Part I
Beyond the stretch of the muddy field, which had once been teeming with crops, Iolaus could see a dark crawling mass. He wasn't stunned anymore when he saw Dambrus' army; its sight had become familiar over the weeks. From the camp, smoke from cooking fires and improvised blacksmith's rose to the metal grey sky. Cold sweat beaded on Iolaus' brow. They were so close, three hundred yards or less separated the two armies. He glanced at the young men and women under his command; they shifted nervously, ready to fight, ready to kill. The hunter wiped the sweat away before it ran into his eyes; his other hand clenched around his sword, the hilt at home in his hand.
I don't want to die. Gods please, I want to see Hercules again! I really do.

He recalled the last time he had seen his lover. His eyes, Herc's eyes had been brave and beautiful, a reflection of their owner.
So why did I leave him?
He knew why. That minute flicker of doubt that sometimes seemed to hover in the back of Hercules' eyes had practically chased him away. His friend's hesitance had cut deeply, leaving a bleeding gap in his heart. So, he had casually suggested some time apart and the alacrity with which Hercules had accepted had been somewhat of a shock. Hiding his feelings the best he could, Iolaus had left, well...fled really.
So, how did I end up here, in the middle of this mess?
Ah you know how you got here, Iolaus buddy. People were in trouble and you lent a hand, that's all. Can't help it if they made you captain and gave you a platoon, can ya? Come on, don't lie to yourself, my friend, you didn't have to accept their offer but you did. You know you're trying to lose yourself in this godsforsaken war, trying to stop.... trying to forget Herc. Vain attempt, keep wishing he were here, at my side. I miss him so much, not a war in the world could turn my heart away from him.

Iolaus batted an annoying mosquito away from his face and tugged at his long gauntlets. He preferred fighting in his own normal gear but general Tarmenus had insisted he'd wear an armour consisting of a thick black leather cuirass with strips of mail hanging down on his upper arms, bronze-studded leather gauntlets and new sturdy breeches. It had taken him a couple of days to get used to the new gear but now it felt just like second skin. Again, he glanced around at the young soldiers who, but a few weeks ago, had been farmers and craftsmen and housewives. They checked their blades continually, their faces tense, eyes wide. The warrior frowned and turned his gaze back to the army across the field and he knew with a strange certitude that Tarmenus and the Kestreians and him just...couldn't win. Dambrus' army looked like a large soil, a pestilence that would poison and destroy them all.

In the beginning, the battle didn't even seem real to Iolaus. It looked more like an image conjured up by a deranged mind than reality. From his higher position, the first sortie by the Kestreians seemed like an inelegant and complex ballet of soldiers wielding swords and axes, falling in the mud and getting slaughtered. The victims who fell transpersed by arrows, went down quickly as Atropos cut their lifethreads. The roar of the battle was like a gathering of all the doomed souls of Tartarus, wailing out their pain and anger. It all seemed so unreal, so distant but as he observed the battle, Iolaus knew the fighting would be upon them quickly enough. The hunter watched closer, trying to find structure in the chaos. The first line of Dambrus' mercenaries wavered as the Kestreian soldiers slammed into them like a fist, but they held their ground. They swarmed around the Kestreians, sealing them in. Iolaus involuntarily shuddered, likening the sight to a flock of vultures circling carrion. Violent sounds rose from the battle; the harsh clang of swords and axes on shields and armour, the ghoulish cries of rage and terror...all of it contributed to the tension in the air, making it sparkle.
To Iolaus' trained eye, it soon became clear that their first sortie was a huge failure. Dambrus' lines grew as more mercenaries spilled on the battlefield. Those of Tarmenus' soldiers who could, came back gliding and crawling in the mud towards the relative safety of the northern hills. Iolaus clenched his teeth. He hated waiting, sitting out part of the battle, but he knew the decision wasn't his. It was up to general Tarmenus to pick the time to launch them into today's battle.

When Iolaus heard the shrill, complaining sound of the horn, his heart jumped up and he suddenly felt all cold and tingly as if he had been dropped in a mountain stream. He turned to his men and raised his sword.
"Ready....CHARGE!!"

