The Labor of Love
by K.M. Hale
Content Warnings: Murder, Blood
Across valley and rolling hill Apollo called to him, moved him. Through mountain pass and along river, he followed his brother’s beckoning cry until his feet took him to Dryopis. He felt the breath of his epithets against the back of his neck as he walked on and on. Lion Slayer, the Triumphant, Averter of Evil, Alcides, Son of Zeus, they whispered in the passing wind, and yet he could feel nothing but a ferocious disdain.
When the air grew quiet, as Apollo left him, he began to feel a stir within himself. Something that ached. Something that prowled. Something bigger than himself. A hunger, insatiable and beastly—he could do nothing but let his body move the way the gods demanded. Down the hill he ran in a haze to seize the bull that plowed the valleys and, in admiration of such strength, he devoured it like a starving man. On all fours he gorged himself with its flesh until the line between lion and man was blurred with red. In his recklessness of appetite, he did not consider its beauty to be a prize of the Dryopes. He was brought by the angered people to the king, Theiodamas, for judgment.
The blood on his peplos, his hands, had not yet dried from his folly.
“Your arrogance will not go unpunished, son of Zeus.” Theiodamas moved ungracefully from the dais with his sword raised. The palace was silent except for the king’s heavy steps. “Do you think your parentage makes you immune? You mock me.”
It was a mistake: the bull, his arrival, a hunger seized; yet there was nothing he could say to soothe the king’s rage. Theiodamas came forth, sword drawn, spit dripping down his chin in his sneer. He would look vicious if not attempting to fight a beast himself. With a roar and a swat of the hero’s sword, swift and easy, the king crumpled to the ground. Red, red, red, and there was nothing left.
Perhaps the hero was, in fact, depraved.
“You killed the king.” A voice came from a distant doorway and the slayer looked up, surprised.
“In defense, yes.”
There was a silence for a moment as the young man, curly haired and bronzed, gazed at the heap of flesh and gore. The gaze was distant, though not upset, and when he came forward it was not in hurried vengeance.
“You are Heracles.”
The hairs on the back of his neck rose with a thrill at hearing a name lost to his triumphs. The weight of the lion’s pelt, of death, lay heavy on his shoulders and he could not remember the last time someone had spoken his true name. “Yes.”
“I am Hylas, son of Theiodamas and Menodice, prince of Dryopis.” They stood, man in front of man, in the blood that pool at their feet. His father’s blood. Hylas’ blood.
Heracles kept his grip tight on his blade; he could not understand why Apollo had led him there. “If you wish to seek revenge I would advise not. I had no intent to slay your father and I do not desire that fate for you. I will leave whence I came and will not return.”
A brave hand reached out to grip him by the wrist. It was dainty and smooth, perhaps normal for a normal man. “There is no malice in my heart towards you; admiration swells there instead. Theiodamas was a savage father and king and—if you will have me—I wish to leave this place. I admit my request is bold, but it would be an honor to accompany the strongest of the Greeks on his journey.”
There was a slight discomfort shifting under his skin as the prince looked at him, waiting. A warning, perhaps, of an ill-fated meeting destined for misery and yet Apollo did not speak to him. The god was quiet and that was enough to make him falter. Was this prince his destiny? His fate? Hylas looked so honest in the softness around his eyes and the charming fall of his curls around his cheeks—beauty, Heracles knew, was a weakness in his heart. Yet he could not deny himself the hand that held him so.
Was he deserving of such ordinary tenderness?
No. He thought not.
With affection there is nothing but the promise of an invisible fury. With love, vicious pain. With every step forward there is a trail of sopping, red footprints in his wake; always so fresh… And there is nothing to blame except his two hands: stained and calloused with godly strength.
Yet this man did not cower.
“I have never known another soul like you.”
That made the prince smile. “Then keep me and know me better.”
Gently, Heracles slipped his wrist from Hylas’ grip to turn the prince’s palm up in his own. There was not a battle nor struggle marked there, only the luxuries and softness of princehood. What a pleasure it would be to mold and reshape that softness into something more, something new. To be a different man and create rather than destroy.
