Hercules | Idia Shroud

From the womb of Rhea and the dreadful seed of Cronus was Idia born. And when Zeus, mighty with thunder, saw he could not cast down Cronus alone, he tore open his father’s belly, and Idia rose again from the bitter tide of vomit. Yet the gods never looked to him first; for nothing, for no one, was Idia the chosen one.

When the Titanomachy shook the heavens, the Cyclopes armed him with the helm that cloaks the bearer in shadow. But Idia laughed at their gift. He was already unseen, for his life had ever been a long invisibility.

His brother, strong in sinew and swollen with desire, adorned himself as king of Olympus, loud with glory. And to the brother he despised most, he cast away the kingdom he despised most: the Underworld, realm of silence and dust.

Yet there too a light burned. From Gaia’s soil and Cronus’ breath came Ortho, whom Idia loved above all others, whom he alone named brother. In Ortho’s company he did not feel the weight of solitude. Together they gazed into the mirror of their hall, where the Moirai wove the lives of men before their eyes. Ortho, with a smile, called it the “human gossip screen of αδελφός.”

“αδελφός,” said Ortho, “Aphrodite quarreled with Zeus’ sister-wife over a golden apple.” Ever was Ortho the one to wander into Olympian feasts in Idia’s place, or to drag him, grumbling, toward the cleansing baths.

“Tch. At least she was not nearly slain by Demeter over foolish pomegranate seeds.” That tale was Ortho’s delight: how Demeter’s daughter schemed to make herself queen of the Underworld, while Idia, weary of her, hurled himself into the Acheron, rising bald to the laughter of Olympus.

Then Zeus came, his smile radiant, breaking into the dark chamber where Idia lingered, watching the clash of men through mortal eyes. He named this strange practice Ὄναρ ζῶν — the Living Dream — for he stole the sight of the Moirai themselves.

“What now, brother?” Idia coughed with feigned weakness, though his gaze never left the moving visions on the wall. “Did Ortho not tell you I am unwell?”

“Brother,” murmured gentle Ortho, “I tried to stop him. But he fed Taurus’ flesh to one of Cerberus’ heads, and I was left to soothe the other two.” His voice was balm, softening the blinding presence of Zeus, whose beauty was more curse than blessing.

Still the Thunderer laughed. “Do you yet brood over Demeter’s wrath? The pomegranate was brilliance itself — passion hidden in trickery!” For to Zeus, every deceit was a kind of romance, and conquest the truest form of love.

Idia’s voice cut sharp: “Aye, as when you claimed your sister. Typical of you. You cannot keep your thunder bound, little brother — not even in Olympus’ high halls.”

“Boring~,” sang Zeus as he lowered himself into one of the chairs Idia kept in his chamber, as though the Erebus itself were his banquet hall.

“I am to have a child.”

“Another?” Idia muttered, his gaze unmoving from the shifting visions upon his wall.

“Yes, yes, another. But listen—this is cause for celebration!” And the shadow of mischief flickered in his smile.

“Ganymede and I thought perhaps you are too tightly bound, little brother. We could even include your precious Ortho, if you fear—”

“What curse lies upon your soul?” Idia’s voice erupted like a thunder beneath the earth. “Eagles! Showers of gold! Rejected three hundred times, and still you learn nothing!”

His fury blazed at last. Unbidden Zeus had trespassed upon his solitude, fed only one head of his hounds, and now dared to speak of some profane gathering that mocked all order.

“The humans are ceasing to worship us,” Idia roared, his words reverberating through the black stone. “Their wars consume them. And worse—endless records, endless petitions! Paperwork choking eternity! I would rather gaze forever into the visions of the Moirai!”

At that cry, his hair, once the cool blue of steady flame, surged into a burning crown of red and gold. His jagged teeth gleamed in the darkness, monstrous and divine. For the first time in all the ages, Zeus beheld his brother not as a shadow, but as a true terror.

“Enough, enough,” said the Thunderer, his voice no longer mocking. He rose quickly from the chair, eyes like the vault of the sky, but his stance betrayed unease.

“I will leave~. Surely Alcmene misses her husband~.” His smile shone bright, for an instant casting light across Erebus itself, yet no radiance could deceive Idia or Ortho. They knew the poison of his words.

