ALL THROUGH THE NIGHT
A Solstice Tale
by Arianna
From time immemorial all around the world, Winter Solstice traditions sprang from an ancient fear that the failing light would never return unless humans intervened with anxious vigil or riotous celebration.
There are spoilers in the story for several of my stories in the Iolausian Library, and it is written in the context of the Real Legendary Journeys, as well as drawing references from both the original and Young Hercules shows.
I've adapted the words of the Christmas Carole, All Through the Night, for this story.
The actual words of the carole are posted at the end.
The vicious gang of more than a dozen bandits had been on their way to ransack a nearby village that had been unable to pay the exorbitant tribute demanded to forestall an attack. However, unbeknownst to them, when Hercules and Iolaus happened to be passing through that morning, the terrified villagers had taken the opportunity to beg the demigod and his partner to save them from danger. Though they were on the way to Thebes for the Solstice, the heroes had more than enough time to lend a little help so Hercules and Iolaus had patiently backtracked along the forested trail to stop the marauders. It was no big deal, nothing more than the protection they willingly provided to any community when asked for assistance.
However, when they confronted the gang in a small glade, their lips thinned at the unexpected number of heavily muscled, leather-clad, armored adversaries, and they glanced at one another with resignation. This was no undisciplined rabble or a handful of boasting bullies. This was a sizable group of seasoned, well-armed, confident warriors, probably ex-mercenaries, who would be a good deal more skilled and present more of a challenge than the usual clumsy and not very bright goons the demigod and his partner confronted on a regular basis. Grimly, Iolaus listened to Hercules try to reason with them, but they both knew trying to dissuade these guys from pillaging and probably raping and murdering was an exercise in futility. Contemptuous of an opposing force that numbered only two men, the gang rushed them, intent upon killing them quickly for daring to challenge their intention to do what they would to the villagers. As the bad guys surged forward, intending surround and separate them so that they could be easily cut down, the heroes resolutely fell into their back to back fighting stance, Hercules with a sturdy length of tree branch in his hand, and Iolaus wielding his sword. The bandits put up quite a fight, and the battle to subdue the villains raged fierce and furious for more than half a handspan.
After hurling yet another thug high in the air to crash into a tall oak, Hercules looked around to see if there were any more of the murderous thugs still standing. Noting that all of the attackers were lying either dead or unconscious, Hercules grimaced with bleak satisfaction and turned to his partner, to suggest they tie up the unconscious men, bandage their wounds, and then leave them for the villagers to collect and take to the nearest magistrate. But his thin-lipped smile faded into a frown of concern when he saw that, only a few feet away, Iolaus was standing in a hunched, awkward position, leaning heavily on his sword, his left hand cradling his body and pressing against his right side. Blood was slick on the skin under his vest and glistened on his black leather pants and boot, soaking into the tramped ground around his feet in mute testament to how long he'd been bleeding as he'd held his position, battling the bandits until the last man fell. The viscous, crimson life force still pulsed from his body, seeping past his fingers to drip in runnels over his hand. Iolaus slowly looked up and, as their gazes met, Hercules saw an apologetic little smile on the suddenly paling face. The warrior winced as he gave a small, almost embarrassed shrug at being sorely wounded, and held out his bloody hand in a mute appeal for help.
Even as Hercules took a shocked step toward him, his partner dropped abruptly to his knees and started to pitch forward. "Iolaus!" Hercules cried out, alarm flooding his chest as he lunged to catch his friend before he hit the ground. Anxiously, the demigod turned his unconscious partner carefully to support his head and shoulders with one strong arm, while he hastily examined the wound, a long, raw gash that cut to the bone of his friend's hip. Swallowing heavily, his jaw rigid with worry, Hercules carefully laid Iolaus on the ground before hurrying to retrieve the backpack that had been tossed out of the way before the battle had begun. He rummaged for the clean linen rags that Iolaus always kept ready for the bandaging of the inevitable wounds they both received on a regular basis. Returning to his friend's side, he applied pressure to stop the bleeding, and then carefully wound a strip of cloth around Iolaus' body to hold a thick wad of material in place over the ugly wound.
One of the bandits moaned and stirred, returning to consciousness. Hercules looked at the thug with flat, cold eyes, his hands trembling with rage. He knew he should tie him up, but he didn't trust himself to get that close to any of them, not yet, not when he so badly wanted to lash out with fear-driven fury. When the outlaw reached for the sword lying close on the ground, seemingly intent upon taking advantage of Hercules' preoccupation with his wounded partner, the demigod growled ominously, "Touch that and I'll tear your hand off."
The bandit paused and stared at the Son of Zeus. Whatever he saw in those icy blue eyes caused him to back up uncertainly, terror blooming on his face.
"Disappear," Hercules grated hoarsely. "Leave Greece. If I see you again, I'll rip your heart out."
Nodding shakily to convey that he believed the threat and would happily vanish into thin air, the thug took to his heels and ran toward the hills as if Cerberus was chasing him.
Turning his attention back to Iolaus, Hercules felt the pulse point in his friend's throat and closed his eyes at how fast, how thready the beat felt. He was startled when Iolaus lifted a hand to weakly grip his arm and he opened his eyes to find his partner giving him a bemused look and slowly shaking his head.
"Not s'posed to let 'em go," the warrior chided, the weak, breathy complaint softened by the brave half-smile of amusement quirking the corner of his mouth. "Tie 'em up, Herc." When the demigod's glance strayed to the bandage already showing splotches of seeping blood, Iolaus insisted, "There's time. Go on. They're poison, Herc. Need t'be locked up."
Hercules nodded mutely, and then stood to move away. Swiftly, he ripped vines from the trees and made short work of securely binding the bandits. When he returned to Iolaus' side, he was dismayed to find his friend had again slipped into unconsciousness. The demigod hastily pulled his partner's pack over his shoulder, and then lifted Iolaus into his arms. Turning toward the village, he broke into a run.
