MAKE ME A HERCULES — / please don't feel pressured to match the length! tbh most of it's not that important except character-wise; the last few paragraphs are the only ones you actually need to read. trigger warning for (internal?) discussion about death, implied suicide, loss, very twisted and unhealthy framing of all of the above (his current state of mind is heavily influenced by past trauma; he's not in a good place right now). also, there's a brief moment where the narrator addresses the reader, as well as a lot of repetition.

People die every day.

Some of those people, they die in dignity. Maybe they gave their life to save others'. Maybe they died heroes, martyrs, champions of noble causes and knights of war, no matter how small or how peaceful. Maybe they died and it was the only fitting end, a neat little bow to wrap up many long years of accomplishment, of genius, of mastery, and of, ultimately, fulfillment. These people, they will have their deeds writ into the fabric of history. They will have their names declared to heart-sick, hungry masses, searching for hope in ambiguous times; or breathed reverently in darkened corners, defiant of the scorching light seeking only to burn. They will have their faces carved into memory, graffitied onto walls, captured in the delicate strokes of a brush. They will be remembered—for their service, their strength, their bravery, their words, their resilience, their persistence, their love. For thousands of things, and each one will have innumerable disciples singing praises 'til they too find themselves on the other side.

And yet others die in shame. He knows this, and not from books. Not from memoirs or biographies or letters written in secret from eras less kind to the poor souls living them. He knows this, because he's done it. Died, that is—shamefully so!—and no picture you paint will ever make it worthy of anything but disdain.

Humor me for a moment: take a man, and give him what he needs. Give him what he deserves. Give him what he wants. Give him a clan of heroes, of builders, of makers. Give him a proud and passionate sister for him to adore. Give him a mother with the sacred strength of the Gods in her bones. Give him friends whose faith in him is stronger than the bonds between this universe. Give him a job he loves, offering aid to those in need with a kind smile and a word of comfort. Give him a mentor he idolizes and yearns to become. Give him a lover, kind and beautiful and brilliant. Take a man, and give him everything.

Now, take all of that away. Do it slowly, carefully, so that he does not see the ground beneath him crumble until he has hit the ground. Cast his loved ones into unfavorable light, have them find solace in others, or take them away completely. Turn his passions into rotted shells of what they once were, 'til they are nothing but macabre toys so far gone from the visions of compassion he once entertained. Little by little, pull him apart. Undo the foundations of his stability. Leave him aching for what's just out of reach, and take that away, too.

What do you get?

Fate, for some nebulous, inexplicable reason, brought him back to life, to a world somehow more unrecognizable than when he left it. The period between then and now was indescribable, in that it was purely horrifying and not one part of him was at ease at any given point during that time. Surprisingly, when one has been possessed by a malicious spirit seeking to fulfill a still-unclear goal that was not completed during life, one tends to find living in a hellscape brimming with ghosts uncomfortable (to say the least). But his stay there was brief—unremarkable, even. As with his return to the land of the living, he woke up, and he was elsewhere. A disorienting experience the first time, but the second time? He, understandably, chose to react with frustration and helpless rage. Death may have been dreary and dull, but at least he hadn't had to deal with this bullshit. Still, when his anger cleared and a modicum of level-headedness returned to him, he decided to keep moving. He wasn't keen on dying again.

The body he's in is still missing its left hind leg. A clouded leopard, and a small one, true to form, with less meat on its bones than would be considered healthy. The limp, he's used to. But adjusting to the shape of an ocelot was hard enough; if the universe wanted him back so badly, they could at least give him a serval body. Oddly enough (and he's familiar with powers, growing up with them all his life) he can't seem to sense the ocelot form, much less change into it. He guesses it's dead, perhaps. Maybe he's lost the ability to shapeshift. Well, it's not a huge loss. He hated the damn thing anyway; couldn't control it half the time.

This body is, he notes, younger than his near-four years of age (which isn't that old, by serval standards, though it's admittedly not young either). Perhaps only a few months out of adolescence—an adult, but the kind of adult that has older adults simpering indulgently at you with unnecessary condescension. Dear Gods, will people think he's a moody teenager if he tells them to leave him alone and to mind their own business. He doesn't think he could stand that. The leg (or lack thereof) might garner some pity, though. Which could be a hundred times worse. This is why he prefers being alone. Just—he never exactly learned to hunt or fight. Too busy learning the ways of a healer, he supposes. The thought puts a frown on his face, so he quickly sets it aside and keeps moving. Can't avoid anyone if there's no one to avoid, after all.

He stumbles into the scent-markings completely by accident. Not to the point where he's tresspassing, thankfully; he'd rather not deal with territorial assholes with control freak tendencies. But he's at a border, somewhere, wherever that is, and "somewhere" has a desolate city towering against the pale sky. He concludes fairly quickly that this is not a human-infested place (too overgrown; humans and nature don't get along), and that it is, in fact, judging by the various scents of different animals around, clan territory. Just what the doctor ordered, albeit reluctantly. Easing his strained, horrifically unfit muscles, he sits down and does what everyone generally does in these situations: wait.

