Hercules was drifting into semi-sleep, his head slowly drooping despite his effort to stay alert, to stay focused. It was late and both the fire and the candles had burned low, leaving the room bathed in a soft and unobtrusive light. The glow of the embers enforced the warmth they radiated, adding to the comfortable, somnolent atmosphere. Almost without thinking he leant forward and rested his arm on the side of the bed, letting his head drop towards it. It wouldn’t hurt if he closed his eyes for just a minute.

Just a minute …

Something jerked him awake and he lifted his head in alarm, staring around with disorientated confusion as he tried to place what it had been. Had a log cracked in the fireplace? Perhaps it had been an owl, hooting out in the night. He’d even turned to look towards the shuttered window when he heard the sound again. His head snapped round in instant consternation.

It had been a soft moan.

And it had come from the wounded man on the bed.

"Iolaus?" Hercules was on his feet in an instant, leaning over his patient in concern. His first fear – that the fever had returned – was quickly allayed, but the hunter was obviously in distress, his body trembling in reactive spasm and another of those low moans escaping between his lips. "Iolaus – Iolaus! Are you awake? Can you hear me?"

He received no answer, other than a repetition of that quietly anguished sound. "Hey," he breathed, laying one hand against his friend’s cheek and curling the other over his undamaged shoulder. "Take it easy, okay? You’re going to be fine. I know you are." He sighed and perched himself on the edge of the mattress, his fingers gently turning closed eyes towards him. "Come on, Iolaus," he pleaded softly. "You can do this. Open those stubborn eyes of yours and tell me to quit fussing. Yell at me if you like. Scream if you want to. Just say something."

The injured man’s head shifted with unspecified distress, the movement pressing his cheek into the cupped hand that cradled it. Hercules frowned, his eyes narrowing as he studied the haggard lines of his friend’s face.

"I don’t know how to reach you," he breathed, a note of quiet despair creeping into his voice. "I don’t know how to help you. But I’m here, my friend. I’m here for you – and I’m not going to let you go. Not without a fight. You hear me? We’re going to fight this. Together."

The higher Iolaus climbed, the more tangled and interwoven the tree roots became. It was a help at first: he no longer had to struggle to find a foot or hand hold, but clambered up the interlaced filaments almost as if they were a ladder. After a while though, the thickening tangle became much more of an obstacle. He had to twist and duck under gnarled loops and squirm his way between tightly packed strands. The rough fibrous surfaces scratched his skin and caught in his already torn clothing; once or twice he was pulled up short by a savage tug and had to reach back to disentangle his hair or his jerkin. Eventually he left the tattered garment behind, sliding free of it and letting it fall back to the depths like a fluttering autumn leaf.

Still he climbed. Onward and upwards, driven by a compulsion he could neither define nor explain. His wounded hand clenched with pain as he lifted himself higher; his bruised and battered body protested as he struggled for the next step and the next. The hunter was sweating with the effort, gasping and gulping for breath - but he could not, would not stop to rest. He was leaving the light behind, climbing in a semi-darkness that slowly faded into a murky gloom. Touch became his only guide, his fingers groping for a way forward while he stubbed his toes in search of stable footing.

I have to get out.

The need hammered at him, driving him upwards with almost frenzied desperation. There was a tightness in his chest and a churning in his stomach that demanded his escape. It was if his body had become the prison for a burgeoning force that now fought to be free; something told him that if he stopped, even for a moment, it would win the struggle and tear its own way to the surface, shattering him into a thousand pieces, leaving him forever trapped beneath the tree.

The path closed in as he continued to ascend. His hands began to encounter clumps of rock and soil suspended in among the thickening roots. Sharp stones gouged into him, ripping the leather of his breeches and tearing his skin. He found himself ascending a narrowing passageway, sandwiched between the warmth of the living plant and the cold weight of the earth. The air was heavy and the darkness oppressive; he fought to draw breath, only to find he was too tightly confined to accommodate it. He was extended at full stretch with his arms above his head, and he was inching himself upwards with a shift of shoulders and hips, pressing into the sides of the passage with elbows and knees. He had to get out. The need was overwhelming.

Only ...

His hands suddenly hit compacted earth above his head.

There was no way out.

No opening at all ...

Iolaus groaned softly; it was a heart wrenching sound, and it shuddered through him, his body arching under Hercules’ hand as if he were locked in some momentous struggle, one that threatened to tear him apart. The son of Zeus tightened his grip, his expression settling into grim lines.

"I know you’re hurting," he murmured encouragingly. "I know this is hard, but - you have to hold on, understand? You have to. I need you, Iolaus. You’re a part of me, a part of my life, I – I know I sometimes take you for granted. And that sometimes I act like a jerk or – rub your nose in the fact that you’re completely mortal and I’m not – but – but that’s why I need you. Because you know me. You know who and what I am and you don’t care, and you don’t let it intimidate you. You’ve always been there for me; you cheer me up, you drag me into trouble and you knock me down when I need it. You don’t let me take myself too seriously – and you always tell me the way it is, straight up and from the heart." He barked a short laugh, a pained sound that twisted his lips in an uneasy grimace. "I don’t always listen to you, of course. But you don’t listen to me, either, so I guess we deserve each other. I don’t want to lose that, Iolaus. I don’t want to lose the one man who doesn’t care that I’m the son of a god – just that I’m me. Maybe that’s being selfish. Maybe – maybe I should tell you to go if – if you want to. If it hurts too much, if you can’t fight anymore, well – I know Ania will be waiting for you, but - "

Hercules leant forward, staring at the hunter’s ashen features, backing his words with tight determination. "That would be giving up, buddy. And I know you. You don’t give up and you don’t give in. No matter what …"

"Noooo!"

The denial ripped from the trapped man’s throat, a sound laden with fear, pain and utter frustration. He fought and he kicked and he struggled, the need for escape driving him into a desperate frenzy. His hands scrabbled at the earth above him, tearing down gobbets of rock and soil, forcing a way through. He writhed and he wriggled, inching his way upwards by sheer force. The earth closed in around him, crushing and compressing him, driving the air from his lungs. Still he fought, his world nothing but the endless pressure of the earth. The need drove him upwards and there was no way that he could turn back. Not now. He gasped for breath and his mouth filled with soil. He was engulfed by the dark, constricted and crushed, smothered and suffocating - and he fought to be free with fierce determination, refusing to be conquered, determined to get out.

I can do this, I can dothis, IcandothisIcandothisIcandothis ...

The determination became a frantic scream that he had no breath to voice. He was buried alive, squirming and struggling in the embrace of the cold earth. There was no way out. There never had been ...

Nooo!

Iolaus had nothing left to give. No strength he could call on. Just the deep and furious need that overwhelmed even the ever present pain. There was no air in his lungs and only obstinate fury in his heart.

I won’t give in ...

He had come so far, and fought so hard. He couldn’t fail now. Not now. Not when he was so close.

The darkness was closing in. He was losing all sense of self and certainty. There were stars dancing in front of his tightly closed eyes.

In the descending silence he heard - quite clearly - Hercules speaking his name.

"Come on, Iolaus. You can make it. I know you can. Don’t you give up on me, you hear? Don’t give up on me ..."

He heard. His heart howled. His soul followed suit - and with one last determined push he stretched out his wounded hand, reaching towards the sound of his soul brother’s voice. His fingers met a silken surface, slid through a matted tangle of tiny roots, and found open space above him. The soft kiss of grass caressed his arm. The warmth of long forgotten sunlight brushed his palm.

And a hand caught at his, wrapping his wrist with fingers as soft as thistledown and as strong as steel. Someone pulled, dragging him upwards, lifting him out of the merciless grip of the earth. His head and shoulders rose from the depths, to be swiftly followed by the rest of him. His mud choked mouth opened. His chest heaved with involuntary response - and air rushed into his empty lungs, a sweet flood that washed through every inch of his existence. The need that had seized hold of him as he climbed reacted to that primal breath, surging up with unexpected fire, filling his entire being and setting light to his soul. Caked with blood and dirt, gasping for breath and shivering with effort, he emerged from the dark, returning to the upper world, somehow reborn and revitalised.

I made it out alive, he realised with utter incredulity. Gods. I’ve never felt so alive ...

"Well done," Gaia whispered warmly, pulling him into her arms. "Well done indeed."

He stared at her.

She was no longer the woman who’d taken him from his would-be grave. The comforting, motherly matron that had held him to her ample bosom was now a slender, shapely maiden, her dark hair cascading across her shoulders in luxurious waves and her eyes afire with eager promise.

The same eyes that had smiled at him from the depths of an age ravaged face as they demanded payment to let him pass the gate between life and death.

Only this time they were asking for much more than a kiss ...

Laughter bubbled up from inside him, bubbled up and escaped with a mix of frenetic hysteria and an overwhelming, inescapable joy. He’d done it. He’d really done it. "Here I am," he declared with relish, somehow knowing exactly what he had to say. The words danced off his tongue as if he’d rehearsed them his entire life. "Given up five times, each time with blood. Sent into the earth to serve the earth. I have walked the path that winter brings, and defeated the shadow that lurked in its darkness. I have won the fight and climbed the dark way back to life - and I have brought the gift of spring to you.

