This story started as a game a group of us were playing in a chat room one afternoon. An educational game for children produced by the BBC. Suddenly the idea for a story came to my mind, and the rest is a many months of work.  I had originally planned to make it part of a much larger story, but because the later parts seem to have stagnated over the summer, I have decided to call this part complete as it stands.  What will become of the rest of the story, I do not know for sure, but . . .  

It might help if you read HERCULES IN ATHENS which has the same back story as this one and will fill you in on some of the details which may have led Iolaus to make the choices he did when he was shipwrecked in Scotland.  

This story contains M/M sex and is set in a monastery.  It is also considerably more violent than most of my stories.   If you are offended by slash, violence or religion it is probably not the story for you.   

A furore Normanorum libera nos

Lindisfarne Monastery -- off the coast of Northumberland, 792 A.D.

If he expected to stay in the monastery through the winter, each Saturday night Brother Eoseph had no choice but to participate in the pointless and humiliating ritual known as confession. Very little could be said for enumerating your weekly transgressions to an unknown superior, but at least it got him out of his cold and dark room. Furthermore it gave him a chance to express himself, use his voice, in the land of the silent -- even if it was to tell someone who he didn't know about the rules he had broken, usually only because he had no desire to obey.

"I ask forgiveness for I have sinned." He repeated the words he had heard others say.

"You have?" He thought he heard a deep sigh and what sounded like a chortle. His mind was playing tricks on him again as it always did when it was confined in this small place with no light and even less space to breathe. He'd begin to imagine things. "Tell me of your sins, brother."

"Why? Doesn't your god know already what I have done? Doesn't he see everything? Know everything?  Even my petty sins?" There was so much more he wanted to add -- a tirade of unanswerable questions and unspeakable answers.

"He likes to have you reflect on them, brother, review your life for yourself as much as for him." The voice added softly.

Eoseph didn't want to talk about his impure thoughts or disobedience to the superiors, so he talked about food.

"When I was eating my mashed potatoes and turnips this week, I longed to eat rabbit and boar. Is that a sin? I'm used to eating more substantial food. More meat."

"Do you think it's a sin, Brother?"

"Hell, no." He thought for a second. "Is that a profanity? "Hell" is not the name of your god, is it?" He sat and contemplated what more he should tell. Even though he was taking refuge in the monastery, he could not bring himself to subscribe to the tenants of its religion. He was just staying there until spring, when he would move on. He knew that to travel in the dark and cold of winter, especially by sea, would be tempting whatever gods might actually lived out there, or at least the elements of nature which he was sure were present. He might end up in yet another land where he had no desire to be and that much further from continuing the journey from which he had strayed so long.

"If you don't want to confess, you can just talk. I sense that you have something to say -- a story to tell. What you tell me stays here, brother, it is between you, me and god."

"Yes, I want to talk. I feel uncomfortable with silence of this place. I'll talk to you, not to obtain judgement from you or your god, but just to talk to someone."

"I'm good at listening, please continue."

Eoseph was unsure how much he should reveal and decided to exercise discretion. The decision to winter over at the monastery had not come easily. Previous winters had been spent in a stone house tucked into the side of a hill eating hunted animals and a small harvest of potatoes and grain. The rest of the provisions he obtained by trading with villagers in exchange for excess game or an occasional manual labor. The village where he had lived seemed far away from the monastery, both in distance and philosophy. He wondered if he should tell that story to the priest, but instead only told of his lack of preparation for the winter that was soon to be upon them. He remembered a story he heard as a child about the grasshopper and the ants and felt even more ashamed. Perhaps he HAD sinned this summer . . . but the sin wasn't sloth.

* * * * *

Daibhidh had spent the summer dying. From the time he realized that the cough he had heard during the night all winter had not vanished with the spring sun, Ewan knew what was going to happen. Just another person he loved crossing over to the other side. He wanted to tell Daib that everything was going to be all right; he had been dead and it wasn't that bad. Still despite everything the two of them had shared, Ewan had never told those stories. Instead the two old men had spent the spring like youths in their teens chasing after village girls and wild game with equal abandon.

As spring turned to summer they had set out for the coast, a journey back to the place where they had met so long ago. Daibhidh believed that there was something wonderful in the sea that had brought them together. Ewan was never sure if whether Daib had looked to the sea to heal him or to consume what was left of his ragged body. They traveled for several weeks, first on foot and then as his friend grew weaker in a cart drawn by a small pony. They had spent the last of their money on that rig, and yet when the journey was almost finished, Daibhidh had insisted that they sell it and spend diminished remains of their money on food and ale in an inn. Ewan tried to frame the memories of that night, as Daib had wanted it, a night of celebration, and not the beginning of the end of this terrible journey.

The heavy-set man with wispy red hair had been his companion and lover -- yes he was not ashamed to admit that -- for many years. He liked them big and tall. He liked them tough. He liked them funny. Daibhidh had been all that. He had learned to live with the Celt's lack of fondness for bathing and breath that smelled like wild onions. It felt so good to have someone to love, but now Daib was dying, like so many of his lovers had died.
He had managed to help the big man up a steep rocky path to a cave overlooking the sea. Ewan was half his size, but he would have carried him if necessary. A fire of driftwood and kelp did little to break the cold of the dampness that cut through their wet clothing. Most of the heat seemed to be coming from the body of his friend. Still he held him closely and tried to pretend that it was to share his warmth.

"I'm so cold, Ewan, so very cold."

"Just give the fire time to dry your clothes. If you want I can take them off and hang them by the fire, they'll dry faster that way." He knew whether or not his friend was clothed made little difference now.

"Take yours off, too. OK?"

"See, you're not dying. Would a dying man lust?"

"It's not lust, Ewan. I just want to remember you. Remember us. How long has it been now?"

"It's been a long time. A long time Daib." He untied the larger man's shirt and pulled it over his head. That would dry quickly, and maybe give him some unneeded, but wanted warmth.

"Take yours off and your pants. I want to see you naked."

He had been naked, except for the seaweed that clung to him, that day he was washed from the sea. The group of warriors that found him had not laughed at his blonde hair, but seemed almost afraid as they searched the horizon for his ship. They were not going to find it. It has been crushed on the rocks, while its crew, who seemed more concerned with saving the treasure they carried than their souls, sank below the water like stones. He alone had made it to shore.

He was relegated to a small pen with only a blanket to cover his nakedness. He had heard of the Celts and what they did with slaves. What they did with each other, actually. Though these tales had struck fear in his shipmates, they didn't bother him as much. He had had male lovers; they brought him no shame. He would learn to enjoy their rough sex, as long as they didn't beat him too much.