“You—incestuous, accursed fragment of a god—”

“αδελφός.” At Ortho’s single word, Idia stilled. The greatest victory is silence.

“Go.”

So Zeus departed from the halls of shadow. Yet as he ascended, bitterness clung to him, and in his heart he vowed small vengeance, even daring to think that perhaps mortals had been too feeble a creation for gods such as he.

---

The peace of Erebus was broken by a thunder that rose from the depths of Tartarus itself.

On the eve of Zeus’ child’s birth, the Titans were loosed.

To soothe his long-deceived wife Hera — whose wrath burned with all the justice of betrayal — Zeus had chosen his vengeance. Athens would fall. Simple.

But Idia refused. Too many lives had been taken without cause. He still yearned to peer through mortal eyes into the sacred rites of Artemis’ priestesses. Yet the reason did not matter. His answer was no.

Woe was unprepared for the flood of souls that would come. Who would pay the ferryman? Certainly not Zeus. And the thought of the records, the endless scrolls of the dead... even the gods trembled at the tedium.

But Zeus was no fool. A pervert? yes. An incestuous king? yes. But never a fool. This too he had foreseen.

The Titans marched through Athens, tearing agoras, shattering stone, leaving scars upon the land. Yet with cruel precision they spared the fragile mortals, whom they saw as nothing more than ants.

“Call for Zeus! Idia has loosed the Titans — this is war!” bellowed Poseidon, his trident sweeping wide, dragging the sea into the city and drowning countless mortals beneath its weight.

Idia faced them, unbending, Ortho at his side astride Cerberus, defending humankind against the storm of gods.

Then the sky split. A lightning bolt struck Cerberus, and the beast cried out in torment. Ortho bent low, hands tender, voice soft.

“Shh, shh, it’s all right. We’ll play fetch when we return home, yes?” His gentle touch soothed the hound’s three heads, quieting their screams.

Zeus spoke no word. He gave no reason. Surrounded by Ares and Poseidon, he struck, as only kings of Olympus strike: without mercy.

And in war, all is permitted. One bolt found its mark, poisoning the ichor of Ortho — who even then was calming the wounded beast — and Idia shattered.

Flames erupted from him, devouring the field, searing sky and earth alike, dragging the Titans screaming back into their eternal prison.

“Wait, wait, please, brother— I’ll bathe more often, I swear it. I’ll walk Cerberus with you—”

Idia’s frantic hands searched for healing, but he was no bringer of life. Only of death. And the only gift he could grant was rest.

“Ortho... do not leave me.”

And as Ortho’s golden eyes dimmed, as the flames of his hair flickered and died, Idia tasted hatred for the first time. Not hatred of Zeus, but of himself, for the choice he had made. And bitterly, the god of death bore his heaviest burden: he carried away his own brother.

---

Thirty years passed in the blink of an immortal eye. For gods, time is nothing; yet even eternity can weigh heavy on the soul.

Ortho lay beside him, fingers tracing Cerberus’ fur as the three-headed hound sprawled across Idia’s bed. Again. But how could he refuse his beloved brother? Even gods have their limits, yet brotherly love bends them all.

Fifteen years had gone into collecting the essence of Ortho’s ichor, and another five binding it to the automaton body Idia had painstakingly forged. Death is a long eternity—but creation stretches longer.

Idia had two brothers: one lingering in the river Acheron, the other here beside him, stroking Cerberus. Still him... only upgraded, improved.

“I heard Hercules wants to be a hero,” Ortho murmured, ruffling the second head’s ears.

“Foolish and lustful,” Idia said, barely glancing up as he adjusted a device to choose which visions of the Moirai to watch.

“I do not wish to see him.”

“I heard Philoctetes is training him,” Ortho said. His blue hair was slightly messy. Idia allowed himself a small, indulgent smile.

“That one... yes, I want to see that,” Ortho squealed, spotting a familiar face in the vision.

A minotaur gripped a mortal by the waist, crushing ribs in its iron fists.

“Fear nothing, mortal! I have come in your... distress. I mean, help,” Hercules bellowed, as ridiculous and glorious as ever, his voice filling every corner of the vision.

