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The shirt, imbued with love and a plea to stay, ended up causing her husband’s death. Witnessing the once-mighty, glorious warrior collapse with a thud, Deianira, filled with endless sorrow, followed him onto the funeral pyre.
“No… I must start over. I swear by the Styx: in every reincarnation, I will sacrifice my soul to Hades in exchange for one chance for Heracles to return to life and ascend Mount Olympus—until Heracles steps into the River Styx for me, retrieving my soul.”
Each cycle was almost an exact repetition of the last, so this was impossible; she would only be reborn time and again, bound by her own curse, becoming the eternal slave of the Lord of the Underworld.
01. The River Which Once Washed Feet
On that overcast evening, upon hearing of the rockfall disaster, Hercules grabbed his half-goat mentor’s hand and gestured wildly, eager to rush to the scene. Megara’s previously feigned gaze suddenly revealed genuine contempt, and her voice grew colder: "You are really choked up about this, aren't ya?” The remark carried an almost unbelievable resentment, as if she were speaking to someone else through him.
Hercules, however, didn’t notice the chill in her voice. He quickly lifted Megara onto the Pegasus’s back and set off, not giving her a chance to finish mentioning her fear of heights.
In her panic, she looked down at the ground and instinctively, instinctively clung to him—or rather, gripped him tightly. To Hercules, however, there was a touch of smug satisfaction in her strength; he was, of course, unaware that Megara’s terror stemmed from the sudden realization that the sensation of Hercules in her arms felt strangely familiar.
Still feeling a bit dizzy after landing, Megara found Hades on her own while Hercules charged straight toward the two squabbling little scoundrels beneath the boulder. Hades began mocking her as the leading lady of this play—and he wasn’t wrong; she was indeed an accomplice. Having walked alongside demons for so many years, she was long accustomed to such words.
She didn’t respond, merely rolling her eyes before turning her gaze down the mountain, where she couldn’t help but recall the familiar flashback from moments before.
—That indistinct face, that nameless man. She had willingly betrayed her own soul, yet that resurrected dead man had gone on to marry someone else. Strangely enough, Hercules’s features were beginning to overlap with those of the forgotten man.
The last time Heracles left home to fulfill his mission, he had meticulously divided the household property with Deianira—specifying which items were her dowry to take back, and which were the children’s inheritance—and told her that if he did not return within fifteen months, she was to consider him dead.
She did not understand why Heracles always seemed like an elusive cloud; despite planning everything down to the last detail, he appeared all the more emotionless.Deianira had heard of his former wife, whose name he would occasionally cry out in his nightmares as he struggled, and that, in turn, brought her nightmares as well. He had once possessed a whole heart, and so he had given it entirely to Megara. For back then, they were still innocent, unaware of how much pain and suffering fate would yet bring, unaware of the great responsibility the heavens would bestow, the cruelty of the goddess, or the twists and turns of destiny…
All that remained for Deianira, from the day they first met until the end of her days, was this scarred, inhuman shell. Yet even this shell could not fully belong to anyone. That shattered heart ultimately left her with not a shred of emotion, yet she willingly gave her soul, all to win that man back.
The thought sent another shiver down her spine. It didn’t matter; soon enough, this upstart would perish in Hades’s scheme.
If possible, she hoped he would fail the first trial and be eliminated.
But Hercules succeeded. He effortlessly lifted the boulder and, with genuine compassion, rescued those two little con artists, completely unaware of the truly cruel climax—one that neither sincerity nor strength could resolve.
At this thought, she muttered to no one in particular, “Get outta there, you big lug, while you still can.”
That was impossible, after all. Hades’s final act hadn’t even begun yet, so Hercules naturally couldn’t leave just like that. She could only selfishly hope that Hercules would survive this ordeal and ruin the Lord of the Underworld’s grand spectacle. Deep down, she began to believe that perhaps he really could work a miracle.
Rain fell suddenly from the sky, a downpour mixed with the Hydra’s blood, pouring down upon him.After several rounds of combat, the Hydra was crushed beneath a mountain of boulders and could rise no more. Just then, the rain ceased. Hercules staggered out from the chaos, yet he wore a smile, his body soaked in venom. His clothes were in disarray, but it seemed that dishevelment was the true uniform of a hero, and that single step had already sealed his destiny to be remembered for all time.
