BY THE CANDLE'S FLICKERING LIGHT
by Arianna
December 2003 Challenge Response… It's a Wonderful challenge; search code: 12-2003; submitted by: library committee: Assuming that everyone has seen the film, "It's a Wonderful Life", write the Hercules style version of that film. Or write a story in which one of our characters realizes what a wonderful life they have even if things didn't turn out exactly as planned.
My thanks to Pythia for her beta-editing support…
Early afternoon sunlight cut over the top of the steep forested canyon walls, illuminating the narrow earthen trail that wound its way to the east. Tall pines cut purple shadows across its dusty length; the day was hot with no wind, the air stifling and oppressive even under the shelter of the trees.
Standing high on the hillside, hidden by the thick growth of pines, Ares leaned his black-clad shoulder against a sturdy trunk, his arms crossed over his broad chest, as he watched his half-brother and Hercules' mortal shadow race toward Plathos. A full lip curled into a sneer, and then the God of War frowned in disgruntlement. Ares had hoped that Hercules' own twisted principles would have led the demigod to ruin during that mockery of a trial back in Athens. Shaking his head, the god could not conceive of anyone being pig-headed enough to allow such slander and arrogance to warp truth into lies. But he was not Hercules, and he had little patience for the petty rules that men called laws. He'd been certain that Zeus' bastard would be exiled, banished from Greece for now and evermore – had been so certain that he'd bet Aphrodite that they'd seen the last of the bothersome demigod, and wasn't well pleased to now owe his bubble-headed sister a favour. Remembering Aphrodite's reaction at how the trial had ended, Ares snorted with a combination of chagrin and wry amusement; no one in his experience gloated with such gleeful abandon as did 'Dite when she won a bet. Philosophically, Ares shrugged, hoping perhaps that Fortune would smile upon him and distract the Goddess of Love long enough that she'd forget about the debt.
Whatever, that wasn't important, not right now.
What was important was that Hercules hadn't been exiled and so was able to continue his irritating habit of complicating or compromising Ares' own plans for the mortals who worshipped him and did his bidding. Not that the God of War normally needed to meddle much in the lives of mortal men. It often seemed to Ares that men were born to do battle, aching to fight to prove their worth or to best others, some rare few even to honestly stand for principles like honour or courage, willing to die that others might live. It didn't take much deft manipulation to engineer a conflict here, a war there…but even as one son of Zeus fanned the natural inclination of mortals to fight and kill, another son of the King of the Gods seemed to live only to teach men that there were other, better ways to resolve their differences. Hercules had long ago decided that his purpose in life was to protect mortals, from themselves as often as from monsters or gods – protect them and safeguard the innocent.
'As if any mortal is truly innocent,' Ares reflected, his lips tightening as he sniffed with disdain. Stroking his beard, he tracked the two warriors as they sped along the distant path while he thought about his unwanted and unloved half brother. Hercules liked to pretend he was a humble being, blushing with a painfully honest, and apparently endearing (to mortals), shyness when others called him 'hero', but Ares had long ago noticed that his darling brother didn't strenuously protest the praise lavished upon him or refuse the banquets thrown in his honour. The son of a god, with the strength of ten or a hundred or whatever number of ordinary men, and self-styled champion of mortals, Hercules was always ready to race to their defence from the predations of gods or monsters or even one another – as he was even now racing to try to stop the war in Plathos. Though he appeared so wearily noble and selfless, Ares knew full well that Hercules was every bit a proud, even stiff-necked, demigod when his righteous ire was inflamed.
Not that a little arrogance or pride bothered the God of War…hey, they were sons of Zeus, after all…a little arrogance was not only warranted but justified.
What bothered Ares was Hercules' 'holier than thou' attitude, his half-brother's only too clear assumption that his way was the only 'right' way. In Ares' opinion, that farce of a trial in Athens hadn't been about Hercules being a hero so much as it had been about his arrogant self-righteousness. The final verdict had been a very near thing; the demigod would certainly have been condemned for the odd crime of being a hero had that annoying blond mortal not intervened at the last moment, revealing the travesty of justice for the sham that it was. Ares wondered if Hercules truly understood how close it had been or how much he owed the man who seemed to live only to serve and support the demigod. And then, thoughtfully, Ares wondered how well his 'dear brother' would fare without that unswerving loyalty and pragmatic if unquestioning brave-hearted allegiance.
Despite his chilling acceptance of the hatred between them, Ares wryly reflected that there might have been much he could have admired in his half-brother had circumstances and experiences been different. But Hercules had long ago decided that they were enemies, always in contention, forever on opposite sides of whatever game was in play. And it seemed the current game was to be engaged in Plathos…
Well, so be it.
Still stroking his beard, the God of War chewed on his lip as he pondered the challenge his half-brother posed to his plans. Despite his best efforts, the war in Plathos had still not moved beyond the stage of posturing insults. Oh, Orwellius had ordered his army to the edge of the border and was poised to attack Trancus, but full war had not yet broken out. It was all too possible that Hercules might arrive in time to cool heated tempers and find a more temperate means of settling the contrived discord between the two kings.
And where would the fun be in that?
Shifting his attention from his half-brother, Ares' gaze settled on the demigod's shadow: Iolaus, the blond mortal who had been a fixture in Hercules' life since childhood. Hercules had very few vulnerabilities, especially since Hera had so precipitously murdered his family a couple of years ago, and well, Zeus still had a thing for the lovely Alcmene, so she was off-limits. But Ares knew the blond runt was important to the demigod – for whatever reason, Hercules trusted Iolaus of Thebes above all others, loved him more than he loved any of his brothers by blood. In Ares' admittedly cynical view, it was stupid and short-sighted to care for mortals – however much they might be loved, they died eventually and that meant caring for them was both ultimately painful and a complete waste of time. Worst of all, caring for them left one vulnerable – and this Iolaus of Thebes, for all his loyal support and very real help, was the only true vulnerability Hercules had.
As he tracked the speeding warriors below him, Ares pondered what he knew of Iolaus of Thebes – a man who liked to laugh and party, as much as he enjoyed the peace of the wilderness and the tranquility of fishing; yet, Ares had to admit he was also a man of rare courage, skilled in battle, someone who even found a kind of joy in a good fight. He was a former street kid and thief, a skilled hunter, champion charioteer, a former Argonaut, widower, former farmer and smith, a successful ladies' man and a fearless warrior. Scowling to himself, Ares reluctantly acknowledged this seemingly insignificant mortal could well be claimed by Hermes, Dionysus, Aphrodite, Helios, Demeter, Artemis, Athena, Poseidon, Hephaestus and, oddly enough, himself. Plus, the runt had died on more than one occasion, his current vitality notwithstanding, so Hades no doubt kept tabs on him and Persephone was rumoured to find him engaging, even endearing. Given that Iolaus had enjoyed a short gift of being able to foretell the future, even Apollo might well have an interest in him. As the best friend and sword brother of Hercules, no doubt Zeus would be concerned, if only marginally, with his well being, and because of the same lifelong association with the demigod, Iolaus had been cursed by Hera. The very fact that he had survived this long indicated that the Fates might well be giving him very personal attention for whatever obscure reasons of their own. Not so insignificant, after all, it seemed, the God of War thought, grimacing with displeasure – certainly not someone he could wantonly destroy, or even toy with in deliberate malice, with impunity.
Still, there had to be something that could be used against Iolaus of Thebes, something that could then possibly be turned upon Hercules – something simple, like an 'accident' in battle, but then if Hercules was successful in stopping the war, there would be no battle. Gritting his teeth in annoyance, Ares scowled as he struggled to come up with a useful idea about how to use Iolaus, the single point of vulnerability in the demigod's life, against his half-brother. Once again, he played over what he could recall of the events of this annoying mortal's life, his relationships…and behaviours.
Suddenly, Ares snapped his fingers when he remembered that Hercules' best friend had recently been associated with the crime lord, Zenon, in Nemea…had, in fact, been Zenon's 'right hand man'. Now, that had possibilities. Snorting quietly with amusement, he recalled Fortune's screw-up a few months ago and realized that what had occurred in Nemea was perfectly suited to his current needs. Best of all, it had had nothing to do with him so if Iolaus suffered for it now, it could not be laid at his feet. Nemea shared a border with Plathos, so the recent events that had occurred there wouldn't be any secret – it would take very little to fan fading memories. With a judicious word here, and bit of old news there, Iolaus' credibility could easily be undermined – however sad it might be, the truth was that the good reputation of a lifetime could be sullied by a few, unintended acts because mortals dearly loved a scandal, especially one involving a so-called 'hero'. And damaging Iolaus' reputation would also make Hercules' actions suspect because mortals also held tight to their belief in guilt by association.
Still, a bit of name-calling and even a few sorry memories wouldn't be enough to have the kind of impact on the resilient and determined warrior that Ares needed if he was to have the effect he sought. Smiling with grim self-satisfaction, the God of War realized he could bring his own dominion over Iolaus into play, and probably get away with it, if it was subtly done. Whether or not Hercules and Iolaus acknowledged his interest in them or his 'right' as the god of all warriors to influence their lives, these two heroes fell under his sway. Though he, and they, chose to ignore that relationship virtually all of the time, that didn't obviate the justification for his intervention now.
'Poor Iolaus, he's been through so much – why the man has died, more than once, to support Hercules' oh, so noble endeavours,' Ares thought derisively. 'He deserves a break from the wear and tear of danger and battle. How better to direct him along a path of peace and well being than to twig his emotions and memories just a bit, to the point where he can't bear to think of his failures and they overwhelm his mind? He'll believe he's a burden, even a danger, to Hercules…and, knowing how honorable and self-effacing he is, I can count on Iolaus to decide for himself that his days as a legitimate partner and companion to the demigod are over.'
Ares tapped his forefinger against his lips as he nodded decisively, having decided upon his strategy. It was well worth a try…win or lose, war or not, it would be very amusing to watch how events unfolded.
To give himself time to work the set up, the god flicked a lazy finger to set obstacles in their path to slow and, hopefully, tire them. A few trees crashed to the earth further along the valley, blocking the trail, and boulders tumbled from the heights like children's blocks to pile haphazardly across their path…
Now all that remained was to flash momentarily alongside the warrior to give Iolaus a quick tap on the shoulder…to block his innate confidence and resilience, and to enhance his weariness and self-doubt.
The two heroes had been running flat out for hours. As Hercules well knew, because of Ares' bragging taunts back in the cell in Athens, there was no time to lose – the tensions in Plathos were stretched tighter than a lyre's wire, about to snap into violence. Too much time had been already been lost playing out the ridiculous charade of 'justice' during that travesty of a trial. So they ran, without any break but to slake their thirst as they knelt quickly on the damp bank of the gurgling stream that flowed next to the trail, hands cupping cool, clear water to their mouths and then hastily splashing the runnels of sweat from their faces, arms, shoulders and chests. The day was stiflingly hot, with not even a breath of wind to bring relief, as if the air itself was heavy with the tension of the incipient war – only waiting for the flash of an arrow, or the rumble of an army's pounding feet upon the earth, to unleash the fury of a sudden violent storm.
