Herakles and the unexpected
I changed the story of Herakles' mortal death slightly to have it fit better into my story.
He couldn't help wondering what would have happened if it all had turned out different that day so long ago. If he hadn't agreed upon letting that idiot centaur Nessos give his beloved Deianeira a ride on his back over the perilous whitewaters of the river Euenos and if the centaur hadn't been both stupid and horny enough to try to rape his beloved. Nessos had barely reached the shore when he flung Deianeira down on the sandy shore and begin tearing at her peplos with his eager hands, not bothering with her cries of protest or the fact that Herakles was standing on the opposite shore. Herakles had killed the satyr of course. Shot him with a well-aimed arrow which hit right in the troth of the bastard, severing the main artery to the brain. The moron had been dead even before the terrified and enraged Deianeira had pushed his dirty hands off her voluptuous body - end of story. Or at least that was what Herakles had thought.
What he didn't know was that the centaur had lived long enough to give Deianeira what he claimed was a love potion. A magic liquid which would make every man exposed to it falling in love with her. The only thing Deianeira had to do, Nessos assured, was to mix the potion with approximately 6 oz of her own blood, pour it all over some garment and then hand it over for the man she desired and having him wearing it next to his body. And when he complied he would become hers forever.
Hearing this Deianeira had accepted the gift of the tiny flask, kept it with her and more or less forgot about it for years and years, while she and Herakles made themselves a lovely home and started a family. After all Deianeira did trust her Herakles and their love more than anything. He had never let her down, he had always been there for the children, caring for them and providing with a good life, even they weren't overly rich. But he was kind and well liked, and that fame spilled over on her and the children as well. So perhaps the flask would had stayed forgotten if it wasn't for the case that Deianeira, as the years wore on, had started to suspect that Herakles was looking at other women, no - doing more than looking at other woman. And especially at...
Deianeira's vivid imagination had invented paranoid stories and she had started to see things that weren't. She had believed that Herakles was tiring of her as she was aging and graying, her skin losing its luster and her body slowing down, fleshing out and starting to sag. She wasn't a fit twenty-something anymore, she had carried four children and it showed. And it scared her. As if Herakles wasn't seeing the same development happening to himself. He was now past fifty, the formerly so strong hero was suffering from pain in his knees and ankles and his eye-sight was faulting. On top of that he was balding fast these days, those famous, blond curls became traded in for graying wisps that he could as well do without and in the end the hero had shaved his head completely.
No, Herakles was not the horny old fart who was looking at young girls. He knew he stood no chance. Perhaps someone would take him for his fame, but that kind of 'love' was nothing he desired. And money he had very little of these days, they hadn't been rich to begin with and then most of it had gone to education of the children and to keeping the house in shape. Besides, what would he have in common with a young bimbo? He wanted to age with Deianeira, he wanted to enjoy the golden years with his beloved, anticipating the arrival of grandchildren. He wanted to sit in the shadow with a cup of wine watching Deianeira tend her beloved garden and perhaps talk a bit. Those was the years he looked forward to, not trying to keep up with a twenty year old.
But it was not to be. None of Herakles dreams were meant to be, and all because of a wile centaur and his wife's paranoid jealousy.
These days the old hero had taken up peace negotiations, he almost constantly met kings, queens and other rulers around the Hellas, straightening out quarrels and disagreements, listening and giving advices. Using his name and reputation to have people listening to his advices and solutions. What was to become the very last of those many trips took him to the young queen Iole of Likaros. Queen Iole feared her two neighboring countries, which according to her spies were planning to take advantage of Likaros being lead by a young and inexperienced queen and thus invade the little kingdom, overpower it and split it between themselves. Therefore Iole had turned to Herakles for help and he travelled to Likaros to try to find a peaceful solution between the three kingdoms.
Meanwhile Deianeira had heard the extensive talk about queen Iola's beauty, and now she feared that Herakles would be enticed not only by the young queen's looks but also by her position. Deianeira dreaded that her husband would be tempted to stay in Likaros even after his work was done. Thus blinded by her jealousy she couldn't see clear, it didn't even cross her mind that the beautiful Iola might not be the slightest interested in bald old Herakles besides for pure professional reasons. Neither did it occur to Deianeira, when she remembered the magic potion, that the long gone centaur could be setting her up from beyond his grave, taking revenge for his death in the meanest of ways. No, in the mind of Deianeira existed only the fear of losing her husband Herakles. To be left alone and lonely, rejected and cast by the wayside, 'traded in for a newer model' as the saying went.
