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i.
He meets the toad first.
Heracles has seen the thing hopping about, but he's rarely given it a second thought; no interest in anything that isn't the club in his hand and the head it must meet. Still, after the chamber is empty and he's tossing Melinoë's share of earnings her way, he notices the toad leap toward a group of shades clustered in the corner. The dead avoid him, most nights, saving their reverence for the Underworld princess—and that extends to her beast, as well.
The toad's eyes begin to glow. Compelling the shades, who fade away not long after. Apparently, it shares its mistress's affinity for magick. All the more reason for Heracles to steer clear, and so he does.
The toad, though, doesn't seem to have gotten the message.
A few nights later, and Heracles is swinging his club at a Shambler. Wheat-colored hair in the corner of his vision, too close. Too late for him to stop his club, but he pays it no mind. He's given her more than enough warning, and if her magick wasn't enough to heal her wounds, she's snatched a Centaur heart out from under his nose at the boatman's shop time and time again. This, he thinks, is war.
But then—
There's a flash of green, a familiar glow, and it's as though his club has hit a wall. Something far more solid than the crumbling ruins of Ephyra. For the first time in as long as he can remember, Heracles is stumbling back.
"You..." he growls, when the Shambler is in pieces at his feet, but the toad is hopping away, unconcerned. Behind it, the witch, unscathed. Easier to shift his glare to her. "I thought I told you to stay out of my way," he tells her. "That applies to your beast, too."
Melinoë blinks at him. "Frinos goes where he pleases."
"Frinos," Heracles repeats. "You've given the toad a name."
"Of course I have," she says, as though not doing so is unthinkable. "He's my oldest friend."
Ridiculous. If there's anything that Heracles has learned over the years, it's that only a beast could befriend another, but she—shining in the moonlight, air around her crackling with magick, she who cannot be anything other than divine—gives the toad, Frinos, the fondest look he's ever seen.
Melinoë has always captured his attention, held it like she would a knife to his throat—a fact he's spent too long fighting, and has now settled on something like grim acceptance. One battle he has no interest in winning. Moonlight guide you, she says; a curse she's placed on him, perhaps, for all that the moonlight always seems to guide him right to her. And her oldest friend, too. Dead man that he is, he finds, from then on, that he is no different from the shades. Compelled by the toad, noticing it more and more. Started thinking of it by name. For what reason, though, he could not explain even if he were to try.
He doesn't swing his club Melinoë's way, anymore, and Frinos keeps out of his way. The way Frinos had pushed Heracles back: all the strength of the Mightiest of Men, turned against him. The Mightiest of Toads. No fear in Melinoë that her own beast—or friend, as she calls it—will turn on her. She showers it in praise, and once, Heracles sees her lean down to kiss the thing's head. At that, he looks away, mouth dry.
So used to bewitching and controlling; learnings from their godly relatives, perhaps. He's reminded of the Lernaean Hydra, raised by Her Majesty the Queen for the sole purpose of bringing Heracles to his demise. Too long spent on his labors—watching the mares of Diomedes feast on the flesh of their keeper, running after the Erymanthian Boar, the Ceryneian Hind, the Cretan Bull—has left Heracles wary.
No running now, even if he wanted to.
ii.
The cat, he's seen before, around the outskirts of Ephyra.
The two of them would stop to consider one another on occasion, before the feline would bend down and lick her paw. Evidently, Heracles not being interesting enough to hold her attention. He never knew whether that was meant to be an insult—but it certainly wasn't the worst that's been done to him, so he turns a blind eye. There are more than enough fish in the depths of Ephyra's waters, and though it may be his city, he finds it within himself to allow the pillaging.
Generosity, one might say. Uncaring, another would retort. He cannot say which is the truth.
No matter what, though, the cat never approached him. Not that he tried; maybe if he'd come to her with fingers smelling of fish guts, she would have changed her mind. But he hadn't, he didn't, he wouldn't. No way to know. He'd thought the cat just preferred to stay away from them all—humans, gods, and whatever in hell he himself is.
He's surprised, then, when the witch saunters into Ephyra, the same cat in question skulking at her heels. No Frinos tonight. Typical of Melinoë, he thinks, to switch things up on him and leave him reeling. Nimble, the both of them. Quick on their feet. Both leveling him with the same amount of consideration—identical in that he cannot tell what it means in either of their eyes.
An interesting choice of companion, that cat. Quick, certainly, with the way he's seen her spear more than a few fish on those sharpened claws of hers. Invisible when she wants to be—not unlike her new mistress, it seems. There have been more than a few nights when the witch is impossible to find; only the trail of blood, hers and not hers, she leaves behind serving as proof that she's been there at all, as opposed to further down in that Underworld of hers.
Heracles wonders, what hidden strength lies within this beast? He doesn't have to wonder for long, as she's kind enough to indulge his curiosity. She curls up, nose tucked under her tail, and dozes off.
