Atonement is a glorious thing. To own up to one's errors and strive to correct them is among the greatest accomplishments one can claim. But Hercules took it to the next level. As humanity expanded, establishing more and more outposts, the conflict between man and beast raged to new levels, with the outposts and beats locked in constant war. Hercules, and all his immense strength, was charged with protecting the most vulnerable of these outposts. And he failed, so lost in battle lust he neglected his duty. But he was offered a chance to atone. By whom I know not, but he seized it with vigor only the lord of strength could. And reminded us, that no matter the sins heaped upon us, there is always a path to atonement. For us and for them.
Hercules tore through the beast like fire through an empty field.
Their futile attacks bounced off his iron muscles and their terrified sounds fell upon deaf ears. Their bodies failed to even slow the lord of strength as he burst through them in bloody showers. Ahead, the rest of the creatures, a herd of flesh-eating horses, radiating auras of hunger and consumption, fled, desperately trying to outpace the crimson figure at their tail. Hercules finished off the last of the stragglers with a punch that made it burst like a popped wineskin, before turning his gaze to the rest.
A smile crept across his face, its pearly white a sharp contrast with his blood-drenched form and crimson eyes. He crouched down, eyes intent upon his prey. The few patches of his body uncovered by blood flexed tanned muscles.
The world seemed to stand still as the ever-moving titan absorbed all the world’s movement into himself.
Then, with a mighty roar, he jumped.
The ground underneath him, once a pristine steppe, shattered into chunks as he soared through the air, blood streaming behind him, revealing a perfectly sculpted body, rippling with violent intent.
He landed in the middle of them like a cannonball, breaking their graceful legs and sending their broken bodies flying.
Then he was upon them. A swung arm severed head from body. A raised knee, shattered ribs. An open-handed slap popped one like a crimson pinata, showering the rest with its innards. Hercules turned into a blur, so lost in the music of violence he needn't consider his next move.
And then it was over, leaving a triumphant Hercules in a field of corpses. He was panting, not from exhaustion, but from the pure excitement, the pure pleasure of the battle. He looked at his stained fists, wondering how any of his siblings could bear to use weapons when they were born with the greatest weapons of all.
But as his adrenaline faded, Hercules found himself dissatisfied. This had been no battle. A slaughter maybe, but no battle. He remembered the days walking the line between life and death, where every breath had been a struggle and every kill hard-fought.
He missed the challenge.
So he stalked deeper into the wild, in search of one who could finally match him.
—--------------------------------------.
Smoke rose in the distance, bringing hints of the near past with it. Hercules’ brow wrinkled in irritation. He thought he had told those stupid kids to not light any fires. He sped up, heedless of the trees knocked over in his rush. The outpost had been carved into a mountain through the hard work of one of Hephas’ sons, and Hercules loved it, though he wasn't so happy about the forest surrounding its front. He made a point of showing that to the forest every time he returned. He figured that sooner or later it would all be gone and the outpost would finally be perfect
His feet pounded the loamy ground, leaving craters in his wake, which were soon obscured by the falling trees. He opened his mouth, and in a voice loud enough to wake the dead, yelled, “CHILDREN! I’M HOME!”
That usually got a few surprised squeals and sighs of exasperation, but this time no such reactions wandered to Hercules waiting ears. He frowned, wondering if they were mad at him. He was supposed to be watching them at all times afterall, but he figured they could handle themselves.
Still, a seed of worry warmed its way into his heart, and he picked up the space, felling trees at an even more prodigious rate. Soon he came to a familiar area, one populated with more fallen trees than intact ones, a convergence zone of his past entrances, and high above it, clearly visible in the lacking canopy, was a dark cloud.
Heart racing, Hercules released the last restraints on his strength and burst forward, space warping around the power of his sculpted body. A few tremendous leaps brought him to the outpost.
Or what once was the outpost.
Its mighty gates were cracked and shattered, fragmented mosaics of men slaying beasts scattered all about. The mighty cliff the outpost was built in stood strong, but plumes of smoke escaped the various windows and openings.
“CHILDREN!” Hercules roared, loud enough to shake the stone, “WHERE ARE YOU?”
When no answer graced his roar, he charged into the smoky outpost, only for a wisp of smoke slithering by his nose to bring him to a trembling stop.
The smell of burning flesh was hard to forget.
Panicked now, he tore through the halls, passing blood stains and shattered carvings in ceaseless pursuit of that terrible smoke. They seemed to be leading to one of the back exits, and for a moment, hope filled his heart, only to be dashed as he was forced to turn deeper into the outpost.
Finally, he stood before the doors to the great hall, which were surprisingly intact despite their carvings having been scratched away by some great claw. Smoke escaped over the top of the door in long streams. Hercules hesitated momentarily, scared of what he would find, before steeling his heart and pushing the doors open.
A wall of black smoke struck him like a physical force, the horrible smell pressing down on him with a weight greater than anything he'd ever felt. He wanted nothing more than to turn around, to leave and never come back, To pretend that these halls were untouched and that this had been nothing more than a dream.