“Have you ever held a sword? A spear?”
“No,” Hylas did not move his hand away. His wrist, his pulse, exposed. Was it trust or ignorance? “But if put in my hand I’m sure I could manage.”
“But are you willing?”
The soft brown of Hylas’ eyes disappeared under the black of his pupils’ dilation. Heracles had seen that look before in others and knew the answer would please and torment him in equal measure. Yet he took it. He took it all and, in his greed, he knew tragedy would soon come for them. But Hylas’ gaze made him feel something he had not felt in a long time: hope. And it made him reckless.
“To have my story unfold by your side—I am willing to do more than hold a blade. Whatever awaits me, I am willing. Whatever you give me, I’ll take with pride.”
Heracles pressed his thumb into Hylas’ wrist, hard. His pulse jumped at the pressure, but he did not pull away. The prince was shaken but steadfast in his plea. “There will be death.”
Hylas gazed down at his father’s body, still draining, fresh. Their feet were red, their sandals red, and when they left those haunted halls there would be no other colors in the world for them. And he smirked as if something were funny; Heracles was baffled at the amusement that tugged on the young man’s lips but there it was. It was horrible and beautiful and when their eyes met again Hylas replied: “By the Fates it shall not be us.”
⛧
Over land and sea, through orchards of golden apples, and dens of beasts, Hylas and Heracles traveled together without hesitance. With every labor Hylas stood beside him. With every day, every month that passed, his smile remained. It was peaceful, lovely even, but Heracles was not so much of a fool to think that Hylas was safe from him. A blessing or a curse, this gift? Once he revered his birthright with such pride. But now—but now he had one more thing to lose. Heracles did not know if he was the evil that brings forth foolhardy bloodshed and not a god-wife scorned possessing his mind. Was it enough to blame Hera for drawing his sword against his own wife? Could he not have fought against her invisible hands to save the soft necks of his children? What worth was his strength if not to save? So, he watched over his shoulder for sneaking shadows and bent the prince into something like a warrior in an appeal of self-preservation.
With time Hylas grew stronger, sharper; if it weren’t for the gift of inhuman power, Heracles thought that Hylas could have bested him. He was proud of the man he had built from nothing, the man who kept his tenderness and softness even when he bled.
Heracles hoped that it was enough—nay, he prayed and begged to Apollo and Zeus and anyone who would deign to listen—that Hylas’ strength and gentleness would keep him in this mortal realm. Heracles needed him, even if he was a danger to the prince as any creature. Yet Hylas had killed wolf and elk and bear alone; what is a man who is less man and more beast to someone of such bravery?
But there was a lion that paced and circled inside Heracles, a rage and thirst so animalistic that it nearly brought him to all fours. He did not want Hylas to see, he did not want to raise a violent paw to him, but he could not hide it. Not when they put their fists together and Heracles asked him to strike.
The first time they had tumbled, after leaving Dryopis, Hylas had gotten one clean swipe at him. A fist across the cheek—soft, yes, and no mark left—the feeling of it, the impact, made something in Heracles snap. The olive grove they were training in grew shadowy in the corners of his vision until all he saw was Hylas. It was like peeking through the brush in a hunt. If he looked hard enough, he could see the quickening of his pulse, thump thump thumping on the sweat slick curve of Hylas’ neck.
To the ground they went as Heracles leapt at him. They rolled and struck each other, it took half Heracles’ strength to control himself, to control the beast that wanted to frighten the man. To assert himself better than. It wasn’t until the hero had the prince pinned to the ground, straddled, with bared teeth and angered fists smashed on the ground beside his head that Heracles stopped. That he came back to himself half-man once more and realized what he had done. Realized that Hylas may leave.
“I am sorry—”
Hylas’ face was strange then. “You apologize for nothing.”
“I am a beast, an animal, a—” Heracles shook his head, eyes welling with tears he would not shed. How could anyone entertain the company of a monster? Was Hylas blind, a fool, or biding his time?