"Will you accept my sacrifice?"

"Gladly," she answered, pulling him closer. "If you will accept mine..."

His arms slid around her, returning the embrace with an eagerness he had no desire to suppress. She was the first girl he’d ever kissed and all the ones he’d wanted afterwards; she was Ania in his arms again; all the women he had loved and all those he would love in the years to come. She was warmth and she was passion and she was reality, and he wanted her with a primal fierceness that consumed all other considerations. She bent her head and kissed, first his wounded shoulder, and then his neck, mouthing her way up the line of his throat. He laughed for the sheer pleasure of it and sought her lips with impatience, tasting the wine of life, the taint of his own blood and the riches of the earth.

Oh boy, he thought with incoherent astonishment.

And after that, there was no need for thought at all ...

Hercules was running out of words. He’d talked and he pleaded and he’d begged for half the night, using his voice to serve as both weapon and shield in a battle he could neither see nor be sure he was a part of. He had no way of knowing if his efforts to reach his friend had been successful or not, but, just before dawn, the wounded hunter’s distress – along with his weak and undirected struggles - had finally subsided. Iolaus once again lay wrapped in a deep and silent sleep, his face as pale as the fleece that covered him.

The son of Zeus just felt drained.

This can’t go on much longer …

Except that it would go on until it was over, one way or another. And he would see it through, no matter how long it took.

I promised.

When he’d made that promise to his mother it had been with a fierce certainty. Now he was no longer confident of its outcome; he just knew he had to go on hoping, because hope was the only thing he had left to cling to. It was a hope that one terrifying moment had almost torn in two – the moment when Iolaus’ desperate gasps for air had become a strangled, gulping silence. Panic had driven him to shake his dying friend, demanding that he take the next breath, ordering him with frenzied words until the man’s pain spasmed lungs had finally responded. Whether to the words or the ill-treatment he would never know; he’d lowered the injured man back to the bed with trembling hands and had to take several deep calming breaths of his own.

That had been the worst moment of the night. After it the hunter had slipped back into insensibility, the same deathly slumber that had held him from the very first.

Hercules’ sigh was soft but heartfelt; he eased himself up from his chosen perch and carefully stretched the kinks of out of his back and shoulders. "You know," he decided, glancing down at the reason for his discomfort and quirking a weary smile, "if you really didn’t want to help me with the roof, you could have just said so. You didn’t have to go to all this trouble." The smile widened into anxious warmth. "Guess I’ll be fixing yours too, huh? You won’t be up to it for a while."

If ever, the pragmatic part of his mind pointed out, and he winced, only too aware that if Iolaus did make it, then his recovery would undoubtedly be a long and difficult journey for the both of them.

He heaved a second sigh and walked across to pour himself a splash of wine from the jug Deianeira had left along with the rest of his supper. He came back with the goblet and a hunk of bread he’d snatched from the plate. He hadn’t so much as touched the supper up until now, but all of a sudden he was ravenously hungry; he sank his teeth into the soft crust and tugged a mouthful free, savouring the taste with decided relish.

Gods but that’s good.

The wine tasted even better; he took a deep swallow and felt the warmth of it disperse the empty hollow feeling that had settled in his stomach. Some of his sense of bleakness went with it.

Guess I needed this …

It was only bread and wine. But sitting there, in the soft light of the new dawn, watching the way the growing light etched shadows across his companion’s drawn features, the simple fare seemed far more precious than nectar and ambrosia.

Not least because it might be the last meal he ever shared with his best friend.

Beneath the burgeoning branches of the Tree of Life, the mother of all things stretched out on the velvet turf and heaved a soft sigh of contentment. Her sacrifice lay sprawled beside her, his head nestled on her shoulder and his wounded hand idly cupping her right breast. Blood and earth stained her skin in whorls of crimson and terracotta; against that earthen patterning the gold of his hair lay like a silken drift of sunlight Above her the tree was filled with blossom and soft petals drifted down around them both with lazy indolence.

"It will be," she observed with decided satisfaction, "a glorious summer."

Iolaus laughed, a giggle of amusement that she echoed with one of her own. He had gifted her with himself and she had returned the gift a thousand fold, drawing him into her divinity, making him a part of herself. He’d been an empty vessel; she’d taken that emptiness and filled it with life. He could feel it surrounding him, suffusing every moment, touching every sense. His heart pounded with it; it pumped it through his veins. He breathed it out, and he breathed it in, enhanced and heightened with every breath.

"Well, child," she smiled, reaching to gently caress his cheek, "I think you’ve earned your crown. But do you have the heart to claim it?"

He kissed the fingers that stroked his skin, mouthing at their softness and tasting the salt and iron that lingered on them. There was a part of him that wanted to stay where he was forever; to lie like this beneath the tree and feel the pulse of the earth thundering through him. To lose himself in the experience, dissolving into the sharp edge of every blade of grass and the rustle of every leaf; to be drunk by the roots of the tree, drawn up the ponderous weight of its trunk and into its myriad branches, there to be set free as a thousand drops of rain ...

He lifted his wounded hand and stared at it, seeing the bright red blood that oozed from his palm slowly trickle down his wrist; it gathered against his skin, hanging there like a brilliant ruby until it grew heavy enough to fall. Gaia put out her own hand and wrapped the damaged hand with her fingers; gently, bringing it back to her breasts.

"To truly live," she murmured, "you must truly feel. That is both the gift and the burden of the Summer King. To carry the hurts of the world in order to heal it. It is not an easy crown to wear, child. You must choose - whether to take it, or turn aside and remain here forever.

"Here there is no pain, no suffering and no need for toil or effort." She squeezed his hand softly, as if to re-enforce the point. "This is the place between death and life. The place where the soul can rest and the world makes no demands upon it."

He rolled back into the grass and stared up at the sky, seeking the stars that twinkled in its endless depths and catching glimpses of them between the slow sway of the tree’s branches.

No pain, no suffering ...

He had suffered, hadn’t he? Suffered a loss that had shattered his life. Lived through the ugliness of battle, the bitterness of miserable winters, and the emptiness of a broken heart. Did he want to return to that?

Iolaus closed his eyes and let the deep and certain life of the tree echo in his bones. It went deep; deep enough to reach the hidden lake that bubbled at its roots. It drew sustenance from that, lifting it up through the weight of the earth and offering it up to the sky - from where it fell, sweet rain and soft water, to soak, once again, into the depths of the world.

He could lie there forever if he wanted, needing nothing but that endless cycle to sustain him. Feeling nothing but the whisper of life that was the tree. Only - life was about living, wasn’t it? It was riding the wild surge of the ocean as a storm threw its worst at a defiant ship and its defiant crew. It was dancing at festivals, laughing and having fun. It was meeting the challenge of the hunt, every sense on alert, every muscle poised for action. It was experiencing new things, meeting new people, learning new tricks and perfecting the old ones. It was taking the risks to prove that you could, using your strength and your skills to defend the weak or the helpless, standing up to the bully, fighting the good fight.

And it was sitting in the sun - or beside a roaring fire - sharing good ale and good company, recalling the last adventure and planning the next. Whether that was facing down dragons, defying tyrants, or just patching a worn thatched roof ...

He opened his eyes and sat up, turning to meet a dark gaze that watched him with comprehending sympathy.

"After I claim the crown," he considered warily, "then I can go home, right?"

Gaia smiled. "You can try," she said. "If that’s where your heart lies, then that’s where it will take you."

His lips narrowed into a thoughtful frown, then he heaved a resolute sigh and climbed determinedly to his feet. "That’s cool," he decided, breaking into an impish grin. "Cos I got a friend back there who needs me to keep him out of trouble."

The goddess chuckled. "That you do," she agreed warmly, standing up to join him and breaking into a grin of her own. "One you have gone through blood and ice and fire for." She leant forward and kissed him gently on the cheek, offering a soft beneficence. "Claim your crown, child of the old blood. Wear it well."

She gestured towards the tree and he stepped in that direction, moving closer to the massive trunk. There was what looked like a wreath hanging from one of the lower branches; a dark green wreath, one made from oak leaves and bound by a twist of golden applethorn. The wild applethorn, the one that came with inch long thorns and tiny golden flowers. The blossoms peeked from among the oak leaves like a scattering of bright jewels - and gleamed against the emerald scales of the serpent that looped its length around and through the crown.

Okay ...

He took another step forward, warily reaching up to lift the prize from its hook. The serpent lifted its head and hissed, a soft sound of menace that made him hesitate. He drew back his hand, then frowned, setting his shoulders to reach a second time.

It’s just a snake, you idiot. You’ve fought hydras and dragons and monsters ten times the size of this one ...

Anacles hadn’t been afraid of the little red and black serpent that he’d found in the long grass by the river. He’d picked it up and rushed to show his father his prize, delighted by the colours and the soft wriggly way it moved.

And the cry of pain he’d uttered as it bit him would stay in his father’s heart forever.

Seared there with unbearable fire ...

This wasn’t that snake, of course. It was the world snake, the guardian of the tree and the keeper of its mysteries. He had entered the depths through its emerald throat - and it might just swallow him up a second time if it judged him unworthy of the prize it guarded.

