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Bound by His Brother's Heart Part Three: Pythia |
Clonis and Aeson didn’t want to come into the house when it started to rain. They were playing one of their favourite games, acting out tales of their father’s exploits with dramatised relish. Aeson was being Hercules and Clonis was pretending to be the Nemean Lion. The biggest, growliest, ugliest lion you ever saw, he’d announced, growling and roaring around the yard while chasing Ilea, who’d play screamed and giggled before running to seek safety at her mother’s side. Deianeira had sighed, ruffling the girl’s hair with a gentle hand and repeating her request for the boys to come in from the rain.
"Oh, mother," Aeson protested, turning from the game to give her a patient look. "It’s not that wet."
She suppressed her smile and frowned at him instead. He was so like his father; quietly determined, and decidedly stubborn when his heart was set on something. "It’s cold Aeson. You’ll both catch a chill. Now come in. You can play indoors for a while."
Clonis growled and pounced, knocking his brother to the muddy ground, and the two boys rolled around with mock ferocity. The frown became a genuine one; Deianeira gestured for Ilea to stay right where she was and strode out into the damp air.
"Stop that right now," she ordered firmly. They sprang apart with guilty haste and shared a contrite look. "Look at you," their mother said. "Nothing but a pair of mudlarks. Whatever would your father say?"
"He’d probably join in," Alcmene’s voice intruded warmly into the scene. "Especially since I remember another pair of boys doing much the same to me."
Deianeira looked up to see her mother-in-law walking towards her, a heavy wool cloak pulled close around her head and shoulders to keep out the impact of the rain. "Mother," she greeted her with surprised delight. "I wasn’t expecting you today"
"Granangrananangranangrana ..." Two very muddy children raced to hug their grandmother; Deianeira reached down and plucked up Ilea before she could join the melee.
"No," Alcmene smiled. "I - uh - just had this feeling I was going to be needed." She widened her smile to include the boys who caught at her hands and tugged her towards the house. "Now what’s all this about? Playing warriors? Or hunters?"
"Hunters," Clonis announced gleefully. "See, I was the lion and Aeson was being dad and I was pouncing, just like Uncle Iolaus tells it and - "
"I am going to have to stop all this story telling," Deianeira considered ruefully, leading the way into her spacious living room. She sat Ilea down on a stool and helped Alcmene take off her cloak while the boys raced round the table like a pair of wild dogs. "I don’t believe half of those tales Iolaus tells."
"I do," Alcmene said, her voice sounding oddly strained. "Well - most of them, anyway. It’s not the stories, Deianeira. It’s just boys being boys. Hercules was just the same." She paused to hook Clonis as he roared past and eyed him up and down with patient sorrow. "He broke more furniture though."
Deianeira chuckled, trying to imagine her gentle, broad shouldered husband causing mayhem. She caught Aeson and steered him towards the relevant bedroom. "Out of those wet things now," she commanded and he went, albeit with a small pout. Clonis took one look at her face and followed him; they were already scuffling by the time they reached the archway.
"You just have to live through it," Alcmene smiled, sinking onto the nearest bench and holding out her arms for her other grandchild. Ilea crossed the distance shyly and was immediately lifted into a loving lap. "They’re good boys. Let them be boys for a while. They grow up soon enough."
"Sometimes I think it won’t be too soon," Deianeira sighed, folding the cloak carefully onto a side-table. "Did Hercules really give you this much trouble?"
"More," the older woman said with conviction. "He and Iphicles fought all the time. Then, just when I thought sending Iphicles to stay with his grandparents might earn me some peace and quiet - Hercules comes home with this bright eyed, blond haired scamp in tow, so packed full of impish mischief you’d suspect Hermes of having fathered him."
She hugged the child as she spoke, almost as if hugging the memory. Deianeira’s look was a concerned one behind her smile. "That sounds like Iolaus all right. Mother - is there something wrong?" The anxiety which had been nagging her all morning came back with full force. "You didn’t - see the same vision Hercules did, did you?"
"Vision?" Alcmene lifted her head from the sweetness of Ilea’s hair to stare at her with demanding eyes. "Hercules had a vision?"
"Yes. This morning." Deianeira couldn’t avoid the anxious glance over her shoulder, the automatic check on the door. He’d been gone a long time ...
"Go play with your toys, sweetheart," Alcmene suggested, letting the girl slide back to her feet. "Your mother and I need to talk. Grown up stuff."
"’kay." Ilea ran to do as she was told; a gentle hand pulled her mother down onto the bench.
"Tell me."
Deianeira sighed. "It was - well, it probably wasn’t anything, really. Just a bad dream and ... Okay," she admitted reluctantly. "It was more than that. He woke up and he saw - he said he saw Iolaus standing there. Right by the bed. Only he was bleeding ..."
Alcmene shivered, her hand tightening with alarm. "Bleeding?" Her daughter-in-law nodded anxiously.
"He thought it meant Iolaus was in trouble, so he went to look for him. That was at first light. There hasn’t been any sign of either of them yet." She quirked a half hearted smile. "They’ll probably both turn up any time now - with some wild story to tell as usual. Something about bandits, or a beast, or something."
"There was only the storm ..." Alcmene murmured quietly, then got to her feet with sudden determination. "Let’s get this place ready. We’ll need hot water; linen for bandages; healing herbs and wine to wash wounds. Set some blankets to warm through while I stoke the fire; Iolaus has been out all night. They’ll both be chilled to the bone."
Deianeira stared at her. "You really think - ?"
"I don’t think," came the instant interruption. "I know. Deianeira, if you love my son - and I know you do - then you’ll help me help him."
"Well, of course I will," she protested puzzledly. "But - "
Thunder rumbled overhead, a sudden, startling sound. The two women turned as one as the door flew open, letting in a flurry of cold air and the dampness of heavy rain. There, silhouetted in the doorway, framed against the darkening light of the day, was Hercules.
And in his arms - those arms that could tear down mountains - cradled there with an infinite and desperate tenderness, lay the limp and blood soaked body of his best friend ...
The rain began to hammer down with force but none of the adults in the house paid it much attention. Deianeira had taken one look at her husband in the doorway and immediately swept the table clear of its contents with a hurried hand. Hercules didn’t stop to wonder why his mother might be standing beside her; he was just glad to see them both.
He strode across the short distance and carefully lowered his precious burden onto the now empty table. Deianeira’s hand brushed his arm with wordless sympathy before she hurried away to find what would be needed; Alcmene was already peeling back the mud caked bearskin and the blood stained, water soaked blanket that lay beneath it.
