This story is a prequel to WANTS AND NEEDS by amorette.  That story was written as part of the KSAres sex-act drawing challenge that had a word limit.  This story is my attempt to explain how the two main characters (Hercules and Ares) got in such an unlikely situation.  Read hers first even though mine is a prequel – hers is better.

 

 

SIMILAR WOUNDS

 

Something had been amiss for well over a year – not just with Hercules and me; but with the universe in general.  I didn’t ask; he didn’t tell.  We just moved on with our lives as well as we could.  He had adjusted when I was dead . . . and possessed . . . so I learned to adjust to his silence and moodiness.   I didn’t love him any less, so our relationship will survive. It’s just a little harder to get up in the mornings.

 

The universe’s survival was a totally different issue.  It seemed to rain a lot more, not the quick thunderstorm but soaking all day rains that either delayed your travels because you didn’t want to leave the fire in the cave or soaked your clothes to the skin and chilled your being to the core.  Fights seemed more unpredictable breaking out for no reason and resulting in more scrapes, cuts and bruises – the general range of battle injuries that seemed to take longer to heal.  We’d travel for days to a village and find the person we were going to see had decided to pick that week for a vacation or had his wife’s family visiting.  We still trudged along as buddies, but the world is not the same.

 

Reports coming from the edges of Greece were strange and almost undecipherable.   One report of an uprising in Macedonia had troops on both sides turning on their own men ignoring their enemies.   Another battle lasted for five days with no breaks to eat or rest. The men slashed at each other relentlessly refusing to die until the both sides were just piles of body pieces.  Temple wars between priests loyal to Haephestus, Athena, Artemis, and of course Ares were becoming commonplace.  All in all Greece seemed in the same state as the weather – unsettled.

 

Herc would just shrug his shoulders when he heard these stories and mutter under his breath.  He had never filled me on about what had happened on that trip to see Xena, other than the fact that she had given birth to a daughter named Eve.  There was a part of me that had wished I had gone with him, but another part that was glad I did not have to relive the memories that obviously still haunted my best friend.

 

*  *  *  

Cupid’s Temple

 

An acolyte reported that there was a body draped across the altar at one of my minor temples.  He wasn’t dead – just dead drunk.  Probably willing to end his life some young man or woman who did not welcome his advances or had left him for someone else.  Humans just do not know when to move on.

 

I have enough of my mother in me to still want to care.  She always had a soft spot for someone who goes that far for love. I’d watched her for years when humans had ended up at her temples in this state or worse.  She would clean them up, nurture them with fruit nectars and hold their hand until they were ready to face the world again.  I’d instructed my temple staff to always personally inform me of such supplicants.  It was the least that the God of Love could do.

 

Still, I have enough of my father in me to not suffer such fools lightly.   A man should learn that while love is a wonderful emotion, it is not worth making a total ass of one’s self over.  Getting drunk to forget only works if the hangover is bad enough.  Then you just remember the hangover.  Personally, I’d take memories of a bad love affair over headaches and vomit any day.  I don’t let them go without a little lecture and a promise not to do it again.

 

I move the man’s matted black hair from his neck and grab him by the collar of his vest, tugging to get him to sit.   His muscular arms should support his body, but they collapse under his weight smashing his face back into the pink marble of the altar stone.  That has to hurt, regardless of how much you have had to drink. 

 

If he is not going to sit up on his own, I at least should roll him over.  Wipe off his face and maybe get him to drink a little water.     I lift his shoulder and roll him over only to recognize the face, with its closed eyes, unshaved face, and battered nose, as that of my father, Ares, god of war.

 

This is going to take the hard stuff.  Ambrosia maybe.  I wonder what has gotten my father into such a state and, if it were that bad, how he would react to the world when he was sober.  Anything that causes a god to get that drunk has to be pretty horrific.  I cannot imagine what has happened.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“I was thinking, Herc.  I might take a little side-trip over to Cupid’s temple.  While we’re in the neighborhood and all.”