There was no chance to talk, their breath saved for the serious business of racing toward Plathos as quickly as they could, to hopefully stop a war before it could begin. Much as the demigod appreciated that Iolaus' intervention at the end of the trial in Athens had turned the tide and won his freedom, there was no time to reflect on what had happened behind them – there were lives to be saved if only they could get to Plathos on time. He'd thank Iolaus later, when they had a moment's time to themselves, though he knew Iolaus would likely wave off any words of thanks. Still, his best friend had to be aware, even without the words being said, of how grateful Hercules was that he had not been exiled from Greece and that they could now continue to aid the afflicted.
But though there was no time or spare breath for words to be voiced, their minds could still wrestle with anxious worries even while their bodies were physically engaged in racing the sun across the rocky terrain. Strong, well-honed muscle didn't need conscious guidance to continue a punishing pace along the well-worn path. Feet securely shod in sturdy, supple, leather boots found their way with little in the way of formal attention as they pounded onward. Bodies well formed and in the prime of life, schooled to adversity and conflict, used to crossing leagues upon leagues of Greece's rolling lands with little time to spare, fell into old habits and patterns, maintaining a punishing pace as if the warriors were doing little more than casually strolling through the countryside. They vaulted fallen trees without breaking their stride, and scrambled up and over tumbled boulders, heedless of skinned hands or bruised knees. On and on they ran, while the hours of the afternoon lengthened into evening until it was fully dark. Even then they didn't stop, though their path was lit only by the stars and the nearly full moon that would coincide with the approaching winter solstice, which was only one more night away.
As he raced with long strides, setting their grueling pace, Hercules was busy thinking about all he knew about the kings involved in the conflict in Plathos. This wasn't the first time they'd come close to war, but their conflicts usually weren't with one another. Trancus and Orwellius could both be stubborn, haughty men, who were fully able to demand the rights and privileges of their rank as kings when the situation required posturing – but they were not fools. More, until recently they'd been allies, so this impending conflict made no sense. Why, it had only been a few short months ago that Trancus had entrusted Hercules with a secret mission to guard the gold he was sending to his colleague in Nemea, with the hope of avoiding a needless, costly, war. The demigod knew, without any doubt, that this new possibility of war would not be threatening to explode if Ares hadn't been fanning the flames. If only he could get there in time, before blood was spilled, Hercules was certain he could get both kings to see reason.
Unnoticed by the demigod who ran ahead, Ares materialized for less than a split second to touch Iolaus' shoulder as the blond raced by, oblivious to the god's presence. A half step behind the demigod, Iolaus stumbled suddenly and as quickly recovered, carrying on as if he'd never broken stride. With a smug look, Ares flashed from view – on his way to Plathos, where he planned to whisper into a few ears…
Iolaus had no time to wonder what had tripped him – he had to maintain the punishing pace, and truthfully, scarcely noticed the strain of keeping up with a much bigger and younger man whose strength and stamina far exceeded his own. However, his thoughts, which had been on the challenges ahead, suddenly turned back to the trial, his gut tightening as he recalled how his words had been twisted until he had unwittingly added weight to the prosecutor's allegations against Hercules. Once again, Iolaus felt the guilt that had arisen when the prosecutor had gone on and on about how Herc had brought him back from the dead after the beating administered by Hera's Fire Enforcer – the only time the demigod had ever bargained with the God of the Underworld for a mortal's life. Worse, Iolaus knew that hadn't been the first time Hercules had begged for his life. By the gods, Hercules had had Zeus roll back the whole of time for him, years ago in Gargarencia! How often could Hercules beg and barter for him? The gods knew, Iolaus didn't expect it, though he remained grateful – more than grateful. Knowing how much Hercules hated asking any favours of the gods, Iolaus was awed and moved to the depths of his soul to know Herc had done everything in his power to overcome the finality of death. But…it wasn't right – he should never be putting Herc in that position.
The guilt over the trial, as it occurred and now in memory, was bad enough. But worse still, Iolaus had felt completely impotent, not only in the courtroom, but also in his inability to deal with the giant Mog, who had been sorely plagued by, of all the stupid things, a toothache. With a sinking heart, Iolaus considered the events of the past few months and condemned himself for being such a poor companion to Hercules. Much as he wanted to give his best, to be a partner that Hercules could trust and rely upon implicitly, it seemed to the blond warrior that he'd lost his edge somewhere over the years. More often than not lately, he failed to fulfill his own expectations.
Flinching inwardly, sick to his soul, Iolaus thought again of the poor, terrified, woman he'd been unable to save on that rotting bridge – he would never forget the look of wretched horror on her face, or the sounds of her dying screams ringing against the canyon walls as she fell to her death in the churning rapids below. She'd died because he'd failed to save her life, and nothing that Hercules ever said about how he'd done his best made it any less his fault. And then Iolaus remembered how he'd even tried to blame Hercules for it ever happening, by wishing he'd never met the demigod. Gods, he couldn't even accept full responsibility for his own failures! Compounding his utter disgust with himself, scarcely able to believe the depths of his depravity, he then recalled how easily he'd slipped back into the behaviours of a thief when he'd so quickly, even eagerly, agreed to allow Fortune to take away his memories of Hercules.
Gods, what kind of friend did that make him? What kind of coward? 'Face it,' he thought dismally, 'you're an incompetent fool.'
Iolaus would be forever grateful to Hercules for his best friend's support and understanding during that terrible time, not to mention Herc's help in regaining his sense of who he was. But there was precious little in his recollections to give Iolaus any sense of pride or accomplishment – even less to convince him that his presence by Hercules' side was of continuing use to his younger friend, if he ever had been.
Iolaus' thoughts, and his aching heart, were as dark and shadowed as the path they raced along while the hours spun toward dawn. He wondered if perhaps he'd best serve Hercules' interests if he just gave up pretending he could be of any help, knowing as he did that the demigod had no real need of his support. Maybe he really should quit and walk away, before he did any more damage. But – there was nothing else Iolaus wanted to do, nowhere he wanted to be but with Hercules, watching his back, supporting his best friend in any way that he could, for as long as he could. There was nothing back in Thebes but the graves of his wife and children, nothing to draw him home to the lonely cottage on the hill. He hated farming and though smithing was a way of making a living – it wasn't reallyliving.In truth, whatever 'home' he now had was embodied in the demigod who was running just a half-pace ahead of him. Iolaus knew in his heart that his life held meaning for him only when he was by Hercules' side.
So, he loped on, league after league, pacing the demigod…hoping that in Plathos he'd find there was a purpose in his presence, still some use he could be in aiding Hercules to safeguard the peace and protect the innocents caught up in a conflict not of their making.
Caked with dust streaked by runnels of sweat, panting for breath, they crested the last hill just as dawn broke behind them. In the early light of day, they could clearly see Orwellius' forces milling about as they formed up on the edge of the golden fields of grain below that bordered Trancus' lands. On the far side of the valley, Trancus' forces were also falling into line. The men were all in full battle gear, brass buckles and chain mail burnished by the dawn, swords, speartips and arrowheads glinting in the sunlight, though their gaudy flags hung limply from their standards, more like heavy rags than royal banners in the already hot, motionless air.
Knowing that time was fast running out, the two heroes plunged down the rocky hillside, angling directly for the colours that denoted Orwellius' position in the centre of his army. His blue eyes hard with determination, his jaw set with righteous purpose, Hercules cut through the ranks of soldiers with such clear confidence that none thought to challenge him or delay his mission. The demigod was well known, a legend, recognized by most who noticed his arrival, and a muted muttering of curiosity rose in his wake. Iolaus continued to match his friend's strides, a half pace behind and, as he was clearly with the demigod, none questioned his presence though many wondered who he was.
"King Orwellius!" Hercules called out as soon as he was within earshot of the handsome young monarch.
The King turned at the shouted greeting, frowning at being so precipitously hailed just as he was about to give the command to attack Trancus' army. His dark, intelligent eyes narrowed and his chin lifted with unconscious resistance as he recognized the demigod. Shaking his head impatiently, Orwellius replied coldly as the two warriors approached, "Hercules, your timing is unfortunate – as you can see, I'm a little busy just now."
Iolaus rolled his eyes at the man's eagerness to begin the killing as Hercules gave the young monarch a cool, assessing look that bordered on disgust. "Why are you in such a rush to begin a war that will only lead to misery for both your kingdoms?" the demigod demanded directly, having no time for the false pleasantries or empty small talk of formal diplomacy, but his voice also revealed his complete puzzlement about what the conflict could possibly be about. "Why is fighting so necessary? The last I heard, you were courting Trancus' daughter, Isadore – what's happened to set the two of you at such odds?"
Angrily, Orwellius pointed to the east, toward the river which wound its way from Trancus' kingdom across Orwellius' lands to a massive lake in the distance. Hercules and Iolaus could both clearly see that that the river had shrunk to less than half its normal size, the banks high and still muddy, the water flowing sluggishly down the centre of the shallow channel. "Trancus is damming the river to redirect its course over his own lands! He's deaf to my protests and entreaties, careless of the disaster this means for my people. Unless I force him to remove the barrier of boulders he's constructing, the drought will destroy our crops and my people will starve. This war is his making, his responsibility. I've no choice but to strike back!"
Hercules took a breath and nodded, well understanding Orwellius' legitimate ire and very real desperation, though Trancus' behaviour made no sense at all – why would he be acting so arbitrarily? Even if Ares had been meddling with these men and their kingdoms, there had to be some rationale to support the diversion of the river, if only in Trancus' mind. Raising a calming hand, Hercules offered, "I'll help you to make him see reason. If I promise to ensure your safety, will you come with me now to talk with him one more time before unleashing your army?"
Orwellius sighed as he ran slender fingers through his close-cropped black curls, his gaze dropping away from the demigod's earnest blue eyes. It was true that he loved Isadore, and had hoped to make her his Queen, but Trancus' recent and inexplicable behaviour had made peace between their kingdoms impossible. Lifting his eyes back to Hercules, the young monarch shook his head as he silently studied the Son of Zeus. "I doubt you can help resolve this," the King finally said, his voice tight with censure. "Nor am I at all certain that I can trust your surety of my safety."
Startled, Hercules blinked at the unexpectedly cold tone as much as the quelling words. At his evident confusion, Orwellius' gaze shifted meaningfully to Iolaus and then returned to the demigod. "Your judgment is suspect, Hercules. You associate with those who bring no honour to you…"
Feeling as if he'd just been physically punched hard in the gut, Iolaus froze at the King's words, paling in shocked dismay as his breath caught in his chest. Orwellius' words resonated all too well with the dark thoughts that had plagued him as he'd raced through the night behind Hercules. If the world saw him as less than honourable, if simply being with him tarnished Herc's credibility, then maybe it really was time to do Hercules the favour of walking away.
"What are you talking about?" the demigod protested sharply, his jaw tightening in anger.
His hands on his hips, lips thinned in disgust, the young King tilted his head toward Iolaus as he replied, "Don't pretend ignorance, Hercules. It doesn't become you. It's no secret that your 'friend' was recently the right-hand man of that vulture Zenon in Nemea. It seems Iolaus is not the 'former' thief we'd all thought him to be – and the fact that that doesn't seem to bother you is worrying."
