Jumping to conclusions.Part FourPythia |
The morning arrived gray and overcast. A pall of smoke still lingered over Iphrus, but the heavy, thunder filled rainclouds had finally dispersed, leaving only ragged remnants of themselves to overshadow the town. Hercules woke just after the dawn and eased himself carefully out of bed, doing his best not to disturb its other occupant. Iolaus was sleeping the sleep of the just - or possibly the sleep of smoked and scalded heroes - his blistered body carefully painted with tinctures of Adder tongue and Linseed and wrapped in strips of soft white linen. His face had gone an interesting shade of red under its patina of healing pastes and lotions, and his hair looked even more ragged than usual, the scorching heat having, in places, sizzled a good inch or more from his flame frizzed locks. But he was alive, and that fact alone was reason enough to celebrate. His skin would heal, his hair would grow back - and he would have another tale to tell, among the many he had survived to relate.
Sleep well, my friend ...
Hercules’ own blisters were fading fast. His lungs were still sore and his eyes still held a hint of rawness that made him blink in the early daylight, but those too would pass, leaving only memories of the night before to haunt him.
They were not good memories; they reminded him of unfinished business and his own part in the potentially tragic events which had played out in the night. A misspoken word, an ill considered phrase - that’s all it had taken; and his speaking it, without thought, without consideration of its consequences, had almost cost his best friend’s life.
He was thinking about consequences as he descended the stairs; how even the simplest thing can lead to major events in peoples lives. If he hadn’t been so stubborn the night before - if he’d just, for once, acquiesced to Iolaus’ suggestion and agreed to spend the night, rather than stalking off in search of the moral high ground ... maybe none of this would have happened. Maybe he’d have spent a disconcerted evening and an embarrassed night; maybe he’d have been the one to evict Jantis and his drunken cronies rather than being the one to inspire them to punitive action - and maybe they wouldn’t have dared attack the brothel so openly, so vindictively. Not this time, at least.
He sighed, knowing that he was leading himself down tautological blind alleyways. Maybes were dangerous. He knew all about that - knew how one simple action could cascade to become serious differences. The Fates wove as they thought best - but they could only use the choices and events they were offered to create the final patterns. We make our own Fate, he’d told his father once, knowing he was right, but unaware of how complex the weave could be. Change one thing - and entire histories tumbled; in this version of the pattern no-one had died. Who was to say that - in some other combination of warp and weft - the outcome would prove as favourable as it had in this one?
The argument was unassailable - but it didn’t make him feel any better. He’d been the one to plant the suggestion of fire in Jantis’ drunken, angry heart - and by doing so had endangered the lives of innocent people, guilty of nothing beyond trying to survive in an imperfect world.
Who was he to judge them? The bastard son of a drunken, whoring, god, latest in the line of a whole pantheon of incestuous, self centred, amoral immortals - half of whom would have been busy fueling the fire, not trying to put it out.
You’re Hercules, Iolaus’ voice muttered somewhere at the back if his mind, the words delivered with amusement, affection - and absolute confidence. The son of Zeus smiled to himself, knowing that he would have to have that conversation and soon - his partner deserved an apology and he was going to get one, whether he considered it necessary or not.
"Good morning." Helena’s greeting was warm - and sultry, despite the homely domesticity of her surroundings. The simple dark blue robe that Nathan had found her to wear was draped around her like a court gown, the neckline pulled low and the waist belted high. She was going to be, Hercules decided, dipping to greet her with a brotherly kiss, one of those wonderful women who grow old disgracefully, and revel in it every step of the way. He suspected that Aphrodite would heartily approve - and he could hear his mother laughing at him - softly - for being disconcerted by such open, earthy sensuality.
"Up so early, Hercules?" Nathan bustled through, carrying steaming platters of porridge which he placed in front of three bright, eager faces. The children seemed to be getting over their traumatic experience - probably much faster than many of the others that the innkeeper had generously offered to shelter. "Thought you’d want to sleep in. You had a busy night."
"Yeah," Hercules laughed, reassured by the way these people seemed to have just picked up and carried on with their lives. "But there’s something I need to do this morning. Besides," he added, catching Helena’s eye, "I hadn’t exactly expected to be sharing my bed."
Nathan grinned and Helena laughed delightedly. "Nothing wrong with a little company at night," she purred, her hand reaching out to stroke the innkeeper’s arm possessively. Nathan coloured a little.
