"Hercules?"

Timeon’s voice was hesitant, and the touch of his hand was equally tentative, his youthful fingers warily shaking the muscled shoulder in the hope of some response. The son of Zeus opened his eyes with weary reluctance. He wasn’t dead yet – but the effort to stay alive was costing him more and more with each hard won breath. A normal man – a mortal man – would have succumbed to the poison hours ago, his body devoured by the fire and his senses overwhelmed by the pain. He had his Olympian inheritance to thank for his continued survival – and he was cursing it, cursing the strength which held him to life, because each added moment had become almost unendurable.

"I’m – still here," he muttered, focusing blurred vision on the child’s tear stained face. "Why – are you?"

He’d told the boy to go hours before – or at least, it seemed like hours, back when he could still pursue thought and action at the same time. Timeon stubbornly shook his head.

"I’m not leaving you. I’m not going anywhere," he announced, as firmly as his tremulous voice could manage.

"Timeon – " Hercules wasted precious energy lifting himself up far enough to confront the child eye to eye. "I know – you’re – scared. But – "

"It’s not that. It’s not." The boy’s tears were hot – a mixture of fear, frustration and distress. "I’m not going until – until - until you …"

Until I’m dead …

The son of Zeus slumped back with a sigh, knowing he should argue the point, and lacking both the strength and the desire to do so. It was going to be hard – to die, down here in the dark. But it would be much, much harder to do it alone.

"Okay," he breathed, the word barely a whisper. "Just so long as – you do go. As soon as …"

"aaahhhahahhhhahaahaahawwoooaahhhaaahhha …"

The sudden impact of sound pulled both heads round in desperate search of its source. Hercules had long since tuned out the high pitched whistling conversations exchanged by the ants, but this was different. This was a human noise, shaped by an equally human throat – and it was getting louder and closer with every passing second.

"ahhawwhaaooooahhhaaahhhwwhhaaaaaaaaaghk!"

The voice – and its owner – arrived with dramatic effect, plummeting out of a shadowed opening somewhere in the ceiling of the vaulted cavern only to come to an abrupt halt as figure and floor collided with considerable force. There was a startled pause, followed by a serious of equally startled exclamations as the new arrival picked himself up – and reacted to finding himself surrounded on all sides.

"Whoa!" The barely seen figure stumbled back from his first confrontation, only to land amidst a second heaving pile of squirming bodies. "Whaaa." The hasty ‘no hands’ cartwheel out was spectacular; it brought the acrobat face to face with yet more of the wriggling larvae. "Whoo, waohoo!"

"Iolaus!" Hercules packed every ounce of his remaining strength into the cry, somehow managing to load the identification with delight, relief, alarm and warning all at the same time. "Over - here…"

The effort was too much. He collapsed back with exhaustion, feeling a flood of emotions wash over him. Relief, elation and astonishment numbered among them – and all of them tempered by a sudden stark and abject terror.

He came …

That was the first thing that registered; a dazed confirmation of that nagging, impossible hope which his heart had nurtured from the moment that this nightmare had begun.

Gods, was the second thought which sprang to mind. Is he crazy?

The answer to that was an undeniable yes. No-one in their right mind would have even considered looking for a lost child and a dead man in the depths of a monster filled pit, let alone acting on the thought and actually doing it. No-one with any sense would choose to creep through tunnels excavated by creatures capable of ripping a man in two, or risk his life merely on the chance that the souls he sought might be found.

No-one that is, except a true hero, willing to challenge the Fates or defy the gods if need demanded it. There were very few people that Hercules knew who fit that description – and only one of them who lived up to it every day of his life, without exception.

Iolaus; an undaunted warrior and fearless hunter; a man without match, first to leap to the defence of the helpless, last to leave the scene of injustice, and always the one in the middle of the fray.

And the man who – had Hercules had even an ounce of his far-famed strength to call on – would be about to get the tongue lashing of his life for ever thinking of doing something so utterly, idiotically, wonderfully stupid!

What was he thinking? And how – just how – has he managed to get this far …

The whisper of larval hissing moved closer as they reacted to the disturbance in their midst; it was followed by an even closer scrabbling – the sound of boot leather slipping on moisture slickened stone. A moment later a tousled head rose into view, its owner’s eyes gleaming in the dim, phosphorescent light. It was the most welcome sight that Hercules could possibly imagine, even though it was the one thing he’d feared most to see.

