Savior
It always began the same, dark, silent and peaceful. That's when the screaming started. Shrill, terrified screams called for their mother. They were easily silenced. A horrifying cracking sound followed. Bones? Something warm and slick covered his hands, but he continued unaware, unfeeling. An insatiable burning drove his fury on. Into the fire the mangled bundles were tossed unceremoniously. Her maniacal laughter reverberated through his head… fading… slowly fading…
"NO!"
Heracles eyes opened wide in horror. He scanned his dark marble tomb of a bedroom; Hera's laughter still echoing in his ears, his heart pounding against his ribcage painfully. He slowly sat upright, rubbing his sleep deprived, bloodshot eyes and pushing back his golden hair. Cold sweat ran down the nape of his neck, trailing down the deep crevice of his bare, muscular back. How many nights had he re-lived that moment? How many nights of lost sleep, of unbearable sorrow and regret?
"My poor boys!" Heracles whimpered in anguish.
"Oh Zeus, father, hear my prayer! Strike me down where I lay! End my misery with one of your mighty bolts!" Heracles cried burying his tear stained face in his large, battle-worn palms.
The sky rumbled and swirled with dark clouds and lightning crackled in the sky. Heracles looked out his window in wonder. A voice called out to him from the storm.
"Heracles, great warrior; come to me!" The voice called.
"So my wish is to be granted," Heracles kneeled on the cold floor.
"I am ready father! Take me!" Heracles yelled as thunder boomed and a dazzling light surrounded him, hurling him into darkness.
When he finally awoke, Heracles inspected his surroundings. A towering mountain loomed over him, and lush evergreens stood tall around the perimeter of the meadow he was lying in. The air was brisk and filled with the scent of pine and smoke. The sun was slowly sinking into the western horizon leaving a gold and blood red halo behind. This is neither the Elysian Fields nor the depths of Tartarus, Heracles thought to himself. He gingerly rose into a sitting position, massaging his aching skull.
"So, you must be Heracles."
That voice. It was the one that had called to him from the thunderous clouds. A gray haired and long bearded man stood before Heracles. He donned a pointed gray hat and plain gray cloaks. The smoke from his wooden pipe swirled around Heracles making him woozy.
"Well I dare say your appearance does not disappoint! Very strong indeed! I was told you were a great warrior. Your father came to see me and claimed that you were in need of a path. I decided I should bring you here."
"I…I don't understand. W-where is here?" Heracles stammered still discombobulated from his journey.
"All in good time my good fellow. For now know that I am Gandalf and I have brought you here to fight a war to protect the Lonely Mountain, home of the dwarf prince Thorin Oakenshield and his followers.
"Come. We must prepare you. Mead and wild boar are plentiful among the dwarves and men. Help yourself to any sustenance you require. After you have had your fill, come to my tent and we shall find some suitable armor for you."
Heracles did as he was told. Once Gandalf had procured armor for Heracles, he sat him down and brought a rather small, yet regal figure into the modest tent. It was Thorin, King under the Mountain. This powerful dwarf's beard was braided intricately, clasped at the ends with solid gold beads. Thorin's wavy brown hair was streaked with lines of silver gray. His brow was set and stern, his emotions indiscernible, yet his eyes were like windows into his soul. A glance into those blue depths revealed a courageous leader who had known much sorrow in his life. Death, greed and the exodus of his people reflected hauntingly from behind his oceanic eyes.
"So this is the mighty Heracles…You sure he can fight?" Thorin questioned in his deep, authoritative voice. "He looks more like a fisherman than a warrior."
"Why don't you come and find out…" Heracles threatened standing tall, broadsword in hand.
"I like him." Thorin chuckled darkly, smirking under his thick brown beard.
Thorin crossed his stout yet muscular arms over his impressive chest, unfazed by Heracles temper.
"Thorin Oakenshield. Soon to be king of the Lonely Mountain. You fight for me against the goblin and orc scum and I may feel generous enough to line your pockets with our precious gems and gold."
"I don't require reward. I'm not deserving" Heracles sighed.
"This is precisely why I have arranged a deal with your father." said Gandalf. "In exchange for your services in the impending battle, your penance for the murder of your family shall be complete."
"What? No it cannot be! I will be free of my sins? Truly?" Heracles enquired softly.
"Truly" Gandalf replied.
Heracles silently considered the offer. Back in Greece before he had been transported to this strange world, Pythia had given him the offer of completing 10 labors in payment for his sins. Though Heracles was not much for brains, one battle sounded much more agreeable than 10 arduous labors.
"Gentlemen" Heracles said extending his hand, "You've got yourselves a soldier."
Heracles and Thorin grasped forearms closing the contract between them. Both men left Gandalf's tent to prepare for the morning's battle. The encampment was full of men, dwarves and elves, all bustling about, sharpening swords and cleaning armor. Adrenaline and nerves coursed through Heracles as he lay on a mat beneath the stars, waiting for the sun to extend the first rays of her light over the frosty mountaintops. He heard Thorin humming a war song in the distance. The words "Far over the Misty Mountains cold" echoed through Heracles' dreams that night.
For the first time in days, Heracles experienced a full night's sleep. Feeling fully refreshed Heracles stretched and yawned audibly as he awoke. Heracles then walked towards the closest stream. He splashed the frigid water over his face and arms. He pulled out a hunting knife from his belt and began slowly scraping golden stubble off of his prominent chin. Continuing through his shave, Heracles nicked his throat and a few drops of ruby blood silently dripped to the frost covered grass.
"Tis' a bad omen to draw blood before battle" Gandalf said, sneaking up behind Heracles.
Heracles jumped at the sound of Gandalf's voice and took a defensive stance with his knife in hand.
"Dammit Gandalf, don't do that to me!" Heracles said lowering his blade and clutching at his chest, trying to calm himself. "I could have killed you!"