“Silence.” Hylas reached between them to place a dirty, damp hand across the hero's mouth. It was the first they touched without brutality under their palms. It was the first Hylas had touched Heracles without prompt. “To think you allow me to travel with you, to take your time and attention, and you think so poorly of me. I am not frightened by you, Heracles. You’re welcome to pity yourself, but I refuse.”
With a shake of his mane, the prince released his hold. Heracles whispered, stony and sure: “I could kill you so easily. It would take nothing to shatter you completely.”
“You won’t.”
“I could.”
Hylas frowned and pushed at Heracles’ chest until he moved off of him, and kept his hand there. “Even if you could, I wouldn’t allow it. Your namesake, your father, they mean nothing to me. You’re you, and I am me. Do not see me as just a mortal man, a companion for your travels to evade loneliness. See me. Look at me. I am more than you think and I am not afraid of the strength you possess. I admire you as Heracles alone.”
Epithets were never shared between them, acknowledged or mentioned. Hylas only saw him as the man in front of him. It made Heracles open his eyes wider, look harder, and it made Hylas smile.
“You’re frightened of me,” it was a charmed statement rather than a question, a statement that Heracles could not deny.
And yet: Hylas was not afraid. Instead, he had reached out and placed his hand, with such openness, upon the beast’s cheek. Ran a thumb over eyelash and scar and brow until the beast collapsed to his knees as a man once more. Time and time again Heracles allowed himself to be tamed by such tenderness until he could no longer refuse his desire.
The sun began to set on them and he felt himself become a victim of his yearning the longer Hylas held him, looked at him. He refused to disentangle himself from the position they had fallen into—shoulder to shoulder, hand on cheek, legs woven together in a way that gave pause if one tried to separate them into two beings.
“Heracles,” Hylas whispered with a smile. There was no other person who called him by his name in all of Greece. Only the prince—his prince.
Heracles had never been so frightened in his life. He was growing weak and soft and affectionate. Fighting against the melting warmth had grown exhausting and he wished for nothing more than to fall into Hylas’ arms and call out for him as he had. All the same, Heracles knew that giving in would do nothing but bring misfortune. He could not trust the thing circling inside him.
It was all for naught as Heracles did not consider that Hylas did not perceive passion as weakness. Rather he was a man, just as he, and wanted with a near feverish intensity. It made resisting nigh impossible as warm hands prodded and pushed him into a soft clay for Hylas to grip. To hold. To press down until Heracles submitted to his burning. Was it lust or devotion? Could Heracles permit himself to consider love?
Could something so evil, so monstrous, be loved? Was there a chance for him yet?
“Heracles.” The prince called to him over and over again like a poem. A name to replace an epithet. Hearts together thundering in a beat almost like a song. It was intoxicating. It was terrifying.
He had never wanted another soul so badly.
Hands on his thighs, his hips, his chest felt like veneration. Red faced heaving and dripping sweat made them, together, drunk. It was akin to the act of creation happening all over again as Hylas moved Heracles' world. It was inevitable. So he relented and let the prince have his way. On his back, stripped of his godhood, Heracles saw his humanity reflected in his lover's eyes.
His lover.
In quivering weakness, he responded: “Hylas.”
⛧
It is without question that every hero's journey is woven with catastrophes, a son of Zeus was born knowing. The tapestry of their story loses its integrity, its strength, when devastation does not pull the threads together. And yet Heracles, a man half savage with blood splashed against his own weaving, did not sense the impending doom when stepping foot on the Argos. He was blinded, weakened, by the brightness and elation of Hylas. Soothed by the confidence of his comrade Polyphemus—a man to rival Heracles, in strength and godlike renown, the slayer of centaurs. The scars on his arms, his hands, made the Lion Slayer trust without question. And the ship, brimming with heroes of notability and earthly praise—what worries were there to be had?
Yet if he had known what was to come, Heracles would not have left Iolcus.