So she went to her cabinet and after searching a while among old love letters, children's drawings, recipes, jewelry gone out of fashion and stacked away money she found the flask almost to the back of a small, locked drawer containing mostly of odd buttons, bird feathers, gathered sea-shells and smooth little stones, things she sometimes wondered why she saved. But there it was, a tiny flask of matte ink-blue glass, roughly made and not really eye-catching. Deianeira couldn't remember when she had paid attention to it the last time, or what she might have thought - perhaps about throwing it away - but now it came to use. She recalled what Nessos the centaur had told her to do, and even if it did touch her mind that the failed rapist might not have been completely honest, she was so immersed in her misdirected jealousy that she dismissed those thoughts faster than they were given room in her brain.
Deianeira had saved a tunic as a welcome-home gift for Herakles, now she decided to send it as a gift with a courier to her husband instead. To really make sure he got it before he lost himself in the emerald eyes of Queen Iola. But prior to that she poured the containment of the blue flask into a bowl and after that she took a tiny dagger and cut herself in her hand and let it bleed until it filled a cup of 6 oz. It really hurt, but she tried to think of how much it might hurt if Herakles left her. Compared to that a pain in the hand paled almost to nothing.
When that was done she mixed the containment in the bowl and finally she spilled the liquid over the tunic, which was fortunately black as tar, so no stains would be visible. It was almost as if she had known when she selected it… subconsciously… It smelled foul but that didn't stop her. Magic stuff was supposed to smell foul, wasn't it? And the worse it smelt the more potent it was, right?
The last thing was gift-wrapping the tunic and then Deianeira sent it with a fast courier to Likaros, hoping the young horse girl would make it in time.
And you might say it did. The gift from Deianeira arrived in due time for the wrapping up party. A peace treaty had been signed between the three kingdoms in the Temple of Eternal Zeus as tradition was, and with witnesses from several other neighboring countries, to guarantee that it remained kept. When Herakles unpacked the magnificent outfit he thanked his wife in his heart, reminding himself to bring her a gift as precious back from Likaros before he left. He already had a bagful but at that time it didn't feel enough. He was so glad to have something stately to wear at the wrap-up party. Something new, to show that he was a wealthy man, able to afford new outfits on every important night.
Smiling he put the tunic on and indulged in a few moments of admiring himself in the mirror before he descended the stairs to the waiting party, trailed by his company of scribes and bodyguards. Yet there was nothing a bodyguard could possibly do to save Herakles now. Little did they know what was awaiting their employer. And that they would stand helpless failing to protect him from the approaching danger. No one suspected a thing while Herakles engaged in the party, drank, ate and laughed, receiving praises, handshakes and back-pats from every corner or the grand room. The hero of the night. A hero again, just like in the old days, although of a different kind this time. A hero of wisdom and cunning mind rather than bravery and strength.
=O=O=O=
It started as a slight itch. Nothing more than an irritating sensation between his shoulder blades. Herakles so wanted to scratch himself but he couldn't do so in public, so he endured one speech more boring than the next when what he really wanted to was to go behind a pillar and grind his back against the sharp marble edges that made up the tree-inspired, striped pattern. So as soon as protocol made it possible he excused himself and went into the men's room, not to relieve himself but scratch the itch. It didn't help. If possibly he made it worse!
He thought he stayed a quarter of an hour in the men's room, trying to rid himself of the itch. In the end he tore off the tunic and splashed cold water on the back from the commode standing beside the basin. That made it feel slightly better if only for a short while. Cursing Herakles put on his tunic again and returned to the reception. And the itch returned as well. So unlike himself he excused himself early that night, and almost ran up the winding stairs to his room, decided to sleep it off. He also sent for an amphora of wine, hoping that the beverage would dull his discomfort.
Perhaps if he had gotten the tunic off earlier the hero would have gotten away with something like a hard sunburn. Now the toxic elements had been having their good time to sink into his skin, infecting not only the cellular structure but poisoning the blood as well. That made it too late for anyone to possibly save Herakles from his bitter faith.
The wine didn't help, far from it. It actually made the pain worse. Now the itch had turned into a burning, tormenting pain. First it remained Herakles of when he had gotten his back too sunburned in the desserts of Libya on the way to Atlas and the Hesperian apples and he longed for Deianeira to be there and spread some cooling aloe vera over his hurting back. But his wife was not around and there was no one else he could ask. That was not an enquiry to turn to a bodyguard with without receiving several risen eye brows. Besides, there was probably no aloe vera around…
Soon the pain was starting to spread from his back and down his buttocks and tights and then across the shoulders and over his torso too, smoldering and burning in a way that made the demigod almost wonder if there would be smoke evaporating from his upper body. Herakles cursed and tried to smear wine on his skin in a futile attempt to dull the pain. It took all his might to keep him from crying out loud.