"Now, just a minute…" Hercules began, fury now blazing in his eyes in response to the cold contempt Orwellius was exhibiting for his best friend, but Iolaus laid a restraining hand on his arm.
"Look, I don't matter here," the blond warrior interjected quickly to the King, his voice tight as he fought back his own sense of anguish at the only too apparent necessity of his decision to leave Herc's side. Struggling to ensure Hercules' mission of peace wouldn't be forfeit because of his sorry past, Iolaus added emphatically, "Whatever you may think of me, the fact remains that you are about to launch a war that might be averted if you'll give Hercules a chance to help you. How can you refuse to let him try?"
Though it was clear that Orwellius would have preferred to ignore Iolaus' presence, the older man's point was well made. The young King studied Iolaus thoughtfully as he considered that a peaceful solution would, of course, be preferable, if it were possible.
"Sire, you aren't going to listen to this piece of dung?" a soldier muttered in disgust. Recognizing the voice, Iolaus' gaze shifted in surprise toward the speaker, a senior officer in the King's personal retinue – and the man he'd humiliated over a card game in Nemea.
"You…" the blond warrior gasped. It was the man he had first 'bested' at cards, with an ace he'd hidden in his gauntlet, and then had humiliated by nastily slapping the poor guy, over and over, in front of everyone in the crowded tavern.
"Aye," the other man, Salinas, replied coldly, hatred flickering in his eyes. "I was on an undercover mission in Nemea when I had the misfortune of being cheated by you." It was the humiliation of the public slapping more than the cheating that had caused his hatred, but Salinas had no desire to share that memory with his King or anyone else.
Stricken with a renewed and profound sense of shame, Iolaus' gaze dropped as he turned his head away, sickened by the memory of his ugly behaviours. In their haste to get to Plathos, he'd forgotten that Nemea was one of the bordering kingdoms, and had been on the verge of being swallowed by its neighbours, desperate for the gold Hercules had brought to shore up its defences. Of course Orwellius, and Trancus, too, for that matter, would have had their spies in the city – gods, what miserable luck to have encountered this man in that place and time – and to have treated him so unconscionably. "I'm…I'm really very sorry," Iolaus murmured, lifting his gaze to meet the eyes of his accuser, knowing no words would ever heal the breach between them but needing to at least offer the apology with all sincerity.
"I'm sure you are – now," Salinas, a senior officer in Orwellius' personal guard, replied sarcastically.
"Iolaus?" Hercules murmured, frowning uncertainly with concern, not knowing what had happened between the two men in Nemea nor understanding what relevance it had now.
Deeply ashamed, Iolaus couldn't look at his friend. Wearily, he shook his head, determinedly setting aside his sense of personal humiliation as he turned again to the King. "Your man has every right to despise me. But I say again, who or what I am is not at issue here. People will die today, your people, Trancus' people, if you refuse to take this last chance for peace before it's too late."
Unconvinced, Orwellius turned contemptuously away from Iolaus, redirecting his attention to Hercules as he challenged, "What can you possibly do to convince Trancus to tear down the stone barricade he's building to divert the river's course?"
"I can tell him that Ares is behind this conflict," the demigod replied flatly as he crossed his arms, rigid with anger at the way Iolaus was being treated. But his friend was right – now was not the time to deal with the insults and misunderstandings. First, they needed to stop this war.
"What?" the King exclaimed, taken by surprise. "What has the God of War to do with water rights?"
Shrugging, Hercules looked away toward the opposing army as he replied, "Ares bragged to me two days ago that he was about to set a war in motion here in Plathos. He doesn't care about your need for water. That's just an excuse to set you and Trancus at one another's throats. All Ares cares about is the excitement and diversion a war between the two of you will give him, especially since no war erupted over Nemea." Turning his intense gaze back upon Orwellius, Hercules continued, "I believe I can help you stop this madness. You have to let me try."
A long moment passed as the young King considered the demigod's plea, his gaze shifting from Hercules to Iolaus and back again. Finally, Orwellius nodded. "All right. I will go…"
"Sire!" Salinus protested, but Orwellius lifted a hand sharply, both in rebuke and to demand silence, as he continued, "I will go with you to meet with Trancus."
"Thank you," Hercules replied sincerely as the tension in his shoulders eased marginally.
Iolaus sighed heavily in relief, licking his lips as he wondered what to do, whether to go with Hercules and Orwellius or to remain behind and out of the way. Frankly, the blond warrior wished the ground would just open up and swallow him. Given the choice, he'd simply slip away if he could – just disappear. But, that wouldn't be right. He owed Hercules more than that, and Iolaus knew he'd have to try to explain why the time had come for them to part ways. But as suddenly desperate as he was to just get it all over with, this was not the time for that painful discussion – there were too many lives on the line. He'd wait until Hercules had resolved this problem, but then, he'd have to walk away. As to where he'd go, or how he'd bear to leave his best friend, he had no idea and didn't have the heart to think about. Pushing those thoughts aside, he started to move back and away, to wait on the fringes, leaving Hercules to handle this confrontation alone without the burden of his presence. But the demigod laid a firm hand on his shoulder to draw him along as Hercules said to the King, "Well, there's no time like the present. Let's go."
A white flag was broken out for the son of Zeus to carry as he led the way. Together, the three men strode without escort toward the defending army, across the field of tall ripening grain that rippled around their hips like a shallow yellow sea, Orwellius on the demigod's right and Iolaus on his left.
The opposing line of armoured soldiers parted as Trancus impatiently waved off his personal guard and strode forth alone to meet them. He was a tall man, aesthetic and scholarly in appearance, but strong though well into middle age, his long mane of hair still thick if gray.
"What are you doing here, Hercules?" he called out, ignoring his young opponent for the moment.
"Stopping you from making a big mistake, old friend," Hercules replied as soon as they were close enough to speak without being overheard by the soldiers of either side.
"A mistake, you say?" Trancus grated, not well pleased to be so clearly and abruptly put in the wrong. "I'm merely protecting my land from invasion. How can that be a mistake?"
"Trancus," Hercules responded, holding out his hands as a faint expression of confused disbelief played over his face, "you're damming the river with the full knowledge that you'll cause a devastating drought in Orwellius' lands. Bad enough behaviour between neighbours who hate one another and bear a grudge, but your daughter loves him – you were planning to unite your families and eventually your kingdoms. This makes no sense! War between you is stupid…and more than a little insane. What's wrong with you?"
Offended, Trancus straightened to his considerable height, his eyes hard as he crossed his arms and flushed with anger. "You're a fine one to be casting insults, Hercules – you who consort with a known villain. You didn't tell me, months ago, that Iolaus' 'personal business' was so spurious."
Iolaus' eyes dropped to the ground, and he seemed to shrink into himself, wishing with all his heart that he could disappear. Gods, he'd had no idea how dangerous his presence was to Hercules, how much he hurt the demigod's credibility by simply being with him. He'd had no idea how despised he was, or how widely his disgusting and unconscionable behaviours were known. This couldn't go on. As soon as he could, for Hercules' sake, he had to go his own way – but where would he go? What would he do? Wretchedly, his heart aching, Iolaus found himself wishing he were dead…
Hercules cut a quick glance at Iolaus at the King's words, and could clearly see pain and humiliation stamped upon his best friend's pale countenance. Appalled and more than a little infuriated by the undeserved aspersions being directed at his partner, the demigod shook his head angrily as he looked from Trancus to Orwellius and growled, "Look, let's get one thing straight here. Iolaus is the most honourable man I know, and neither one of you has a clue about what you're talking about when you question his integrity. I have no doubt that Ares has been poisoning your views about Iolaus with the hope of discrediting me – solely to ensure that the two of you ignore my counsel and unleash a river of blood in this field. But the real issue here is that there is no good reason for a war – no reason for men to die today."
"Ares?" Trancus protested, astonished. "Ares has nothing to do with what's happening here. The fact is, Orwellius doesn't need as much water as he claims, and my people do. As for Isadore, well, she has any number of suitable offerings for her affection – I've no need to consider a man who is greedy and manipulative…"
"Hey, that's enough of that!" Orwellius protested, stung. "It's not greed that is governing my actions! Look at the river! You can see there's not enough water there to meet our needs! You're enriching your kingdom by killing my people!"
"Whoa, hold on," Hercules intervened, his hands lifting to compel their silence. "Trancus, what made you decide so suddenly that Orwellius doesn't need the water? How do you imagine his people will survive without it?"
"I've been assured there are sufficient other sources of water in his lands," Trancus sniffed, not relenting.
"Who has given you these assurances?" Hercules demanded.
"What sources?" Orwellius challenged, exasperated.
"You have artesian wells, and a lake," Trancus countered stiffly.
"The lake is fed by the damned river!" Orwellius shouted, exasperated.
"Who assured you?" the demigod demanded again, his voice rising to cut through their argument.
"My new engineer," Trancus snapped, though he frowned as he belatedly realized that the lake was, of course, fed by the river…and though it presented an immediate wealth of water, that wealth would soon dry up without constant replenishment. His new adviser had conveniently not only downplayed but outright skipped over that little fact.
When Hercules simply quirked a skeptical brow and crossed his arms, Trancus snorted with admirably quick and honest self-disgust at his own regrettable gullibility as he turned back to the forces arrayed behind him. "Lertes, stand forth!" he called out, but, though they all waited for the new engineer to present himself, no one approached.
The three men were fully engaged in their conversation, oblivious to the tension of the armies ranged around them, but Iolaus had been keeping a wary eye on the potential combatants. Humiliated by the observations about his character and integrity, ashamed that his past actions forced Hercules to defend him, Iolaus was standing apart and silent as his gaze shifted uneasily between the rival factions. Though he might heartily wish he were somewhere else, right now Herc was depending upon him. His job was to keep watch and he'd be damned if he'd let Hercules down now. This conflict was pointless and too contrived…Iolaus knew as well as Herc did that the Kings and their men were simply pawns in Ares' game, which meant the situation was fraught with deadly danger – and, in the blond warrior's opinion, they were far too vulnerable, standing in the middle of the field with no protection.
As the discussion unfolded, Iolaus consciously blocked out the sounds of their voices, trusting Hercules to make the two obstinate kings see the nonsense of their intentions, and concentrated instead upon listening, as well as watching, for any possible threat. Disregarding the sounds of men shifting restlessly around them as the two armies waited for their Kings to give them their orders, Iolaus assessed the soft murmurings of the soldiers, who were speculating amongst themselves about what was going on, for sounds of overt or willful hostility. While everyone else on both sides waited for the mysterious Lertes to appear, Iolaus watched and listened for what he shouldn't be hearing as much as to the rumble and rustle of sound that surrounded them.
And then he heard it – the snap of a bowstring!
"GET DOWN!" Iolaus cried out sharply. Whirling into motion, he shoved Hercules hard and forward, toward Trancus, even as he dove past the demigod to cover Orwellius' body as he bore the young King to the ground.
