Page 2 of Hercules

Damn it.

This is what he got for refusing to show his face back in the underworld any sooner than he had to. At the Eternal Ink shop, he’d have to put up with Alonna and Moraine’s thin-shielded pity, but at least they’d know how to interpret his glowers and not ask any questions.

“Hey, hell and back, right? Why not celebrate with a hell dog or three?”

Questions like those.

Herc finally turned up the volume on the growl rambling up his throat. “Not. Celebrating.”

Dave had the sense to shift back, though the easygoing expression stayed put. The mortal was either that stupid or that perceptive; Herc couldn’t yet pick up on which.

“Looked at a six-by-six for that long, eh?”

Or maybe he was both.

Herc was so occupied with fishing for the answer, nothing witty came to mind. Well, not fast enough for good ol’ Dave.

“So who’d you kill?”

And there was the conclusion for that dilemma. The guy definitely wasn’t stupid.

But what that left…

Was a mortal he had to flee. Right the hell now.

Like the past he’d scooped up from the darkness in which it belonged. The memories, like fireflies, that ignited along with it and buzzed around Herc in their frenzied freedom. So many. Too many. So bright. Too blinding.

As he dipped his neck and slung on his shoulder satchel, he pushed out from gritted teeth, “You don’t want to know.”

But that was what his lips uttered, banishing the air from the real words that churned in his gut, blazed across his heart, and ripped apart his soul. The confession that haunted him in every moment of his consciousness and every shadow of his dreams.

My wife. And my children.

I killed them all, Dave.

And I’ll never forgive myself for it.

Which, as he turned and started to flee from the shop—the ink would have to wait until his skin didn’t feel like parade grounds for a billion taunting fire ants—almost had him chuckling along the way.

“Sorry for your trouble, man,” he muttered instead, tossing a Benjamin at Professor Grohl. “I’ll be back later.”

Or maybe never.

Because what the hell was he doing?

Tattoos. Achievements. Celebrations.

Ten years. Twelve tasks. Or, as Apollo liked labeling them for ostentatiousness’ sake, Labors.

Fucking Apollo.

His brother had declared they’d rid his soul from the curse that Hera had leveled upon it. That he’d be free from his sorrow and ready to join the gods themselves in the Olympian firmament.

But he wasn’t. Not a thing was different about his heart than two days ago, before he’d wrestled Cerberus into submission and delivered the runaway pooch back to his master in hell. Everything felt as if he were still standing in that wasteland, likening the black landscape to the surface of his soul.

Hell and back, my friend?

What if I never left the place?