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Bound by His Brother's Heart Pythia |
It had been a cold hard winter. Savage storms had ravaged across the mountains and whipped the sea into fury; sharp frosts had blighted the land and even the hardiest of olive groves had suffered, the already twisted trees withering in the bitter air. Spring was supposed to be on its way, but - while the air had grown a little warmer as the days lengthened - no buds had yet appeared to greet the return of the burgeoning year. The fields were ploughed, but no corn sprouted. The gardens were hoed, but no soft shoots forced their way through the winter hardened earth. And the forests were stark landscapes, filled with angled trees, stripped of their leaves and lacking the rich cloak of undergrowth that normally festooned their feet.
Iolaus was more than grateful for the protection of his cloak as he made his way home. There was an icy wind cutting through the air, and the forest offered no shelter from the imminent threat of rain. It was a good cloak, made from hare fur and trimmed with fox tails; he’d caught every one of the animals himself during the previous summer. Hare stew was richer than rabbit, and Deianeira made a good one; she’d never complained when he’d appeared with such a gift on his best friend’s doorstep. The foxes had been stealing chickens from practically every coop in Thebes and he’d matched wits with them for weeks. He could still recall Hercules’ stunned expression when he’d finally appeared with the villains dangling over his shoulder; it had made the whole summer seem worthwhile.
A gift, he’d joked, laying the rich red fur at Deianeira’s feet. She’d feigned indignation at his bringing vermin into the house and chased him out of it with a broom. Hercules had laughed uproariously at the sight, and made no effort to come to his friend’s rescue; he’d born the beating (which hadn’t really hurt) with mock protestations and apologised profusely - after which Deianeira had forgiven him and invited him to lunch.
A month later, with autumn beginning to bite, she’d laid the cloak around his shoulders with a generous gesture. A gift, she’d whispered and smiled at him. Deianeira had a wonderful smile; it had won the heart of the son of Zeus, and it never failed to cheer his sword brother. He’d needed cheering, all that year. He’d found peace of heart in the travels that had taken him from Thebes - but the place he’d returned to was filled with memories and peace of mind was harder to come by. A year away - a year back, and he could still hear his son’s voice echoing through the emptiness of his house. It was quieter in the forge, and he’d worked long days there like a Trojan, trying to find that centre of himself that his Eastern Master had promised he’d find. Long days in the forge, longer ones in the forest, and short sweet ones in the haven that Hercules had made of his home.
You have more family than you think, Alcmene had chided him, only that morning. He’d laughed as though it hadn’t mattered, but it had. It had always mattered. Right from that startling day when he’d first set eyes on the woman who’d entranced a god and she’d welcomed him into her home as if he’d belonged there forever. Alcemene and Deianeira. Two wonderful women who’d managed to teach him what family really meant - which was more than his own parents had ever managed.
Still, he was mindful of his filial duties, even if he kept them short and to the point; he’d left Alcmene’s smile and made his way cross-country to his mother’s house for the required visit. She’d made some comment or other about a poet she’d met at the winter festival and he’d grunted something suitably encouraging without taking much notice of what she said.
He drew his cloak closer about his shoulders and hurried on, head down against the growing bite of the wind. He loved his mother. Always had, always would. But he felt so - so awkward visiting her. He’d shamed her, he knew that. He’d tried to make up for it - had tried to make up for all that wasted part of his life - but every time he saw her it was to remember how his behaviour had hurt her. He was never quite sure of what to say. And now that both Ania and Anacles were gone ...
He paused at that, drawing in a shaky breath. He’d thought it. He’d actually thought it. Without the usual hesitation, without the inner stab of pain he’d carried for so many months. It still hurt. That would never go away. But the raw edge was finally gone from his heart. Spring cannot come until winter is over, the Master had said. And how will I know? he’d asked. The old man had smiled. You will know, he’d answered.
"Well," he breathed, standing in the growing dusk and feeling the wind tug at his cloak. "Winter’s over, I guess." He shivered, feeling the bite of the dying day and laughed softly at himself. "Looks like the world and I will have to wait a little longer for the spring though." He shivered a second time and set off at a run. It wasn’t that late, but the clouds were heavy with rain and it wouldn’t be fun to get caught out in it.
He hesitated at the crossroads. Down in the valley Hercules would be putting his children to bed, telling them stories about his life as a hero - stories they loved to hear from their Uncle Iolaus, since he gave them all the heroic details. Hercules was a modest man and disliked making too much of his exploits. Iolaus, on the other hand, loved to spin a good yarn - and some of those stories were pretty good yarns ...
Tomorrow, he decided with a small sigh. There was still that ploughshare he’d promised to fix for Oneitias, and Celipon was waiting for his new cauldron. A man had to earn a living. Especially now that the hero business was only a part time pursuit. He glanced up at the sky and frowned. Those clouds were a lot heavier now. They hung low overhead, dark and ominous. A soft rumble of thunder echoed across the valley and he set off running again, leaving the road to take the shortest route, no longer sure he’d be home before the rain began.
His fears were well founded. The heavens opened without warning, turning the dying day into instant night. It was heavy rain too, the sort that came down like a continuous sheet of water. He jinked under the doubtful shelter of a tree and watched as the curtain of rain swept across the hillside. Within minutes the path he’d intended to take had turned into a small stream.
"Fates," he cursed. The route was the quickest way home, but not the safest in this kind of weather. He’d have to detour around the lower slope and make his way up the hill from the other side. Old Croesus would have been setting his traps again, so he’d have to watch his step, but the long walk was still preferable to wading his way through icy water for most of the distance.
Why did I have to build my house on top of a hill? he asked himself with irritation as he set off in the relevant direction. Because Ania loved it up there, came the immediate answer. Which was perfectly true. But he loved it too; he’d climbed that hill many times as a child, just to catch the breeze and gaze out over the world. It had been a refuge for him - and it had one of the best fishing spots ever sat right at its feet.
No fish tonight, he grinned. They might be jumping with all this rain, but he wasn’t about to sit and watch them do it when there were warm embers sat in the forge fire and the prospect of hot mulled wine to keep him company. Perhaps he’d go fishing in the morning. Times were hard, what with the bad winter and everything. The game had gotten scarce and those few rabbits he had caught recently had been skinny and tough. Fish would be a nice change. And if he caught enough it would give him a good excuse to visit his friends. Share the bounty, so to speak.