"Depends on the company," he murmured, bending to swipe vigorously at already gleaming table tops.
"True," Helena allowed, eyeing Hercules up and down with speculation. "Remind me to give Iolaus a refund."
Hercules took the bait, catching the challenge in her eye. "You don’t think I’m worth paying for?"
She smiled knowingly. "Oh, scrumptious, you’re worth every dinar, believe me. But the hero of the hour started with three and ended up with only one. That’s discount in anybody’s book - no matter how divine the company."
Three?
He’d been prepared for a risqué comeback - but he hadn’t been expecting that one. Then he realised she wasn’t exactly joking ...
He - he didn’t - did he?
If Iolaus had bragged of such a thing to his face, Hercules would have responded with a mixture of stern disapproval and dumbfounded amusement; one barely-met stranger at a time was bad enough, but - three? The prospect of such an arrangement would never occur to him, let alone his considering taking part in it - but the idea that his partner might didn’t exactly surprise him.
And the resultant mixture of outrage, affection exasperation and bemused disbelief went a long way towards explaining the look that chased across his face.
Not to mention the images which had immediately sprung to mind ...
Hercules felt the colour rise to his cheeks, a reaction not helped by Helena’s peel of laughter at having thoroughly disconcerted him. "Uh - yeah - umm - I - ah - gotta go," he announced, pointing at the door and seeking refuge in retreat. "See you later?"
"Anytime," she murmured confidently, and he beat a hasty exit before she could make it a binding arrangement.
Outside, he paused to collapse back against the white washed wall of the inn and allowed himself an embarrassed chuckle. Oh, you handled that well, he decided, the thought filled with self irony. He was the son of Zeus, the strongest man in Greece - and he could be reduced to a flustered stutter by nothing more than a suggestive remark and a well intentioned compliment.
He’d been raised to have consideration and respect for the fairer sex - and he managed both with all sorts of ladies, from stately queens, through simple peasants to Amazons and warrior princesses. Somehow, women like Helena had never quite figured in all his mother’s careful instruction and advice. But then - he’d never quite figured out how to deal with the Widow Twankey either.
Iolaus handles this sort of thing much better than me ...
And that thought inevitably set the laughter off again; he gave himself a little self determined shake, pushed himself upright and set off down the street, stifling the occasional giggle until he finally managed to get himself back under control.
The laughter his partner inspired was always good for his heart, no matter what the reasons for it, and he arrived at the Magistrate’s office feeling a little less guilty and a lot more certain of his intentions. He might have made an off the cuff remark or two, but it had been Jantis who’d taken them and twisted them into unreasonable action. The young man had to face what he’d done; what he might have been instrumental in making happen. Hercules might have a few reservations about brothels, but absolutely none when it came to murder.
He hesitated as he reached for the door, remembering the look of furious frustration which had painted Perelion’s face as the watch had herded his son and his associates towards the town lock-up. It had been hard to tell which had been more disappointing to the man - his son’s behaviour, or the fact that he’d failed to achieve his initial intention. Hercules had not missed the way the Magistrate had looked at Helena and her distraught charges as Nathan had shepherded them down the hill and into the safety of his inn. If he hadn’t been so concerned with making sure that Iolaus received the care and attention he needed - and a little in need of the healer himself - he might have followed the watch to make sure their prisoners had been suitably secured.
This isn’t going to be easy.
His life never was. He squared his shoulders and walked in through the door.
"You’re too late, Hercules."
Perelion was sitting behind his desk - a vastly ornate affair, all polished wood and curlicue carving. To be accurate, he was sitting with his feet up on the desk, the chair behind it tipped back to accommodate the pose. There was a wine jug nudging his knee and a goblet cradled in his hands. His face was haggard and his eyes haunted; he looked as if he’d been sat there most of the night.
"Too late?" Hercules strode past him to stare down the passage at the narrow, barred cells his office guarded. All of them were empty. He swung back with suspicion and alarm. "Where are they, Perelion?"
"Gone." The Magistrate took another swig from his goblet, and heaved a deeply felt sigh.
"Gone? Gone where?" Anxiety began to tie a knot in the warrior’s stomach; he’d walked through a practically deserted town, most of its citizens sleeping in after the disturbance in the night. He’d left Iolaus in the arms of Morpheus - and if the inn were come under attack, Nathan would have his hands full ...