Once he reached the small habitation, without breaking stride, Hercules commanded the first person he saw to get the healer. He continued on to the dilapidated, two-story structure that boasted a few beds for rent above a tavern, on the edge of the open square around the communal well. Inside the dim interior, he demanded a room and was immediately led up a rickety staircase to a chamber that was little bigger than a closet. The meager furniture included a battered cot with a straw mattress covered by a dingy, coarse woolen blanket, a low, three-legged stool, and two rough-hewn small tables, one by the bed and the other under the shuttered window.
"Bring me a basin of warm water and bandages," he directed sharply as he laid his friend on the bed. "Now!" he roared at the dithering innkeeper, who jumped and then hastened from the room.
Hercules gently removed Iolaus' vest and loosened his belt, before unwinding the bandage from his body to check on the wound. Moments later, the man, his wife in tow, reappeared briefly, bringing a chipped clay basin and two jugs of water, one filled with heated liquid drawn from the cauldron over the fire in the hearth below, and the other with cool water from the well, an armload of relatively clean scraps of linen and a candle for the table under the window. Not long after that, while he was still doing his best to clean the raw gash that was still oozing blood, the demigod heard the clatter of hurrying footsteps on the wooden risers, and a stranger hustled into the little chamber.
"I'm Dolthus," the man said briskly. "The healer."
Nodding, Hercules stepped back from the bed to give the healer room to work over Iolaus. Dolthus glanced at the seeping wound and, grimacing at the bloody pants, he shook his head. "How long has he been bleeding?" he demanded, casting a sharp look over his shoulder at the demigod.
"Too long," Hercules replied darkly. "He was wounded sometime during the battle with the attacking outlaws, but he kept fighting until none of them were left standing. When it was finally over, he collapsed, and he's been unconscious since."
The healer's lips thinned as he turned his attention back to cleaning and then suturing the deep wound. Drawing a pouch from the leather satchel he'd brought with him, he opened it and scattered several pinches of pungent, powdered herbs over the incision before binding it tightly. Replacing that pouch, he drew out another, placing it on the table by the bed. Straightening, he looked up at the tall demigod, his expression grim. Regarding him steadily, Hercules quirked a brow in mute question and the healer shrugged as he looked away.
"I've done what I can," Dolthus muttered as he studied the unconscious warrior. "It's up to the gods now."
Hercules snorted derisively. Startled by the clear expression of contempt, the healer again looked up at the demigod. "I can't put new blood in his body to replace what he has lost, Hercules," he explained impatiently, irritated by the demigod's apparent inability to grasp the severity of situation. "And the wound was filthy – there is no doubt a fever will not be long in coming. He may well be too weak to survive it. You'd best offer a sacrifice to Apollo, and beg him to spare your friend's life."
His lips thinning, his gaze hard and cold, Hercules shook his head. "The gods are of no use," he asserted starkly. "Iolaus is strong. He's survived worse than this."
"You're right that it wasn't a killing blow," Dolthus agreed bluntly, "or he'd already be dead. But do not overestimate a man's – any man's – capacity to survive the loss of so much blood, or a deadly infection, without the help and mercy of the gods. Your friend is badly hurt, Hercules. You need to understand –"
"Iolaus will be fine," the demigod insisted with stubborn certainty that brooked no argument, unwilling to listen to any other possibility. As if remembering his manners, striving for control, Hercules swallowed and took a deep, shuddering breath. His expression and voice softened as he offered awkwardly, "Thank you for your help."
Looking away, aware that he was being dismissed, the healer fingered the small leather pouch he'd placed on the table. "Mix a pinch of this in water, either cold or hot, doesn't matter, and make him drink a full cup every handspan. Get him to drink even more clear water than that, if you can. Or tea or broth, as much as he can tolerate." He paused, and then picked up his satchel. "I wish you and your friend good fortune," he said with bleak gratitude that offered little hope. "You saved our village today."
When Hercules lowered his eyes and simply nodded, Dolthus took his leave. "I'll check to see how he is in the morning," he committed quietly just before he closed the ill-fitting door to give them privacy.
Blowing a long, slow breath, Hercules drew the stool from its place under the table by the window, and set it down beside the cot. Sinking down upon it, he reached to grip Iolaus' wrist. "You're not going to die, Iolaus," he murmured huskily, though he knew his partner couldn't hear him. Still, he needed to say the words, needed to believe them. "You just need rest, that's all. You're gonna be okay."
Hours later, Iolaus still hadn't returned to full consciousness, though Hercules had been able to rouse him to a semi-aware state, enough to slowly, painstakingly swallow the herbed water. The innkeeper's wife brought a tray of food, tea and a mug of greasy broth. Though he thanked her, Hercules had no appetite. He asked for two pitchers of water and she left to bring those to him. Belatedly noticing that the room had grown dim in the early dusk, he used the flint from Iolaus' pack to spark the candle into life. Dutifully, he coaxed more of the dosed water into his friend, a slow process needing patience because even when he verged on waking, Iolaus was muddled, not really aware of what was happening. Hercules then tried to get him to swallow some of the admittedly unpalatable broth, but Iolaus gagged on it and turned his head away with a weak moan, so Hercules set it aside.
More hours dragged past, the tavern below emptied for the night and the street outside was deserted and silent. For all of that time, Hercules hoped the infection would not materialize, but then the fever started somewhere in the cold hours before dawn. At first, it was but a slight flushing of Iolaus' face, insidious warmth stealing under his skin. But it worsened as dawn broke, growing more fierce at the day progressed, until the warrior became restless, mumbling incoherently with increasing discomfort. By mid-morning, Hercules began bathing Iolaus' body with cool water, hoping to bring the fever down, to break it … but it only continued to worsen with slow, inexorable relentlessness.