He was about to collapse, but the crowd quickly lifted him up. They cheered and rejoiced, singing and dancing in wild celebration as they returned to the city in the afterglow of the post-rain sunset. Everyone gazed at Hercules with the same joyful, tearful reverence, utterly convinced that he was an unprecedented miracle—the answer to countless unanswered prayers.
Megara had watched the entire scene from afar, ignored the furious Hades and clapped in delight for him—even though he had momentarily forgotten the woman who had accompanied him on his journey.
She wanted to hear his song again.
02. No man can step into the same river twice
And so Hercules succeeded, becoming the greatest and most famous hero Thebes had ever known. Riding the winds of certain victory, he vanquished the scourges of the skies, the earth, and the seas. Kings all lamented that had they had a daughter, they would surely have made Hercules their son-in-law.
To Hades, the triumphant trumpets of Hercules’ victory sounded like the tolling of a funeral bell for his repeated failures—as if the debts owed to him from years past were finally being repaid. Every checkmate he had set, Hercules had broken one by one; battling this little nemesis had left him severely weakened.
Seeing Hades fuming with rage, Megara was thoroughly delighted: “Looks like your game's over. Wonderboy is hitting every curve you throw at him.”
Megara mocked her dealmaker with a hint of amusement, while Hades himself, seemingly inspired, began to set his sights on her.
“Oh yeah.. I wonder if maybe I haven't been throwing the right curves at him. Meg, my sweet.”
“Don't even go there.” she turned her face away, rejecting him with annoyance. “ I've sworn off manhandling.”
Seeing she wouldn’t agree, he took the initiative to speak of that history from a time outside the timeline, then offered enticing terms, promising she could “escape this endless cycle of sacrifice”—along with the mourning that came with it.
“Don’t you? That really is a case of old habits dying hard. It’s precisely because that's what got you into the jam in the first place, isn't it? The body is the slave of the soul, and the soul has become my slave. Yet all I ask is that you do me a small favor, and I can put an end to it…”
Thus the Lord of the Underworld spoke at length: as long as she found that one weakness—be it a heel, or greed—he must have some vulnerability—enough to trade for her freedom. And she would never repeat the same mistake; of that she was absolutely certain.
Megara did not know that her soul had long since become an eternal burial, one that could not be ended by a single moment of freedom.
When Deianira made her vow in the previous incarnation, she sold her soul for every subsequent life, until Heracles could step into death for her and redeem her soul.
But her soul now bears only the pain of having given everything only to be betrayed. Deianira never possessed Heracles, and on the other side of life, he walked toward the goddess of youth, Hebe.
This scar, along with the poisonous oath, has spanned the cycles of reincarnation, etched like a curse deep into Megara’s intact soul.
—And so she agreed. Ignoring the shattered pottery at her feet, she cast her gaze down the mountain, just as she had many days before: toward the radiant Hercules standing at the center of the crowd.
For reasons unknown, she wished to greet that newly crowned hero, whom she had not seen in so long. Perhaps that song truly echoed far and wide, or perhaps, on its journey to every ear, it had already exhausted all its sincerity.
This was the only test that came with true feeling, a blade piercing the most unguarded vulnerability of the heart; yet a knife with only a blade would also make the hand that wielded it bleed. Therefore, she almost wished Hercules were as false as everyone else—then she wouldn’t have to feel guilty. If he could blame her, she wouldn’t have to loathe herself.
But she merely reminded herself of the “what if”: “If I have hurt you—I have always been this kind of person.”
Hercacles often left home to fulfill his missions, vanishing like a wisp of smoke. On a similarly overcast evening, Megara, the former princess of Thebes, faced an order of exile. She donned the garments of the dead and gazed longingly at her front door: “My dearest, most unfortunate one, if you have already gone to the Underworld, please send me a sign.You left without a word, and not even in my dreams have you come to see me. Appear, if only as a phantom; come to me.”
Just then, the golden sun emerged from behind the clouds in the distance, yet the ground remained dark. It was a shadow—to whom else could it belong? If not to the Greek hero Heracles: “What has come over you? Why are you dressed in the clothes of the dead? When I left home, were there no friends to help you?”