Daibhidh was just one of the men who had used him in that pen over the next few weeks. He had learned not to notice the lack of personal hygiene and use of adequate lubrication by these men. Daibhidh was younger and even less skilled. Tentative in his sexual actions yet totally fascinated with the much smaller, blonde-haired man. In the years that followed, after he had learned the language, he had discovered that the chieftain's son had taken him as part of a manhood initiation. Thus on his first time alone with a man, Daibhidh had discovered things that the other warriors had not known. The slave had turned to school the master. The small man had taught the large boy. What happened between them was unexpected; they had fallen in love.
For years Daib had insisted that Ewan had come from the Islands of the Blessed, a place across the ocean where it was always sunny and springtime.  Compared to the land where they lived, Greece had been like that.  For the first time in centuries he missed his homeland, but enjoyed the life he eventually built for himself with this man.

They traveled throughout the land, helped people, fought and loved women and each other. Ewan had learned to talk like them, dress like them, worship like them, and now it was ending again. It was a problem of being immortal. He knew his search would begin again --a search that had been interrupted by an evil sea almost thirty years before.

"See," he said, standing in the light of the fire over which the shirt hung from a stick, "you still make me hard. I still want you." He feigned laughter and passion.

"Come over, I'll take you with my mouth."

"No, Daib, let me dry off your clothes and get you warmed up."

"You're warmer than those clothes will ever be. Come over and hold me."

He sat on the ground and held his friend's head in his lap. This was not the time for sex, yet his erection did not go away. Daibhidh used all his strength to reach for his penis with his mouth and softly held him. He held the big man, stroking his hair and shoulders, talking softly and learning what a mother feels when a child dies at her breast.

* * * * *

Eoseph, the name Ewan had taken when he entered the monastery, revealed none of this in the confessional. Instead he made up stories about his summer's activities that combined with gluttony and excess alcohol consumption. He wondered if the man on the other side of the partition knew his true story. He could not imagine that the priests did not share stories of those who came to live with them, especially someone whose past had been as colorful as his had been. It seemed unlikely that these foreign clerics had not studied the ways of the local Celts. A Celtic warrior taking refuge in a monastery was a pretty good story, even without further embellishment.

The voice showed no sign of judgment and commented favorably about the work Eoseph had done on the harvest. He assigned no penance, and said they would have to talk again.

"My name is Father Timothy. Ask for me again."

"Ask? How can I ask? I've taken a vow of silence, except in mass and the confessional."

"Sorry, I forgot. We'll talk again, Eoseph. I may call you that?"

He nodded wordlessly and wondered if the priest could hear.

Even after Eoseph left the confessional and proceeded to his room after his weekly bath, he ran the soft voice ran through his mind. He was convinced he knew the owner although he was not able to connect it with a face or a body.

*  *  *
Norway

"This is your chance, Ketil."  His father stared at him with cold green eyes.  "A challenge has been issued to all Vikings to raid the Monastery at Lindisfarne and bring its treasures back for the glory of the Northland.   "Be the first my son, and you will have everything you've very wanted."

"Everything you've ever wanted.  I do not want to rape, pillage and plunder.  I have no use for slaves and treasure.   There are things for me to do in the village, people to help, things to build, plans for the future to be made."

"Games to be played.  Do you think you will become a leader because you are the best at playing your pretend games?  I don't know how I ended up with you for a son.  The gods must have cursed me."

"I find the sea frightening.  Who knows what monsters lurk there?  I do not wish to cross the sea to search for treasures for a king who is afraid to go himself."

"After six daughters, I prayed to Thor for a son.  I should have kept those prayers.  What I got in exchange was not worth the words."

"I'm sorry, father."

"Sorry.   I've given you everything.  I should have laid you out on the snow for the gods for a sacrifice or thrown you in the bog.  What did I do to deserve a son who disgraces the very Viking blood that flows in my veins?"  He put his hands on his son's shoulders and looked at him knowingly,  "If you can't do this for me, do it for the gods.   Do it for the honor of Thor. . . or Oden. . .  or Tyr."

"The gods do little but meddle in our lives.  Why should I risk mine to honor them?"

Dufthakr walked away disgusted.   "You will go with the spring, Ketil.   I've already had workers started on your ship.  The carpenters will be done in three or four months.   The sail makers are at their looms weaving large sails to scoop up the wind and take you to Lindisfarne.   All we need is a crew, which I am sure you can find in the nearby villages.   The treasure will be yours.  I know we are ahead of other families.   You need warriors, oarsmen and maybe a Navigator, too."

Ketil had no interest in facing the raging ocean, no interest in fighting men who were only living to serve their god and no interest in real or imagined treasure. Yet he was intelligent enough to realize that if he were to take the monastery at Lindisfarne, the one thing he would need on his ship was a berserker.  He needed a man who would kill on command, for the love of killing, and would not stop to realize that he was killing holy men for their temporal treasures.

PART TWO

"I ask forgiveness for I have sinned."

"You really believe that, Eoseph?"
 
"Nope. And I don't believe you can grant forgiveness to me either." He paused, realizing that by immediately revealing that he knew his name the confessor had identified himself as Father Timothy. He bit his lip and thought about the stories that had crossed his mind during the course of the week. Things that he wanted to reveal but not confess.

"I've worked hard this week. All of the crops have been harvested, the apples have all been picked, and even the nuts have been gathered. All that is left to do is to prepare the land to winter over for next year's planting. I've always liked this time of year.

"Honestly, father, I miss the harvest festivals. We had such harvest festivals in the village where I lived. I miss the smell of apples being cooked into butter, I miss the taste and warmth of blackberry and heather wine, and I miss the young girls dancing in the firelight."

"Dancing girls? YOU miss the dancing girls?"

"Why not?"

"I thought . . . "

"Just because I had adopted the role of the Celtic warrior does not mean that I don't like woman. I love women. Sometimes Daib and I would share. When we found a woman who was willing to do both of us. She would take him in her mouth while I would give her my seed. Women who do that are most delightful." The words fell out of his mouth. He was not sure whether his pleasure came from the stimulating of his body by the words and images, or the shock he knew the priest would be experiencing. The enforced celibacy of the monastery fostered the need for release through thoughts and dreams.

"So, what else have you done this week besides dig potatoes and think about dancing girls, Brother Eoseph?"

The priest was backing off, moving on to something new and safer. Maybe he, too, found himself aroused by stories of dancing girls, or Celtic warriors? What did he know of those things that that should not be discussed here in the house of a foreign god?