"No ..." she breathed, dismay chasing across her face as she registered what awaited her. Hercules shivered at the sound and caught her hand as she reached for the makeshift bandages that padded the injured shoulder.
"Careful," he advised, his voice tight. "There’s still wood in the wound. I didn’t dare remove any of it until I got here. He was already bleeding badly ..."
She glanced at him in horror, then bent to gently lift away some of the encrusted linen. Fresh blood welled beneath her fingertips and she drew in a sharp breath as the meaning behind his words became clear. "Gods," she swore, looking decidedly shaken. "It’s been driven right through ... Is this the worst wound?"
"They’re all like that." He couldn’t help the bleakness in his tone; it had been a long, cold walk home, and the anguish in his heart had slowly become a far greater burden than his friend’s weight would ever be. The worst thing had been the silence. Iolaus was never quiet on a walk like that; his words, like the rest of his energetic existence, would normally dance from subject to subject almost without pause. He should have been complaining about the weather, puzzling over why the spring was so late in coming; been scathing about Croesus and his need to be alert for strangers when he had two such fine warriors as neighbours; talking about the coming spring festival in Thebes; joking about days spent walking that same road when they were boys - anything and everything, observing, jesting, postulating, just plain thinking aloud ...
The silence had been unbearable.
Alcmene had briefly closed her eyes, wrestling with the intensity of her reaction; now she opened them again, looking up to meet his own. A quiet fire burned in the depths of her gaze and he drew strength from it, anchoring himself in the certainty and depth of her love.
Whatever happens, her look said, we will have done everything we can for him.
And more ...
It was his own resolve, reflected back with equal determination. The intensity of it shook him a little.
"Five - like this?" she asked. Hercules nodded confirmation, too caught up in the immediacy of the problem to wonder how she knew the number of the wounds. He didn’t see how her lips tightened with reactive anger; he’d already turned his attention back to the injured man that lay so silently between them.
"I’m not entirely sure what happened," he said, reaching to gently unbuckle the heavy belts that still encircled the hunter’s slender waist. He was going to have to cut him out of his leathers; both hip and thigh were too badly damaged to risk any other approach. "The storm brought down one of the oak trees on his route home . At a guess, he was under it when it happened - took off to avoid having it fall on him, and stumbled straight into one of Croesus’ pits. I should thank whichever god it was that sent me that vision. He could have been there for days before anyone realised he was missing."
"Don’t," Deianeira shuddered, carefully placing a steaming bowl on the stool that Alcmene dragged across to support it. "I’ve told the boys to stay in their room; they’re keeping an eye on Ilea."
"Good," Hercules registered distractedly. "They don’t need to see this. We have to clean these wounds and stop the bleeding if we can. And get some warmth into him. He’s as cold as ice."
Colder, he found himself thinking uneasily. He’d visited the Underworld once; the chilled and clammy skin that currently lay under his hand held scarcely more warmth than the dead souls he’d met in Tarterus.
His wife frowned, lifting the makeshift bandage just as Alcmene had done and going a little pale at what she found beneath it. "I don’t know," she said shakenly. "Pulling something like that out could do a lot more damage than it did going in."
"We don’t have much choice," Alcmene said. "Left like that the wounds will fester for certain. Deianeira, we’ll both have to be ready with cloth to stem the bleeding while Hercules - "
"Does - what needs to be done," he interrupted softly. This was one task where he knew his strength would serve. But there was work to do before they could address it. First they had to carefully cut away the hunter’s ruined clothing, and then equally gently peel away the blood soaked linen Hercules had wadded around the wounds to pad them for the journey. After that they used warmed and diluted wine to rinse away some of the mud and blood that painted the unconscious man’s pale flesh. Iolaus lay deathly still through all their careful ministrations, with just the ragged rise and fall of his chest betraying his stubborn hold on life. In some ways Hercules was glad for that. Much as he longed for those familiar blue eyes to open, he feared the severity of the wounds; it was better that the man stay unaware while they were forced to move his limbs and stir potential pain.
Finally they were prepared. Hercules reached over to splay one hand across his friend’s shoulder, applying gentle pressure to steady the damaged flesh while he curled the fingers of the other hand around the bloody shaft that protruded through the wound. The skin beneath his palm felt ice cold and he swallowed against the tightness gathering in his throat. He didn’t want to do this but he knew he had no choice. "Ready?" he asked. When both women nodded he took a deep breath - and tugged ...
A sensation akin to a thousand red hot needles stabbed through wounded flesh. Iolaus staggered back with a cry, dragged out of his reverie with a violence that left his lungs labouring for breath. He dropped down onto his butt and sat there for a disorientated minute, watching the world spin and dance in front of his eyes.
What in Tarterus was that?
He didn’t mean the pain. He knew exactly where that came from. It was the peculiar sense of dissolution he referred to, that sense of being nowhere, nowhen ...
"Told you," the effort filled voice whispered. "Don’t look."
Just for the moment the voice was unimportant. He might have been released from obliviousness but the reason for it had tipped him straight into an immediacy of experience that required his full attention. The hunter blinked the dancing lights from his eyes with an effort and waited, every muscle tense and on edge. A strong and unseen hand pressed down on his hip - and the pain flared again, contorting him with agony.
"Gods!" he gasped, twisting over in a futile attempt to evade the consuming fire. "Herc - ah, please ..."
The plea went unheard, but the sense of his sword brother’s closeness grew stronger. Hercules was right there, a tangible presence that somehow anchored him, despite the agony his treatment stirred.
Torment ripped through his side. Iolaus screamed. Inside and out.
I can’t. I can’t ...
But he had no choice. Escaping the pain was not an option. He had to endure - and did so, with a whimpering protest offered through gritted teeth.
Just two more after this one. Just two more ...
He clung to that thought, curled over in a foetal huddle on the water slicked rock. He didn’t notice how the blood pooled out around him - or how its taint dispersed the silver iridescence and coloured the trickling water a deep rich red.
Easy, Herc, easy ... Those phantom fingers curled over his thigh with hesitant gentleness and he closed his eyes, picturing the man they belonged to, using the image to help armor him against what followed.
He has to do this. Has to. Hastohastohasto ...
Another strangled cry escaped his lips; his whole body spasmed and he was left trembling from head to foot, gasping desperately for breath.
I’m okay. Just give me a minute and I’ll be okay ...