“My dearest in this world, the unfortunate have no friends.”
“Take heart, and remove the headdress of the dead. If I cannot protect my family, what meaning is there in all the suffering I have endured!”
He went off to battle the new king and returned at night. At that moment, Hera sent forth her jealousy; she was determined to have Heracles destroy himself in his quest for vengeance. The arrow meant to strike his enemy instead took Megara’s life.
03. Reflections on the River
Contrary to Megara’s expectations, fame did not bring Hercules the answers he had sought from the very beginning.
The glory of his achievements was like a bottomless pit meant to atone for his sins—it was never enough. God only knew what he had done wrong to be punished so severely. That bedroom kept reappearing in his dreams; a part of him had died there, trapped in an endless cycle of toil, as if ants were crawling all over his body, with no escape in sight.
His vision of the city remained on that small island. Over the past few months, he had gradually come to understand that this was the best city in the world, and also the worst; the people here had everything, yet they had nothing.For many years, he grew up feeling unaccepted and underestimated, yet he looked down on the entire world with a narrow-minded confidence. When he finally truly conquered the whole world, he found himself trembling with fear, as if he had been doing everything wrong all along.
Every new moon, he visited the Temple of Zeus—the day he first left his adoptive parents and learned of his origins. Countless candles burned in silence within the sacred main hall, lighting the path for his return to the divine realm, to the destination that might be his true home.
“Dad, I wish you could see this. That’s how I defeated the Gorgon.”
Zeus’s laughter boomed like thunder as he praised him for a job well done.
“If I’ve made you proud, does that mean I can return to you?”
“I believe the side of oneself that others admire is not necessarily the truest self. Some things only your heart knows—listen to its voice…” With that, he left the mountain, leaving behind only the silent, empty hall and the cold marble statues.
It was the new moon at the end of summer, when he was eighteen. Once again, no matter how proud the Father of Heaven was of him, the door to the new world remained firmly shut.
Perhaps it was nothing more than a stone wall, sealed tight.
As daybreak came,he saw his wife and children lying dead in a pool of blood before him. Flashes of their agony and terror as they met their gruesome end under last night’s moonlight filled his mind. Realizing he was the murderer, Heracles embraced their bodies and let out a great cry of grief, wailing uncontrollably.
“Zeus begot me only to give Hera an enemy. I am already filled with calamity—what further suffering can be heaped upon me? Let me die! Let me join my family.” The curse of his wicked mother took effect when he was least prepared. He donned animal skins, ceased to be human, and went into self-imposed exile, wandering the world like a homeless ghost.
At the moment of her tragic death, the Princess of Thebes had not yet fulfilled the karmic destiny of this life, and her husband had lost both reason and consciousness. Her soul could find no peace, swept into a torrent of resentment.
Her gaze swept past the god who had come to guide her soul, fixing instead on the two chief culprits—the King of the Gods, who had incurred the debt of his amorous transgressions, and the Mother of All Beings, who had thereby torn her life apart: “Listen, and hear clearly what I am about to do!” Suddenly, the winds of the underworld howled furiously; the gods stood as still as stone statues, unmoved, while she extended her long-numb hand in the icy howl, pointing at Hera like a venomous snake, about to utter a curse.
“No! Child!” It was Zeus, his face betraying rare compassion, sorrow, and panic. “O princess who was meant to bring forth offspring, you must not bring about destruction! Consider us your kin, princess! Grant us a mercy!”*
Hearing these words, Hera finally admitted that her jealousy had reduced the innocent princess to ashes.Though their fated bond had not yet run its course, it had been abruptly severed by her own hand. Seeking atonement, the one who had killed Megara swore by the Styx that she would be reborn into the cycle of cause and effect, given a second chance to reunite with Hercules, and that he, too, would soon be freed from his guilt—and that this stepmother and son would eventually reconcile.
If a name is the first curse, how will it come to pass? Is “Glory to Hera” a blessing or a curse?
On the way back to his home, Hercules noticed that dawn was approaching, so he and Pegasus stopped by the riverbank. He could hear the harmonious chirping of birds in the dense, thick forest, the dark stillness of the leaves, and their bustling tremors, stretching out into the distance. Suddenly, a gust of wind swept through, flinging a vast expanse of leaves and branches into the air, flailing wildly as if ready to devour someone.