Instinctively, Hercules reacted instantly to the warning, lunging forward to tackle Trancus, slamming them both hard to the earth.
The two Kings immediately called out to their forces to "HOLD!" though they remained crouched in the uncertain protection of the long waving strands of grain, rapidly casting their gaze about to discern the threat. But their respective armies seemed frozen in uncertain confusion, neither side seeming to know from whence the unexpected attack had come.
"Tell your men to stand down and back off before all Tartarus breaks loose!" Hercules commanded them both harshly even as he rolled to his knees and twisted around, alert to any further threat. Recognizing the wisdom of his words, Trancus and Orwellius did as they were bid, rapidly commanding their armies to hold their fire and stand down as they waved in their personal guards to form a protective circle around them until they could all be certain of being safe.
Hercules helped Trancus to his feet and turned, expecting to see Iolaus aiding Orwellius – and then froze in sudden shock when he saw that Iolaus was sprawled face down and unmoving – the shaft of an arrow rising from the middle of his back.
"Iolaus!" the demigod gasped as he dropped to his knees beside his best friend, a cold heavy ball of dread suddenly filling his gut. The arrow had impaled Iolaus just to the right of his spine and Hercules knew only too well how dangerous such a wound could be, what it could mean. His throat tight, his mouth dry with anxious alarm, the demigod reached forward, searching for the pulse of life at the base of his best friend's throat, sagging with relief when he found it. Weak, too rapid, maybe, but there. It would be alright. Iolaus had lived through worse…he was still alive and he'd fight to survive. But, the wound was serious, very serious. The arrow would have to be removed, but not immediately or Iolaus could well bleed to death, but neither could he be helped so long as that long shaft prevented moving him. Swiftly, Hercules snapped the thin wooden shaft and then gently turned Iolaus, lifting his friend's shoulders and supporting them with one strong arm to help the wounded man breathe more freely.
The two Kings and their bodyguards stood around the demigod and his fallen friend, mute and appalled that their mutual commitment to a parley under the flag of truce had been so murderously violated. Orwellius picked up the broken haft of the arrow, and frowned in confusion as he showed it to Trancus. The arrow's fletchings were strange to both camps, so it was far from clear who had been the intended victim – and it had all happened so fast, too fast to form any immediate conclusions. Had Iolaus been hit as he'd shoved Hercules out of the way? Or when he'd pushed Orwellius to the ground? Or had he twisted as he dropped, catching an arrow meant for Trancus?
"Iolaus?" Hercules whispered again into the uneasy silence that had descended upon the field as his fingers lightly brushed his friend's pale cheek.
Blond lashes fluttered; the critically wounded warrior moaned low in his throat as he fought the agony of the fire that burned through his back into his chest even as he struggled his way toward consciousness.
"Easy, buddy," Hercules murmured, his voice tight with worried concern.
Iolaus groaned again and stiffened as pain sheared through him; he panted softly in a vain attempt to lessen the torment that lanced through him mercilessly with each breath. Blue eyes blinked dazedly and then gradually focused up at Hercules as Iolaus struggled to lift a hand to grip his friend's arm.
Hercules caught Iolaus' hand in his own tight grip as he bent low, his voice cracking with desperate insistence as he soothed, "You'll be okay, you hear me?"
Iolaus' lips parted, as if he wished to speak, but he hadn't the strength to form words. A thin froth of blood bubbled on his lips, and he could only blink mutely as he slowly shook his head – a slight, hardly perceptible gesture of negation, but enough to wring a cry of protest from the demigod.
"NO!" Hercules ground out, his voice low and intense as he half-pled, half-commanded, "Don't you let go!"
Iolaus struggled to be understood as he gazed up into Hercules' eyes. This wasn't the parting he'd imagined just a few short minutes ago, but now it all seemed inevitable somehow and, sadly, even necessary. He couldn't stay with Herc…but nor could he imagine a life without the demigod. The darkness of pain that shadowed his deep blue eyes was swept away by aching grief and immeasurable sorrow – and then those shattering emotions were quickly banished in their turn by an illuminating spark of love that softened to a warm glow…until his tenuous hold on consciousness slipped away and he sagged in Hercules' arms.
"Ah, no, Iolaus…" Hercules called brokenly with a low sob of anguish as he clutched his friend close. The look in Iolaus' eyes had chilled the demigod, congealing anxious worry into icy fear. Shaking his head mutely, the demigod refused to accept the message his best friend had tried to give him – Iolaus couldn't be dying. He was badly hurt and weak, but he'd recover. But it was all happening too fast, too unexpectedly, leaving the demigod momentarily shocked, unable to think or know what to do – too helplessly aware that he could feel Iolaus slipping away from him.
"Quickly, Hercules! Bring him to my palace!" Trancus commanded sharply, recovering somewhat from the shock of the attack and briskly taking charge of the situation. "There's no time to lose!"
Wordlessly, the demigod nodded as he carefully gathered his best friend into his arms and stood to carry Iolaus into Plathos. Trancus had already turned to race toward his mount, intending to lead the way back to his fortress, less than a league away. Orwellius also called for his horse, and followed immediately, pacing behind Hercules so that the demigod and his precious burden were protected by the two kings and their personal guard as they made their way toward the castle perched above the fields on the distance hilltop. The King's own healer, understanding the seriousness of the wound, raced ahead to prepare for the battle to save Iolaus' life. If he could be saved – if it wasn't already too late.
Though Hercules wanted to run, so filled with urgency was he to get Iolaus to the healer, he didn't dare jostle his friend more than necessary lest he only make the wound worse. So he strode with an easy, measured tread through and past the silent ranks of Trancus' army, though his muscles were stiff with fear. Inside, he felt sick with dread, but his face remained impassive if pale, and his blue eyes were hard, even cold, as he held his emotion inside and blinked back tears he refused to let fall.
Anger flared, fury at the violation of the truce and the perfidy of the anonymous archer, but Hercules suppressed his rage. There wasn't time for it now, nor would it help. Similarly, he swallowed hard, marshalling his fear, refusing to grant it dominion over him. There was no need for such almost childish terror churning in his gut.
Iolaus was alive and he was going to be fine.
That was all that mattered, all that was important, and Hercules clung to that single thought as he carried his best friend up the long winding dusty road toward the castle.
Once they arrived in the castle compound, Trancus led the way inside, across the lofty great hall and up a flight of stone steps carved from the hillside at the back of the palace. Then, they were striding along a wide corridor, their footsteps echoing against the marble walls while light spilled in through narrow apertures to burnish the bare oaken flooring. The King pushed open a thick, heavy wooden door carved to fit the wall snuggly, and they entered an opulent chamber. Hercules had a confused impression of crimson velvet window coverings pushed back from the unshuttered windows, solid, well crafted furniture and shiny silver glinting in the light on stone walls and oaken tables, but his attention was caught by the massive bed. The coverlet had been stripped off so that he could immediately set Iolaus down upon the crisp ivory linen sheet that covered the down-filled pallet.
The King himself helped Hercules ease the vest from Iolaus' shoulders while Orwellius pulled off the unconscious man's boots. They had just removed the warrior's leather pants when servants bustled in, bearing jugs of heated and cool water, a bowl, cups and towels. Aedelis, Trancus' healer, arrived with them, leading other servants who carried trays of the tools and potions he'd need. A fire was hastily built in the grate in the corner while the healer waved the Kings away from his patient. Hercules was gently supporting Iolaus, holding him on his side to give access to the wound but the position didn't suit the healer.
"I need him more fully on his stomach, but his head still higher than his feet, to aid his breathing," Aedelis instructed. So they positioned cushions under Iolaus' chest and turned his head to the side. Hercules shifted to perch on the edge of the bed so that he might continue to support Iolaus' shoulders and cheek with one strong arm, while his other braced his best friend's lower back to hold him still during the surgery to come. Candles had been lit, throwing stark light upon the ugly sight of the broken shaft rising from the reddening wound, the skin around the puncture angry and torn, darkened by blood bubbling around the entry point. Iolaus' breathing was shallow, uneven and raspy, the harsh sound of it filling the chamber.
Aedelis nodded his satisfaction with the preparations. Reaching toward his instrument tray which had been placed on the table by the head of the bed, he grasped a sharp blade and bent to his work.
The wound was more serious than Hercules wanted to acknowledge.
Aedelis, found his skill stretched to its limits and he sweated with effort as he struggled to extricate the arrow's barb without killing his patient in the process. The surgery was long, arduous…and a great deal of hot, dark crimson blood smeared Iolaus' back and the healer's hands and knife before streaming down to stain the linen sheets beneath the warrior's body.
Hercules gritted his teeth, schooling himself to impassivity as he held Iolaus still while Aedelis dug for the arrowhead, delving under bone and through muscle. Even as deeply unconscious as he was, Iolaus resisted the assault, weakly struggling to get away from the blade cutting into his back, moaning against the agony the necessary operation was causing him. The blond's breathing faltered as he gasped for air and began coughing, choking repeatedly on the blood clogging his throat, until Hercules trembled with anguish, very afraid that Iolaus would not survive the surgery itself.
But, finally, the deadly missile was teased out of Iolaus' raw flesh, and the wound was cauterized and bound. Hercules once again gathered Iolaus into his strong embrace, lifting him gently so that the blood saturated linens could be pulled away, and fresh sheets stretched in their place. As he gently eased Iolaus onto the bed to rest on his back, and held him while Aedelis propped cushions behind the wounded man to aid his efforts to breathe, Hercules felt weak with hope that the worst was over. But blood still bubbled on Iolaus' lips with each shallow gasp for air, and his skin was deathly pale, cold and clammy under Hercules' touch. The arrowhead was out, but it was only too apparent that Iolaus was still far from well. Though the day was hot and the air in the richly appointed chamber was stifling, the demigod ordered the fire to be built up in the stone hearth and Aedilis brought a soft, finely woven woolen blanket to cover his patient and warm him.
The healer mixed a potion of herbs but Hercules took the pewter cup from him to administer it to Iolaus himself while Aedelis watched. The healer's face was set in grim lines – he was too honest to pretend to a hopefulness that he did not feel and he was far from certain that his patient would recover. Still, he held his worries to himself choosing instead to patiently counsel Hercules to keep his friend warm, and to get him to drink as much of the potion and of the cool water as possible. Later, a broth would be sent up from the kitchens. If the wound began to bleed again, or if a fever started, the demigod was told to call for assistance immediately. And then, with little ceremony, Aedelis ushered the kings and the servants from the room, saying that his patient needed quiet and rest to heal.
Left alone, unable to do more than wait and hope, Hercules sat by his friend, gripping Iolaus' hand as he silently willed his partner to get better. The hours of Solstice Eve passed slowly as the day eased into evening. Silent servants came and went, lighting candles in the silver wall sconces and set others in their pewter holders upon the ornately carved tables in the chamber, to alleviate the encroaching darkness, and bearing the promised broth as well as food for Hercules upon a tray. Trancus and Orwellius both came repeatedly, to check on whether Hercules needed anything more than the water and the broth or his own untouched meal sent up by the palace chef, but the demigod simply shook his head, his gaze never leaving Iolaus' face. They left him in peace, wishing there was more they could do to help or comfort the demigod.
