Archive of Our Own ^beta

We begin our tale with the legendary hero, Habashira-cles, who in a fit of god-cursed madness slew his own wife, the lovely Meg-ara, princess of Thebes. 

Well, strictly speaking, an attempt was made—though said attempt left Meg-ara less slain than furious.

When the madness had cleared, the hero saw what he had done, and begged to atone. In response, she commanded him to seek King Eurystheus, enter into his service, and complete any task he set out, no matter how arduous or deadly. 

At least, that was the gist of what she said. Her actual delivery, being interspersed with profanity and violence alike, proved too fearsome to record within these pages.

On second thought, gentle reader, let us not start the story at such a troubling moment.

Having completed already eleven daunting feats, our hero sets off on his final and greatest challenge yet: one that would take him to the depths of the Underworld, the very land of the damned...

For a perilous journey to the Underworld—that land of death from which no mortal had ever returned—the trip downward was awfully dull. 

And cold.

The deep, rocky cave had been just as deep and rocky as the oracle had promised, and in the very darkest ass end of it, Habashira had wormed his way into an even tighter and less comfortable crevice. This had developed into a narrow tunnel that sloped lurchingly downward with his every step, and closed in around him until the icy stone walls were hugging at his shoulders and scraping at his thighs. It was all he could do to push one sandal in front of the other, and grope his way forward, downward, blindly into the monotonous dark.

He was still wearing the pelt of the Nemean Lion over his shoulders, its head sitting atop his like a glowering crown, perpetually roaring at his enemies. Though it had given that asshole Eurystheus a good scare, it really wasn't doing much to stave off the dire chill rising up from the Underworld, nor the doomed spirits that reached out to him, placing their wispy hands upon his shins and heels. 

He should have made leggings out of that damn Erymanthian Boar too, is what he should have done. A souvenir for each of the eleven grueling tasks he'd already completed for Eurystheus, at least then he'd be warm. 

He wasn't sure the fucker even wanted any of these things, the Lion or the Boar or whatever, or if he was just trying to find the most inventive possible ways to make Habashira suffer. 

Well, it was working.

He was suffering, damn it.

His vision was still wavering, ever since he'd been kicked in the head by one of those flesh-eating horses of Diomedes. His shoulders were sore from holding up the weight of the Earth way longer than Atlas had bargained for, and he was pretty sure his last fight with that ugly-ass winged giant had torn open the barely closed wounds on his chest, where the Lion's claws had carved into him. Or was it from those horrible birds with the metal beaks? 

Whatever. The point was...

What was the point again?

The point was, he'd show Eurystheus. He'd finished every damn task set out for him so far, and this was no different. 

Even if walking into death did seem like a colossally stupid idea.

Abruptly, the way before him widened, and he nearly stumbled without the pressing closeness of the tunnel walls to hold him upright. 

There hadn't even been a light at the end to warn him it was coming; though he could sense the space around him was now vast and cavernous, it was just as dark as the tunnel that had spat him out. 

He fumbled in his pouch for a flint and torch, and on striking it, saw that its flickering light only painted its way up a bare corner of the wall behind him, and nothing in front or overhead. 

Against the pressing darkness, he felt small—a strange sensation for a mighty hero of the ages.

Only the thought of sticking it to Eurystheus persuaded him to forge on. 

In the distance, his torchlight just barely reflected off a rippling surface, as of shifting water—it must have been the famed River Styx, which formed the true boundary between world and underworld. 

If Habashira crossed it, he would be, very literally, dead.

But he'd never feared death. 

As he got closer, his light fell on the curves of a tiny rowboat conveniently moored to the bank, bobbing on the river's surface like a laughably flimsy cork. Wasn't there supposed to be a boatman waiting here? Or was that only if you died the natural way? 

Habashira hopped into it, sliced the ropes with a great swing of his sword, and began to vigorously row.

Yeah, his shoulders did not care for that. Not one bit.

Fuck Atlas.

No, fuck Eurystheus. This was all his fault.