“That brightest red star always hangs high above them. I used to think it was special, but perhaps it never truly belonged there. How lonely it must be,” he said regretfully.
Before the sky fully brightened, a cluster of stars in the north was still faintly visible. Hercules sat on the riverbank, unwilling to leave. Many times before, he had thought of that red star as being like him—both capable of enduring through infinite time, letting the years bear witness to and validate their resolve. Yet in the endless grind, self-doubt might kill him first; it was a path with no end in sight, one that would be excruciatingly painful.
Gazing at the river’s surface in the early morning light, he saw no reflection of himself, only the clear, pristine glow of dawn. This time, it reminded him of Megara, whom he hadn’t seen in a long while. She really was a strange person, wasn’t she?
Back when they were training on the island, Philoctetes had never told Hercules how to deal with the opposite sex—just that he should treat the damsels he rescued with tenderness.But ever since meeting Megara on the day they entered the city, the usually lecherous Philoctetes had actually started keeping his distance from girls—though, of course, he’d still make a move himself. When dispersing the fans swarming around Hercules, he’d always wish he could thrust his head past that rickety trumpet and bite right into the girls’ faces; he’d long since tossed that “chivalry” out along with his rusty weapons.
Usually, after the crowd dispersed, he’d turn back and share a knowing smile with the battered and bruised Hercules, and together they’d joke about the fanaticism of fans these days.
The difference was that on a few occasions, when Hercules mentioned Megara, Philoctetes would rant and rave for a long time, frustrated that his friend wasn’t living up to his potential.Sometimes he’d say, “You little brat, focus on your training—you’ll be my drudge for the rest of your life,” a line Hercules had grown accustomed to hearing over the years; occasionally, a phrase like “Women down in the valley are tigers, you know?” would slip out—a remark Hercules had never heard from him before.
Philoctetes’s nervous reaction baffled him, and he chose not to dwell on it. At that moment, he said, “She is more beautiful than Aphrodite, and my dream comes true.”
On the ship bound for Athens, he saw Megara again in a nightmare—not for the first time, nor would it be the last.
The vengeful spirit stood in the distance: “If I only could, I’d make a deal with the gods… You , it’s you and me. Exchange our experiences.”
04. Drowning in the Sea of Fate
This was a love that began in the river and vanished into tears.
In the river beneath that waterfall, before the hero could even process what a hero should do in such a situation, the distressed maiden greeted him casually: “Have a nice day.” “Lady, you may not realize how dangerous your current situation is…” he cleared his throat and said.“I have no doubt of that”—traveling with a demon, she was indeed in grave danger. He stammered, unable to form a complete sentence for a long moment. Megara continued, “Do you always speak like this?”
As their eyes met, they saw reflections of one another in each other’s gaze, like an ancient myth left over from the dawn of creation.
Many years ago, by that river where Heracles had slain Nessus with an arrow, Deianira stood, blood-stained and disheveled. She turned to look at the source of the blood and secretly collected a vial of the poisoned blood, which had contaminated the entire river. When Heracles stepped into the river, she raised her head; with no veil to hide her face, the wind blew, and that was the first day they truly saw one another.
I would rather that day had never come.
A few days later, this uninvited guest drew back the curtains and caught a glimpse of Hercules in a predicament. She picked up a clay jar and spoke words—whether sincere or sarcastic, who knows—as if she were a fellow townsman come to make friends. It was quite amusing, so they went out together to “skip work” and watch a tragedy based on a former king—that fated Oedipus.
“But is there going to be a sequel? I really wonder what other stories he has.”
“I thought you already had a play about yourself? An action performance, right… Oh!” She pretended to stumble as she spoke, and he helped her up.
“Careful… you probably won’t be able to star in my action play now.” They laughed as they sat down together.
After dark, the sounds of flowing water and rustling leaves grew particularly loud. Under the glittering stars, Megara’s red hair shone so brightly it was almost blinding.As their eyes met, Hercules saw himself reflected in hers. He stared, spellbound, unsure what this feeling was—as if his heart were about to leap out of his chest in a moment of panic, or perhaps because he’d strained a chest muscle during today’s training. Several times her hand reached out, only to be dodged; finally, he had to slip away from the bench, looking up at the sky to change the subject.