MAKE ME A HERCULES — There are so many accounts of death, and from so many who have not seen it themselves, that he does not know what to think. They say death is the next great adventure, or death is eternal rest, or death is merely the gateway to new life. Or death is nothing, nothing at all, and perhaps that's the most frightening. His mother told him of Valhalla, of Fólkvangr, the sacred halls of the Gods and the mortal souls within. Warriors slain on the battlefield, glory painted red across the ground where they fell—their war-rough hands would be taken, gently, reverently, and the Gods would welcome them as Their own. Feasting, drinking, merry-making. An indulgent end to one's tale. He never thought to ask one thing: if this is the warrior's death, what happens if you're not a warrior?

What happens to me?

Funny, then, for a man come back to life wondering what end awaits the quieter souls, to remember so very little of death. An indistinct haze of monotony, one failed attempt as a ghost (how funny) to seek out family, and not much else. Then he woke up, and clarity came crashing back through. He did recall—and perhaps this is what he misses most—that, in the brief time spent searching for his mother, he had felt no fear. Only the vaguest sense of urgency, like all feeling had been replaced with cotton clouds and thick glass. In another time, that may have scared him more than spirits. To feel nothing, or almost nothing—how is that mortal? How is that right? But now...all he wants is to forget how to be afraid.

Despite noting of the clear disadvantages present on both sides, he feels agitation tickle the back of his neck. Everything feels like a threat nowadays. The strange feline in front of him appears no more friendly than he feels, but the gruff address catches him off guard nevertheless. He straightens up, drawing his head back, an expression of unamused scorn scrawled across his features. "Is that how you talk to everyone on the other side of this border? It's no wonder this place looks abandoned." He wants to take back the words as soon as they leave his mouth. Hold your tongue, Blair Caddo, before you bite it off! he scolds himself. This isn't the time. He grits his teeth. Before Sami can even begin to make a reply, he snaps, "Whatever. Forget I said anything."

He jerks back at Sparrow's arrival, eyes darting from her to Sami. They don't seem to get along, if that glare means anything, at least on Sparrow's part. He doubts it's one-sided; Sami's abrasiveness speaks for itself. He can tell Sparrow's doing her best to be civil, but he's already on edge—he's one feline against two, and considering the circumstances and his (lack of) skills, he doubts a fight will end well for him. "My name is Morse," he allows, still keeping a cautious eye on them both. "Just Morse." He knows the drill; he's been party to several joinings himself. But only once before has he been the joiner. He didn't give his real name then, either. "I don't know where the hell I am, but wherever it is, I'd like to stay awhile."

MAKE ME A HERCULES — Mutual dislike of a third party does have a tendency to bring people closer together. The enemy of your enemy is your friend, after all. Unless, of course, you happen to disdain making friends, and in fact regard it as a complete waste of time, which you could instead use in reconsidering every single one of your choices and mistakes in life or stubbornly refusing to improve yourself or take steps to do better, wallowing in your guilt and regrets and self-loathing until the end of time. In which case, everyone is an enemy, and Sparrow shouldn't hold her breath, lest she suffocate from lack of oxygen. He has no intention of getting close to anyone. Ever—again. He's learned his lesson, thanks very much.

He pins his ears back, narrowing his eyes at Sami. "I don't know what that means, but I'll assume it's nothing nice." He pauses for a moment, an impulse building up a thundercloud in his throat. The rational side of him tells him no, but some deeper, hidden part of his heart screams for him to do it. It seems he already has enemies here, so what's the harm in it? Perfectly deadpan, he says, <Two can play at that game,> Norwegian rolling off his tongue unpracticed but intent. A few years have passed since last he spoke more than the occasional, impassioned curse, but he speaks clearly, confidently, and doesn't let anything but a raised eyebrow distort his expression. Your move.

The stench of alcohol hits his nostrils and he instinctively draws back, gaze shifting from Sami to the bottle in Sparrow's paw. Distaste creasing his snout, he lifts his head, haughty and arrogant. "No thanks. I don't drink." He snorts derisively at Sami's words, unable to stifle his amusement. He succeeds in not laughing at Sparrow's retort. As Sami (gracefully, which is to say, the opposite of it) makes his exit, he catches sight of the bracelet wrapped around the tortoiseshell's hind leg. He furrows his brow, makes note of it, then turns to Sparrow. "Pointing me to a place where I can find fresh-kill would be helpful." There's nothing kind about his demand, just prickly conceit.

/ the interaction here is glorious i'm crying

MAKE ME A HERCULES — "You're fucking with me, right," he deadpans. It seems that Sparrow's true colors were finally shining through. But what did he expect? His first impression already hadn't been positive, no thanks to Sami. Still, he assumed this clan—and it is a clan, he's sure of it—would at least offer some hospitality to its visitors and potential joiners. Then again, his experience is limited, and the world was kinder then. "I'm missing a leg, if you haven't noticed, and my skills lie in medicine, not hunting or fighting. Or is it only strength you value?" He snorts derisively, fur fluffing up along his spine. "A clan can't stand on warriors alone. But what do I know? Go on, alienate a healer. Don't expect me to patch you up if you trip and break your nose."