Meanwhile Thetis came to the house of Hephaestus, imperishable, star-bespangled, fairest of the abodes in heaven. She found him sweating with toil as he moved about his bellows, finishing twenty tripods with golden wheels so they might run of their own motion to the gathering of the gods and return again — a wonder to see.
Charis of the shining veil, whom the famous lame god had married, came forward, took Thetis by the hand, seated her on a silver-inlaid chair with a footstool under her feet, and called Hephaestus from the forge.
The mighty god left his anvil, wiped sweat from face and hands and thick neck and shaggy breast with a sponge, put on a tunic, took a stout staff, and came hobbling out, while golden handmaids made by his own craft moved to support their master.
He honored Thetis because she and Eurynome had once saved him when Hera threw him from Olympus in shame at his lameness. He seated himself beside her, took her hand, and asked why she had come; if he could accomplish it, he would do it.
Thetis wept and told him Zeus had tried her with more affliction than any goddess on Olympus: she alone of the sea powers had been given to a mortal husband, and she had borne a son short-lived and peerless, who now sat grieving for a comrade killed in the armor Hector had stripped.
She asked Hephaestus for a shield and helmet and fine greaves fitted with clasps, and a corselet. What Achilles had was lost when his true companion fell, and Hector wore it now. Hephaestus told her to take heart. He could not hide her son from death when dread fate took him, but there would be fine armor for him — such as many a man would marvel at, whoever saw it.