At dusk, the innkeeper's wife brought fresh water, a new, thick candle, and clean rags for bandages, as well as food, just as she had the evening before. She murmured that Hercules should eat, rest, but he mutely shook his head. Sighing, she lit the candle and then quietly left the room. The demigod changed the dressing, his nose wrinkling at the stench of infection emanating from the wound. He liberally dusted the reddened, angry-looking incision with herbs the healer had brought that morning and then he again bound his partner with bandages. After forcing more water and herbs into Iolaus, ignoring the trembling of his hands and the anxiety that twisted like a growing serpent in his gut, he resumed his patient bathing of his friend's body.
Evening faded into Solstice night, and still the fever raged. With all his strength, his heart and his soul, Hercules wanted Iolaus to grow better, not continually worse. But worse Iolaus became as the hours wore on. His body tightened in unconscious resistance to the pain that ravaged him cruelly and the merciless heat that consumed him, and Hercules could no longer get him to rouse to even the semi-awareness of muddled confusion.
Hercules bit his lip and sank down upon the small stood by the bed. He raked his fingers through his hair and fought the fear that now filled his chest. Reaching out, he gripped Iolaus' wrist, and bowed his head, desperately telling himself that Iolaus was strong – that Iolaus wouldn't leave him. But the long hours of futilely fighting the worsening infection and fever since the night before was eroding his simple confidence in the power of Iolaus' will to live; it was a struggle to keep believing that everything was going to be alright.
Sleep, my friend, my strength sustain thee
All through the night
From Celesta I will guard thee
All through the night
Slow the fragile hours are creeping
Hades will not catch me sleeping
I my loving vigil keeping
All through the night
The single thick candle burned on the small wooden table under the shuttered window, bravely beating back the darkness of the winter's longest night. But the flickering light was fragile; shadows gathered heavily in the corners and hovered threateningly over the fevered man who lay rasping shallowly on the bed. Perched on the three-legged stool beside him, Hercules wearily dipped a damp cloth in the chipped pottery basin half-filled with tepid water, and wrung it out before stroking it over his partner's flushed face, arms and body, taking care around the linen bound over the wound in Iolaus' side. With grim tenacity, the demigod continued the battle against the fever that he'd begun earlier that day, but his efforts seemed of little use, for the fire burning inside Iolaus continued unabated. Sighing, he dropped the scrap of cloth into the water and gently took his friend's limp hand between his larger ones, holding on tenderly. Blinking at the scratchy dryness of his eyes, he bowed his head and shoulders, and fought to swallow the lump that filled his throat.
Though the hour was growing late, he could still hear drunken shouts and laughter from the tavern below. The revelry was maddening, a wash of sound that was scalding in its cruel indifference to the battle being waged in this cubbyhole of a room. Closing his eyes and tightening his lips, his jaw clenching against the urge to go out and bellow for peace, he knew he could only endure. The men below felt they had a sacred trust to deny the long darkness with rowdy anticipation of the coming dawn and the promise of another spring. Beyond the thin plank walls of the inn, the village was quiet, some of the inhabitants no doubt having retired when Helios' fiery chariot dipped behind the distant mountains. But many more would be standing their own vigil over their home-fires, fearful lest their lack of piety displease Helios and cause him to abandon his daily ride bringing light and warmth to the world.
Hercules snorted and shook his head at such ignorant and too innocent trust in capricious gods. Helios would ride his chariot or he wouldn't, and nothing any mortal could do would ever make a wit of difference. So long as the Titan, Prometheus, continued in his defiance of the Olympians, there would be fire. Drowning in wine, quaffing endless tankards of ale, disturbing the rest of a sorely ill man would make no difference to the coming of the dawn. Not that any of those who heartily imbibed with religious fervor would ever take his word for it. They'd be more likely to cry out against him and attempt to drive him away, lest he bring the fury of the gods down upon them. He didn't worry about handling the rabble – they'd pose no challenge. But he very much feared leaving Iolaus' side, afraid that Celesta would slip in and steal his partner away if he didn't remain close to stand guard against her, ready to fight Hades himself to keep Iolaus with him.
Restlessly, he rose and paced to the window, opening the shutters to let in some fresh air. He stared into the night and sorrow weighed heavily upon him. They should have been home by now, safe in Thebes, warmed by his mother's fire, both stuffed with her good home cooking and Iolaus regaling her and Jason with comical versions of their recent adventures. Instead, both Alcmene and Jason would be wondering where they were, and worrying; he could easily visualize them standing anxiously in the doorway, squinting into the moonlit distance with the hope that they might yet see them loping along the road, late but safe and home. His heart ached and he sighed before closing the shutters and returning to sit by the bed and again clasp Iolaus' calloused hand between his own. Their family would wait in vain this Solstice, realizing that one or both of them were in peril for otherwise they'd be there. He hated knowing his mother would be feeling helpless and afraid, but he counted on Jason to comfort her. There was nothing he could do but try to get a message to them once the Solstice celebrations were over.
He dreaded sending that message – didn't know how he could possibly tell her that Iolaus was … was ….
His mind flinched away; even in the privacy and solitude of his own thoughts, Hercules was unable to contemplate the possibility that he might lose his partner. It felt too much like giving up. Hurt too much, too deeply; left him reeling with emotions of fear and fury, and his control was too tenuous as it was. He had to remain calm, had to focus on caring for his friend and not let loose his rage against the Fates.
But the rage was there and it burned hot in his belly, sometimes rising to fill his chest so that every muscle tensed rigidly against a need to lash out, to roar his soul-deep anger and anguish at the unfairness. But such rage was futile. The Fates were indifferent, even more remote and unmoved than the gods by the plight of any mere mortal. They spun and wove and snipped, creating a tapestry that made some sense to them, that pleased some perception of balance and perhaps even beauty in their eyes, careless of the pain they caused, the grief of loss that could never be assuaged. But even in his fury, he couldn't wholly despise them, for they'd created the patterns that had brought Iolaus into his life; he owed them all they might ever ask of him for having given him such a friend.