The river was wide, and turbulent, but it also pulled him onward, as if it wanted him on the other side. Soon, it grew light enough that he paused his rowing to put out his torch, and even with his hands off the oars, his little vessel continued to progress, steadily drawing farther and farther from the land of the living. 

By the time his prow bit into the opposite bank, it was bright enough to see that the landscape wasn't gray due to the dim light, but was actually just plain gray. The land swelled and sagged with uneven crags and stones, all in drab monochrome, as if its artist had been given only a single pigment to work with. In the distance, he saw great walls, as of a fortified city, and looming gates that gave him deep unease. 

So focused was he on staring at these walls, that within his first few steps he stumbled on some unevenness in the terrain, and nearly fell.

Then he looked closer at his feet, and realized the pit that had tripped him was actually an enormous paw print, large enough for him to lie down in, sunken in enough to break an unsuspecting ankle.

As if on cue, there came a deep, rhythmic rumbling in the ground, as if something was bounding its way toward him. Something large, and heavy, and fast. Something with a paw the size of a man. 

Habashira didn't have time to unsheathe his sword before it was on him, three slavering dog heads that each lunged at him with such uncoordinated ferocity that he didn't at first realize they were all connected to one beast. He somehow managed to duck its charge, and as it went past him, barely stopping short of the sucking river's edge, he could see that its tail was a dragon's head, hissing and spitting fire as it whipped about in the air. 

This could have been none other than Cerberus, legendary guard dog of the Underworld. 

Target of his quest.

A vicious beast, that had already proven faster than Habashira. Running wasn't an option. 

So, as it skidded a wide turn, sending great showers of rock and dirt flying, Habashira planted his feet solidly into the ground, and caught it on its way back, grappling all three heads at once and wrestling them downward with all his might. He was weakened by his adventures thus far, but strengthened by the adrenaline coursing through him. This was a fight for his life, such as he still had it, and he couldn't lose now. 

The heads didn't go down easily, either. 

They bucked at him, roared in three different pitches, and the dragon-head tail came whipping around to sting at his arms, his legs, anywhere not protected by the Lion's pelt.

Just as the creature seemed to be weakening under him, just as its monstrous strength seemed to be coming under his control—there came a sharp, clear whistle, and Cerberus shook him off with one great, earthquaking shudder. Habashira went sprawling onto his back, and then the enormous paws came down on him, pinning him flat, squeezing the breath out of his lungs.

He waited for any of the horrible maws to tear into him, or all three at once, but instead the beast gave a great woof, and turned its three heads to look behind itself, towards an approaching figure cloaked in night, or perhaps formed of it.

When he got close enough, the figure pulled back his hood to reveal hair shockingly gold against this colorless landscape, and teeth that looked sharper than those of his monstrous dog, formed into an unpleasant grin.

"An intruder in my domain?" said Hiruma, God of the Underworld. "They're either making heroes braver these days, or dumber. And that would be quite the feat."

Habashira, still pinned under one giant paw, didn't say anything. Two of the three dog heads turned back to him. One gave a low growl, and the other let out a string of hot drool that landed right on his chest. 

"Go on, boy," urged Hiruma. "Kill him."

The third head finally turned back. It regarded Habashira for a long, breathless moment, and then leaned down, and gave him a great lick. It woofed again, and then the other two heads were nuzzling down for their turn too, covering Habashira with slobber.

"What kind of fucking incompetent guard dog are you?" Hiruma marched close enough to haul Cerberus off by one of its three collars, so he could glower down at Habashira himself. "What did you do to him? Have you been playing with him? Ugh, he's such a sucker for wrestling matches."

Habashira coughed weakly, and tried to sit up. 

Hiruma promptly pushed him back down, which, by this point, maybe Habashira should just get used to this.

"Oh, still warm, huh? We got a fucking live one down here, that's rare. Though from the looks of it, not for long." Hiruma peeled aside the Lion pelt to show the blood oozing down Habashira's chest. "Who fixed that up for you, a fucking butcher?"

"I did," Habashira snapped, pulling his cloak back around himself and finally managing to scramble to a sitting position. "It's been busy. And I didn't exactly have a lot to work with." 

