Pythia

(Author's note: the opening events in this story take place immediately after the fifth season epsiode 'Revelations'. The rest follows on after Hercules and Iolaus have returned from Egypt and the events shown in 'City of the Dead')

It had grown late almost without him realising it; he'd been wide awake for hours, yet somehow sleep showed no sign of catching up with him, despite the events of the day. The moon was a low disc of silver on the horizon and the stars lay sprinkled across the night like a swathe of tiny diamonds. The fire had burnt low, and only the occasional twig still cracked and spat in protest at its incandescent death. Iolaus sat and watched it with fascination; he'd built so many camp fires in the past - built them and camped by them, never comprehending the intricacy of their sacrifice. Never realising how beautiful a simple flame could be …

Come to that, he'd never given much thought to how wonderful everything was. How the whisper of the night air could feel so sweet, or how the scents of the evening could convey such enthralling messages. He felt as if he were immersed in a vast sea of experiences; one in which every moment carried significance, and every significant moment was one to treasure beyond compare.

And to think I used to take all of this for granted …

Hercules shifted in his sleep and settled again, a simple human action that lifted a quiet smile to his companion's face . The man deserved to sleep deeply. In the day just past he'd fought with the general of the heavenly host, faced down the four horsemen of the Apocalypse and sacrificed his life in order to redeem humanity in the eyes of the Light. Not an average day, even by his standards.

But hey - Iolaus grinned, reaching to gently replace the blanket that had half fallen from the half-god's shoulders. It was worth it, right? We got to save the world - and I'm here - which is a lot better than spending the next millennium in perdition's flames …

He hadn't been looking forward to that. But he'd known the risk when he'd taken it. The possibility of spending a thousand plus years as a foot soldier in the abyss would be nowhere near as unbearable as the look Hercules would have given him once he'd found out that his best friend had known about the threat of Armageddon and hadn't done anything about it.

I mean - the whole of the Reverie was buzzing with the news. Everyone knew it was going to happen. I couldn't just - well, he grimaced at the fire. I just couldn't.

So he'd broken practically every rule in the book, snuck back to the mortal world eons before he was supposed to be able to - and here he was, breathing fresh air and wood smoke, in a world that hadn't been destroyed, watching over the son of a god, right where he belonged …

"Iolaus."

The voice was soft. It made the warrior's blood run cold.

"Oh-oh."

He turned. Slowly, hoping that he was hearing things. He wasn't. Michael was standing there, the faint flicker of the fire playing across the gleam of his armor - and along the lines of his wings, which lay furled behind his shoulders. Iolaus had to turn his head away and swallow hard to keep the sudden prick of tears from his eyes.

Does he have to rub it in?

There were a great many things to said for being back in the mortal world. The sweetness of appetite, the richness of sensation, the depth of experience - but there were things he'd shared in the Reverie that went beyond all that. Seeing the archangel, like that, just brought them all back with a rush. It had been a hard thing to do - to walk out of celestial bliss - even though returning to material existence had its compensations. Only those that belonged to the orders had the ability to encompass both - and by doing what he'd done, he figured that he'd probably given up his chance to become one of them, for a long time to come …

It was worth it, he reminded himself fiercely, and set his shoulders and lifted his head to stare at the angel with determined eyes.

"Changed your mind?" he asked. His heart was fluttering in his chest. It was just possible that the powers that be had done just that…

The archangel smiled. It was a beneficent smile, filled with quiet amusement. "I'm afraid not," he said, moving across to stand beside the fire and look down at the sleeping man beside it. "You have your orders, Iolaus. You are condemned to walk the world at this man's side. The beth-el has been denied you - and you shouldn't have known how to do that yet, anyway."

Iolaus shrugged uncomfortably. "I've always been a quick learner," he muttered.

Michael laughed. "And not averse to testing your limits, despite the best advice," he observed knowingly. "Like flying solo the day you got your wings?"

The warrior winced. "You heard about that, huh?"

"I hear about everything, Iolaus. You know that."

"Yeah. Guess I do. So - what do you want? Planning another test for Herc? Or just sightseeing?"

"Neither. Although - time will test this man, and you with him, I have no doubt. Which is why I brought you this" The angel reached down and pulled a sword out of the scabbard that hung at his belt. It was a beautiful blade, forged on the anvils of heaven and glimmering softly with its own inner light. "I'd have given it to you earlier but - well, I was waiting for confirmation of the judgement. Which I got," he added pointedly, almost as if expecting Iolaus to have made an appeal. He hadn't. Of course he hadn't. He was home - and right where he wanted to be, even if he'd given up a lot to be there.

"This is for me?" Iolaus questioned warily. Surely angels - no matter how highly ranked among the powers - never got permission to give a weapon like that to a mortal man? The swords of the host were imbued with the absolute power of the Light; it would take someone with the purest of hearts and the sternest of souls to wield one. And he'd hardly have put himself into that category - especially since the reason he was sitting where he was because he was supposed to be being punished for what he'd done. "I don't get it."

The archangel widened his smile, reaching down to press the weapon's hilt into the bewildered warrior's hand. "Yes, you do," he insisted softly.