The creature hissed again, uncoiling from the loop of the crown so that it hung low enough to stare directly into the warrior’s face. Iolaus froze, seeing its tongue flicker in and out, and the way the light gleamed in its unblinking eyes. For a long moment man and snake stared at each other, sacred serpent facing sacrificial king - then the creature moved like lightning, whipping forward to wrap itself around his outstretched hand. The silk smooth scales slithered down upraised arm and around blood stained muscle until the weight of the serpent hung around the man’s neck and its head rested over his wounded shoulder. Iolaus turned his head the barest distance, seeking its eyes, and froze a second time, seeing its tongue flicker past his cheek. He stood very still, afraid to move, afraid to even breath, feeling its weight shift and squirm around him. The muscular body looped and contorted. The texture that lay against his skin changed - and the weight of it seemed to just evaporate away, leaving only an echo of itself behind.

After a hesitant moment he looked down. There was no sign of the emerald serpent. Just the familiar shape of his father’s jade pendant, once again sitting above his breastbone. He let out a relieved breath and a somewhat nervous giggle. "Cool," he decided, breaking into a grin as he realised he was not only clean, but dressed - although there was blood soaking through his new breeches from the wound in his side and below the damage to his thigh - and his feet were still bare, the life pulse of the tree striking up through his soles. He laughed again, intoxicated by the sheer joy of being alive - and boldly reached up to claim his hard won crown.

It wasn’t the sun that woke Alcmene, even though it streamed through her window with a brightness that it had lacked all winter long. It wasn’t even the birds, their chattering songs echoing around her eaves with sudden eagerness. It was something else that drew her from her bed, that pulled her out, into the freshness of the day and the warmth of the spring morning.

"Zeus?" she wondered, feeling the presence of power in her garden. Perhaps he’d come to offer another apology, even knowing she wouldn’t accept it. What he had done was unforgivable, and she would never absolve him of the crime. Never.

At least - not while his victim still hovered between life and death, awaiting the decision of the fates.

She shivered and pulled her robe more closely around her as she opened the outer door. It was the morning of the third day. Perhaps her visitor was bringing bad news ...

There was, indeed, a god in garden. But it was not the one she’d expected to find. The figure that stood on the freshly turned earth of her flower beds was nothing like the Lord of Olympus.

He stood with his back to her, his head tipped up and his arms raised towards the sun; a young god, barefoot and bare armed, his skin the softest of warm bronzes and his hair a brilliant tumble of gold. He wore breeches made of birch and rowan bark. Ivy draped his shoulders, and his head was crowned with a festoon of oak leaves and applethorn.

Alcmene drew in a startled breath. Life was shimmering around him, a swirl of vitality and spirit that lit up the whole world. The vines around her doorframe were stirring, reaching out with eager tendrils that budded, sprouted - and uncurled into trembling leaves. The grass, which had been an ugly, dismal brown, was rippling out from where he stood, turning a deep and verdant green. The bare earth sprouted, thrusting up spikes of emerald and flower stalks laden with white and scarlet and purple blooms. Within a few, breathless moments, her tired and defeated garden was alive with colour, and the air above it filled with sweet and elusive scents.

The young god laughed, lowering his arms and turning towards her with a dazzling smile. A familiar smile. One that she’d feared never to see again.

Iolaus?

A trickle of blood was running down his temple; bright, ruby rich blood that welled from beneath the thorns of his crown. More of it dripped from his hand. Where it hit the ground, flowers bloomed ...

The smile widened. Sky blue eyes were laughing at her. A gift, he mouthed, blew her a kiss - and was gone, leaving only a scattering of oak and ivy leaves to mark the place where he had been standing.

Alcmene was held a few moments longer, staring at the spot with her mouth open and her heart pounding with an unbearable mixture of joy and fear.

Oakleaf and applethorn ...

Spring had come back. It sang around her, lifted by the carol of the birds and trembling in every leaf, every blossom. It had been bought by blood - as it had always been bought, in the days when the world was young.

And Alcmene was running, away from her garden and the miracle that had been wrought there. Running, heedless of her hastily donned robe, unmindful of her tumbled hair - running across the fields where fresh shoots now fought for air and freedom. Running through the woods that hung heavy with pale green catkins and bright burgeoning buds. Running with anxious steps, her heart in her mouth, towards the distant house in the valley where her son still kept his anxious vigil.

Praying, as she ran, that the love that had sustained his quest would also prove strong enough to bring the chosen Summer King home ...

Hercules was tired. Bone tired, the weight of long hours hanging heavily around him. Deianeira watched him with concern, seeing in his face the shadows of doubt, the weary and worried lines of possible defeat.

"You should get some rest," she advised, easing her hand across those tense shoulders, feeling the tautness of the muscles beneath. "There’s been no change now for hours. I can watch him - wake you if - "

"No," he interrupted, catching at her hand and glancing up to meet her eyes. "I can’t leave him now. I won’t."

"Okay," she soothed, her heart turning over at the rough edge to his voice. "Okay." He was close to despair, and she had no words with which to comfort him. To her, it seemed a blessing that the injured man had not woken; she had begun to realise that - for all her husband’s passionate insistence - the hunter’s soul would be better served by death than consciousness. The wounds were too deep, too damaging. That broken body would simply imprison the bright spirit that it housed, crippling it with far greater pain than ever the mere physical injury might suggest.

Let him go, she wanted to say, but the words would not come. She’d watched her husband over the past days, had watched and wept inside as the hope and the light in his eyes had slowly faded to anxious doubt. To say such a thing now would sound like betrayal; it would only serve to shatter the strength of heart that she loved so much. She had always known how deeply Hercules had regarded his friend. They’d been comrades in battle, partners in adventure, and brothers in all but blood. She’d never understood - until all this had happened - just how deep that commitment ran.

You were there, when Ania died. You helped him lay her to rest. And you were so hurt, that he went away without you, seeking the peace that his son’s death had denied him. But you understood. You let him go, because that was what he needed from you.

Why can’t you let him go now?

Iolaus’ face was deathly pale, but his features were relaxed as if were simply sleep that held him. Sleep - or death. There was a peacefulness about him this morning, a stillness that suggested his long struggle might almost be over. He was barely breathing, and each slow and shallow motion of his chest revealed just how tenuous his hold on life had become. Deianeira moved round to feel his cheek and - just as she’d done every morning - reached to brush back the unruly lock of his hair that had tumbled out of place. Her soft sad smile was inevitable. Ever since the day she’d met him, she’d found herself wanting to do just that. To reach out and bring a little order to his wild locks. But in all that time she’d never dared act on that desire. It was a mother’s privilege, and she’d always smiled when Alcmene had exercised it, using a casual hand to smooth back his curls or - just as familiarly - to tousle his hair. He’d always half protested, and never quite complained, reacting just the way that Hercules did to such motherly consideration.

Did I know, when I fell in love with the son of Zeus, that the deal would include this reckless spirit, this crazy, impetuous soul?

Of course she hadn’t. But Iolaus was the perfect balance to the earnest and determined creature that had captured her heart; he brought out the laughter in him, and encouraged him to relax and enjoy - almost as much as he encouraged him to reckless ventures or dangerous expeditions. She’d actually heaved a sigh of relief that year he went away - but by the end of it she had been praying for his safe return. Because without his impish smile to gripe about, a little of the light had gone from her husband’s eyes.

It will hurt him so much to lose you, she thought, looking - not at the pale and silent form she addressed, but at the anxious face that watched and waited with such patient concern.

"Hercules!" Alcmene’s call lifted both their heads; Deianeira hastened to the curtained arch.

"We’re in here, mother. Mother?" Her startlement brought Hercules to his feet; he too stared at his mother with bewilderment. Alcmene always looked perfect, not a hair out of place, her robes always freshly pressed and decorously arrayed.

Which made this wild eyed, unkempt apparition even more of an astonishment.

"You have to take him into the garden," she announced, pushing past her daughter-in-law to clutch at her son’s arm with determination. "Now."

"The garden?" he echoed, sharing a puzzled glance with his wife. "Mother - "

"No, Hercules," Alcmene insisted. "There’s no time to argue. Take him into the garden and place him on the earth. Right now."

Hercules was staring at her as if she’d gone mad. Perhaps she has, Deianeira considered with alarm. The request made no sense at all. "Mother," she tried, reaching for the older woman’s shoulder with gentle hands, "Don’t be silly. Iolaus can’t be moved. He’s too weak. And the wounds will just start bleeding again ..."

"That’s the general idea," Alcmene announced, her eyes still fixed on her son’s bewildered expression. "Hercules - do you trust me?"

"Well - " He didn’t know how to answer that. Of course he trusted her. But this? His eyes flicked towards the dying man on the bed and the hesitation settled into grim lines. "Yes," he decided, his voice hoarse from lack of sleep and days of anxiety.

"No - " Deianeira began to react, but her protest fell silent under the look that Alcmene turned towards her. Hercules stepped back to the bedside and reached down to lift the wounded hunter into his arms, cradling him with infinite gentleness.

"We will need wine, and water," his mother was saying, issuing instructions with confidence. "Hercules, was that mistletoe stacked on that oak branch you used to bring him here?"