"I'm sorry, Hercules," Trancus murmured when he returned once more before retiring for the night, to see if Iolaus still lived and to share what little news he had with the demigod. "It appears that my new engineer, Lertes, has disappeared. No one knows who shot the arrow or even which side it came from. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps we have all been pawns in one of Ares' games." Sighing, Trancus shook his head sadly as he added sincerely, "You may be assured that Orwellius and I have made our peace – and we both regret that your friend has paid such a price for our idiocy."
The demigod nodded numbly, signifying he'd heard but not really caring about Trancus' mysterious engineer or either King's regret for the stupidity of their conflict. They were but the means by which Ares had chosen to mitigate his boredom, nothing more. Had they been less proud, less prone to indignation, more open with one another, perhaps they'd not have been vulnerable to the God of War's machinations. Perhaps they had learned from this experience. Perhaps they would remember this encounter the next time they were tempted to wage war. But Hercules couldn't bring himself to care what happened in their future. His attention was too closely bound to each of Iolaus' laboured, shallow breaths; and his own concerns were too sharply focused on the fever that was building so that Iolaus was flushed, his skin hot and dry. He'd called for Aedelis more than an hour before, when he'd first noticed the heat of the fever, and the healer had brought more herbs, both to redress the wound and to simmer in an infusion that Hercules had patiently fed to Iolaus. But the medicines didn't seem to be working. Iolaus wasn't getting better – he was weakening. But the demigod told himself this was only a temporary setback. Iolaus was strong and a fighter. He'd not let a little infection bring him down – he'd beat the fever. He just needed time, and care, that's all. He was going to be fine.
Trancus watched the demigod for a time, again shaking his head sorrowfully as he turned to go, closing the heavy oaken door softly behind him. No one but Hercules held any real hope for the blond warrior's life. Essentially a kind man, Trancus found himself wondering about what Iolaus' death would mean to the demigod. He'd never seen the proud and strong Hercules so shattered by worry – and the sight of the fine tremors in Hercules' hands and the dark shadows in his eyes had shocked the King. Somehow, Hercules had always seemed above such mundane, human cares – remote somehow, apart – well, he was the son of Zeus. It hadn't ever occurred to Trancus that Hercules could care so deeply for an ordinary mortal that the loss would leave the demigod utterly bereft. Oh, the old King knew, as everyone did, that Hercules' family had been brutally destroyed a few years ago. For a time, the demigod had been quiet and more than usually introspective, understandably deeply hurt by the hideous loss of those he loved most. But though Trancas knew Hercules well, and also knew that Iolaus had been his long time friend and companion, he had never guessed the depth of love the demigod felt for the mortal – why, it was as if it were his beloved brother who lay there dying – as if Iolaus was more than a good friend, but rather someone irreplaceable, whose death would be an unbearable loss.
Knowing as well as Orwellius did about Iolaus' recent behaviours in Nemea, fully aware that the mortal warrior had a checkered past, Trancus found it difficult to understand the depth of Hercules' very apparent anxious concern. Wearily, he concluded that there was much he didn't understand about the friendship between the two men, and evidently much more to the stories about Iolaus than he knew. What he did know was that he'd always personally liked Iolaus, appreciating his informal candour and steady air of self-assurance. Certainly, the warrior had acted with more than commendable haste and courage in alerting them to danger earlier that day – and in taking an arrow that had not been aimed to end his life. It was too bad, really, even a tragedy, that he might well die as a result.
Evening drifted into night as Hercules kept his vigil by Iolaus' bedside. Every few minutes, Hercules patiently trickled water, the herbal potion or the nutritious broth past Iolaus' lips and gently massaged his friend's throat to encourage the unconscious man to swallow. Iolaus needed the liquids to help restore his strength after having lost so much blood. The fever continued to gradually worsen, though Hercules bathed Iolaus with cool water hour after endless hour, his touch gentle, even tender. But it seemed his best friend's breathing was growing ever more harsh and uncertain, rattling wetly in his chest as Iolaus mumbled incoherently, or moved with restless confusion in his struggle against the fever and the darkness that assailed him. As the night deepened, grimly denying his fear and grief, Hercules kept watch by the candle's flickering light, doing all he could to help Iolaus cling to life…
The demigod told himself that each passing hour signaled more reason to hope that Iolaus would recover – but as the night wore on, he was having increasing difficulty convincing himself of the validity of that hope. Still, he couldn't begin to accept that Iolaus was dying – couldn't begin to face all that that would mean. Hercules felt a twisting anguish clenching in his gut and filling up his chest so that he shuddered as he drew deep breaths to calm himself. His throat was so tight he could barely swallow and his hands trembled with fear even as he told himself that Iolaus would be fine. He needed time and care, but he'd be fine.
Had to be fine.
Almost obsessively, the demigod found himself recalling Iolaus' words in Athens, words that had forced an end to the outrageous trial. 'I am Hercules. I think like him and I try to act like him…' Words spoken with simple but abiding passion and commitment – words that had ultimately saved Hercules from being banished from Greece.
"I should have thanked you…" the demigod muttered, his voice rough with emotion, his dry eyes pricking and burning with unformed tears. Gripping his best friend's hand, stroking errant blond curls back from Iolaus' fevered brow, Hercules desperately fought the urge to weep, and struggled to swallow the massive lump in his throat. "Iolaus…don't you know…" he began, but his voice cracked as words failed him. His lip quivered and his mighty shoulders trembled as he sought to contain the emotions that surged in his heart. "…for as long as I can remember," he continued hoarsely, trying to explain, wanting Iolaus to know, "I've been trying to act like you?"
Taking a shuddering breath, sniffing as he blinked away the tears that threatened, Hercules murmured softly, "You were the one who taught me to fight bullies, to stand up for what's right, remember? You told me not to be afraid of my strength, but to make it matter, to use it for what's important. You showed me how to be brave even in the face of impossible odds." For a moment, the ghosts of past smiles played around the demigod's lips, and old laughter shimmered in his eyes, as he recalled times from his childhood and youth when Iolaus had shown him what 'bravery' looked like, and how 'courage' acted. But then his eyes darkened with the recollection of more tragic times. "The memory of your incredible strength and dignity when you lost Ania, and then Telaus, helped me deal with the grief of losing my family, helped me go on – and your unshakable optimism and good sense has allowed me to feel that it's okay to be happy again, even to find joy in life again," he said quietly then. Those had been dark days in their lives, times of losses so profound that both men had been forever marked by the shadows of grief that could never be completely vanquished. Sighing, Hercules set those memories aside as he focused again upon his friend and lightly stroked Iolaus' forehead with his fingertips. "No challenge has ever been too much for you, no danger so great you'd ever walk away from doing the right thing," he acknowledged softly but with heartfelt admiration and gratitude. "No matter whatever happened, you have always been there for me."
The demigod wondered if Iolaus could hear him. Earlier, the warrior had been restless with fever, and seemed sometimes to almost wake. But he appeared to have slipped into a deeper unconsciousness, and he lay so quietly now that only his irregular, laboured breathing signaled that he still lived. Iolaus' face was as pale as alabaster in the flickering, uncertain light, and there were smudges of blue shadows under his sunken eyes and around his lips; his muscles were flaccid, his skin hot, and dry, like parchment left too long in the sun. There was no trace of energy or vibrancy in his countenance, no vestige of light or laughter, no sign of determined courage, as if all that had been leached from him by the hemorrhaging of his terrible wound and the ravaging fever.
Suddenly, Hercules was gripped by the sickening fear that Iolaus might never wake up – that he'd never again see the sparkle of humour in those eyes now closed or hear the warmth of sure friendship in a voice gone forever silent. A sense of profound loneliness swept over the demigod, a soul deep awareness of how bereft he would be, how truly destitute, without Iolaus in his life. Hercules had never valued traditional wealth – silver, fine cloth, luxurious lodgings had never been of any import. But the treasure of their lifelong friendship was priceless to him and irreplaceable. If Iolaus left, died, he would take with him all that had real worth in Hercules' life. The future would be a wasteland of memories and cold, empty hours that would have to be endured – for the demigod knew he had no choice but to endure. People would still need his help. Iolaus would expect him to go on – would be ashamed of him if he didn't – but how achingly dull and pointless it would be to simply endure alone without the warmth and humour, the strength and courage, of Iolaus in his life. It was a future that the demigod didn't want to ever know, and Hercules' voice cracked again as he whispered with the desperate intensity of need, "Don't, please, don't leave me, too. Iolaus…don't make me do it all alone…"
The emotions Hercules had fought so hard to hold at bay overwhelmed him in those moments of despair – helpless tears of anguish slipped down his face as his fear and grief washed over him in waves. One large hand cupped the top of Iolaus' head while the other reached across Iolaus' body to grip his friend's far shoulder, hugging him gently as Hercules bent his head to rest his brow on his partner's shoulder. Silently, Hercules wept, his body shuddering with the force of his sorrow and the pain of his helplessness to save the man who had been his foundation, and his hero, for the whole of his life.
Iolaus felt as if he'd been drifting on a hot sea of pain for hours. Not quite conscious, he was yet aware of Hercules tending to his needs and he despaired of once again being a burden to the demigod. He knew he had to let go, but it was so very difficult, so contrary to his natural tendency to fight with all he had to hold onto his life. But there was no point in living, was there, if he was no longer any use to Hercules? If his life couldn't be lived on his own terms? If he'd lost all credibility…and worse, if he'd lost the edge that had allowed him to fight demons and monsters, warlords and even gods, holding his own by Herc's side?
Yet…he couldn't seem to let go. Wanted, still, so much to live…
…until he heard Hercules weeping over him and felt his best friend's hot tears on his shoulder. Gods, what was he doing, making Herc suffer while he lingered like this? It was time, past time…he had to let go!
Iolaus' breathing hitched and faltered…and Hercules lifted his head sharply, fear etched in his face and darkening his tear-glazed eyes as he held his own breath…
…and waited with rising panic for Iolaus to take another breath.
"Iolaus?" Hercules called uncertainly into the wretched silence of flickering shadows, his entire body rigid with overwhelming dread. He gripped Iolaus' shoulders, fighting the urge to shake his best friend as he called again, harshly this time, with sharp command, "Iolaus! Breathe, dammit! Breathe!"
"Iolaus, why in Gaia's name aren't you breathing?" Hades demanded sharply, with an air of exasperated ire as he stood with his arms crossed and glared at the soul of the blond warrior he'd hastily summoned before him.
Confused, Iolaus shook his head a little dazedly as he looked around the plush chamber, recognizing the richly crafted table, the heavy draperies and ornate hearth from his last visit, and then answered uncertainly, "Uh, I think I'm dead…"
"Bah!" Hades snorted abruptly. "You're not dead until I say you're dead and send Thanatos to collect your soul. Right now, you are simply not breathing, like a child holding his breath until he turns blue, out of stubbornness or a perverse need for attention. But, you are no child, though stubborn you surely always have been. Still, I think this is no bid for attention. Rather," the god continued dryly, "you seem to be seeking death…even welcoming it. Most unusual, especially for you. Why you are refusing to fight for your life?"