But he was the lord of strength, and strength was about more than slaying mighty foes.
With a deep, choking breath, he began to windmill his arms, slow at first, but increasingly faster until they became a blur. The smoke rushed out of the room in a black river, leaving behind black-stained walls, all devoid of the intricate carving that had once covered them. Hercules took in the hall slowly, noting the clawed-away carving and chattered tables. Even Pristina’s sculptures had been reduced to mere rubble.
Finally, when he could delay no more, he turned his head to the center of the grand hall.
And there, sitting quietly in the hall that had once rang with such joy, was a pile of charred bodies. Even charred beyond recognition, Hercules could still recognize them.
The small dagger clutched to Heraen's chest.
The crooked set of Jayat’s arm.
The missing tooth in Agin’s smile.
One by one, he took them in, the children he had been supposed to protect. The children that had trusted him to protect them. The children he had loved, and the children that had loved him. The children he had failed.
Then finally, he came to the most painful of all.
Hyalla, fists clenched even in death.
His son.
He didn't know how long he stood staring, the weight of his failure pressing down upon him. The weight of his mistakes.
If only he’d been stronger, the beast would have not existed to do this.
If only he’d been faster he could have made it here in time.
If only he’d been wiser then he would never have left them.
If only he’d been kinder, then he could have taught them the art of war.
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If only he’d been better, then they would still live.
He fell to his knees with an echoing thud, the sound resounding through the room as his strength failed him for the first time in his life. He had dealt with loss before, but this loss had been entirely his fault.
Entirely of his making.
And under the weight of that knowledge, he crumbled.
He could feel the path he had painstakingly forged for himself trembling under that realization, and in an attempt to cling to its deteriorating essence, he thrust a weak fist into the ground.
An ember of rage deep within him flared.
He struck again, a bit harder this time.
It flared brighter.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Then he was mercilessly pounding the floor, feeling grief transform into an all-consuming blaze, setting him alight even as it brought down the outpost Izikel had so painstakingly built.
The cliff above could no longer take the punishment, and with a rumbling roar, it collapsed upon Hercules, burying him next to the corpses of his charges.
He continued to punch, lost in his rage, his windups destroying the stone above him and his blows the stone below him.
It was only hours later, after rage had run its course, leaving him with hollow nothing, did he stop.
And in the dark, accompanied by nothing but the bodies of those he had failed, Hercules, Lord of Strength, closed his eyes and embraced the dark.
—-------------------------------------------------
When the sun rose the next morning, bathing the world in the light of new, Hercules was still buried. And when the sun set, he stayed buried.
The next day failed to unearth him.
And so did the day after that.
A week found another of the lesser generations, weeping over the fallen stronghold of his brothers. Hercules began to stir, but before he could fully awaken, the young man fled on streaks of crackling lightning.
Week after week, his penance continued, the weight of the earth complementing the weight of his mistakes. It was strangely familiar to me, a feeling tickling just out of reach of my waking mind. So I watched, reaching for something in the deep past even as the present played out before my eyes.
Time blended together, the sun turning into an orange streak across an ever changing sky. In distant battles, man and beast alike died, pierced by claw and fang and sword, the ground thirstily drinking in their blood.
Yet in the peaceful pile of rubble, the Lord of Strength still slumbered.
A year passed with no change.
Then another.
Then another.
The feeling was so tantalizing close I could almost touch it, a flicker in the corner of my eyes, visible if only I could turn fast enough.
Another year passed.
I reached out, simultaneously a divine being in the heavens above and a mortal man, struggling for salvation in the bowels of the earth.
And I touched it.
Something came to me. It was faint, nothing more than a series of vague feelings, separated from the context that generated them.
But It was enough.
I remembered the dark, the crushing weight of failure and responsibility. I remembered atonement, a bloody dagger run over my shriveled body each day, a reminder of my failures. I remembered arrows, working their way into my flesh, parallel to dim understanding working its way into my mind.
And I remembered light, driving back the light with new purpose.
I remembered a hand, reaching out in the light.
The glare faded and before me stood…
The scene faded to static, leaving me frustrated and irritated.
Still, as I gazed at Hercules’ prone form, empathy wormed into me. I had once been there, even if the memory had long since returned to dust. But some things could not be forgotten, and I remembered the dark well.
But I also remembered the light.
With a thought, I stepped through the barrier separating the heavens and earth, bridging the distance between my outpost and the mortal world. As I stepped my power folded into itself, hiding its presence from the fragile mortal world.
My bare foot, met sharp rocks, and they shattered before my might. I was atop the ruins of Hercules’ outpost, a sea of broken rock for as far as the eye could see. The sky was clear and blue, the noon sun high overhead. I looked around, noting the mountains in the distance and forest ahead, but mostly marveling at the hands I held in front of myself.
It had been many years since I had assumed human form and strangely enough I had assumed the same form I had once assumed to greet my first children.
