War was in her blood. Leipephile woke knowing there would be war that day. For that reason, she dressed with care, exchanging her usual tunic for Amazon battle dress: leather bodice and shoulder guards, metal gauntlets, knee-high warrior boots. No armour, though, the weight always slowed her down. A curved dagger slid into one of her boots, a second she wore openly at her waist. She wished for a chakram, like Xena's, she didn't quite have Xena's level of skill but it was a useful weapon. No sword...the knives would have to do. Her staff was her first, and best weapon. With that gripped firmly in her hand, she was ready.
Leipephile marched out of the inn...straight into Hercules.
He offered a friendly smile as he stepped away from her, his eyes taking in not merely her appearance, but her obvious intention. "Well...should I surrender now?"
"Probably." Her voice held a challenge. "You can't stop me, Hercules."
The smile vanished from his face. "If anything happens to you, Xena will take it out of my hide. And your mother will never forgive me if I let you fight, untried, in a battle."
"My mother is not here."
"Your father is." She heard Iolaus' voice and turned, her face a picture of defiance, ready to argue with him, too. When she saw him she stopped, whatever she had been about to say forgotten.
Youth and strength. Iolaus had witnessed the powers of the gods many times in his life. Rarely, however, had he experienced their powers directly. He didn't have a mirror, didn't need one to know he looked different. He could feel it. Whatever else might happen that day, he would be forever grateful for this one last taste of youth... For many men it would have made the regrets worse. Iolaus took it as what it was, a gift of necessity, knowing he would never again long for the impossible.
He had forgotten, however, what an impact Hercules' "gift" would have on his daughter. The first person he saw that morning was Hercules: Leipephile had her back to him. Hercules took in his appearance without comment, although Iolaus could see his friend's feelings were somewhat ambivalent. Leipephile's eyes widened when she saw him. She seemed about to speak, but no sound came out.
Iolaus used her brief silence to take her to one side. "Leipephile, Herc's right. This is no street brawl, it's war. You can't imagine what it will be like."
She was still staring. "Dad...what happened?"
"Herc made a deal for me with the gods." Iolaus frowned. "Quit distracting me young lady - we're talking about you."
"I know all of mother's stories," Leipephile told him. "And I know that however bad I expect it to be, it's going to be worse. But, Dad, I'll be no safer behind city walls."
"You will. We're going to win." But his voice held no conviction.
She heard the doubt. "Dad, you can't expect me to hide away when there are people out there...you are going to be out there...risking injury, even dying. I can fight. I must."
Iolaus looked deep into his daughter's eyes. By the gods, he was proud of her. She had his warrior's heart. "Promise me, that if you're hurt, even just a little, you'll pull out. You can be just as useful helping the wounded, you know."
Triumph in her eyes. "I promise."
Elrion, prince of Mycenae, was overjoyed to greet them when they joined Mycenae's small army. Leipephile, beside Hercules, heard some man make a disparaging comment about women who think they can fight. She rounded on the speaker, a dagger in her hand.
Before Hercules could act - and he was about to - Elrion called out, insisting that the man apologise to her. He walked toward them and bowed slightly to Leipephile. "Welcome, Amazon," he said to her. "I hope you will forgive the insult. I believe we should shed the blood of our enemies, not that of each other."
He was treating her as an experienced warrior. Leipephile's annoyance melted under the gesture, and she sheathed her dagger firmly. She answered, thanking him formally.
Hercules nodded with approval. "Well said, Prince Elrion. Do we fight at your orders?"
"I'm glad you reconsidered, Hercules." The young man did look very relieved. "I'm in command, yes, but I'm no general."
"Don't admit that. I'm sure you'll be fine."
"May I offer you a sword? And your Amazon friend?"
Leipephile's eyes widened when she saw the blade he offered. She accepted it nervously...she knew how to use a sword, but definitely preferred her staff. Iolaus helped her to buckle the sword belt into place, reassuring her with a few quiet words as he did so.
Hercules, too, accepted the loan of a weapon from the prince.
Shortly afterwards, the gates of the city were opened, and there was war.
Elrion was the first person Leipephile saw die.
Barely minutes into the battle, Leipephile watched, helpless, too far away to aid him, as Elrion was attacked by a mounted warrior. Elrion's first thrust struck the warrior's horse and it reared in pain, almost unseating its rider. Elrion followed with a feint, which was blocked, and a second thrust, which wasn't. But as he thrust he left his side exposed, and the warrior he fought gutted him as he died.
