Iolaus, I know I don't have to say this," Jason said quietly. "But it wasn't easy for Hercules to leave you."
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and walked away from the house where he had spent the happiest days of his childhood, eyes clouded with unbidden tears, feeling like he'd left his whole life behind him. Hercules was gone. Really gone. Gone of his own free will. There was a huge aching emptiness in his chest, an almost physical pain that kept whispering to him, "This is real, Iolaus. It's finally happened. He's gone and he's never coming back."
And Jason... What would become of Jason? Their old friend had been a miserable, demon-haunted drunk not so very long ago. Would he disappear back into the despair and degradation of the wine cask now that Alcmene was gone? Iolaus prayed it wasn't so. Jason was a good man, a legendary hero. But Iolaus had seen good, strong men destroyed by compulsions they could neither understand nor control.
"Shut up, Iolaus," he scolded himself. "You'll drive yourself crazy." Jason's fate was in his own hands. Even if he were to stay on, keep watch over his old friend, Jason would do what he would do. He would live or die, and whichever he chose to do, the choice was his. Iolaus knew too well he couldn't dictate his will to the Fates.
He trudged along the trail to Thebes. The exuberant bounce of his normal stride had vanished. Acquaintances he met along the way failed to recognize him until he was almost upon them and they stuttered surprised greetings that were met with no real enthusiasm.
"Didn't know him until he was right in my face," one of them later remarked in the tavern. "Walked like an old man, he did. It must be true then... Hercules *has* gone to Olympus."
He'd told Jason he was going to visit his mother, and he was already beginning to regret that commitment. If only he'd kept the thought in the back of his mind, never said the words out loud... But he had. And now he was afraid, afraid to see his own mother.
It had been so long. How had he ever let it be so long? Twelve years. *How did you manage to avoid your own mother for twelve years?* He let a rueful, humorless laugh escape him. It had been easy enough, all right, once those loving eyes had become so shadowed with hurt and disappointment that they'd been impossible to meet. *Oh, damn, Iolaus, why did you have to be such a punk?*
He'd only been back once after he'd straightened up, soon after the Argonauts' triumphant return to Corinth with the Golden Fleece. Finally, he could tell her about his adventures and not have to shade the truth or leave out the incriminating details. And she hadn't believed anything he'd said. Oh, sure, she'd nodded and smiled a lot, exclaimed over his adventures with Hercules and Jason. But the smiles had never reached her eyes. Her eyes had asked, "What have you done now, Iolaus? What trouble are you trying to cover up with your tall tales this time?"
He'd stopped by with Ania when he was taking her home to Thebes for their wedding, but Erythia had been away visiting her sister in Athens. He'd planned to invite her to come when their son was born, but then Ania had gotten sick. And then he'd been in Mycenae and missed her wedding to the poet Pandion. But now there wasn't anything to keep him away except his own misgivings. Said that way, it sounded petty. It would be awkward, but he'd been in plenty of awkward situations before. And there was really nowhere else to go.
He passed by his forge on the outskirts of Thebes; the larder was empty, he knew, no reason to stop. The walls were still standing; some local wit had painted a few particularly inane graffiti on the side nearest the road. Oh well, it was due for a bit of whitewash anyway. And the thatch on the roof was beginning to fall in again. Great. That would keep him busy for a while -- when he got back, he amended carefully.
He bought some fruit and dried meat in the market place. It was a good day's walk to the village where his mother lived, and he didn't want to have to stop and hunt, knowing he might use any excuse to delay the meeting he both longed for and dreaded. It began to look like he'd be well on his way by noon when an old neighbor stopped him. She'd been a friend of Alcmene's and his mother. She meant him no harm, only wanted to comfort, to share memories. He managed to get away without being truly rude, but that was only by the grace of some kind god. Then he was ducking into the shade of a narrow side street, swiping angrily at the tears that came so easily these last few days, hoping no one had seen.
