There is some uncharacteristic bad language in this chapter, as Jason starts to lose his cool. And have conversations with Freddie Mercury.
Chapter 12
Hercules assumed the role of impediment that Jason had vacated, unable to find pace or rhythm as they travelled through the forest, needing frequent breaks to rest and guzzle water. The arrow wound in his back was mostly healed, an angry red line marked where the grievous injury had been but the skin was sealed, it wasn't weeping, and there was no pain in movement. However there were lingering effects from the trauma; fatigue, unsteadiness and an unquenchable thirst. Pythagoras wasn't concerned by it, wasn't in any doubt that Hercules would recover fully given time and he tried to be sympathetic to his friend's struggle, tried not to be gruff in his concern but impatience and irritation kept bubbling forth. He prickled with discontent at the situation they now found themselves in, absent of Jason, walking in the opposite direction to him, even though it was his suggestion that they follow this course and meet up with the queen. Hercules lack of stoicism and constant complaint didn't help. It rubbed at Pythagoras, rubbed at already frayed nerves, blanketed his usual good humour with a sourness and biting sarcasm that made Hercules wrinkle his forehead and peer at him uneasily.
I will apologise for it later, Pythagoras promised himself. When he could breathe freely, when their lives were steady, when everyone was safe, he would readily confess to Hercules that his behaviour had been unreasonable and accept whatever chastisement Hercules wished to give. But not now. He was incapable of tolerance and compassion right now, he just couldn't find it within himself.
He traipsed through the forest with hunched shoulders and a persistent and uncomfortable flutter in his chest as every sound spooked him; wind rustling the leaves, animals startling in the undergrowth. His head was on a swivel, imagining soldiers everywhere, all around them, stalking them, waiting to pounce. Rationalism failed him because he knew only a handful of soldiers had entered the forest, and the likelihood of being discovered twice in the vastness was small, but that it had already occurred once, with devastating effect, made the prospect of it occurring again seem more than likely. He yearned to reach their destination and the security of a dwelling, a contained space, a place where he could hunker down and see exactly what surrounded him. The slow pace, Hercules's lack of vitality, made him twitchy. His fingers and toes oscillated with too much energy in opposition to the apathetic progress.
The men journeyed the full day in search of the cottage. They knew vaguely where it was, they had been there before, but the forest growth was so prolific that it could only be spotted from a short distance. There were many hissed arguments about direction, a wildly fluctuating route as one then the other took the lead and Pythagoras felt the passage of time keenly, his mind never far from thoughts of Jason and what he might be enduring while they stumbled around like oafs.
When the building came into sight Pythagoras' relief was enormous, but as one problem was resolved another came to the fore and his heart clutched tightly with a new worry, acute dread at telling Ariadne that Jason was now a prisoner of the Colcheans and back in Atlantis. He couldn't predict what her reaction might be but he didn't expect her to take the news easily.
The pair approached the cottage with heavy, tired steps and stood before the door for a few moments preparing for their entry, taking some breaths, sharing fortifying glances, each bracing for the reaction when they entered as a two and not a three.
Pythagoras knocked on the door to announce their arrival and didn't wait for the knock to be answered seeing as they were expected. He pushed open the door with a bowed head and thin-lipped determination but then tiptoed over the threshold, a mix of resolve and reluctance.
The cottage wasn't large, a single room, one quick traveling glance was enough to take in the whole space, and it was all that was needed to conclude that the building was empty.
Pythagoras paused a few steps into the room, Hercules crowding his back, and examined the surrounds more closely in case there was a hidden area he had missed, completing a full turn in his diligence.
"Where are they?" Hercules punctured the silence.
Pythagoras shook his blond curls. "I don't know." He twisted his head toward the door, narrowed his eyes. "Are we in the right place?"
"There are few cottages in the forest," Hercules observed drily. "I hardly think we could be mistaken."
"But perhaps there is another," Pythagoras offered hesitantly. "Perhaps we got so far off course that this is another cottage altogether, nowhere near where we are supposed to be."
Hercules knitted his brow and considered it for a moment, his eyes darting around the interior appraisingly. "No, this is the right place. We've been here before."
"Perhaps all cottages in the forest look alike."
Hercules frowned his disagreement. "That's a stretch."
"Then where are they?" Pythagoras exclaimed, upturning his palms. "Where are the queen and Miras? We cannot possibly have beaten them here."