Iolaus almost slipped and fell when he set foot on the muddy field, but he managed to contain his balance. The noise of the battle, the warcries rang strong in his ears. The clamour grew and banished all other thought from his mind. Then , before he had time to think about it, he found himself in the thick of battle. Iolaus' troops attacked the mercenaries from their blind side. The ones closest to the rushing Kestreians only had time to look up surprised before being pierced by the short spears and blades. The overwhelming noise, which had first seemed like the roar of thousands of voices, quickly changed into a dreadful buzzing silence in which ghoulish faces and bloodied weapons moved with a horrible but unavoidable slowness. To Iolaus, his own movements seemed even more sluggish. He wielded his sword and though it was only made of steel, it seemed the heaviest object in the world. A small double-bladed axe suddenly struck one of the Kestreians running next to him; the body dropped like a slowly falling leaf and for a moment, he thought he heard a high cry above the deafening buzz in his head. Killed...he was dead...
It was but a fleeting thought and he continued to fight. A moment later he had to raise his sword the block the oncoming blow of one of the soldiers of fortune. It seemed to take an eternity before the swords struck eachother loudly. The shock battered down Iolaus' arm and spine, knocking the air out of his lungs. He felt the point of the large sword slip down his arm, tearing the flesh. When he looked, he found his gauntlet torn and blood flowing freely from a large gash on his forearm. The only thing he felt was a line of icy stiffness crawling down his arm. Angered, he parried and thrust his sword in the unprotected part of his enemy's armour. The blade sunk deeply in the man's thigh, slashing the artery. After that, the battle intensified around him, squeezing him like a suffocating hand. Ares was having a field day.

In the middle of the nightmare, Iolaus was pushed over by someone's shield and slipped in the ankle-deep mud, trying to get a footing in the mess. One of the mercenaries emerged from the chaos surrounding them and forced Iolaus back, trapping him against the fighting mass. the rugged soldier carried so much ritual scarring on his face, the skin showing under the helmet looked like the bark of a tree. The grimy mercenary was a skilled warrior and swordsman, wounding his small opponent twice: a surface cut on his swordarm parallel with the first wound and a slash over the ribcage. When again, he slipped in the mud, Iolaus knew he was done for. He glanced at the mercenary and realised he was looking death in the eyes. No fear trembled through his limbs; life or death, both were welcome. Then suddenly like a miracle, someone gave his would-be executioner a shove; the man faltered and Iolaus grabbed the moment to slash the mercenary's throat in one violent swing. The man fell heavily in the mud, his hands desperately trying to staunch the gulfs of blood spewing from the dreadful wound. After a few moments, the frantic movements ceased and the soldier lay still, his dead eyes staring at his slayer. Iolaus stooped and tore a sleeve from the dead man's tunic, using the cloth to bind his arm tightly and stop the flow of blood. He'd see to the cut on his chest later, when the battle was over. Sword firmly clenched in his hand and face set, he turned and faced a new adversary.

It was only when the soldier hacked in on him, that Iolaus realised with a vague sense of amusement that- for once- his opponents didn't underestimate him. They didn't take his smaller size into account, but rather attacked him even more fiercely as if guessing his more than ample experience at warfare.
Iolaus renewed his attack, driving the mercenary back under a battery of blows. He feigned a clumsy swing and the soldier took the bait, leaning over foolhardily for his riposte. Iolaus kicked the man's legs from underneath him, making him fall heavily in the mud and grime. Picking the throat as favoured weak spot, he thrust his blade in the exposed gullet until he hit bone. When he pulled the sword loose, he was sprayed by a fountain of acrid blood.

The sun slowly disappeared behind the dark hills, setting the sky aflame with a symphony of bright oranges and violent purple. It was impossible to say how long the battle had been going on when Tarmenus' horn called again, signalling the end of today's fighting and the start of the retreat. Both armies withdrew slowly but surely through the mud and the bloody corpses that littered the battlefield, towards their own encampments. The Kestreians drew back suddenly, as if they couldn't fight anymore. The young soldiers seemed to vanish from around Iolaus like foam of a wave absorbed by the sand. Their hasty departure left a group of about thirty of their soldiers alone, surrounded by a larger party of mercenaries. Iolaus realised that without help, they'd be slaughtered in no time; their struggle already weakening under the blows. He looked at the few soldiers still on the battlefield and sighed. Tired and bleeding as he was, he longed for the sanctuary only a hundred yards to his left. He had survived this battle but he knew he couldn't leave those brave men behind. So, he gathered a dozen of the remaining soldiers around him and, together, they stormed through the sloshing mud towards the fight. There were no warcries, no shouts, the small group ran in the grim silence of exhaustion. And then there was again the nightmare of hewing and slashing as the besieged Kestreians - grateful for the help- redoubled their efforts and fought their way out of the chokehold. The tired mercenaries seemed less eager to battle when Iolaus and his soldiers hammered in on them. They fought hard but mechanically and lost ground as they were pushed towards the larger force of their army. Iolaus saw an opening in their defence and in a violent convulsion of swords and axes, they freed themselves and fled back to the safety of the northern hills. Tarmenus' horn called a last time as they reached sanctuary, signalling that all live souls had left the battlefield. Immediately, their companions surrounded them and even those who weren't wounded looked as grey and hopeless as the dying.
A young boy handed Iolaus a steaming bowl of rabbit stew. He tried to thank the kid but really couldn't muster the energy anymore. Some time later, he realised he was lying next to a blazing fire, his head resting on his sore and battle-tired arms. As he slipped into oblivion, the world tilted and faded out around him. And a blessed darkness took over. Not the dark of night but an obscurity deeper and more suffocating, welling up from the emptiness inside him. His sleep was deep and dreamless, bringing neither health nor repose. A small drizzle started covering everything with a thin sheen of water.