⛧
They landed in Mysia by nightfall and made camp by a river. The Argonauts fell to the sand for repose after a strenuous battle with six-armed giants. It would be the first tale of Hylas’ bravery sung for all of Greece. Pride made him glow brighter than any star.
They drank. They sang. The Argonauts shared stories of their own tapestries and gorged themselves on their bounty. Then Hylas reached out to place a hand on Heracles shoulder, a burning he had not felt since they joined Jason. “Come with me.”
The men called to them as the two made their way from the fires to the dark quiet of the forest tree line. They did not answer their calls, they were unimportant and could not dissuade their hurried movements into the night. In a small pocket under a canopy of trees, Hylas removed Heracles’ pelt and spread it on the ground. How sacrilegious, he thought for a moment, but was quickly forgotten when the prince spread himself across the lion's skin with a smile.
He is bewitching.
“I have allowed your attention to be shared and I can bear it no longer. Lay with me, Heracles. Your touch is the only prize I desire after such victory. I have wanted nothing but to share this feat with you and you alone. Lay with me before I am driven to madness.”
The hero shuddered. “Is this charming request meant to soften me so you can best me? So I am bare and open for you to strike, young hero?”
Heracles' half-hearted joke did not stop him from shedding his peplos, though. He bore himself naked and knelt before Hylas whose face had turned from heated lust to hardened tenderness. The prince rose from his reclined position to meet Heracles on his knees where they were joined, chest to chest. Another peplos fell to the ground and Hylas reached for the beast’s cheek, stroking a thumb against his brow and searched his eyes.
“Have I not been obvious in my feelings? Do you question my meanings?” Prince Hylas whispered and Heracles could not tear his gaze away. “I have followed you across Greece and I will follow you across the River Styx to the gates of the Underworld. I love you, Heracles. There is nothing in this mortal realm worth more to me than you. I love you.”
The words pulled under Heracles’ skin, tightening his tapestry. He felt it so viscerally it almost brought him to tears.
“I love you,” Hylas murmured as he pressed kisses from the hero’s cheek—“I love you,” to his neck— “I love you,” to his chest. “I love you.”
How could three words cut him more deeply than any blade? Because he felt, so wholly, that he was being bled dry right then and there. Was this not supposed to be a beautiful moment shared? Why must there be such impending terror at such a sentiment? Because he loved Hylas too in equal, if not more ferocious, measure. Yet he was not blind to this admittance, this acknowledgement, having sealed their intertwined fates in finality and it was not fair. The gods heard—Hera heard—and he knew in his heart that she would take this love away from him too just to see him a broken man once more.
That is his fate.
A beast estranged from devotion.
A god-wife scorned.
And still he wanted. He needed.
He loved Hylas.
In a final effort to extricate Hylas from tragedies' cold grasp, Heracles did not requite the declaration even though it pained him so. Instead he lay himself on his back and reached for the prince’s face, hoping that it would be meaning enough. That he would understand in the softness of Heracles’ eyes and the tenderness of his touch, Hylas would know that he was loved endlessly. Irrevocably.
⛧
They rose to the sound of Helios’ chariot carrying the sun to their sky, bodies already sticky with the summer heat. Devoted, they lay interwoven with no will or strength to unlace themselves. The earth could shake beneath them, creatures could erupt from the sea, and it would not be enough to convince Heracles to let his prince go. He pressed his hand against Hylas' back and he dug—with his large paws—he dug to make sure Hylas’ heart still beat with him. Thump, thump, thump, it sang like a divine poem and Heracles felt a sleepy, soothing smile press against his shoulder.
“We must rise, Heracles, the Argonauts are waking.”
“What is that to us?” Heracles pulled him closer and pressed his nose into the soft curls of Hylas’ hair. He smelled of salt, sweat, and the familiar musk of a night laying together. “They can do as they wish, there’s no need for our presence yet.”
A muffled laugh warmed him hotter. “Are we not part of the Argonauts? Do they not worship your every word, every move? We must join them and train before we set off again. It will be a long journey before we are on land again. Who are you to evade Jason’s drills?”