He focused on that thought, deliberately sliding his wounded hand out into a full stretch as he waited for the last impact of agony. When it came, it felt as if his entire arm had caught fire; his fingers clenched in automatic reaction and the muscles in his arm locked convulsively.
And then it was over.
Not entirely over. The echo of the pain lingered with nagging persistence, but it was back to the level he’d been coping with before. He felt a little light headed too, as if the abuse of his body had used up some of his soul’s strength.
I have to move on, he realised with an inner shiver. The longer he took to complete his quest, the weaker his physical form would become. Not just because of the injuries that it had endured, but because he was no longer there to sustain it.
Although ...
Strong arms curled round him, lifting and cradling him with such gentle attention that his gasp of reaction was more from surprise than pain. There was strength as well as warmth in the contact and he closed his eyes, accepting the gift without question and savouring it until the moment when he felt Hercules put him down again. It was done with considerate care and the shiver of fire - while fierce - held less impact than it had before. He might be absent from his physical shell, but its welfare was in good hands.
Bound by my brother’s heart to return to him; my second self, my other soul ...
The poetic phrasing concealed an older truth, just as Gaia had said. The oath was a binding one; not just on him, but on the man who should have taken it in the first place. Somehow the two of them were linked, and, through that link he’d been able to draw, not just an awareness of what his body endured, but some of the strength he so desperately needed.
Thanks, Herc, he acknowledged gratefully and finally returned his attention to the situation at hand.
Nothing had moved in the silvered cavern. The surface of the water was as still as it had always been. Only now a slowly spreading stain of crimson marred its iridescent perfection, pooling out from where he sat. He’d been warned and now he understood the warning. That enticing surface was a trap, a lure to catch a travelers senses and hold them in suspension. But why?
He scrambled back to his feet and reached down to pick up his sword. It must have slipped from his hand while his senses had been drifting, though he didn’t know why he hadn’t heard it hit the ground. His fingers closed over the hilt and he lifted.
It didn’t budge.
He took a firmer grip and tugged.
Something gave with an audible crack and he nearly overbalanced again.
What is going on here?
He took a closer look at the freed sword and his mouth went dry. There was a thin coating of translucent silver running along the side of the blade that had been resting on the damp surface of the rock. As if the stone had been trying to absorb it.
Or grow over it ...
He glanced down, suddenly aware of a numbess in his toes that had nothing to do with how cold the rest of him felt. Sure enough, there was that same thin coating of crystalline stone, the edge of it reaching almost to his ankles.
How long was I standing there? he wondered, using the sword blade to hastily beat and crack the deposit away from his skin. The iridescence in the water was no longer an intriguing phenomenon. It was a decided danger. Stand still for any length of time in this place and you’d turn into a stalagmite ...
Gods!
Comprehension struck with stomach churning consternation. He ran to the nearest stone pillar, carefully keeping his back to the lake while he searched its surface with anxious eyes. It didn’t seem to be that one, so he skittered on to the next, hopping from one foot to the other so as to reduce the time he was in contact with the insidious slime. There were a whole series of such pillars spaced along the lakeside, each roughly the height and shape of a man.
"Where are you?" he demanded, searching the next one and the next with a growing sense of dread. Those shapes he’d seen, those half glimpsed suggestions of creatures in among the stone. They hadn’t just been his imagination. They’d been real, living things lured into the serenity of the cavern and slowly absorbed into it.
Just like the heroes who had reached the edge of the lake and gone no further in their quest ...
"Where - ?" He skidded to a halt, catching a glimpse of recognisable features, watching him from within a prison of stone. The man must have been crouched by the water when he’d been caught; Iolaus had to dip to meet his eyes.
"Help me," the prisoner said, slivers of stone flaking from his lips as they moved. The hunter stared at him.
"How ...?"
His lower half was a blurred parody of human shape, the legs totally fused into a single lump of stone and the coating already several inches thick. One arm was vanishing into the general encrustation, the other was held out as if in a desperate plea. Silver twined through his hair, and rivulets of it were running down his face.
Hercules probably wouldn’t have hesitated; he’d have tried to rip the man out of his implacable prison, using his divine strength to shatter the creeping stone. But Iolaus wasn’t Hercules - and the sheer horror of the sight held him motionless with shock.
At least until he remembered that standing still was dangerous, and looked down in alarm in case he’d been caught a second time.
He hadn’t. Blood was still slowly dripping from his leathers; the water he was standing in was now a rich red in colour. So, when he risked a wary glance over his shoulder, was most of the lake. A deep and shimmering, blood red ...
"Free me," the trapped warrior begged, his eyes filled with desperation. They flicked to the sword in Iolaus’ hand and he hefted it warily, trying to interpret the request.
Gaia implied it had been a long time since anyone last walked this path.
Not just days. Or weeks.
Not even months.
This man had been here years..
His head jerked to take in the line of crystalline statues that marked the edge of the lake and a cold shiver ran through him. They’d all been here years. Centuries ...
Dead and buried. Given up to serve the earth.
None of them made it back.
He was face to face with a ghost ...
"Please," the trapped figure begged a second time. "Free me..."
Dark eyes pleaded with him, offering a look of desperate entreaty and his heart quailed, imagining what it must be like, to be held, trapped, like that, with nothing but the silence for company.
There was only one kind of release the prisoner could want. But did he have the right to give it?
Then again, what kind of man would he be if he didn’t?
Iolaus drew in a shaky breath, deliberately lifted his sword, gritted his teeth - and struck with directed force. The edge of the blade bit home. Slivers of stone flew like sparks. The eyes of the ghost lit up with gratitude - and then went wide with shock as the swing of the blade went on travelling, slicing through stone and flesh and ancient bone, severing the dead man’s head from its petrified body.
The ghastly object tumbled to the moisture slicked floor, bounced once, and then shattered into a myriad of pieces. The pillar it had topped followed suit, imploding inwards as the soul it had contained was finally set free.
"Thank you ..." someone whispered; a grateful sigh. A ruffle of wind caught at his hair - and then was gone.
A madness seized hold of him then, one compounded by horror and distress. He turned and raced towards the next pillar and the next, striking at them with wild and distraught blows. Stone cracked and shattered under the attack, filling the cavern with the clang of steel and the crash of splintering crystal. One by one the pillars fell. Imprisoned souls screamed free, adding to the cacophony of sound. He felt their pain and gave it further voice, howling their grief and anger with each reckless blow. The cavern reverberated with it; stalactites were shaken from the ceiling and rained down into the lake, raising splashes of scarlet that hit the walls and stained their pristine surfaces.