His partner. Defying impossible odds and risking life and limb – as usual.

"Iolaus," Hercules croaked as sternly as he could manage, "what, in Gaia’s name, are you doing here?"

"What am I doing?" Iolaus reacted a little testily, scrambling up to crouch in the entrance to the low roofed, narrow cave. "What ever happened to ‘keep out of trouble’, huh? I thought I was supposed to be the one that takes the idiotic chances. And here you are -" His eyes rolled ceilingwards with exaggerated forbearance, "sitting around on your butt, waiting for me to come to the rescue. For the second time today," he pointed out, his affected irritation dissolving into an affectionate grin.

Hercules couldn’t argue with that, even if he’d had the strength to do so; for once he really was in need of rescuing and – while he still thought that the hunter had to be utterly out of his mind – the fact that his best friend was there felt like stumbling into an oasis of hope after crawling across a desert of despair. His heart rallied – and his determination with it. Iolaus had found a way in – so there had to be a way out.

Didn’t there?

"You shouldn’t be here," he breathed, needing to register that much of a protest at least. "But – gods – it’s good to see you …"

A shudder ran though him as he spoke; he was asking too much of his weakened state and he had to close his eyes for a moment, struggling to avoid a descent into darkness. The soft touch of a hand to his shoulder opened his lids again; Iolaus was right beside him, all hint of tease and banter wiped from his expression. The look that remained was tense and concerned.

"Herc? What is it, what’s wrong? Tell me where it hurts."

Everywhere …

The response was inevitable – and the comprehension that followed it twisted an effort filled grin onto his features. It was exactly the kind of comeback he’d learned to expect from the man now crouched at his side.

"Hard to say," he gasped, managing to sober himself enough to give a semi-sensible answer. Half of his reaction was pure hysteria; he was giddy with weakness and overwhelmed by the sense of relief that his friend’s arrival had precipitated. "But – I was stung … slashed … uh – my – my shoulder. Poison, I think …"

Even those few words proved too much; he closed his eyes and felt the darkness swirling at the edge of his senses, while his body shivered uncontrollably.

"Let me see."

The hunter’s voice was distant, blurred by the fog which was creeping over his perceptions. He barely felt the gentle touch which lifted him up, which cradled him against the warmth of skin and ragged fabric. He let his head fall, resting his cheek against a supportive shoulder while his partner reached a careful hand to explore the damage which ravaged his back. The contact should have stirred the fire, should have roused the agony into searing flame – but he felt nothing. Not even the brush of wary fingers as they sought to identify the problem.

"Iolaus?" he murmured distantly, feeling himself drifting away from all the pain and the effort. He was safe now; nestled in an embrace which would shelter and protect him. He didn’t need to try anymore …

"Stay with me, Herc." The order was brusque; the grip which encircled him tightened reactively, sending a shiver of protest through his frame. The fire flared, driving some of the haze from his senses and he gasped at the resurgence of pain. "Sorry. I’m trying to be gentle here."

I know …

Hercules shivered, suddenly aware of just how close he’d been to letting go entirely. He fought for a better hold on reality, embracing the heat in his blood and the feel of the textures which pressed against his body. He drew in a careful, shuddering breath – and gagged at the strong oppressive scent which it drew into his lungs.

"Gods," he exclaimed, the penetration of the sour sweet odour refocusing his attention with a vengeance. "What have you been doing? You reek."

"Don’t knock it," the hunter muttered abstractedly. "That stink got me down here – and it’s gonna get us all safely out again."

"Don’t – tell me. Old –"

"-hunter’s trick. Yeah. Something like that … Ahah!" Exploratory fingers brushed something that ignited a searing flare of pain and Hercules tensed, biting back a sudden desire to scream.

Gods!

"Sorry," Iolaus apologised. "That hurt?"

"Uhuh." It was more an anguished grunt than a coherent answer, but it probably told the hunter more than he wanted to know. The supporting arm tightened a second time, conveying assurance, offering sympathy – and Hercules shivered, thinking he understood what it meant.

