"It's over."
Cyd's voice was quiet, almost lost in the settling silence of the clearing. The only sounds were the drip of sap from shattered trees and the last, fading echoes of violence.
The Nemean Lion lay where it had fallen. Or rather, it sprawled. Calling it a corpse felt inadequate. It was a ruin. After five minutes of relentless, earth-shaking punishment from Heracles, its invulnerable hide had held, but the structure within had not. It looked less like a slain beast and more like a grotesque, fur-covered sack that had been dropped from a great height. It lay in a shallow depression of its own making, its form oddly flattened, limbs splayed at unnatural angles.
Dark, foul-smelling liquid—a gruesome cocktail of blood, liquefied fat, and pulverized organ matter—seeped from every orifice and from countless new rents in its golden pelt. It pooled in the crater, gleaming wetly in the late afternoon sun.
Heracles stood over the remains, steam rising in gentle wisps from his shoulders and back. He wiped a smear of blood and sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, leaving a ruddy streak. "Haven't… fought like that in a while," he panted, a wide, exhilarated grin splitting his face. It wasn't cruelty; it was the pure, uncomplicated joy of a force of nature finally being allowed to cut loose.
"Even if I'd wanted to eat it—which I didn't—I don't think that's an option anymore," Cyd said, his nose wrinkling. He approached the mess cautiously and crouched down. He reached out and gave the lion's head an experimental poke with one finger.
The result was immediate and stomach-churning. The head, deprived of all structural integrity, collapsed under the slight pressure like a rotten gourd. It didn't deflate with a hiss of air, but with a wet, sucking squelch. A geyser of pinkish-grey slurry—bone fragments ground to dust, brain matter, and poisoned blood—erupted from the new cavity.
"Ugh." Cyd recoiled, clamping a hand over his nose. The stench of death, voided bowels, and Chiron's potent wolfsbane toxin was overwhelming. Heracles's "massage" had done more than pound the lion to paste; it had circulated the poison through every capillary, every muscle fiber. The beast was not just dead; it was chemically sterilized.
"You sure you don't want the pelt? It's still tough as anything," Heracles said, nudging the corpse with his toe. It wobbled like a gelatinous mound.
"Did you forget how it died?" Cyd shot him a look. "Invulnerable pelt, squishy insides. It got cocky. It thought its skin was all it needed. That's why it's a puddle." He stood up, wiping his finger on the grass. "The pelt's a trophy. A good one. But it's not the magic solution it thinks it is."
Heracles considered this, then nodded slowly. "Fair point. Well, a deal's a deal. The claws and teeth are yours."
Cyd pulled a small, empty leather pouch from his belt and laid it on a clean patch of grass. Then, steeling himself, he plunged his hand into the ruin of the lion's mouth. The sensation was revolting. It wasn't like reaching into a carcass; it was like plunging his arm into a warm, meaty stew that still had hard, sharp bits floating in it. He could feel shattered mandible, loose teeth, and shredded tongue.
Behind him, Heracles made a loud, exaggerated gagging sound. "Blurgh—sorry. That… that noise."
"You're the one who turned its head into chowder!" Cyd snapped, though his own stomach was doing somersaults. He focused, his fingers searching through the mess. The benefit of the total internal destruction was that the teeth, once rooted in unbreakable bone, were now just loose items in a bag of offal. One by one, he fished them out—long, curved canines as thick as his thumb, serrated molars, all a stark, polished ivory white against the gore coating his arm. He dropped them into the pouch with soft, wet plinks.
When the pouch was half-full of teeth, he withdrew his arm, which was slick with dark fluid up to the elbow. He shook it vigorously, sending droplets flying.
"The claws are a bit short for daggers," Heracles observed, having recovered his composure. He'd wandered over to where several of the lion's black, sickle-shaped claws had been torn loose during the final pummeling. He was poking one with his finger, testing its edge.
"Stop playing with them. You cut yourself, and with that poison in the mix, you'll have a really bad day," Cyd said, snatching the claw from Heracles's reach and tossing it into the pouch. It landed with a clatter among the teeth.
Heracles held his hands up in surrender. "Just curious what you'll do with them."
"Gauntlets," Cyd said, flexing his hand. "Or something like them. Claws on the knuckles. I'm no smith, though. Need to find someone who can work this… material." He looked at the blood-soaked pouch with distaste.
"If you need a good smith, I know a few mortals who are decent—" Heracles began.
Cyd shook his head. "The gauntlets are a side project. There's something else. Something only one being in this world can make for me."
Heracles's expression shifted. The easygoing smile faded, replaced by a look of dawning understanding and… pity? "Ah. You're after that. You're going to see… Him. Hephaestus."
"I am. Pray he's in a good mood."
"She," Heracles corrected gently, then winced. "And… 'good mood' isn't really a phrase associated with… well. You'll get what you want. Probably. But you're going to… uh… earn it." He clapped a massive, sympathetic hand on Cyd's shoulder. "Good luck. Hope I see you again."
"Why do you sound like you're sending me to my funeral?" Cyd grumbled, shrugging off the hand.
"You'll understand when you get there. Just rumors I've heard," Heracles said, holding his thumb and forefinger a tiny distance apart. "Tiny, tiny rumors."
Cyd ignored him and turned back to the lion's pelt. The worst of the toxic seepage seemed to have passed. He grabbed a corner of the golden hide and gave it a powerful, snapping shake. A shower of dark, watery blood and tissue fragments flew off in a wide arc, splattering the already-ruined ground. He bundled the heavy, damp pelt into a rough ball and tossed it to Heracles.