Damn! His emotions were always hovering right there beneath the surface. No problem when it was laughter, but when it wasn't... Crybaby, his father had called him, his voice sour with contempt and disappointment. *Well, score one for the old man.*
He left the shelter of the alley, his mouth set in a tight, thin-lipped expression that tried to pass itself off as a grin, and set off with a brisk, head-down stride. He was so intent on getting on his way that he didn't notice the woman who fell into step beside him until she spoke.
"Iolaus!"
"Wha-- Lilia?" He stopped when he saw how hard she was breathing.
She was a little woman, a bit older than himself, with hair gray before its time, clad in an old, much-mended, but immaculate homespun dress. "You're in a terrible hurry. I wasn't sure I could catch you," she panted.
"I'm sorry, Lilia. I was just on my way out of town." He wished he had a few more dinars in his pouch so he could give her a little advance pay. Her husband, Cyrus, was an old friend and comrade-in-arms who'd come back from Troy without his legs. Their little family struggled to get by with what Lilia could earn with her sewing and odd jobs. Iolaus would never have demeaned them by offering charity, but he had developed a way of stopping by with game when food was low and he gave Lilia a few dinars every month to keep his old house in order, though it had been years since he'd lived there.
"I won't keep you, but you ought to know. There's been someone in the house. Must have been last week sometime. I don't think anything's missing, but some things were moved around. And... well, I wish you'd take a look."
"Sure," he sighed. He would rather have stepped into the hydra's cave at the moment, but Lilia took her responsibilities very seriously. "It'll only take a few minutes."
"Thank you," she breathed in relief and took his hand. "And Iolaus, when you see Hercules, tell him how sorry we all are about Alcmene. She'll be missed here." She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and headed back to the market place.
"Here, too," he said to himself, watching her go. Well, Iolaus, he thought, you've been trying to have a good pity party all day. Might as well do it up right.
The house stood behind the main street of Thebes, its door opening onto a quiet little cul-de-sac. He'd built it after Ania's father had finally accepted his bride price -- seven cows, three goats, and eleven chickens. It had taken him most of a year to earn the money for the animals and the house. He'd never worked so hard, rarely been prouder of any effort; and for five years there had been no happier home in Thebes. But the old folks were probably right - sell the place and let it be some other young family's home. Better still, give it to someone who would appreciate it, like Hercules had done with his homestead after Hera had killed Deineira and the kids. But not just yet.
Iolaus pulled the door open and stepped inside, set his sword and pack on the table where he'd endured Ania's cooking. No, that wasn't fair. She'd gotten better as time went on. Alcmene had taught her everything she could and Alcmene was... had been... an extraordinary cook. But that first year he would have sworn that Ania could burn water.
Nothing was out of place in the main room. He'd memorized its contents years ago. Ania's spinning wheel sat near the hearth. Her sewing basket lay open at the foot of her rocking chair under the shuttered window. She'd spent so much time there in the last days of her pregnancy, singing pretty tunes and struggling heroically to sew baby clothes. She'd been sitting there when her eyes had suddenly widened in apprehensive wonder and she'd told him to find Alcmene and the midwife, and he'd run out to fetch the future.
Everything had gone so smoothly. "I can do this," she'd kept saying. "It really isn't so bad." And then, of course, she'd start screaming again. And Iolaus would run outside and be sick again.
But by dawn they had a son. Iolaus had sat on the bed that morning, holding her while she nursed the baby. They'd argued over names and fussed over their son, and made grand plans for the future, and laughed until they'd cried. It had been the most precious day of his life; he'd cherished every minute of it.
No one had expected Ania to leap out of bed immediately. She'd always been a bit delicate. But by the next evening, she was hot and feverish, and by midnight he knew she was seriously ill. The healer was nowhere to be found and Iolaus had sent a boy to fetch Alcmene.
Alcmene had made him wait outside the bedroom. She'd come back out in only a few moments and he remembered thinking, "It's not so bad. She's going to be all right." Then he'd watched the smile she'd worn for Ania's benefit melt down her face and turn to anguish. They could only hope Ania had enough strength to fight off the infection; every once in a great while a woman recovered from birthing fever.