 

He has very little reaction.

 

“Maybe Aphrodite will be there.  I could use a little goddess action, if you know what I mean.”

 

Herc realizes that I’ve always had soft spot for Cupid’s mother.  I’ve always been popular with women, probably because I get my pleasure from giving them pleasure.  Learned that from Dite.  She was as good a teacher in the art making love to a of women as Ares was in teaching me how . . .  I try not to think about that.  Hercules would never understand that I learned my best moves to use on a man from his brother.  I let him believe I learned them from nameless, faceless partners when I was a whore on the street. 

 

I certainly do not let on that I am going to talk to Cupid about him.  The problems we have been having are not something I could discuss with Dite or most anyone else for that matter.  Not even Jason, who had been our best friend since childhood, could understand the changes that had occurred in Herc since he had returned.  Still, Cupid might have some idea of what I could do, or at least what had happened.

 

*  *  *

Cupid’s temple

 

It was better when he was sleeping.  Awake he combines meaningless babble with his retching.  I cannot contemplate how much wine he had had to consume to get him in such a state.  Perhaps it was laced with opium or henbane. 

 

“Ocean . . .  cliffs . . . baby  . . . blonde  . . . sword  . .  poison . . . Mt. Etna . . . ice.”

 

Over and over.  No verbs, no adjectives, just disjointed strings of nouns.  Periodically, usually just before he would let go with a spew of vomit, he would cry out “Xena”. 

 

The ambrosia seemed to do little good. He couldn’t keep it down. It was as if he were fighting the restoration of his godhood to the level where he would be able to heal himself.  I stay with him a while, and finally decided to let him fend for himself. 

 

I have other things I can do.  When I am at a temple, the least I can do is inventory the offerings and see what I can do for those who left requests.  I take my godhood seriously.

 

*  *   *   *

 

Later that day, still at the temple

 

I am quite surprised to see Iolaus in my temple.  It has been a long time.  I have heard about him coming back from his stint as guardian of the light but haven’t had time to meet with him for a debriefing.   It is always in a god’s best interest to keep track of what is going on in other aspects of the afterlife.  If this Michael guy has too much going for him then maybe I need to talk to Hades about making some improvements in the Elysian Fields.  It is the least I can do. 

 

I swoop down silently, cup his cute little ass in my hands, and plant a kiss on the back of his neck. 

He spins around and smiles – but I realize it is forced.  It is not just a casual visit.  Iolaus has a problem.

 

I can’t take him to my private chambers, Ares is still in there withdrawing from the wine and god knows what else.  I indicate that we can move to an alcove, sit on a bench and talk quietly.  We pretend to engage in small talk, man-to-man chat.  I know he is holding back and wonder if he can read my concern about Ares.  Can a mortal read the hidden emotions of a God?  If anyone could, it would be Iolaus?  So much for information about afterlives, it’s real life we have to discuss today.

 

“How’s your sex life?”  Seems like a fitting question for the God of Love to ask.

 

“About the same.  Girl in every town.  They all want me to settle down. I’ve been lucky.  No pregnant girls crying their eyes out.  No fathers with large swords.  No babies to support.”

 

“My techniques work, then.”

 

“Damn, Cupid.  Camel dung.  I thought the cow’s intestines with a knot on the end were bad enough.  Do you know how stupid that makes you look?  Women like that knot though . . . “

I relish that twinkle in his eye and wonder if I should give it a try sometime.

 

“So mostly I rely on Herc’s suggestion that I beat-off a lot and . . . “ he drops his head slightly, “I stick with married women.”

 

“That’ll work.”  I reassure him with a smile.  Usually a good fifty-percent of my visits from men are about getting some women, who they wanted to fuck but not necessarily marry, pregnant.  Iolaus had been one of my best pupils.  He listened when I told him about ways to avoid pregnancy and actually used them.  Why was my star so glum?  “So to what do I owe this visit, Iolaus?”