"My dear boy I have lived hundreds of years and fought countless evils in that time. My destiny is not to die here by your hands, that much I can tell you!" Gandalf chuckled.
But then, Gandalf's wrinkled yet ageless face turned very grave and he sighed quietly.
"Come now Heracles, Thorin has requested your presence at the mountain's main gate. It is time."
As Heracles and Gandalf were ascending the mountainside, the attack began. The first warning was sounded by an elven war horn. A great cry rose from the battalions of elves and men on the east flank of the mountain and an even louder clamor arose from the dwarf ranks on the west.
"Take up arms!" Thorin's booming voice rang over the valley.
Heracles placed a heavy iron helmet over his head and unsheathed his broadsword. He wore no other armor beyond chain mail beneath his tunic, for what was death to a man who wished for it daily?
"I know not what an orc or goblin is, but I should like to see what color they bleed!" Heracles mused under his breath.
Thorin glanced at Heracles approvingly, a ferocious gleam in his eye.
"Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!"
Heracles did not know what Thorin said in his native tongue, but it nonetheless spurred the beast within him. Thousands of goblin and orc ranks appeared over the horizon and came running full charge at the waiting lines of elves, dwarves and men. As the opposing waves of bodies collided, the famous Battle of the Five Armies began. Though it was a while before the orcs and goblins reached the main gate of the mountain keep, they arrived sooner than expected. Heracles swung his blade at dizzying speed. Limbs were lopped from bodies, throats were split mercilessly and black blood poured upon the ancient stones of the mountain. Unfortunately, it was not only the enemy's blood that was spilled. Dwarves, men and elves were in disarray, running in aide of their falling comrades. As soon as one wave of orcs or goblins retreated, another quickly took its place. They were fighting a losing battle and Heracles knew it.
Heracles looked about him as frequently as he could. The mountain was still not breeched, but it would not remain so for long. Heracles threw off his helmet and wiped his sweaty brow. Black smut coated his hands from the enemy's blood and it spread across his face like war paint. Heracles himself had only sustained minor wounds to his arms. Others were not so lucky. As Heracles raged on, he caught glimpses of many dying and dead warriors, some of which were of Thorin's trusted company. The deaths of two in particular grieved Heracles greatly. The youngest dwarves, Fili and Kili, Thorin's nephews and heirs to the throne, were struck down while protecting their uncle. Enraged by their deaths, Heracles ran to where they laid and slayed every orc and goblin near their bodies.
Thorin was visibly beginning to slow. His battle garments were stained with blood, both his own and of his enemies. Sweat dripped from his face as he swung wildly at a particularly gruesome orc. Unlike the others, this orc had three heads. Heracles, noticing Thorin's distress ran to his side to battle the mutant. Heracles was able to slice one of the heads off of the hideous beast, but instead of killing it, two new heads grew back in its place. What does he think he is? A hydra? Heracles grumbled to himself. With the two warriors fighting side by side, they were able to block the crazed swings of the mutant orc's giant axe. With his defenses momentarily open, Thorin seized the opportunity and stabbed the mighty beast through the heart, killing him instantly.
Thorin looked over at Heracles gratefully, a faint smile on his lips. Then the smile suddenly vanished, replaced by a terrible grimace of pain. Thorin grunted loudly and grasped his abdomen where Heracles saw blood spreading across Thorin's tunic, the tip of a spear peeking out of his flesh.
"NO!" Heracles cried out in helpless anguish.
Heracles caught Thorin as he fell to the ground, easing him into a laying position. He then stood and faced the dying goblin before him, coughing up blood as it hissed with laughter. Heracles made quick work of him slicing his body in half. Rushing back to his side, Heracles cradled Thorin's head in the crook of his arm. Blood trailed from Thorin's gasping mouth and he clutched the open wound where he had ripped the spear from his body. The light was slowly leaving his soulful eyes, a deep sorrow pooled within them. He would never see his people return to their homeland. He would never sit on his father's throne and rule under the mountain. All the fighting had been for naught. His nephews were dead and could not take the throne in his place. His eyes closed softly, a single tear rolling down his regal face.
Heracles could not bear Thorin's sorrow, and recognizing Thorin's life was fleeting quickly, he called out to Hera and Hades begging them to spare the dwarf king's life. In exchange for Thorin's life Heracles offered his own as collateral. Hera happily accepted his offer and ordered Hades to make the exchange.
A deep pain welled in Heracles' stomach. He gritted his teeth against the agony and watched as his demigod blood began to pour his abdomen, identical to Thorin's wound. He then looked down at Thorin's pale and bloodied face, the tear drop still resting on his check. The color began returning to his cheeks and his eyes fluttered. The gaping hole in his abdomen sealed shut, the blood stained cloth around it the only reminder of the wound. Heracles released Thorin from his arms as the dwarf sat up. Bleeding profusely, Heracles propped himself on one strong arm. For once, his strength would not be enough to save him, but he was ready for death and welcomed it gratefully.
"Heracles, I owe you my life. I can never repay you" Thorin said resting his hand on Heracles shoulder gently. "Your praises will be sung in this world for generations to come. My people and I will always remember you and give thanks to you for what you have done on this day."
Heracles smiled weakly and whispered, "I am free! Finally free! It is I who should thank you, brother."
"I wish you a quick journey to Mahal's deep caverns, my friend! Sleep peacefully, brother."
Thorin kissed Heracles forehead, blessing his journey to the realm of the dead. Heracles then laid down looking into the boundless, open sky. His vision dimmed then went dark, Thorin's soft singing echoing in his final living thoughts. To this day, the Heirs of Durin pay homage to the mighty hero Heracles, without whom their benevolent king Thorin would not have lived to rule the greatest kingdom in middle earth.