The thought was a cheering one. He considered it as he clambered along the hillside and ducked into the copse that marked the edge of Croesus’s homestead. The old man guarded his privacy and he knew better than to walk too brazenly across his land. They were neighbours, and the old man didn’t really mind the hunter using the route when he had to - but they had long ago agreed that all the game on this side of the hill belonged to the elder of the two, and that he invited company when he wanted it and not before. Iolaus had often crouched in the thickets, watching Croesus fuss over his traps. Just as often, he’d been the one to put the rabbits into them. He liked the old man, even if he was a little eccentric, and Ania had adored him, ever since he turned up at the house with the most perfect little carved box, just for her.
Keep your treasures in it, the old man had growled and she’d dimpled and kissed him - and from then on, he could do no wrong.
Croesus hadn’t come to the funeral. But when Iolaus had returned to the house, there’d been another carving laid on top of that little box. A delicate portrait of his wife. One that he had treasured ever since ...
His heart’s in the right place, the hunter smiled, stepping over the triplines Croesus laid to catch the unwary trespasser. Trip one of those and he’d make enough noise to waken the dead. The woodcarver was a little deaf, and he packed his alarm system with a whole series of bells and jangles draped along the edge of his land.
The rain was hammering down now, turning the barren earth into a churn of cold mud. Iolaus hurried through the trees and started to ascend the shallow slope that would take him home. He was soaked to the skin and it would probably take him forever to warm up again. Will this winter never end? he wondered, ducking under a low tree branch and then grabbing at it as his feet slipped in the mud. Lightning flared along the line of hills, followed by the deep rumble of thunder. And now Zeus and Hera are arguing again ...
He scrabbled up the slope, glad he’d chosen the longer route. His normal way home included a short stretch of exposed ridgeway - exactly the place not to be walking if the gods were in a quarrelsome mood. At least this way he didn’t have the half league trudge of the official road - if any of the tracks that led out of Thebes could be called roads as such. Iolaus had seen roads - real roads - in Athens, and Sparta, and a number of other places, most of which people didn’t realise he’d visited. Rome, for instance. And Colchis.
Now that was a fun time in my life, he recalled with a grin. Another crack of lightning made him jump; the thunder that chased it was practically overhead. "Oh, come on, Zeus," he called up, beginning to think the night was conspiring against him. "Give me a break, will ya?" He giggled at his own impudence and went back to the climb. He serious doubted Zeus would be paying much attention to him right then - even if he had shared a campfire with the god once or twice. That was the thing about being Hercules’ friend. Interesting stuff like that tended to happen to you ...
The fur clad hunter reached a patch of open ground and loped out into it, hunching his shoulders as they took the full impact of the rain. He didn’t have that much further to go. Just around the next spur of the hill and then up onto the ridge beyond it. Less than a quarter league and he’d be able to see the forge - or would if it were possible to see anything in the darkness of the storm.
Nearly home, he realised, the lure of a dry house and the hope of a warm spot by his fire lengthening his stride with enthusiasm.
Lightning flared around him, so bright it was briefly blinding.
He heard the bolt strike down with an impact of thunder barely six paces ahead. He skidded to a halt with alarm, momentarily deafened and blinking to clear the afterdazzle from his eyes. Fire flickered in the gloom, too fierce to be extinguished by the hammering rain. He stared anxiously into the darkness, hunter’s senses on alert. Something was moving. Something vast, that loomed over him like the shadow of a Titan ...
Then he was backing up in panic, turning and running for his life as the shadow resolved itself into the toppling crown of the huge tree through which the spear of lightning had ripped.
By the gods, Iolaus swore, leaping down the slope with desperation. He could hear the painful crack and creak of the wood as it tore itself apart with its own weight. The hillside was slick with the rain; he went from leaping to sliding, scrabbling to get lower as the ponderous weight descended. He tripped, bounced, and then the ground gave way entirely, tipping him into sudden darkness.
The oak crashed to the forest floor with a sound like a hundred falling thunderbolts.
After which there was nothing but the soft silence of the falling rain.
It was a long time after that that Iolaus finally stirred. A long time after; there was a pale flicker of daylight dancing across his lids and demanding his attention. He groaned. With feeling. He felt as if he’d been under that damn tree when it came down. He blinked, trying to focus, and began to lift himself up, wondering just how long he’d been lying there.
Only to freeze in place with a startled gasp of agony. Moving hurt. Not just the oh god hurt of broken bone or bruised muscle, but with a fierce and demanding pain that lanced through his entire existence.
"Aahh," he managed; even breathing seeming to stir that unbearable torture. He let his weight relax back to the ground, slowly tipping his head to one side so as to locate the source of his torment. There was - something - a blurred shape sitting barely inches from his nose. He blinked again, still fighting for focus, and the object suddenly took on more definable lines. He was staring at a shaft of wood, one no more than a thumb’s width in diameter. It rose up into the air beside him, reaching a spot a good two feet above his head, where it ended in a sharpened point. There was another a little way behind it. Then another still, a whole series of sharpened stakes, lining the floor of what looked to be a deep pit.
Oh gods, he realised with a sudden sense of terrified alarm. I’m at the bottom of one of Croesus’s deertraps ...
His first reaction was one of simple panic; his muscles tensed, a preparation for action, for throwing himself to his feet, the way he had so often done in a fight. But the first hint of motion induced a shuddering wave of pain that left him gasping for breath and fighting down nausea.
"Easy," he advised himself through gritted teeth, struggling to regain control of his breathing. He closed his eyes and concentrated on that, on the slow intake of air and its subsequent expellation. The waves of pain subsided equally slowly. He lost all sense of time, consumed in that endless agony, fighting to rise above it and somehow never quite getting there.
"Easy," he breathed a second time, the word no more than whisper. He forced himself to relax, one muscle at a time, chasing down those surges of distress until he could place their point of origin. He was staked though his right shoulder, and low down by his right hip. There was another piercing his left thigh and a fourth that held his left hand. He could see it if he turned his head - the angle of his arm and the way his palm rested around the shaft of the wood. There was blood, creeping down the darkness of the stake, like a slow rivulet of scarlet wine.
Oh. Gods.