"Huh," says Heracles, when the chamber is clear and they're both wiping sweat off their brows. "New friend of yours?"
Melinoë smiles. "This is Toula," she says. "Toula, say hello!"
The cat cracks an eye open, looks at Heracles, and then goes back to sleep.
Something flutters in Heracles's chest. Amusement—unfamiliar in this lifetime, save for where the witch is concerned. So many cases. Seeing her, small as she is, hefting that axe of hers over her shoulder as though she wouldn't topple over at any moment. Her offers of Nectar after Nectar that he's long since stopped denying. Her steadfast determination to smile at him, greet him. Treat him as though he's deserving of everything she gives so willingly.
"I've seen this one about," he tells her. "Trust her with catching dinner, maybe, but in a fight, you'd be wiser to look elsewhere."
"Toula is indeed excellent at fishing," she replies. "But I wouldn't underestimate her if I were you, Son of Zeus. She can be rather vicious when she wants to."
Heracles looks, then, not at the cat, but at her mistress. Small, soft. Vicious would be the last word one would think to describe her as, if they saw her elsewhere—especially not next to him, with his scars and pelt, proof of his labors carved into his very skin. But here and now, the scent of blood in the air and her knives gleaming in the moonlight, there is nothing else that comes to mind.
The way she stands against her foes, skewers any who dare to stand against her. Returns from the jaws of death, night after night after night.
"Now that," says Heracles, "I can believe."
iii.
The next time he sees her, it's with no cat and no toad at her side.
No beast at all, he thinks, at first. But there's a white blur swooping down at their enemies. A familiar motion, reminding him of bronze beaks and feathers sharp as arrows. No help from Athena this time to scare it off.
None needed.
For when the fight is over and he turns to Melinoë, he finds her staring not at him, but at the top of his head. Where not a moment later, he feels a soft weight land.
Heracles holds himself still. "Witch," he says in a low voice. "What is on my head?"
"Apologies, Son of Zeus," says Melinoë. Holding back laughter. The amusement she makes him feel—along with everything else he refuses to put a name to—it isn't often that the other way around occurs. Isn't often that anyone has taken any amusement from anything about him, except perhaps the dark pleasure that the Queen certainly must derive out of making him dance on his puppet strings.
Nothing like this.
"This is a friend of mine, Raki," she continues. "It seems he's quite taken with that lion pelt of yours."
"As am I," says Heracles, "considering it's mine."
The bird may be small, but after what happened with Frinos, Heracles has learned not to take the witch's familiars lightly. Fierce, with a beak sharp enough to spear these Satyrs through the throat. As he reaches up, Melinoë watches him. Doesn't say anything, despite the fact that he could kill it if he wanted to. Lack of poison-tipped arrows notwithstanding.
Does she not react because she thinks this Raki can defend himself? Or because she knows that Heracles won't go through with it? It's a ridiculous thought. Killer that he is, of course she wouldn't be able to see him as anything else. A weapon does what it's made for, that's all, and so too does he.
He doesn't know what she's thinking, if she thinks of him at all, but all he knows is what he can see: Melinoë does not react.
Carefully, Heracles extends his fingers. The tips of which meet feathers. Soft, downy. He holds his hand there for a moment as he waits for the pain. The beak, the claws. An experiment of sorts. And the result: the bird, Raki, jumps onto his hand. Sharp claws curled around his fingers.
Choosing not to hurt him.
Holding his hand level, Heracles brings the bird down. Beady eyes blink at him, green as one of its mistress's.
"He likes you," says Melinoë softly.
He scoffs. "This," he says, "is nothing but animal behavior, sister. Recognizing a fellow predator. Avoiding the inevitable battle."
Tilting her head to the side, she says, "Oh? I've never known you to avoid a battle, however inevitable it may be."
How easy it would be, to kill each other. Heracles's eyes fall, then. The club at his own side. The weapons hanging at hers. Neither making any move to raise them.
A choice.
iv.
He finds her on Olympus.
Hasn't seen her yet tonight, but he'd followed the sound of barking. Known that she must have had something to do with it. Another beast to add to her collection, following at her heels. Not unlike him.
Heracles drops in, then, as he always does. Catches up to her. Sniffs her out.
She acknowledges him wordlessly, none needed in the bond between beast and mistress: shifting, turning, willingly showing her back to him. Trusting him to protect her. And he does so without lingering on the thought, for if he thinks about it too hard, he'll find himself changed irreversibly. Looking down to find himself collared, leashed. Bonded.
Maybe a slow process. Maybe all at once, something that happened the first time he'd seen her.
Nothing's changed, he tells himself. He's still fighting alone. It's just him and the enemy in front of him, that's all, and she's not interfering in that. And her dog, too, seems to agree. They make eye contact once, two beasts circling one another, and understanding passing between them. Granting their mistress the protection she demands.