"Just - gone," Perelion shrugged, the words resigned. "I told them to leave town. No," he corrected, sitting up and gathering a little of his determination. "I told them to get the Tarterus out of here. To hit the road and keep hitting it until Iphrus was nothing more than a bad dream." He stared at Hercules with defiant eyes, challenging him to condemn his actions. "You know why I’m Magistrate, Hercules? I took the job because I like ordering people around - and because I like the looks of respect they give me, whether they want to or not. It’s been a pretty sweet deal for me. Not much work and you get pretty good at looking the other way - when the colour of the money is right. Just a few righteous irritations in the barrel - like that do-gooder Nathan - and that witch on the hill. She never liked me - but I never wished her dead. You do believe that, don’t you?"
"Yes," Hercules nodded, moving a little closer and looking down at the man with a sudden sense of pity. "I do."
Perelion grunted, a sound trying very hard to be a laugh. "Well, that’s something." He paused for another gulp of wine. "Guess I’m not a very good Magistrate. But I am a good father. I love my son. I’ve tried to treat him right. But he never listens - and he never stops to think. He’s not a bad kid - " The man stopped and thought about that, his face creasing into unhappy lines. "Actually," he admitted, "he’s a pretty lousy kid. He’s a thug, a bully, and a drunkard. I don’t know who beat him up last night, but I know he deserved the lesson. I didn’t see any warlords lurking near the Elysium last night. Did you?"
"No," Hercules shook his head, unable to help the smile that briefly curled onto his lips. "There wasn’t one. Just Iolaus."
Perelion glanced up in surprise. "That little guy? He did all that?"
"You think he makes a living jumping off burning buildings? Iolaus is my partner. He’s been known to take on entire armies before now. Single handedly. I doubt if your son and his gang even made him break a sweat. Oh," he added, making it a small note of warning, "and - uh - word of advice? Don’t call him little. He doesn’t like it very much."
"I’ll try to remember that ... Look," the Magistrate said, lifting his head to meet the demi-god eye to eye. "I know what Jantis did was wrong. And I know I should’ve punished him and - made him serve his time. But he’s my son. He’d just get in with a bad crowd in prison - become like some of the men I’ve had to put away this past year or so. He’s not a killer, Hercules. Not yet. At least this way he gets a second chance ..."
Hercules heaved a small sigh of his own. There was no artifice in the emotion behind the man’s words. He’d done what he’d done because he loved his son. He’d been trying to save him from himself - knowing that, by doing so - he’d have crossed the line and betrayed his elected office. There was an odd kind of bravery in that. Even so -
"If I hadn’t woken up last night," the warrior pointed out, as gently as he could manage, "we’d have been burying eighteen corpses today. Three of them children. They didn’t just fire the House, Perelion. They blocked the doors; locked everyone inside. I don’t know how that figures in your book, but in mine? That’s murder. Cold blooded murder. I know nobody died - but it wasn’t from lack of trying."
Perelion grimaced into his wine, his shoulders slumping with resignation. "You going to hunt them down?" he asked wearily. Hercules thought about it. Thought about it very carefully.
How much of this was my fault? If I hadn’t said what I did ...
They were drunk. That’s no excuse, but - did they understand what they were doing? Did I?
What good would I do, going after them? And perhaps he’s right. Jantis made one mistake - a bad one, but - does he deserve prison for it? Could I live with what that would make him? What I’d make him?
He had no answers for any of his questions. But his sense of guilt grew stronger as he studied the man in front of him. One chance remark - a moment’s thoughtlessness - and the ripples of consequence were still affecting lives. Perelion’s among them. He was finished in Iphrus, and he knew it.
"No," he said at last. "Iolaus and I have bigger fish to catch in Mysia. We’ll be losing a couple of days as it is, and we need to be there before the festival. Jantis can get his second chance - but if I were you? I’d pack up and go after him - before the people of Iphrus realise you were the one that let them go."
He turned and walked away, leaving the man staring after him. "He’s my son, Hercules. What else was I supposed to do?"
It was a good question.
One more he just didn’t know how to answer.
It took three days to get the full story out of Hercules. Iolaus knew he’d been being evasive about events, but he hadn’t been able to figure why exactly - and it wasn’t until he practically sat him down and demanded an explanation that he finally got one.