"Have you done anything for yourself spiritually?" the priest asked. That was a change, Father Timothy rarely talked about Eoseph's relationship with god.

"I've read some scrolls and those flat manuscripts they call books. Love the pictures. I can read both those written in the language of Caesar and in the original Greek."

"You read? I didn't think most of your kind could read or write even the runes of your language."

"Most can't, I can."

"What do you think of the stories?"

"Most of them I've heard before like the one about the baby in the manger. Even the one about the four horsemen.  Did a good job of getting people scared on that one."

Eoseph stopped for a minute and thought. The monks were expected to merely copy the manuscripts without the ability to discern their contents. Most priests would be shocked if they knew that he could actually read the information contained therein. Few priests would ask his opinion on the contents. Yet it was the cleric who had suggested this area of discussion. Here he was again treading on the edge of his secrets, asking about things that he seemed to, but should not, know. This priest was good at what he did. You had to grant him that. He needed to change the subject quickly, to something that a Celtic warrior might have been thinking about, even a Celtic warrior who read Latin and Greek.

"Why do we have so little meat to eat here? Seems like the only flesh we get is when we eat the body and drink the blood of the god?" Gluttony and sacrilege in one sentence.

"Do you do that? What does it taste like to you, brother?"

"Wine and bread -- bad bread."

"Must not be working for you."

"Maybe it's because I don't believe."

Again there was silence. Eoseph had the feeling that he hadn't revealed anything to Father Timothy that he hadn't already known. The silence lingered, as if each man were questioning whether or where the discussion should progress.

"I think I have said enough for this week, father; but I have one final question. " He paused and framed the question carefully in the language he had just revealed that he could read. The language of his youth, Greek. "Am I supposed to know who you are?"

He had planned to exit quickly and not wait for an answer. Father Timothy seemed to know more things about Eoseph's life, even before he came to this northern country, than he had ever revealed to anyone. It is frightening to consider who the person on the other side of the confessional might actually be, and what had brought him to this place at this time.

"Of course." Eoseph heard him reply softly in Greek as he left the confessional.

PART THREE

The sun had died as it did every year, but once again it had been reborn. This year, however, Eoseph had marked the celebration with his fellow monks as one of the birth of the godchild.

The ritual fast was broken by a dinner featuring platters of roast venison, potatoes and carrots, jugs of ale and sweet cakes. The meal differed little from those served at the Yule festivals he had celebrated the past few years in the Celtic villages. Except of course that the monks celebrated in silence. The next day they were expected to return to their silent labors, or because of the snow that covered the fields, their silent ruminations.

"Well, I suspect Eoseph we can go one week without your complaining about the food." Father Timothy remarked when the confessional door had barely closed.

"I'm not hungry, if that's what you mean. My stomach is full, but the meal served and the prayers said lacked in the reason of celebration."

"You mean you do not delight in the joy of the birth of the child of god."

"Old celebration, Father Timothy, small variation on a festival celebrated in many lands. In the village where I lived we celebrated the festival of Yule. We burned candles all night to invite the sun to return, we decorated evergreen trees with nuts and fruits and charms. It was an important festival even without the son of god."

"So we co-opted a few pagan festivals. You have to admit we've done a good job of toning them down to meet the confines of the tenants of our faith."

"I never realized the importance of the "rebirth of the sun" until I moved this far north."

"When you reach the land of the Norsemen, the sun goes away completely. For a few days, darkness covers all."

"Which is why I am here, at this time of solstice, and not in the land of the Norse."

"You plan to go north with the spring. Is that correct?"

"I must go and continue a quest from which I have been diverted. I must find a man who may be lost in the land of the North."

"And do you have fear regarding that quest?"

"The children in the village where I lived sang a song of the Robin and the Wren and how they could never live in the same place at the same time. They would pass on their journey, but never be together. I fear that is what happened to my quest."

"If you do not allow your life to be guided by the tenants of MY religion, why do you pay any heed to the rhymes of children."

"Got me there, Father. Thanks."

"Now tell me what really bothers you about this quest?"

"I am afraid of what I will find at the end of it."

"Is that all?"

"I am ashamed that I do not feel bad because I have allowed 30 years to pass without continuing it."

"Thirty years. You must have been a very young man when you started." Eoseph swore he heard the chortle again from the other side of the screen. "It's been a bad year, Eoseph, this one will be better, if not for everyone, at least for you."

"I don't understand."

"That is part of the problem"

Eoseph returned to his room and lit a candle by his bedside. From a small pouch he extracted a strand of Daibhidh's red hair. He held it in the flame and watched it burn. The smell was no worse than that of the onion breath he had learned to live with, but when the hair was gone, he realized that this new year would have to be a new beginning. He would go north, on a quest to find the true son of a god.

Norway

Six weeks past the winter solstice allowed the land a few hours of light, if not warmth, from the sun. Still most of the journey had to be conducted in the dark, the way lit by huge torches that reflected off the snow. Ketil was always glad when they reached their destinations and were greeted with huge feasts and mugs of warm but potent drinks. This settlement was no different than the four they had already visited, he was certain he would find one or two men who were willing to sign up as warriors or oarsmen, but this village was purported to also have a berserker.

Stories of these super fighters had been told around fires and drinking tables throughout the Northland, yet Ketil had never really met such a man. Reports of such men living in nearby villages had produced on careful inspection be only large men with vile tempers and questionable intelligence. Such men would present a risk to the true warriors who had signed on to travel with him; he had to be very careful. Horrible things could happen in the confined space of a Viking ship.

The village leader, Moolfr, led Ketil and a group of his warriors in through the darkness up a small hill to a large stone barn. In the enclosure outside the barn, amidst the steam rising from the breath of long-haired cattle and shaggy ponies, Moolfr pointed to an old man.

"I believe that this is the man you need to take on your journey," he said.

"That old man over there, with the cattle?"

"We call him Hergils. He seems to answer to that. Not that he ever says anything." Moolfr spoke matter-of-factly.

"I'm looking for a berserker. He doesn't look like one to me? I can't believe that he is a fighter, and a killer. He looks like more of a beast than a man."

"Don't let his looks fool you. Hergils has never been known to under kill. If five arrows do the job, why not ten just to be sure. I saw him once beat a white bear until there was no fur left that could be used for a coat. The fur, blood, bones, meat were reduced to a pulp on the ice, and he still wanted to beat it some more."
"So he's actually a hunter. I really need a warrior. A berserker."