=O=O=O=
Downstairs the party had ended more or less directly after the guest of honor had left. The queen had excused herself and returned to her chambers, pondering that there seemed to have been something wrong with the old hero. He had been absent-minded and behaved almost like something was troubling him. Could he have received bad news from home? Could his wife be ill, queen Iola wondered. She remembered how Herakles had told about his love for his wife, promising her that she would one day meet a man who loved her as dearly and trustingly as he loved his Deianeira. Iola had got tears in her large eyes upon hearing that. True love was so wonderful and so rare. It wasn't often Aphrodite's blessings were enduring, Iola thought, remembering her own parents' constant fighting.
=O=O=O=
Down in the courtyard an adolescent voice could be heard:
"It's one hour after midnight and all is well in the kingdom of Likaros."
But it wasn't. Not for Herakles, his skin was on fire and he was watching blisters form like he had been burnt by flames. Horrified he watched the skin blackening and peeling off in a pain like thousands of tortures. What was this? Unable to stand it anymore he put on a cloak and rushed out of the castle and ran down to the harbour. Those he met backed off in fear, terrified by his contorted face and the raging madness burning in his eyes. Only one man had stopped, the royal medic. He understood, he knew the symptoms.
"Poison," he had whispered to himself. "Someone has poisoned the negotiator. Who could have done such a terrible thing? And why? And Zeus bless us, this is really bad news!"
The medic wondered if he should wake the queen, but decided to wait until the morning. After all there was nothing Iola could do to change anything at this moment. Herakles was dying, slowly and painfully, and the medic wondered why someone had wished him such a wile death. A dagger in the side would have done the job quick and efficient.
"Perhaps it's old grudges," he said to himself, pouring himself his well needed sleeping drug. "Surely a man like Herakles must have plenty of enemies around."
Meanwhile Herakles had reached the shore side, and crazed from pain he threw off his cloak and dived into the ice cold winter sea. The shore side was deserted in the late of the night, so no one saw the beast with blackened skin diving into the waves, no one understood that it was Herakles, his blood on fire as well as his skin now, while he tried to save himself from the pain by diving deep down in the seemingly endless black. All he wanted now was relief, relief from the tatarian pain, even if that relief meant death. He was beyond wondering who had done this to him now, although he had earlier understood that this was no illness or accident, this was a terrible way to kill him.
Now the son of Zeus thought nothing at all. He barely recognized hitting the surface of the sea and how the cold water enveloped him and began to pull him down into the endless blackness…
=O=O=O=
He woke up on a beach, sand stinging his cheek and tickling inside his nostrils. He had no idea how he had got there or why. First there was nothing. Nothing but here and now. The sand against his cheek, the sound of soft waves kissing the beach, the smell of salty sea water and the chilly darkness of night around him. The chill felt comforting…. Why?
Then there was recollections. They came as he was forced to sneeze. He had been in Likaros. Negotiating a peace, when… The last thing he could remember was excusing himself to go to the men's room at the Likarosan fare-well reception. After that everything had turned into a painful blackness of throbbing insanity. A burning and never ending nightmare of tartarian torture! A walk of madness on death's edge. And now what…?
Herakles had no idea how long he laid immobile in the sand. The only thing he knew was that he was feeling strange, awareness faltering. Like he was there but not really there. Like all the things around him were seen and felt trough a milky haze of dullness. The sand didn't really feel like sand but more soft, more even. Even if it tickled and itched him it didn't really seem to reach his sensitive parts of the skin. He could smell salt and sea weed, but it felt more like a memory of a smell than a real sensation. The sound of the sea was muted as if his ears were plugged and the dark of the night held a strange, bluish light to it. Like moonlight but more ambient, coming from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. As if it really wasn't dark.
Next he realized he was hearing something else beside the waves. It sounded almost like - music. Very very faint music. No, not really music, but simple tunes which was falling and rising, repeating themselves, like they had been playing like this for eternity. Softly and slowly and barely audible, resounding more in his mind than from the outside. It was impossible to decide what was making it - not a flute nor a lyre but something in between. Herakles had never heard anything remotely like it. Still, that music was beautiful beyond comprehension and he felt like he could lie there in the sand and listen to it for all eternity.
"I must be dead." That was the really first clear though passing through Herakles' mind. "Whatever happened in Likaros it killed me." Oddly enough the notion didn't scare or despair him, it didn't even sadden him. He just - thought it out loud, as if his senses were dulled too. That music? Was this the land down under? Was this the Hades? Was it the shores of Styx where he was resting now?
Soon curiosity got the better of him. Herakles had always, as long as he could remember, been driven by a never slaking desire to find out more about things. If this was the down under he sure wanted to see what it was like. He found that it felt the same to rise as it had felt - before. When he was - alive? He was still aware of how his hand touched the sand and pushed against it to raise him up. He still had knees and legs, even if they felt a bit rubbery, and he noted that he had got sand on his tights and he brushed it off, felt his hands working the way they used to. The texture of sand and of skin seemed similar, although not exactly the same. As if his tactile organs were somehow dulled too. At the same time he was sensing a kind of vertigo while standing up, like the world had tilted. Mystified he looked around.