The last pillar shattered with a crash fit to wake the dead. Iolaus dropped to his knees in the crimson water, gasping for breath and his whole body wracked with desperate sobs as he wrestled for his self control.
So many.
There were so many ...
Shakenly he climbed back to his feet and staggered across the shallows to where the shadowed arch awaited him. He had to go on. He had to succeed.
But he could not hold back the tears he shed for those who had not.
"He’s shivering," Alcmene advised, pausing in her self imposed task to glance towards the anxious profile of her son where he crouched by the hearth. Hercules’ head jerked round to confirm the information, then he nodded grimly and got to his feet to fetch another blanket. He’d been busy attending to the fire, stacking wood to encourage a fiercer blaze. It would take, Alcmene knew, a lot more than simple flames to banish the chill that currently enwrapped their patient, but the warmth was welcome and would do no harm.
She sighed and went back to work, gently damping and combing the tangled locks that lay within her hand. They had bathed and bandaged the wounded hunter’s body, and wrapped him in blankets warmed by the main hearth fire, but his hair had still been caked with mud and she was carefully restoring it to its more usual golden glory.
It was a task that gave her time to think.
Where are you, Iolaus?
What dangers are you facing on the dark paths beneath the earth?
He lay so still. That was the worst of it. It was as if she were attending to a corpse, preparing him for his final journey. Only the barely seen rise and fall of his chest and the trembling shiver of his skin betrayed the life that still lurked within him. And he looked so pale. Deathly pale. He had lost so much blood. So much ...
Curse you, Zeus.
He’d made a bargain to save his son. She understood that. But did the price of that bargain have to be so high?
Were you desperate for a solution? Backed into a tight corner and looking for the first way out that came to mind?
Alcmene’s fingers clenched on the comb, expressing the anger that raged within her heart. She knew what the ritual traditionally demanded. But had Zeus had to be so literal in his interpretation?
Five times given up, each time in blood ...
This hadn’t been a ceremonial sacrifice. It had been a savage assault on an unsuspecting and unprepared victim. There’d been no sacred smoke to dull his senses, no herb laced wine to numb the impact of the pain; just a moment of fire on a cold hillside - and after the brutal butchery, long hours alone in the bitterness of the night, hours in which his life blood had leached into the hungry earth.
"Here." Hercules came back from the outer room, his arms draped with a heavy ram’s fleece. "This ought to help."
Alcmene nodded an agreement, not trusting her voice to speak. However angry she might be with Zeus she knew better than to share what he’d told her. Her son had enough to worry about - and under all that anger lay a stark fear that she had no wish to put into words. The dark paths were perilous ones. Very few reached the end of them. Even fewer returned to speak of what they’d seen.
She feared that Iolaus was already lost. That it had been his ghost that had come to her, that day so long ago ...
The man that ghost had fought so hard to save carefully laid the thick fleece, wool side down, over his unconscious friend and Alcmene shivered at the sight of it. It had been a big ram, one of the ones they’d chosen to slaughter so that others might live through the long winter. Its heavy coat was easily large enough to cover the injured hunter from shoulder to knee. Iolaus had always been on the compact side - smaller than many and decidedly short when stood next to her strapping son - but usually his boundless energy and reckless heart more than made up for his lack of personal inches. Now, lying there so pale and silent, he seemed smaller than ever, the dauntless warrior dwarfed by nothing more than a ram’s skin.
"You know," Hercules murmured thoughtfully, "if this were the one we’d brought back from Colchis ..."
Alcmene put out her hand to catch his arm, to halt the way his thoughts were turning. The powers of the golden fleece would not serve as the answer here. The ancient rite, once initiated, had to be played out to the bitter end or the sacrifice would be in vain. "It isn’t," she said, keeping her voice soft, trying to sound comforting. "Hercules - it’d be a long journey to fetch the fleece - and even then, Jason might not want to give it to you."
"For Iolaus he would." He sighed and moved away to sink wearily onto the stool opposite her. "But you’re right, mother. The fleece is days away. And it’s not reliable, anyway. What gift of the gods ever is?"
She smiled sadly, reading the thoughts behind his words. You wouldn’t go. Not for such a slender hope. You’d be too afraid that he would die before you could return.
That he’d die without you being here.
You’d never forgive yourself for that ...
"That looks like a thankless task," he observed, deliberately changing the subject and trying to lighten the mood a little. Alcmene’s smile took on a wry twist.
"You can say that again." She went back to work, patiently teasing the comb through obstinate tangles. Hercules smiled, watching her with affection.
"I’m - glad you were here, mother," he admitted after a moment or two. She looked up, concerned at the hesitancy in his voice. His gaze had drifted away from her hands to rest, bleak and anxious, on the pale face of the man that lay between them.
You feel so helpless in all of this.
Knowing there’s nothing you can do ...
But that wasn’t true. This wasn’t just some pointless accident, and the fortune of his friend did not rest solely in the hands of the fates. The ritual demanded more than that. Much more. While the soul of the chosen one walked the dark paths alone, his way back to the world was always entrusted to his sacred twin. To the sworn brother of his heart, his second self, his other soul. Traditionally it was his hand on the knife, his duty to tend to the wounds and his care that sustained the life of the sacrifice until he could complete the quest and win the crown.
And - once it was won - it was his voice and his heart that served to bind the power of the Summer King and return his soul to its rightful place.
‘He does have a chance, Alcmene. I’m sure of it ...’
She knew better than to let Zeus’ words offer her false hope. She knew how badly hurt Iolaus was, as well as the nature of the road he currently traveled. But all the while he continued to draw breath he did have a chance - and part of that chance sat opposite her now, with a weight of helpless anxiety sitting on his shoulders.
One of two, two who are closer than one ...
It had always been true of the two of them. There would be little need for formal words or ritual action; the bond of their friendship had been forged in battle and shaped by deeds over long years of companionship.
Alcmene put down the comb and reached for her son’s hand instead. Hercules offered it up without protest, letting her wrap her fingers around his own and finding her a sad but hopeful smile. "Hercules," she said softly, "there’s something I want you to do." Her free hand had slid beneath the softness of the ram’s fleece, and she gently lifted out the limp weight of the wounded hunter’s right hand, being careful not to disturb his upper arm and the damaged shoulder that supported it. Gently she brought the two hands together, placing the chilled palm of one across the warmth of the other, and held them there, between both of her own. "I want you to promise me that you’ll do everything in your power to hold onto him. That you’ll help watch over him, day and night, until this has run its course."