 

“It’s Hercules.”

 

*  *  *  *

 

The stillness is broken be a bellicose call.  “Cupid.  Get our ass in here.”  I rise and try to get Iolaus to stay while I take care of business.  He wants no part of it.  He is there to help me, whether I need or want it. 

 

Ares had tried to get up, but his pants had fallen around his knees.  When he tried to walk, he fell again.  He is a sorry excuse for a man, let alone a god.  He was expecting me; he wasn’t expecting Iolaus.  His presence is enough to make Ares try to get it together.

 

“Has he got any clean clothes here?” Iolaus asks.

 

I shake my head.

 

“Maybe a priest’s robe, at least a clean breechclout?”

 

I scramble to find something.  Iolaus has sat Ares on a bench and is gently washing and drying him. 

 

“I had a son, remember?  I was best when it came to dry pants and boo-boo’s.” 

 

It was a side of Iolaus that most people didn’t remember.  I wonder if he has been forced to use similar techniques on Hercules. 

 

Ares seems to have responded to Iolaus’s ministrations and resorts to mumbling again.

 

“Burned  . . . fell. . . drank  . . . died . . . carried . . . buried . . .cry. . .”  For Iolaus it is only verbs.

 

*  *

 

With Ares clean and sleeping soundly, Iolaus and I had time to talk.  He told me his problem, we speculated about Ares’s, and I proposed a solution that I hadn’t ever tried but had heard might work.

 

“Only you, Cupid, would come up with an idea like this.  Still it makes sense, in a twisted demented sort of way.”  Iolaus says with a slight hint of doubt in his voice.

 

“I am the God of Love.”

 

“Yea, but . . . this plan is a little . . . out there?”

 

“Hercules told me, back when you were dead . . .  sorry, “ He glares at me with his bright blue eyes but I continue . . . “that the druids in Eire told him that similar wounds leave similar scars, and what cures one wound cures another.  I think that right now Ares and Hercules have similar wounds.  It makes sense to try to cure them both together.”

 

“But this plan.  I can’t believe it will work.”

 

“I don’t care what you believe.  It’s them we have to convince.  Pain and pleasure.  We have to convince them that the agony of the act will relieve . . .

 

“Spare me the details, Cupid.  I heard you the first time.  One of them confines the other one, beats them up, fucks them stupid and they both feel better the next day.  Sounds like something Ares would dream up, except that from what I saw earlier, he his dreams wouldn’t be that coherent. . . and.  .

 

”And what?”

 

“He’d be hard pressed to get it up.”  I laugh.  I always laugh at Iolaus.

 

“Actually it is from an Eastern religion.  I can’t say that I’ve ever seen it work, but I’ve heard stories.  I’ve worked with Haephestus and he’s actually designed and built the paraphernalia we’re going to need.  I helped.  Step-father step-son bonding, you know.”

 

“I guess it’s worth a try.  Problem is Herc will never let Ares touch him, let alone beat him.”

 

“It’s not Hercules who will be restrained, it’s Ares.  Hercules is the one who needs to expel his anger.  Ares needs to submit to the pain and feel the pleasure.  He thinks nothing can hurt more than he hurts now, and we have to get Hercules to show him otherwise.”

 

“Yea, but  . . . I can’t see the big guy going at his brother with a whip.  Not his style at all.”

 

“That your job, Iolaus, to convince him.  I’ll take care of Ares, but in his state I think it will be a lot easier.”

 

*  *  *

 

This is going to be the most difficult thing I have done in a long time.  Even before I tell Hercules what Cupid has suggested that he do to his brother, a suggestion that I am certain he would find vile and disgusting with anyone, let alone Ares, I have to convince him that he is the only one that can help.  That alone will be a stretch for Hercules.  I am fairly certain that Ares was involved when Hercules went to visit Xena that last time.  Ares was always around Xena, sniffing like a cur around a bitch in heat.  I’d wished I’d gotten those facts straight from Cupid, it would have made this a little easier.  I’d have a better grasp on their relationship.

