer)

Dear Claudius,

You asked me to tell this story with a hammer in one hand and a grudge in the other. I had to put one down to write, so you’ll just have to guess which.

Let’s begin with the one they threw away.

Hephaestus, Greek god of blacksmiths, Wikimedia Commons.

He didn’t fall like Lucifer, cast in flames. He was flung, unwanted, from Olympus. Cast off by his mother for the crime of being imperfect. Hephaestus: god of fire, blacksmiths, and artists. Born lame. Disfigured. Hera took one look and hurled him from heaven. Some say it was his father Zeus who did the throwing. Either way, a child, rejected.

He landed not on rock, but in the sea, near Lemnos, where the waves caught him like a broken offering. First raised by Thetis and Eurynome in caverns beneath the water, and later by the Thracians on the island, he grew up among salt and soot. Exiled from Olympus, apprenticed not to gods but to survival, he learnt the language of making.

He began to craft—not for glory, not for vengeance, but to see if he could make beauty with what was left.

In time, his skill became undeniable. He hammered out wonders no one else could: weapons for gods, shields for heroes, jewels, devices, thrones, and traps. It was his hand that shaped the thunderbolts Zeus hurled. His fire that armoured Achilles. The gods summoned him back, not out of remorse, but out of need.

So he made them a chair.

A golden throne for Hera, so lovely she couldn’t resist it, and when she sat, it snapped shut. Bound her fast. His art became her cage. He only released her when they promised him a seat at the table.

He didn’t return to Olympus as the child they cast out; he returned as the god they couldn’t do without.

Menippe mercenavia, the stone-crab, Wikimedia Commons.

Mars has moved in and out of Cancer, retrograding like brine in an open wound, in the sign where he’s at fall, since September 2024. It’s the sign of his struggle—the place where he’s forced to confront his weaknesses and rebuild himself in the fire of rejection.

Think of Hephaestus.

This isn’t a warrior charging into battle. It’s a soldier stitched together after the war. Not the exalted general of Capricorn or the proud contender of Aries. This is Mars when he’s lost the fight and still refuses to quit.

Mars in Cancer isn’t glorious. It’s not neat. It’s the fight you keep quiet. The rage you mute. The wound that doesn’t close but keeps you sharp. It’s the ache of rejection repurposed as resilience. The soft belly hiding the iron jaw.

Hephaestus didn’t make weapons for Olympus out of reverence. He made them because creation was the only language he had left. Because sometimes, building is a better revenge than burning. And while Ares—another face of Mars—burns bright in battle, Hephaestus endures. He stays. He tempers. He makes meaning of the ashes.

So as Mars prepares to leave Cancer, ask yourself: what did you wreak in the fire they left you in? What part of you was tossed aside and still found a way to create? What strength did you uncover in the struggle?

Because planets in their fall aren’t defeated. They’re self-made.

We do not glorify pain. But we listen to it. We do not romanticise rejection. But we learn from it. You can splinter and still hold.

Build the throne they can't escape. Hammer in one hand. Grudge in the other.

Yours in the margins,
Sam