The house was small but beautiful in its simplicity. It spoke of strong, straight lines and angles, good hard wood and hand-cut stone lovely joined in a symphony of symmetry and utility. From foundation to roof, it had been designed and built entirely by hand, without benefit of or interference by the gods or modern machinery. The only magic that had been used was that of a women’s touch, which had beautified the cozy little structure with flower boxes and a garden that bloomed with brilliantly colorful flowers.
“Like it?” asked Iolaus as he ushered Hercules inside.
“Love it,” said Herc, and meant it. “You’ve certainly been keeping yourself busy.”
“Yeah, well ... a guy’s gotta have something to pass the time, right?” He led his friend into a spotlessly neat kitchen decorated in soothing shades of blue and crisp white. “Something to drink?”
“Sure. What’ve you got?”
Iolaus opened the refrigerator door, poked his nose inside for a quick inventory, and rattled off from within the depths, “Coke, Sprite, seltzer, some green stuff in a bottle --” He came up for air long enough to comment, “Looks a little like Obie,” before returning to his recitation, “Diet Coke, ice tea, ice water, spring water, white wine -- Californian, before you ask -- carrot juice, apricot juice, o.j., and a coupla bottles of Moosehead.” He closed the refrigerator door and concluded, “Coffee, decaf, hot tea, hot cocoa, Moosehead, mead, ambrosia and cuppachino. And Moosehead. So! What’ll it be?”
“Funny, but suddenly I’ve been getting this subliminal message that I’m in the mood for beer.”
Iolaus laughed, a twinkle in his bright blue eyes. “Moosehead it is! I’ll make it two,” he said and fetched the six pack from the refrigerator.
With a bottle apiece, and the remainder of the six pack within easy reach, the two old friends settled down into comfortable, over-stuffed chairs in front of the blazing hearth, kicked back and relaxed. They sat in companionable silence, savoring their beers and the lulling, hypnotic dance of the flames. It was idyllic, and not for the first time Hercules envied Iolaus the peace and quiet of his retirement.
“So,” said Iolaus after a time. “How’d it go?”
Hercules kept his expression as neutral as possible as he tried to find the right words to convey his unhappy news. Unfortunately, Iolaus knew him -- and his expressions -- entirely too well.
“That bad?”
“I’m sorry, Iolaus. I tried everything I could but ...” With a heavy sigh, Hercules set aside his second bottle and forced himself to meet his friend’s inquiring gaze. “They’re going to do it.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“‘Fraid not. They’ve decided to kill the character off.”
“Kill me off?” Iolaus was aghast. “You mean write me out, don’t you?”
Hercules shook his head in the negative.
“But then they’re going to resurrect me again, right? Do one of those stories where you go bug Hades or travel through some kind of alternate underworld to bring me back?”
“Not this time,” the demigod replied with genuine regret. “For some idiotic reason, they’ve decided it’s time for a change. And you’re it.”
Iolaus leaped out of his chair. “They can’t do that!” he exclaimed heatedly. “I’m still in my prime! My character is only -- what? -- 38, 39? Why, we fought side by side for another 20 years at least, and I didn’t die until I was over 100!”
After after a quick head to toe glance of critical assessment, Hercules replied, “You don’t look a day over 4,000.”
“Hardy har har,” said Iolaus, in no mood to be cheered by the familiar old dig at his eternal youth.
Restoring his body from the ravages of old age to the peak fighting condition of his prime had been a reluctant gift of the gods to aid in his battle to save the more than 50 sons of Hercules. Iolaus had fought hard and well that final day, leading his army to victory against impossible odds. He died as he had wished -- on the field of battle, fighting the good fight. So brave, valiant and selfless a warrior was Iolaus, that the gods could not deny Hercules’ petition on behalf of his most beloved friend. Although he grumbled fitfully, not even Ares protested when Iolaus’s soul was given a place of honor upon Mt. Olympus.
“So, how are they going to do it this time?” he asked bitterly. “Drop an anvil on my head and squash me past resurrecting?”
“Nothing like that,” Hercules assured him.
“Yeah?” challenged Iolaus, hands on hips. “How, then?”
Try as he might, Hercules could not avoid his friend’s piercing blue gaze. Reluctantly, he told Iolaus all that had occurred with the Renaissance production staff at the nearly fatal corporate retreat, and concluded with their decision on the fate of the fictitious character that was Iolaus’ namesake.
“So, you see,” concluded Hercules in as positive a tone as he could manage, “You begin and end the story arc as a hero.”
“Hero? Hah! Some hero!” grumbled Iolaus blackly. He turned his back on Hercules and glowered at the fire in the hearth. “As *if* I would let some two-bit nasty like Dahak take over my soul for *any* reason. And nothing -- god, demon, or producer -- could turn me against *you*. EVER!” He balled his hands into fists. “I’d rather be strapped to an amplifier at a Grateful Dead concert.”