He wasn’t just in trouble. He was in major trouble. The pit was awash with a slurry of mud and rain water. He’d been lying there for hours, slowly weeping his life into the cold soup that surrounded him. And no-one knew where he was, or would even miss him, not for days.
"Help," he gulped. It was a plaintive whimper; to shout he would have to draw more air into his lungs and he couldn’t. Just couldn’t.
"Well," a rich voice considered from somewhere behind. "Now here’s a hero in a pretty pickle and no mistake."
He tried to tip his head back to see whoever it was that had spoken; it sounded as if she were standing in the pit with him. But that was impossible. Wasn’t it?
"Please," he gasped. The world spun around him with wild abandon and darkness swirled in at the edge of his senses. He nearly welcomed it. Right then the darkness seemed so much preferable to the pain ...
"You’re a polite one, aren’t you? My, my. Good looking, too. Even with all this body piercing, but that’s – well - " A shadow swam between him and the light. An unexpectedly voluptuous shadow. "I suppose my grandson knows what he’s doing. Sometimes. You are the hero I’m expecting, aren’t you?"
The words didn’t make any sense. He was dying, wasn’t he? And this woman - whoever she was - was trying to discuss her grandson?
"Of course you are. Silly me. And since you’re the one that’s supposed to help me, then this was very necessary. Messy, but necessary." The figure bent to take a closer look at him. He found himself staring into a pair of deep dark eyes that held both brilliant laughter and eternal sorrow. Dark eyes set in a dark face. So deep was the sorrow they held that - for a moment - he actually felt ashamed of his own pain. "Oh, yes," she breathed, reaching down a hand to stroke his sweated cheek with a gentle caress. "You’ll do just fine. A heart waiting for a new spring. Just like the rest of the world."
Her touch was soothing. The warmth of her hand sank into his skin and flowed out into the rest of him, a soft cascade of relief that swept across the impact of the pain. It didn’t take the pain away - just suppressed it somehow, turning it from incandescence to simmering embers, from immediate fire to distant warmth.
"Who are you?" he questioned in wonder. She laughed. Softly.
"I’m your great grandmother, child. Actually, I’m everyone’s great grandmother. And I need your help."
He quirked a disbelieving smile. "My help? Urmm - you may not have noticed but - I’m a little in need of help myself at the moment."
"Oh, I’d noticed. That’s precisely the reason that you can help me. A favour for a favour, so to speak?"
She was crouched beside him now, her hand laced into his - the one that wasn’t damaged beyond all hope of recovery.
"Sure," he decided. He didn’t know quite what was going on, but all the time she held him, the pain didn’t, and he feared that far more than he feared her. Even though he knew he ought to. Dying was one thing. Dying slowly, that was another matter entirely.
"Oh, you heroes," she laughed, squeezing his hand with affectionate pressure. "Always so eager to see what the next world looks like. But not so keen when the journey turns out to be hard. Everything dies a slow death, Iolaus. Even the universe. But every moment is so precious, even the dying is worth living for."
"Yeah?" He didn’t question how she knew his name. He had the feeling this particular lady would know everything if she just put her mind to it.
"Oh yes," she affirmed confidently. "And I ought to know. I’ve been doing it since the beginning of time. Come along." She stood up, giving his hand a gentle tug - and he was somehow standing beside her, staring down a sprawled and broken body. His sprawled and broken body.
"Am I dead?" he wondered, looking at his own pale face and shivering at the damage he had taken. Not four stakes, but five; he wondered how he’d missed the one angled deep into his left side.
"Not yet," she answered brightly. "Although - " She glanced downwards with a frown. "It’s probably not a good idea to leave you lying around in all that cold water. You’ll catch a chill. Or something. Okay," she decided, looking back up to study his anxious expression. "These aren’t exactly the usual circumstances, but - maybe we can put that bit right at least. You have any friends live around here?"
"Uh - well, there’s Hercules. And his mother," he added a little bemusedly. He wasn’t dead? He certainly looked it ...
"Hercules?" The woman stared at him in surprise, and then her face broke into a decidedly beatific smile. "You know - oh, yes. You do, don’t you. Well, well. So that’s why the old goat thought he could get away with it ... Uh-huh. Well, we’ll just have to see." Her eyes narrowed with shrewd consideration for a moment, and then the smile came back. Radiantly. "Hercules really is my great grandson, you know? I’m afraid most of the rest of you are much more distant relations. Not that you mean any less because of it," she teased, patting at his cheek with motherly affection. "Or any more come to that ..." She sighed, softly. "So you’re his friend, hmm? Maybe - yes ... Well, I’m sure he could get you out of that pit and then - oh, but that would be too much to hope for, wouldn’t it? Just doing that would help you a lot though. Might even be good for him. Tasting a little fear for once. You know what that tastes like, don’t you child?"
Iolaus nodded slowly, watching her face, studying her eyes. It wasn’t fear she was talking about. Not the sudden rush of it that you get facing a monster that might be about to eat you. Not even the anxious grip that seized you as the unknown stalked outside in the dark. It was something deeper than that, an emotion that had no real name to encompass it. The one that had caught in his heart the day he couldn’t hold onto Ania - and the one that had shattered his soul as he sat and cradled the fading warmth of the son he couldn’t hold onto either.
"You know," she confirmed gently, tightening her hold on his hand. "What did it teach you? What lesson have you learned?"
He wondered how to answer her. He wasn’t sure he could. "I - I don’t know. How to value what I have, while I have it, I guess. Never to take anything for granted. And to live. Every moment. In case it’s the last."
She put out her arms and drew him into them, an embrace that felt like coming home. "So many never learn that," she whispered. "You’ll do just fine. And if Hercules learns that same lesson today, it will stand him in good stead for the future. You and I will teach him. But it will be a hard lesson. You may have to make it the last gift you ever give him."
"I might?" Somehow the possibility didn’t scare him the way it ought to. The last gift ... She meant he might not make it back from - wherever she was going to take him. Or else that - even if he did, he might still be too badly injured to live long once he had. He glanced down at his abandoned body and shivered, deep down inside himself. The prospect of death didn’t really worry him. Not as much as living - when that was what he had to return to. His left hand would never be the same again - and he’d probably not get much use of the right, going by the damage to his shoulder ...
"Now stop that," she chided, laughing softly. "Never take anything for granted, remember? While life survives anything is possible - given enough love and faith. Given enough determination."