Sure, it looked very much like an ordinary beach and there was an ordinary moon slowly setting over the horizon to the left. "West," he thought, as if assuming that the moon behaved the same way down under as it was doing in the world of the living. If this was down under of course. He wasn't so sure anymore. It looked a bit too much like an ordinary little island in an ordinary nighttime Aegean. A tiny, rocky, desolate and uninhibited place. Herakles could still hear the extraordinary music and since he could think of nothing better to do he decided to find out where it came from. Accordingly he started to walk up the beach, trying to home in on the soft tunes. To no avail, the music seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. As if it was a part of this place just as much as the air. As was that strange blue light, which didn't felt as prominent anymore. Not as it had when he woke up.
Instead there was another light, a more familiar one, shining in the corner of his eye. Orange and flickering. Firelight. There was a campfire burning not far from here. Campfires meant people, and thus company, he thought. And Herakles felt he needed company really bad now. Someone to talk to, even if that person probably had no clue about what Herakles was doing here and how he had gotten here. The hero turned and started walk towards the fire, up a narrow and stony path. For some reason he found that no matter how dark it had became he knew just where to put his feet to not stumble on the uneven ground, and that felt odd and confusing and at the same time comforting.
In front of the fire with the back turned to him was a cloaked and hooded person, sitting on a stone and looking at the crackling flames. The person showed no sign of having noted the approaching Herakles. Yet when he was within hearing distance the person - a woman, he noted - told him to come and sit down by the fire.
"So, Herakles," the woman said. "Your life finally brought you here." There was something familiar with her dark, almost sensual voice, but Herakles failed to recognize what. "Put the cloak on and sit down, son of Zeus."
As the woman nodded slightly to her left Heracles nodded a dark purple cloak, almost black, lying on the log next to her. That made him realize that he was stark naked and he blushed slightly at the comprehension before he heeded her command and pulled the cloak to him and swept around himself, fastening it with an ornate clasp of silver around his neck. The cloak seemed form-fit to him, it fell around his large body as if it was tailored exactly to be as flattering and comfortable as possible. A short moment later Herakles sat down on the log, not next to the woman but a bit away, felt the gnarled tree against his bare tights.
Something in her commanding tone told him she had been expecting him and that she knew exactly the reason for him to be in this strange place and what was going to happen next. That made him feel a bit uncomfortable. He wasn't afraid, but his life had taught him to be cautious. Especially among strangers who's powers and intentions he knew nothing about. They might be friendly but they might as well be hostile. And with this hooded woman he couldn't tell. No one had called him son of Zeus in ages. That was a part of his life he really didn't want to be reminded of. The faceless stranger who had fathered him upon his mother, and thus cursed both her and him with the wrath of Hera.
They sounded stupid, he knew it, the three questions he asked the stranger, but at the same time he guessed they were expected.
"What is this place and what am I doing here? And who are you?"
"You might have guessed by now that this is not the underworld." the woman said. "As to who I am - consider me a messenger for the time being. A negotiator if you like. "
"For what?"
"For you - to choose."
"Chose what?"
"You can come home - or you can go home."
"What?" Herakles wrinkled his brow. "What kind of strange choice is that?"
"The one you have to make before daybreak. You only have a limited amount of time, son of Zeus."
"Are you an oracle or something? At least you speak like one."
"No, I am not."
"Then who are you?"
"Let me explain," the hooded woman began. "You should have died there yonder in Likaros. And you might yet. Let's say that this is a meantime, where you linger between life and death. Because your life - your very soul hangs in a balance right now. "
"What are you talking about, what kind of balance? I mean either you die or you don't."
"Not your kind. For you it's not that simple."
"My kind?"
"The demigods. All of you eventually reach a point in life where you can chose between life and death. Where you can chose to become gods, to live forever young, and walk this world and other dimensions for all eternity. Or you can choose to return to your mortal circle of life, to age and die and enter the Hades, have your soul cleaned of memories and pain and eventually become reborn, remembering nothing of your former life."
"Do all the people do that?"
"What?"
"Reincarnate."
"Yes. But we are not here to talk about that now. We're here to talk about your choice."
"I can become a god?"
"Yes. And that's not always bliss, even if the mortals think so. With divinity comes responsibility beyond comprehension, and sometimes a gods life is tenfold harder than a mortal's, because there's no opt-out. No retirement and no relief in death. But you are the son of Zeus himself, you should be able to negotiate a good deal for yourself, should you chose that path in life."
"Or I die. Here and now?"
"Not necessary. You may notice that your body carry no traces anymore of the venom which burnt you and poisoned your blood. If you so chose I can send you back again, to your mortal life. To your family and friends and duties."
"To Deianeira?"
"Yes, to Deianeira. But what you must know is that she was the one who killed you."