The contact initiated a surge of warmth that passed through flesh and bone and went deep; the whisper of incandescence reached down into the man's soul and brought a startled gasp to his lips. Iolaus leapt to his feet, his hand instinctively tightening its grip on the sword. A flicker of flame immediately ran down the blade - and set fire to the grass at his feet.

"Whoa," he gulped, hastily stamping out the tiny conflagration. "Did I do that? Oh - boy," he added as comprehension followed his astonishment. "You mean - I'm - I thought - you said - but - hoh boy." He stared at the creature beside him with wide eyes. "You're kidding me."

"No." Michael shook his head with a firmness that brooked no second denial. "I'm not. You are in exile, Iolaus - but you earned your wings and today you proved your true worth. This is a sword of the Aeon. Use it wisely, wield it well - and when next you come to judgement it will be as one of their order, to stand or fall by their standards. Just two things - firstly, you have to realise that simply returning your life and mortality would have rewarded you, while this makes your being here more of an atonement for your transgression, and secondly -" The smile widened into a warm grin. "Put your wings away. You'll draw attention if you walk about the mortal world like that."

Iolaus turned his head in startlement. Sure enough, the soft flutter of feathers sat behind his shoulders. He had regained his wings - and not just the plain simple white ones that everyone got; these had plumes of the softest, palest gold.

Aeon. He said it was a sword of the Aeon.

He'd paid some attention to what he'd been taught about the heavenly host. The Aeon were the ninth order; the guardians of Earth and those most intimately connected to the mortal realm. And their wings were gold - pure gold, which marked them out, just like the thick glossy black feathers which distinguished his current company. This time he couldn't keep the tear from escaping - although he couldn't tell whether it was one of deepest anguish or utter joy. "Oh, gods," he breathed, stretching pinions of light and lifting himself several inches off the ground in the process. He turned to the archangel, wordless with emotion, wanting to laugh, needing to cry - and Michael chuckled at his expression, reaching out to press a finger to his shoulder and push him back to the ground.

"Put them away," he repeated firmly. "And never reveal your true nature to anyone, unless you have no choice. You may still serve as a guardian of the light, but because of your exile you can no longer return to it for Inspiration. That makes you vulnerable here - and limited in your powers. You are denied the beth-el, and healing anyone - including yourself - will take great effort and exhaust your strength. As will summoning the flame to your blade, or seeking to work even the smallest of miracles. Think only of yourself as a mortal man - with an unusual edge - and you'll do just fine."

"Yeah," Iolaus acknowledged in a decidedly dazed voice. "Sure. Whatever." He eased his shoulders, gave them a twist and an effort filled shrug, and the gift he thought he'd lost forever settled back into nothingness. But they were there. He could feel them, feel them like the fire that lurked in the sword, just waiting to spring forth whenever he desired.

"The sword too," Micheal suggested. The warrior - who was just beginning to realise he might be far more than merely a warrior - looked down and frowned. The flame that had flickered along the blade had died away, so he lifted the weapon and carefully sheathed it into the now empty space behind his shoulder blades, where it vanished just as the wings had done.

"Only when I need it, right? I mean - if I need it, yeah?"

"Absolutely. Pray you never do. That blade was forged to fight demons."

Demons? He laughed a little nervously. He might have just got an unexpected - and decidedly back door - promotion, but he didn't think he was quite up to demons yet. Not without Hercules to give him a hand, anyway. "Uh - right. I'll - uh - bear that in mind. Er - Michael?"

"Yes?"

Iolaus twitched an anxious grin. "The ninth order? Th-they're not just guardians, they're guardians of something, right? So - uh - what exactly am I supposed to be guarding?"

The smile that answered him was radiant - and grew more radiant still as the archangel summoned the beth-el and began to return to the celestial realm. "Hercules, of course," came the answer, offered in resonant tones. "Who else would we assign to be his guardian angel …?"

Who else?

Feeling utterly stunned, Iolaus collapsed back onto the log that had been serving him as a seat for most of the night. The darkness crept back in around him, only briefly dispelled by the archangel's moment of transcendence. Michael had clearly intended his visit to be a personal one since the son of Zeus hadn't so much as stirred; he still lay in quiet slumber, wrapped in an untroubled sleep. The fire was nearly out; almost without thinking the man's newly appointed guardian reached out his hand and mentally coaxed it back into a leap of flame.

Gods, Iolaus realised immediately afterwards. He was right. That does take effort …

He'd thought he was being sent back to the world the way he'd left it; but now it seemed he'd been made something much more than merely mortal again - although, equally, he was something somewhat less than the immortal creature who'd just left.

Half and half. Neither one thing or the other, but a mixture of both. Kinda like Herc, I guess.

Which, somewhat comforting, thought was immediately followed by a decidedly unsettling one.

Oh gods. He said not to tell anyone. Did he mean him as well?

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'Heaven Must be Missing an Angel'- Prologue. Disclaimer:This story has been written for love rather than profit and is not intended to violate any copyrights held by Universal, Pacific Rennaisance, or any other holders of Hercules: The Legendary Journeys trademarks or copyrights.
© 2001. Written by Pythia. Reproduced by Penelope Hill