The Story of Hylas

Warning: This story mentions but does not describe sexual and physical violence.

I had of course heard of Him. Like every boy in the world, I imagined myself being Him as I played games of adventures and quests. I remember one time when the local boys and I were out in the fields playing the Second Labor I had been chosen to be Him. With a broken branch as a stand in for His club I would swing with as much might as my young body could muster. Smashing death blows into the imaginary hydra, while leaving very real welts on the flesh of my companions.

As the son of the king I had responsibilities others my age did not. Such as ensuring I not only understood restraint but that I demonstrated it. So when my father had learned of my carelessness he set out to teach me a lesson. 

“As the future king,” he told me. “You must restrain yourself. It is of utmost importance. The health of our domain relies upon it. When a ruler lashes out a merciless beating on his subjects their moral falls. Not only that but all sense of morals, ethics, and order falls away.”

His voice was stern and hard, yet he spoke with a quiet and calm tone. Although I knew my father was furious with me he held his anger back. Always the living example of his teachings. Even when my fathers honor was called into question he always restrained himself, ensuring his emotions were under his control, rather than the other way around.

“With power, my son, one must control themselves. When kings and rulers let their emotions control them, rather than being the one in control, Chaos rules all. Wars break out, famine falls upon the land. Rivers, lakes, and all fresh water turns to dust. The hard won Order the Gods fought for during the Titanomachy would be but nothing else than in vain.”

That is why I knew the story told to me of my fathers death was nothing but lies. Not once had he ever been known to let his emotions take control of him. Nor had he ever been known to deny a person in need. I remember years after his lesson on restraint, he and I had been out grazing our herd when we came upon a starving man. He was clearly not of our land, nor the neighboring realms, for his garments were of an unknown fabric, design and fashion.

Although clearly light and flexible, it seemed to be durable. To my amazement, his garb was covered in beautiful images of unknown creatures. As the stranger walked it looked as if the beasts moved along his body dancing amongst themselves. He wore the strangest looking chiton I had ever seen. Rather than being free flowing around the legs, it had been sown so that each leg was wrapped in the smooth cloth separately. Later, when I asked my father what they were, he called them “trousers”. A funny word for an even sillier looking garment.

Not only was his garments strange and bizarre, he spoke a language I had never heard before in my life, nor since. It sounded like the sing-song of some fabulous bird. It was to my great surprise that my father not only knew the language but could in fact speak a few words. He was, he told me, better at understanding it than speaking it. 

Had it not been for the man's strange outfit, or his barbaric speech he would still have stood out like a sore limb. His hair was like that of a beautiful women's, long and straight, and black as a raven’s feathers. His eyes, although peaceful, looked hard lived. His skin reminded me of a cured hide, and was darkened by the sun.

In the strange man's sing-song language my father and he spoke briefly. Although I did not understand what was being said, I could tell the man had asked my father for one of our goats as he had pointed to the flock grazing around us. As the man pointed with one hand, his other moved to clinch his stomach. A sign I instantly understood as the man being hungry. Without hesitation, or another word exchanged my father turned to our herd and strode to the nearest goat.

Kneeling to the side of the goat, my father placed a firm and gentle arm around the goat's body, reassuring it that he was safe. Then in a fluid and powerful stroke, my father drew his dagger across the goats throat. Spilling its blood to the earth, my father stood and gave praise to the Gods, and gave to the stranger the now dead goat.

“Who was that father?” I asked as we returned from the grazing field later that day.

“I do not know my child, a stranger to our land in need of vittles.”

“Where is he from? I’ve never seen a man like him before.”

“A land far from here boy, where Helios rises to drive his fiery chariot across the sky.”

“Is he a God?”

“No, he is mortal like us all Hylas. Just a man far from home. Now, do you understand why I gave him our most prized goat when he clearly could have either hunted for his own food, or worse, killed the two of us and taken what he wanted?”

Shocked by my fathers question I simply shook my head in my ignorance.

“Because,” my father paused, and with arms stretched out, gesturing to our large flock grazing all around. “We have plenty, and he had not but what he wore. The loss of a single goat will do little to hurt us, but will save that man's life. No matter the cost to our own wealth, if we can save the life of a single person then it is our duty to sacrifice what we can to do so. Even if that person has the means to do it themselves. We can always get another goat, bull, horse, or whatever it may be, but a man's life can never be returned from the grip of Hades. Do you understand me?”

Not fully understanding, I simply nodded my head saying “I think so”. 

With a rare smile my father patted me on the shoulder and said, “that’s alright, think on it.”

And think on it I did. For the rest of that day's journey back home was silent other than the natural world around us. I pondered what my father had told me the entire way back. Although I had planned on asking my father on our arrival home about what he had meant, there had been no time. As the king he had urgent stately business to attend to on our return, and I, as the prince, was tasked with ensuring the flock’s safe return to the pastor.

Other than in passing, I would never speak to my father again. The life of a king is a busy one and leaves little time for family matters. The only reason I had been with him taking the flock out to graze, was because I was turning sixteen that year and was to take on the role of head herder of the flock. As the king and my father, it was his responsibility to show me the proper way. He had told me “to be a good king one must know how to lead all under their protection.”

The reason I am telling you all of this is to show you why it is of great urgency that I escape. My father was murdered, and I am the murderer's captive. You are the only one that can save me, and take me far away to a place He can never find me. The stories told about Him are all lies, Heracles is no hero of man.

***

It was the eve of my sixteenth birthday when my fathers murderer came to Dryopis. A storm had gathered over the city the hours leading up to when Heracles arrived, bringing with him his lies and deceit of my fathers death. Boldly declaring in front of the entire court of Dryopis that “King Theiodamas is dead, and he died by my hands.”

