What you need to know: Hercules causes the death of a boy while adventuring in Spain. In order to reverse the events that have happened, he petitions Death for the boy’s life. An agreement is made that Hercules’ request will be granted in return for his servitude, which involves certain tasks that must be performed. The first of which concerns the creature known as the Wendigo. . .

“Son of Zeus!”

Eyes hard as the metal they mold approach Hercules, peering as if he were water and his thoughts mere jetsam for perusal. Picking through the lot, he settles on an item familiar and opened.

“What boon crave ye now?”

“Hephaestus! Brother! Has my visit been so distant, ye would believe me here solely for want?”

“Make haste, scion, I have matters most urgent.”

“Verily. Hephaestus, master smith , from thy foundy I need a mere two contrivances that only thou can craft.”

“Thou tries the patience of an immortal, scion.”

“Verily. I wish a phial of Olympian metal. It must be able to hold anything, yet be able to be concealed.”

“Done. The other?”

“An accoutrement that will allow me to do the impossible.”

It is the last word that holds Hephaestus’ mind. Such requests have a tendency to become stigma of eternal regret. For an eternal the thought of forever and irremovable blight is welcome as internment in Tarturus.

“What does father know of this?”

“All that thou will say.”

Silence. No movement. Still stands time. Olympus’ favorite son’s heart drops in the moments it takes Hephaestus’ mallet descends on the anvil, and its pounding jolts it back to position.

His smile fortunately did not falter, neither will his trust in Hephaestus. His secret is safe. . .for now.

The howls are distracting, and meant to be. North? South? There is no way to tell. No way to evade the rake of claws that plow into his flesh with a speed that extinguishes the heroe’s fire. Blackness envelopes him coupled with the howls of the beasts. Again he seeks direction from the ambient screams. His mind’s eye focuses past the screech, creating an image of a pallid figure, hirsute, the height of a man infected with curse of a god. A thud perks his ears and claws find his skin again, though not before he gains hold on the beast. Enduring the creature’s slashing, he works his way behind the monster coiling an arm of pure force about its neck.

“Wen-Di-Go!”

“Aye! Howl foul monster! Thy time is at hand!”

Laughter pours into ears that shake with solitary purpose. If it howls, it must breathe, and without air it will fall. The syllogism is ancient. First created and practiced on a cat that could not be harmed by weapon or blow. He too was fond of slashing and wailing to disconcert his opponent. Now he is a memory, forgotten by all but the yellowest of leaves and the most cursory records. His contemporary counterpart shall meet the same end.

The beast does not fall. It is not that he struggles or seeks escape, he simply will not die. He cannot be beaten in this manner. Having battled others of his ilk when to challenge them was madness, it is an intrinsic instinct that alerts him. However, releasing the beast would prove less than prudent as the situation would only revert to the former: A blinded hero against a monster that needs not to see in order to do harm.

Irrespective of this knowledge, the beast is freed. Wheeling with eddying effect, its howl is stronger than ever. In truth, the creature cannot be asphyxiated. Its legend, of which he is aware, details a curse inflicted on the eater of human flesh. The cannibal is deformed and reformed into a stark white monstrosity of typical fangs, claws, bent legs, and tail. Unstoppable, invulnerable, it cannot be slain by mortals means, nor immortal actions ignorant of the curse’s stipulation. Someone must take the place of the afflicted. There is no clemency for the afflicted only the passage of the blight from recipient to next. The Prince of Power has no intention of becoming a surrogate.

Reverberations of confusion rebound through the forest, as claws search for their mark, retrieving nothing they can hold. Frustration fuels the attacks, though their results stand firm. Above the fury, suspended by the strength of Olympian and arboreal limbs, Hercules focuses once more. The beast has eyes for the night, but the warmth of the trees will hide his own. On equal ground visually Zeus’ scion completes deliberating, realizing the path that must be taken. Like the beast of Nemea this creature is vulnerable to nothing of mortal convention. Falling towards his target, he realizes that success lies in lateral thought.

Heel meets spine in an impact that mushrooms the beast into silence; an act followed swiftly with a lock that forces the creature’s arm to its back, while pressure continues to mount on limb and socket. The beast is silent except for converse grunts as opposed to eponymous wails. With a snap and tug, the arm is extirpated. If the creature feels pain, Hercules gives no time for it to be mewled.

The blows of the arm replace his aged club of yore, battering the beast, buffeting it to senselessness with a weapon it cannot resist. Whether the monster dreams or not, Hercules gives no quarter for it to be realized. It is until the stillness of the forest reaches him past his work, that Hercules deals out blow after blow, submitting the Wendigo’s unconscious form to an immeasurable amount of strikes from the one weapon it cannot deny. The rage of heated blood pulses away from his temples, and a cool breath of crisp twilight air buoys and balloons him to the silent ground. Still, it is not over. The beast will not remain as he is long and such creatures always demonstrate recuperative abilities that border on divine.

Quickly re-igniting his dead flame, Hercules uses the attached limb of the Wendigo; rather, its keen claws, and strips the skin of the beast until only the raw epidermis remains. The flame has consumed enough air and timber to roast, although it might balk at its intended task. If it was able. Like it waves in their eternal pattern, the meat is drawn over the fire. Emotionless, the son of Zeus is an arm sweeping back and forth, until the scent completion fills his nostrils. If nothing else the meat is hearty, robust in flavor, though made for strong jaws only.

The Wendigo is a curse not a being. To truly defeat the creature, the blight must be exorcized. Although not quite cannibalism, his origins would not allow it and it would be difficult to inflict divine justice upon himself, still, he doubts the blight will be discriminatory. Well into his 8th bite of triceps, a billowy haze begins to lift from the downed corpus the Wendigo. Eddying into an amorphous mist, it seeks out its new host.

Hercules watches as it lights towards him, and fingers the craft of Hephaestus fastened within his bandolier. Dark as the mist that comes, it begins to glow with amber richness as the blight seeks to suffuse Hercules. Here is the test of Hephaestus. Here the mastersmith shall earn reputation and renown once more, for while the malignancy infects the Olympian, distorting his features, contorting his frame with catabolic purpose, the phial siphons the blight and stores it within its deceptive capaciousness. Whether the task is accomplished prior to the curse completing its own is the contest within Hercules’ body. He feels his limbs distend, elongate into forms of his defeated adversary, only to regain their shape moments later. His throat seizes with a blow of air that struggles to contain behind his newly formed fangs. It forces on his tongue, aggrandizes his cheeks, until in a howl reminiscent of his foe:

“Wen-Di-Go!!!”

When sense returns to him, the Prince of Power surveys the scene, now bathed with morning’s full light. Where creature once laid, only human body remains. He checks the phial. By hue and weight he knows that Hephaestus’ legend is affirmed. Hercules remains on his knees while drawing the earth of the forest out and away. Several feet later he proceeds to inter the corpse and a thought consumes. This man that he looks on, now so resolutely human, unwaveringly placid in contrast to his prior form, what was his crime? What fate pushed towards this end? Does it matter any longer?

“Be at peace, mortal. In this world and the next.”

A fistful of earth sprinkles from his hand and scatters aimlessly into the grave. He wishes his envy could be discarded so easily.

To be continued...