Iolaus shot her a look of disconcerted distress. "Then why couldn’t I hold on to my son?" he demanded, the sudden anguish of the memory rising up inside him like a tide. She sighed.
"Because. Maybe because he wanted to be with his mother more than he wanted to be with you. Or maybe just - because he knew it was his time to let go. He was just a child, Iolaus. He didn’t understand that even the pain has meaning sometimes."
The hunter looked away, not wanting to meet the compassion that sat in those dark eyes. She’s lost children of her own ... "You just - have to go on fighting, don’t you?" he said softly. "Until you know there’s nothing more you can do."
"That’s it exactly." She wrapped a motherly arm around his shoulders - and somehow they were standing outside Hercules’ home, a soft drift of smoke rising from its central chimney. "Now," she said briskly. "You just pop in and show yourself and then we’ll have to go. Run along," she encouraged, giving him a little push in the relevant direction. "The quicker he acts, the better your chances."
"But - " Iolaus protested, glancing back in bemusement. "What do I say?" The moment he’d left her touch the world had swum around him alarmingly. As if he had somehow become - insubstantial. That distant sense of pain still held him, clinging like the cloak that sat around his shoulders - and he felt cold. Deathly cold.
"Nothing," she grinned. "One look at you and he’ll start tearing the whole valley apart. If he’s really your friend. Of course," she added thoughtfully, perching herself on the edge of a nearby water barrel, "if he isn’t, then you and I have both been short changed. Or cheated. You know, I wouldn’t put it past that grandson of mine ... No," she halted her thoughts with authority. "You’re definitely the one. Hurry up. I haven’t got all year ..."
She still wasn’t making much sense, but he shrugged, set his determination with a firm breath and walked towards the waiting door. It was open, which was a little odd, considering how early in the morning it was. Only a little past dawn, and the air was bitter with a hint of frost. No wonder he felt so chilly. He hooked his hand round to tug his cloak closer - and his heart went cold. He’d reached with his left hand, and his eyes had been drawn by the splash of colour that painted it. Blood red. Rich blood red. It was oozing slowly from the hole that pierced his palm.
One look at you, she’d said. She hadn’t been joking. He was going to scare Hercules half to death, walking in through his door like this.
Soaked and savaged, and dripping with blood.
He swayed a little, feeling decidedly faint. This was a dream, surely. Just a weird dream, brought on by - by - by delirium? Fever? Loss of blood?
The pain echoed though him, growing stronger without the strange woman’s touch to assuage it. This wasn’t a dream. If anything it was a nightmare. And if Hercules didn’t find where his body was lying - and soon - then it was likely to be the last one he ever had.
I hope none of the kids are awake yet.
He wouldn’t want them to see him. Not like this ...
A few short steps brought him to the curtain that hung across the arch to the master bedroom. He paused there, and looked back, absurdly wondering if he was leaving bloody footprints on the polished floor. There was no sign of his entrance, but then, if the blood that was weeping from his wounds was going anywhere, it was into that cold and muddy rain water soup that was his current physical resting place.
"Herc?" he queried, reaching to lift the curtain aside and step past it, into the room beyond. If his voice made any sound, it was not one loud enough to disturb the occupants of the sprawling bed that took up most of the space. Hercules lay in quiet slumber with his wife curled into his arms; her hair tumbled over his arm and spread out across the pillow in waves of luxurient silk.
Iolaus stumbled to the bedside, staring down at his friend with touch of unavoidable envy. The man looked so - contented - lying there. But the stab of emotion was a short one, easily banished. It was his own loss he regretted, not his friend’s happiness. Deianeira and the children had become a light in both their lives, and it was one the hunter cherished, because it had helped sustain the faltering embers of his heart.
Thinking of which ... "Herc," he tried again, urgently, shivering inside his sodden cloak and feeling the presence of the pain surge up with sudden intensity. "You gotta - help me ..."
The son of Zeus stirred in his sleep. Turned over and lazily opened his eyes. "Oh, Iolaus," he protested blearily. "This had better be urg - " Alarm lifted him up, his words choked back as he took in the grim spectre that had awakened him. "Iolaus?"
Help me .. It was easier to mouth the words. Breathing suddenly seemed to cost him too much pain. Iolaus reached out his hand - the left one, since his whole right side seemed to have caught fire - and his friend reached back, his eyes wide with disbelief and horror. Their fingers touched - briefly, a mere flicker of contact - and then one hand passed completely through the other, Hercules’ fingers closing on nothing at all.
"What - ? Where-?" he demanded, quickly identifying his visitor as vision and not actuality. The wounded hunter shivered, half turning his head to glance in the relevant direction.
Pit. On the hill ... He wanted to say more, but the flame that held him flared unmercifully. He had to close his eyes to deal with that moment of wretchedness, and when he opened them again, Hercules was gone. So was most of the pain. There were gentle arms enfolding him, cradling him with motherly care.
"It’s okay," she breathed, pressing him against her more than ample bosom - a support into which he relaxed with decidedly grateful relief, "I’ve got you. I can’t take it all away, but - enough, huh? Just enough?"
"Yeah," he sighed, resting his head on a comfortably contoured part of her anatomy. "Thanks."
He heard her chuckle softly. "Don’t wish it away too quickly," she advised. "All the time that you can feel it? Means you’ve still got a chance to make it back. Now look - " Her hands pushed him out to arm’s length and she held him there, studying him thoughtfully. He looked back, seeing her - really seeing her - for the first time. "Time was, you’d have been trained for this," she said. The lips that shaped the words were full and round and generous. As generous as the rest of her, which was shaped with ample curves and sturdy musculature. She was a full hipped, well stacked woman, and built to carry it; she’d have made three of him and still had plenty left over.
"Trained and prepared," she went on, shaking a cascade of dark hair out of her eyes. "You’d have been raised for this - you and your chosen brother, both born to women of the blood and taught to walk the hero’s path."
Her skin was dark, as dark as the rich and fertile soil that he had helped Hercules plough that autumn. Her eyes were darker - the darkness of the unseen earth in all the hidden places of the world. She was draped in deep greens and adorned with the shimmer of gold. Red gold, the heart’s blood of the world.