"Yes. Yes, it was."

"Then we can use that for a binding. It’ll be more effective than ivy - but we’ll need some of that as well."

"There’s ivy growing at the back of the house," Deianeira found herself saying. "And there’s plenty of wine ... What are we doing?"

Alcmene smiled grimly. "Completing the ritual his father started three days ago. He offered him up to Gaia, Deianeira. And she’ll have to keep him if we don’t find a way to call him back ..."

Hercules knew he was tired; he’d not slept a wink since that startled moment when a blood stained apparition had appeared beside his bed, and the night just past had been an exhausting one. But his mother’s words weren’t making much sense - and the ones that were were busy sending cold chills down his spine.

"Mother," he requested as she led the way into the open air, "what all this about a ritual? And my father? Are you saying - he threw that thunderbolt deliberately?" He glanced down at the pale face that currently rested against his shoulder and frowned in confusion. "This wasn’t an accident?"

"No," Alcmene answered frankly. "Over there will do I think." She pointed at a patch of ground that Hercules had not had much success with up until now; the year before he’d planted a small seedling apple at one end of it, although the waist high tree still looked little more than a bare twig. This year he’d decided to be less ambitious and plant strawberries in that particular spot, a delicacy that Deianeira and the children loved. He’d spent several days clearing it and digging it over, so, currently, it was little more than an open stretch of soft damp earth.

"There?" he questioned, staring at the indicated spot with decided puzzlement. "Why - ?"

"Just trust me, will you dear?" his mother ordered impatiently. She turned to go back into the house just as Deianeira appeared in the doorway, carrying a heavy wine jug. Three puzzled faces hovered behind her; the boys were looking as confused as their father, and Ilea was clinging to her mother’s skirts with anxious hands. "Oh good. Now -" Alcmene dropped to a crouch to look her grandsons straight in the eye. "Boys," she said, "I want you to do something for me, alright? I want you to look after Ilea for a while; just stay with her in the house, and keep an eye on her while your father, mother and I take care of everything, okay? Okay," she smiled as Clonis nodded a doubtful agreement. "You can stand in the doorway and watch if you like, but you mustn’t leave the house until I say you can, understand? And," she detached Ilea’s hand from her mother’s skirt and handed it to her older brother, "hold onto your sister. She might find this a little scary."

Scary? Hercules reacted, staring at his children gathered in the doorway and then glancing down at the man in his arms.

"They want to know what’s going on," Deianeira said worriedly. "So do I."

"Later, dear," Alcmene insisted as she lifted herself back to her feet. "Now," she tapped at the wine jug in the younger woman’s hands, "use that to mark out a circle will you? Just in front of the tree. Make it three paces wide and then you can start laying lengths of ivy around it." She hurried across to where Hercules had left the torn oak branch, leaving her son and his wife to share a confused look.

"Mother - " the son of Zeus tried again, and she turned to throw him an anxious frown.

"Hercules," she said patiently, "I will answer all your questions when this is over - one way or another. But we don’t have time right now. The Summer King walks the earth, and the longer he does, the harder it’ll be to call him home. The power must be bound or the sacrifice will buy far less than it should. And Iolaus’ soul will be lost to us forever. Trust me. Please?"

He stared at her, hearing the earnestness in her voice and seeing the determination in her face. Her words hit a chord that set his heart racing. He’d known all along that his friend’s life hung in the balance - and now his mother was telling him the man’s soul depended on their current actions. He wasn’t sure what she was talking about, but all doubts left his mind; he would do whatever she asked, no matter how strange or bizarre.

He needs you, son. Don’t let him down ...

His father’s words echoed in his mind and his lips tightened with momentary anger. He’d welcomed the god’s sympathy. Even been - touched - by the concern Zeus had expressed. And all the time he’d been the one responsible ...

If he dies, Hercules considered angrily, if we lose him -

I’ll never forgive you, father. Never.

No matter what the reason.

There’d be a reason. There always was where Zeus was concerned. Unlike Hera, who simply indulged her whims and didn’t care who suffered because of them. Her involvement Hercules might have understood; but there was more going on here than the Queen of Heaven’s petty revenges.

What did mother say? Something about - Gaia?

Who - or what - is the Summer King?

And what does he have to do with Iolaus...?

"Put him down over there," Alcmene instructed, pointing at the circle of ground that Deianeira was busy laying out. "Without the blanket. He needs to touch the earth."

"If you say so." Hercules frowned at the request but did as he was asked, stepping over his wife’s garlands of ivy to gently lower his burden onto the damp soil. The whole business was crazy. Iolaus was barely clinging to life as it was. To lay him, naked and exposed, on cold wet earth on a crisp spring morning was practically tantamount to handing him directly over to Hades. Except -

The bitter chill that had soaked through every day of that long and interminable winter had finally been replaced by the softest of spring breezes. There was a hint of promise in the air, a whisper of warmth in the morning sunlight that caressed the day. The sky that arched above them was a sweet clear blue, across which a foam of white cloud bubbled and danced. And while the earth beneath it still lay damp with days of rain, it breathed out a rich scent, full of eager expectation.

The son of Zeus took the greatest of care as he placed his unconscious sword brother within the circle his wife had defined. It was easy enough to slide the blanket away so that cold flesh nestled into colder earth, leaving only the weight of the fleece to keep what little warmth the man had left to him. The woolen weave was stained; dark and heavy blood had wept from the disturbed wounds. Not much - what little remained was thick and sluggish because of his dehydrated state.

"Hercules," Deianeira whispered, pausing in her wrestle with the long lengths of ivy, "this is madness. It’s like we’re laying him into his grave before he’s dead. And the children don’t need to see that."

"Mother knows what she’s doing." The affirmation was tight; there was a part of him that suspected Deianeira was right.

"I hope so," she breathed. "Or you’ll be carrying him up the hill to bury him before the day’s out. Maybe that’s where we should be right now. In that little half circle of apple and olive trees where Ania and Anacles are waiting for him ..."

Hercules winced. There was a memory that haunted him - a memory of how helpless he had felt, the day he had had to stand and watch as the hunter had buried his son. Iolaus had refused all help with the task. He’d dug the tiny grave with his bare hands, scooping the earth out to lay it on the shallow mound that concealed the boy’s mother. And Hercules had said nothing in all those long hours, because there’d been nothing he could say.

Helpless.

It was the way he felt now, looking down at the pale face of his best friend. Iolaus was almost whiter than the fleece that covered him. His blond locks spilled across the dark earth, gleaming like spun gold in the spring sunshine.

Like corn at harvest time ...

The fierce determination that had taken root in Hercules’s heart that first day now surged up again with angry fire. His father be damned. All the gods be damned. He was not going to let this man go. Not like this. He didn’t know how he was going to save him, but that was exactly what he was going to do. Even if it meant storming the gates of the netherworld and demanding that Hades send him back.

Personally.

"What do I need to do?" he asked, looking up to meet Alcmene’s eyes. His mother smiled.

"Strip," she told him briskly. "And make it fast. We need to get things started."

Strip?

That hadn’t quite been what he was expecting, but he climbed to his feet and began to do as he was asked, shrugging out of his jerkin and kicking his feet free from his boots.

"Give him a hand," Alcmene suggested to Deianeira, shooing the two of them out of the ritual circle and crouching down beside the man it contained. The younger woman sighed, picked up the discarded footware and stacked them neatly to one side. Then she helped her husband peel out of his shirt, folding that, and the jerkin, before putting them on top of his boots.

"Madness," she muttered, shaking her head with patient despair. Somewhere close by their boys were snickering at the sight of their father getting undressed in full public view. "Here - let me." Her nimble fingers made quick work of the lacings on his breeches and she tugged them down so that he could step out of them, leaving him clad in nothing but a soft breech clout.

"That too," his mother called. Hercules hesitated - then sighed and stripped the rest of the way. The distant snickers became a soft gasp of astonishement. Deianeira couldn’t avoid giving him a knowing - and admiring - glance which brought the beginnings of a blush to his cheeks.

"Great," she noted with a roll of her eyes. "So now I have two naked guys in my garden. Naked heroes," she corrected, finding her husband a strained smile. He lifted his hand and gently caressed her cheek.

"When this is over - " he began, and her smile brightened into a more genuine warmth.

"Hold on to that thought, big guy," she suggested, catching at his hand. "Right now you’ve got better things to do. I hope," she added, half under her breath.

"Ready?" Alcmene called. Hercules found an encouraging smile for his wife then strode across to join his mother.

Who - it seemed - had been hard at work.

The stained bandages had been cut away and the heavy fleece thrown to one side. Iolaus lay exposed on the earth, his feet bound together with lengths of ivy and mistletoe. More of the vines lay tangled around each wrist and the blood from his wounded hand had pooled out to stain the dark green and golden leaves with a coating of crimson.

"Sit," the older woman ordered, indicating the required spot with a jab of her finger. Hercules did as he was ordered, unable to help the shiver that ran though his heart at the sight of his friend lying there, wounded, bleeding and bound. "Lift him up," was the next request. "I need to bind the two of you together."

O-kay ...