They were back on the road by then, taking the main road into Mysia since they’d lost the time they would have needed to scout out the backways en route. Hercules had spent the majority of the first day helping the residents of the Elysium sift through the still cooling embers of their old home and when Iolaus had finally crawled, yawning from the realms of sleep, he’d been surprised - and relieved - to find his gear piled at the foot of the bed, rescued from where Sapphire had set it to air in the bathhouse. Not a lot else had survived it seemed; the girls had gleaned a few heat cracked gemstones from the wreckage, and recovered some of the tiles from the lobby as souvenirs, but the rest of the once proud House was nothing more than ashes. The hunter had slept through most of the day after the fire, so he’d missed a lot of the outcry and anger that had swept through town once it had become known that Jantis had gone missing. He had been awake the day after though - becoming a slightly bemused witness to Helena’s colourful inauguration as the new Iphran Magistrate.
Bemused - and silent for most of the day, his throat and lungs still agonizingly raw from inhaling smoke and heat. Hercules had made a joke about finally finding a way to keep him quiet, and the remark had earned the demi-god a look laced with daggers and a thoughtful observation from Helena that - the way she heard it - the hunter had much better uses for his tongue. Iolaus had still been grinning about that the following morning. Not so much because of what the newly appointed Magistrate had said, but more because of the interesting colour that Hercules had gone after she said it ...
They’d left Iphrus soon after breakfast - a parting which had taken a little longer than their usual blithe farewells, since every one of the rescued women had insisted on bestowing a thank you kiss on their departing heroes. This, along with a grateful hug from three exuberant children, a firm warrior’s clasp from Nathan and a warm huzzah or two from the inordinate number of townsfolk who’d made it their business to be in the vicinity, had taken a considerable amount of time. Iolaus had the distinct feeling that at least two of the girls had added themselves back into the line but he’d not pointed that out to his partner, who’d been embarrassed enough by the proceedings as it was. The hunter had made his personal farewells to Jade, Sapphire and Poppy the night before; the three of them had giggled sweetly as they claimed their public kiss and he’d been unable to resist a final turn back and a jaunty wave before the inn - and the crowd still gathered in front of it - had completely vanished from sight.
After that they’d walked in silence for a while, Hercules immersed in his thoughts and Iolaus busy sucking on one of the sweet herb and honey candies the healer had given him to help ease his scalded throat. It was good candy - and it helped him focus his mind away from an almost overwhelming desire to scratch. His blistered skin had begun to peel, leaving him vaguely piebald; patches of new pink skin gleaming almost white against the remnants of his tan. The bits that were neither white nor bronze were still an angry red - and all of it itched like crazy.
The day was cool and overcast, although the worst of the storm clouds had dissipated the day before. Winter was drawing in and the heavy rains had left a pall of dampness over the countryside. Mud squelched underfoot and the landscape had a desolate, sorry look to it; many of the trees had reduced to skeletal nakedness, the last of their leaves stripped away by the storm, and those that hadn’t drooped under the weight of sodden, soggy branches.
"So - what did Jantis use?" Iolaus finally asked, breaking the silence which had begun to stretch beyond friendly and into deliberate. He knew Hercules was feeling guilty about something - something about the events that night had disturbed his partner’s equilibrium far more than the man wanted to admit - but he couldn’t imagine what it might be. He’d wondered, for a while, if the guilt had been born from that stupid disagreement that they’d had - which hadn’t really been a disagreement, just a pointless spat born from a difference in opinion and the exhaustion of a long day. He could see that Hercules might feel guilty at not having been in the brothel when the fire started - which he would have been had he been prepared to step off his moral high ground and judge the place purely on its own merits - but that didn’t explain the way his eyes grew shadowed whenever Jantis’ name was mentioned, or why he hadn’t felt able to broach the subject the day before.
Talk to me, Herc. I know you want to ...
"Use for what?" The son of Zeus could have been miles away; he blinked at both question and questioner, almost as if he’d forgotten he’d got company. Iolaus rolled his eyes briefly skywards. These kind of conversations were hard enough when talking was easy, but right now his throat was raw and even breathing too deep triggered a cough that took several minutes to subside. He was going to have to choose his words very carefully.
"To start the fire. The outer wood was wet, but it went up - "
"Like dry tinder," Hercules completed, slowing his pace so he could regard his companion with wary concern. "He mixed corn oil with pitch ... Iolaus - you sure you want to talk about this now? I mean, you’re croaking at me. You shouldn’t be talking at all."