"Those days are past," she was saying, her voice sounding resigned. "My children seek another way to keep the power flowing from Life to Death and back to Life again. They’ll stumble on it soon enough, although I doubt it’ll turn out to be what they’re expecting. There’s going to have to be pain in it, and sorrow too, because that’s important. Almost as important as the magic and the mystery - and the sheer wonderful joy that wraps it all together."
I know who you are ...
The understanding filled him with wonder - and it filled him with fear.
"I told Zeus - I told him - it was all taking too long to work out. That without the sacrifice, the rest couldn’t follow. He wouldn’t listen. He just put it off, and off, and off - and now Winter’s got hold of everything and it won’t let go. I have to have my due, or I can’t make it happen. But he’d put an end to the traditions and there was no-one left to choose."
I remember my mother telling me ...
"Alcmene is of the old blood, I pointed out. And she had two boys. So it was meant. But he wouldn’t hear of it. He wouldn’t sacrifice his son. Not even to me. I nagged and I nagged, and I swore and I cursed and quoted all the references. He ummed and he ahhed, and - in the end he agreed. That it had to be done. So he promised he’d find someone - a hero, he said - who’d suit. And here you are."
"Here I am," Iolaus echoed, quirking a somewhat discomforted smile. He felt as if he’d stumbled straight into myth and legend. A very old legend ... "Given up five times, each time with blood. Sent into the earth to serve the earth. Bound by my brother’s heart to return to him; my second self, my other soul. To walk the path that winter brings, and there defeat the shadow of myself it keeps in thrall. And if I win that fight and climb the dark way back to life - then I will bring the spring to you." He paused, frowning as he tried to remember the final line, to complete the litany his mother had once used as a lure to bring her headstrong son into his bed. A litany woven around a confusion of ancient heroes and older myths. A tale of blood and death and heroic deed. Just the thing with which to send a wide eyed would be hero to sleep with ...
"I will bring the spring to you," he repeated softly, then smiled, finally recalling the words, hearing them in his head almost as if it were yesterday. "Take up the crown of oak and applethorn - and serve you as the Summer King.
"My mother’s of the old blood too," he shrugged, seeing the expression on her face - one of startled astonishment. "And I guess Herc’s almost my brother. Kind of. I just hope it’s enough to count."
She was staring at him. Her mouth was open and her eyes were wide. "Enough? Do you understand what you’ve said? What you offer me? Hercules is almost your brother you say? Will almost be good enough to keep the life in your veins until the deed is done? Will almost bind your spirit to the land and help to call you home ?" She went on staring at him for a moment, then let her face crease down into an exasperated frown. "Of all the ... Well, King of the gods or not, I am gonna have to have words with that grandson of mine. That arrogant, two faced patriach! You know what he thought? He thought I wanted his son because he fathered him. So he promised to send me another hero in his place - and then tossed you into that pit like a lamb to be slaughtered - because you’re the kid’s sword brother and he probably figured that would be close enough ..."
Iolaus dropped his eyes to the ground and sighed. The anger in her voice was unmistakable. It was meant to have been Hercules in that pit, and all she’d got was him, and that wasn’t going to be good enough. Which was a pity, because if he’d known that the sacrifice was needed, and that Hercules was the chosen one, then he’d have gladly taken his place, just to spare him the ordeal. Especially since Herc had everything to live for, and he had nothing left to lose ...
Much to his surprise she started to laugh. Hard enough to bring tears to her eyes.
"Oh, child," she chuckled, pulling him round and back into her embrace so that his back was cushioned against her ample bosom and he had to turn his head to see her face. "You are so transparent your mother must have been a water nymph! Only she wasn’t, of course, or you and I wouldn’t be able to do business. You know - Hercules would have been named the sacred King in the old days. He and his chosen twin. There were always two Kings of course. During their joint reign, each would have worn the crown for one half of the year - one in the winter, the other in the summer. Zeus probably thought Iphicles could wear the winter crown. He has a brooding gift for Kingship. Somebody ought to find him a throne."
"Yeah," Iolaus agreed with a small and mirthless laugh. He could just picture Iphicles holding court somewhere. The man had an intensity that would suit the duties of kingship remarkably well. "But you don’t have Iphicles. Or his brother. You got me."
"I got you." The goddess hugged him with exuberance. "Wrapped in sacred furs, with your hair like ripened corn and your eyes as blue as the richest sky. Your mother told you a truth in her tales - and they are true tales - one that concerns the chosen one and his bright twin. His bright twin. The child of Winter could never walk the dark path or serve to call back the one who assailed its perils. Only with one of two, two who are closer than one, could the real miracle occur. One to serve as the strength that sustains the land, the other as the fire that recalls it to life. The ritual was old when Zeus was born, and he never understood it. But I think you do. You spoke the oath and I heard truth in every word. Bound by my brother’s heart to return to him; my second self, my other soul." Her laughter was deep; it rumbled right through him. "I needed a sacrifice, child of the old blood. I didn’t get the one I thought I wanted. But something tells me I got exactly the one I need ..."
Deianeira stirred reluctantly, opening her eyes and stretching out a languid hand to locate the warmth of her husband’s presence. The stretch quickly became a doubtful grope as the hand encountered nothing more than bed linen. "Hercules?" she questioned sleepily, turning her head and blinking at what she saw.
"Go back to sleep, Deianeira," he advised, and she was sitting up like shot, pulling the bedclothes around her while she stared at him with concern.
"Something’s wrong," she decided, seeing the hasty way he was dressing and hearing the anxious note in his voice. "Did some one send for your help?"
"Uhuh," he nodded, tugging on his boots. She frowned.
"I didn’t hear anyone. Are they waiting out in the main room?"
"Mh-huh," he denied, this time with a shake of his head. Deianeira’s frown deepened. She was used to her husband being taciturn, but she wasn’t about to let him rush off on yet another of his adventures without some kind of explanation.
"The garden then," she postulated puzzledly before possible comprehension struck. "Or was it Zeus? One of your other relatives?"
He was shrugging into his shirt and he emerged from its folds to give her a look that made her blood run cold. A stricken, shaken look. One she’d never seen on his face before. "It’s Iolaus," he admitted shortly. "He’s in trouble. I have to find him."
"Iolaus?" The announcement didn’t make a lot of sense. She scrambled out of the bed and followed him into the outer room, grabbing up a robe to wrap it around her as she did so. It was still very early in the morning. The air had a sharp bite to it, and the light that filtered through the windows was gray and filled with the colours of rain. "What do you mean, find him?"