I’m dying – and he knows it. Gods, it must look bad back there …

"Okay," Iolaus said after a moment of thoughtful silence. "Here’s the problem. You got a deep slash running from the top of your shoulder down to the small of your back. Most of it’s caked over, but there’s still a little blood oozing out – just here - " He pinpointed the spot with a cautious, featherlight touch; Hercules gasped at the contact, feeling as if he’d been stabbed by a white hot needle. "Thing is," the hunter continued worriedly, "I think the sting – or whatever it is – is still in there. It’s all swollen up, and it feels hot. Hotter than the rest of you," he added – probably with a wince, although his patient couldn’t see it.

Still in there?

No wonder everything hurt so much. The contamination had been festering in his body ever since the attack. And, if the ant’s defence mechanism was anything like that of a bee or a wasp, then every movement, every breath would have been pumping more and more of the poison into his system.

"It needs to come out," Iolaus was concluding anxiously. "And I can’t exactly light a fire down here to clean a blade or cauterise the wound afterwards. It would – attract attention. If I could even get one started in the first place."

You’d manage it …

He’d seen his partner conjure up a roaring fire in far worse conditions than this – out of rain soaked wood in the middle of a thunderstorm on one occasion – and he had no doubt the hunter would be able to work similar magic should need demand it. But he was right. A fire would attract unwanted attention – and they had the boy to think about, not just themselves.

"Forget – the fire. Do it – anyway," he gasped, looping a shaking hand over his supporter’s other shoulder and using the leverage it gave him to lift his head and meet the man eye to eye. Blue eyes looked down at him with taut concern. "I – trust – you …"

The exertion took everything Hercules had left; his hand slid away and his head dropped back, leaving him helpless and shivering in his partner’s arms. Iolaus gathered him up for a moment, cradling him there, resting his own forehead against the sweat soaked tumble of honey dark hair. "Okay," he murmured, taking a deep breath to settle the shake that threatened to escape in his voice. "Okay. Let’s get this over with, huh?"

He gently lowered his injured friend back to the support of the soft fungal growths that he’d been using as a resting place, then equally gently rolled him onto his side. Hercules was nothing more than limp weight under his hands, offering no resistance to the manipulation, even though the movement clearly stirred the pain which had engulfed him. The hunter frowned, not liking what that implied; if he hadn’t found this place when he did, he might have arrived to find a much bleaker situation awaiting him. The son of Zeus was dying – and was more than likely to be setting out on that disconcerting walk down to the river Styx unless the poison that was sending him there could be quickly countered. Removing the sting might do it – providing Hercules’ divine blood retained enough strength to rally to the fight - but Iolaus couldn’t guarantee that that would be enough, and he had nothing else to bring to the struggle.

Except his faith and his prayers, and the resolve that had driven him to attempt this impossible rescue in the first place.

You’re gonna make it, he vowed silently, his lips tightening with determination. Because I don’t have a way to chase after you and pursued Hades to send you back again …

If truth be told – if Hercules did die in this dank, ant infested pit – Iolaus was probably stubborn and strong-willed enough to find a way to do just that – but it would probably involve owing a lot of favours to a lot of gods, and he’d rather not have to put himself into that situation in the first place. Better to save his friend now, rather than to be forced to find a way to do it later.

"Timeon?" he asked, glancing towards the boy, who was hovering uncertainly in the dimness. "It is Timeon, right?" He got a hesitant nod of affirmation in reply and forced what he hoped was a reassuring smile onto his face. "Good. Look – I need your help, okay? I need you to scrap some of that stuff off the walls and bring it over here, so I can see what I’m doing. I know it’s not much light, but every little’s gonna help."

The jocular note was as forced as the smile, but the young man responded to it anyway, his lips twitching into what could have been a brief attempt at a grin. He looked a little relieved at having been given something to do, and turned to the task with determination, reaching to scrape handfuls of the glowing lichen off the surrounding walls.

Iolaus returned his attention to his patient; Hercules’ face was a pale shade of grey, his pallor emphasised by the dim green/white light that illuminated his resting place. Sweat was beading his face and he was shivering, despite what was an oppressive sense of warmth in the air.