I was tall, with rich chocolate skin and a smooth hairless head. Lean muscles covered my body, lining my arms and legs. But most striking was my brilliant azure eyes. Like something had carved chunks out of the sky and shoved them into my head.
It was familiar and comfortable, like slipping into one's own bed after an eternity of traveling.
But I had not come to admire myself. I could sense Hercules, hundreds of feet below, stirring in my presence. I began to pick up and toss rocks aside, taking pleasure from the simple physical task. The distance between us began to shrink, and in response to my presence I felt the last few embers of Hercules’ path flare, unwilling to go down without a fight, even with his brokenness.
Then the mountain of his failures reasserted itself and quenched the last embers of his spirit.
I picked up the pace, and when I finally broke into the chambers, I found Hercules looking at me with dead eyes. He was filthy and shriveled, with even the inches of dust covering him falling to restore him to his original stature.
He was a shadow of the man he had once been, only alive due to the last embers of his path refusing to give in.
I cleared my through, and spoke, voice rusty from eons of disuse.
“Hercules” I rasped, “Enough. Your family awaits above. If you must atone, do it in service to them”
He did not stir.
I tried again. “Hercules. Your family bleeds above without you. WIll you leave them to die?”
A twitch of his fists. I had struck a nerve.
I tried once more, this time seeking that nerve. “Hercules, have you not already slain enough with your incompetence?”
A clenched fist.
“Is this what it means to be the Lord of Strength, cowering in a cave while your people die alone?”
Those embers flared again, and for a second I thought I had done it, only to witness that mountain once more extinguish the embers. I need no more proof.
Words would not be enough.
I pondered for a while, searching for a solution. Rays of light streamed through the tunnel I had carved, setting the floating dust afire. It made me think of the light of another day, when a hand had lifted me from the dark. One second, I was looking down at Hercules’ prone form, ringed in light, and the next I was that prone form, kneeling in defeat as another stretched out a hand. The light was there, illuminating my surroundings, though they remained too blurry for me to make out.
And it burned, searing truth into me.
Once more that hand stretched itself towards me, but faded to static before I could grasp it, once more leaving looming over Hercules.
But that was ok. I had my answer.
I walked over to Hercules, put a hand on his unresponsive shoulder, and punched him hard enough to send him through dozens of feet of solid stone.
The awakening, the enlightenment was never pain free. In fact, it almost always burns forcing the mind to acclimate to new truths. If Hercules would not take my word, then I would sear the truth into him with the language he understood best.
Strength.
I strode into the trench his body had carved, commanding it to enlarge around me so I could fit. I could feel Hercules’ shock, feel him struggling to reassert himself to face this challenge. But I could also feel the weight reasserting itself, and pressing down with unyielding will.
So I struck him again, this time harder, watching as his body burst through the top of the rubble, soaring into the sky. This time, he managed to recover enough to rotate in air, landing on one knee.
“Wh-”
I struck him again, watching as he tumbled and bounded along the ground, leaving pulverized stone and trees in his wake. Finally, gaining a bit of his power back, he flipped and stuck his hands into the ground, leaving two long furrows in order to bring himself to a halt.
His path blazed brightly now, shining with indignation and rage so bright it held back even the weight for the time being. He let out a guttural roar and charged, fists leading his massive leap. I smoothly ducked under his strike, and struck back, the movement coming as if instinct.
Hercules managed to arrest his momentum immediately, only sliding back a few feet, before charging back.
Into the beating of lifetime.
It mattered not how hard he struck, how fast he moved.
I struck harder, I moved faster.
And in my fists I conveyed all the things that words could never.
Let go, my fists whispered they are gone. Do not bury yourself with them.
I must atone! His sobbed, I must suffer the weight of my actions.
No, Mine proclaimed, suffering is not the way to atonement.
THEN WHAT IS! His howled.
Observe. And learn.
The raw nature of grief and guilt poured out of me in a series of slow rolling punches, rapidly chipping down his surging momentum.
Next came retribution, a series of vicious raging blows that sent Hercules stumbling and rocks flying.
The nature of the lonely black followed, ineffective in its stationary blows, striking nothing.
Then came acceptance, a series of moves undefined, freed from the grief, perfectly suited for the situation, made to achieve what the grief and retribution could not.
Hercules fought back, pitting his truth against mine. But I had been here before, even if I couldn't remember, and the lessons had stayed with me. Every brutal argument was rebutted, and every attempt at retreating to apathy crushed.
Still he fought, refusing to yield that darkness.
So I showed him the end, what could become of such a path.
Atonement. Redemption. To be worthy once more. To be proud once more.
My body became light, and shedding my mortal form once more I struck with the force of god, filling my fist with that unfettered atonement, that divine forgiveness. And just like how such forgiveness washes away the pain, my blow washed away Hercules' resistance.
When the shockwave faded and the light dimmed, Hercules' smoking, mortally wounded body stared up at me with groggy eyes, desperately trying to crawl out of the massive crater he lay in. Then he slumped forward and fell unconscious.
I looked down at him, and sighing, ascended back to the heavens.
I had helped him enough.
The rest was up to him.