Iolaus skitters. Skitters and darts, muscles tensed and coiled, ready to jump and run at the slightest noise or glance. He's a small, pale fieldmouse, one that knows he's surrounded by predators. Iphicles sighs as he watches his guest, watches Iolaus nervously pick at his food, eating in small, quick bites as he hunches his shoulders protectively, waiting for a blow. This Iolaus is so different from Iphicles' friend, from the calm, relaxed, loyal and brave Iolaus who stood with him at Golgoth, who radiated strength and energy. Paler and thinner, too, colorless, like he's recovering from a long illness. A man from another, darker world has a right to be nervous, to be afraid. But this Iolaus has a secret, Iphicles can feel it. And he's determined to discover what that secret is.
This Iolaus left Hercules, wandered off on his own. Iphicles wonders how he found the strength, how he survived. Hercules had been worried, but relief lurked under the anxiety. He didn't like living with a ghost, one that looked at him with haunted, frightened eyes and saw a monster. Much later, Iolaus had come to Corinth, late one night, asking in a voice softer than a whisper for a place to stay. Iphicles gave him a room, a corner one with large windows to let in the light and air, but he knows Iolaus leaves it every night, just before dawn. Leaves it, looking around for anything that might pounce upon him as he hugs the shadows close to the wall and scurries out of the castle. Every night he returns, sometimes just after sunset, sometimes later, returns to his room. But he doesn't sleep, Iphicles knows that, and sometimes, when he passes the room, he hears muffled whimpers and sobs, the sounds of a tormented soul.
Tonight Iphicles will follow him, discover the little man's secret. He has to know. Because Iolaus makes him nervous, and he doesn't like that. Iolaus shouldn't make him nervous. He's harmless. He's a mouse. But sickness arrived in Corinth around the same time as Iolaus, and the sickness is spreading through the city, sending questing tendrils into the castle itself, and Iphicles' instincts scream that Iolaus knows something. His secret is connected to the sickness.
Iolaus scurries off to his room after dinner and Iphicles prepares. Walnut juice is combed through his hair, darkening it so he won't stand out so much. Digging in his trunk he pulls out his old sword and clothes - soft, worn leather pants, faded brown shirt and a studded leather vest. They still smell of sweat, and he longs briefly for the days when his life was simpler, when his biggest worry was whether he'd be able to eat. Now, the city depends upon him and he's not sure he's up to the job. Sometimes he feels like he's drowning, sinking in an ocean of responsibility.
The clothes still fit, although they're a bit snug. Perhaps that's for the best, he thinks. He certainly doesn't look like a king anymore. He looks like a merc out to pick someone up for the evening. He closes his eyes as his cock fills at the thought. Maybe he's wrong about Iolaus. If so, he can spend the evening in a dark, smoky room that smells of sex and find someone to fuck. His cock likes that idea, straining against the tight leather, and he takes a few deep breaths as he strokes it through the material. It's been too long. Too long since Rena died, leaving a gaping wound where his heart once beat. Too long since he fucked instead of making love. He needs it.
What he really needs is the one who haunts his dreams. Soft, sad brown eyes, knowing smile, patient and understanding nature. After Alcmene died, Jason stayed at the castle, lending his strength. Long conversations, baring his soul, a sudden flare of realization, and all Iphicles dreams about anymore is Jason. But Jason is a good man. A kind man, who thinks of him as a son. Once, Iphicles remembers, he winked at Jason during a banquet. Too much wine made him giddy and reckless. And Jason froze, then looked away, and never mentioned it. No, Jason isn't interested, but Iphicles hopes he can find someone who is, if only for one night.
The guards have been given the night off, and Iphicles pulls on a plain hooded cloak as he lurks in the shadows outside the castle, outside the door he knows Iolaus uses. He waits patiently. He's always been good at hunting, a natural predator. Waiting for his prey comes easily. No one looks at him. No one notices him. Iolaus finally leaves, looking around frantically but trying not to look like he's afraid. He stinks of fear, and he doesn't notice when a shadow detaches itself from the side of the castle and trails along behind him.