“Look at that star. It’s minuscule among the countless stars in the sky, but it shines brightly just before dawn. I feel like I’m just like it—always thinking I have to be like everybody else…”
“You wanted to be petty and dishonest?”
Hercules looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, then said, as if correcting himself, “Everybody's not like that.”
“Yes, they are,” she said, sitting by the fountain and speaking to her own reflection.
“You’re not like that.”
“How do you know what I'm like?” she retorted instinctively, though she also hoped he would offer proof that she wasn’t the broken person she felt she was now.
“Meg, I just feel that when I’m with you, the part of me that isn’t accepted… doesn’t have to care about acceptance.”
“Acceptance? Is that a blessing or a curse?”
“What do you mean?”
“As I said, the acceptance those who would betray you offer is merely a way for them to bide their time until they can hurt you. The day Oedipus left his hometown for Thebes—the day that tragic fate befell him—I wish that day had never come.”
He had the illusion that this was the first time he’d seen the real her—not through a mask, but through a barrier. It turned out she’d always kept others at arm’s length, yet here he was, suddenly permitted a glimpse of her vulnerability.
“I would never hurt you.” — Since you think you’re the bad guy, what about me? Would you believe me?
“I don’t want to hurt you either… let's both do ourselves a favor —let’s let each other go.”
In the end, all she had left was a closing statement: “Listen, I really want to believe you.”
In truth, they would never let each other go. After all, Hades’ reward was the freedom she longed for, and Hercules had just confirmed that she trusted him so deeply. As Megara gazed at the flowers he’d given her before leaving, her heart racing, she smiled and silently accepted this uninvited yet cherished affection. It was as if they’d returned to their youthful days, blushing and feeling their hearts race in the secrecy of a hidden romance.
05. Toward the River of Death
It was a pounding heart.
“Look at my blood. Take it with you, so that one day, if he… leaves you,” Nessus said, clutching his pitch-black wound. Deianira stared, dazed, at her reflection in the thick river of blood. The river continued to grow darker, as if its source had been altered, never to return to clarity. Though it had just rained heavily, the water remained so murky.
For countless days and nights afterward, she gazed at the garden fountain, her mind drifting back to that crimson river as if she had never left. In her ears echoed the final, malevolent “blessing” from the master of that pool of blood, Nessus—etched like a knife’s mark on a bronze plate, never to fade, yet remembered word for word with such clarity.
Gazing at the water’s surface, a lovely maiden in purple emerged from her own crimson reflection, her red hair as blinding as a sacrificial fire. The woman’s face was expressionless, yet she seemed to offer a chilling smile—just like the eerie grin on Nessus’s face before he died. The violet-clad maiden ignored her and walked straight toward the city gates. Deianira, overcome with fear, could not bring herself to follow.
It was the height of the season, and Heracles, the mighty Lord of the Heavens, had returned. This was his triumphal procession. Amid the clamor of gongs and drums, the crowd marveled at the violet-clad woman by his side. The herald’s smug boasts reached everyone’s ears as he endlessly boasted of how Heracles had brought ruin because of Iole—the woman who had lived in her home for over a decade.
In an instant, Deianira realized what she must do, as if it were a task she had prepared for years and could now finally carry out; as if an arrow drawn tight for a lifetime, poised and ready, had been waiting only for this moment to be released. The dark, dust-covered chest, sealed for over a decade, was opened, and a vial of ancient poison was brought back to life.
Forcing her way through the crowd that had gathered to shirt him, she strode forward, holding out the garment still stained with the poisoned blood, and said, “My love! Take not only this heart, but my very life as well! Just this once, listen to me.” She asked for nothing else; she simply had to win him back.
…
That smile—Nessus had won after all; her fear had won; death had won. His blood entered her life, creating anxiety and self-doubt, which eventually coalesced into a person—a crimson Iole.
In the pitch-black night, Iole vanished into Heracles’ funeral pyre, while Deianira, burned to ashes, lay lifeless.
She hated herself—a hatred unlike any she’d felt before. Thanks to her own malice, Hades’s clumsy scheme had actually worked. Because of her, Hercules had sworn an oath and was turning into a mortal; he was sweating, his limbs deforming, while she could only stare wide-eyed as he traded what little divine power he had left for a single day of safety for Megara, and a freedom that meant nothing in the eyes of the world.
