Warning.
Extreme Violence and other possibly triggering moments.

I am not unaware that many difficulties beset those who undertake to give an account of the ancient myths, and especially is this true with respect to the myths about Heracles.
For as regards the magnitude of the deeds which he accomplished it is generally agreed that Heracles has been handed down as one who surpassed all men of whom memory from the beginning of time has brought down an account; consequently it is a difficult attainment to report each one of his deeds in a worthy manner and to present a record which shall be on a level with labours so great, the magnitude of which won for him the prize of immortality.
Furthermore, since in the eyes of many men the very early age and astonishing nature of the facts which are related make the myths incredible, a writer is under the necessity either of omitting the greatest deeds and so detracting somewhat from the fame of the god, or of recounting them all and in so doing making the history of them incredible.
For some readers set up an unfair standard and require in the accounts of the ancient myths the same exactness as in the events of our own time, and using their own life as a standard they pass judgment on those deeds the magnitude of which throw them open to doubt, and estimate the might of Heracles by the weakness of the men of our day, with the result that the exceeding magnitude of his deeds makes the account of them incredible.
For, speaking generally, when the histories of myths are concerned, a man should by no means scrutinize the truth with such a sharp eye.
In the theaters, for instance, though we are persuaded there have existed no Centaurs who are composed of two different kinds of bodies nor any Geryones with three bodies, we yet look with favor upon such products of the myth as these, and by our applause we enhance the honor of the god.
And strange it would be that Heracles, while yet among mortal men, should by his own labors have brought under cultivation the inhabited world, and that human beings should nevertheless forget the benefactions which he rendered them generally and slander the commendation he receives for the noblest deeds, and strange that our ancestors should have unanimously accorded immortality to him because of his exceedingly great attainments, and that we should nevertheless fail to cherish and maintain for the god the pious devotion which has been handed down to us from our fathers.
However, we shall leave such considerations and relate his deeds from the beginning, basing our account on those of the most ancient poets and writers of myths.
This, then, is the story as it has been given us
Apollodorus,Library

Heracles was born with divine strength, a son of Zeus himself, but even as a child, the burden of his destiny weighed heavily upon him. His immense power set him apart from all others, a living symbol of what it meant to be both blessed and cursed by the gods. He was not just strong; he was something more, a force of nature unto himself, guided by a will that would be both his greatest ally and his downfall.
From a young age, it wasn't something that could be controlled so easily. It would manifest in unpredictable bursts, both a blessing and a danger. His tutors and trainers marveled at his potential, but also feared what such a power might become if left unchecked. Among them was Linus, his music teacher—a gentle and wise man who believed that with the proper education, Heracles could learn discipline and restraint.
But the music was not enough for Heracles.
He would sit with the lyre, his massive hands struggling with the delicate instrument.
It felt wrong to him—so soft, so fragile in his grasp. His mind, too, rebelled at the gentleness required for such an art. Linus, however, was persistent. He believed that the raw power of Heracles needed tempering, and that music, the art of the soul, could instill this harmony within the young boy.
Yet the divine child did not share his teacher's vision.

The day of Linus' death began like any other.
The sun rose high over Thebes, casting a warm light across the city, but tension brewed in the heart of Heracles.
His frustration, long simmering beneath the surface, had grown with each failed attempt to find beauty in the strings of the lyre. He wanted to fight, to conquer, to show the world his might—not pluck delicate tunes. Linus guided his hand once more, but today, Heracles' anger could not be quelled.
"Again!" Linus urged. "Feel the strings, Heracles."
Heracles' jaw clenched. His fingers pressed too hard against the lyre, a string snapping beneath the force of his grip. His frustration boiled over, and Linus harshly grasp his shoulder.
"Control yourself," Linus said firmly. "You are more than your strength."
His body, born of a god's will and tempered in mortal blood, surged with uncontrollable energy. Linus' words only fueled the fire inside him. His patience, long tested, had reached its breaking point.
With a snarl, Heracles grabbed the nearest object—his lyre—and swung it with all his might. The instrument, once delicate and soft in his hands, now became a weapon. The sound of it striking Linus' skull echoed in the still room, the wood splintering upon impact. Linus crumpled to the ground, his body lifeless, blood pooling beneath him.
Heracles stood frozen, his breath heavy. His eyes widened as he gazed down at his mentor's broken form. He had not meant to kill him—not truly. But the deed was done. The gentle man who had sought to teach him harmony and restraint now lay dead by his hand, a casualty of his divine fury.
The gods watched from afar, silent in their judgment.
Heracles' first murder was not that of a mighty beast, nor a warrior in battle. It was a teacher, a man who had sought to instill wisdom and peace within him. And this death, this accidental tragedy, marked the beginning of Heracles' long journey of atonement. His strength, his divine gift, was already a curse. His own hands, capable of so much, had taken a life, and there was no turning back.
Banished from Thebes for the crime, Heracles was sent to the wilderness. It was not a formal punishment from the city, but rather an exile of the spirit. No man could stand near him now without fear, and he, too, began to fear himself.
But the wilderness suited him.
Here, his strength could be unleashed without restraint.
Here, he could fight, battle the wild beasts and conquer the untamed land. His divine might would be needed in the years to come, for the gods had much more in store for him—far greater challenges than a lyre or a gentle teacher's guidance.
In the silence of the wild, Heracles grew into a man, his muscles hardening, his resolve toughening. But deep within, the memory of Linus haunted him. He had been a boy when he took that life.

Author's Note: Herc does not get enough screen time, writing respect or appearances in Fate.
This may be a one-shot or a long drabble about the Nasuverse Herakles. Do NOT expect regular updates, especially since I have other projects.
Tell me what you think.