The lump in his throat threatened to choke him and his eyes blurred, but he determinedly blinked back the incipient tears as he gazed at his partner. Pain was etched deeply around Iolaus' mouth and eyes, and his struggle to draw shallow breaths seemed to take all his strength. His face was chalk white except for the hot ruddy patches of fever on his cheeks and the bruise darkening along his jaw, a souvenir along with his wound and other bruises on his hands and body from their battle with the band of brigands that had threatened this village. Most of the contusions were nothing, no more than they suffered on a regular basis in their self-appointed roles as protectors of the innocent. But one ham-sized, dark purple-black blotch just under his ribs and above the wound on his right side worried the demigod; he wondered if Iolaus was bleeding inside, even though the wound itself no longer oozed. And another dark contusion over his left ribs might mean that there were cracked the bones under the lean, muscled flesh.
Swallowing hard, Hercules almost wished that they had taken a different path, one that would have detoured through the forested hills around the village. For once, they might not have had to know that simple, hardworking folk were threatened with violence they had no defence against. But he couldn't, just couldn't wish that, for that would be to deny who they were, what they stood for and lived for – would be to deny the courage and skill Iolaus resolutely brought to bear against those that pillaged and raped, who robbed and murdered for selfish gain or ugly, obscene amusement. Biting his lip to still its trembling, tightly closing his eyes, he fought for control. Iolaus needed his strength. Drawing in a ragged breath, he warred with his need to rail against the Fates for making his partner pay such a price for his decency and limitless valor. His fists clenched in resistance to his equally hopeless desire to plead with them for Iolaus' life. They'd not listen. They didn't care. He'd ample proof of their indifference in the course of his life, and he'd not sully Iolaus' integrity or bravery, Iolaus' commitment to do good at whatever risk, by begging fruitlessly that they spare him. His partner wouldn't want to be an object of pity – and Iolaus sure didn't need to sense any sign that Hercules wasn't perfectly confident that his friend had the will and strength inside to resist Celesta's siren call, or Thanatos' promises of glory in the Elysian Fields.
Iolaus was impervious to their temptations, had fought them off time and time again throughout the years of his hard and dangerous life. And even when he'd fallen, his injuries fatal, he'd refused to stay in the Underworld, had grabbed hold of the hope Hercules offered to bring him back to stand by his side. Hades couldn't understand such devotion – the demigod knew his uncle was perennially mystified by this single mortal's determined commitment to reject Elysium, in order to live as long as he could. Iolaus had repeatedly turned away from eternal peace to face unknown hardships and the agony of future wounds, more than willing to suffer the pain and anguish of death again and yet again, just to be the friend Hercules needed. To be the one man the demigod could trust without any reservation; the one warrior who could fight as his equal and guard his back.
As Iolaus had been doing two days ago during the fierce battle; back to back as always, Hercules wielding the improvised club of a sturdy, broken tree branch and Iolaus' sword flashing. The demigod didn't know exactly what had happened, how Iolaus had been wounded or when – he'd been engaged with his own antagonists and trusted Iolaus to handle the group of ferocious fighters behind him. His mind roaming back, Hercules recalled those fleeting moments, remembering that he hadn't even realized Iolaus had been hurt because his partner had not faltered until they had prevailed. Only then did Iolaus give way, swaying and slumping a little, smiling sadly and reaching out his hand in an unconscious gesture of vulnerability, before he'd passed out and crumpled to the ground. By then, Iolaus had already lost a lot of blood, maybe too much – and now an infection had taken root in raw wound leading to the fever that had been growing ever worse since the night before. The demigod tried to console himself by sternly reminding himself that the fever wasn't necessarily a bad thing and was a strong sign that Iolaus' body was fighting back. But he also knew all too well that prolonged fever could debilitate the strongest of men and, with the damage and blood loss caused by the blade, Hercules was afraid that his partner's reserves of resilience and stamina were sorely depleted. If the fever didn't break soon, Iolaus could ….
Again he flinched away from the thought, unwilling – unable – to contemplate the possibility. This injury had been no act of the gods against him. Iolaus had chosen to place himself in the blade's path; oh not deliberately or carelessly, but there'd been too many armed opponents to prevail without risk of some injury, and he'd known that going into the battle. He'd been there of his own free will. There'd be no bargaining with Hades this time, nor did his uncle owe him any favours. Hercules couldn't quite suppress the shudder of despair that rippled through his body. To distract himself, desperate to do something that might help his partner, he once again reached for the cloth and resumed his efforts to keep the fever from eating Iolaus alive.
While the moon her watch is keeping
All through the night
While the weary world fears sleeping
All through the night
O'er thy spirit gently stealing
Memories of our past revealing
Love so pure and holy feeling
All through the night
Time seemed stalled, the night seeming to go on forever, but the sense of being helplessly caught like a fly in amber was belied by the flickering tallow candle that continued to burn down, one handspan and then another. The Solstice celebrants were still partying in the bar below, their euphoria no doubt fueled by relief that the two heroes had appeared out of nowhere to save them from the brigands. From time to time, Hercules heard them toasting and cheering the gods wildly for having sent the Son of Zeus to defend them and their families, and he grimaced with disgust. The damned gods were getting the credit for a victory that Iolaus had bought with pain and blood; Iolaus, who apparently didn't merit a single toast, whose name hadn't even seemed to register with the louts below. Raking his fingers through his hair, he hoped Iolaus couldn't hear them, didn't know that once more he was being denied credit for putting his life on the line to defend perfect strangers.
Swallowing his resentment, Hercules sighed and shook his head. Tenderly brushing wild blond curls from his friend's brow, he murmured haltingly, "It's not fair, Iolaus. You're a hero. The bravest, most decent man I know. The best warrior in all of Greece, maybe in the world." Stroking his friend's cheek, sick to know the fever was continuing to burn hotter despite all his efforts to cool its fire, he closed his eyes in despair. How much more could Iolaus take?