The celestial alignment Hades had waited 18 years for was about to arrive. At this moment, he gloated as if his grand scheme were already accomplished. Then, as if determined to settle every grudge today, he sneered, “She did indeed deceive you maliciously. Do you want to prove that not everyone is like that? No, everyone is just like that!”
Megara rushed forward to explain, without time to think, desperate only to confirm if she could still feel Hercules’s heartbeat. This time, her hand touched him easily, only to be pushed away just as quickly. She felt herself retreating into a strange, timeless loop from which there was no escape—the same story all over again, where love turned into an arrow piercing the heart of the one she loved.
Hercules put on that shirt; the sun came out, its light blinding. At that moment, his veins turned blue, sweat poured from his body, and he trembled as he knelt halfway, staring at Deianira in disbelief. This was the last glance they would exchange in this life.
The pain that connected their hearts—he had become mortal. This city, this entire world, had lost its final recourse, and the pitch-black fate had finally descended once more.
Megara simply thought how cold it was tonight. The biting wind before dawn stung her face particularly sharply. She raised her hand to touch her face and realized her cheeks were already streaked with tears. The price of freedom was too heavy, more hideous than love itself—a lesson she had only just learned today.
Now Hercules believed what Megara had said—that people would betray and stab one another in the back—and what Philoctetes had said long ago: that only fools believe in idealism. He was that fool who had been deceived all along.
The sun was about to rise, and Hercules faced the sudden calamity—the one-eyed giant—completely unprepared. Lacking preparation felt like a test for a true hero, but the question was: now that he had become a mortal, was he still a hero? Without his divine powers, was he even worthy? The epic poems of legend were no longer his to claim.
“Don’t go. You’ll die.” She hit the nail on the head. But Hercules didn’t look back at her. He walked down the marble steps, his mind too clouded to think clearly. His body had already stepped into the vast, golden plaza. His mortal form was all he had left, and even if it meant dying, he would step out to face the one-eyed giant.
“They are more important than that,” he said, offering no further explanation.
The city, the monsters, the collapsing buildings, the praying crowds—this was his moment. But this time, he was struck down by the giant. Watching the dust of destruction, he stood up, powerless to do anything.
So a human body could be as light as a feather, as fragile as glass. Leaning against a wooden post, he struggled in his death throes, his mind clouded. These familiar arms—the very ones that had subdued the monster—had lost their form. He thought, perhaps he really was already dead, as he watched Philoctetes and Megara put their differences aside and come to his side—as if just last night they had still been loathing each other.
Hercules leaned against the tree trunk, forcing his head to turn, his voice hoarse and faint: “Give up on me. Don’t hold out any hope.”
After donning the poisoned tunic, despair and endless agony swept over him. In his dazed state, he cried out: “Ah, son of the noblest of parents! How much longer must I endure this torment? Send down a bolt of lightning and tear me apart! Zeus, hurl your thunderbolt! Hades, receive me!”
“Burn me! Give me release! Place me on a pyre surrounded by olive branches, and let my friend Philoctetes light it—this is my only request.”
Philoctetes leaped to his ear and roared at him, “No, I haven’t abandoned you! I’ve returned because I believe you can do this—I’ve always believed it. Now get up!”
Hearing this, Hercules forced himself to stand, despite the pain. At the brink of life and death, he had led the one-eyed giant down the mountain, temporarily averting the immediate crisis. Hercules felt dizzy and disoriented; propping himself up with his arms, he didn’t know whether to look at the falling cyclops or the abyss below. Its edge seemed to ebb and flow, as if luring him to jump.
In his daze, it seemed as though someone had called his name—a voice from the afterlife, clutching at his soul. The next moment, he was jolted back to reality. In an instant, sensation returned to Hercules’ limbs, and his demigod powers surged back. He turned around, but only the fallen pillar brought dust and debris; she was no longer where she had been.
He hurriedly lifted the column, finding it increasingly light, while Megara’s gaze began to fade. He cradled her in his arms, overcome with despair, and she trembled as she managed to say, “Can we start over?”
“But why?” he asked, his strength restored, yet still bewildered.