Part II

A new day, a new battle. Soldiers of both armies wrestled through the soggy mud, movements slow and uncontrolled. Many slipped and were butchered while they lay helplessly in the sludge.

Iolaus caught the downward lunge of the mercenary with his sword. The crash almost knocked the blade out of his grip but he managed to keep it in his tingling fingers long enough to thrust it between the armourplates and deep into the mercenary's armpit. The man fell to his knees, screaming and cursing in his harsh barbaric tongue. Iolaus slew him calmly, neatly separating head from body. When he looked up from the corpse, he tasted salt in his mouth and spat. Red sputum splashed in the mud and he realised the wetness on his face was blood, flowing from a gash on his brow. He hadn't felt it but then again, he never felt those little aches and pains in battle. He only hoped the blood wouldn't run in his eyes and blind him. Iolaus glanced at the struggle around him; his men weren't real warriors but they had fought bravely against the formidable force of Dambrus' army. Until now, most of the battle had been fought with swords, axes and spears although from time to time, vicious, barbed arrows would pierce soldiers of both sides.

Suddenly, a mercenary charged Iolaus, wielding a huge broadsword. The hunter's first parry ricocheted of the man's heavy shield but he used the momentum of his sway to swing back for an unexpected second attack. To his own surprise, the manoeuvre worked and his sword hit the mercenary hard on the head. When he looked up, he saw the soldier's helmet was horribly indented. Blood gushed down his face on his armour as he stared at Iolaus with unseeing eyes. Then, he slammed in the mud, convulsing until finally -blessed relief- he died. Iolaus turned away with the disconcerting ease of experience, pushing remorse away. To him, the soldier wasn't a human being- he couldn't afford to think that- but just an enemy, nothing more.

Hercules overlooked the battlefield, a pained expression on his face. He knew there was no honour in warfare, the fact Ares was God of war proved that enough. Amidst such slaughter; where friend and enemy lay side by side in death, mutilated and covered with blood, with the crying and pleading of the dying, their dignity ripped away, the air permeated with the stench of blood, sweat and faeces; it was impossible to see war as anything else than Tartarus on earth. His heart cringed at the thought of Iolaus fighting somewhere in the midst of that chaos. He looked around and spotted the general's tent. Hercules ran towards it, fear like a chunk of ice in his heart. The general was looking at a sheepskin map, surrounded by several of his trusty captains but not Iolaus.
"General Tarmenus?"
The eagle-faced man looked up and a slight smile appeared on his face, momentarily clearing away the lines of worry.
"Hercules! I'm so glad to see you! We can definitely use your help."
"What's going on?"
Tarmenus sighed wearily and turned to overlook the vicious battle.
"Well, for the moment we're at a status-quo. They lost a lot of men yesterday, that evened things out a little for us."
Hercules swallowed nervously and grabbed Tarmenus' arm, his fingers circling the limb like a manacle.
"Iolaus?"
The general gazed at the half-god and almost winced; the fear and anguish in the cornflower-blue eyes was like glasspowder under his skin.
"Last time I saw him was hours ago; he was leading an attack on the east flank. You know, he's one of the reasons we've lasted this long. Not only has he led some of the most important charges on Dambrus' army, his courage inspires each and every soldier. He truly is a great warrior!"
A captain grabbed the general's sleeve and pointed to a spot on the battlefield.
"General, look! A group is pulling back!"
Each man on the hill scrutinised the field, anxious to see who had been forced to withdraw. They were all silent, the whole world seemed to hold its breath.
"It's captain Iolaus and his men, they've completely wiped out the east flank!"
A cheer rose from the small crowd but Hercules watched anxiously as the platoon retreated out of the crawling mass. His heart leapt up when he spotted a mop of blond hair struggling along with the other soldiers.
"Iolaus, thank the Gods!"
He spared a quick glance at Tarmenus who nodded, giving him leave to go. Hercules stormed off to where Iolaus was trying to reach safety.
Hold on, Iolaus! For goodness' sake, hold on! What on earth are you doing here, anyway? What got in your head, getting yourself mixed up in this mess? Without me....Just hold on, okay? I'm coming...