He couldn't think about it. Misery coiled in his belly, and the massive lump returned to block his throat, making it nearly impossible to swallow. Hercules' hands trembled and, incapable of letting go, he had to maintain his hope against a building wave of desolation. Needing to feel respirations that had grown so shallow he could scarcely see or hear Iolaus draw breath, he rested his hand over his partner's heart. Unable to bear to look into the future and imagine what it would be like without Iolaus' warmth and compassion, his steady friendship and good humour, his unfailing support and loyalty, he turned his thoughts to the past, to the good times.
"Remember?" he asked, his voice cracking so that he had to stop, swallow – get a grip. "Remember when we were kids? When we said we were going to be heroes? And that we'd stand back to back for the whole of our lives?" His gaze softened in memory and his lips curled with wry humour. "We didn't have a clue, did we, buddy? What it would be like to face down hydras and sand sharks? What it feels like to stare death in the eyes and not falter? What it means, inside, to know that we make a difference, that we protect people who'd be maimed or killed if we didn't stand between them and danger?"
Gripping Iolaus' hand, holding onto him by sheer force of will, the demigod let the memories flow. "We've had some wild times, haven't we?" he recalled fondly. "All those stupid stunts I pulled when we were at the Academy to try to get Zeus' attention, for all the good it did." Snorting softly, scarcely able to believe that naïve youth had cared so much, wanted so much to be acknowledged by the wanton reprobate who'd sired him, Hercules pushed those memories away. "Cheiron was the wisest being I've ever met. Don't know where he got his patience, but he taught us so much. More by example than talk – but when he had something to say, it was sure worth hearing and thinking about." Snickering, he teased gently, "Remember when your uncle came to visit that time and we blundered into Artemis' Sacred Grove – if you could have seen yourself prancing around." Shaking his head, his unconscious smile faded when he also remembered how close they'd come to Iolaus dying that day. Sighing, he studied Iolaus' face and frowned, wishing he could do something to alleviate the pain he could see etched so deeply – wishing he could make the damned fever disappear.
"Remember when we found the cave of the Snow Bear?" he asked then, his tone distant, his mind far away. "I do. I can still see you facing that charging monster with nothing but a flimsy spear in your hands. Protecting me, like you've always, all our lives, protected me." Pausing, he frowned in thought. "You said once … you said that being my friend, even when that's not easy, makes you a better person. I didn't get it then – I still don't. You've always been the same person, Iolaus, ever since you were a kid; showing me the ropes at school, chasing off the bullies who taunted me, teaching me how to track, how to hunt, how to read the stars – how not to be afraid to take chances, so long as I was prepared and knew what I was getting into. Even when you ran away from home and were living on the streets … oh, I know you stole to survive. But I also know you looked out for the younger kids, and it was your hunting that fed the old folks in the village. And I haven't forgotten what you did, how you risked your life to protect me and my Mom from the ones who threatened her. Us. You could have died that day in the barn. I was sick, hated myself, for how I'd been treating you, for being arrogant and insufferable, for failing to be the friend you deserved. When I saw you hanging from the rafters, your skin flayed, blood, so much blood …." His voice cracked again and he pressed his eyes closed as he drew a shaky breath.
"How does being around me make you a better man," he whispered brokenly, "when everything I've learned about courage and honour, about integrity, survival and even most of my fighting skills, I learned from you?" Clearing his throat, he rasped hoarsely, "Don't you know that? How could you not know that? When I gave up my strength for Serena, you asked how I'd be able to go on helping people. I meant it when I said the same way you do. The way you've always done. By being the best you can be – by not giving in or giving way to evil; by never giving up, and by doing the right things for the right reasons. You're only a couple of years older than me but you've been my father, my brother, my teacher and the best friend any boy or man could ever have. You taught me how to be the man I am, Iolaus. You've always been the better man. Always."
Though I feel afraid and lonely
All through the night
My true spirit shall praise thee only
All through the night
Youth's young dream, alas, is over
Yet my heart and soul shall hover
Near the presence of my hero
All through the night
Iolaus felt as if he were staked out under a scorching desert sun, a sizzling hot poker buried in his side. His ribs hurt so much he could scarcely breathe, and he wondered vaguely if a caravan of camels had tromped over him. What the hell had happened? Where was he? More importantly, where was Hercules? Fear bloomed in his chest then as he wondered if Herc was in trouble. He had to … had to know. Had to climb out of the furnace and figure out what was going on, how to get free. He groaned as the agony searing through his body clawed at him, but he fought off the darkness, refusing to sink back into dark oblivion.
He became aware of strong hands soothing him and, from a great distance, he heard the calm, reassuring cadences of his partner's voice.
"H-Herc?" he gasped, forcing his eyes open, blinking heavily; desperate to know his friend was safe.
"Easy, buddy," Hercules murmured, cupping his face with one strong, steady hand. "Don't try to talk. Just concentrate on breathing, okay?"
Frowning in confusion, Iolaus' gaze darted around the unfamiliar chamber, everything hazy, ill-defined, making him feel dizzy and disoriented. Narrowing his eyes, he squinted up at Hercules, trying to focus. The warrior's gut clenched at the dark pain he found in his friend's reddened eyes and the exhaustion shadowing his partner's too pale face. Weakly, he gripped Hercules' hand as hard as he could as he demanded, his voice thin with strain, "You h-hurt?"
"No, no," the demigod assured him and gently stroked his brow. "How could I be hurt with you guarding my back? We beat the bandits. The village is safe and no one else was injured."
Tension eased from Iolaus' taut muscles and he closed his eyes in relief. "S'good," he mumbled, struggling to cling to consciousness. He felt so tired; it was so hard to breathe. "Hot," he muttered peevishly.
"Your wound's infected and you've got a fever," Hercules told him, doing his best to sound calm and confident. "I've cleaned it and bound it with herbs and that smelly salve you swear by. You'll … you'll be okay, Iolaus."