There was no time for her to think or to grieve. There was death everywhere she looked, her own whirling staff dealing some of it.
The one thing she had been unprepared for was the noise. Horses screaming, warriors yelling, warcries filling the air. The clashing of weapons. A man came at her with an axe. She blocked his strike with her staff, and leapt toward him. Her feet hit his chest and he went down. She drew her sword and without hesitation, thrust down. Again. The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth. She screamed a warcry and went on fighting.
Leipephile could never have said how long she fought. It may have been minutes, it may have been days. Adrenaline wouldn't allow her to tire. She just kept going. Early in the battle, she tried to stay near her father and Hercules. That soon proved impossible. Leipephile allowed the tide of people to move her...there were no people, only comrades and enemies. One kind she protected, the other she killed. Time lost all meaning in the heat and blood and noise.
For a man who preferred not to kill, Hercules ended a lot of lives that day. From the beginning, he believed that they could not win. Whatever tricks the gods chose to play, it would be the numbers, in the end, that mattered. Hercules, worth at least a hundred men himself, sent as many of Ares' warriors to Tartarus as he could.
Blood stained his hands, his clothes, his face. None of it was his own.
Beside him, behind him, Iolaus fought as grimly as he, his swift-striking sword a deadly counterpoint to Hercules' brutal strength.
Hercules stayed close to Iolaus; it was second nature for the two men to protect each other. He fought his way through the melange of men and bodies, seeking the leaders of Ares' armies, killing where he could.
And at the back of Mycenae's army, Hercules sensed the strength and power of a goddess,. It was a subtle thing, that power, and new to him. To Hercules, Hera's power was most often like a hammerblow, or an axe. What he felt that day was, by comparison, a needle: a thing of art, not power, supporting them all and driving them on.
He fought by instinct. Despite the years, this came as naturally as walking.
Strike. Feint. Thrust. Kick. Block. Whirl. Kill. Duck. Strike.
When he and Leipephile were separated by the fighting, Iolaus knew a moment of pure fear. He allowed the fear to move him; it joined anger and will as his weapons. Then he put her out of his mind. He and Hercules. Back to back. All their lives they had fought this way...no one could stand against them. No one.
His whirling blade killed, and maimed, and killed again. They moved forward, two heroes whose names were already legend, slowly, inexorably into the lines of the opposing army.
And it seemed, impossibly, as if they might win.
The day was almost gone, the chariot of Helios low in the sky, and Iolaus saw the enemy begin to pull back. He heard the cheers of joy all around him. They thought they had won.
Iolaus, knowing as so many of them did not, that the gods were at work here, didn't think it was over, yet.
He waited, his sword still. Hercules was silent beside him. He allowed himself to hope. "Is it possible?" he asked Hercules. "Did we win?"
Then he heard a single voice raised in terror and despair. "By Hera's crown!"
Iolaus looked where a shaking hand pointed, up into the sky. Seconds passed before he realised what he was seeing. Then he turned to Hercules.
To see the demi-god begin to laugh.
"By Hera's crown!"
Hercules heard the same cry of despair that Iolaus heard. He looked, not into the sky but over his shoulder, to where, as he knew they would, the peacock eyes of Hera hovered above her city. Now he understood.
A dragon.
Hercules just couldn't stop the low chuckle that rose to his lips. After the heat and carnage of the battle, this was actually funny.
He had to hand it to Ares. It was an inspired idea: turning one of Hera's deadly pets against her. Where had he found that thing...Hades? Ares must have been so certain that Hercules would never agree to help Hera...this creature was his victory. Now Ares' overconfidence would defeat him.
Hercules looked around and met Iolaus' eyes. Amazingly, Leipephile was there beside them.
Someone said his name in hope and fear: "Hercules."
"I need a couple of spears. And a shield." Instantly he had both, as men around them fell back, giving him the space to manoeuvre. "Just like old times, my friend," Hercules said, his eyes now fixed on Ares' dragon, as it flew closer and closer to the city. "Are you ready for this, Iolaus?"
"Just like old times," Iolaus agreed tensely.
The dragon was virtually ignoring the people on the ground, flying straight for the city walls. That was no good: for Hercules to fight this thing, it had to attack him. Preferably on the ground.