Hercules rose from his chair and joined his friend before the hearth. “Iolaus,” he said gently, “They’ve promised it will be a very moving ending. They’re going to acknowledge how much your friendship means to me. How much *you* mean to me. You’ll go out in a blaze of glory.”
“I’d rather not go out at all.”
“It’s just a t.v. show. *We* know what really happened. I mean, look at us! It’s been more than four thousand years and there *still* isn’t anyone I’d rather have by my side.”
“That’s exactly my point!” exclaimed the robust blonde warrior. “They’ve got it all WRONG! Where did these hacks come from, any way, and how can they get away distorting history like that?!”
“It’s not history to them,” Hercules reminded him. “It’s mythology. Fairytales and boogeymen they can play around with and twist to suit their needs.”
“Yeah?” Iolaus snorted. “I’d like to see them come face to tentacle with the *real* Echidna right about now, or go nose to nose with the *real* Dischord. *That* would teach them what’s history and who’s mythology!”
“Don’t go giving Dischord any ideas. She’s causing enough trouble in Washington as it is.” Hercules reached out and placed a comforting hand on his friend’s purple-clad shoulder. “Iolaus...”
“I know, I know,” he sighed resignedly. “It’s only a television show.” He looked up at Hercules, genuine anguish in his eyes. “But ... to portray me as selling out to some egomaniacal demon. Against the world. Against my *best friend?* Herc, I’d never -- EVER -- do that! How can they think that I would?” He swallowed, then pressed on, “Unless, *you* think --”
“Never!!” said Hercules fiercely. “Whatever they make that character do -- however well that actor plays the partt -- it can only be just a shade of who *you* really are.”
“Really?”
“Really.” When Iolaus still seemed uncertain, Hercules asked, “Would I lie to you?”
After a moment’s thought, Iolaus narrowed his eyes and said, “Now that you ask...”
Hercules effected his most convincing “who, little-ole-me?” look. Within his heart, he was delighted -- and relieved -- to see Iolaus’ distress giving way to his incorrigible good humor.
“You know, now that I think on it, this might actually turn out to be a blessing in disguise,” mused Iolaus as he stroked his chin.
“How do you figure?”
“Well, what about the fans?”
“What about them?”
“Won’t they be *devastated* once they find out those morons -- I mean, *writers* -- have decided to kill off the noble, brave, handsome --”
“Don’t push it.”
“-- Golden Hunter?” said Iolaus, undeterred. The tiniest hint of an impish grin began to shine through as he warmed up to his subject. “All of those anguished, heart broken, grieving, indignant, nubile women -- women of all ages -- all over the world. All of the Amazons and Americans and Germans and Atlantians and Kiwis. The Fans of Iolaus. Picture it! The *Army* of Iolaus, poised and ready to hurl themselves into the front line in my defense!”
“Now there’s a daunting image,” said Hercules. “Hordes of raging women waving swords, swarming through the streets of Los Angeles to demand you back from the dead? Too melodramatic.”
“Not swords, Herc -- pens!! And keyboards and crayons, web sites, email lists and petitions and boycotts, all directed at the writers and producers ... and hey -- maybe even the sponsors!! And ... and ... ” Iolaus’ enthusiastic discourse suddenly faltered as self-doubt reared its ugly head. “And who am I kidding?” he sighed as his elation deflated. “The fans probably just think I’m a fictitious character, too. You said it yourself; it’s just a t.v. show.” He looked up at Hercules and said apologetically, “Sorry. I guess I got carried away for a minute there. Wishful thinking.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” replied Hercules with a secret smile. “In fact, I think it’s rather prophetic.”
“You do?” Iolaus looked uncertain. “Seriously, do you think they’d do that? For me? I mean ... I’m no Hercules.”
“No, you’re not,” said the Son of Zeus as he placed a companionable arm around the shorter warrior’s shoulders. “You are the one and only *Iolaus* -- consummate warrior, celebrated hunter,, noble and brave of heart -- and my brother. I wouldn’t want anyone else by my side.” He grinned. “Besides, you don’t look too bad for a guy over 4,000. I think these ladies would gladly storm the bastions of Renaissance Pictures for you. In fact, I think they’d follow you just about anywhere.”
“You really think so?”
“Yup.”
“You really, *really* think they would?”
“Iolaus -- they’ve already started.”
“Yeah? Wow! That’s ... that’s pretty humbling.” Iolaus paused a moment, then asked, “Do you think all of them are women?”
“Well, the majority of them are; yes.”
The Golden Hunter blinked at his friend, his expression all innocence. There was, however, the tiniest hint of a wicked gleam in his eyes as he said, “Gee. Guess we’d better not tell Ania, huh?”
Hercules laughed aloud. Some things would *never* change.
FINI
Carolyn "Cal" Lynn / 14 Jan 1999
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