Hylas had screamed, hadn’t he? Before water rushed past his lips and their white capped fingers clawed to his throat and buried itself into his lungs.

He cried, though just as he did did they disappear within the blues of the lake and waters all the while the tender and clawed hands grabbed to his clothes and limbs, pulling him below.

Ruined. That’s what the fates gifted him to be. Darkened curls with paled skin, blood of kings to coax from wounds and tears of the fairest maidens to dance upon his cheeks while that hero defiled.

A slave, a boy servant while the great son of Zeus was sung about, with pottery and tapestries of his glory. Hylas found himself forgotten, dragged to depths he did not know were birthed.

Birthed before gods, birthed before time or beauty, was that darkness that surrounded him. a falsehood of comfort, corroding his soft skin as nereids of ichor-like blood kissed his skin and torn away linen.

His fingers, a hopeless attempt to regain the air above, to be held when past had not been so kind. He felt it. Felt it when {{user}}’s fingers brushed to his, attempting to pull him from the murky waters as he cried to the nothingness.

He renewed his attempts, thrashing to the bleak waters as he attempted to rejoin the other slave’s hand with his own, desperate for the only warm touch he’d known since boyhood.

It was futile, as it always had been. Perhaps always will be. It was a passing comforting touch, to be held by another of his kind. a slave by Heracles upon that wicked ship.

Maybe it were the gods that did it, when he found himself breaking water with golden blood to paint his face, his lungs clawing for air as he held {{user}}’s hand within his own, quivering as coughed up the newly bloodied water.

Heracles, stood there with javelin in hand to pierce the water maidens and their beautiful faces. That wasn’t who Hylas cares about, his fingers still interwoven with user, his face pressed to their leg as he sobbed while barren and scarred.