The son of Zeus took a careful breath and gently slid his hands under Iolaus’ shoulders, pulling him up until his mud stained back nestled against bare chest and his head, once again, rested on a broad shoulder. For all the care Hercules took, dark blood still oozed from the exposed injuries and drops of it fell to the raw earth where it quickly vanished into the soft loam. Alcmene ignored it. She tugged broad hands forward and bound the two of them; first wrist to wrist, then both wrists together so that the conscious man cradled the unconscious one in a supportive embrace, and finally placed one last loop around both their throats. After that she poured a little of the water into the wine and used the mixture to mark her son in the same five places as the deep wounds that marked his friend.

"Now listen," she said, crouching beside them both and fixing steel blue eyes with her own. "No matter what happens - no matter what - you must not let go of him. You understand?"

"No matter what," he repeated softly. Iolaus’ skin was cold against his own. There was no remnant of the fever that had burned him with such fire. Just a bitter chill, and the slow trickle of blood and wine and water that painted them both.

"Good," she breathed, pressing her hand to his shoulder with an encouraging squeeze. She glanced around, mentally checking everything she’d done, then turned back nodding her satisfaction. "All right. Now we’re ready." She stood up and stepped back out of the circle, carefully avoiding the tumbled line of ivy leaves.

"Ready for what?" Deianeira asked, moving back to stand by her children in the doorway. Alcmene threw her a sideways glance.

"For the coming of the Summer King," she said. She lifted the jug of wine and walked twice around the circle pouring a generous libation as she did so. "He was given up five times, each time with blood. Was sent into the earth to serve the earth, bound only by his brother’s heart; bound to return to him, his second self, his other soul." She made the words a litany, turning them into a soft chant that resonated on the morning air. Hercules shivered, but not from cold. The words seemed familiar somehow. As if he had heard them before - or spoken them once, in a dream ...

"He has walked the paths beneath the earth and slain the shadow of Winter that awaited him there. He has climbed the dark way to regain the light and he has brought back the spring. We are thankful for his sacrifice. We praise his courage. We praise the strength of his heart. Let him be anointed with blood and wine. Let him be crowned with oakleaf and applethorn. Praise to the Summer King."

Alcmeme had reached the end of the second circuit and the last of the wine. She let the jug slip from her fingers and turned towards her son. "Call him," she commanded. "Call him home."

Hercules stared down at the silent figure in his arms.

Call him?

He’d been speaking to him most of the night. Nothing had got through. Nothing had stirred him or coaxed those blue eyes to open. But then - all he’d been using was his voice.

Bound only by his brother’s heart; bound to return to him. His second self, his other soul ...

"Iolaus?" he whispered, barely a breath of sound. In his heart he howled it, sending it out as a desperate plea, a need that had to be answered.

Had to be, or his heart would break with it.

Iolaus!

And again, offered without condition or restraint, a cry that shook the world.

"IOLAUS!!!"

Brought by the breeze, walking on bare feet and bloodied ground, a smile on his lips and the pain of the world in his eyes, the Summer King came in answer to that call.

Hercules felt him before he saw him; a presence that sang with life and laughter, a power that rippled through his divinely gifted senses. It was the presence of a god, but not a god of Olympus. This was older, richer, deeper. It held, not divine arrogance, but simple joy; it swirled and danced with the sheer ecstasy of living and it carried in it all the strength and possibility of the human heart.

The son of Zeus looked up from pale features to find that same familiar face smiling down at him with warm and impish mischief. Hey, those sky blue eyes said, laughing at the absurdity of everything. Particularly the absurdity of finding two grown men sitting stark naked in a patch of mud, all tangled up with ivy and mistletoe. Hercules found himself smiling back. It was ridiculous.

And there was something about the Summer King that filled your heart with laughter, lifted your sprits and made you feel utterly alive.

"Gods," he heard Deianeira murmur, a word of reverence, not a curse. The Lord of Summer heard it and turned towards her, offering her and the children a smile of greeting that lit up the world. The oak leaves in his crown fluttered in the breeze. He was dressed in the bounty of his kingdom; the silver bark of birch and rowan tree, the dark green livery of ivy and the rich golden green of the wild vine. A ruby line of blood trickled down his temple. More mingled with the gold of his hair where the thorns had dug deep. Yet more ran, in lazy crimson rivers, from each of the five wounds that marred the perfection of his tanned skin.

It dripped from his left hand.

It pooled out around his feet.

And where it touched the earth, profusion sprang. A riot of growth that surged and writhed around him, fresh young shoots unfurling into wild life, painting the earth green and strewing it with flowers.

Gods, Hercules breathed, echoing his wife’s reaction. He’d seen divinity at work. But he’d never witnessed anything like this.

"Call him back, Hercules." Alcmene’s voice was hushed, a bare whisper offered in wary tones. "The power must be bound, or we’ll lose him. Lose him forever."

Lose him to this?

There was a god - a creature made of light and life and laughter - standing among them. And she wanted to chain him? To bind him back to mortal flesh? What right did he have - did any of them have - to do such a thing?

But this is Iolaus.

And I made a promise.

Not to let him go ...

A thorn crowned head turned back towards him as if sensing his dilemma. The Summer King looked down and studied his friend’s face, his lips offering the warmth of a smile and his eyes echoing it - along with something else. A deep and enduring duty that lay beneath the laughter, beneath the joy. Hercules caught back his breath and reached up without thinking, offering strength and support, wanting to do something - anything - to relieve the generous suffering that sat behind those eyes.

Limp hands moved with his, held out to that living image as if in silent plea. Crimson oozed from one of them, a darkness painted over pale skin.

He’s in pain.

Of course he is.

That’s the price. The sacrifice ...

Blood stained fingers curled into his. Ethereal ones. There was no real physical substance to that glorious apparition, however tangible it might be. The Summer King was shaped from pure lifeforce, pure energy. The fluid that dripped from his hand was the vital essence of his soul.

Blue eyes laughed at his expression. Hey, they said, warmly and with affection. It’s not that bad ...

But it was. It had to be. Hercules could feel the power rippling through him, the energy that stirred the earth, the force of life itself. It was a fire that burned and raged with savage jubilation - and like all fire, it was a force that, unleashed, might devour the entire world.

Or at the very least the soul that sustained it.

The power must be bound.

Anchored.

Earthed ...

He acted more from instinct than from reasoning. He knew what he had to do. His hand closed, trapping those ruby washed fingers within his own. "Time to come home," he whispered, and pulled.

There was brief resistance. A startled look chased across the face of the Summer King - and then the expression he wore became a knowing and wide eyed delight. He threw back his head with a laugh - and then let himself be pulled towards the mud caked figures in front of him. His form shimmered into nothingness - but not his presence. That impacted straight into the bound pair, tipping them both back into the unyielding earth. Hercules gasped. It was if he’d been immersed in liquid life. For one brief and indescribable moment he lay engulfed in that primal fire, trying desperately to channel it. Something told him that he had to hold it, had to keep it from escaping, keep it from the earth which would swallow it up. His body was the barrier that had to contain that force and he tightened his grip on the man in his arms, willing the soul back into the place it belonged, serving as a conduit, directing it with stubborn determination.

Less than a breath later the wounded hunter let out a strangled gasp. His body - which had seemed almost lifeless before - arched in sudden and desperate pain.

No matter what happens - no matter what - you must not let go of him …

Iolaus was fighting to be free, twisting and writhing with violent force. Hercules gritted his teeth and hung on, hooking his legs around kicking limbs and pressing the struggling body tight against his own. He didn’t need his mother’s advice; it would have been obvious to anyone that the convulsive struggle was a danger to the man it consumed.

Then the earth itself joined in the fight.

Vines and other greenery rippled up around them, springing almost instantly from what had been open ground. Leaves and long stems formed a forest of writhing tentacles that lashed at exposed skin. Creepers tangled over them, tugging and twisting. And the surface beneath them began to surge this way and that, shifting like waves on a storm stirred sea. The two of them were first lifted, then dropped by the motion, the bruising impact driving all the air from Hercules’ lungs. He could do nothing to steady himself; all his strength and concentration were centred on the figure that he cradled.

No matter what …

The son of Zeus locked every muscle, turning his body into a cage of steel that confined and contained the furious forces that fought to tear both him and his sword brother apart. The soil tipped and heaved, pummeling at him; the vines writhed and wrestled - and his captive shivered and struggled, pushing and straining against the strong arms that held him tight.

Gods, Hercules cursed, pulling the man even closer to his chest. Iolaus was too weak to take this kind of punishment for long – and he felt like he was being battered within an inch of his life.

By ecstasy.

Lighting was crackling around them, a dance of summer fire that seared and scorched and fused their souls together. Sense and sensation became utterly confused. Was he holding, or held? He was no longer sure where he ended and his brother began. They were sharing one heartbeat – and it was the pulse that fired the heart of the world …

Then – abruptly - it was over.

Hercules lay on his back, staring up at a blue sky through the blossom laden branches of a mature apple tree. The earth was a solid support, and a soft breeze was rustling through the blanket of fresh growth that covered him. There was no fire. No motion.

And no resistance either, no desperate struggle to be free.

Just a sensation of warmth and weight - and a small and strangled voice that asked, somewhat plaintively: "Herc? You think – you could let me – breath a little, huh?"