"I don't call that hunting. We never took him hunting again, but he has served us well in battle. He has the strength of ten, maybe twenty men."

"How old is he? He looks old."

"He is old. He was old when I was a boy. No one knows his age."

"What good is an old man to me? I need someone to fight, not to care for. How does he travel?"

"My father's taken him on sea voyages. Always comes back. Never heard anyone say that he bothered any of the warriors. If you are taking cattle he will stay with them, eat with them."

"I could not treat any man, no matter how crazed, like an animal."

"You are too kind, Ketil, I'm sure he will not be a problem."

Moolfr pulled Ketil away from the rest of the group and spoke softly into his ear. "I can't explain this, but I know it to be true having seen it with my own eyes. When he kills. When the blood of his victims flows upon him, he become young again."

"That can't be true."

"I assure you, Ketil, I was there. I saw his white hair fall our around him and new long brown hair take its place. His body grows strong stronger than you can imagine."

"I have heard of people make strange claims to sell slaves, but this Moolfr is the strangest I have ever heard. You cannot expect me to believe this."

"I believe he is immortal, too. May be the child of one of the gods."

Ketil shook his head. He wondered if his new acquaintance had too great a fondness for mead. Still, a man crazy enough to sleep with oxen would frighten the soft monks. A man who ate grain and straw would not require meat and bread. If he could kill as well as Moolfr professed he would be an asset even without immortal powers. The price was right. He handed the man a few gold coins and led the old man on a rope back to his boat.

PART FOUR

"My brothers are starving.  We need more food.  We need meat." Eoseph made no effort to go through the ritual of penitence and confession. He knew it would again be Father Timothy in the confessional.  The two were past the stage of pretending.

"There is no more food."

"There are many potatoes in storage, why can't we eat them?"

"Because those are the ones put aside for seed.  If you eat them now there will be nothing to plant.  Surely the brothers remember that from when they lived in Ireland."

"It is hard to remember when you are hungry and cold . . . and . . ."

"And what."

"Afraid.  They see flashes of lightning in the sky, and claim that there are flying dragons."

"Have you seen dragons?"

"Nah, not here.  But then I know what dragons actually look like."

"You do."

"Yes, I've killed dragons, and hydras, and gydras, and . . . "

"What you talking about?"

"I've seen a lot, done a lot, and don't really want to talk about it."

"What do you want to talk about?"

"Warmer clothes, or some fur throws, or even wool blankets."

They had talked a lot through the winter, but not about the religion both of them were professing to serve. It seemed strange that even under a new god the rich got richer and the poor stayed poor. Eoseph wasn't one to complain about the conditions until he had heard the same cough, like that he had heard from Daib, coming from several of the brothers. A cough traveled in the silence of the monastery and brought thoughts of death to the brothers.

"Winter's almost over. Can't you take it? Your tough," the father dismissed him with a lilt.

"It's not me, it's the others. They need blankets and meat."

"Is that a decision for you to make, Brother Eoseph?"

"Someone has to, if those in charge are not going to make it. By the end of the winter they are going to be too weak to plant crops. Pray that we are not raided by those from the North."

"Why would Norsemen come here, to a monastery?"

"For the gold that has been stashed away and not used to buy meat, fuel and blankets."

"Your superiors, they are men of god. . . "

"Well, then maybe its because the Norsemen worship the god of war."

"They worship a god of thunder. Their god of war is a one armed weakling."

"Is that my theology lesson for the week?"

"If you want?"

"What I want is blankets and meat -- for . . my . . brothers. The cold is evil. How did I ever end up this far north, anyway?"

"I ask myself the same question every day." A pause. Eoseph couldn't wait for what Timothy had to add. A small chortle, like he thought he had heard that very first night. "Oh yes, I was looking for you," spoken in Greek.

"What? That wasn't an answer he had expected

"You heard me blond boy, I was looking for you. You can't imagine how I laughed the first time I saw you here in this monastery. The vow of silence, let alone celibacy, was enough to make me blow my cover, not to mention how cute you look in that baggy brown dress."

"I believe you have a distinct advantage on me, Father Timothy, when are you going to let me know who you are?"

"You've always had that option, Iolaus. Open the screen and look at me."
Eoseph shook. The man had called him by his real name, a name he hadn't used in centuries. He could think of only two "men" who might call him that, and one as far as he knew was as crazy as the northern night was long.
"Open it, I'm not going to bite you -- that is unless you want me to?" The laugh came from deep in his chest. Eoseph could see a soft blue glow on the other side of the screen and could almost feel warmth in the cold air. He wondered if they had always been there and that he had chosen not to notice them.

He pulled on the screen, almost ripping it open. It was the last thing anyone else would have expected to see in a Celtic monastery run by Irish clerics of a Roman religion worshiping a Judaic god. Next to him sat Ares, the Greek god of War, dressed, like him, in the vestments of the monastery and smiling broadly.
"I was wondering how dumb you had become, Iolaus. That big redhead wasn't too intellectually challenging, was he? Bet he was a good lay though."

Iolaus didn't know whether to run or rush, whether to laugh or scream. In the past centuries he had lost track of the god of war, even heard rumors that he had been imprisoned in a cave in Macedonia or a brass jar, yet here he was in the flesh and saying he had been looking for him.

"That frankly is not something I choose to discuss with a priest." He hoped his face was not betraying him.
"But you want to talk about HIM don't you, Iolaus?"

"Can you come to my room?"

"Of course, I could have always come to your room, but his is so much more fun. Watching you, with your loyalty and feigned compliance squirm as you lie to me. I was wondering when you were going to figure it out. Have to say that the Iolaus I knew would have figured it out a lot quicker. I know, maybe old age." That grin, that diabolical smile that always cut him to the quick. Even when Ares did the most evil of things, he had that smile.

"Furthermore you are not allowed to talk in your room." Ares added.

"Who says I want to talk?" Iolaus's eyes flashed. There were other vows at the monastery with which he was having even more problems.

"In that case, I have two more of your fellow brothers to listen to tonight, and I'll make sure that they are absolved very quickly."

* * * * *

"You can share this with one of your brothers after you're finished." Ares threw the skin of a white bear over the small bed where Iolaus had lain shivering under the thin blanket. "I looked for something else, but it was the best I could find. It is warm." He fumbled for a lamp and lit it was a very low wick.

So he knew about that, too. The event that had happened centuries before in Rome involving Hercules and the white bear had not been recorded by history, but only in the memories of immortals. Iolaus chose not to speak, allowing himself to break only one vow at a time.