The hunter grimaced tellingly. "You talk," he insisted, jabbing a finger to emphasis the point. "I listen. Herc," he added, giving the man his best plaintive puppy dog look, "there’s something you’ve been wanting to tell me, and you haven’t figured out how to do it and - "
"Ah!" Hercules ordered, thrusting out his hand and clamping it over his partner’s mouth. "Not another word. Okay?" He stared pointedly at the hunter, who’d made no move to escape the firm but gentle grip. "Okay?"
Iolaus stared back, watching until the stern challenge in his friend’s eyes softened into an affectionate plea. Then he nodded, knowing that he’d won his case and that he’d get his explanation. Even if it had cost him the use of his voice for an hour or two.
"Okay," Hercules breathed, removing his hand but remaining poised to replace it should the need arise. "You’re right. There is something I’ve been meaning to tell you. About the fire." He paused, wrestling with an expression that held an equal mixture of guilt and regret. "I was the one that gave Jantis the idea."
What? Iolaus’ eyes went wide and his mouth dropped open. Hercules’ hand tensed, ready to silence the outcry he was half expecting. The hunter took the hint; he clamped his mouth firmly shut again, and considered his friend with determined frown instead. How so? his eyebrows asked above a look packed with challenge. There was no way he believed what he’d just heard - although, if it was true, it was going to take a lot of explanation.
The son of Zeus heaved a quiet sigh and let his hand drop back to his side. "He was drunk - I made a smart remark ... I didn’t even know he’d heard it. But he did, and he took my advice, and - he dealt with his problems another way. Look - " he went on, turning away to raise both hands to the wilderness with frustrated appeal, "he came barging in to the inn, angry as Hades, complaining about some - seven foot warlord that had thrown him out of the House and ..." The glance he shot back in his company’s direction was both pained and apologetic. "I didn’t know what to think. Were you in trouble, should I have been there ..." The glance became a sheepish grimace. "It wasn’t until something Nathan said, that I realised it was you he was talking about."
Me. Iolaus quirked a small grin, remembering the ease with which he’d demolished Jantis and his gang that night. Seven foot warlord, huh? He shook his head, hastily suppressing an urge to giggle at the idea. If he giggled, he’d probably start coughing - and then Hercules would never finish his explanation.
All the same ...
Seven foot warlord? He really couldn’t let that one pass without comment, so he carefully pantomimed the difference between his own compact height and the reported one, lifting his eyes to consider his upraised hand as he did so. Hercules had to chuckle at his expression.
"Yeah, I know. But I don’t think anyone had taught him that kind of lesson before. He was spitting mad and he wanted revenge. I should have seen that. I should have realised ... Like I said, I made a smart remark - a thoughtless one - and he must’ve heard me because - when I got up onto the hill, there he was. Throwing the last of his fuel at the House and - " He paused to take another breath, staring at the sky in preference to meeting his friend’s eyes. "He told me I had - good ideas. Good ideas! I - I ..." He trailed off, unable to find words which expressed the bemused anger and self recrimination that he was so clearly wrestling with.
Iolaus put out his hand and swung the man round to face him, his eyes holding a mix of exasperation and sympathy. Hercules was beating himself up over this? Over a casual remark, made off the cuff and without serious intent? Maybe his words had planted the idea in Janitis’ head - but that hardly made him responsible for the fire. It hadn’t been his hands on the flint - and it certainly hadn’t been him jamming a balk of timber up against the doors to prevent anyone from escaping.
Not your fault, Herc, he tried to convey, shaking his head in silent denial of his friend’s sense of guilt. Hercules mis-read the look. His eyes dropped and his face creased in distress. "If you - if anyone had died," he admitted softly. "There’s no way I could have forgiven myself."
That’s why he let him go ...
Iolaus had been wondering why Hercules had decided against pursing Jantis and his cronies. Why he’d been willing to let them vanish they way he had. They had tried to murder innocent, helpless women - Hades, he grimaced wryly, they nearly succeeded with me ... And yet the son of Zeus, whose sense of justice was second to none, had allowed them to make their escape almost without protest.