Mightiest of Men, Mightiest of Dogs. Mightiest of Failures, the both of them.
A small gasp is all he hears, and when he looks over his shoulder, it's to find her—witch, princess, his sister-in-arms—speared through the stomach by a pair of automatons.
He and the hound move at the same time. As Heracles swings his club at one, the dog digs its teeth into the other's throat. And then the chamber is empty, mercifully so, and he's turning to her.
He knows that she dies, of course. She has to, for her to return night after night. But he's never seen it before, the way a deathless goddess of the Underworld returns to her true form. Even before he realizes what he's doing, Heracles is taking a step toward her.
The dog growls at him then once. A warning.
"Hecuba," the witch murmurs. "It’s… it’s all right. Good girl."
A moment longer, watching Heracles, before the hound acknowledges. Bows her head and steps aside, though her eyes don't leave him. She could hurt him, if she wanted to. Deliberately, Heracles turns. Back to the dog. Choosing to trust.
Melinoë has slumped to the ground, a hand pressed weakly to her injury. A statue of Zeus above her. Another casualty of their war, an offering to his Lord Father. Heracles approaches: kneeling before her, his father, them all.
She bleeds red, just like he does.
"You haven't met Hecuba yet, have you?" she asks. Still thinking about him, even in her final moments on the Surface. Loyalty, another trait she shares with her dog. "I've known her for a long time. Strong, isn't she?"
He inclines his head, not arguing. "You got far tonight," he says, eyes on her wound. Her hands are so small. Unable to staunch the flow of blood. His would be better, he thinks, and it's impossible to shake the thought loose.
"Not far enough." She laughs weakly. The only thing weak about her. "There's always tomorrow night."
"Our labors are never-ending," he agrees.
As they speak, Hecuba inches closer, closer, until she's sitting beside him. He could touch her, if he wanted to. And he does. With his hand—big enough to cover Melinoë's wound, big enough to protect her, guard her, bring her back to life—he reaches out to her hound.
Hecuba sniffs his hand tentatively. Doesn't bite him. In the last moment before witch and dog return to shadow, she leans her head into his hand, and Heracles holds Melinoë's gaze.
v.
She hasn't come to the Surface in a long time.
That's a good thing, Heracles reminds himself. Below is where she belongs. Above is his domain, and to defend Olympus is his labor. He works alone; anyone else would just be an intrusion.
But his actions—animalistic, driven by instinct—are still to look for her night after night. In Ephyra, Thessaly, the climb up to the mountain. He looks for trails of red blood left behind. Trails of her familiars. Paw prints, the flap of wings, fish bones. Green.
No sign of her. But again, again, again, the witch is always surprising him. Because with a brand new beast in tow, no less, she’s the one who finds him.
Two against one, on the soil of Olympus, as he faces off against a pair of raptors. One about to fall from his club, the other inches from sinking its claws into his arm. Just pain. He can take it.
But—
Something, from behind, leaps onto one of the raptors. Scratching, scraping, skinning. At the same time, a knife—familiar—embeds itself into the other's chest.
When the chamber is empty, Heracles breathes out slowly.
"I thought I told you, witch," he says, "that I work alone."
It lacks any of the bitterness it once did. Amused again. Fond, someone may call it.
"And you still are," she replies, matching his tone. Smiling. "You killed for me, didn’t you? I was merely returning the favor."
He glances at the small creature beside him. "And your new friend?"
The polecat looks up at him, chitters, before darting back to its mistress and climbing up onto her shoulder. Melinoë rubs at its chin fondly. "Gale is rather fond of going places she shouldn’t."
Heracles, standing on the mountain of the gods, his ancestral home that he has never been fit to live upon, lets out a laugh. "Gale and I have that in common, then."
"As do I," she says. Her smile flickers, then disappears, leaving only shadow behind. "I should be in the Underworld."
"Where your enemy waits. Yet you're here tonight." Curiosity bleeding into his voice, softening his words. The weight of her conviction heavy on them both.
"They say I'm wasting my time here."
"Are you?"
"I suppose we'll see," Melinoë says, and takes a step forward. Another. Toward the next chamber.
Heracles takes those steps with her, pulled along like the tide. Moonlight guide him. Melinoë guide him.
His curiosity mirrored in her, now: her brow, raises. "What are you doing?"
"I may work alone," he replies, "but you don't. Consider this your share of the earnings, sister."
"You're coming with me?"
"Going places I shouldn't," he says. "All animals have bad habits, don't you know? This is one of mine."
Melinoë smiles at him. "Lucky for you, Heracles," she says, and he stares at the way her lips shape his name, "I've always been good with animals."
Her fingers brush his as they walk past him, and it's as though she's sunk her teeth into his neck. He would let her, he thinks, if she wanted to. A choice.
Familiar that he is, Heracles follows at her heels.