“I’m sorry for the lies. I’ve always been this way, but strangely, you made me believe in myself.”
“I…” He stammered, as if they were meeting for the first time.
“Do you always talk like this?” They smiled with relief, as if everything wasn’t so bad after all.
“You still have time. You still have a chance to stop Hades, or to rewrite this ending.” She studied him closely, etching his features into her blurred vision. Then she watched Hercules leave, letting out a heavy sigh: the same tragedy all over again, nothing different.
The curse of the name had won. Next, she would report to the Underworld, where he would ignore her, cast her aside, and forget her.
06. The River Starts Over
By the time Hercules returned from Mount Olympus, Megara’s heart had stopped beating for the final time.
He watched death creep across her young, frozen face—that cold, beautiful face that had once been so proud, like a cold stone statue that would never descend to earth for anyone, now completely still and lifeless.Hercules remembered how her breath had once brushed against his face. Not long ago, when he had resolved never to treat her as a friend again, when he no longer wished to see her or exchange a single word with her—when he was on the verge of swearing an oath never to see her again in this lifetime—he had felt her tears on the back of his hand.
Gravity had once placed her weight entirely upon him, without a shred of reserve, yet now she hung weightlessly, clinging to nothing. He searched her nape desperately, seeking any sign of life, but she was so still, as if she had never possessed it.
As daybreak came, he crawled out of the funeral pyre; the agony of the poison had ended. A mangled, bloodied body lay beside him—it had once belonged to a woman named Deianira.
A rumbling echoed across the heavens, and from the clouds descended the god who slew Argos, clad in golden sandals: “O hero of Greece, I know of your tragic death. But I have come to offer you a chance—you have but a single day. If you ascend Mount Olympus, you shall gain eternal life and know happiness. Pray that this journey be one from which you never return!”
Philoctetes tried to persuade Hercules to let go and accept her fate, arguing that all life must bow to death. But as if guided by a higher force, Hercules raised his head, his eyes sharp as blades, and declared firmly, “No, I can change this—even if only to rewrite the ending. I will start over.”
He turned, mounted his horse, and charged straight into the Underworld, determined to retrieve that person. The path was rugged and eerie, with burning sulfur, flames, and bleached bones. Hades led him to the banks of the River Styx with a look of displeasure.
The water flowed swiftly, emitting an eerie green glow that reminded him of the river on the day they first met—so bright, yet, in stark contrast, teeming with life.
This fruit, which seemed sweet, tasted indescribably bitter when eaten: deep down, he knew the place he was meant to go was wherever she was. The ending of that story—if it even existed—would certainly not be one where they were separated by distance and it fizzled out. He looked at the Styx and thought of a trade.
“Take me in exchange for Meg to cross the River Styx. I am a demigod!”
“Yes, and you are a demigod, my dear nephew…” Hades said, then realized: as a god, how could he die after his mortal body perished? “Oh, never mind! Stop!”
Hercules had already irrevocably stepped into the Styx; old age and death overtook his body. The farther he drifted from life, the closer he drew to Megara.She lay in the river like a person in their twilight years, and he reached out his withered hand—in that moment, the curse was lifted, and Megara’s soul was finally free, belonging to herself. That poisonous curse, spanning two lifetimes of grudges, love, hatred, life, death, and debt, was finally set free.
“Seeking atonement, the one who had killed Megara swore by the Styx that she would be reborn into the cycle of cause and effect, given a second chance to reunite with Hercules, and that he, too, would soon be freed from his guilt—and that this stepmother and son would eventually reconcile.”
—But she would never be condemned to the endless cycle of reincarnation in the mortal world; instead, she would dwell among the radiant gods. She would be reborn as the goddess of youth, waiting on Mount Olympus for the end of Heracles’ mortal life.
Hades watched all this and turned his face away in anger. Hercules died in the River Styx in his mortal form, but emerged from the river as a god, carrying Megara’s soul, and was reborn, his innate divine power filling the earth with radiance.
Heracles’ mortal shell had long been covered by all the filth of the mortal world, aged and haggard; yet he finally ascended Mount Olympus. When he looked up, his eyes saw neither the majestic heavens nor the gods. Outshining the radiance of the heavens was Hebe, the goddess of youth, holding the nectar of immortality and captivating the soul—she looked exactly like his lover in her youth.