Iphicles enjoys the game, enjoys following Iolaus. The hunt makes him feel alive, and it's been too long since he felt that, since he's been outside, unfettered. The night wind whispers to him of freedom, encourages him to break off the hunt and find other prey. He considers it, but decides to wait until he's learned where Iolaus goes every night. Iolaus leads him through a maze of streets, head down as he almost-runs, twisting and turning this way and that, never hesitating. He's a man on a mission. They walk past brothels, and the musky scent of sex teases Iphicles, but he remains strong. They walk into the squalid part of town, finally stopping at a tavern. Iphicles is surprised when Iolaus goes inside - the man is afraid of his shadow, and this tavern isn't even remotely respectable.
It's dark inside, and smells like smoke and cheap wine and sex. Iphicles orders a mug of wine and nurses it, letting the spiced red liquid slide down his throat as he settles in a corner to watch Iolaus. The little man-mouse smiles nervously at the bartender and says something that makes the man bare his very pointed teeth and laugh. It's not a nice sound. Iolaus looks at his mug, staring into its depths, and he cringes. Iphicles looks around but can't tell what made Iolaus react. Maybe he just cringes reflexively. But his curiosity grows as Iolaus grimaces before gulping his drink, a few drops of thick red wine sliding out the corner of his mouth, down to this throat. He sets the mug down with a loud thump, his face desolate, and stands a little unsteadily. Iphicles follows as Iolaus walks to the back room, wondering if the little man has a lover. Maybe that's his secret. Maybe the mouse likes rough trade. Iphicles likes that idea, and he takes a moment to imagine Iolaus wearing black leather, bound and gagged. His red blood and white skin would work well with the black. Maybe they can work something out. He's surprised when he gets to the back room and sees Iolaus disappear into a trapdoor in the floor. But he's not letting Iolaus go now, so he looks into the darkdark below and follows.
Jason stares out the window, looking at the blue, cloudless sky, the sun dancing merrily on the waves in the harbor, but he doesn't really see. He's too busy looking inside and backwards, remembering what he's lost. Medea, Glauce, Alcmene, Iolaus... and now Iphicles. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. All dead. The words toll inside his head, a chorus spiraling downward, sucking him in. Everyone he loves dies. Everything he loves, he loses. He loves the farm where he lived for a few happy years with Alcmene, but it hurts to live there. Hurts to sometimes smell her, to remember her standing in front of the fire, hear her laughter in the wind. He loves the Academy. So many good memories, a sense of pride at helping mold the students. Gone, now. Gone, gone, everything gone. Now he has to be king again, because Iphicles left no heirs. He has to give up his freedom, his simple life, to return to the royal fishbowl.
He would hate Iphicles for returning this burden to him, but it's wrong to blame a dead man. Iphicles' death was sudden and unexpected. The sickness that creeps through Corinth sunk its claws into him and pulled him to its breast as it devoured him. He wasted away in a matter of days, and Jason sat by his side and watched as he slipped further away, just like Alcmene. Of course, he had been wasting away inside before, ever since Rena died. His heart, his soul, letting go and unraveling like loose silk thread in a tapestry. His body had just taken some time to catch up. So many regrets there - not spending enough time with Iphicles after Rena died, after Alcmene died. He tried, but it wasn't enough. He knows how loneliness can gnaw at a man's soul, how it can suck the will to live. Iphicles hadn't fought death, and Jason wonders if he could have made a difference if he had tried harder. If he hadn't run away.
There were signs before, signs that frightened him. He looked at Iphicles and saw someone other than Alcmene's son. He saw a man, a man who was handsome and sexy and powerful, and he wanted that man. He didn't want to want him, didn't want Alcmene to know he lusted after her son. Didn't want to be rejected by the beautiful king. Sometimes he dreamed about Iphicles, waking in the morning to sticky sheets and the hot flush of embarrassment. Once, Iphicles had invited him to a banquet, and when Jason watched him delicately lick his lips he had hardened immediately, almost whimpering from the ache. And Iphicles looked at him, eyes knowing, and Jason swears he saw Iphicles wink at him.