Hercules’ fingers had tightened, locking the limp hand into a firm but gentle grip. He looked at his mother with decided bemusement. "Mother, I - "
"No," she stopped him firmly. "I know what’s in your heart. But I want you to swear it. No matter what, no matter who comes to beg your aid, you mustn’t leave him. Will you promise me that?"
He reached across with his other hand, laying it over hers with tender pressure, and considered her with a look of quiet determination. "You know I will," he said. "Because I’ve already given him that promise. I’m not going to let him go, mother. Not like this." His eyes were drawn, inevitably, to the man himself; they held a depth of emotion that the calm set of his features could not completely conceal. His lips shaped words she recognised, even if he didn’t actually give them voice.
Back to back, he promised.
Heroes ...
Somewhere else in the house voices were being raised in enthusiastic hullaballo: Clonis and Aeson were on the rampage again, expressing the carefree joys of youth without a moment's concern for the potential tragedy that had touched their parents’ lives. It was a sound Alcmene knew only too well; a sound that had been missing from her own home far too long. The sound of boys at play …
Her heart turned over, and she swallowed against a sudden tightness in her throat. Year after year she had watched her exceptional child grow into an extraordinary man, seen him struggle with the truth of his divine heritage, and come to terms with the destiny he had shaped for himself. In every one but the earliest of those years, there had been another blue eyed child, his presence woven though them like a bright thread of gold. She’d watched him become a man too, seeing the way he’d carved a place at her son’s side, desperate to make up for his early mistakes and determined to challenge his father’s scorn. They had balanced each other so perfectly, one providing a moderating influence on the other’s reckless heart, while he returned the gift with carefree laughter, encouraging her oh, so serious son to seek adventure and so find himself.
And now that bright soul had been sent on a bitter journey. One from which he probably would not return.
Sacrificed to the oldest power, taking the place of the brother of his heart.
The child that they both loved so much ...
She tightened her hold on the clasped hands she cradled and allowed herself a single tear, one that crept betrayingly down her cheek before she could reach to wipe it away.
"Mother?" Hercules was questioning, his voice concerned. Somewhere she found him a brave smile.
"You’d better put some more wood on that fire, dear," she suggested briskly. "Keep us all warm."
He stayed where he was for a moment, his eyes betraying the turmoil of emotions that boiled behind them. His fear for his friend and his concern for her fought for dominance, revealing, if only for a heartbeat, the vulnerable child who had once sought safety and comfort in the curve of his mother’s arms. Then the pressure of his hands tightened with reassuring gentleness and he smiled softly, accepting her practical wisdom and, at the same time, offering back the support of his heart, the quiet courage that was his true strength. "Sure," he said. He got to his feet and went to do as she’d asked, pausing only to press her hands around the limp fingers that he was forced to relinquish.
The tenderness in the gesture threatened to release another tear and Alcmene had to struggle to keep it from escaping.
Come on, woman, she chided herself. You’re not going to help either of them acting like this!
There would be time to weep when she was alone. When there was nothing left to do and no-one there to see. Right now she had to think of her sons and how best to help them both. Iolaus’s struggle was beyond her reach to affect; for him she could do nothing but help tend the fragile shell he had left behind. But Hercules was a different matter. He had to be strong, and he had to be focused - because if he gave up hope before the third day had passed, then all hope would be lost.
So.
How do I keep him from brooding?
Her son was a practical man. A warrior. A hero. He needed to act, not just sit around and mope for three days. He had to feel he was making a difference.
The answer came to her as she bent back to her careful combing and she smiled down at the hunter’s pale face with almost conspiratorial satisfaction. It was so obvious when she thought about it. She suspected that Iolaus would be amused at her solution.
And she prayed he’d live to appreciate the joke ...
He didn’t know how long he wandered in the passageways. They seemed to be endless, a twist of stone corridors and echoing caverns through which he stumbled with weary steps, following the constant flow of the narrow stream. It was his only guide and his only light; it filled the depths with a lurid glow, a crimson radiance that coloured his journey with the shimmer of his own life’s blood.
It was journey Iolaus would never be able to recall clearly, although images of it would later come to haunt his dreams. There were caves cut from ebony, their dark walls veined with the glimmer of gold; tunnels of silver and iron ore that twisted and turned until he had lost all sense of direction; labyrinths of granite spires through which the blood red river danced; sloping slabs of glittering marble down which he had to slide; and vaulting cathedrals of sharp edged slate, the shimmer of raw jewels studding their arching pillars.
Deeper and deeper he went, down into the heart of the earth, tempted by its riches to stop and look, to turn aside from his path so that he might weight his hands with emeralds or snatch up nuggets of purest gold. Just one of those enticing gemstones would buy him a kingdom - but he barely paused to acknowledge the temptation. He knew gold couldn’t buy him happiness, or earn him honour. One of the diamonds drew him briefly - but when he half put out his hand it was to glimpse the ruby rawness of the wound that pierced his palm and he turned away, leaving the stone untouched.
From time to time, he heard voices murmuring through the caverns, whispered echoes that came from everywhere and nowhere. Sometimes the words were blurred into a meaningless bedlam, distant shouts and curses filled with threat and challenge. Sometimes they breathed a heart aching lament.
And once or twice they called him by name …
Iolaus.
I-o-laus …
He gritted his teeth, hardened his heart and stuck to his chosen path. It couldn’t be Ania, out there in the dark. Someone – or something – was using her voice, trying to lure him away from the safety of the light. He stayed by the water and it led him on, away from the voices and deeper into the earth. It leapt down a cascade of narrow terraces, each one imprinted with echoes of ancient bones. He stepped over the curve of stone cut sea shells, and walked on polished floors that were stamped with the images of fern fronds. The stream tumbled over lumps of rusted ore, cut through beds of warm sandstone and was funneled down between the frozen folds of long cooled lava; he followed it through every twist and turn, clambering over obstacles and bruising his naked feet on the unyielding rock. The sword was a weight in his hand, but he did not dare let go of it. Its blade still glimmered slightly, a soft white shine that contrasted with the deep crimson of the light that kept him company.
The journey seemed interminable. His step dragged and his shoulders sagged. A part of him wanted to stop and rest. Just - pause for a moment. Maybe even snatch a little sleep ...
He kept right on walking.
This - he knew this - was all part of the test. The image of those shapeless pillars and the cries with which their captives had greeted their release had stayed with him, a more effective warning than any half forgotten words, offered in a tale.