That face—which he had buried with his own hands in madness and bloodshed, and whose features had grown blurred in countless midnight dreams—suddenly appeared at the edge of the mortal world. Now, with the eternal radiance of youth, it gazed at him with unerring clarity.
In heaven and on earth, she was the true Wonder of fate.
In a state of unparalleled astonishment and sudden realization, Heracles drank the nectar. In the blink of an eye, he was freed from hatred and sorrow; aging receded like a tide flowing backward, and immortal youth took its place once more. A solemn stillness hung over him like a heavy bell—as if time had never passed.
07. The River That Never Returns
Megara awoke to see Hercules, radiant as the sun, before her. Astonished that she was still conscious, she found herself the one stammering and at a loss.
Her face was a mix of confusion and relief: “Why…?”
“Your birth is a wonder.” he said as he helped her to her feet. Their eyes met, and in each other’s gaze, they saw their own reflections.
At that moment, from the throne of the Thunder God, a voice like thunder from the dark clouds—Zeus commanded the two of them to ascend to heaven. The great gods welcomed them at the gates of Olympus.
“How fortunate! Whether capable or not, those who are willing to stand up are the truly strong. Through your own glorious deeds and inner strength, you have earned all glory and great renown, entering the eternal realm of heroes.”
The gods cheered and applauded, and he finally reached the gates of the heaven he had longed for, finally able to return to his biological parents.
“How joyful is this moment of reaping the rewards,” Megara thought. “So let us spare one another; let us not hurt each other any longer.” She tried to offer her congratulations, forcing a smile, then quickly turned away to hide her sorrow.
Just then, Hercules, who had wanted to share in her joy, looked back toward where she had come from and saw that she was leaving.
Hercules’ soul was in turmoil; he searched the world over, and only the nectar could calm him. He called out to Megara’s lonely retreating figure and said to his father, “Becoming human is a sacred thing. I have decided to remain on Earth—that is where I belong.”
Zeus was initially puzzled, but ultimately granted his request. After bidding farewell, he gradually lost his radiance, became mortal, and left the heavens.
Facing a puzzled Megara, he explained with a touch of pride, “I want to take you to more great restaurants*, go to the theater to see the next Sophocles play, and argue with you in the garden: ‘People aren’t like that at all.’”
“People don’t usually go on dates to see Oedipus.” She looked away, a touch of regret in her eyes.
“But I like doing that with you. Meg, when we’re together, we don’t have to fit in. Look, we’ve broken the rules.”
Megara laughed. “It’s you who barged in and broke all the rules.”
“That’s exactly why the world is such a racket,” he said.
As the sun set, the constellations that belonged to him appeared in the sky. Zeus had created such a festival of remembrance, when the citizens’ revelry lit up the night, and they embraced one another, elated.
Another night.
When Heracles returned home, he found his wife in the garden. At a glance, her gaunt silhouette seemed as ancient as death itself. He stepped forward, and Megara raised her hands to cradle his head. In those eyes, she saw the same clarity as always—there was no one else in the world quite like him.
Yet the Princess of Thebes had unwittingly learned of the cruel fate that awaited him—he was destined to sever his ties with the mortal world and journey to a distant land: “How sorrowful, how unfortunate. Fate has revealed its capriciousness to me; soon, a great curse will befall us both.”
“A curse?” he asked, utterly bewildered. “You know I do not believe in curses, for none has ever befallen me. Remember, all this lies in the hands of the gods.”
“What is destined cannot be resisted, but remember that wherever I go, I am drawing closer to you, just as rivers flow toward the sea.”
“Do not let your heart be sad, my lady! Before things get too bad, we can start over,” he replied.
Megara suddenly realized she still had a sliver of hope to rewrite fate—or perhaps merely to add to the ending. But all she could bring herself to ask was, “Will your name be a curse or a blessing?” He didn’t understand. A moment later, she added, “Put out the fire tonight and go straight to sleep.”
Then she stepped into the house, walking toward her own death with the night.
He did not know that this would be his last moment of lucidity that night.
The river that once lapped at his ankles flows, with every ebb and flow, toward a perfection from which there is no return.
That was the hope with which we entered this world.