"Here. When you get back, wash it first. Really well. If you need to cut it or shape it, work from the fleshy side. The outside won't give."
"Got it, got it," Heracles said, catching the pelt and tucking it under his arm like a sports ball. He grinned. "You sound just like my teacher. Always fussing."
Cyd's heart gave a nervous flutter, but he kept his face carefully neutral. He walked over to where his giant pack rested against a tree and heaved it onto his back. "That's because you look like the kind of guy who needs constant supervision."
"He says the same thing!" Heracles laughed, giving a thumbs-up. It was a gesture of pure, uncomplicated friendship.
"But…" Cyd said, taking a few steps backward, putting distance between himself and the demigod. He forced a smile and returned the thumbs-up. "I think you'll make him proud. I know you will."
Heracles's grin softened into something more genuine, touched with a hint of vulnerability. "You know… hearing you say that? It makes me believe it."
"You should. You're the most confident person I've ever met," Cyd said, turning and starting to walk away. He gave a final, casual wave over his shoulder without looking back. "See you around, hero."
"Hey, wait, I didn't get your—oh. He's gone." Heracles's hand dropped. The pale youth had melted into the shadows of the forest with an unnerving silence. One moment he was there, the next, only the memory of his strange, white hair remained.
Heracles looked down at the bloody pelt under his arm, then out at the darkening woods. A thoughtful, satisfied smile touched his lips. "Listening to Arete… it's always the right choice."
---
"You'd have been a hero no matter what. Even if your name wasn't Heracles."
Cyd muttered the words to himself as he picked his way through the dense undergrowth, putting as much distance between himself and the clearing as possible. The weight of the teeth and claws in his pouch felt significant, a trophy from an encounter he never wanted. Heracles was… good. Fundamentally, uncomplicatedly good. A force of nature with a moral compass. But his life was a saga—glorious, tragic, and utterly exhausting to be near. Cyd's own ambitions were microscopic by comparison. A quiet corner. A garden. No epics.
He sighed, rubbing his temples. Even with an immortal body, I'm still just trying to avoid the plot.
He stopped at a fork in the faint game trail. One path led deeper into the woods, the other seemed to slope downward, perhaps toward a stream or a valley.
"So… which way now?" he mused aloud, his eyes scanning the branches above. His gaze landed on a familiar silhouette perched on a high limb. The eagle. The same one that had been watching since he'd met Heracles. It hadn't fled the battle's tumult. It was just… there. Observing.
An idea, born of frustration and a strange intuition, popped into his head. He squared his shoulders and addressed the bird directly.
"O, Great King of the Gods, Zeus… Lord of the Sky… a little directional help for a humble mortal?"
The eagle didn't even deign to look at him. It simply raised one wing and began meticulously preening a primary feather with its beak, utterly indifferent.
Cyd's confident posture deflated. "…Uh."
Wrong? His face grew warm with embarrassment. Of course it's wrong! Why would Zeus stick around to play tour guide for me? He came to watch his son beat up a lion. Son's fine, job's done, off to Olympus for ambrosia and… whatever gods do. I just yelled at a bird.
He stared intently at the eagle, as if his willpower could force it to be divine.
The eagle, perhaps feeling the weight of his awkward, pleading stare, ruffled its feathers in clear annoyance. With two powerful beats of its wings, it launched itself from the branch and soared away into the twilight sky, leaving Cyd alone with his profound shame.
"I was wrong," he groaned, burying his face in his hands. "I just got judged by an actual eagle. Fantastic."
The moment of mortification passed, replaced by practical panic. "Okay, so… west? Wait, was west even the right direction, or was that just another coincidence? Am I just walking in circles?!"
His entire sense of navigation, already shaky, was collapsing into a pit of paranoid doubt.
[For a child blessed by so many, you are remarkably indecisive.]
The voice wasn't heard with his ears. It was a thought that wasn't his own, whispered directly into his mind. It was feminine, gentle, yet carried an amused, impatient edge. Before he could process it, he felt a firm, insistent pressure between his shoulder blades.
It wasn't a shove meant to harm. It was a nudge. A helpful nudge, like a parent guiding a distracted child across a busy street.
Cyd, caught off-balance, stumbled forward one step to catch himself.
The world dissolved.
It wasn't a blur of motion. It was a replacement. One moment he was in the deep, shadowed woods of Nemea, the scent of pine and damp earth in his nose. The next, the smells were of hot metal, ozone, and volcanic stone. The cool evening air was gone, replaced by a dry, oppressive heat that baked his skin.
The forest was gone. In its place, rising before him like a mountain forged by mad giants, was a palace of bronze.
It wasn't beautiful in a conventional sense. It was awe-inspiring in its sheer, intimidating functionality. Towers shaped like colossal anvils thrust into a smoke-stained sky. Walls gleamed with the dull, heavy sheen of aged metal, riveted with bolts as large as his torso. Great pipes, some glowing with inner heat, snaked up its sides, venting plumes of steam and occasional showers of orange sparks into the twilight. The air thrummed with a deep, resonant clang… clang… CLANG… a heartbeat of industry that never ceased.
Cyd stood frozen on a wide, ashy plain at the foot of this metallic titan, his pack heavy on his back, the pouch of lion parts clutched in his hand. The last echo of the divine nudge still tingled between his shoulder blades.
The rhythmic hammering from the bronze fortress continued, a steady, deafening welcome.