Fire from the dragon's mouth cut a path through the army as the dragon got close. Hercules acted. He threw the first spear in a mighty cast, aiming for the dragon's wing, hoping to bring it down. The spear hit...and bounced off.
A second spear followed the first: the soft underbelly his target now. The dragon roared in pain, throwing more fire, as the spear hit home.
Success! The dragon turned away from the city, looking for its attacker. A third spear struck between its eyes, falling away having done little damage. But now the beast knew where Hercules stood.
Its beam of fire was tightly focussed this time, Hercules the prey. He crouched behind the shield, which buckled under the heat but did not break. As the fire-thrust ended, Hercules hurled the shield into the dragon's mouth. He avoided the next fire-thrust by rolling - just in time - out of the way.
In close to the dragon, now, he thrust upward with his last spear.
It pierced the scaly hide, but poorly. Hercules yanked the spear back. He couldn't afford to pull his punches with this thing.
"Iolaus! Can you distract it?" he yelled, not waiting for an answer, knowing his friend would try. An arrow whistled past his head: just like Iolaus to answer with action instead of words.
Hercules used the space Iolaus bought him to back off, and gathered his strength, using the spear to vault up onto the dragon's back. Landing on his feet, he fought to keep his balance as the dragon's wings rolled. Above the roaring of the dragon, he heard Leipephile's shrill warcry. So she was fighting with Iolaus.
Still struggling to keep his footing, Hercules advanced, forward of the wings now, the dragon's rough scales providing some purchase. There was a line of horns forming a crest from its head, all down its neck and merging into its back. He gripped the end of this crest, dragging his body up, straddling the creature's neck at the base.
Then he drew his sword from its sheath.
He hadn't used the sword in the battle: he didn't need it. It was a fine weapon, newly sharpened and bright, undamaged. Hercules spun the sword in his palm, got a grip with both hands, and thrust down with all his strength.
The dragon screeched.
He'd barely made a dent. Hercules reversed the sword, holding it like an axe, and tried again. Thrust down. The blade sliced through scale and flesh. And again.
The dragon tried to turn its head, but it couldn't throw fire at Hercules without burning itself.
Hercules kept striking, finding a rhythm...like hammering metal into shape in a smithy. Raise. Down. Raise. Down. Precise aim became more important than strength. He kept going. Until finally, he struck bone. He raised the sword one final time, putting all of the power for which he was so famous into that last blow. The dragon's final scream was cut short; its head falling to the ground with a satisfying thud.
For Hera.
A moment's silence. Then, over the cheers and jubilation of the Mycenae army, Hercules heard the voice of a goddess cry warning. He leapt down from the dragon's body, finding Iolaus and Leipephile waiting. He gathered them both in his arms and threw them to the ground, protecting his friends with his own body.
As the dragon's corpse exploded into white-hot flame. And was gone. Leaving only a wide swath of scorched earth where it had lain.
They picked themselves up off the ground.
"We did it, Herc!" Iolaus laughed exuberantly. He turned to see Hercules, his eyes shining with the relief of victory, a wide smile on his face, reaching for his hand. They each clasped the other's wrist, in friendship and congratulation. Leipephile, too, was laughing.
They did it. They had won.
They thought it was over. They were wrong.
It was only by chance that Iolaus saw the archer. Just a flicker of movement noticed out of the corner of his eye. They were standing on a battlefield, there were people all around. Yet that old hunters' instinct told Iolaus there was danger. He shouted warning: "Hercules!"
And Hercules turned, saw the arrow speeding toward him. As he had done so many times before, he reached up a hand to pluck the arrow from the air.
Into Iolaus' mind flashed a single image: a stag knowing it has reached the place where it will die, stops running and turns to the hunter, proud, magnificent, accepting. And Iolaus knew, an instant before it happened, that Hercules would miss.
Hercules' fist closed on empty air, the red-fletched arrow buried deep in his chest.
Hercules fell to his knees, driven down by pain and the force of the arrow's impact. He made no sound as he fell.
Iolaus was there, supporting his friend's body with his own. It would be alright, he was telling himself frantically. Hercules was the son of a god: he wouldn't - couldn't - die. But Hercules himself had never been sure of that.
And then he saw that his friend's eyes were closed. The demi-god's body was a dead weight in Iolaus' arms, the iron smell of blood filled the air. No...no...Iolaus' mind just kept repeating the words, over and over. No. Oh, dear gods, no.
"Herc?" Iolaus shook him, desperately. "Hercules, come on. Hold on."