At the great uproar of Heracles' proclamation to my fathers murder, the senate demanded an explanation. With a simple wave of Heracles’ deadly hand, the entire senate fell silent, frightened that the murderous son of Zeus would turn on them.

“Unwilling to part with a simple calf so that I may feed myself and stave off starvation, Theiodamas showed himself to be a dishonorable man and an unjust king.” Thinking he would be believed, Heracles told a bold face lie to the people who knew my father better than even I, his own son.

In a chorus the senate bombarded Heracles with ridicule and justice, calling him a murderer. In a fit of rage the killer declared war on our entire people stating he would “return to conquer and lay waste to all Dryopians, all but you.

“Son of Theiodamas, your beauty has encapsulated me, and for my prize I will have you. By right of conquest you will be mine to do with what I please, forever and always.” The wicked smile that fell upon the so-called hero revealed a darkness only hinted at in the stories as a wicked and tragic curse. 

It was no curse but rather a horrible reality. Heracles is a murdering psychopath and within the week he had returned with a ravaging army to conquer Dryopis. Decimating the army I had come to know as friends and future citizens to protect as their King. My world had come to an end all at the hands of my childhood hero, and soon to be rapist. 

“In the name of my Father, Zeus the Almighty I declare rights of conquest upon this land and its people.” Heracles declared to the surrendering senate. “By His laws I have the right to slay any living descendant of Dryopian blood, and I will. That is unless you give up your prince to me, to have forever as mine to do as I see fit.”

In protest I pleaded “do not do this, do not give into this murderers demands! He slayed your king, your sons, your brothers! His men are ravaging our city and our women do not give in. I beg of you!” Alas my words fell on deaf ears, and the cowards stepped aside as Heracles waded towards me, and as if I were nothing but a babe, picked me up and strung me across his shoulders.

Although I pounded my fists into his back, and kicked my knees deep into his face with all of my might, the attacks were like an insect bite to him. I do not think he even noticed that I struggled and screamed my protests at the world. He simply strode through the wreckage of my home to his war tent, where he forced himself unto me.

I do not recall much of the following days, weeks or even months. It was as if I was living in a fog. What I do recall is that it was during these early days with him that I promised myself I would bring ruin to Heracles. I began training relentlessly under my captor's tutelage so that one day I could turn his warrior skills on him, and bring an end to the tyrannical life of Heracles.

Seeing that I had begun to take to his lessons, Heracles’ savage nightly assaults started to decrease to the point that they only occurred when he became angered. Not only at me, but whenever his rage was enacted. Which for a man as vile and controlled by their emotions and whims as Heracles, it is more frequent than not. He even began to treat me with what I imagine he believes to be tinder love.

Caressing my hair as he cages me in his unmovable strength. Whispering poems of beautiful words, and feelings that would sweep anyone off their feet, yet they act only to fuel the flame of hatred within me. However I knew that to survive I had to hide my loathing abhorrence for him, and so I played along. Returning each touch, and word with my own. Soon enough I found myself unable to truly hate the man who killed my father and assaulted me regularly, for I had begun to fall in love with Heracles.

The days of my capture stretched into weeks, and the weeks into months, until word had made its way to Heracles and myself, that the greatest fleet of adventurers and heroes had begun to gather. So Heracles and I traveled to Iolcus where we joined the crew of the ship Argo. Once we arrived in Iolcus we met the greatest heroes of our time.

Orpheus, the greatest poet and bard I have ever heard in my life. It is said he can coax the trees with his lyre. He even claims to be able to bring Hades himself to tears, “if only I had the opportunity”, he is keen to say. I hope he never does. Iolas, Heracles' younger cousin was there too, and for the first time in I do not know how long, Heracles paid little attention to me. However the reprieve would not last long, for as soon as the Argonauts, the name given to the crew, set out, Heracles came to me nightly.

For a month now we have been questing, searching for the legendary Golden Fleece with Jason, a young nobleman of about my own age. He is eager to prove his worth to the other, older and capable heroes of living legend. He is a kind enough leader, if not a little foolish. Although I truly do wish him success in his quest, I can no longer bear being with Heracles.

I am sworn by blood, and oath to slay my fathers murderer, and the man who defiled me. The man who I now love with all my being. My heart tears and my soul screams out in anguish. I can neither slay nor lay with him any longer. I must escape him, I must be rid of Heracles the Triumphant, the Hero, the Murderer. The Rapist. 

***

“That is why I ask of you, please take me under your waters so that Heracles may never find me. I will do whatever you ask of me.” I ask the Naiad of Pegae.

She looks at me with her majestic lake green eyes. There is a depth to them that pulls at me, at my soul as if it were calling me to it. For the first time since the news of my fathers murder I feel at peace, driving me further to push her to answer my request. “Please, Heracles is out hunting, he will be back looking for me at any moment. This is our only chance. My only chance. I beg of you, please take me with you.”

“Your story has touched my heart, and I believe I have fallen in love with you mortal. Yes, I think I will take you with me.” She says with the voice of a murmuring spring, and the smile of a hungery eel. “You are so very beautiful, I would hate to lose you to a creature such as Him.”

A feeling of dread falls over me the instant her smile changes from that of a beautiful maiden, to a hungry predator. Before I am able to distance myself from the shore of her spring, she captures me in her grip. Her preternatural strength thwarting my escape the naiad pulls me under the deep water.

As the icy water enshrouds me in its dark depths, a final thought of regret runs through my mind. I do not want to die. With enough air in my lungs for a single word I scream my last mortal word. “Heracles!”