Some days ... The hunter breathed a silent sigh, knowing his best friend well enough to understand both his sense of guilt and his reasons for it; the son of Zeus - being the son of Zeus - occasionally walked around with the weight of the whole world on his shoulders. It was too easy for him to assume responsibility in circumstances where lesser mortals would simply shrug and accept that - sometimes - things happened that were beyond their control. It didn’t help that he always expected the best from others, looking for the sparks of decency and compassion that he believed lay buried in every mortal’s heart. Iolaus knew better than that. Some people were just born rotten - and those that were tended to like being that way. Maybe Jantis did deserve a second chance - but having given him one, there was no need for Hercules to go on nursing the guilt which had been the reason for it in the first place.
Okay. So how do I tell him that?
He opened his mouth - then shut it again, his lips creasing together in mute frustration. If he spoke, Hercules wouldn’t listen to what he said. He’d be too busy hearing the raw whisper which would creep from his blistered throat, and they’d lose the thread of this argument in another one altogether.
The answer dawned with a twinkle of mischief in sky-blue eyes and the hunter had to hurriedly suppress the grin that followed it, since that wouldn’t help his cause at all. If he couldn’t use his voice to convey what needed to be said, then he was just going to have to use the rest of him instead. And he used to be good at this, back at the Academy ...
Iolaus tapped firmly on his friend’s shoulder to draw his attention. Hercules looked up reluctantly, his eyes haunted and his expression a troubled one. He found himself facing three fingers, held up with determined insistence.
"Three?" the demi-god recognised, his despondent look collapsing into a puzzled frown. "Three what? Three leagues? Three days ago? Three bandits standing behind me?" The hunter rolled his eyes and firmly repeated the gesture; it took a moment or two for the dinar to drop. "Three - oh. Three words. Uh - right. Okay ..." The acknowledgement held a note of bewilderment, the man clearly struggling to understand what relevance this had to anything. Iolaus frowned at him.
Pay attention here, Herc. I’m trying to tell you something important ...
He folded down two fingers and wagged the third in front of his partner’s nose in unmistakable gesticulation. "First word," Hercules acknowledged warily, still looking puzzled. The hunter stepped back, unhooked his sword - dropping it and its scabbard to the ground to get it out of his way - then tugged free the belt which had been supporting it. He held it out, looping the longer end over the one with the buckle, pulled both ends in opposite directions and looked expectantly at his audience.
"Knot," came the immediate, if bemused, identification. "Iolaus, I - "
Two firmly presented fingers silenced him; their owner followed it with a deliberately exaggerated yawn. Hercules rolled his eyes skywards with matyred patience. "Yawn," he sighed. Iolaus hastily shook his head and pantomimed bringing his hands together to show he only wanted part of the word. The son of Zeus had begun relax into his stance, folding his arms in an okay, so I’m going along with this but I really don’t know why kind of gesture. "Ya - awn - yaw... Yaw." He caught the nod of confirmation and straightened up again, finally realising that this was relevant and not just some stupid game to distract his attention. "Knot yaw - ahuh - not your ... problem? Concern?"
It was Iolaus’ turn to roll his eyes skywards.
Oh, come on, Herc. You know me better than that.
"Third word." His friend was paying full attention now., which was just was well. This last one was likely to be tricky.
The hunter paused for a moment, trying to decide on the best approach and absently scratching at a particularly itchy patch on his shoulder. "Hey - stop that," Hercules ordered, reaching across to knock his hand away. "That’s as bad as talking. Come on. Third word?" Iolaus frowned a little longer, then grinned to himself, and tugged briefly on his right ear. "Ah - sounds like? Like - uh - I told you to stop that!"
He danced out of the way as the son of Zeus put out his hand to slap him again, gesticulating encouragement as he went. "Stop - sounds like stop? Oh - something like stop. Okay - um - cease? Quit? Desist? Halt? Halt ... Okay. Sounds like halt."
Hercules paused in his pursuit to frown over the puzzle. "Halt. Not your ..." Comprehension dawned. "Not your fault, right?" Iolaus nodded, backing the confirmation with a look of affectionate sympathy. His best friend sighed. "Iolaus, I - "
It was the hunter’s turn to slap him - pointedly, an impatient thwack on the shoulder which had begun to turn away from him, delivered with the back of his hand. When those steel blue eyes reluctantly returned to his, he reinforced his statement with pointed insistence, hammering each finger into the man’s chest.
Not.
Your.
Fault!