Wincing against the pain that racked his body, his jaw clenched against a moan threatening in his throat, Iolaus tried to make sense of what Hercules was telling him. Village? Beat who? They were … they'd been on the way back to Thebes. "Solstice," he rasped.
"Uh huh," Hercules agreed, his voice sounding shaky. "We were on our way home. Ended up between this village and some bad guys."
It was no use; he couldn't remember and he didn't have the strength to worry about it. Gods, he was hot. "Thirsty," he husked faintly, his mouth so dry he could hardly swallow. He felt his friend carefully lift his head and the cool lip of a ceramic cup touched his mouth. Gratefully, he sipped at the water and thought even ambrosia couldn't taste so sweet or be so satisfying. When he was finished, Hercules gently laid his head back down, and then he felt a cool cloth slowly sweeping over his face and neck, his arms and chest and it felt good. So good.
He drifted for a bit, but caught himself, realizing that he was losing his focus, that there was something … something ….
Hercules. Herc looked like he was in pain. His voice was filled with suffering. Herc was hurting badly, regardless of what he'd claimed about being fine.
Tartarus, the pain was bad, distracting. He needed … needed more air. Had to relax, let the agony wash over him, not tense up fighting it. Waste of energy. Pain was pain. It was there until it was gone. He needed to let his muscles ease up – without drifting away, back into the darkness. Slowly, gradually, he released the tension in his body, letting the feel of Hercules' hands and the cool cloth help him, ease him. Tried taking deeper breaths. "Unnggghhh," he groaned softly. Breathing hurt. Let the hurt be and just breathe. A little more. A little deeper. Gods, he was parched. "W-water?" he asked, his voice little more than a wisp of air. Once again, Hercules helped him drink and he sighed with mute gratitude.
Swallowing, he licked his lips and squinted into the hazy, feeble light, his gaze drifting until he found and focused on his partner. "W'as wrong?" he demanded with as much strength as he could muster, brooking no denials. "Y-you're hurt-hurting."
Iolaus frowned when his partner's gaze slid away from his and the big shoulders shrugged uncomfortably. Hercules bent his head, hair falling forward to hide his face, and he shrugged again. Not a good sign. Blue eyes lifted to meet his before again skating away, but not fast enough. The warrior had seen the deep anxiety in Hercules' gaze, and knew his friend was struggling to find words, the right words, to ease his concern, and it made him suspicious.
"I'm fine," the demigod finally replied, his voice almost steady. "I just … you know I hate it when you're hurt."
"Ah, Herc," Iolaus sighed and closed his eyes, "you worry too much." But for the first time since he'd awakened, the warrior really paid attention to his own pain and began assessing his injuries, wondering why his partner seemed almost scared. Knife wound in the side, and he felt as weak as a kitten. Probably lost a lot of blood. Too much, maybe? And fever. He was burning up, so the infection must be bad. Sore chest; cracked ribs? He didn't taste blood so he didn't think he was torn up inside. Opening his eyes, he peered around the small, cramped room and noticed how low the candle had burned. So Hercules had been tending him for hours, maybe longer, maybe days – and the fever was still bad. Could be that Hercules had good reason to be worried. Iolaus felt oddly insubstantial, as if he was only pain and fever. Was he dying? He didn't want to leave – but just in case … just in case ….
Clearing his throat, he strove to smile with wry amusement as he looked back into his friend's somber gaze. "Problem with being mortal," he rasped ironically. "It's always fatal."
Hercules expression flattened and he stiffened. "That's not funny," he grated roughly.
"True, though," the warrior sighed, wishing he didn't feel so damned tired, that it wasn't so hard to concentrate. "Gonna die sometime, Herc. Tonight, in fifty years. Sometime."
"Yeah, well, fifty years is too soon," the demigod muttered, slumping on the stool.
Snorting weakly, Iolaus freed his hand from his friend's grip, and wasn't pleased at how much effort it took for such a small movement. "Whenever." Covering Hercules' big hand with his own, he murmured breathily, "Y'know, 'm not sure I ever th-thanked you."
"Thanked me? For what?"
Marshalling his strength, only having so much breath to spare, Iolaus gazed fondly at Hercules. "Because," he gasped hoarsely, "whenever I die, it won't be for nothing. My life won't've been a waste, 'cause you made my life worth living, Herc." Swallowing, taking a moment to just breathe, to let the pain wash past, he resisted the darkness that crowded on the edge of his vision. "Made m'whole life great. Made it mean something. I wouldn't trade," he paused to draw in air, "one breath. Not one single breath, if it meant giving up even one moment that I've spent with you. Right from the first – remember? When I found you down at the creek." Smiling gently at the memory, his gaze far away, he teased fondly, "An' I taught you how to fish – the right way."
Moisture glittered in Hercules' eyes before he dropped his head, his hair falling like a curtain to hide his face.
"An' 'member that time … I was hit by lightning?" Iolaus mused, his voice faint and weak. Fragile. Feeling a little as if he were floating, the pride he felt in his partner resonated in his tone as he recalled, "An' I saw the future? You'll never, never be forgotten. You're … you'll always be an example for other people. Of how to … to triumph over all the odds. The strongest man who ever lived. The greatest hero in all of time." Gazing at the demigod, his throat tight with the emotion that filled his eyes, he murmured warmly, "You're different, Herc. Special. 'm so grateful you chose me, you know? To be your friend."
He heard Hercules draw a shuddering breath and felt the tremble of the hand under his. "S'not like we'd never see each other again," he offered tentatively, trying to make it easy. "Hades'd let you visit anytime."
The demigod flinched, his whole body tensing to the rigidity of stone as he turned his face away. Iolaus closed his eyes. It was so hard to stay conscious, to not give way to sleep. But he felt hollow deep inside, and he was beginning to fear that if he slept, he might not wake up again. If … if it came to that, he had to make it okay; couldn't leave Hercules feeling so badly. "Listen," he whispered urgently, lacking the strength to speak more clearly. Blinking heavily, he squeezed Hercules' hand lightly to bring his friend's tortured gaze back to his own. "I won't … won't even really be gone," he insisted. "'Cause you're the b-best part of me, Herc. So long as you live, that part of me will be alive, too. An', well, I'll always be as close as … as I can. You know that."