It would be too easy to get lost down here.
To wander forever in these endless passages.
Stray from the path or stop to rest and I might never find the way out.
He still might not, but at least the stream was going somewhere .
"Oh -!" Hercules bit back a curse as he tugged the length of twine that little bit too tight, and snapped it in two. "Clonis," he called down to the floor of the barn, "fetch me another skein of twine will you?"
"Okay." The boy’s bright voice was followed by the sound of his footsteps and the creak of the barn door as he departed on his errand. His father sighed and lifted the heap of hay he’d been trying to bundle up, carrying it across to the chute just as it was. He seemed to have been in the hay loft for hours, shifting and checking the last of the old winter feed, opening the bales he’d packed in the autumn and checking them for must and damp. Okay, so the weather had been miserable enough to make the chore an essential one and he had been meaning to tackle it for a while. But his heart wasn’t in the task, not by a long stretch. His thoughts and his attention were both focused towards the quiet room that lay at the back of his house, barely a hundred paces away.
Alcmene had promised she’d let him know if he were needed, but the fact that she hadn’t didn’t stop him worrying. If anything, it had made him even more anxious. No call meant no change - and while no change might be a good sign, it also meant that Iolaus had not yet woken from his unconscious stupor.
I’ll watch over him while I’m here, his mother had insisted, shooing him out of the room with exasperated hands. I’m sure there’s all sort of things you should be doing. Iolaus wouldn’t want you neglecting your family for his sake, now would he?
Then, with a sympathetic and knowing smile, she’d added: You can take the night watch if you like. Deineira will need to stay with the children. And I prefer to sleep in my own bed ...
He pushed his armful of fodder down the chute and turned to consider the neat bundles of hay that were once again stacked along the walls of the hay loft. There weren’t very many left; if the weather didn’t improve they were going to have to start rationing the animals. Or maybe kill one or two to make the rest of the feed last ...
Hercules sighed and strode across to the edge of the loft. His hands went out with automatic habit and he vaulted down into the main area of the barn with an easy leap and twist.
And his heart skipped a painful beat, recalling all the times a certain tousle headed, blue eyed bundle of energy had ambushed him with a similar leap from that very same hay loft.
Hey! I bet I can take you this time. Come on, try me. Just one more time ...
The laughter echoed through his soul; memories of friendly scuffles and the day the compact hunter nearly had taken him, demonstrating his newly acquired skill in the dancing, quicksilver fighting style that he’d claimed they used in the east. It had been that skill which he had clearly honed during his recent travels, weaving his own unique improvisational approach into what his friend suspected should have been a structured and studied discipline.
Iolaus had mentioned meeting his teacher again, but he’d not gone into details, an omission that extended to all of that long year he’d spent away. He’d made a few casual remarks and throwaway comments, but he’d never really spoken of where he’d been or what he’d done. Hercules had respected that; the reasons for the journey had been traumatic ones and he’d had been willing to wait until his friend was ready to speak about it.
But maybe now he’d never know ...
No. Stop that, Hercules told himself sternly. One day soon he’ll be sitting up in that loft, dangling his legs over the edge and telling you all about it.
You’ll see.
Probably while you’re working on some chore or other ...
"Here’s the twine, dad." Clonis reappeared, bright eyed and breathless. Aeson was right behind him; they’d obviously been competing as to who would be first to deliver the requested treasure. "Grana says when we’ve finished checking the feed, could we fix the water barrel and fill it up from the well? Momma wants to wash something and - "
"- it would be easier if the barrel were full. I know, I know." Hercules sighed, reaching down to scoop his younger son up onto his shoulder. "You know all those tales your Uncle Iolaus tells you about my adventures?"
"Mmhuh," the boys both nodded, their eyes lighting up.
"Well," their father confided with conspiratorial warmth, "the tasks your grandmother finds me to do are much harder ..."
The journey seemed interminable. Iolaus’s steps were dragging, one foot barely lifting past the other as he entered yet another cavern, this one a place where molten rock had rolled and folded into curving shapes that hung down and bubbled up like a handful of half pulled taffy. The stream pooled out to fill those looping curves with a shimmer of scarlet light and he sighed, pausing to rub the back of a tired hand across his forehead so as to wipe away the sweat that gathered there.
Okay, the hunter breathed resignedly. So now I’m too hot.
He hadn’t noticed when the fever had crept up on him, but it was fever, and it helped explain the unplaceable ache that now counterpointed the soft throb of his wounds. It also explained the weary heaviness in his limbs and the dryness that had tightened around his throat.
"Hey, Herc," he chided the general air, "pay attention, will ya? I’m burning up here. A little water wouldn’t go amiss ..." Iolaus grinned at his own facetiousness, knowing full well that his distant guardian couldn’t hear him. Even so, the knowledge that he was being watched over helped focus his determination. He had to pick up his pace, or he’d just drop with exhaustion long before he even reached the final test.
Somewhere, on the other side of the cavern, there was a narrow gully that cleft the stone from floor to ceiling. The water was pouring through it, its eager current creating swirling whirlpools that set the light dancing like a flicker of flame. He’d run out of pathway. To go any further he was going to have to wade.
He heaved another sigh and half stepped, half slid down one of those taffy ridges, steeling himself for the moment of chill when he entered the water.
There wasn’t one.
It was hot.
As hot as his own fevered blood.
He gasped, feeling the warmth surge up around him. Through him. Sweat surged out of every pore, flooding him with clammy heat, and he had to struggle for breath.
"Gods," he muttered, forcing himself to take a step forward. "I’ve heard of working up a sweat, but this is ridiculous."
Another step, and then another; if the rock had looked like taffy, then this was like wading through treacle. Red hot treacle. It seared his feet, and scalded his calves, clinging to the leather with viscous insistence. Every pace was a struggle. The crimson liquid no longer just looked like blood - it seemed to have become blood. The thick metallic scent of it swirled up around him as he waded deeper, the odor heavy and overpowering. It dragged at him, sucking at his strength so that each step became an effort of will. Iolaus stumbled on, stubbornly focused on his goal, and somehow managing to push himself forward. His body seemed to have caught fire and sweat blurred his vision; rivulets of perspiration dripped from his skin and spattered into the gory ichor, hissing and fizzing into whispers of steam.
It was the gasp that alerted him. It was a soft sound, barely a whisper of protest, but it was a sound and, after long hours of harrowing silence, it reverberated in his soul like a battle cry.