 

When I stop by the inn for a quick mug of ale for fortification before returning home to begin the negotiations, I am surprised to find that Hercules is there.  His large hands are wrapped around a mug of ale.  He is drunk.  Not drunk like Ares was drunk.  Hercules never lets himself go like that.  Actually it is hard to tell what is the effect of the alcohol and what comes from the general morass he has lived in for the past year and a half.

 

He looks up at me, still able to recognize and acknowledge my presence, and says softly.  “Xena is dead . . . so is her baby . . . and Gabrielle.   The fucking gods have won.  We weren’t there to stop them.”

 

Yeh?  I just spent a day with a couple of gods and they didn’t seem to be celebrating any victory.  I think back to Ares word vomit and realize that he must have been describing Xena’s death.  Maybe this will make it a little easier.  Hercules was fond of Xena; he would understand Ares’s pain.  I get him to his feet and lead him back to our house for some private conversation.

 

*  *  *  *

 

“I don’t get it, Iolaus.  Not completely,” Hercules has been listening quietly to everything I have said without comment.

 

I want to tell him that I am surprised that he even began to understand it.  I expected him to deck me when I asked him to help with Ares.  I guess I did a pretty good job of tying an unbalanced God of War with the state of things in the world today.  The death of Xena would have been enough to set Ares off and the rest was just fall out.

 

“I’ve spent my whole life fighting against this kind of treatment of slaves and prisoners.  Now you are asking me to do it with . . . my own brother?”

 

I had not expected that line of reasoning.  Missed it completely with my discussions with Cupid.  I would be on my own to explain it to him.

 

“It’s not that you want to punish him.  It’s symbolic.”

 

“That’s what every prison guard says as he sadistically beats on his victim.  It’s a symbolic showing of his power over criminals.  Except . . .”

 

“That’s not what I meant, Herc.  I mean it’s . . .”  I bite my tongue and realize that I was about to say “sexual. “ This is the last argument that would work with Hercules.  He fights his sexuality with all his strength.  It is as if the most wonderful and enjoyable of all human activities cuts him to his very core.  It is only because he so loved a few women in his life, and fortunately me, that he is still not a virgin.  

 

“It’s kind of like a drama, Herc.  Think of yourself as playing a role.  You have to be convincing though, make Ares think that you want to hurt him.”

 

“All the times that I’ve wanted to hurt him, wanted to kill him for that matter, and now I have to play that I want to hurt him, so that he can heal.  Is that right?”

 

“Getting there, Herc.”

 

He sat silently supporting his head in his fists for a few minutes.

 

“Tell me about the whips again.”

 

“This one is for noise.  It cracks when you flick it.  Just make sure you stand back far enough and the sound alone will do the job.  You never have to touch him with it.” 

 

I put the single strand whip down and take up the nine-stranded one.  “This one really doesn’t hurt.  You can hit him really hard but the strands are soft.  It is more visual, except of course he will be blindfolded.  He’ll have to rely on the quiet swish and the soft touch.  Now, this one with the metal hooks will hurt.  It will draw blood on a human, but Ares can take it.”

 

“OK, but the sex stuff.  Why that?”

 

“I’ll bet you’ll know when you try it, Hercules.  It’s not just physical pain, it’s emotional pain, too.”

 

“But isn’t that rape?”

 

I shake my head, even though technically he may be right.  “Just do it, Herc, it will work, I’m sure.”

I am so not sure, but if this doesn’t work, I have no idea what to try.  I want him back.  I want Ares back and not just for more predictable battles.  I want the universe back inline. 

 

“I’ll try, Iolaus.  I just have one question.  How do you know so much about whips?”

 

“Nebula.”  I smile.  “Pirate games.”  I lean over and kiss him softly.  I know he’ll give it all he has.  He is Hercules.  I just hope the theory about healing similar hurts is correct.

 

McJude

August 10, 2003