She'd tried so hard to live. He'd nursed her through the endless nights when she couldn't sleep for the pain, held her when the terrible rigors struck, kept her clean and warm. But the fever had finally burned away everything that had made her Ania, leaving only a suffering, whimpering shell, and in the end death had come as a merciful friend.
Iolaus had never spent another night in the house, but he'd never been able to let it go.
The kitchen was in perfect order. The storage room had been nearly empty for years. The olive tree in the atrium had grown and there was still a bit of grass even though the pond had dried up. If Lilia had seen something amiss, it had to be in the bedroom.
Iolaus took a deep breath and stepped into the sunlit room. A glint of silver on the mantel caught his eye immediately. Someone had been here, but they hadn't taken anything. Ania's scarf and combs had been moved and there was a small parchment held into a tight roll with a silver ring. He knew that ring well. It was Alcmene's.
All the strength ran out of his knees as he took the parchment and he sat heavily on the bed. He slipped the ring off with hands that seemed to have taken on a tremulous life of their own and unrolled the parchment to read what she had written.
"Iolaus -- I need to thank you now for the joy you've given me all these years, to tell you how precious your friendship has been. Ever have you anchored Hercules to humanity. How effortlessly he might have surrendered to the gods, become like them, if not for your love and loyalty. He is the warm and compassionate man he is because of you. He is a hero because of you. Alone, I do not believe I could have held him back from the empty pleasures of Olympus. Together, we have done so, and for this I am more grateful than these words can hope to say. Iolaus, I have loved you as much as any mother ever loved a son, though you were born to another woman. When you think of me, think of me with joy. Do not weep for me, Dear One, for I have known happiness unbounded, and I know we will all meet again on the other side."
He sat on the bed for a long moment, holding the parchment to his heart, not moving, not realizing he was holding his breath until it hurt. Part of him wanted to shout, to rage, because they *hadn't* kept Hercules out of Olympus. Their best efforts hadn't been good enough after all. But another part realized that Hercules had gone with Zeus for reasons far removed from those that had once worried Alcmene. He hadn't followed the lure of power or pleasure. He'd gone because he believed he would be in a better position to help those who needed him.
Alcmene had surely known that Zeus would offer her son godhood, but it hadn't frightened her. She had known that, in the end, Hercules would follow the right path. She had known, too, the hurt and loss Iolaus would feel when he was left behind for however long or short a time. He understood that she had been reassuring him, telling him that Hercules would never really be lost to him, no matter where his decision took him.
The light had changed and shadows lengthened by the time Iolaus re-rolled the parchment and slipped the ring back in place. It was time to get up and go on. Because that's what we do, he thought, it's what we have to do; we get up and we go on. And they know that. And it's all right.
"Thank you," he said aloud in the room that no longer felt empty and abandoned. "So... I guess this means I'd better stop hanging around feeling sorry for myself and get my butt on the road, huh?"
He slipped the parchment into the pouch at his belt. Lilia would be in before he returned and he didn't want her to think he'd ignored her concerns. Perhaps she'd wanted him to find it... No, she had no way of knowing what the scroll had contained; she'd never learned to read. He could only wonder what had moved her to seek him out over such a little thing.
He straightened the keepsakes on the mantle, savoring the softness of Ania's scarf, the delicate beauty of her ivory combs. He stood the little wooden toy horse on its feet. His son had never had the chance to play with it, but Iolaus had given it to him to hold when he was sick and fretful. He'd been holding it when he died. How long had it been since he'd looked at it at it as a reminder of the child's life rather than his death? Too long. Far too long. "Thanks, Alcmene," he said again.
"Take care of each other," he told the room's invisible inhabitants. "It might be awhile before I'm back this time. Wish me luck, okay? I think I'm gonna need it." He closed the door softly. For the moment, at least, he was at peace with the dead. It was time to take care of the living.
-finis-
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