The cold did not seem to bother Ares as he dropped his vestments to the floor and stood beside the bed naked.
"Do you think it can take both of our weight?" He laughed as he slipped beside the Iolaus on the hard wooden bed.

Iolaus wondered about own breath as Ares's mouth met his. He wordlessly returned the kisses, and threw his small body around the larger man, as much for the warmth as the passion. It wasn't warmth Ares sought as the trailed his kisses down Iolaus's body; their destination was already hard and throbbing. It was a complete reversal of the role that Iolaus had expected to perform. As a youth he had learned that a Greek warrior had his own special way of showing his allegiance to Ares, and he questioned what promise was being made now, with an act that placed him so deeply in the god's throat.

"You are the only one here who bathes on Saturday night, you know." Ares said as he adjusted his body in the bed beside Iolaus. "Thanks. And you can talk now, I've made it so no one can hear us."

Iolaus really wanted to sleep or fuck. They had already done more talking than he was comfortable with.

"You've missed a lot of fun, Iolaus. Did you know that for a while, back in Greece, you were actually worshiped as a god? Of course you were the god of "boys who really liked other boys a lot" but I am sure your worshipers would have been most attractive and willing."

"I was taking care of him."

"Him? I don't see a big guy, what happened, you lose him?"

"Damn you Ares, I'm sure you know all about it. We came north after Rome and hid successfully for a few centuries, then he wanted to go even further north. I really didn't. I liked the wine and the women of Gaul."

"Always did have a weakness for milky thighs and purple grapes, didn't you. I bet you enjoyed it a lot."

"Yes I did. But he took off on his own, and I followed. That was when I was shipwrecked and ended up here."

"That was about thirty years ago, right?" Another smirk.

"I know, I guess I got a little distracted. When you've lived as long as I have, a few decades don't seem that significant. I met this man, reminded me a lot of Herc, except he didn't bathe and he wasn't very smart ...damn it Ares, I fell in love with him." Iolaus felt stupid saying these things to Ares. Even though the god had lived an even longer time, it was doubtful if he understood.

"I hear he died . . . while he was . . . " The smirk was there again.

"Damn it, Ares, you've been watching me."

"Of course I watch you, it's part of my job. You are a warrior. I watch my warriors."

"Iolaus was your warrior. Ewan belonged to . . . "

"All warriors belong to me, Iolaus. You know that."

"I have to find him. You do know where he is, don't you?"

"Not really, but maybe he'll show up."

Although they fell asleep in each other's arms, Eoseph was alone when he awoke. The warmth providing bear pelt was gone, too, and as he shivered in the cold, the coughs of his brethren could be heard echoing in the halls.

* * *

Ketil stood on a hill overlooking the fiord and watched as the spring wind filled the huge striped sail on the ship that would take him to Lindisfarne Monastery. His crew would assemble in three days and the journey would begin. He knew that few men would be willing to sail this early in the season. Despite the equinox, the threat of storms from the north still existed. He had sent his warriors north to test their weapons and to see if the stories he had been told about the berserker were true.

He was still unsure about the old man he had kept in a pen with the oxen most of the winter. Despite the inhumanity of it, he was sure that his men would leave if he brought him into the long house. He had dressed him and fed him human food, but the man still looked old and frail. He wondered what Moolfr had actually sold him.
The yells of the returning warriors meant fresh meat. The warriors were about to embark on a trip where they would exist primarily on dried and smoked fish. Ketil had always called it "Evil Fish" but it wouldn't be evil if it sustained his crew. He didn't have to worry now they had venison and seal on which to feast.
His second in command, who had led the hunting expedition, hurried up to him as the hunters scattered to the local taverns. He pointed to a man that Ketil did not recognize traveling with one of the groups.

"You found a new warrior, we didn't really need one, but he looks very strong."

"He is very strong, but he's not new."

"Who is he?"

"Hergils. You won't believe it when I tell you. I wouldn't believe it if I wasn't there to see it with my own eyes. Our second night out we ran into several large male seals, fighting with each other for superiority. Throwing their weight against each other, drawing blood with their tusks, we watched in awe. Everyone but Hergils. He went closer and closer, and when the last male seal reared up and was ready to mount a female, he raced in and cut its throat with a knife. No fear. Then he rubbed the blood all over his body. Ripped off his clothes and rubbed it everywhere. . . everywhere Ketil. One second there was an old man covered with blood and the next . . . "

"What were you drinking? Did you eat moldy rye bread, or those magic mushrooms?"

"I swear, ask anyone. We all saw it happen. And afterwards, he was a good a warrior as any we had. Worked well with us as a team, that's why we are back early."

"I don't understand."

"I don't either, I think it must have something to do with the gods. Someone said they might have seen Thor the first night out. I figured it was an illusion, but after this, I'm not sure."

"I hope Thor will continue to be on our side. I plan to go read the runes tomorrow and we sail the next day. I could use the smile of the gods on this journey, I still don't know why we are going."

"We're going to please your father, and to get you a tract of land where you can rule in peace. It is worth it, Ketil, and I believe the gods have smiled upon your mission."

"Even if we kill and plunder men of god."

"Men of whose god?"

PART FIVE

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. " Eoseph had actually been looking forward to confession this week. The bluing of the sky and the greening of the meadows had revitalized his soul. Strangely his thoughts were not of leaving this place and continuing on his quest, but of spending more time with his newly discovered old friend.

" During the last week I have been unable to control my sexual desires. I have thought often of Father Timothy. I spend my days looking for him, in the potato cellars, in the library, in the back corridors, hell, even in the outhouses. I just can't seem to find him." He knew Ares loved these games. They were so much more fun to play when you knew with whom you were playing.

"Maybe it's just the spring, but just thinking about him makes me grow hard. I love what he does to me with his mouth. I yearn for him to fuck me. When I can't find him I return to my room and in silence create my own pleasure. I think about him not Daib, not even Herc. I think about good old Father Tim." The smile grew on Eoseph's face.

"I managed, through some people I still have contact with in the village, to obtain some heather wine. I am sure he will love drinking it with me tonight in my room. I'll be there waiting for him naked, ready for what ever fun he wants to have. Clean. Having soaked in my bath to remove the scent of this god-forsaken place. Washing my hair and allowing it to curl naturally the way he really likes it. I'll be like that young boy who swore his loyalty to him, on his knees, worshiping him like the god he was, is . . Is that blasphemy?

He thought he heard a gasp on the other side of the screen. Father Timothy was probably sharing the same reaction to his story. It bothered him a little. Other monks held this as a holy place, probably should have some respect for their beliefs, but this was so much fun.