Hercules had pulled his cloak down from the shelf - his thick, heavy bearskin - and he threw it across the table beside the leather pack he’d placed there. "Just that. I have to find him." He paused in his distracted packing to consider her with worried eyes. "I had - a vision," he admitted. "I woke up and - he was standing right by the bed. Only he wasn’t there. He was - he was hurt, Deianeira. Badly hurt. Bleeding. I - I know he’s in trouble and I have to find him."
A vision ...
That was the trouble with being married to the son of a god. He could see things that most people couldn’t, and when he had visions, it was never the result of a late night and too much wine. If he’d seen his friend hurt and bleeding then it would be because he was hurt and bleeding. Somewhere.
"Okay." She took a deep breath and moved across to help him. "You’re sure it was him?"
His nod was answer enough, and she shivered, feeling a tight knot of fear clench around her heart. She liked the golden haired hunter who was her husband’s best friend; had done so from the first day they had met. He’d endured more than most in the past few years - the loss of his wife, and then the tragic death of his son - and the idea that he might now be hurt and in desperate need of help was decidedly distressing.
"Do you know where to look?" she asked, bundling a clean linen sheet into the pack and adding a heavy woolen blanket for good measure. Hercules shook his head.
"I’m not sure. He tried to tell me something, but - something about a hill. His hill, I think. It’s as good a place to start as any."
"He went to see his mother yesterday. Alcmene told me," she explained at his surprised look. "When she brought over the pastries for the children. He’d stopped by to take her a brace of wild duck he’d trapped. So - unless he stayed for a late supper, he’d have been heading home when the storm hit last night ..."
She trailed off, meeting steel blue eyes as they both registered what that might imply.
"He was dripping wet," Hercules recalled - and determinedly went back to his packing, pushing everything else he’d gathered into the pack with one last hasty shove. "I have to find him," he repeated grimly, hoiking the pack over his shoulder and the bear skin after it. "Tell the children - well, you know what to say. I’ll be back as soon as I can."
If it wasn’t for the children she’d be coming with him. They both knew that - and he’d have welcomed her company on such a search.
"I know. Hercules - "
He paused at the door, looking back with an anxious glance.
"Be careful."
The anxious look softened into a loving smile. "I will," he promised, and was gone.
"You knew the words," the goddess was saying. "Do you know where you are?"
Iolaus looked away from his study of her dark face to consider the landscape that surrounded them instead. They were standing on a beach, with their backs to the sea; ahead the land sloped up - and up - forming the rise of a grass covered hill. On top of the hill there was a tree.
Above that, there was a dark sky, filled with stars.
Despite the fact that both the tree and the hill were painted with sunlight.
He looked down, and there was the pattern of a pebbled beach and the beginnings of the short soft turf, the stones a multitude of colours and the grass a pale yellow green. A soft wind ruffled at his hair, filled with sharp scents and the bite of a winter’s day. He looked up, and there was the night sky, glittering with points of crystal fire.
Between the two there was nothing but the hill and the tree. An old tree, its trunk thick and its branches spread in profusion. Those branches were stark, bare of any leaf, fruit or blossom, although - even at this distance - he could see the thickness of mistletoe that was hanging on it. Ivy snaked down the trunk and hung in dark festoons from the ponderous weight of its branches. It wasn’t just a tree, he realised with a catch in his breath. It was the tree.
The one that made up the entire world.
Memories of bed time tales echoed in his head.
The tree was always at the heart of the stories. The blood of heroes was spilt to nourish the rich earth from which it sprang - and those that failed their quest were bound to the tree for all eternity, their bones tangled in its roots and their flesh rotting into the cold loam beneath them.
But the tree was worth the risk. Worth the sacrifice it demanded.
Everything that ever was lies strewn like fallen leaves about its feet.
Everything that is flourishes in the flowers and fruit that weight its branches.
And everything that will be lies hidden in the buds that wait to burst into life ...
"When Zeus became lord of Olympus," the goddess told him softly, "he took a cutting from this tree and planted it, far to the west of the mortal world. It flourished and grew, and around it he raised a garden in my honour. It flowered only once, but from those blooms came the golden apples of immortality - and from a wound in its trunk, there still flows the sweet resins of ambrosia. Some folk - even some of the gods themselves - think that that’s the tree of life. But we know differently, don’t we?"
Iolaus nodded, almost too overawed to speak. "Yeah," he managed, his mouth dry and his heart pounding inside his chest. "Uh - Gaia?"
"Yes, child?" There was amusement in her voice. She didn’t question his right to call her by name - any more than he had when she’d first used his.
"Is that where I’m supposed to go?"
She laughed. "Eventually. But in order to climb up - " One of her hands slid from its comforting grasp on his shoulder to tangle in the thonging that hung around his neck. "- you must first climb down."
A sharp tug snapped the leather; his father’s amulet dangled from the goddess’s fingers, the soft jade a dark glimmering green in the honey drape of light. He drew in a breath to protest, and held it there, the words left unspoken. The carved dragon was stirring, uncoiling from its undulating pose to writhe up and encircle her hand.
"You need a way into the depths," Gaia murmured thoughtfully. "So it was lucky you brought one with you." A quick flick of her wrist tossed the jade serpent away, sending it tumbling over and over towards the close cropped turf of the hill. It twisted as it flew, growing bigger and bigger, its verdant length coiling out and out and out, until it was an almost endless slither of snake - one that somehow encirled the entire base of the hill.
The hunter swallowed hard as the monster writhed to a halt, its tail looping around its throat. It settled its lower jaw against the ground and yawned open the top one, revealing a dark pit of a mouth ringed with the glimmer of sharp pointed teeth.
"You want me to go - in there?" he questioned, tearing his eyes away from the beast to throw her a look of alarm. "You wouldn’t like to make this a little - easier, would you?"
She laughed a second time, a rich, deep seated sound. "If this were easy, child, then the sacrifice would demand no more than a quick blessing over a goblet of wine and the sharing of a few handfuls of bread. One day that might be all that is needed - although without an understanding of what it really represented there wouldn’t be a lot of point. I must warn you. This is no mere ritual you face here but a real and certain danger. You could fail at any point along the way. You could prevail in the dark and yet never find your way back to the light. You might make it that far and then lose yourself in what follows. Your chosen brother may not have the inner strength to call you back - and even if he does, you may not have the physical strength to survive that last ordeal. And I’ll be honest with you. Not many have made it back. Not all the way."