The big man shrugged absently and his eyes rested on the large bed against the wall, longing in his expression.
"What should we do?" Pythagoras could hear the panic in his tone and it was unlike him, he wasn't prone to panc, but there were many (unpleasant) possibilities about what might have happened to the queen and Miras, so much struggling for the upper-hand in his head (Jason, Pasiphae, Atlantis) that he couldn't follow any train of thought to conclusion, his thoughts kept skipping. He willed himself to find calm, to find reason, he needed a level head for this new complication.
Hercules stepped around his friend and shuffled toward the bed. "I guess we must wait."
The mathematician gaped and was struck dumb for a moment, blinking his disbelief. "Wait?" he choked. "With Atlantis in peril, Jason a prisoner and Ariadne missing, we should wait?"
"What would you suggest," Hercules enquired with exasperation, his tone indicating that he wasn't really minded to hear suggestions.
Pythagoras fumbled for an answer. The situation tumbled around in his brain and it narrowed down to Jason as the most immediate problem. Ariadne was with Miras, hopefully being protected by him, wherever they were. Pasiphae was an ongoing problem. But Jason was on his own among brutal enemies and his death was a real possibility. Being son to Pasiphae was a double-edged sword, the mother might feel sympathy for her son, want to protect him, or she may recognize the threat he posed, and want him out of the way. The thought chilled him. Jason was so innocent to it, the secret motivations and underlying considerations. It needed to end. He needed to learn the truth about who he was, no matter what the consequence, because he couldn't properly appreciate the danger he was in.
Hercules sat on the edge of the bed, and very quickly progressed from resting to reclining, flicking his feet off the ground and twisting on the mattress, edging his body down and sighing in satisfaction when he was laying with his hands beneath his head.
"You cannot sleep," Pythagoras pronounced curtly.
"I nearly died today," Hercules returned evenly. "I have earned some sleep. Just a few hours. You should sleep too, you won't be good for anything without it."
It was actually solid advice, as much as Pythagoras didn't want to admit it. He slid fingers across his eyelids and felt the weight of the day pressing on him. He ambled to the wooden rectangle of table and sunk onto a chair, dropping his head into his hands. If they had known they would not find Ariadne and Miras awaiting them at the cottage they might have returned immediately to Atlantis to rescue Jason. Now, they had wasted a day.
Where could the queen and Miras be? Could they have been captured by Pasiphae's men? Attacked by bandits? How were they ever going to find them in the expanse of the forest?
It was all too much. Pythagoras wasn't built for such turmoil, for important decisions and far reaching consequences. He was a man of narrow ambition saddled with way too much influence. It made his head ache.
He drew in a long breath through his nose, closed his eyes and cleared his mind of all thought, created a clear palette from which to think. These problems were solvable, all problems were solvable, it just needed level heads and considered thought.
Perhaps one level head. Hercules breathing was deep and even, the sound of a man asleep, and Pythagoras was determined not to begrudge it, told himself that his friend should sleep so that he was at his best when they executed the next part of their plan - whatever that might be. But he felt that prickle of discontent again. Inaction made his joints itch. Already he felt regret for the things they could be doing and weren't.
(I see a little silhouette of a man.)
Bohemian Rhapsody had been going round and round in Jason's head for hours. It was a torture of its own. Not that he had anything against Queen. Those guys were fine. But it was driving him to edge of sanity, the same lyrics over and over.
(Scaramouche, scaramouche will you do the fandango.)
Without natural light in the cells it was impossible to accurately gauge the passage of time, the only thing he could be guided by was the regularity with which a woman came to refill the oil in the flaming sconce outside his cell. An oil lady. Huh. That's a job? He'd been briefly intrigued by her, by who this woman was and what horrors she might have witnessed in the dungeon, a veritable fly on the wall. With too much time to think and too many things he didn't want to think about (what did Pasiphae have in store for him? were he and Ariadne really supposed to be together? just how much was he screwing up his friends' lives? there were a lot of subjects he didn't want to consider too closely) the oil lady offered a welcome, if only momentary, diversion. By the time she came around the fourth time his interest in her had waned, shifted from her to her task. He couldn't remember how long it took for oil to burn, 2-3-4 hours? They used candles at their house so he didn't have much experience with oil. But at best it meant he'd been strung up for over eight hours, at worst, double that. It was a huge variance in the estimate of time and he couldn't figure which end of the spectrum was most likely - time crawled, and he could no longer tell what was ten minutes and what was an hour.