"I'm sorry. I guess this is a sin. I'll stop now, and wait until later. You know I will be waiting for you, as always."
"The only one waiting for you, brother, is your escort out of here." The voice was harsh and thickly accented.

"You've taken advantage of our Holy Island to keep you alive, all the winter, and this is the thanks we get. This shelter was given in exchange for your promise to accept the vows of our order, if not our god. And here you are in our sacred place, making a total mockery of the same vows. I cannot believe it. You will be gone before the sun rises tomorrow."

He didn't know what to say. Ares had certainly been right; he had grown very stupid. Why had he assumed that it would be Ares on the other side of the screen? He wanted to scream. WHY? Why had Ares spent so much time setting him up for this? Why had he believed that Ares had changed? Why had he been so god damned stupid?

"And, Brother Eoseph, I don't know what kind of game you have been playing with the other priests here, but I can assure you, that as head of this monastery, there has never been a Father Timothy here, hearing confessions, or doing any of the other blasphemous acts you describe."

* * * *

Once again dressed in his Celtic tartans, the golden torc he had taken from Daib around his neck, Ewan stood alone on the ridge watching waves rise and break on the beach below. He had a three-day journey to the other side of the island where he had been told he might be able to find a ship that would take him back to the mainland. He knew the only way to find a ship heading to the land of the Norsemen was to wait for raiders and be captured as a slave. It might work. Probably it would be no less humiliating than his ejection from the monastery.

He sensed his presence even before he felt the warmth of the blue light. He was dressed as Ares in full leather. His hair was long and blew in the spring wind. The Iolaus in him sensed a feeling of lightness and excitement that almost overcame the anger.

"I can't say it wasn't fun, but you should have warned me."

'Oh, that, sorry Iolaus. I was needed elsewhere and had to skip our meeting last Saturday. I hoped you didn't shock Father Étienne too much."

"Look at me, exactly how shocked do you think he was? These clothes, this bag, I'm on my way out of this place. He told me there was no Father Timothy at this monastery."

"You think I hang around her during the week. With all those yummy Celts who delight in making love and war. I only came for confession. To see you Iolaus."

"I'm not going to say 'thanks' because I don't enjoy people playing games with my mind."

"If I remember right it wasn't your mind I played with last time."

"That. . . maybe I should say 'thanks' for, but I'm not sure."

"Well, thank me for this. Stay and you won't have to worry about how you are going to be captured by the Vikings. They're on their way."

"Surely not until summer, only a mad man would sail this season."

"Vikings are nothing if not mad. I understand they are coming here, maybe more than one group, to rob, to pillage, to rape, to take slaves."

"Are you always this melodramatic?"

"Of course. Are you always this indecisive?"

"I know I have to go. I have to find him. I know he's not dead, but exactly how mad he might be is open to question. I might find him living as an animal."

"He's lived like that before even when you were watching him."

"I know, I know, don't rub it in."

"Don't bother watching this beach, Iolaus. When they come they will come out of the woods, having landed on the other side of the island. They will have the element of surprise."

"Won't be much of a surprise then, since you've told me."

"Who are you going to tell? Do you think anyone at the monastery would listen to you know?"

Ares stood with his arm around the smaller man's shoulder, pulling his body to his. Iolaus wondered what the god thought about when he looked over the sea. He thought about the men with whom he had lived and worked, who were now about to die or be taken as slaves. He wondered if he should try to warn them, and face further humiliation. Maybe he should try to recruit other warriors to help fight the Vikings, make the battle a little fairer, protect the monks. But why?

"Please stay and fight. I'll be here with you."

"You mean you're not going to run off again?"

"I'll be by your side, Iolaus, because I, too, need to be captured. I, like you, have business in the land of the North. We can go together."

"You want to go to Norway to look for him."

"Not exactly." He noticed tears on Ares's face and had no idea what might have caused them. He figured that even a god could have secrets.

The fellow monks of Lindisfarne looking up from their fields noticed Brother Eoseph as he stood alone facing into the wind. His blond hair blew in his face and helped wipe away the tears. Many were inwardly grateful that they man they feared was now gone; the sin of the lust they felt for him could be removed from the list of which they confessed weekly.

PART SIX

Ketil feared the night, the sea and the fog. Never had he envisioned a future that involved the risks he knew lay ahead. Even with the good men who served under him, he knew that in order to gain a treasure for which he had little desire, some of his warriors must die. He knew that to a man, his warriors preferred to die fighting for the unwanted treasure than to be swallowed by the sea.

The runes he had read before his departure gave the same cryptic messages. Odin had smiled. The sea would be hard. Tyr eases the battle. Safe passage to Valhalla. Runes were always read in such a way that people would think that they applied to what they were about to undertake. He'd heard it all before, and was sure that the next person to throw the runes would get a similar message and adapt it to his next task. He was not sure that any of the gods he knew had any desire to let him in on their secrets. He wondered why he asked.

Not wanting to leave site of land, they took the route that followed down the coast of Denmark. The breeze warmed as they traveled southward and he was hesitant to turn the ship into the channel between the coast and the island of Lindisfarne Monastery. His crew was not in a hurry either, seeming to sense the hesitance of their leader.

He was fortunate that there had been wind to propel the ship, saving the warrior's strength for the battle ahead. Despite their cramped quarters and limited diet they seem to enjoy their ale and sing songs as the ship moved through the night. Day would come and they would be that much closer to treasure or death.

It was one of those nights, when a half eaten moon hung in the sky, that the berserker, Hergils, stood and watched him play Hnefatafl with one of the warriors. The large man appeared ten to fifteen years younger than when they had first met, but still remained silent and dull eyed. Still he watched every move in the game and when Ketil was about to make what he though was the killing move, Hergils, softly touched his hand and moved it to another piece. The move he suggested allowed him to win in three moves, and realize that the move he was about to make would have brought certain disaster. He wondered how a man who had lived with the cattle and shared their food could know such a complex game. He wondered what else the man knew and could not or did not reveal.

After that night they spent a lot of time together. It was a rare night when he could beat Hergils at Hnefatafl, a game at which he had always professed to have great prowess. The berserker also took time to teach his crew the skills he had fighting with sword and staff. He grew stronger, saner and inexplicably younger. Still he did not speak.

* * * *

It was not the cave where Daib had died, but after a while all caves look alike. You come to them to seek shelter from the rain and you find hydras, or spiders, or pirates. Ares had a cave filled with the sort of things you would expect a god of war to keep near to him: a large throne where he sat and stared out at the sea, swords and other weapons which he constantly inventoried and sharpened, a blazing fire even in the seasonal warmth of the air and a large bed in which, after many glasses of wine or mead, he kept the man he liked to call Iolaus satisfied.