"Iolaus?" Hercules dropped the wedge of wood he’d been about to add to the fire and turned back towards the low bed, his heart kicking into overdrive. Two conflicting emotions battled for dominance as he bent to examine his patient; hope, that the sound implied a return to consciousness, and fear, because to do so would be to return to pain. "Iolaus?"
His only answer was another of those softly gulped breaths. He reached across and dragged the candle holder to the edge of the table, letting the light fall on the injured man’s face. His first hope was dashed instantly. There was no welcome glimmer of blue staring up at him from the pillow; The hunter’s eyes were shut and it was clear that he was still deeply unconscious. If anything, his face was paler than ever - and a thin sheet of sweat now coated its unnatural pallor, beads of it gathering on his forehead like the glitter of tiny jewels.
"Oh no," Hercules muttered, reaching to gently press the back of his hand to his friend’s cheek. Sure enough, the man’s skin was both clammy and hot to the touch. He stirred under the contact, twisting his head the barest distance in a reflexive spasm of distress. "Easy," his self appointed nursemaid murmured, inwardly berating himself for not recognising the signs that should have heralded this. "Let me take care of this."
The son of Zeus threw aside the weight of the ram’s fleece and the blanket beneath it, his anxious features twisting with a decided frown as the heat from fevered flesh struck upwards with almost physical force. "Gods," he breathed, taken aback by the speed and fierceness of the fever. He knew his mother had spent most of the day trying to get warmth into their patient; now he was practically burning up, his broken body shivering under the intensity of the attack.
What do I do? Hercules wondered, trying to remember the healing knowledge his cousin Asclepilus had taught him. Deianeira would know, but he’d sent her to bed and had no wish to wake her again unless he really needed to.
"Fluids," he remembered with relief. "Cool down the skin and replace what sweats out. Okay. That I can do."
More or less, anyway. Cooling the man’s fevered flesh would be easy enough, but getting him to drink was going to be a real challenge. Alcmene had been trying it earlier, carefully dribbling a mixture of dilute wine and honey between unresponsive lips. But he knew he had to try. Iolaus had already lost far too much blood and without liquid to replace it the demands the fever made on his weak and dehydrated body would kill him for certain.
"Hang on, my friend," he requested grimly, pausing only to reinforce the request with a soft squeeze to the man’s undamaged shoulder before striding out of the room in search of what he needed. He gathered together a number of cloths and a shallow bowl, filling it with cold water from the water barrel that he had fixed only that afternoon. It only took him a few minutes, but it felt like hours; he returned to his guest room with a hasty and anxious step, fearful that even that short time might have cost him more than he was willing to pay.
Why did I spend all day in the barn?
I should have been here ...
By the time Iolaus finally reached the entrance to the narrow cleft, he was waist deep, shaking and fighting for breath, wrestling gulps of air into lungs that felt as if they were filled with flame. Erratic eddies battered at his legs and stirred the turbid liquid into fervent motion. There was a river of blood pouring though the rift as if it were a gaping wound.
Now what? he wondered, groping for the support of the rock face and staring blearily into the fissure. The world was spinning around him and there was a fierce roaring in his ears. No - not just in his ears. The sound was real, and clearly echoing through the cleft in the rock. He edged into it sideways, shoulder deep in the flood: his body barely fitted into the gap. The weight of the churning liquid surged past him, hammering at his weakened frame. The sound became deafening thunder. Dazed, dizzy and trembling with effort and fever, he moved deeper and deeper into the narrow passage, a note of hysteria threatening as he recalled that Hercules had been the one meant to be making this particular journey. His friend’s broad shoulders and sturdy frame would never have fit into the opening, let alone allowed him to pass through it.
Maybe Herc would have torn his way through.
Not feeling like this, he suspected.
His senses were reeling. The thunder was getting louder and louder. The weight of the rushing current threatened to sweep him off his feet.
Then the crevasse came to an end - and so did the channel, the liquid it had contained surging out and down, forming a clamouring waterfall of crimson light that fell and fell, and fell, into a vast cauldron of darkness ...
Gods!
Iolaus had no time to think, and no energy left to hold himself against the power of the flood. With a cry of dismayed desperation he struck out, using what little remained of his strength to drive the blade of his sword into the rock face as he was swept out of the mouth of the fissure. The point caught for a vital moment, letting him use the impetus of his ejection to swing round, out of the main force of the torrent. His free hand groped with frenzied panic as he fell, searching for a grip, for something to hold onto - and found it in an unexpected curtain that draped the near vertical walls of the pit.
His fingers clenched and he jerked to a sudden halt, his heart pounding in his chest and the world gyrating round him with dizzying speed. The sword slipped from his grip, twisting away into the depths, and he groped desperately for a firmer hold, trying to find anchorage in the thick tangle of roots that had become his only lifeline ...
Hercules dipped a length of cloth into the basin and then lifted it out, wringing out the excess water before carefully it laying across his friend’s sweat soaked and fevered forehead. He half expected it to steam; the man’s body was practically on fire, the fever consuming him with a raging and fearsome heat.
"You never do anything by halves, do you, buddy?" The son of Zeus bundled a second cloth into the basin, using it to gently bathe Iolaus’s sweated torso and limbs. He worked with care, wincing a little as he realised that the layered linen bandages that covered the hunter’s wounds were already soaked right through. "If you wanted these changed all you had to do was say so."
Herc, he could almost hear his friend’s response, delivered with patient exasperation, if I was in fit state to say anything ...
"Yeah," Hercules sighed. "I know." He dipped the cloth a second time and gently spread its cooling weight across his patient’s chest. The bandages could wait; the fever was a more immediate threat. "You think you can manage a little more of this?" He picked up the goblet of honey watered wine that Alcmene had refilled before she left and frowned. He might get some of its contents in the man’s mouth - but how in Hades was he supposed to make him swallow it?
A sudden memory sprang to mind - a memory of Iolaus, knelt knee deep in straw holding a weak and struggling lamb in his arms. The ewe had birthed triplets and refused to even acknowledge the third of her offspring. It had lain there all day, plaintively and pitifully refusing to accept the makeshift teat that Deineira had hastily constructed. Without nourishment it would have died and Hercules had almost resigned himself to the fact when his friend had arrived, wondering what they were doing in the barn. Give me that, he’d giggled, taking the milk filled wineskin from Deianeira’s despairing hands and scooping the tiny creature up into his arms. Within minutes it was suckling eagerly, butting at his fingers in its eagerness to feed. How did you do that? Hercules had asked, and his friend had grinned. Old hunter’s trick, he’d laughed..
