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[worlds-vigor.insanejournal.com]

Who: Hercules [Narrative]
What: Hera has inflicted him with madness and he kills his family
Where: Hercules' home
When: Ancient Greece
Warnings: Depictions of blood and death

As the madness washed away like the sun coming out on a cloudy day, Hercules saw the massacre in front of him. His three sons lay just a few feet apart from one another, shot down with arrows to their tiny bodies, eyes open, mouths agape in horror.

His brows moved upward in confusion, breath short in his throat like a heavy knot that wouldn’t go away. Even more horrifying was their mother, clutching one of the boy’s hands with her own. Her dress was ripped to shreds, sword-sized gashes against her pale and soft flesh, blood circling her in a liquid pool. It was then and only then that he noticed his blood-stained hands. His hands. There was a gasp as he looked down, sword at his feet, bow just a few feet behind him. He cried out in pain, shakily walking towards their tortured bodies. Through gritted teeth he knelt down, fingers wiping Megara’s matted black hair from her face. Her eyes were wide, in shock no doubt, so very carefully he closed them with trembling hands.

He could still smell her perfume in the air, the food she’d prepared for dinner sitting on the table, toys scattered around the floor where the boys had been playing. Hercules cried then, sitting down, picking up his dead wife and holding her gently in his arms. She was heavy, a dead-weight, lips still ruddy, body still warm. He picked up her hand, big fingers stroking her small and delicate ones. So soft were those hands. He placed it against his face, eyes shutting tightly as he cried. That knot in his throat still remained, and the longer he held her, the more it hurt inside.

His whole body started to shake now, somewhere between shock, anger and grief. His hands wiped across her face, lips gently pressed against her forehead. “I’m sorry,” he whispered knowing she’d never answer him.

When he was able he built the funeral pyre’s for each of the bodies, lighting it with his torch and watching the flames engulf the lumps that used to be living and breathing. Hercules starred off blankly into the night sky, those flames mirroring against his dark eyes. Nothing could make this go away, he’d atone for his wrong-doing, blaming Hera every step of the way.

He was her target, his family was innocent. They’d never deserved this.