"You know you've never thanked me, Iolaus," he said one night when they were lying together.

"For what?"

"For saving you this winter. Leading you to the monastery and protecting you while you were there."

"For getting me thrown out, you mean. Gee, thanks."

"I didn't get you thrown out, it was time to go. You needed to be there through the winter, now you can be here with me."

"I wasn't good enough last October to share your bed. I'd ask why, but I truthfully don't want to hear your answer."

"It's not what you think, Iolaus. You had to learn about them sometimes. The days when you can hide yourself in the pagan warriors are becoming short. Immortals need places to mask their existence and I have found that religious communities are very good for that."

"Like a monastery with vows of chastity, poverty, obedience and silence. That sounds like you, Ares. Right?  You know those guys would go out and float in the ocean in skin boats to avoid all temptations of the flesh."

"I have to admit that this Lindisfarne was pushing the limits a bit. Was fun watching you there though, Iolaus. I did rather enjoy my time spent with the church in Rome, however. That is where I learned to do the confessional bit. Really, really liked that.

"I found the structural hierarchy of the church, shit, don't you love those words, was a perfect fit for the keeper of the rules and secrets part of the god of war. You remember, god's can't kill other gods, gods can't move in time, gods can't. . . . I was so used to telling my family what they couldn't do that I was perfect for this group. I could have been pope, but I thought it would be a little confining."

"I don't know, Ares, I read about the antics of a few of the popes and I wasn't sure that they weren't you."

"I should know better. I lied. I can't lie to you. I tried it. War, money, power, all those things were certainly wonderful, but in the end I thought it would be more fun to go out and look for my brother and his old friend."

"You found me first."

"I know, ain't it wonderful."

* * * * * * *

The Viking raiding party had sailed up the north coast of the island and landed on a beach some distance from the monastery. Ketil took a day to give his men their land legs and a good meal of venison before undertaking the trek to which for a few would be their last. He allowed those who wanted to pray, but did not insist on everyone participating. In a war between servants of different gods, prayers were either useless or redundant.

Ares knew they were there, so that night was spent practicing fighting moves with Iolaus. The small man was still a wonderful fighter, learning and refining the practices of whatever group he had joined. He knew that neither the monks nor the Norsemen would expect the fighting moves Iolaus had learned from the East. Not many men still knew them.

"It's going to be difficult, Iolaus. I don't think we can beat the Norsemen. I'm fairly sure we don't want to beat the Norsemen. But we have to fight on the side of the monks, at least until . . .

"Until what, Ares."

"Until they are killed. Do you not truly believe that the men with you lived the winter would rather die than be forced to live as slaves of those of the North."
Iolaus nodded his head.

"Then they have to die. And we have to fight on their side, to make sure that we are the ones who are captured and taken north."

"I'm ready. I'm ready to draw my sword and spread Norse blood to protect those bastards who threw me out so that they can eventually get killed and not be held as slaves, so I can. Christ, Ares this is convoluted even for one of your plans."

"Now, now, Iolaus, where did you learn that profanity?"

"I hate you. I hate you."

"But you are going to follow my plan, if you want to see your friend Hercules again."

"What?"

"He's with them. He's with the people who are going to enslave you."

"How do you know?"

"I saw him. He looks good, Iolaus, but he is still as loony as a jay-bird. But who knows what a little monk blood will do for him."

 PART SEVEN

It really wasn't much of a battle. The monks were in the fields, armed only with shovels and pitchforks, when the well-armed Vikings hit. They didn't even break their vows of silence to scream before they died. There was no need for Ares and Iolaus to help defend these brethren, all of them were dead by the time they got there, many killed by the large man who fought as if he were insane. It was difficult for Iolaus to believe that this man, who he quickly identified as his old friend, could spill the blood of strangers with such ease, especially when they were monks and priests. Iolaus and Ares had no choice but to head to the monastery to extend whatever protection they could give to those higher up in the church hierarchy.

They were too late for that, too. A few hours warning had allowed the priests to load the sacred silver vessels, crosiers and jeweled relics kept in the monastery onto a cart and to head for the tower where all would be safe for a time. All that was left in the large stone building were books, candles, and five monks who were close to death from lingering illnesses. After protecting the dying monks from enslavement, Iolaus and Ares dressed in their robes and prepared to meet the invading Norsemen.

"They have a prayer for this. Part of their litany." Iolaus said. "Everyone of these dead men had prayed daily, 'A furore Normanorum libera nos.'

"Then I guess they will find us on our knees praying, Iolaus. Are you ready?"

Iolaus prayed, not for his soul, but for that of his friend. He fingered the cross that he wore on a chain around his neck, and realized that he had not removed Daib's torc. To remove it now, and put his fate solely in the symbol of the monk's faith seemed wrong. Protected symbolically by two religions, he and a god of yet another were going to be captured as slaves, tortured, and . . . which of any gods knew what else.

* * * * * *

The time that passed while they waited in the chapel led them both to conclude that the Norsemen had noticed the priests leaving and gone after them and their treasure. Iolaus feared that perhaps they would not return, satisfied with the gold and the slaves they had already. They could also just return and burn what they believed to be an empty monastery. He could not share his fears with Ares, even though the god seemed uncommonly quiet.
A small group of raiders, without either Hercules or the man Ares had identified as the leader, finally arrived at the monastery and found the two remaining men who surrendered willingly. Iolaus would leave the island where he came clad only in seaweed wearing the robes of the order that had expelled him. Ares seemed willing to go the same way to the land where centuries ago he had again regained his godhood, taking with him what little remained.

The raiders were celebrating their victory with bright fires, roasting meats, large mugs of ale and so much noise that Iolaus's ears hurt.   Despite their victory, the men did not seem anxious to return again to the sea.
Ares indicated Ketil to Iolaus. The leader was sitting at the head table drinking and smiling and watching the last two slaves as they were exhibited. Several warriors shared the table, one of whom was Hercules, watching, but making no comments. In contrast to the shriveled priests, Iolaus and Ares were strong and healthy. Everyone seemed most interested in Ares because of his size.

"Are these men part from Lindisfarne?" Ketil asked his chief who had led the raid.

"We found them there, praying. They surrendered and came with us willingly. The others there were dead, but I think they would have died before we got them on the boats anyway. These two don't look like the others."

"I know this big one looks like a God." Ketil said.

"You've seen their gods?"