The last impact would have been hard enough to bruise a common mortal; Hercules caught the hand which delivered the blow, his fingers wrapping firmly around its muscled wrist. "You mean that?" he asked softly. His eyes held anxious doubt, echoing his need to find some way to forgive himself. Begging forgiveness from his friend; needing to be forgiven. Iolaus softened his angry glare back into warm comprehension. It wasn’t forgiveness he was offering.
Just complete and utter absolution.
"Course I mean it, you doofus," he croaked, then slammed his free hand against his mouth before his company could do it for him. Sorry, his eyes said with contrite realisation. Hercules stared at him for a second or two - then, slowly, his lips curled into a warm smile.
"Who you calling a doofus - doofus?" he demanded with mock ferocity. "You’re the one with the scalded throat. Stop using it. And you can stop all that scratching too, or I’ll have to rope your hands together."
You wouldn’t ...
The gleam that now sat in his friend’s eye suggested otherwise, and Iolaus - reading it - made a hasty attempt to escape. Hercules grinned and held on. Within moments they were wrestling in earnest, an exuberant tussle between controlled strength and spirited agility; to an outside observer it might have appeared a remarkably even contest - had the Son of Zeus not tripped over the hunter’s abandoned sword and gone sprawling in the damp grass.
Iolaus’ grin of triumph was brief; a long leg swept him off his feet and the battle continued on the ground, the two of them writhing in the mud like a pair of otters at play. When it finally ended - with Iolaus stomach down on the ground and Hercules kneeling comfortably astride his shoulders lashing squirming hands together with the sword belt which he’d snatched up from the ground - the hunter was wheezing for breath in between fits of giggles.
Guess that’s - one way - to stop him feeling sorry for himself ...
He might not always be able to argue his friend out of his darker moods - but distracting him from them was always a pretty good alternative.
"Pax?" Hercules asked with a grin, hauling his partner back to his feet and dusting him down. Iolaus cautiously tested the seriousness of his bonds and then returned the grin with one of his own. That binding wouldn’t hold Salmoneous for more than a few minutes - let alone an experienced hunter with a few tricks up his proverbial sleeve.
Pax, he agreed, mouthing the word and trying to frown over it as he did so. The frown barely lasted a moment; he dissolved in another attack of giggles as Hercules grabbed his shoulders and pulled him into a heartfelt hug.
"Thanks," the son of Zeus murmured softly, packing the word with much more than gratitude. Iolaus coloured a little and ducked his head in reactive embarrassment. He never quite knew how to deal with these kind of situations. For one thing, he didn’t feel he needed any thanks; and for another, he’d been taught at a very early age that those deep kind of emotions should be kept deep - and not out on the surface for anyone to see. He’d learnt differently over the years - had learnt ways of expressing himself that his father would never have understood - but old habits are hard to break and sometimes his partner’s simple sincerity asked for more than he knew how to give.
Normally - when this kind of awkward moment arose - he’d respond with a smart remark or a good-humored punch to the man’s stomach, letting the horseplay convey whatever needed to be said; Hercules could read between those lines with consummate skill. Words, however, were currently banned from his bag of tricks - and that friendly punch was completely out of the question, what with his hands being lashed behind his back and everything.
So his dipped that little bit further and gently head-butted the man’s shoulder instead, a playful nudge of acknowledgement that managed to say hey, that’s okay along with anytime, don’t mention it and hopefully don’t be such an idiot next time all in one go. Hercules got the message. His encircling arm tightened, just a little, and then he laughed and let go, striding away to snatch up the hunter’s fallen sword and head on down the trail. Iolaus stood there for a second or two, letting the impact of their shared warmth sink into his skin.
"We’ll need a place to stay once we get to Mysia," the other owner of that warmth was saying thoughtfully, calling the thought over his shoulder as he walked away. "You think you can find us something suitable? Somewhere we’ll - ah - both approve of?"
It wasn’t quite an apology for their original altercation but then Iolaus didn’t need one of those; what it was was an acknowledgement that maybe, just sometimes, they had different ways of looking at things - and that, maybe, just maybe, Hercules’ way wasn’t always right. Perhaps it was just his way of saying something that usually went without saying.
Love ya too, big guy...
The hunter grinned, twisted his wrists out of the leather which held them and ran to catch up with his partner before he vanished from sight.
Disclaimer
No permanent damage was done to Iolaus’ lungs or throat during the course of this story. His skin stayed piebald for a while, but has now regained its normal, glorious tan. The House of Elysium is being rebuilt and will re-open for business shortly.
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