Maybe they would have had something, but now Iphicles is cold and dead, lying in a stone sarcophagus in the crypt below the castle. Lying next to Rena, but not touching her, and it's not right to think about Iphicles this way because the dead can hear it when you think about them, and he doesn't know that Iphicles really winked. Maybe it was just loneliness making him see that. But now, there's a gaping hole somewhere inside of him. It's always been there, but he's always found some way to fill it, someone to soothe the ache, and now the wound pulses with need, and he feels so alone.
He knows he shouldn't. He knows Alcmene wouldn't approve. But he pours himself a glass of wine and drinks it down quickly. Then he pours another and another, trying to fill the gap inside himself, or at least mute the pain, finally falling asleep in the chair in front of the fire, the pewter goblet falling from his hand, scarlet wine staining the lambskin rug beneath his feet.
It's dark when he opens his eyes. The fire jumps and strains, red-orange tongues of flame licking the stones of the wall, and Jason wonders how it would feel to have so many tongues licking and lapping at once. He's still drunk, and he raises his head woozily when he sees a shadow in another chair. The shadow doesn't move, and Jason's not sure it's really there and not just a figment of his imagination, because it's an Iphicles-shaped shadow, and there shouldn't be an Iphicles-shaped shadow in his chair.
But the shadow turns and smiles at him, and it's Iphicles, and Jason knows this isn't real, he must be dreaming, and he wonders if the dead know when the living dream about them. He hopes not, because dream-Iphicles is standing, and he's wearing tight leather pants that leave nothing to the imagination, and Jason sees the big, hard cock clearly outlined against the leather, straining for release, and hopes that Iphicles can forgive him for this dream.
He quits thinking when Iphicles' lips brush his own, and they're full and soso soft and he tastes sweet, like dark spiced wine. Then Iphicles' tongue strokes the outside of his mouth, tracing gently from one side to the other before moving toward the center, pushing ever so gently as Jason eagerly parts his lips. Their tongues brush each other, slow and light, and Jason tastes something red and coppery under the wine. He forgets it when Iphicles' hand moves under his tunic, carefully rubbing one nipple between thumb and forefinger. He never wants to wake up.
Iphicles pushes him toward the bed and Jason sits on it, the soft mattress sinking under his weight as he watches Iphicles remove his leather vest and shirt. His hard, muscled chest shines bronze in the firelight, and Jason reaches out to touch him, make sure he's still there. He is, but Jason knows this is a dream because the chest under his hand isn't moving. There's no breath, no soft, muted heartbeat. But Iphicles captures his hand and kisses it, a soft, hopeful and mischievous look in his eyes, and Jason is lost.
Iphicles kisses him again, this time harder, and Jason pulls the younger man to him, running his hands across Iphicles' back, down his arms, making a map of his body. The skin under his palms is cool, warmer on the side closer to the fire, and Iphicles returns his caress, cool hands burrowing under Jason's shirt, stroking his chest and stomach. And when Iphicles breaks the kiss and begins licking Jason's neck, his lips warmed by the kiss, Jason closes his eyes, comforted by the dark, and shudders under him.
When he open his eyes, Iphicles is naked. He's perfect, his skin glowing in the moonlight, hair reflecting the fire, and Jason again apologizes to Iphicles' shade for daring to dream such a dream, and for wishing it was more than a dream. And when Iphicles undresses him, Jason lets him, afraid to do anything that might jolt him back to wakefulness before this ends.
Surrendering, he lies back and lets himself feel everything, wondering if such a vivid dream is a gift or a curse. Cooling lips move gently across his body, fingers stroking knowingly, urging him higher and higher. A tongue laps at his nipples, dipping into his navel, deliberately teasing, and when Jason looks up he sees Iphicles smiling at him, teeth glowing white as the moon itself. Part of him whispers a word of warning as he sees that Iphicles has fangs, very sharp and pointy looking fangs, but the rest of him doesn't care. It's Iphicles, and if that part of him is right, this is real. He doesn't dare to hope for that, so it must be a dream.