It was then that Heracles pulled away, enough to look down at the prince’s face who was smiling up at him. The hero, baffled and amused, asked: “Who am I? To evade Jason’s command? Hylas, you jest.”
“It is no heroic look to put yourself above your fellow men who fight alongside you. You inspire them greatly, why not stand with them even just in drill?” He reached to brush his hand down the beast’s cheek. “If not for them, then for me. I do not have your godly gifts, or any gifts the Argonauts have. I must exercise my strength just to be worthy enough to stand beside you.”
It was then that Heracles almost slipped, that the words almost fell from his lips with frightening ease. Because there was nothing Hylas must do to be worthy of standing with Heracles other than just being. He had more power in his personhood than any other mortal, because he was the only one to have worn the lion down into gentleness. So Heracles released him and rolled onto his back, throwing an arm over his eyes in defeat, because he could never refuse Hylas. “You slay me, dear prince. You cut me right open at the heart… Fine, if I must rise and train then at least we should attain water. Helios is bearing down on us today, he must be restless.”
“I will go then,” The man stood and began dressing himself. Heracles moved his arm from his eyes to gaze at him, soaking up the glorious vision of his lithe muscles moving under his skin.
“I will join you—”
“No—” Hylas pressed a foot against Heracles chest until he was laying again. It was not enough to pin him, but the hero let himself be moved, aroused by his lover’s harshness. “—You will dress and return to the Argonauts. If you don’t go now you’ll only bend me to your desires. So you go. I will meet you there.”
Ah, he had been caught in his attempts at manipulation. He had wanted to trail behind the prince into the woods and devour him like a starving man. To keep him in Heracles' sights, in his arms, so he knew he was safe. But what joy did a caged bird have? Trapped and silenced against bars that kept them shielded from the outside. Heracles could not live with Hylas’ resentment; there had been no stirring in the wind, no whispers from voices on high…
So Heracles pressed his lips against the rough skin of Hylas’ ankle, trailing up to his knee and then down to his foot in worship. With every press of his lips, he sent a prayer asking for his safe return. Begging for more time. Pleading for grace he did not deserve.
He trusted Hylas’s strength and capability. He did not trust the gods.
His lover gazed down at him with his lip caught between his teeth, grinning. Their eyes met in a final pressed kiss and Heracles hoped Hylas could see his love. Then he let go.
⛧
Back on the beach his fellow Argonauts greeted him with slaps on the back and jests about his escape into the woods with his companion. They swore to him they heard Eros’ wings beating as he flew towards their hideaway. Heracles only laughed.
With a beckoning gesture of his sword, Polyphemus came to his side and they began to train under the watchful eye of Jason. It seemed to please the man, and their comrades, to watch Heracles move with such power among them. To see his epithets in action and know they would win with him at their sides.
But he was not there, not really. His god-blood moved him the way it was supposed to, the way they wanted him to. But Heracles' mind was elsewhere. Wondering, watching, for Hylas’ return.
“He has yet to come back… it's been hours.”
Polyphemus lowered his sword and looked towards the trees where Heracles stared. “The island may be bigger than it appears. You worry for nothing, Alcides.”
The name made his stomach tie into stoney knots. “I worry plenty. If he does not come in one hour then I am going to find him.”
“He’ll come.”
But he didn’t.
The sun had nearly set, the men were resting for the evening, and Hylas had still not returned. So Heracles left them without a word to tear through the island brush like a mad man. Polyphemus was trailing him, calling for Heracles, begging him to not act rashly, and it almost made the hero seize him. The feeling pulsing under his skin, hot like insects ripping him up from the inside, was so familiar he thought that Hera must be his shadow. It made him hurry faster.
Heracles screamed over and over: Hylas, where are you? Hylas, can you hear me? Hylas, Hylas, Hylas, call to me— His roaring grew louder and the island grew quieter. All manner of beast vanished and all there was left was Heracles. All gentleness vanished in the wake of terror, the creature he had tried so hard to cage and deny and kill was ripping through his skin. Ripping through his chest and he was sick with anger.