Iolaus?

He turned his head, finding himself staring into a familiar pair of cerulean eyes that blinked and fought for focus barely inches from his own. "Ah – sorry," he reacted, and immediately relaxed his vice like grip. Enough for the man to breath at any rate; he wasn’t about to let go until he was sure it was safe to do so. And after that firework display, he wasn’t entirely convinced it ever would be …

Iolaus was looking decidedly dazed; he tipped his head back to rest it on his friend’s shoulder and drew in a series of shaky breaths. "Whoo," he gasped, succumbing to an urge to chuckle. "That was some ride, huh?"

"Yeah," Hercules agreed, dropping his own head back to the earth and echoing the tremor of laughter with one of his own. "You can say that again."

"That," Iolaus obediently repeated, making a decided effort to lift their still bound wrists, "was some ride …"

The son of Zeus generously lifted his own arms to help complete his friend’s intended move, since it was abundantly clear the man had no strength whatsoever to call on. The gesture brought two sets of hands into view; his own, caked with mud and streaked with the stickiness of wine, and the blood stained pair that rested against them. Blood stained – but not bleeding. The hunter cautiously flexed his fingers, while Hercules stared in bewildered astonishment. Instead of an ugly ragged wound, there was just a scar – the barest white mark – nestling in the centre of his friend’s left palm.

Iolaus began to laugh. He abandoned any effort to move – he just lay in his partner’s arms like a limp rag and giggled, a sound that was half heartfelt relief and half hysteria. It bubbled out of him like water released from a deep mountain spring, gurgling up from his heart and setting his whole body shaking. After a moment, Hercules – realising that he’d actually got the miracle he’d been praying for – joined in.

"Well, now," Alcmene’s voice observed with a hint of warm amusement, "something tells me that worked better than expected." There was a rustle of greenery and then she was standing over the two of them, looking down with a relieved smile. Another, similar, rustle preceded Deianeira, who arrived, took one look at what awaited her and shook her head in indulgent disbelief.

"And I called Clonis and Aeson a pair of mudlarks," she remarked, heaving a deliberate sigh of forbearance. It set Iolaus off on another fit of the giggles, while Hercules struggled to re-gain his self control. It probably was hysteria, but – hang it – it felt good to laugh after the traumas of the days just passed. He tightened his embrace for just a moment, offering an impulsive and heartfelt hug to the man in his arms.

"Ow," its recipient reacted, a comment, not a complaint. He tilted his head and grinned lazily at his friend, who was looking at him with concern. "Everything’s a little – bruised," he explained. "I guess. Feels – good," he concluded with another of those delighted giggles he couldn’t seem to suppress. Hercules wasn’t even sure he wanted to.

"Hercules, dear," Alcmene asked warmly, crouching down to lift away some of the greenery that covered them, "are you going to lie there for the rest of the day, or do you think you might want get up at some point? Not that I want to influence you one way or the other, but - that ground can’t be very comfortable and I’m sure both of you would feel much better after a decent bath and a good meal."

"Sounds good to me," Hercules decided and sat up, emerging from the tangle of vegetation festooned with flowering vines and shaking apple blossom from his hair. Iolaus, of course, sat up with him; he had no choice since they were still bound together in that ritual embrace. He had no strength to counter the movement either. His head rolled limply in against the curve of his supporter’s neck and he giggled at his own helplessness, the way that he’d been giggling at everything since he woke up. Deianeira frowned affectionately at the pair of them, crouching down to start unlacing the twists of ivy and mistletoe that wrapped their wrists together, while, on the other side of them, Alcmene carefully tugged away lengths of clematis and flowering honeysuckle. "You hungry, buddy?"

"Starving," Iolaus confirmed, heaving a happy sigh. "But you know – all I really want to do is sleep."

"Sleep!" Hercules half laughed, sharing a amused glance with his wife. "You’ve been doing nothing but for three days."

"Hey," the hunter protested, lifting his head with a decided effort and adopting an indignant look. "I don’t know what you think I’ve been doing, but – I’ve tramped through endless caverns, I nearly got turned into a stalagmite, I waded through fire and flood, and had to climb down this cliff, and then fight this huge boar – and boy was he ugly – and then I was just climbing forever and couldn’t get out, only you told me I could, so I did, and I did all that with five screaming holes in me, and it hurt and the only time it didn’t was when I – you know – with the motheroftheworld and afterwards there was this snake and the crown and …" He trailed off, suddenly aware of three pairs of eyes staring at him, one in confusion, one in total puzzlement – and one with quiet wonderment. "Did I do that?" he queried, turning towards Alcmene since she seemed to be the only one who knew what he was talking about.

"Oh yes," she assured him, leaning forward to plant a soft and motherly kiss on his mud stained cheek. "Thank you," she whispered, squeezing his arm with gentle but heartfelt gratitude.

"Mother?" Hercules questioned and she smiled at him, leaning round to place a matching kiss on his equally filthy face.

"Bath first," she announced briskly. "Explanations later."

Much later.

It was well after midday before Alcmene was ready to tell her story, settling herself on the chair that her son dutifully carried out into the garden for her while her grandchildren played among the riot of spring flowers that now carpeted the landscape as far as the eye could see.

She’d insisted that Hercules carry his enervated friend back into the house and then chivvied him away, sending him off – with Deianeira – to clean himself up in the clear fresh waters of his nearby stream. He’d half protested – until his wife’s hand had caught at his arm and he’d turned towards her with a startled look and decided gleam in his eye. His mother had smothered a giggle. Iolaus hadn’t - and the pair had departed with matching blushes, Hercules hurriedly snatching up the nearest covering with which to cloak both his embarrassment and his dignity. He’d left draped in a golden lion skin, a souvenir from some earlier adventure and which, his mother thought, looked decidedly appropriate in the circumstances.

"They’ll be a while," she’d observed knowingly and Iolaus had giggled again, knowing exactly what she meant. The children, who’d, she hoped, had no idea what the joke might be, had still joined in with that warm laughter, staring at their adopted uncle with wide and awed eyes.

The power of the Summer King …

The echo of that power had still whispered around him; he was giddy with it, intoxicated with a quiet joy he could neither completely contain nor suppress. Had he not been so weak and helpless Alcmene might have feared her own reactions, but her motherly instincts easily overcame the more personal ones; the son of her heart had been reborn and - like any newborn child – was in need of both care and loving attention. She had left him for just a moment, setting Clonis to watch over his sister in the main room and asking Aeson to complete a little chore for her, and then had returned with warm water, a soft cloth, and a purposeful smile.

He’d protested. A little. She’d expected him to. She’d simply smiled a little wider and tugged away the ram’s fleece, quietly pointing out that she’d given him exactly the same attention only the day before, not to mention the day before that, and since he was in no fit state to do it himself … He’d had no strength to expend in a pointless tug of war, so he’d sighed, rolled his eyes and submitted to her ministrations, slowly relaxing into a state of drowsy repose under her gentle touch.

It didn’t take that long; she’d lingered over the task a little, finding time to study each of the pale scars that now marked his skin and remember the bloody wounds that they had replaced. The marks at thigh, hip, side, shoulder, and hand she’d expected, but the jagged line across his upper arm was also new – and there was another, high on his forehead, marking the place where the thorns of the crown had rested on the brow of the Summer King.

Alcmene’s hands had been trembling when she finally dropped the cloth into the now soiled water and gently reached to tuck the soft fleece back over his hips and chest. A part of her had wanted to gather him up and hold him, expressing the tumble of emotions that had filled her heart. Relief. Joy. And a sense of anguished sorrow that he had had to endure so much, and suffer so deeply for the sake of the world.

For the sake of my son …

There’d been a tremble of reverent awe alongside all of that. This man had walked the dark paths and returned; he’d conquered the power of winter and earned the ancient crown – together with all the power it contained. That power would never leave him; he would carry it in his heart and, she knew, its fire would come to be reflected by the light in his eyes.

She’d already seen it there. Once – in a time that was her past, and his future.

Along with a fierce and certain commitment to the man who was the brother of his heart.

His second soul.

She’d shivered. Once. And then she’d smiled, because this was Iolaus, with his ribs bruised where Hercules had held onto him so tightly, and he was home, and he was healed, and maybe, just maybe she might forgive Zeus after all.

Eventually.

Aeson had arrived at that moment, carefully carrying the jug of fresh warm goat’s milk that she’d sent him to fetch, so she’d turned her mind to more immediate and practical matters. She’d known better than to put solid food into a stomach that hadn’t held anything for a while, but the milk would be rich and sustaining. Iolaus lacked the energy to do much more than lie there, so she’d held the cup to his lips and made sure he drank enough to do him good. Then she’d plumped up his pillow, opened the shutters on the window to allow in the fresh spring air and tiptoed away to let him get the sleep he so richly deserved. She’d had to tug her grandson after her; he’d been staring at her patient with absolute fascination, making her wonder if her decision to let the children watch had been entirely a good idea.

Still, she’d reasoned, there’d been no time to make any other arrangement, the events of the day were a part of their heritage – and they would never have another chance to glimpse the Summer King in all his glory, which was an experience she doubted that any of them would ever forget.