Iphicles nips playfully at Jason's neck, soothing the sting with soft swipes of his tongue, before moving down, down, down. And when Jason looks at him, Iphicles grins before licking Jason's cock from root to tip, his smile widening as he listens to his lover's groan of frustration. He continues to lick, slowly and softly, ignoring the muffled pleas, the small whimpers. Finally, Jason almost weeps when Iphicles finally takes him fully into his mouth, sucking and licking, and Jason thrusts into the cool wetness mindlessly, wanting more. A hand plays with his balls, and his back arches as he finally comes, sudden sharp pain in his thigh blending with the pleasure until he can't tell where pleasure ends and pain begins.
And when they finish, he looks at Iphicles, his crimson-stained mouth, the shadows haunting his brown eyes, and he knows this isn't a dream. But he doesn't care. He lies back on the bed, and Iphicles looks surprised when Jason pulls him down and wraps warm arms around his cool body, when Jason settles his head on his shoulder and drops off to sleep.
When he wakes, Jason is alone. He's weak, head pounding, stomach churning, and his mouth tastes like he ate a dead rat. And there are deep marks on his thigh, red scabs that radiate sharp pain when he touches them, a reminder of the previous night. He picks at them absently as he forces himself out of the bed, noting absently that someone took the time to tuck him in, secure against the cool evening air.
He hears the servants whispering about his paleness, his weakness, but he refuses to see any of the healers. And as darkness creeps across Corinth, he sits in his room, sipping a glass of water, and waits.
The moon is high in the sky when Jason notices that one corner of the room is darker than it should be. He watches as the darkness coalesces into a shape, as Iphicles is formed from the dark mist, and he wonders why he's just sitting there, why he doesn't do something. Maybe because Iphicles looks terrified, tormented eyes darting around the room, avoiding looking at him, shoulders hunched protectively like he's waiting for a blow.
He looks shocked when Jason kisses him, desperate hope lighting his face as he gently cups Jason's face in his hand before returning the kiss.
This time Jason takes the lead, touching and licking the perfect body spread before him on the bed as Iphicles murmurs broken apologies and endearments until Jason shuts him up with a kiss, deliberately nicking his tongue on a sharp tooth, letting Iphicles suck the blood from the tiny wound. He likes the idea that his blood is part of Iphicles now, that they are joined. But now, he wants another kind of joining, and he reaches for a bottle of oil he placed beside the bed earlier in the day. When he thrusts an oiled finger inside Iphicles he looks down, watches the passion on the open face below him, and feels the hole inside himself shrinking.
Iphicles spreads his legs, stroking himself as Jason continues to move his finger slowly inside him, a lazy smile playing across his full lips. The smile is replaced by a look of wonder and contentment as Jason smoothes oil over his own cock and pushes inside Iphicles slowly, feeling the tight coolness gripping him. When he's fully sheathed, he licks Iphicles' exposed neck, then experimentally bites at it before he begins thrusting, slowly and gently. Iphicles wraps his arms around the man above him, pulling him closer, as Jason increases the tempo. And when he feels that he's balanced on the precipice, Jason leans forward and whispers in Iphicles' ear.
"Do it."
Iphicles looks at him, doubtful, and waits until he sees conformation in Jason's eyes. Then he wraps his legs around his lover's back, opening himself completely. And as Jason's thrusts become more frantic, start losing their rhythm, Iphicles pulls him close, sinking teeth into his neck where it joins his shoulder, coming as his fangs break the skin, and Jason comes inside Iphicles, shuddering at the intensity of his orgasm.
Again, Jason pulls Iphicles into his arms, pushing auburn hair away from his face, kissing the high cheekbones, the full, bloodstained lips, brushing lips across his temple, and rests his head on Iphicles' chest. He feels Iphicles' cool hand on his back, pulling him closer, fingers stroking his hair, and he feels contented. Maybe even happy. And he wonders if he dares to try and make it last.
Two days later the mysterious illness claimed Jason. He refused to see any healers, refused to take any medicine, use any charms. Like Iphicles, he wasted away quietly, dying peacefully in his sleep. He was laid to rest in the crypt under the castle, near Iphicles and Rena.
That night, the Argo came loose from her moorings, floating away into the night. One old drunk insisted he saw two ghosts, formed from thin air, board her and raise the sail, embracing as they sailed off into the moonlight. But no one believed him.