(I'm just a poor boy, nobody loves me.)
You got that right Freddie.
(He's just a poor boy from a poor family. Spare him his life from this monstrosity.)
It's like they were singing his song. Perhaps that's why he couldn't get it out his head. The song had been a comfort in the beginning, he'd latched onto it willingly as something to distract him from being hung off the ceiling like a side of beef, something to focus on other than the things he didn't want to think about but he was weary of it now and couldn't push it away. He couldn't think of another song to replace it with, so long since he had heard modern music. Years. He tried to picture his iPod from another life, tried to see what songs were on there so that he could change the tune, but it was almost unimaginable now, that kind of technology. Music in a small box. Pythagoras would look at him like he was unhinged if he tried to describe it, call him a liar. No, Hercules would call him a liar, Pythagoras would try to find a diplomatic way to suggest that he must be mistaken, that it just wasn't possible. And even when he could conjure up the image in his mind, of a rectangular piece of plastic and glass, the screen was frustratingly blank, none of the music he used to listen to was revealed to him. It was gone, the memory of it was gone. Or perhaps he was just trying too hard to find it. What he did know is that he didn't listen to Bohemian Rhapsody.
(Easy come easy go, will you let me go?)
Enough Freddie. Fuck. Give me a break.
Hours and hours, of hanging from the ceiling, of repeated lyrics in his head, of insecurities burrowing under his skin and making too much sense. It was undignified. And tedious. And physically, achingly painful. They were never going to do this. If he ever found himself in a position of power, if he ever managed to waltz Ariadne down the aisle and become king of Atlantis, they were never going to do this, indulge in torture. He resolved that they were going to be better than this. Because it fucking sucked.
He was starting to believe that he had been forgotten. It seemed entirely likely that there had a been a change of guards and no one even knew he was in here anymore. He kept expecting someone to walk past, do a double take and say, shit buddy, we forgot all about you. Let me get you down.
It probably wouldn't be quite so Monty Python-esque. And it was doubtful Colcheans would use the word buddy, doubtful the word formed part of their vocabulary. But the sentiment remained. There was very little passing traffic, he hadn't seen a guard in – two oil ladies ago, however long that was, quite some time. There was a high degree of disinterest in those imprisoned, zero concern for their wellbeing. If he was to have a heart attack and die he wondered how long it would be before anyone knew.
But for all his black humoured musings he suspected that the continued passive torture wasn't really an accident, wasn't by way of oversight, it was a deliberate attempt to weaken him, to make him compliant. Deprived of food and water, he was also deprived of sleep because when he sagged against the chains holding him upright the metal cuffs dug into his wrists hard enough to draw blood, the skin on both forearms was raw and tender, there was no way he could find comfort enough for sleep.
He wondered how long Pasiphae was going to punish him, keep him trussed and helpless. He wasn't in great shape to start with, it was going to be a pretty short drop to delirious and raving. That was what really worried him. Not so much that this kind of treatment would break him and make him want to spill secrets, that was never going to happen, but that it might send him to a condition where he didn't know what he was saying and unintentionally betray Ariadne. That could definitely happen.
A twitch started in his right shoulder. A bounce underneath the skin. Bounce, bounce, bounce. He expelled a suffering breath. It was not the first time his body had complained about the unnatural position. He rolled his head a little, cracking his neck, feeling every knot, and tried to isolate the grumbling area, tensed and untensed the muscles around the shoulder, and it was like waking a sleeping lion, his whole body started roaring its opposition, sharp deep pain was suddenly everywhere, in his back, running down his side, in his thighs, his calves started to cramp. It was a runaway train. Every part of his body vied to express its displeasure and there was nothing he could do to alleviate it, except gasp and scrunch his face and wish he were somewhere else, and stay absolutely still until everything calmed.
Light footsteps approached and Jason was actually disappointed that it couldn't be a soldier, the steps were too soft, it wasn't somebody coming to get him down. Not that an approaching soldier necessarily meant salvation, but he lived in hope. He lifted his eyes to view the space outside his cell, if only to break the boredom, see who might be passing and when Melas came into sight Jason thought he was hallucinating, or perhaps had drifted into sleep. It was so far fetched that the High Priest would be in the dungeon that Jason lowered his eyes to the gloom of the rock floor, blinked a few times to clear his vision, then lifted his gaze once again. He still saw Melas before him, halted outside his cell.