Iolaus shivered inside the warmth of her embrace; it stirred an echo of the pain he carried, and - along with it - the determined bravado that had got him into almost as much trouble as it had gotten him out of over the years. "That’s the pep talk?" he queried in incredulity. "Thanks a heap. You know - if that’s the score, it’s a surprise the world doesn’t suffer winter all the year round."
Gaia chuckled, gently releasing her hold on him. The pain immediately whispered its way back into his awareness - nowhere near as strongly as before, but as a nagging presence it was going to be hard to ignore. "That’s not the way it works. The sacrifice itself can be enough to stir the spring. The life blood of a hero is a rich gift and I never refuse it. You aren’t here to win a prize. You’re here to serve a purpose. It’s how well you serve it that will determine your fate."
"Oh," he noted, the acknowledgement a little glum, and she laughed with warm amusement.
"You’ll make it. I know you will. Your heart may be torn ragged but your soul is full of fire. Now - go. Descend to the depths and slay the shadow that awaits you. I’ll be waiting for your return. Up there." The tilt of her head indicated the slope of the hill and the tree that it supported. He glanced up to see where she meant - and when he looked back, she was gone.
"But how will I - " - know what to do, he’d wanted to ask. Go down didn’t seem much in the way of directions. He’d just have to hope he could figure it out along the way.
That’s if I can ...
His wounds were still bleeding, a sluggish ooze of scarlet that was being slowly diluted by the water which still dripped from his cloak. The distant disquiet of pain clung to him with as much persistence as did the sodden furs. He looked down, frowning at the ripped and bloodstained leather that had been his best pair of pants.
Given up five times, each time with blood ...
Well, it looked like he’d got that part right, at least.
And Gaia had left him a sword. Its blade gleamed softly in the grass by his feet. He reached down and picked it up, feeling a little more confident with its familiar weight in his hand. It was his sword by the look of it, the one that should have been lying, along with the rest of his gear, in the bottom of that muddy pit. But then - that was where he still was.
Wasn’t it?
He didn’t want to examine that thought too closely. He had other things to worry about. Like the cavernous mouth of the jade serpent that yawned in front of him, dark, dank and uninviting.
"Well," Iolaus sighed, setting his shoulders with determination. "I guess I don’t have a lot of choice about all this. I sure hope Herc is having a better day than I am."
The weather was being decidedly unseasonable for the time of the year. Hercules pulled his bearskin close around his shoulders as he strode up the valley. Simple cold didn’t particularly bother him as a rule, but the thick fur kept out the drizzle of rain that filled the air, and which would have quickly chilled even him to the bone. He glanced around anxiously as he walked, unable to shake the image that had woken him from the warmth of his dreams. It had been so vivid. Vivid enough for him to look for signs of blood on his bedroom floor.
Where are you, Iolaus?
What happened to you last night?
There hadn’t been blood staining his well swept floor. But the apparition had been dripping with it. Rich red blood which had mingled with the terracotta of fox fur sitting draped around his best friend’s shoulders. Iolaus’ face had been stark, written with effort and pain. And his normally golden locks had been slick and dark, dripping with muddied water.
The hunter could be almost anywhere. He spent more time in the wilderness around Thebes than he ever did at home. His house held too many memories; most of the time he could be found in residence it would be working in the heat of his forge rather than in the compact rooms he’d built to house his family.
But I have to start somewhere ...
He hesitated when he reached the crossroads. If Iolaus had been coming back from visiting his mother the day before then he would have passed this way for certain. There were two - no three possible routes he might have taken. Hercules dismissed the third with frown of irritation. He’d seen no sign of anything on his upward climb, and he would have done, had the man he sought succumbed to the thought of Deiniara’s chicken stew.
Maybe he should have done, the son of Zeus considered worriedly, glancing down the main road before turning his steps to the shorter - and steeper - climb. He had the distinct feeling that - had he seen his friend the night before - he would not have seen him the way he had that morning.
But the storm broke just after sundown ...
It had been a bad one too, one in which the rain had sluiced down like water tipped from a bucket. The lightning had been flaring almost directly overhead. He had no fear of his father’s thunderbolts, but he’d found himself holding three quivering children who’d bolted from their beds with a mixture of excitement and alarm.
It had been fun, listening to the weather rumble and scuffle overhead, his arms wrapped comfortingly around his family while they waited on tenterhooks for the next bolt to strike, and squealed with alarm and delight when it did. Just your grandfather, throwing his weight around, Deieniara had said and they’d all laughed, never giving a moments thought to anyone who might have been out in that wild weather.
This close to home Iolaus would have just put his head down and run for it, Hercules decided, scanning the landscape with apprehensive glances. The vision had filled him with a sense of desperate urgency and all his instincts were demanding that he run, that every moment which passed was one that ticked down on his sword brother’s life. He suppressed the desire with gritted teeth. Running - blind running - would help neither of them. He had to cover every inch of ground or else he risked missing the signs he needed. He had no idea of what might have happened, although his imagination was busy painting him lurid possibilities.
Maybe it all happened before the storm broke.
The wounds he’d seen - albeit briefly - had looked more like sword thrusts than anything else. Perhaps Iolaus had run into a bunch of bandits ...
"Yeah. Sure," Hercules breathed sarcastically. Mere bandits wouldn’t have caused his friend a problem. Just given him a good work out and another wild tale to tell. If the hunter had run into warriors good enough to take him down in a fight, then the whole of Thebes was likely to be in trouble.
Unless they were after him specifically.
That wasn’t impossible. Iolaus’s hot headed impetuosity had earned him a fair number of enemies over the years. Not to mention the various warlords and tyrants that the two of them had run into on their innumerable adventures. Any one of them might have put a price on one or both of their heads. And if that were the case ...
Deianeira was right. I should be careful.
There was always the chance he might be walking into a trap.
He frowned over the possibility, stepping out with long easy strides that covered the distance as quickly as he dared. This didn’t feel like a trap. The vision had conveyed nothing but pressing emergency, the awareness of which churned the anxiety that sat in his guts. And besides - anyone intending to lure him into an ambush would have organised a few more clues than a blood soaked apparition which had offered him only the vaguest impression of direction.