When a day had passed and morning came again, Polyphemus grabbed him desperately by the shoulders. “We’ve searched the whole island, we have not rested, we must return to the Argos. This is insanity, Alcides, he is not here.”
Skin tearing open is a very distinct sound. Almost like fabric being torn down the middle by bare hands. The closest was the sound of a bull, white as snow, being cut from ear-to-ear to bleed on the altar.
That’s the sound they heard when Heracles, in a fit of unbridled rage, grabbed Polyphemus by the face with his enormous paw and saw his fingers were no long fingers of man. They were claws, sharp and feline, and he had split open his comrade’s cheek. Polyphemus was silenced and looked at Heracles in a familiar terror.
“Take your cowardice and return then.” Heracles snarled. “I will not leave this island until I have found him. I will tear every tree from the ground, empty every river—I will burn everything down to find Hylas. No man nor god can stop me; they have taken one love from me and I will not let them take another.”
When Heracles released him, Polyphemus did not speak, he only bled.
When three days passed, the Argos departed, and they still had found no signs of Hylas, Polyphemus said nothing.
When Heracles' gums tore open to reveal sharp teeth, when his eyes drained his mortal brown for gold, when his posture became less man and more creature… Polyphemus remained mute.
It wasn’t until the island was torn to pieces in the god-son’s wake that they finally—after weeks—discovered a hidden water they had yet to see. A glamor, Heracles realized, when he spotted a group of nymphs lounging at its edge. They had hidden from him as he destroyed everything his feet and hands touched.
Hidden because they had seen his anger in action.
Hidden because they had a familiar set of men’s sandals laced up one of the girls’ legs as she giggled and swayed.
Hidden because there was a peplos: shredded, dirty, and forgotten on the ground. And they were guilty.
Polyphemus had sensed it too and was unable to stop him.
Without consideration, without plan, Heracles surged forward and snatched the peplos from the ground to bring to his snout. The nymphs squealed in terror and grasped for each other as they watched him inhale the fabric.
It still smelled of him. Sweat. Salt. And the musk of their embrace.
The smell of their love.
“Where is he?” He whispered. The nymphs did not answer as they cowered behind the one in his sandals. Heracles roared: “Where is Hylas?”
They stared at him with wide eyes. Silent. He could bear it no longer, his patience gone, and the vengeance he sought was right in front of him. With a beastly lunge he rushed them and wrapped one enormous paw around the sandaled nymph’s neck. He lifted her easily and squeezed until tears sprung from her eyes.
Her sisters cried.
“The gods—” She choked and clawed at his arm in an attempt for relief. Her legs kicked and she pulled and she gasped but he only held her harder. “—the gods wished—they wished it so.”
The insectal feeling under his skin grew hotter. It itched and scratched and ate him alive until the man he once was remained only as a minute shred. All Heracles wanted was to sink his teeth into her and feel her life leave on his tongue.
His paw gripped her thin neck tighter. His claws sank into her flesh easily and buttery like a tender meat. “Which god?”
“He—Her—” She squeaked and scrambled, eyes bulging. “Hera.”
It was so easy, he realized. Her bones were as fragile as birds. So he squeezed, and squeezed, and squeezed until he felt her bones crack and splinter. His nails dug in further until she wept like a fountain. It reminded him of Theiodamas.
It reminded him of his Hylas.
Look at me, Heracles prayed, look at me, look at me, look at me—
He snapped her neck in his hand. Her body went limp and he dropped her like she was nothing. She was nothing. The other nymphs had vanished and Heracles stood over her with emptiness inside him. Only hunger remained. Only heartbreak.
Polyphemus, quiet, finally spoke. “She did not deserve that, Alcides.”
Neither did he.
K.M. Hale (they/them) is a 26-year-old writer from the East Coast. They are constantly testing the bounds of genre and storytelling with queerness and self-reflection. Their work has been accepted by: The Icarus Writing Collective, Missive Mag, and All Existing.