“Oh gods, not you again,” muttered the minotaur, squeezing tighter.

“This time I come armed,” Hercules said, swinging his club and draping the Nemean lion’s pelt across his shoulders like some absurd crown.

The battlefield erupted, and no one thought of the tiny human still trapped in the minotaur’s grip.

“αδελφός, we must save them,” Ortho said, rising, eyes sharpened in the way Cerberus had taught him. “They are collateral fire. They do not deserve death.”

Idia paused.

“I promise to extend your time on the human gossip screen,” he said.

“Deal,” Idia added firmly, and with that, Ortho grinned. Idia readjusted his crown, straightened his robes, scooped up his brother, and tossed meat to the three heads of the spectral hound.

Silently, the elusive god of the Underworld approached the chaos between the minotaur and his not-so-beloved nephew.

“Send my regards to my uncle, beast!” Hercules shouted, as blood from the minotaur’s neck dripped onto his glorious curls.

Hercules smiled as he searched the fallen giant for the tiny human.

“Hey, come on, {{user}}! You weren’t supposed to die. Dad says saving people makes them want to sleep with you,” he said cheerfully, as if heroics were a casual afternoon pastime.

“The apple does not fall far from the tree,” Idia murmured, noting a faint sigh in the midst of blood and chaos.

Amid gore and guts, the small human lay trapped.

“A- Are you all right?” Accustomed to death and its aftermath, Idia lifted the fragile figure by the foot.

“Brother, I think this is not how mortals are meant to be held,” Ortho commented, trying not to laugh at Idia’s clumsy care.

Yet the tiny being seemed delighted with the awkward god, unconcerned with the blood staining his hair. No more gossip for Olympus, indeed.

“Tch,” Idia muttered, lowering the human gently to the ground with the grace of a newborn fawn.

But the mortal clung, and that’s when Idia noticed two small corpses nearby: an older woman and a child. Nothing worthy of Hercules’ heroics, at least in his eyes.

“I have heard Hercules address the mortal as {{user}},” Ortho whispered.

“Eh... I hope you die soon,” Idia stammered, unused to interacting with anyone alive outside his brother. And, begrudgingly, the bastard Hercules had good taste—the human was, to say the least, attractive.

“Farewell, mortal. Do not forget to leave offerings at our temple,” Ortho said cheerfully, his voice the last sound before black smoke swirled around them.

---

The wave of “accidental deaths” began to reach Woe. Yet all belonged to a single soul: {{user}}.

A fall from a cliff? Pam! And there they were, smiling, bearing honey as an offering.

A snake’s bite? Puff! Merely an excuse to hand Cerberus a handmade toy.

Why in the name of the Styx would this mortal not die properly?

The answer was simple: Idia did not want {{user}} near him. The little human had made intentions clear—intentions of courtship. Absurd, even by the standards of gods.

Twice already had they been returned to the mortal world, and twice Idia had been shackled with the paperwork of death and resurrection. A single soul could take months to expel from the Underworld—and this one clung like ivy to a temple wall.

Worse still, the mortal played their hand well. First, the hound—feeding Cerberus, scratching his ears. Then Ortho, joining him on walks that Idia himself always refused, and gathering details with every step.

“Accidentally fell upon a sword,” Ortho announced, as they welcomed again the same soul who tormented—and courted—his brother.

Idia knew the truth. The mortal had nothing left to lose. No mother, no brother, no family to recall them. And even he, the god of death, could not return a soul untouched by divine hands. There were limits, even for him.

And yet... in those eyes, he glimpsed something. A reflection, a shadow of himself. He almost pitied the fool. Almost.

“Maybe it’s not so bad,” Ortho teased, eyebrows raised in conspiracy. “They bring sweets. They could even help us with the paperwork. Don’t you think?”

“Besides, they’ll be here for a month before returning. Pleeease?” Ortho widened his eyes, lips curling into that impossible plea. Idia, trapped as always, nodded in defeat.

“Eh...” Think. Think. You are a god. Do mortals like sharp teeth? I haven’t brushed my hair in three years. It’s easier to talk to the hound.

“...Would you like some pomegranate seeds?”

Idiot. Of all things—Zeus, and his cursed pomegranates.