The man who had won that title was sleeping now, a sprawl of tranquil and untroubled repose. He would, Alcmene suspected, do little more than sleep for several days; she doubted that much would disturb him either, but – once Hercules and Deianeira had returned from their little expedition - she’d suggested that they talk out in the garden, just in case.

They’d had lunch first.

Then Hercules had carried out the chair and placed it in the shade of the apple tree, pausing – after he’d put the seat down – to run his fingers across the soft bark and measure the circumference of the trunk with both his hands. There was a look in his eyes that brought a smile to his mother’s lips. He was clearly thinking - did we do that? The thought was followed by wry realisation. Yeah. We did …

Alcmene sat down in the chair and patted his arm to get his attention; he grinned at her and walked round to join his wife where she’d settled among the spring flowers. Ilea was sat in her lap making daisy chains; Clonis and Aeson – who had been busy hunting beetles in the long grass – immediately ran across to join their parents at their grandmother’s feet.

"So?" Hercules asked as his family settled around him. His mother sighed softly – and told them all what they needed to know.

"It was – meant to be me?" he questioned at the end of it. She nodded a quiet affirmation.

"Your father," she sighed softly, "was trying to protect you."

"Protect me!" he reacted, his eyes flashing with angry indignation. "Mother, he - " His hand gestured helplessly, eloquently expressing the frustration he felt. "He has no idea, does he."

"Actually," Alcmene admitted with another small sigh. "On this particular occasion, I think he knew exactly what he was doing. Now, don’t look at me like that, dear. I’m not saying I approve of what he did, but - I don’t think Gaia demands the sacrifice just because she feels like it. There are powers in this world that are a lot older than those on Olympus, and not even your father can deny them for long. Placate them. Trick them. But not deny them."

"But mother," Hercules protested. "Iolaus …"

"I know." She smiled, glancing at her daughter-in-law, who had a very thoughtful look on her face. "I know."

"It had to be him." Deianeira’s words were soft, expressing her uneasy realisation. "Don’t you see," she said, catching at her husband’s hand and holding it tightly. "If Zeus had picked just anyone, the sacrifice would have had no meaning. No worth. You plant the best seed to grow the best yield, you pick the best ram to sire the next flock, and to win the crown of the Summer King - "

"You have to sacrifice the best …" he completed in hushed tones. "Oh, but - "

"There’s no but about it," Alcmene interrupted firmly. "Hercules, you were chosen to go. Probably from the moment you were born. And because you were chosen, the Fates had to weave someone into your life, a soul just as worthy as your own, ready to share the burden when the time came. If it came. There were so many it might have been. Iphicles. Jason perhaps. But you picked Iolaus. You bound him to you with trust and love and loyalty, a bond strengthened by time and experience and all those things you’ve shared together over the years. Any hero could have given his life to buy back the spring. I’ve no doubt there are many who’ve done so over the centuries. But only one of two, two who are closer than one, has a chance of completing the ritual right through to the end. Your father knew that."

‘He does have a chance, Alcmene. I’m sure of it …’

She still hadn’t quite forgiven him. Not yet. But she was beginning to understand why he might have done what he did.

"It was meant to be me," Hercules frowned, glancing up at the apple tree and then across at the house. "Mother, why didn’t you tell me? If I’d know about all this - "

"Would you have done anything differently?" she asked. "Hercules – the dark paths are dangerous. And Iolaus was so badly wounded, so desperately hurt – I knew that you feared for his life. I didn’t want you fearing for his soul as well. If you’d lost hope, these long night past – then he’d have been lost for certain.

"Besides," she added with a certain asperity, "You’d have just got mad at your father, and that wouldn’t have done any of us any good."

He cracked a sheepish smile at that. She had a point, and he knew it.

"Maybe," he admitted reluctantly. His gaze drifted back to the apple tree and the smile became a warm one, an echo of the laughter which she knew had touched his soul. "You know," he observed thoughtfully, "maybe it was for the best. Something tells me Iolaus made a far better Summer King than ever I would."

A creature made of life, and light and laughter. A swirl of vitality and spirit that lit up the whole world.

Alcmene had a distinct suspicion that he might well be right.

She suppressed a pensive sigh and smiled instead. This was a day of celebration and she wasn’t about to spoil it. There was just one thing she hadn’t mentioned, one final piece of the puzzle that she’d decided to keep to herself for now.

The ritual of the Summer King – the ceremony of the sacred sacrifice – came with conditions. Zeus himself had re-iterated them, the morning after this had all begun.

One for one, two for three, three for seven - it’s all standard stuff …

And she could remember her grandmother telling her, impressing on her the importance of that particular detail.

If he lives through the third day, the Summer King’s reign lasts for seven years.

Only seven.

And if – by the end of that time - the Fates had not already claimed his life, then they would, for certain…

Alcmene shook the thought from her head with stubborn impatience. No-one could foresee the future. Not that clearly. Besides, she told herself firmly, a lot can happen in seven years.

Meanwhile, her sons were safe.

All her sons.

And she had a feeling it was going to be a glorious summer …

Hercules couldn’t sleep. The events of the past few days – and that morning in particular – kept going round and round in his head, churning conflicting emotions and preying on his mind. Three things stood out amidst the chaos of his thoughts: the helpless horror he had felt finding his friend, the duplicity with which Zeus had offered his fatherly sympathy – and the glory of the Summer King, the spirit of an ancient god renewed in a mortal heart and burdened with a pure and perilous power.

The essence of life itself …

He breathed out a quiet sigh and turned his head, hoping that he hadn’t woken Deianeira with his restlessness. She lay beside him, enwrapped in the quiet slumber that had stolen over her as they talked; her expression was a peaceful one and he smiled, studying the lines of her face and remembering why it was he loved her so much.

Which had a little to do with the blissful moments they had shared beside the clear sweet waters of their private stream, but a lot more to do with the warmth of her heart and the generous depth of her soul.

Why am I so blessed? he wondered, reaching to place a butterfly soft kiss on her forehead. He had a exceptional wife, a wonderful family, a loving mother – and the best friend a man could possibly have or ever want.

Thinking of whom …

He slid out of the bed – carefully, so as not to wake his wife – snatched a robe off the blanket chest, and tiptoed out into the main room of the house, moving through the dark like a ghost. Half a dozen steps took him to the curtained arch that led to the guest room and he gently lifted the fabric to one side, sliding into the room beyond with exaggerated care.

The fire in the hearth had burned low, leaving little more than embers that offered the barest of illumination. It filled the room with warm shadows, a soft coating of liquid light that enwrapped the man it sheltered in a golden glow.

Painted with glory …

Hercules smiled to himself as he padded across to look down at his friend. Not all of that light came from the fire. A little of it spilled out of the man himself, although the son of Zeus doubted it could be seen by purely mortal eyes. Which was probably just as well, now he came to think about it. A man couldn’t go through life glowing like a candle flame.

It’ll probably fade, he decided, admiring the effect nonetheless. It was a glow of life, of healthy, vibrant existence. And after long days and nights of haggard pale absence, it was a wonderful thing to see.

"If this is my morning call, it’s too early," came the soft observation. "And if it’s my late night entertainment, you’re not what I ordered at all …"

Hercules chuckled. "You’re supposed to be asleep," he accused. One bright blue eye opened and fixed him with amused consideration.

"So are you," Iolaus pointed out, opening the other eye and grinning lazily. "What’s up, Herc? Deieneira turned into a harpy and kicked you out of bed?"

"No," he answered with a hint of indignation, then sighed and perched himself on the edge of the bed, unable to help the pensive look that flitted across his face. "I couldn’t sleep," he admitted reluctantly. "I just – wanted to make sure you were okay. I didn’t mean to disturb you."

"Well, you did," Iolaus drawled, shifting around on his pillows to better study his company. "But that’s okay. I mean – I don’t mind. Really. Matter of fact," he added, "I was – half awake anyway."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Just lying here, listening to things. The fire. The wind." He assayed a small snort. "My own heartbeat. You know."

Hercules gave him a measured look.

His own heartbeat?

There was a tale all of its own behind that simple statement. His mother had spoken, briefly, of the perils of the dark paths beneath the earth, but only this man knew what they were really like. Because he’d been there. And come back.

The hard way.

"You wanna talk about it?" he asked softly. Iolaus sighed.

"I dunno," he breathed. "Maybe. I uh – met your great grandmother, you know? She’s ah – not like the other gods. She cares, Herc. ’Bout you, ’bout me – ’bout the whole world." He thought about that for a moment, then giggled quietly. "Hey," he realised. "She is the whole world, right?"

Hercules nodded. "That’s what they say. Iolaus – I - " There was something he had to say, and he didn’t quite know how to put it. "It was - meant to be me," he announced somewhat guiltily. His friend threw him a patient look.

"Well, yeah, I know that," he reacted, a little caustically. "You can go next time. If you really want to," he added with a wry grin. Hercules stared at him.

