Never trust the gods, is the first rule she should have learned. For all his sun-bright smile and cocky demeanor, he was no better than the rest of them.
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Hercules was dead.
HER HERCULES, THE DEMIGOD WAS DEAD -- the one who took his place was an angered immortal, fueled by the fire of his own pyre. He was to be the divine protector of mankind, the god of heroes, yet no longer the man she loved. Where was he now, as Death invaded her only place of safety?
He stopped being the man she loved during his fit of madness, before his Mortal body died.
The blood never came out of the stone, and her own blood poured onto the stone from where she had scrubbed until her hands were raw and sore. The lies the gods told was that Hera was a loving woman, how she cared for Hercules, and the poet Walt going as far as calling her his mother.
The lies felt sour, like bitter wine.
The shrill whines of the hellhounds were getting closer. Megara could feel the rancid hot breath on the back of her neck, raising the hairs despite the sweat that dripped along her hairline. They would be on her in moments, their teeth bared and their soulless eyes glaring down at her.
Before long, she will be back in the clutches of Death, and standing on the shores of the Underworld.
Walt had portrayed her death as sudden and tragic, meant to motivate the young god hero, Hercules, to delve into the Underworld as a mortal to save the damsel in distress and they would have the ending the mortals loved to tell tales of. She was foolish to think that it would be her happy ending, that her life would remain as serene as that moment with Hercules to hold her as they gazed upon Mount Olympus in wonder.
Now, she could only pause in her escape to glare up at Mount Olympus, silently praying and yet cursing.
She would not face the God and Goddess of death as the damsel in distress, yet she would not stop to escape them, for as long as her weak and human body would allow her to run up the hillside to the temple.