Leipephile was there, kneeling beside them, her own face blood-spattered and white with shock. "Dad...I think it's too late."
He ignored her. "Hercules, don't die. Please don't die."
The noise of the battlefield was suddenly silent, as if someone had frozen time. Iolaus looked up. Nothing seemed to have changed...there was just this silence, like a curtain cutting them off from everything else. He turned his attention back to Hercules.
"Let me try," a new voice said. An old man knelt beside him and Iolaus looked up again, into the eyes of the king of the gods.
Hercules' father.
Zeus placed a hand on his son's bloody chest. Iolaus watched, wild hope suddenly flaring in his heart. The arrow looked to be just below the heart...the wound might not be mortal.
Whatever Zeus was doing had some effect.
Hercules drew a single, painful breath. He opened his eyes. He saw his father there. "She...finally did it, father." His voice was hardly more than a whisper.
The old god shook his head slightly. "This is Ares' work," he said quietly.
"Herc," Iolaus said desperately, "you're not going to die. We can heal that - "
Hercules raised pain-filled eyes to his, cutting off Iolaus' words mid-sentence. "No point, my friend," he said roughly, each breath an effort. "I can feel...poison...the arrow..."
Iolaus had to force himself to look again at the arrow. Hercules was right: the shaft was dark-stained and slick. In his mind he cursed Ares with every foul curse he knew.
But it seemed all hope was not gone.
"Son, there is a way." Zeus spoke quietly, his eyes never leaving those of his son. The god raised a hand, and in it appeared a golden cup. Iolaus watched, his heart beating much too fast, as Zeus offered that cup to his son.
Hercules, moving with obvious difficulty, slowly pushed the cup away. Iolaus looked on, disbelieving, until Hercules' next forced words made it clear to him. "Are you offering healing? Or immortality?"
"I'm offering the only cure I know," Zeus told him, his own eyes shining with tears.
But it wouldn't matter. Iolaus knew, better than any man alive, the love that existed between Zeus and his son. Love and need, betrayal and aching regret...years and years of it. It wouldn't be enough. It was over.
"No," Hercules whispered. And then, more strongly, he repeated, "No, father. The only thing I've lived for..." He broke off, his face contorted in a sudden wave of pain.
He raised his eyes to meet Iolaus' gaze one more time. There was no need for words between them. Iolaus, his heart breaking, read Hercules' farewell in that look.
"Please, son," Zeus begged.
Hercules was becoming weaker with every moment. "Past time," he said, each word a separate breath. "If...you love me...let me..."
He never finished.
Iolaus wept. What else was there to do? What purpose everything they had done this day if it ended like this? Hercules wasn't supposed to die. They had lived with death all their lives, courted it, cheated it, like a beautiful, capricious lover. They had both known their lives could end at any time...a sword... an arrow...a thunderbolt. But not this way. A cowardly poisoned arrow on a battlefield Hercules should never have seen.
Iolaus felt a warm hand on his shoulder and turned to meet his daughter's gaze. Leipephile's eyes were full of tears. Iolaus placed his hand over hers, offering what comfort he could. Then he turned back and met the steady gaze of Zeus.
"You tried to make him immortal." Iolaus spoke flatly: it was neither a question, nor an accusation, merely a statement of fact.
"I did."
"Why?"
And, totally unexpectedly, the old god answered. "Because he is needed, more now than ever before. The gods are dying, Iolaus. This world we created...no longer needs us, and I can no longer hold Olympus together." He looked down at the face of his son. "Hercules' heart. That was the only thing left that could have saved us. Now it is too late." The old man stood up slowly, looking every one of his thousands of years old. The light and vitality was gone from him.
Iolaus understood only part of it. He understood that Zeus loved his son enough to let him die, and because of that, Zeus believed he had sacrificed...what? His crown? His immortality? His life?
Hercules' heart... Iolaus knew that heart so well. He was speechless, his own grief choking him, as he watched Zeus turn away. From somewhere, he found the right words, found the strength to speak them:
"Hercules...he believed his sister shared some of his heart."
"Hebe?" Zeus looked back briefly. Blue eyes, so like those of Hercules, met Iolaus' steady gaze. "Well, maybe he's right. Maybe she does."
The next moment Zeus was gone: no flash of light, no fading out. He was simply gone. So was the body of his son.
Iolaus kept the secret.