"Iolaus," he tried, struggling to express the guilt and anger that he felt over the matter, "my father – dropped an oak tree on you. He tipped you into that pit deliberately. You nearly died – no, you were nearly – lost. Forever. Just because he was - "

"Trying to protect you," the hunter interrupted patiently. "Herc – I know, okay? I was a father myself once. Look," he went on, before Hercules could respond to that particular statement, "someone had to go. Why not me? I had nothing to lose. Whereas you …" He threw his company a perceptive look and his friend heaved a reluctant sigh.

"That still doesn’t make it right," he pointed out. "He didn’t exactly give you a choice."

"No," Iolaus agreed thoughtfully, then grinned. "I’d have probably gone anyway."

"Iolaus - " Hercules began, reacting to the flippant note with which the words were delivered, then broke off, staring at him in startlement.

Did he just say …?

"Herc," his friend smiled, "what happened, happened, okay? Neither of us had any choice and it all – kinda worked out in the end, so why worry about it? Besides," he added, "if you’re feeling guilty about me having to face all that stuff alone – don’t. You were there with me every step of the way, and I’d have never have made it without you. There. Happier now? Good." He yawned and squirmed a little lower into his pillows. "Drop the curtain on your way out, will ya? And I’d like bacon for breakfast. Half a dozen thick sizzling rashers …"

Iolaus closed his eyes, tipped back his head and settled himself ready to sleep again. After a few long seconds of silence he re-opened one eye and checked. The son of Zeus was still staring at him, so he re-opened the other eye and stared back.

"With eggs?" he suggested hopefully.

Hercules held his serious expression a moment longer, then, almost involuntarily, his lips slowly curled into a quiet grin. Iolaus was right. What had happened, had happened: and, despite the traumas of the experience – or even perhaps because of them - it had somehow strengthened the depth of the bond they had always shared. You chose Iolaus, his mother had said, but it had never been a matter of choice. Just one of destiny. This man, always his friend, so often his partner, had filled an empty space in his life, right from the start. They had shared so much; their hopes, their fears, their dreams – and now this. The quest he had been chosen to undertake and on which this brother of his heart had been sent in his place. I’d have probably gone anyway, he’d said, making it a willing gift, a true sacrifice of self.

Five times given up, each time with blood …

The price had been high; he’d carry the scars for the rest of his life – along with a hint of the ancient power whose echo draped him even now. Never again would the son of Zeus be concerned that his own half divinity might overshadow and somehow diminish the achievements of his friend. This man – this mortal soul – had walked a path only the best were chosen to take, and from which very few had returned. He had won the crown of summer and, with it, brought life back to the world.

And Hercules, who had seen just what that prize had cost, felt privileged to have played some small part in the event. One day – perhaps tomorrow, perhaps the next, or the day after – those blue eyes would take on a pensive shadow, and then he might get to hear the details of the tale his mother had briefly outlined, but for now those eyes were a glimmer of quiet laughter, and he knew he’d get nothing sensible from Iolaus that night.

"I don’t know," he considered lightly, turning his attention to the question he’d been asked. "The hens haven’t been laying lately …"

For a moment – just a moment – it was the Summer King that smiled back at him. "They will be," he announced. "You’ll see."

"If there are eggs, you’ll get eggs," Hercules confirmed, climbing to his feet and fighting down a yawn. "Say good night, buddy."

"Good night, buddy," Iolaus echoed obediently. "Say – Herc?" he called before his friend could leave the room.

"Yeah?" The son of Zeus turned back, his eyes innocent of expectation.

"I just – wanted to say - thanks. For not giving up on me."

Hercules smiled, recalling the way the ritual had declared a truth he’d known all along. A truth that worked both ways – and would always be true for both of them.

Bound only by his brother’s heart; bound to return to him. His second self, his other soul ...

"I’ll never give up on you, buddy. No matter what happens. I’ll find a way …"

Seven Years later:

Hera’s new Enforcer had been destroyed, the old one redeemed, and Iolaus had been able to watch his father walk into the Elysium fields beside her. The past twenty four hours had given him a lot to think about. Not least the humbling comprehension of what his best friend had done – had been prepared to do – in order to save his partner’s life. He’d heard soldiers on the battlefield talk about being close to death.

They didn’t know the half of it …

"Besides," Hercules was saying, "I know a place where I can do a lot more than just see them …"

The Lord of the Underworld nodded understandingly, lifted his hand in an imperious gesture – and the two of them were suddenly standing back at the edge of the lake outside Thebes, the soft whisper of a summer breeze ruffling their hair. Iolaus lifted his head and took a deep, reverent breath. He’d never known air to smell so sweet.

Well, not since that one time  …

"Iolaus!" Alcmene was there with Jason beside her, the two of them staring at him with astounded faces. The Captain of the Argo reached to clasp the shoulders of both men with broad strong hands. "Hercules – you did it," he announced, breaking into an incredulous grin of delight. He shook Iolaus as he said it, probably half to reassure himself that it was a living man he touched, and half to convey a rough and heartfelt welcome home that he would have found hard to put into words. Iolaus grinned at him, giggling a little at his expression.

"He certainly did," he confirmed with confidence. His thumb jerked towards his partner, a gesture his eyes matched, conveying barely a hint of the gratitude he actually felt. "Would you believe the cheek of this guy? You should have seen the look on Hades’ face …"

Hercules laughed, a soft sound of wry embarrassment. "Iolaus," he protested. "Haven’t you got yourself into enough trouble for one day? Just be grateful he agreed to send you back."

"Oh, I am," Iolaus declared with feeling. "Believe me. I am."

Alcmene had greeted her son with decided relief; the hand she now reached to lay on the hunter’s arm was much gentler than her husband’s had been. "We thought we’d lost you," she murmured, finding him a warm and loving smile. "I’m so glad that we didn’t."

"Me too," he shrugged, a little embarrassed by the intensity of her consideration. "I just wish – " He swallowed the rest of the thought, aware that Hercules was right there, and that the wish – however passionately expressed – was never going to come true.

It just seemed so unfair, that was all. That he could be saved, when Deianeira and the children could not.

After all, he wondered puzzledly, what have I ever done to earn such special treatment …?

Back in the halls of Asphodel, Hades let out a soft sigh as a green clad figure materialised out of the shadows beside him. She brought with her a whisper of rich perfume, the scents of the living world that had no place in his somber kingdom. "Now that’s an interesting way to solve a problem," Gaia noted with amusement. Persephone hid a knowing smile behind her hand.

"I know, I know," Hades muttered, half with embarrassment, half with irritation. "You think I liked it? The dead are supposed to stay dead, Grandmother. You made the rules."

"Rules are made to be broken," the goddess said thoughtfully. "Even mine. The Summer King is sacrificed. His blood stains the land and the land is renewed. Who’s to say he shouldn’t be too? Reborn, like the land he offers his life for. This young lady of yours has agreed to re-enact the miracle every year, hasn’t she?"

"She’s a goddess, grandmother. And that’s a cursed compromise anyway. I’m miserable all summer without her."

Persephone turned and smiled warmly at her husband and he harrumphed, as if he’d admitted something he hadn’t intended to.

"Well, her mother is miserable all winter without her, so that balances that, doesn’t it. Wise up, Hades. You might pretend you agreed to Hercules’ demand because it gave you an easy life. And meant you didn’t have to process all that paperwork. But I know better."

"Grandmother - "

"Don’t you grandmother me, young man. I know what you’re up to. Besides, I approve. Completely. After all, the chosen one has to die within his allotted span - and now he has. You know, I always hated that part of the deal. It never seemed fair somehow ..."

"Well," Hades growled. "I didn’t want him. He was here one day and managed to thaw a frozen heart and redeem a lost soul – all without knowing what he was doing. If he’d ever figured it out – well, he’d have driven us all crazy down here. Probably done that anyway," he added, half under his breath.

Gaia chuckled. "Don’t make excuses. I know the reasons. You’ve been dreading his arrival ever since the two of you took over responsibility for the spring. An arrangement his second self made possible, even if he didn’t realise what it would mean."

The Lord of the Underworld grimaced petulantly. "I didn’t ask for the crown of Winter," he pouted. "But it was the only way - "

"I know." His grandmother’s look was indulgent. "Times change. They’re meant to. And some things stay the same. The Summer King serves until the next is chosen - only now there’s no need for a next. Not any more. Which meant that his death - and it was meant - gave you a problem. You had to do something or risk unbalancing your new arrangement and losing what you’ve gained. A dead man can’t rule the living realm, and the reigning Lord of Summer has no business being in the Underworld. Not for long, anyway. I like the way you managed to send him back without revealing the reason why ... That was clever. Underhand, but clever. You set yourself dangerous precedences, Hades. Actually, I’m glad. The crown of Summer will never be an easy one to wear and since it’s going to be his for a long time, that young man deserves a chance to grow into it. I hope he makes the most of it."

"He will," Persephone murmured softly. The oldest goddess threw her an amused smile.

"A life forever free from Winter’s blight?" she pondered thoughtfully, then laughed. "You know - you gods are going to have to keep an eye on that boy ..."

---

'Bound by his Brother's Heart' - Chapter Five. Disclaimer:This story has been written for love rather than profit and is not intended to violate any copyrights held by Universal, Pacific Rennaisance, or any other holders of Hercules: The Legendary Journeys trademarks or copyrights.
© 1999. Written by Pythia. Reproduced by Penelope Hill