If that was me, the hunter considered bleakly, I’d probably be dead by now …

He pushed the thought away and reached down for his knife, pulling the blade free from its usual hiding place in his boot. He knew he had to work quickly, but even so he hesitated, needing to draw in another deep breath to calm some of the pounding in his heart. This wasn’t going to be an easy task. He had to get the poison sack free without cutting into it; one slip, one wrong move, and that would be it. There’d be no second chances.

Not this side of the Styx, at least.

Come on, Iolaus. You can do this.

You have too …

A flare of slightly brighter light caught his attention and he looked up, to find Timeon standing next to him, cradling an armful of phosphorescence.

"Thanks," he said – not for the light, which was welcome – but for the interruption to his thoughts, which had pulled him from that moment of inner terror and allowed him to refocus his determination. He waved at where he wanted the boy to stand. "Just there’s fine."

He knelt down, rolling Hercules’ limp form towards him and propping him there, letting the weight rest against his stomach and thighs. Blood had pooled out from the wound, soaking into the soft leather of the man’s jerkin and bonding it to both shirt and skin beneath. He used his hands to ease it free, and then cut away some of the damaged fabric, exposing the swollen flesh beneath. The wound itself was relatively clean, but the skin and muscle surrounding it was red and inflamed. Timeon caught back a gasp, and Iolaus didn’t blame him.

Nasty …

There was an ugly crust of blood and pus marking the point where the sting had sunk deep into the muscles under the shoulder blade. The point of it must have scraped across the surface of the bone before it found more tender meat to penetrate. That made the hunter’s task even trickier; if the stinger was caught under the bone he was going to have to cut deep in order to get it out.

"Feel free to scream," he muttered, pressing his left hand in close under the damage and flipping the knife over in his right so that he could control its downward plunge. Hercules responded with the barest grunt of sound – although it was hard to tell if it was in answer to the comment, or in response to the pressure on the wound. "Oookay …"

He gritted his teeth and went to work, sliding the point of the knife in beside the buried sting as carefully and gently as he could. Blood welled out, thick and dark in the lurid light – along with an oozing of something else, which was thicker and darker and smelt vaguely of pickled fish.

Urrgh.

Iolaus’ face wrinkled with mixture of concentration and distaste as he drove the knife deeper; he could see the broken end of the sting now, the pressure from his hand forcing it upwards as he opened the wound to the air. Hercules had gone rigid with pain – but that was okay, because the tautness of his muscles was helping to expel the ugly thing.

Easy.

Eaaassy …

It was like trying to winkle a snail out of its shell – without breaking the shell or harming the snail. The hunter held his breath as he slowly twisted the knife, grimacing at the damage he was being forced to inflict. The sting was deeply embedded and the wound was hours old; it would have been a lot easier to deal with immediately after the attack.

Eaaassyyy …

He couldn’t afford a single slip. A mistake now wouldn’t just kill his best friend – if the knife slipped, he’d probably end up crippling himself as well, slicing deep into his left hand – if not straight through it.

Just a little further …

The broken barb slowly emerged, easing its way upwards with painful reluctance. Iolaus gritted his teeth and pressed a little deeper, trying to ignore the sound of his patient’s desperate, panted breath.

Hang on in there, Herc …

The knife point lost resistance; the sting surged upwards – and the hunter snatched with the speed of a striking snake, ripping the thing right out of the wound. It came away cleanly; the wound erupted with a welling of blood and pus – and Timeon gulped, dropping his armful of light and hastily staggering away with his hand to his mouth.

Iolaus – who’d taken a quick look to ensure the sting had remained intact – threw the obnoxious thing out into the main cavern, pulled the knife free and slammed his palm over the wound to quell the bleeding. Hercules had gone completely limp and the hunter dropped the knife so that he could use his free hand to locate his friend’s pulse; it wasn’t until he found it – a weak but steady rhythm under the sweat soaked skin at the base of the throat – that he allowed himself to relax, heaving a heartfelt sigh of relief. On the outside he probably seemed calm, composed and totally in control. Inside he was shaking, all the way down to his soul. "When you’re done throwing up," he suggested over his shoulder, "We’re gonna need some bandages. You think your mother will mind if we tear up that shirt of yours?"