Iolaus handed the wounded man to the healer's helper and walked away difficultly. He dropped down on the trampled, muddy grass and hid his face in his arms. The sounds of battle were close but he didn't pay attention to them.
"Captain Iolaus, you are bleeding!"
The small voice itched at his awareness; he waved the boy away but accepted the cloth handed to him. After wiping the blood and grime from his face, he gently fingered the cut above his right eyebrow. His cold fingers touched the raw edges of the tear in his skin, one that was sure to leave a scar. He tied the bloodied cloth tightly around his head, hoping the pressure would ease the pain.
"IOLAUS!"
The warrior frowned and looked up at the familiar voice calling his name, it seemed so out of place here. His eyes drifted around and latched onto a tall muscular man storming towards him. Instinctively, he reached for the sword lying next to him on the blood-soaked grass.
"Iolaus!"
"Hercules?"
The half-god fell to his knees in front of his lover and grabbed him by the shoulders. He looked deeply into the cerulean eyes he loved so much, bothered to find nothing but empty weariness there.
"Iolaus, are you okay?"
The blond man frowned, deepening the hard lines of fatigue on his face.
"Sure Herc...I'm fine."
But he didn't look fine. Hercules breathed a deep sobbing breath of relief and wrapped his arms securely around the small man.
"By the gods, Iolaus, why...?"
Tarmenus' horn ripped through the chilly air and broke the intimacy. Iolaus struggled free from his lover's grip and got to his feet. Without paying attention to an increasingly worried Hercules, he gathered his soldiers around him. The half-god followed the small bedraggled group, pained by Iolaus' cold lassitude. His friend regrouped his platoon, replacing his losses with others, the few dozen who were ready to give their lives under Iolaus' leadership. Hercules joined them, not planning to take his eye of his lover from now 'till eternity. The men and women clenched their weapons, eyes sparkling in white, determined faces. Many of the youths sported several wounds and all of them looked much older than they actually were. The minutes passed tensely; Hercules watched his friend who concentrated on the battlefield. He was very worried about Iolaus; it seemed as if the hunter had turned off the sane, caring part of his brain, focusing only on the war he had been fighting in for over two weeks now. Hercules had heard about the battle of Kestreia but had only found out about two days ago that Iolaus was a part of it, when he received his lover's week-old message. Iolaus seemed worn by the battle and Hercules' mighty heart cringed at what his friend had been through, again. Suddenly, the bull's horn wailed again. Iolaus looked up, raised his sword and waited a beat...
"CHARGE!!!"
As if released by a spring, the platoon stormed forth, towards certain death.

The sound of their arrival was like a strong wind, the roaring of bulls, a firesea streaming through a forest. The Kestreians charged out of safety into chaos. In a matter of moments, the soldiers were upon the mercenaries, hitting the first lines like a sledgehammer and effortlessly ploughing a path trough them. The din of blades hitting shields, the screaming doubled in pitch. Iolaus wielded his sword as fast as he could, drawing streams of blood. They fought in silence, their mute attacks fierce and chilling. Circling the mercenaries with ease, they completely wiped out the west flank of Dambrus' army. Mercenaries flew through the air as Hercules burrowed his way through them in a far from subtle but very effective way. Iolaus' platoon mowed down their enemies like a well-oiled killing machine. Hercules shivered in horror when he saw Iolaus slaughter the mercenaries without hesitation, pity or remorse. The enemy forces retreated in the face of the Kestreian fury. The other soldiers, encouraged by their companions' success, intensified their efforts. It was as if all their pain and rage spilled over in one great burst of frenzy, driving them into a massive killing spree.