The priest was nervous, darting glances left and right as he reached into his shroud, retrieved something that Jason couldn't quite make out in the guttering light and started tampering with the lock on the cell door. Neither Jason nor Melas said a word, both of them wary about drawing attention, but loud in Jason's mind was what is he doing here? What's going on?
When the cell door opened Jason still couldn't figure out what was going on. His mind was sluggish and he studied the man through narrowed eyes, trying to draw clues from his actions and demeanor about his intentions. Even though the priest's furtiveness and apprehension seemed to indicate a rescue, he didn't want to draw that conclusion too quickly in case he was disappointed, in case a visit from a priest was just part of being imprisoned.
"The Oracle sent me to get you out," Melas advised in a low voice. He rested a hand against Jason's chest for a moment, warmth in his usually dour face, reassurance in his touch.
Jason marvelled at the man's loyalty to the Oracle, his willingness to follow her instructions even in a folly such as this. It was extraordinary.
"How did you get past the guards?" Jason asked in confusion.
"Secret passage."
Jason blinked twice. His brain ticked at half speed, fatigue battering his wits. "Secret passage?"
The dungeon was hewn from rock, it wasn't an ordinary construction, it had been dug out of the side of a hill, dirt and stone chipped away to create roughly shaped cells and passageways. To include a secret passage must have taken a lot of effort. And kind of a ridiculous effort, how often did anyone need to secretly enter or leave the dungeon? But it was in keeping with the city, there were secrets all over the place, and he wasn't going to complain about this one.
The priest merely nodded, not inclined to explain further. He was blessedly tall, no trouble reaching the metal bonds above Jason's head, agile fingers tinkering with the cuffs at his wrists. With a flash of clarity Jason realized that being suddenly free of the restraints was going to be unpleasant. After being held so long in an unnatural position, changing that position was going to be really painful.
"This isn't going to be pretty," Jason grimaced, talking into Melas' chin, the man's face upturned to the ceiling.
Without dropping his eyes or hesitating in his task the priest replied, "Nothing in the dungeon is."
When the cuffs at Jason's wrists burst open he collapsed like a discarded marionette, heavy and graceless and without any control. Melas had a quick arm around his torso so that he didn't hit the ground, but it made no real difference to Jason, to the level of pain he experienced. He was momentarily lost in the agony of movement, spiking, searing pain was everywhere, not one part of him was immune. He hung limply in the priest's arms with his eyes squeezed shut riding the waves of suffering. Now that he could move it was the last thing Jason wanted to do, he concentrated all his effort on staying very very still, letting his body adjust and find normal.
Melas gently lay Jason on the dirt floor. If he thought they were going to make a quick escape the idea was being reassessed, they weren't going anywhere in a hurry. Melas patted Jason's cheek, encouraging him to open his eyes but Jason couldn't bear to do it yet, keeping them shut felt like it might help. The sound of his harsh ragged breathing and unintended groans was loud in the echoing space, Jason feared it was going to give them away.
"Jason."
Melas' voice was hissed and insistent and Jason figured he owed it to the priest to pull himself together. If he had his way he would probably lay on the ground for a while longer, wait for the needles of pain to retreat, wait until feeling returned to his limbs, gather some strength, but he couldn't leave Melas hanging, he didn't want the man to be caught because Jason couldn't get up off the floor. The priest had risked a lot to find him and Jason knew he had a role to play in this rescue attempt.
He opened bleary, stinging eyes and palmed his hands against the earth, pushing himself feebly upward. He was immediately reminded that he was carrying an injury, the flare in his chest made him hiss and take the weight off his left hand, pull it in close to his side. The priest wrapped an arm around his midriff to lift, his forearm pressed against Jason's ribs, trying to be helpful, but they were attempting too much too soon and it was a ballet of scrabbling feet and uncoordinated movements, until Jason was standing with an arm wound around the priest's neck and feeling really self conscious about it because he was pretty sure these guys were supposed to be untouchable and he was breaking cultural conventions with the physical closeness.
It was unbelievable how terrible he was feeling. Laughable. A confluence of injury, abuse, neglect and exhaustion, and he figured he would look back on this moment in time and say that is easily the worst I have ever felt. It was setting a new standard. It seemed impossible that it could be topped.