"I know," Hercules rasped, his voice thick and raw with emotion, his gaze again falling away, his head bowing in supplication. "Just … not yet, okay? Not yet."
Tears glazed Iolaus' eyes, and he blinked them away. Gods, it was hard to stave off the shadows closing in on him. He wanted to sleep. Just sleep. "Please, Herc," he cajoled softly, poignantly, then wearily paused to breathe. "Don' … don' feel so bad. You and 'Mene, mostly you … make my life so … so rich. So full. Always have. Since I was a little kid. Wan' you t' 'member that. Wan' you t' remember how … how happy I've been, just to be with you."
Hercules nodded slowly. "I've been happy, too," he husked, "being with you." He looked up then to meet Iolaus' gaze, wanting Iolaus to know he meant it, too distraught to be aware of the tear that tracked down his face; but the sight of that tear nearly broke Iolaus' heart.
"Ah, Hercules," he rasped, gripping his friend's hand. "Tell me, whenever the time comes, tell me you'll be okay. I have to … have to know you'll be okay."
Anguish swept over the demigod's face as he visibly fought for control, pressing his lips tight to stop their sudden tremble, and blinking furiously against the swift flood of tears that blurred his vision. His jaw tightened as he struggled to swallow, and he frowned with the effort to find the words that would bring Iolaus comfort. His gaze flickered away and then back. He sniffed and drew a shuddering breath, determined to not lose it, to not burden Iolaus with how impossible it would be to go on, to be okay, without him.
"Herc?"
He had to say something, something that wouldn't be a lie because Iolaus would know if he lied and be hurt. Finally, he managed to nod reassuringly. "D-don't worry," he stammered, and forced his voice to steady as he continued, "You, uh, you taught me to never give up, Iolaus. To never quit."
Iolaus searched his gaze, and wanted to be reassured when his friend didn't avoid his eyes. "Good," he rasped, needing so badly to believe that, whatever happened, Hercules would be okay. But he saw the naked vulnerability that his younger partner was trying so hard to hide, the shadows of the loneliness and grief Hercules couldn't quite conceal at the thought that Iolaus might one day, might that night, leave him. And he couldn't bear the thought of abandoning Hercules, couldn't face the idea of having to ever leave him. For all his strength, Hercules needed him, and he knew it. So it was his gaze that faltered first, and he weakly turned his head away to hide his own helpless tears. "I don't want to go," he whispered hoarsely, his voice quavering. "I don't want to ever leave you. You know that, right? You do know that."
"I know," Hercules assured him, his voice raw with pain. Taking a breath, knowing he had to show confidence, had to allow Iolaus to rest, he reached out to tenderly cup Iolaus' cheek and draw his face back so that he could again meet his eyes. "Don't ever think I don't know that. But, we've talked enough for now," he rumbled gently, his voice low, not quite steady. "It's going to be okay. No need to borrow trouble and worry at shadows tonight. You need to rest. We can talk more in the morning."
"Goo' idea," Iolaus slurred in reluctant agreement, the darkness fast crowding in, his meager reserves of energy exhausted. "Don' worry, Herc," he breathed, striving in his turn to reassure, the wisp of a smile playing around his lips as his eyes drifted close. "'S'only a little pain. Wha' we do's worth a li'l pain."
Hercules reached to delicately brush the curls off his face, and then the strongest man who would ever live again gently cupped his cheek and leaned forward to kiss his brow with exquisite tenderness. "I love you, Iolaus," he whispered huskily. "I can't remember a time when I didn't love you."
"I know," Iolaus sighed gratefully, deeply touched by that simple truth, and a peaceful smile flitted over his lips. Tightening his grip on Hercules' hand briefly, he held on until darkness descended, stealing away the pain and wrapping him snugly in sleep.
Oh, Iolaus, to you I'm clinging
All through the night
Please, my friend, do not go winging
Away through the night
Thoughts of losing you leave me shaken
Don't leave me now, oh please awaken
With you, on every journey we have taken
I'm home through the night
The raucous celebrations in the tavern below finally quieted to low murmurs that the demigod scarcely noticed, his attention focused all and only on his partner. Hour after hour, Hercules continued to bathe Iolaus, battling the fever relentlessly, unwilling to give up, unable to let go. The candle sputtered and went out, leaving the chamber too dark, and he strode to the window, to open the shutters and let in the moonlight. The village was quiet, the square empty. Leaning on the sill, he took a deep breath and looked up at the stars twinkling in the deep indigo sky. Behind him, he could hear Iolaus struggling for each breath and his heart clenched. This night, Solstice night, signaled new beginnings, the reaffirmation of life; surely, surely, such a night could not end with the death of someone so vital, so necessary … so loved. His throat tightened and he stood straighter, crossing his arms as if to hold himself together and keep the turbulent emotions roiling inside from spilling out.
But the hitch in Iolaus' rough, laboring respirations had him whirling back to his friend. His features rigid, fear stark in his eyes, he sat on the edge of the bed and gripped Iolaus' shoulders. "Breathe," he commanded, low and harsh. "Don't go. Don't you dare go."
The warrior coughed weakly and gasped, dragging in another ragged breath. Hercules' face crumpled, and he pressed his lips together to still their quivering. Tears filled his eyes and one spilled onto his cheek, slowing tracking down over his stubbled jaw. His chest was so tight, he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to draw in his own breath. Trembling with his need for Iolaus to live, he carefully drew his partner up, to cradle him against his broad chest. Iolaus lay against him, limp with unconsciousness, his skin radiating heat as if he was burning up inside. Hercules kissed Iolaus' temple and then rested his cheek on his friend's head. A sob broke from deep inside, and he held on tight, like he'd never let go, while Iolaus' words played over and over in his mind.