By the end of the day, the battle was over and the war was decided. Dambrus' army had already retreated into the hills, scouts brought continuous news of their exodus. Dambrus and his barbaric army were returning to the southern steppes, hopefully never to return. The Kestreians counted their losses. Many brave people had perished and it would take a long time for the city to recuperate from the horrors of war. But Kestreia would flourish once more. After the dead had been buried, , the wounded healed and the battlefield reploughed, the city would pick up where it left off and move on. In fifty years, only a few would remember the names of the heroes who died there. But the field, the of death and blood saturated earth, would always bear the stigma of the battle fought there. And so it was that the war of Kestreia was fought, won and added to the bards' repertoire.

Part III

Hercules entered the healing house and let his eyes dwell over the many wounded before stepping over to the cot where Iolaus lay. The hunter had suffered during the last assault, using the last of his depleted strength to lead the Kestreians into victory. But in the midst of it all, a massive mercenary had struck him down with a studded mace. Hercules had seen it happen from a distance and it was as if the whole battle opened up around a key moment, making all his worst dreams come true. Time slowed down when the mercenary's mace crashed down against the side of Iolaus' head, grazing the strong shoulder on its destructive path. The small warrior fell to his knees and dropped full-length in the bloody mud, lifeless. Hercules had felt all life and warmth and breath vanish from his body, leaving only an empty raging vessel. The mercenary smiled cruelly and had drawn his sword to finish the hunter off. The half-god remembered screaming- his throat hurt enough afterwards to prove that- and storming towards the scene with godly speed. A red blur covered his memories of the following events but when his thoughts cleared, he was cradling Iolaus' limp and wounded body.

Hercules reached the bunk in the corner of the room by the window, where Iolaus lay sleeping beneath a light sand-coloured blanket. His wounds had recently been tended to; fresh bandages covered the various lacerations on his brow, chest and arms. Iolaus' handsome face was still as pale as Parian marble, making the bruises under his eyes appear even darker. Hercules' heart ached as he swept a stray lock from his lover's face and sat down next to the cot. Iolaus, feeling his presence somehow, opened his eyes and smiled.
"Hi, Herc."
The usually bubbly voice was tired and flat, the weariness in it worried the half-god. He leaned over and kissed the always welcoming lips.
"How are you feeling?"
Iolaus sighed and struggled to sit up.
"I'd be great if they'd let me out of here! You know how I hate being cooped up."
Hercules placed a restraining hand on his friend's chest, stopping his attempts to sit up.
"The healer said at least one more day, Iolaus."
The hunter shrugged off Hercules' hand and managed to push himself into a comfortable sitting position, ignoring the many sharp aches and pains coming from his protesting hardly healed wounds. He threw a dirty look in his friend's direction and snorted.
"Another day...what does he know? I told you I'm okay."
"Sure you are, Iolaus"
A few silent minutes passed. Iolaus had closed his eyes, grimacing from time to time while Hercules tenderly stroked his unbandaged arm.
"Iolaus, you've gotta promise me something..."
The serious tone in his lover's deep voice made the tired hunter look up.
"What?"
Hercules' grip on his lover's arm tightened and he gazed at his friend with a seriousness that made Iolaus frown.
"Next time we have problems, you know...Talk to me instead of running off to join some stupid war. We can talk and work things out you know. You don't have to go and get yourself almost killed to get my attention, because you have it all the time."
Iolaus looked away, staring through the opened shutters at a non-specific point in the radiant sky.
"You had doubts...don’t deny it! And when I said we should take a break from eachother, you couldn't get away fast enough."
The pain in Iolaus' voice brought tears to Hercules' eyes. A lonely teardrop traced its way down the hunter's cheek. The half-god ran his hand through his honey-coloured hair and sighed sadly.
"I didn't think you'd see it that way. I honestly thought you needed a short break from it all. And if I ever had a shadow of a doubt, it wasn't about loving you. I do love you, I always have. Loving you is easy, it's natural, it's like breathing. I'm sorry if I hurt you because I definitely never intended to. I would never deliberately hurt you, I'd rather poke out my eyes! I guess...we have to learn to confide in eachother, because I love you ...so much."
Iolaus lay his small callused hand against his lover's tanned cheek.
"Are you sure? Absolutely sure?"
Hercules smiled warmly and covered Iolaus' hand with his own larger one.
"As sure as night is dark and day is not."
Iolaus' face brightened with a brilliant joy that erased all traces of pain from his cerulean eyes. Hercules leaned over and took the small hunter in his arms before kissing him passionately but oh so tenderly. The blond warrior pulled back and smiled at his beloved.
"Thank the gods you're sure. These eyes are way too pretty to be poked out."
Hercules' laughter rumbled deep in his chest and he wrapped his arms around the strong beloved body, swearing to himself he would never let go.