No, he decided, pausing at the foot of the next steep incline to study the rain soaked ground. It’s not a trap ...
If Iolaus had left any signs of his presence here, then the rain had washed them all away. The steep angle of the slope had channeled the downpour like a flood, cutting the narrow upward path even deeper into the hillside.
That would have been a hard route to take last night.
Hercules turned to stare along the line of the hill. There was another path from here - one that led around the slope and cut across the edge of Croesus’s property. The old woodcarver disliked uninvited trespassers on his land, but Iolaus knew the place like the back of his hand and would be able to sneak round that way without anyone even knowing he’d been there. It was doubtful that Croesus would have ventured out in that rain in any case.
Just counted on his alarms and traps to keep the unwanted away ...
Horror followed the thought and Hercules broke into the run he’d denied himself up until now. It was a joke. A bad joke. The woodcarver’s tricks and traps had always been a source of amusement for the two of them - the way he so carefully protected his property when any hero or hunter worth his salt could sidle by his obstacles without a moment’s thought or hesitation. After he’d taken up residence on the brow of the hill Iolaus had made a point of scouting the entire woodland below it, traps and all. Croesus probably knew that - as well as he knew that it was his neighbour who occasionally left payment for his trespasses; the rabbits he found in his snares weren’t always from the local warren. The old man had never said anything, and the hunter had continued to use the back route whenever he had a need to. It was good practice, he always said. And it wasn’t as if avoiding a few trip wires and animal traps was much of challenge when you knew exactly where they all were.
But - in the rain, maybe ...
Hercules didn’t want to believe it. His friend knew better than that. Rain or no rain he would still have been paying attention to where he was going.
The ground might have been treacherous in that downpour. Maybe he slipped and fell ...
And maybe he’d stopped at a tavern on his way home and drowned a few of his sorrows in a tankard or two. Maybe he’d been a little worse for the wine.
That was possible - and the anxious clench of fear was beginning to wrestle with equally anxious exasperation as the son of Zeus arrived at the edge of the woodcarver’s property. Bandits and assassins he could accept. An accident caused by the violence of the storm would be a reasonable excuse. But if Iolaus had got himself into serious trouble simply because he’d been too drunk to walk straight, then his best friend would not be happy.
In fact, he was in half a mind to turn round and go straight home again.
Help me ...
The apparition had been so real - and the memory of it, of the look in his friend’s eyes as he reached out a bloodied hand in desperate appeal, silenced all the chaotic speculation that was whirling through Hercules’ thoughts. It didn’t matter how it had happened. His sword brother needed him, and every moment that he hesitated might turn out to be the one moment he’d regret for the rest of his life.
"Iolaus!" he called, striding under dripping trees and heading for the wooded slope beyond. Birds flew up in alarm, disturbed by his shout. The hillside picked up the cry and echoed it back to him. But there was no answering call, no sign that he might have been heard by anyone.
Half a dozen steps brought him to where a taut rope lay stretched across the trail. He reached down as he passed and gave it a hard yank, one strong enough to snap the cunningly carved pulley off its hidden mount and jerk down the branch to which the rope was tied. Wind chimes rattled in cacophony and the son of Zeus strode on with a grim expression on his face. He had no time to be polite - and if the man he sought had been caught in one of Croesus’s traps then the woodcarver would have to take some of the responsibility. "Iolaus!" he called again, sending yet another startlement of birds into the air.
Where is he ..?
The surface of the slope under the trees was a sticky mess that sucked at his boots. He clambered up it, grimacing as his passage disturbed the spreading branches and sent cold drops of moisture spattering down around him. The impact of the night’s rain had washed every trace from the trail and he could only hope he was heading in the right direction. He had a good idea of the route his friend might have taken, but if he was wrong then he’d just have to start quartering the whole hill, inch by inch.
"Iola -" He started to raise another shout, but the cry caught in his throat. He’d reached a point where the ground leveled out for a while, an open space that formed a shallow platform in the side of the hill. Last time he’d been here, there had been a magnificent oak tree growing almost in the centre of the platform, its massive branches thrusting up with confidence. The oak tree was still there - only most of its trunk now lay twisted across the open space, and the branches it had once supported were spilling down the slope that lay to his left.
What the ...?
There was a thin tendril of smoke spiraling up from the piece of broken and blackened stump that still speared skywards. Much of the lower trunk was burned, and there was white wood showing where the bole of the tree had split. Like most old oaks it was hollow inside, but the trunk was still thick and solid along most of its length. . The lightning had been fierce at the storm’s height. Fierce enough to shatter even this sturdy specimen.
My father ought to watch where he throws those thunderbolts ...
He heaved a sigh and had begun to turn to his right, intending to skirt the fallen tree and continue his climb, when consternation struck.
Wait a minute.
This only happened last night.
What if - oh gods ...
He spun on his heel and loped to the edge of the shelf, following the line of the spilled tree. It would have come down with a terrific crash, and a man - desperate to avoid its fall - might well have scrambled over the edge without stopping to think what might await him at the bottom.
"Iolaus!" Hercules called, clambering down the steep incline and using the tumbled branches to help keep his balance. He didn’t have to go far. The ground leveled out again a few yards further down and there - mostly hidden beneath the tree’s shattered limbs - he could see the rough edge of an excavation, dug into the raw earth.
Uh-oh ...
A sense of horrified dread seized his heart. He half jumped, half slid the rest of the distance, shrugging out of the encumbrance of his cloak as he did so. The pack tumbled into the folds of the abandoned fur as its owner dropped to his knees at the edge of the hole. He drew in a single deep breath to steady himself, reached out with one hand to seize the support of a protruding branch, and leant forward so that he could look down into the pit.
There, at the bottom, dappled with shadows and half submerged in water, lay the man he’d been searching for.
Silent and unmoving.
Impaled on the forest of stakes that rose around and through his sprawled form.
While the blood from his wounds pooled out around him like a spill of dark wine, poured as a generous libation to the earth.
The reality was far worse than the vision.
For one long and unbearable moment, Hercules could neither move nor breath.
Not because he thought his friend were dead.
But because he had realised - with total horror - that, despite the severity of his injuries, Iolaus was still alive ...
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