In those first hours, he could not have said why. He simply knew, without knowing how he knew, that it was essential the secret be kept. That that this was one death that had to be concealed. And for as long as possible.
So no one, except himself and Leipephile, knew what had happened to Hercules. Eventually, through his own heartbreaking grief, Iolaus managed to think clearly enough to reason it out. Hercules had won Hera's war for them: his name would become the symbol of Ares' defeat. Mycenae had lost too many men that day. The people needed their symbol.
And there was another, more important reason.
Iolaus kept Hercules' promise for him: he found Ganeda after the battle and made sure she returned safely to Corinth. He and Leipephile made a poor escort for a princess, but their journey was remarkably uneventful...Leipephile was heard to remark, later, that the gods must have been watching over them.
Everywhere they passed on that journey, Iolaus asked for news of Xena. She was a hard woman to track down, but Iolaus had to try. Xena shouldn't hear this news from anyone else.
He shuddered to think of her reaction.
Eventually, Iolaus was forced to settle for leaving messages. In Amphipolis, and in every major city he could think of. Each message was the same, telling Xena to find Iolaus, urgently.
He knew the message would worry her. He hoped that would get her there faster.
Finally, he was able to return home. Only with Gabrielle could he give in to grief. In the arms of the only person who would understand him completely, he found words for sorrow and for anger. To Gabrielle he told the entire story.
"…It seems like such a waste, Gabrielle. It doesn't matter how many lives he saved. Hercules betrayed everything he was for that battle."
Gabrielle's eyes were luminous in the candlelight of their bedroom. "I think you're wrong, Iolaus. I'm sorry – I know you knew him better than I – but surely he fulfilled what he was, he didn't betray it. To walk away from all those people…that would have been the betrayal."
Iolaus looked away. "You weren't there."
"That's true. Iolaus, if Hercules, after everything Hera has done to him, could let go of his hate long enough to help her…can't you?"
That endless cycle of pain and hatred…Hercules beat it in himself last night. He… turned away from his perfect chance at revenge, for the greater good… Because of that, maybe, we have a chance now, a chance to end that cycle.
She was right, again. Iolaus held Gabrielle in his arms, his love for her overflowing. Thanks to her wisdom, her understanding, he would survive this.
Iolaus was glad he had told Gabrielle the whole truth. She would know how to share it.
Gabrielle held her audience spellbound. She didn't merely tell a story...she drew on her own past to bring the things she spoke of to life, from the deep friendship that was the beginning and the ending of the tale, to the horrors of war.
When she spoke of Hercules, he was not some distant, legendary hero, he was a man she knew, and loved. Through her words, her audience knew him, too: warm and loving, compassionate and strong.
Within her tale she wove threads of the many deeds of Hercules, slowly building up a picture of the man. She wanted them to know what had been lost.
She sang of Hercules...
Gabrielle sang the journey to Mycenae: a last pilgrimage for his mortal brother...she sang the hero's confrontation with the goddess who had been his bitterest enemy...his hatred overcome by his great heart...the battle... She sang of Ares' dragon, and Hercules risking his own life to defeat it...she sang the victory...and she sang the poisoned arrow of Ares' vengeance.
Gabrielle's blue eyes were shining with unshed tears as she reached the shocking climax of her tale. She knew she was offering a revelation: When she began, only she and Iolaus knew that Hercules was dead.
Her audience murmured: Gabrielle allowed them a space to absorb the news before she concluded.
"And thus passed from this world, Hercules, greatest of heroes. This world will never see his like again."
The telling had exhausted her. Lifting her eyes finally, Gabrielle saw a familiar silhouette in the tavern doorway. As she stared in silent shock, Xena turned and walked out of the tavern. Gabrielle caught her breath.
It seemed the story was not yet at an end.
Ares.
Time and again in her life it had come down to him. The darkly handsome, seductive God of War. When her home village was threatened he had given her strength...and then used her grief when Lyceus was killed to twist her heart and sword to his service. What a monster he had made in her! What an exquisite weapon.
Hercules had saved her.
She still had that monster, though, deep inside.
Ares murdered Hercules.
Not in battle, but in petty, cowardly revenge. He would pay for that, even though it cost her life.
The monster Ares created would be his undoing.
Xena rode seeking Ares. She rode for Justice. Beneath her, the steady rhythm of the horse's hooves was a heartbeat. A heart beating in grief and rage. A heart that would not be stilled.
Xena.