"Well, I suffered a fatal wound, and I guess…" Iolaus bluffed unconvincingly, as he tried to evade Hades' question. But he felt a sinking feeling in his gut at the penetrating look Hades had fixed upon him.
Striding forward impatiently, the God of the Underworld poked a rigid finger at the hapless mortal as he declared scathingly, "Fatal wound? I think not. Serious certainly, but…"
"Look, I took an arrow in my back! I've been choking on my own blood and I've got a raging fever…not to mention the fact that I lost a lot of blood when that quack dug the arrowhead out…" Iolaus blurted back, trying to make his present circumstances seem only reasonable, though his eyes dropped away from Hades' narrowed look of disbelief. Well, it had been a serious wound – and blaming his death on the injury was better than the shame of admitting he'd just plain given up.
"Don't give me that nonsense!" Hades barked. Flicking the points off his fingers, his voice disparaging, Hades dealt with the excuses Iolaus had raised in his own defence for having stopped breathing. "Your ribs blunted the passage of the arrowhead, so it barely nicked your lung. And, yes, I'll grant that fool of a healer did marginally more damage getting it out, but nothing irreparable given time enough to heal. Hercules has been forcing water, medicine and broth down your throat to replace the blood you lost and he's been bathing you for hours to keep the fever down – so your body should be able to fight off the infection. You're fit and strong. You should not be dying!" Impatient with the excuses, the God of the Underworld thundered, "So answer me! Why are you refusing to live?"
"What difference could it possibly make to you?" the blond growled stubbornly as he turned away, crossing his arms, not wanting to play this game. He had his reasons but they were none of Hades' business.
"Good question," Hades replied dryly. "I don't really care a whit about you, to tell you the truth. But I care a great deal about the order of things…and this is not your time. There is more you are needed to do." Wearily, the god shook his head but was less than completely forthcoming himself as he continued, "You're screwing up my paperwork, and frankly I don't have the time to be bothered with dealing with Hercules when he comes roaring down here, demanding you back again. This is a stupid game, and a dangerous one that you're playing. If you're going to cause me so much trouble for no good purpose, I want to know why."
Shrugging, Iolaus looked blindly around the room as he murmured, "It's just better this way…"
"Why?" the god persisted, moving to once again stand before the mortal. Reaching out abruptly to firmly grasp and lift Iolaus' chin to see his eyes, Hades effectively stormed the gateway of the mortal's soul, determined to read the truth that could not be hidden from him. He held Iolaus' gaze with a grim intensity, his dark eyes mesmerizing and compelling, demanding answers…
Swallowing, unable to resist and looking truly devastated, Iolaus replied hoarsely, "Because I'm no good to Hercules, dammit! Can't you see that? I'm an embarrassment to him – I screw up and he has to clean up after me. He doesn't need me! Herc would be better off without me…"
"That's ridiculous," Hades snorted. Pointing up toward the temporal plane, he demanded, "Didn't you hear what he just told you? Even if you were only barely conscious, I'm certain you know very well what Hercules said. As I well know that you can even now hear him calling to you to 'breathe'."
"Look," Iolaus allowed as he pulled away from Hades, lifting his hands helplessly, "I know what Hercules thinks about me, and he gives me 'way too much credit. I'm…I'm sorry that my death will cause him pain, especially when I know, better than anyone, how much he's suffered already in his life. I hate to do this to him, I really do. But, can't you see, I'm nothing but trouble for him. I'm not good for him and, even if it hurts for a while, he really will be better off without me. I know he's never needed me."
Taken aback by the despairing words and unusual, listless hopelessness of Iolaus' demeanor, Hades thoughtfully studied the earnest mortal, reading the real pain in Iolaus' candid gaze and his absolute conviction that he was some kind of hindrance or burden in the demigod's life. "You're wrong, you know…on all counts," he said finally, his voice deathly quiet. "You have more responsibility than you seem willing to accept for the man that Hercules is today."
"But…" Iolaus tried to protest, only to be cut off when Hades raised a hand commandingly.
"We don't have time to debate this. Pay attention to what I'm about to show you," the god directed firmly as he waved to open a square of space that played back scenes of Iolaus', and Hercules', lives from the time they were children together in Thebes.
Though he didn't want to watch, Iolaus couldn't resist the opportunity of seeing Hercules again, even like this, from times long ago when they'd only been kids dreaming of one day being heroes. He flinched when, as each scene played out, Hercules' broken words echoed around them hauntingly…
"You were the one who taught me to fight bullies, to stand up for what's right, remember?" A scene from the alleyway just beyond the school yard in Thebes appeared before Iolaus – the first time he'd met Hercules when the skinny young demigod was being tormented by older, bigger boys. Herc had been refusing to use his strength to defend himself, ashamed of being awkward and 'different'. Iolaus watched his younger self wade in against the odds, driving the others back as he kicked, punched, scratched and bit with wild abandon, knowing all too well that bullies cave when confronted with real opposition. And then another scene unfolded of an incident the mortal warrior had long forgotten when a new kid from a rustic environment was being teased unmercifully for the simple reason that he was different – a very young Hercules was watching intently while Iolaus stuck up for the kid, scathingly challenging the others to show how well they could draw or figure numbers, to prove their self-proclaimed superiority. When they couldn't, the small blond with tousled curls had sneered at them as he lectured them, 'Different does mean better or worse – it just means different. We can learn from each other's differences if we try…and we can be stronger together than we ever could be apart if we just give strangers a chance to be our friends!"
"You told me not to be afraid of my strength, but to make it matter, to use it for what's important." The scene changed to a dusty road where two adolescents faced one another down, Hercules rigid with anger while Iolaus tried to reason with him. 'Sure, Jason made a mistake, he's human. But you…you're better than we are, special. You'll be remembered long after memories of us have faded away," the young Iolaus argued, sincerity written clearly in his expression. 'But you're not the easiest guy to get along with.' 'Then why do you bother?' Hercules demanded sullenly. 'Why don't you just take off?' 'Because I'm a better person for knowing you,' Iolaus replied simply, disarming the demigod and leaving Hercules with a surprised and uncertain look of thoughtfulness on his face. Other scenes followed, time after time when Hercules was uncertain of his very nature, uncomfortable in his being or with his heritage, and Iolaus challenged the younger lad or youth to be the best that he could be, to use his strength, his mind and heart, to be a force for good in the world.
"You showed me how to be brave even in the face of impossible odds." Scene after scene unfolded of Iolaus confronting bandits, vastly outnumbered but undaunted, of challenging monsters with inadequate weapons but refusing to leave Hercules to deal with the danger alone – and finally he saw himself resisting the brutality of the Fire Enforcer rather than betray his friend, struggling to hold onto life long enough to warn Hercules of the danger before finally letting his spirit rest.
Iolaus shook his head, wanting to look away, but was caught by the respect and admiration that glowed in Hercules' eyes as the scenes unfolded, when the demigod cast quick, assessing looks at his partner, glances that Iolaus had missed in the heat of those past battles. But his heart ached at the anguish in Hercules' eyes and voice when he'd died in his friend's arms…and, finally, he had to turn away, tears glistening in his own eyes.
"Hades, please stop this," he begged brokenly, everything in him demanding that he go back, except the voice in his mind that told him bluntly he was worthless and only a burden to Hercules.
But the god simply glared at him as he snapped, "Shut up and watch…and then tell me you still wish to die."
"The memory of your incredible strength and dignity when you lost Ania, and then Telaus, helped me deal with the grief of losing my family, helped me go on – and your unshakable optimism and good sense has allowed me to feel that it's okay to be happy again, even to find joy in life again." Terribly painful images emerged, of Iolaus kneeling by the graves of his family, Telaus so recently dead – of learning about how Hera had cursed him when he'd died in Gargarencia but hadn't remembered – and of forgiving Hercules for having kept the past from him, arguing that Herc couldn't have known of the curse. Scenes played out of Iolaus taking his leave, needing to go away for a while to find himself again, to find his purpose in life – and Hades saw a silent tear slip down his face as Iolaus watched, the expression on his face clearly conveying his knowledge that his purpose in life was, always had been, to stand by Hercules' side. Then more painful scenes appeared, showing the moments after Deianeara and the children had been murdered, as he argued with Hercules that D wouldn't want him going on a rampage of revenge but would rather Hercules carry on doing what was right, helping people in trouble. Happier scenes followed of the two best friends laughing over a cup of mead in a barnyard as they took their noon day rest from labouring in the fields to help a neighbour…and then of Iolaus teasing Hercules gently for having found comfort in Nemesis' arms.
"No challenge has ever been too much for you, no danger so great you'd ever walk away from doing the right thing." Iolaus saw himself running away from home to face privations in the streets, and avoiding Hercules and Alcmene to protect them from his father's demented rages. Watched himself saving Alcmene from the depredations of two older murderous thieves, risking his own life and liberty. Heard himself upon the roof of the Academy, challenging Ares himself when he'd believed the god had killed Hercules. Scene after scene of fighting the demonic Amazons in Gargarencia, of facing death on the Gargantuan, of challenging a giant demented by pain, of calling out in a courtroom to defend his best friend and stand with him, even if it meant he'd be banished into exile with Hercules, because it was the right thing to do.
"No matter what ever happened, you have always been there for me." Hercules pleading with him to stay after that woman had died so terribly, when Iolaus had been unable to save her. Being unable to harm Hercules, even though he had no conscious memory of who the demigod was in his life. Scene after scene of standing with Hercules, back to back, facing down every kind of danger, protecting the demigod as well as he could…
"Don't, please, don't leave me, too. Iolaus…don't make me do this alone…" The words echoed and re-echoed around them, louder and louder as Hades showed him Hercules weeping by his bedside, and then frantically holding him, waiting for him to draw breath – until Iolaus lifted his hands to cover his ears, sinking down to one knee and twisting forward, overcome, as he moaned softly with the pain of the wretched entreaty in Hercules' voice.
"You may have said that 'you are Hercules', Iolaus," Hades intoned then as he waved his hand and sudden silence surrounded them. "But the truth is, you have led my nephew along the path of his life and made him the man he is today. He needed you in those dark moments when he was lost and confused, needed the light you shone to illuminate the way ahead. By word and deed, you taught Hercules that he could always trust you and rely upon you. How can you refuse him now when he begs you to stay with him and it is within your power to grant his wish?"
Tears glimmered in Iolaus' eyes, and his arms were crossed tightly across his chest as if he were trying to hold some great anguish inside, but he straightened and stood to face the implacable God of the Underworld. "Maybe…maybe I did help long ago, when he was younger," the stricken mortal stammered, his voice rough with emotion. "I'm glad if I did. But Herc's a man now – a demigod who has come into his own right. I…I just get in the way now. My past…my past is a disgrace to him. My terrible actions in Nemea proved that evil lives deep in my soul. He shouldn't trust me…I'm not the man he thinks I am…"
Again, Hades simply waved his hand, cutting off Iolaus' dismal protests as Hercules' voice echoed around them, "Look, let's get one thing straight here. Iolaus is the most honourable man I know, and neither one of you has a clue about what you're talking about when you question his integrity."