"We'll see about that." Hiruma reached for the cloak again, and when Habashira curled around it protectively, darted his hand the other way and managed to snatch Habashira's pouch instead. 

At his gleeful grin, Habashira refused to play into another futile attempt to grab it back, and only sullenly watched as the God of the Underworld began to rifle through his mortal possessions with all the care of a child digging through a pile of toys he was mostly bored with. Hiruma discarded whatever didn't catch his interest—the torch, the flint, a waterskin—and ended up with a roll of bandages and a fistful of herbs provided by some helpful nymphs early on. Habashira hadn't really known what to do with the herbs, but he'd kept them because he'd listened to enough stories in his youth, and knew better than to give offense.

Hiruma waggled his prizes and his eyebrows in the air until Habashira reluctantly parted his cloak again, revealing again the reopened wounds. 

None too gently, Hiruma set to cleaning them with water scooped from the River Styx, which fizzed and lapped oddly at any flesh that it touched. The herbs, he personally crushed and chewed in his teeth; the resulting poultice proved as immediately effective as it was gross. Hiruma's hands were ice cold, even colder than the Styxian water, but bore a healing skill one wouldn't have expected of the God of Death. Even Habashira had to admit he felt better by the end of it, as if the bandages were managing to hold him together even after eleven quests' worth of suffering and wear.

As Hiruma went off triumphantly to wash his hands in the river, Habashira saw that Cerberus had been sitting patiently behind this whole time. Reminded of his quest, Habashira got to his feet, and began to explain, first in detail, and then in broad strokes, to an audience that didn't seem to be particularly interested in hearing it. He ended with a rushed, "Look, can I just borrow the dog? Just to show him. I'll try to bring it back."

"Hell no. Cerberus is an untamed beast. He'll tear your head off as soon as you let down your guard—"

Habashira picked up the unlit torch and threw it. Injuries or no, his arm was still strong enough to send it flying into the invisible distance. Cerberus tore off after it instantly, sending the ground shaking with each eager stride.

Hiruma slapped a hand over his face. "Yeah, okay, but he's part of the whole package here. What happens when mortal souls come to the gates of the Underworld, and there's just a fucking Cerberus-shaped outline in the hellscape? No fucking way what you need him for is more important."

With a sigh, Habashira began to explain again about King Eurystheus and the various trials, but this time Hiruma stopped him.

"Eurystheus, you say? Never liked that fucking tiny-crown."

"Like I've been saying," Habashira said, exasperated. Cerberus returned with an eager bark, and plopped the torch at Habashira's feet, now deeply pocked with teeth marks. Habashira picked it up gingerly, and gave it another throw. "He's been making me do all sorts of crazy shit. Pretty sure he's just enjoying seeing me suffer. I had to kill the The Nemean Lion!" He patted his pelt. "The Lernean Hydra! And don't get me started about mucking the stables."

Hiruma eyed him again, clearly remembering all the various wounds he'd just bandaged. If he didn't believe the depravity of the trials Habashira had been through, the state of his body bore witness to it all.

As Cerberus came bounding back again, Hiruma stopped it in its tracks with an outflung arm, and then began to absently pat one of its great heads. The dragon tail began to wag back and forth in apparent glee, sending out little fans of flame in all directions.

"Now that you mention it," said Hiruma at last, "I've always hated that guy. New game plan, now listen closely..." 

Two weeks later, an unsettling howl filled the Underworld, and then was picked up by a second voice, then a third. 

A giant hellhound bounded in through the gates, a certain hero riding on its back. 

Of its three dog heads, two waved triumphantly back and forth, clearly delighted to be back in familiar surroundings. But it was the one in the center that looked the most pleased with itself, and its maw was still dripping with blood. 

Having accomplished his twelve great labors, Habashira-cles was given no more, and permitted at last to return home.

As for why he stopped by the Underworld first? He had, after all, promised to return the hound to its owner. 

If he stayed a long while after—well, that's a separate tale, for another time to tell.