Melas shuffled them out of the cell and Jason was little more than a passenger, bent out of shape, trying to work his clueless feet. They stumbled in the direction away from the exit, past empty cavernous cells, reaching a junction in the corridor where the path split into two. It was behind them that the secret passage was hidden. Melas pressed a mechanism that made part of the rock fold inward, only a small crevice, enough to shimmy through sideways and they plunged into the blackness without pause. Jason let himself be guided. He couldn't see a thing and trusted the priest to know what he was doing. He could hear the swish of fingertips against the stone wall, Melas feeling his way.
Let this be over, Jason was thinking. He was trying to be stoic, swallowing his moans, keeping his feet trained forward, but he was embarrassed by his heaviness, pulling against Melas, unable to summon the strength to stay upright. He wanted to stop for a while. He craved a quiet spot where he could crumple to the ground and close his eyes. Get some sleep. Lose himself. But he didn't ask it because the priest moved with purpose, hurried and determined, and if Jason lay down he wouldn't get up for some time, so he gritted his teeth to keep going, yearning to reach the destination.
They ended up in the temple. Apparently all (secret) roads led to the temple. It was bright, braziers of fire were everywhere, and Jason had to squint, his eyes were set to gloom. There was still no natural light, he had no idea what time of day it was, but from the echoing quiet he assumed it was some time in the night.
Jason hadn't appreciated how big the temple was. The place was bloody huge and he cursed it as they kept moving, so much moving, until they reached the inner sanctum and the Oracle's chambers.
The woman was waiting for them, robed in purple silk, her hands clasped anxiously at her chest as they entered. Her face broke into a wide smile when she saw them. "Thank the Gods," she breathed. "Did all go well?"
Melas deposited Jason on a low wooden stool and stood behind with his hands resting lightly on Jason's shoulders, which was smart because Jason was not feeling very steady and there was a lot of scope to fall off.
"It went as you said," Melas replied.
The oracle approached Jason on light feet and knelt before him, looked into his face intently and brushed curls from his forehead, maternal in her concern. "Not a moment too soon," she commiserated, eyes shining with relief and worry, gaze lingering on the dried blood staining the shirt at his chest.
"I am most grateful," he returned sincerely and wanted to say more, wanted to ask questions, but was too tired and groggy to make the effort.
"I could not allow you to remain in Pasiphae's clutches," the oracle said. "You are too important. The city needs you alive and well."
Jason winced and gave her a small, brittle smile. It bothered him when she said things like that, even if it was supposed to be a compliment. He felt it like a pressure, felt the weight of expectation and didn't feel worthy of it, especially at a time like this, when he was clearly frail and incapable.
The woman flicked a glance to Melas, gained her feet, retrieved a cup filled with liquid from a nearby table and proffered it to Jason.
"You need to drink," she said in a soft caring voice, and he accepted the cup gratefully without knowing if it contained wine or water, so parched he could have drunk four times as much. It was something with a citrus infusion that soothed his throat, and every part of him that it glided past.
"Thank you," Jason said and hoped she knew it was for more than just for the water. The woman smiled at him fondly, held his gaze for a moment, then plucked the cup from his yielding fingers and returned it to the table-top.
"They're going to know it was you," Jason said somberly, abruptly certain of it, that there was no one else in the city with the desire or wherewithal to secure his freedom and Pasiphae would reach that conclusion swiftly.
"They will suspect," the oracle admitted, but seemed unconcerned by it, small smile at her lips, enjoying the defiance. "But to take any action against me would be to offend the Gods. Pasiphae cannot risk it when her position is so tenuous."
Jason wasn't so sure but argument slipped away as his thoughts clouded into cotton wool, his mind became suddenly hazy and dull. He shook his head lightly to try and shift the settling fog. His bones felt weighty, pulling on him, pulling him down. He breathed a groan and dropped his head to his chest. He couldn't seem to fight against it, the heaviness that was upon him, that was everywhere. At first he thought it was some kind of collapse, a hard day and this was the result. But it felt wrong. Too sudden and overwhelming.
He tried to lift his head to lay accusing eyes on the Oracle, to ask What was in that drink? He was incensed at the idea that she may have slipped him something, but couldn't definitely reach that conclusion. He couldn't quite comprehend what was happening.
The hands on his shoulders tightened as Jason slumped forward and slipped into blackness.
A/N: Boy, this story just keeps going, sorry about that. Let me know if you're still reading because I get the feeling, now that the show has finished, that interest has waned.