"It seems to me that Hercules has a better grasp of your character than you do," Hades observed wryly. "Perhaps you should listen to him."
The God of the Underworld narrowed his eyes, his jaw tightening, when Iolaus simply shook his head sorrowfully and turned away. It wasn't like the cocky mortal to completely deny his worth or to actively seek death when he was known to revel in life; but all men could reach their limits, could yearn for peace, so it was, perhaps, conceivable that Iolaus had given up. But, for Iolaus to resist Hercules' pleas…this was not conceivable. Iolaus had never, would never, refuse Hercules anything. For the first time, Hades sensed that something else was in play, something wrong, badly wrong…
When there was still no response from the deathly still man, Hercules pulled Iolaus forward, supporting his best friend's head on his shoulder and Iolaus' upper body on his arm as he pounded on his partner's back. Fearful of making Iolaus' injury worse, yet afraid he was perhaps choking, the demigod struggled to help his friend breathe.
"Come on, Iolaus!" he growled with quavering urgency. "Come on! Breathe!"
Frustrated by the mortal's continued insistence that it was right that he die, unable to credit that insistence given Iolaus' character, Hades began to wonder what else might be influencing Iolaus' state of mind and decisions. And then he recalled Hercules' words to Orwellius and Trancus as he defended Iolaus' good name. 'I have no doubt that Ares has been poisoning your views about Iolaus with the hope of discrediting me – solely to ensure that the two of you ignore my counsel and unleash a river of blood in this field.'
And Hades wondered if Ares had done more than fan memories of Iolaus' actions in Nemea to discredit him. What if the God of War had done more…somehow withering Iolaus' strength of spirit and joy in life, filling him with doubts and self-disgust? What if Iolaus' wound hadn't been an unfortunate accident of being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Weighing what he knew of the conflict in Plathos that had led to Iolaus' wound, considering all of the players involved, Hades growled impatiently, "This must all be Ares' doing…"
But Iolaus cut in, shaking his head as he argued, "Ares had nothing to do with the way Trancas and Orwellius treated me, or with what they and others said about me. I did terrible things in Nemea…I was a thief on the streets of Thebes," he moaned bleakly. "Don't you see – they were only speaking the truth. Hercules…Herc sees what he wants to see when he looks at me, not the man I really am…"
Hades cocked a supercilious brow as he crossed his arms. "Oh, really? And you honestly believe Ares had nothing to do with dredging up the memories of long ago incidents or a single aberration of character?" he demanded sarcastically. Shaking his head, Hades moved forward to grip Iolaus' shoulder as he continued with a rare, softer, tone of warmth, "Iolaus, you have stood by Hercules for the whole of your life, and his. You have risked everything, indeed you have already died more than once to support him. These things are also known by Trancas, Orwellius and others. Surely a lifetime of responsible, even courageous, choices and behaviours counts for more than youthful acts to survive or actions that Fortune unintentionally led you into?"
"Yeah, well, maybe – but I still don't see how Ares had anything to do with this…" the blond wavered, unconvinced. He couldn't explain, not even to himself, the sudden dark mood that had come over him as they'd raced to Plathos, or the ever-growing conviction he had that he was worthless. Frowning, he grappled with the emotions tearing him apart – wondering if Ares had somehow twisted things around in his mind, but he couldn't see how or when it could have been done.
"Oh no?" Hades countered sharply, regaining Iolaus' attention as he embellished upon his growing suspicion of who was behind everything that had happened in Plathos. "How else is Ares going to score points off Hercules and ward off his efforts to prevent an unnecessary and contrived war? Of course he whispered to his minions, fanning their suspicions, refreshing their memories…"
"So what?" Iolaus asked wearily, finally deciding that it didn't matter if Ares had messed with his mind somehow – it didn't change anything. He was a burden Herc didn't need. "The point is, I can be used against Hercules. I make him vulnerable…"
"Even if that's true, doesn't Hercules have the right to make his own decisions about how he handles that?" Hades demanded. "What if he is more vulnerable without you than he is with you?"
"'What if', is a pointless question," Iolaus snapped back, finding the whole debate unbearable. He didn't want to die – didn't want to ever abandon Hercules. But what choice did he have? Gods…he felt like he was being ripped apart inside – he just wanted to be left alone to deal with the pain of it as best he could for all the rest of eternity. "There's no way of knowing, is there?"
"Isn't there?" the God of the Underworld retorted, moving forward to grip Iolaus' shoulders and shake him as he challenged, "You think you're making use of a happenstance accident of being hurt by an arrow not meant for you – making a noble choice to free Hercules from having to associate with you in the future – right? But what if your wound wasn't an accident? What if Ares himself shot that arrow at you? Not at one of the others to start a war, but at you, to weaken Hercules by removing you from his side, because Ares knows he needs you? What then, Iolaus? Will you play that game and allow Ares to triumph?"
The God of War watched Iolaus closely to gauge his reaction to that possibility. If Ares had put some kind of compulsion upon the blond mortal to wish to withdraw from the battles of life at whatever cost, Hades knew only too well that he could not lift the curse. It was up to Iolaus to fight it off on his own, to use his own strength of will to survive. The blond warrior had to choose to live and no one else could make that choice for him.
Nothing Hercules did made any difference. Iolaus still wasn't breathing. The flickering light of the candles cast uncertain, wavering blue shadows over his pale, still face, as if death itself was taking hold of him, banishing the light of life from his being. Desperately, the demigod sought a pulse in Iolaus' throat, and was pathetically grateful to find the lingering trace of life; weak, thready and far too slow, but still there.
"Dammit," Hercules grated with harsh desperation, "I will not let you go! Live, Iolaus…fight!"
If Iolaus couldn't breathe for himself, then Hercules determined that he would breathe for him until this spell of weakness had passed. So long as life lingered in his best friend's body, Hercules would fight with all he had to hold onto Iolaus, to not let him slip away. Bending forward, he tilted Iolaus' head back and clasped his best friend's slack jaw to open his mouth…and then he covered Iolaus' lips with his own as he breathed life into the blond warrior's limp and unresponsive body.
Iolaus gaped at Hades' apparently sincere suggestion that Ares would bestir himself to make such a subtle effort to remove him from Hercules' side. "You can't be serious," he exclaimed, shaking his head as he pulled away from the god's grip. It was one thing to consider that the God of War might be messing with his head, however unlikely that was – but it was entirely inconceivable that Ares would consider him important enough to murder in such a devious manner. If Ares thought he was in the way, Iolaus figured he'd more likely be incinerated by a sudden fireball. "Ares doesn't even acknowledge that I exist most of the time, unless it's to insult me. It had to be someone trying to kill one of the others."
Hades rolled his eyes in exasperation and then lectured with cold deliberation, "Ares may not see you as important as an individual – but he is well aware of what you offer to Hercules, what you give to him by your very presence. Even though Ares sees Hercules as a pale reflection of himself – a strong, arrogant and essentially independent son of Zeus, he knows full well that you matter to Hercules. That makes you very important to Ares. He wanted to strike a telling blow against his half-brother – how better to hurt Hercules than to take you away from him? When discrediting you didn't slow Hercules down, as he has no time or patience for those who diminish you, Ares no doubt went a step further, personally directing that arrow whether or not he was the one to fire it. He couldn't care less if you live or die, but he suspects that it matters profoundly to Hercules. And he's right."
Iolaus sighed as he turned away, gazing blindly at the fire flickering in the hearth. "I know Hercules loves me," he murmured hoarsely, his voice catching roughly. "I know my death would hurt him. But…it's inevitable anyway, isn't it? Whether Ares is involved or not, who knows? But trust me, I think if Ares wanted me dead, he'd just blow me away. Even if you're right, how does that change anything? The fact is, I'm only mortal – one day, I will die. Now, later, what's the difference? Better to get it over with. The bottom line is Hercules doesn't need me anymore. I'm not able to be of any real use to him – worse, I get in his way and my presence can hurt him. I…I can't live with knowing that. The world needs him, but it sure in Tartarus doesn't need me."
Hades lips thinned as he studied Iolaus through narrowed eyes. "Mortals," he mumbled to himself, as if the word were a curse. In the normal course of events, Hades knew he would not be intervening – if Iolaus desired death so emphatically, the God of the Underworld would have sent Thanatos and gotten on with adjusting his inventory records. But, the Fates hadn't been pleased with the game in Plathos. Still, they'd let it play out for a time, confident that Iolaus' inherent strength and health would see him through the crisis, but his strength of will was failing, and without that, his body was on the verge of dying. Alarmed, the Fates had summoned Hades to their presence and demanded his intervention before the mortal actually expired. Recalling the intensity of the Fates' directives to him, imagining the work of undoing a death to please them and Hercules (not to mention any number of others on Olympus who might decide to invoke their interest in the mortal's fate), if not Iolaus himself, Hades shuddered. And, it could be tricky to force physical life back upon a soul who didn't want it – far better to avoid all that if possible.
The God of the Underworld didn't know what the Fates had in store for the future as they didn't deem it necessary to share the details of the pattern of their tapestry with him. They'd simply claimed that the mortal, Iolaus, would soon be called upon to play a role to ensure that Hercules was not destroyed before he'd even ever been born. The very idea of having to deal with the fallout of correcting his inventory for the past more than thirty years sent cold shivers along Hades' spine – and gave him a tremendous headache as he imagined the administrative clean-up that would be required to change the patterns of lives and deaths if the demigod had never been born, never existed to inspire hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people to different actions, saving some lives…while ending others. It simply didn't bear thinking about…but it was more than enough to convince Hades that he had no option but to convince Iolaus to start breathing before his body finally succumbed.
Not that this particular mortal had ever needed any encouragement to live each day as fully as was possible…and then some. Shaking his head, biting his lip, Hades was certain, though he could never prove it, that something was impacting upon the mortal, draining him of the will to survive, perhaps even inspiring him to wish for death. Normally, Hades knew, Iolaus would cling to life with all he had, would fight to remain with Hercules – but the mortal had been seriously wounded at a time when he was caught in a rare crisis of confidence and had very serious doubts about the worth of his life. It was all too conveniently coincidental and the god wasn't buying it. Oh, Hades did not seriously believe that Ares had intended Iolaus' death. Had that been the goal, the god conceded silently, the mortal would, indeed, be dead – and that would have presented other problems if the situation were to be corrected, as the Fates would no doubt demand. It really wasn't all that easy to restore life to a mortal who didn't want it…one could end up with a zombie that walked, talked and breathed but whose soul was absent. Shaking off that unpleasant image, and wholly unacceptable outcome, Hades returned his thoughts to speculations about what Ares was up to. No, the God of War couldn't have wanted to be seen to personally kill Iolaus. It was more likely that Ares had only wanted to distract Hercules from the potential of war, as well as make the demigod suffer deeply for a time. But, without doubt, the dilemma that was haunting Iolaus and had him perched on the precipice of death was all Ares' work, and no doubt the mortal's death would please the God of War, if no one else. Though earlier, he'd only been guessing at his nephew's possible interventions, Hades was now utterly convinced beyond any shadow of doubt that Ares was playing a very cruel game with this mortal. Nothing else made sense. Whatever – the point now was to shake Iolaus out of his unaccustomed depression so that his natural feistiness could surge forth to give him the will and strength to struggle for his life.