The strongest man who ever lived. The greatest hero in all of time. Special.
"I'm not," he whispered brokenly. "Not the strongest. Not the greatest hero. Not so special. I never would have made it this far without you. I'd've gotten lost in anger and bitterness, like … like my brother, the Minotaur. Why can you never see that you're the one who's special? How can you not know that you are the strongest man I've ever known? There'll never – never – be a hero greater than you in this world. Ah, Iolaus. I can't do this without you. I can't lose you again." Sniffing, he closed his eyes against the tears and drew in a shuddering breath. "I can't, Iolaus. Please, please. Stay with me."
Afraid to hope, he didn't dare think past the moment so he just held on. Trying not to despair, he wanted to believe that his friend would once again find some reservoir of strength deep in his soul, enough to survive; enough to live and grow strong, to laugh and sing, and to remain the foundation of Hercules' world.
Shifting on the bed, he lifted Iolaus and cradled his partner in his embrace. Rocking gently as he listened to Iolaus struggle to breathe, he let his mind roam along the trails they'd taken, recalling their journeys, the quiet times by campfires, Iolaus laughing and teasing him, eyes sparkling with merriment, or listening quietly while he talked about … anything and everything. Iolaus hunting for their dinner, sharing wine from the skin he carried. Iolaus checking him out after a battle, bandaging a bad gash on his arm in a tavern, whistling with light-hearted abandon as they rambled along a forested path. Iolaus fearlessly fighting beside him, whatever the odds; so noble and so very brave.
Iolaus. More than a friend. More even than a brother. In all the memories of his life, in the good times and the bad, Iolaus was there, always, always there.
Moment to moment, the night gradually gave way to dawn. The dark shadows faded and disappeared as gray light seeped through the window. Iolaus coughed and stirred against him, drawing Hercules back from the past to the sudden glad realization that, sometime during the last darkest hours before dawn, the fever had broken, and his friend's breathing sounded easier.
They'd made it through the night.
A cock crowed. Hercules heard the shuffle of footsteps across the dust of the square, a low rumble of greeting as one neighbour called to another, and the splash of a bucket in the central well. Looking down, he saw his partner blinking blearily, as if not quite awake. Iolaus was still pale, but the hectic flush of the fever was gone, and though it was clear he was still in considerable pain, he looked less haggard than he had during the night. Relief flooded through Hercules' heart, and he closed his eyes, grateful beyond measure.
"I'm sorry," Iolaus muttered weakly, much more alert to time and place than he'd been hours before. "I know how much you wanted to be home for Solstice."
Hercules thought about that, and his embrace tightened marginally, enough to convey meaning but careful not to hurt. His voice was low, almost shy and achingly sincere, when he finally spoke. "I was home, Iolaus," he murmured. "Home is wherever you are."
The warrior snorted softly, but mutely lifted one hand to grip Hercules' arm meaningfully. He was quiet for so long that the demigod wondered if he had drifted back to sleep, but then he yawned widely. Sniffing, he patted Hercules' arm and then brushed at his eyes before tilting his head to look up. "'m hungry," he said with a small grin.
Chuckling, Hercules tossled his curls and smiled broadly. "That's my Iolaus," he observed with fond complacency but, giddy with relief, he gave way to joyous laughter. "Now I know you're gonna be okay."
"Yeah, I'll be fine," the warrior replied quietly with a slow, infinitely reassuring smile. "But I guess it was a rough night, huh?"
"Had its moments," Hercules agreed tightly, the humour on his face fading as he looked away.
"Herc," Iolaus began hesitantly, concerned with his partner's inability to accept what was, ultimately, inevitable, "the day's gonna come when –"
But Hercules cut him off, not wanting to hear it. "Maybe so," he agreed grudgingly, his throat tight. Once again meeting Iolaus' steady gaze, he added firmly, "But not today. Not for at least another fifty years, okay?"
"Works for me, buddy," Iolaus allowed, wishing he could promise to live forever. "Works for me." He paused, then prodded hopefully, "Uh, about breakfast?"
Snickering at the plaintive tone, finally able to relinquish his hold on his partner, assured now that he wasn't going to slip away, Hercules settled Iolaus on the bed. "I'll go see what I can scrounge from the kitchen." But, at the door, he turned to look back. "Happy Solstice, Iolaus."
"Happy Solstice, Herc," he replied warmly. But he flapped a hand, urging Hercules on his way. "Food. Get some food."
Once the demigod had disappeared into the hall, Iolaus murmured with poignant affection, "I love you, too, Herc. Always have. Always will. Thanks for holding on to me, buddy, all through that very long night."
Ten days later, walking slowly, taking their time, they finally crested the hill that overlooked the small, beloved cottage. They saw Jason sitting on the bench outside the door, keeping watch, and heard his joyous shout to Alcmene as he jumped to his feet and waved. She appeared in the doorway and then rushed outside, the two of them hurrying along the path to meet them.
Hercules looped an arm around Iolaus' shoulders and, smiling, they both waved in greeting as they made their way down the long grassy hill, finally safely home to celebrate the dawn of the new year with their family.
Finis
Christmas Carole
All Through The NightSleep, my child, and peace attend thee
All through the night
Guardian angels God will send thee
All through the night
Soft the drowsy hours are creeping
Hill and dale in slumber sleeping
I my loving vigil keeping
All through the night
While the moon her watch is keeping
All through the night
While the weary world is sleeping
All through the night
O'er thy spirit gently stealing
Visions of delight revealing
Breathes a pure and holy feeling
All through the night
Though I roam a minstrel lonely
All through the night
My true harp shall praise sing only
All through the night
Love's young dream, alas, is over
Yet my strains of love shall hover
Near the presence of my lover
All through the night
Hark, a solemn bell is ringing
Clear through the night
Thou, my love, art heavenward winging
Home through the night
Earthly dust from off thee shaken
Soul immortal shalt thou awaken
With thy last dim journey taken
Home through the night