Of course. The son of Zeus rolled his eyes briefly skywards, annoyed at himself for having forgotten something so obvious. It was all a matter of reflex - and care. You just had to know the trick ...
"Well," he observed, carefully putting the goblet down again. "You’re always saying those hunter’s tricks of yours are what keeps you alive ... Let’s see if this one works, huh?"
He slid off the stool and onto his knees, reaching out to carefully slide his left arm under his friend’s shoulders. He winced as he did it, acutely aware of the raw wounds that lay beneath the sweat soaked bandages. If he had any choice he wouldn’t have dreamed of moving his patient like this - but the heat from the fever silenced any protest his heart might make at the idea. Iolaus breathed out a quiet moan, his body shuddering as the movement spurred reaction despite his insensible state. "Easy," Hercules murmured, sliding his arm just a little further - and then gently lifting until the hunter’s head rested comfortably against his own shoulder. "There ... Okay." He wadded up the cloth that had been cooling his friend’s fevered body, using it to dab at the sweat that glimmered on his flushed cheeks and throat. Both the goblet and the basin lay within easy reach; he dropped the cloth into the water for a moment and picked up the sweetened wine instead.
"Remember this?" he asked softly, using the rim of the goblet to open unresisting lips. "It’s the last of the Messapian vintage. The one that village sent as a thank you - for dealing with that river demon? What was that place called?"
Olmia, was the immediate answer. Nice place. And the fishing was terrific ...
Hercules laughed softly, hearing the words as clearly as if they had been spoken. He lifted the goblet up, carefully measuring the way the level of the liquid dropped. Too much and he might choke his patient. Too little and the trick wouldn’t work ...
"Oh yeah. We caught the biggest fish going, didn’t we?"
Damn right. But I’d wished you’d told me I was going to be the bait!
He lifted Iolaus’ chin, tipping his head up and back, and softly massaged the exposed throat with gentle fingers.
After an anxious moment, the unconscious man swallowed.
"Attaboy," Hercules grinned. It was an absurdly small triumph, but it was an encouraging one. The first of what he knew was likely to be a long night.
The vines or roots, or whatever they were, were looped and tangled like a deep sea fishing net - one that had been washed ashore on a beach somewhere, filled with leathery seaweed and unrecognisable flotsam. Iolaus felt a little like a beached fish himself, caught up in the mesh of fibres and clinging to them with trembling hands. The fever still burned through him with raging heat; sweat filled his eyes and he laboured to fill his lungs with the fusty air, tasting the dryness in his throat as he gasped and panted for breath.
That, he decided, risking a slight turn of his head and a glance down into stygian depths, was close ...
Somewhere, far below, he could glimpse something gleaming in the darkness. The thunder of the waterfall reverberated to his right, forming a arch of shimmering crimson, a deep unrelenting colour that lit his surroundings with lurid reflections.
Long way down.
He lifted his head, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever lay above him; the darkness arched overhead, filled with barely defined shadows. He couldn’t see where the cavern ended and the earth began but he could feel it - feel what seemed to be the entire world hanging over him with ponderous weight.
Long way up ...
He was, he realised with a sinking heart, barely a third of the way through his journey. The dark path led down, and he had to follow it until he found the oldest, deepest part of the tree. Only then could he begin to climb up again - provided he’d found and defeated the shadow that would be waiting for him, of course. His own shadow - the bitter spirit of winter that would be gnawing at the roots and keeping the fires of spring from rising to renew the world.
"No problem," Iolaus wheezed, shaking his head in a moment of sheer incredulity. The world was spinning round him, fading in and out in a syncopated rhythm that matched the pounding pulse of his fevered blood. He was trembling from head to foot, burning up from the inside while what little remained of his strength leeched away. He had to rest - but if he did, would he rest forever, hanging above the pit while the roots knotted themselves around and through his desiccated body? Memories of the silent cavern and the gleaming stone that had imprisoned so many souls spurred him to movement. He tried to inch a little lower and had to stop, finding even that small effort beyond him. He tipped his head forward, resting its pounding weight against rough fibre while the rest of him shivered uncontrollably.
Perhaps I’ll fall, once I no longer have the strength to hold on.
The idea even held a certain appeal. It would be so easy, just to let go ...
Something cold touched his forehead. A cooling sensation caressed his fevered skin, sweeping the heat away with firm but gentle touches. Some of the dizziness went with it, despite the way it stirred the ever present pain. "Herc?" he gasped. He’d almost forgotten about his distant guardian, but now his sense of the man’s presence beside him surged back with almost tangible force.
No. Forget the almost. It was a tangible force. One that slid around his shoulders and cradled him, offering him the strength he lacked.
"Oh gods," he breathed, only just resisting the dangerous temptation to lean back into that comforting support. Hercules wasn’t there - he was somewhere in the mortal world, tending an empty shell, nursing the fever that consumed it with solicitous attention. But the physical contact there had clearly re-established the intangible link that Iolaus had felt earlier; strength flowed through it, driving away the swirling haze that threatened his senses. The connection seemed to fortify his flagging spirit, stilling the shaking in his limbs and restoring some of the energy he so desperately needed. He closed his eyes and submerged himself in the experience, accepting the gift and welcoming it with fervent appreciation. The touch of cooling water felt good against his heat seared skin. The arm that held him did so with reassuring care and consideration.
But best - oh best of all - was the glorious libation that filled his mouth and then slid down his parched gullet as if it were pure nectar. He licked his dry lips and tasted honey; gentle fingers touched his throat and he swallowed liquid bliss.
More, he mouthed, half plea, half prayer. He was rewarded with another mouthful of nothing, and he swallowed it as eagerly as the first. Oh, yes ...
There was a whisper of a rich wine behind the sweetness that laced the water and he savoured the soft bite that lingered on as aftertaste between each welcome swallow. Each carefully measured dose caressed his throat and then pooled out into the heat that consumed his body, gradually soothing and cooling the fierceness of the inner fire. It didn’t banish it - not by a long reach - but it refreshed him as certainly as the presence that cradled him revived and restored both his strength and spirit. Eventually - after a time he had no way to measure - those gentle fingers were lifted from his throat and did not return. The arm that held him slid away - not to break the contact, but so that its owner could return to the task of cooling fevered skin.
Iolaus opened his eyes. Breathed a soft and heartfelt prayer of gratitude.
And began to inch his way down the tangled roots with a care as studied and as cautious as the gentle attentions that currently sustained him.
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