Heaving a sigh, he decided he had to go further to make it clear that this was emphatically not Iolaus' time to die.
"Enough," the god said then, his voice clipped and hard. "This isn't your choice. You are obliged to survive this wound, Iolaus, and that's that."
"Oh, yeah?" the warrior drawled, whirling around to face the irritated god with some of his former cocky insolence. "I thought mortals had some degree of free choice. If I don't draw another breath, I'll die. That's my choice. I don't honestly believe Herc needs me – more, I do believe I'm a danger to him. So – let's just end this, okay?" His bravado rapidly dissipating, Iolaus' shoulders slumped as he turned away, sorrow etched in every line of his body. "I won't hurt him, not if I can help it. I won't be a continuing danger in his life," he murmured in despair. "I'd rather be dead."
"If you die now, it will very likely result in Hercules never being born!" Hades snapped, his words whipping through the air between them, cutting like a lash. He'd not meant to reveal any of the future to Iolaus as it was improper for the mortal to know what might one day transpire – but they were running out of time and the god had no other cards left to play.
However, Iolaus only snorted and waved a negligent hand, giving no credence to the words. In his view, Hades was describing a ridiculous impossibility. Herc lived. That was a fact. And the sad, sorry truth was that he was tired of arguing about it all. It wasn't easy for Iolaus to turn his back on life, not when he loved so much that living offered a man who found such joy in it. Harder still, by far, to think he might never see Hercules again – the anguish of that probability twisted in his soul, and hurt so badly he could scarcely remain standing let alone talk any more about why he had no choice but to set Hercules free.
"I'm quite serious, Iolaus," Hades assured him with bleak finality, also weary of the debate. "I don't know when, how or why, but the day is coming when you will be required to save Hercules' life before he is yet born. If you fail to do so, or if you are not alive to do so, the world will never know the man you love above all others. It will be as if he never existed. Your choice now is about more than simply continuing a worthy life in and of itself…your life is essential to Hercules' own existence. You must not die!"
Iolaus stilled at Hades' grim pronouncement, and then slowly turned to face the god. "You're serious," he gasped as he read the certainty, the truth, in Hades' eyes.
"I am always serious," the God of the Underworld replied with an ironical tone. "Your time grows short. You must decide now."
Hercules had gone past desperation to a state of utter desolation. Though he still laboured over his best friend's deathly still body, sharing air and life with a determined unwillingness to give up, he was now certain in his heart that Iolaus was lost to him. His eyes glittered with unshed tears, and his hands trembled, his body rigid with tension as he bent again and again to blow past his partner's flaccid lips.
"Live," he sighed into Iolaus' body with each breath. "Live…"
His chest ached with the weight of grief that was crushing his heart, but still he refused to quit. He couldn't accept that Iolaus could be lost, that the best friend of his whole life was leaving him. Couldn't believe it. Wouldn't. Couldn't bear it.
But as the silence wore on, and the candles flickered, their pale uncertain light barely driving back the dark shadows of the empty night, Hercules finally forced himself to stop his hopeless efforts. Mutely, with an aching tenderness, he gazed down upon Iolaus' still features, and shuddered as he drew a long, slow breath. Wordlessly, he shifted to draw his best friend into his arms. Sitting upon the edge of the bed, Hercules cradled Iolaus to his chest, rocking him gently, as if soothing away his friend's pain and easing him to his final rest. Tears slowly slipped unheeded, even unnoticed, down the demigod's wan cheeks and Hercules thought the pain of his loss so great it might well kill him before the dawn came…
It was a vain hope, and he knew it – this kind of merciless pain didn't kill. It twisted like a raw blade, leaving him feel gutted, ripping at his heart so that he could scarcely breathe – and clogging his throat, a huge shard of broken crystal strangling him – but it didn't kill. Just left him wishing he could die and end it. But he couldn't. It would never end.
Hercules knew he had to go on, endure, despite the pain. Iolaus would expect him to continue helping others with his strength. Only, he didn't know how he could. Didn't know how he'd ever be of use to anyone again with this monster of grief inside, eating him alive.
"Iolaus," he whispered, a strangled sob of immutable pain, a last hopeless plea…a heartbroken prayer to his friend's spirit to hear him and come back…
There was no decision to make, no other choice possible, not now. The very idea that Hercules might never exist, might never do the good he did, nor inspire hope and courage in those who faced privation, chilled Iolaus to the marrow of his bones. Whatever his own life might hold, whatever shame or humiliation or pain he might have to face, meant nothing – all that mattered was that he live to ensure his best friend's life, to guard Hercules and give the demigod whatever encouragement or support, in combat or even in the release and relief of laughter, that Hercules might ever need of him.
"Send me back," Iolaus stated flatly then, with neither hesitation nor doubt. Finally unleashed, his natural strength of will to live washed away the corrosive doubts Ares' had visited upon him to tarnish his soul.
Though the length of their discussion had lasted scarcely longer than a few flickers of a candle's flame in the temporal plane, Hades still wondered if their argument had gone on too long – would the mortal's body respond after hovering breathless for even that short time on the verge of death? Would Iolaus' strength of will be enough? Or, pondered the God of the Underworld with rare emotion burning in his eyes, would the power of Iolaus' unconditional love for Hercules ultimately be what tipped the balance and illuminated his soul's journey back to his heart's home at the demigod's side?
Hercules had, at last, given up all hope and was lost in a daze of despair when the silence of the chamber was shattered by a soft gasp as Iolaus drew breath. The demigod scarcely dared believe what he'd heard as he bent to look into Iolaus' face, lifting a hand to caress his partner's fevered cheek. Another soft gasp and a sigh, and then Iolaus coughed, his features twisting with pain.
Hope flickering again in his heart, Hercules moved his grip with reflexive care to support Iolaus' wound and hold his best friend in a steady secure embrace as he whispered brokenly, "Easy, buddy, easy. Just…just breathe, Iolaus. Please…just keep breathing…"
The blond warrior drew in another breath, deeper, though the pain it caused him was written on his face and in the clenching of his muscles, but Iolaus seemed to be forcing himself to grasp tight onto life. After a few long minutes of simply listening to his partner breathing again, daring to allow his hope to blossom once more, Hercules settled Iolaus back upon the raised cushions and resumed bathing his friend's hot body, once again battling the fever that ate at his friend's fading strength. And the demigod poured cool water into a pewter cup, holding it to Iolaus' lips and tilting one slow drop after another into his partner's throat to replenish the blood his best friend had lost as well as to help him fight the fever.
The last hours of the night wore on while the palace remained silent around them. Hercules felt as if they were locked inside some mystical spell, that there was only the two of them in this narrow existence of the richly appointed bed chamber with its huge feather bed upon an intricately carved frame of oak, solid chairs covered in crimson velvet and the uncertain flickering light of the candles that burned down into puddles of wax in their silver holders. All that seemed real to the demigod was the sound of Iolaus' laboured breaths and the feel of the hot, dry skin under his hands.
Until, finally, in the deepest dark of the night, as the predawn chill crept in on a light breeze through the open window embrasures, the fever broke. Sweat poured in heavy rivulets from Iolaus' body, soaking the linen sheets and bandages. Hercules felt weak with relief, though he continued to minister unstintingly to his best friend, changing the bandage and sheets, and covering Iolaus with the soft warmth of the blanket.
The Solstice dawn broke, a soft illumination in the east that stole into the room, casting frail light upon the exhausted demigod. Hercules sat by his friend's side, holding tightly to Iolaus' hand as he gazed with nakedly vulnerable hope upon his best friend's face. His long vigil was rewarded at last when Iolaus' eyelids flickered and then blinked open. At first, the warrior seemed unaware, his eyes unfocused and the startling blue dulled by pain. But then Iolaus slowly turned his head, searching for Hercules, his gaze clearing and softening when their eyes met. The sorely wounded man smiled faintly and weakly shifted his hand to grip the demigod's long fingers.
Hercules' throat was so thick with emotion that he couldn't speak, only smile tremulously in return. After a long moment, the demigod reached to gently stroke Iolaus' brow as he cleared his throat and said hoarsely, "You really scared me last night…"
"Sorry, Herc," Iolaus whispered, his voice thin and raspy but a ghost of a smile wavered on his lips as he continued, "Guess you're stuck with me." Though he was still very weak, light shone from his eyes, bright and confident. His unequivocal decision to live had broken Ares' hold on his spirit, and the doubts that had assailed him were banished. Herc needed him – and that was all he'd needed to know. The crisis was past; he would heal, and be strong again.
The demigod's jaw flexed as he forcibly swallowed back a sob of relief as he finally let his fear melt away. Though his strong hands trembled, he reached to draw Iolaus into a firm embrace, holding his friend's head against his shoulder as he rested his cheek upon the sweat-drenched curls. As he felt Iolaus' arms encircle his body, struggling in his weakness to return the embrace in kind, Hercules closed his eyes and savoured the warmth of their friendship. He didn't know what he'd do if he'd lost this: Iolaus was his rock and foundation, his source of light in the darkness of despair, and his joy when all else seemed lost. There was no one else in Hercules' life who was so necessary – or so irreplaceable.
The last of the candles flickered, then sputtered as the flame died, no longer needed as the sun's warmth grew with the light of the new day.
Staring into the images rippling in the pool inside the urn beside his throne, Ares sighed with resignation as he gazed at the scene of his half-brother's relief at the certain recovery of his best friend. There'd be no war in Plathos, and Hercules' suffering, as sweet as it had been to watch, seemed over – for now, at any rate. It had been a near thing, and the God of War had hoped that this time, Iolaus would finally die and stay dead. But the strength of the mortal's will to cling to Hercules' side was impressive, as much as it was annoying. Ah, well, Ares shrugged philosophically as he consoled himself with the truth that there would be other times and opportunities to wreak havoc in the demigod's life.
"You've done well, Hades," Atropos observed with cool satisfaction as she stroked her shears.
The God of the Underworld cocked his brow wryly as he looked at each of the Fates in turn, his gaze finally lingering on their great and complex tapestry of life. "You owe me one," he replied dryly and then vanished to return to his own realm.
Iolaus seemed to have slipped into a natural, healing sleep but still Hercules refused to leave his side. As he gazed at his best friend, a warm smile played around the demigod's lips as he murmured fondly, "I think like you. I do my best to act like you. So, I guess, if you're Hercules, then I am Iolaus…at least, I sure try to be the kind of man you show me every day that it's possible to be…"
A soft snort and the vestige of a playful grin revealed that the warrior wasn't quite asleep and had heard the demigod's words, but wasn't quite awake enough to actively tease back. Hercules laughed lightly as he ruffled Iolaus' curls, and then the son of Zeus sank back into the comfort of his chair, smiling as he watched his best friend settle into sleep. "Welcome back, Iolaus," he whispered quietly. "Happy Solstice, my friend."
Finis