"Not there's, ours. He looks like I have always pictured Thor would look."

No mention was made of the smaller man. His blonde hair was not a curiosity in the north, and his small size made the warriors doubt his worth. Hergils seemed fascinated by both men and walked in circles around them. He stopped and toyed with the borrowed crucifixes both men wore around their necks. Eyes asked questions to which madness precluded answers.

Hergils's fascination with the captives was not lost on Ketil. Even though the berserker had not yet spoken, the leader was sure he wanted to spend some time with the smaller man. He had heard stories about the men of this area, and wondered if Hergils had been here sometime in the past. He certainly had shown no interest in the women who had often come to party with the warriors as they sailed down the coast of Denmark.  He had heard stories of men who liked other men. The little man seemed strong and healthy so it probably would not hurt to let the berserker to play with for a while. If he survived, it would not diminish his worth as a slave in Norway. Still he knew that Hergils would not just take the man, if offered. He had been captured by other warriors and given to Ketil.

Ketil grabbed the berserker by the arm.

"You like this man. He looks like he has a nice warm mouth. I've heard Celtic men know what to do with their mouths. Do you like him?"

Madness gave little response. The small man, however, seemed to show no fear.

"I'll tell you what, Hergils. We'll play Hnefatafl for him. You win and he's yours to do whatever you want to until we get back to Norway. Sound fair enough?"

The big man nodded his head. Of course, they both knew that Ketil had not found in victory over the monastery the skill necessary to win at Hnefatafl. The game was over quickly, and the transfer of the prize was indicated.
Hergils walked to the smaller man again and carefully moved his long hair away from his neck. Daub's torc was heavy gold, but could easily be removed by manipulation of the flange on its backside. Hergils, however, merely grabbed the two ends of the neck ring and pulled it straight. He dropped the gold to the ground and grabbed the smaller man in his arms. Looking back at Ketil and over at Ares, he smiled, for the first time in centuries.

* * * * *

That night, after the young Celtic woman with hair the color of flame had left his bed, Ketil dressed and walked through the strangely silent encampment. Everyone was asleep or drunk except for the large dark captive who sat silently his tethered hands clasp over his knees. No one in his party had tended to his captivity that evening, and Ketil was positive that the man could have easily snapped the ropes that held him and escaped into the night. He walked closer, as if inexplicably drawn to the man.

"You are their leader, and yet you are not a warrior." The man said in the language of the north.

"You wear the clothing of the monastery, yet your fellow monks, except for your fair-haired  friend do not seem to know you." Ketil replied.

"Seems we both have been observant." The man replied with a broad grin.

"There has been much to observe on this voyage. More seen than can be understood or discussed."

"Tell me, I will listen."

"Why should I tell you, you are my captive?"

"Because I will listen, and you need to tell someone."

"The man, the one who left with your friend. I purchased him as a slave, a berserker. Are you familiar with that term?" Ares nodded his head.

"He was an old man, and he got younger when he bathed in blood. He is a madman, yet he regularly beats me at a game at which I am particularly skilled. A game based on memory and wile. I watched when he saw your friend, and there is an attraction that I cannot begin to explain. Who are you and what are you doing in my world, this world?"

"What do you know of gods, Ketil?" It did not shock him that the stranger knew his name.

"Our gods are petty, engage in childlike behavior, toy with mortals. . . . The stranger did not seem to like what Ketil was saying. "I do not know of your god, I am sorry. I know you are in his service."

"I am not, I only wear the clothing of one who is." Ares rose and shook as his clothing changed to the traditional leathers of the god of war, but still his hands were firmly tied. Ketil was convinced that he had had far too much to drink.

"Do you know a story about how your god Odin restored the godhood to two from a far away land? The goddess of love and the god of war."

Ketil shook his head. "I haven't studied the gods much, but I don't remember that story even as a child."

"Didn't think he'd spread it around. Do you know of a dark Valkyrie? From away?"

Again the Norseman shook his head. "Are you sure these stories are about our gods?"

Ares looked away, directing his glance through the fire and to the edge of the forest.  He had not contemplated having to deal with someone with such sketchy knowledge of his own religion.  He decided to approach the explanation from a different direction.

"What if I told you that your berserker is the son of a god?"

"No big deal, the gods leave bastard children all over the countryside. Most of them are like him, big and dumb."
Ares's bravado seemed to shrink a bit. He was not used to someone who was not intimidated by gods.

"Do not let his current condition fool you."

"I have not, no man who is as skilled as he at the game of Hnefatafl, is in a position to convince me that he is a dolt. But he was in my land, and came with me here. If he were seeking the things of which you speak, why would he have left Norway? And why was he living with cattle, eating oats and hay?"

"Oats and hay! Cattle." He large man began to laugh as Ketil had never heard before. His face wrinkled and cracked and tears ran down his cheeks. He stood there shaking, hands still tied, but unable to control his body. Ketil was convinced that if he had looked, he would have seen urine running down the man's leg. He walked away, in disgust and confusion, but he could still hear the cackling laughter. Was he as crazy as Hergulis? What was it in the northern air that drove foreigners insane?

* * * *

Hercules had picked Iolaus up and carried him into the woods, totally without regard for the branches and brambles were scratching and tearing at both of their faces. The strength was the same, the smile had seemed the same, but Iolaus was totally unsure about the man who was now holding him like a child. Was he his partner and best friend? Was he his lover? Was he the crazed man who had returned to him after a visit with Xena? He had sworn that the woman had done something to his friend's soul, and it was not until much later that he had learned that to save her baby, Hercules had killed his own father. Was it a physically revitalized form of the man who had killed three white bears and the Roman Emperor Comodos? Was it the shell of a man he had lived with in Gaul who one night had wandered off, in search of . . . someone or something that Iolaus never had identified.

Iolaus had no idea what to do next, but he knew he would feel a hell of a lot more comfortable standing rather than being carried. He squirmed around. "You can put me down -- I won't run away."

It was almost as if Hercules did not realize that he had been carrying his friend. With his feet on the ground, and his hand untied, Iolaus concluded that the only thing he really wanted to do was to give Hercules a big hug.

"Did you ever find it, big guy?" He muttered more to himself than to the man who held him.

He was surprised when Hercules looked down at him and attempted to answer. The first words were in a language he did not know, and assumed was that of the Norsemen. The look on his face must have indicated that he didn't understand. Hercules tried, probably just rephrasing, or maybe a slightly different dialect. The words came hard, and from somewhere deep inside.

"I have a start. I found you." Tears ran down the big man's cheeks.

August 4, 2003
McJude

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