Hearts That Wake

Author’s Note: This story answers the August 2002 challenge, which was to write a story including the following items: watermelon, goathead stickers or tumbleweeds, sand mantas ("Mercenary" or "War Wounds") lemonade stand, eunuch, chariot race, bubble bath, "Ow", Egyptian waving palm fronds, dung beetle. My kind thanks to whomever whispered this tale in my ear so distinctly. I’ll be sure to relay any comments/criticisms :)

I’ll be the first one to admit that I’m not a nice guy. But that’s not entirely my fault. It was how I was brought up. My mother died when I was very young, and my father raised me in a cold, mechanical manner to be a tough kid. When I was old enough, he sent me to the Academy. It was drilled into my head, day in and day out, that a soldier has to be strong and fierce and hard. There was zero room for compassion, mercy or weakness. Especially weakness.

But then again, it wasn’t as if they were telling me to believe in something that I didn’t feel was right. I embraced this doctrine fully. I was strong, a man to be feared. A man that despised the weak and the cowardly, and who dealt with them accordingly. A powerful, imposing figure with a head for strategy, the skills to back it up, and the willingness to make sure that no one dared cross me. The few that had ever tried were used as examples. A hard lesson, to be sure, but one that everyone else around me learned, and learned well. Some might argue, and I guess I can’t really disagree, that I have a bit of a cruel streak. How else would I have won so much favor with the Sovereign? Enough to be appointed as his general, his right hand man.

Any remaining bits of compassion that I still might have had left were completely obliterated when I accepted the position. In the years that I served him, I was witness to, and often a willing participant in, the Sovereign’s warped version of “trial and punishment”. A mere bout of boredom was enough to send him into a murderous rage, snatching an innocent victim to accuse of some petty transgression. I would watch him, sprawled across his throne, his eyes glazing over as he dreamed up some new manner of execution. Of course I knew that these poor bastards hadn’t committed any sin, especially not one worthy of death. But it didn’t matter. I would look at them cowering before me, whining and blubbering and begging for mercy, and my heart closed to them.

“Take it like a man!” I would snarl, growing angry at the pathetic display. Weakness is the enemy, a voice in my head would thunder. And I would gladly carry out whatever sick death the Sovereign had designed for them.

Things might have gone on that way forever. Until one day, when I inadvertently discovered that I still had a scrap of humanity buried under all the hate and anger. And it came as more of a surprise to me than anyone.

It had all started as a joke. A bad joke, instigated by yours truly. Many was the night when I would stand alone in the darkened hallway, wishing I could go back and stop the words from leaving my mouth. If this whole thing had never happened, everything would have been fine. I could have carried on as my usual ruthless self, sleeping the night away like a baby. Instead of lying awake with my soul in torment, questioning who I am and what I have become and what was left for me now. For I can’t go back to the way it was. Not anymore.

But I digress. It all began when the Sovereign got an idea for a new method of dealing with those that displeased him. He made a deal with a swarthy Egyptian trader for a huge, fierce tiger with a fondness for human flesh, the most ferocious man-eater ever to come out of the East. A team of men were brought in to build a pit to contain the beast, and they constructed it right in the throne room, a big, gaping hole in the middle of the floor. Of course, above the pit was a lavish viewing area, so that all could enjoy the show of the big cat ripping apart some poor farmer that couldn’t pay his exorbitant taxes.

The Sovereign was beside himself with demented glee, eager to try out his new execution pit. But unfortunately, the tiger never survived its journey to Greece. It had died on the ship, and when the Sovereign realized the animal was dead, he flew into a predictable rage. The delivery men were executed on the spot. Lucky them, it was quick and painless. The Sovereign’s fury brought upon impulsiveness, and at that moment, dead took precedence over torture. At his orders, I sent a troupe of men out to burn the ship that it had come on into the sea, along with the crew. And as he raged about the room, I had more men remove the dead carcass, which they did quickly, ducking flying projectiles that were being bandied about by their enraged leader. Finally he began to calm down, and as his tantrum ceased I felt it was safe to speak.

“I think this is the problem,” I told him, examining the box the animal had been crated in. It was big enough for the fully grown tiger to stand up and turn around in, but didn’t leave room for much else. The box was solid metal, with only a few narrow slats on the top to let in a little light and air. All in all, it was quite an inhospitable enclosure. “I mean, look at this thing. Nothing could survive in there for long. Especially not over such a long sea voyage.”

His interest was piqued, and he approached, hunkering down on his heels to peer into the dark confines of the box.

“It’s not fit for animals,” I continued. “It’s not even fit for your pet jester.”

I shot a haughty glance to the small man who was cowering in the corner, trying to avoid bringing attention to himself. It appeared to be his life’s ambition, trying to make himself invisible. Which conversely had the effect of making me want to draw him into the light.

I hated the little fool. Hated the sight of him. He embodied the very weakness that I fought against. Nothing but a pathetic, simpering, cowering excuse of a man. And he was ALWAYS around. The Sovereign hardly went from one part of the castle to the next without his little pet in tow. I could never figure out why he kept him so long. Sure, the jester could be mildly amusing and he made a great punching bag, but that got old real quick for me. And I have a much greater attention span than the Sovereign. But Iolaus had been with him even longer than I had. I knew it wasn’t out of any feelings of attachment. The Sovereign didn’t have it in him to care about anyone’s life, except his own. He didn’t have friends, and he was incapable of love. All of the affectionate terms and friendly hugs were doled out in a mocking or crushing manner. And he gave absolutely no indication that he cared one way or the other if his little pet lived or died. Yet, he kept the jester close to him, and was careful to keep the abuse from being fatal.

I would have loved to have done away with the little coward. It would have been a mercy killing, anyway. What kind of a life did he have? Chained to a brutal monarch, forced to entertain him at will. Forever beaten down, both physically and emotionally. He was nothing but a dung beetle, sentenced to a destiny of following the strong and dealing with the crap they dished out to him. I would have been doing the guy a favor by putting my sword through his cowardly heart. But as it turned out, I didn’t have to use my blade. My words were enough to suffice.

“Now that’s an interesting proposition,” the Sovereign said thoughtfully, stroking his beard with his hand. I could almost see the wheels turning in his demented mind.

“What is?”

“I suggest we try a little experiment,” he grinned, a cold, evil light shining from his eyes. “Let’s put my little buddy in this box for however long that sea journey took. When his time is up, if he’s still alive, I won’t kill our trader friend who arranged this deal. I’ll just turn him into a eunuch.”

I could see the little man start in fear out of the corner of my eye. His frightened trembling disgusted me, and I was all too happy to grab him by the scruff of the neck and drag him over to the box. He didn’t resist, having learned long before I ever got to the castle that it was utterly pointless, and he succumbed to my iron grasp without so much as an “ow”. I kicked open the small door to the box and shoved him roughly inside, with only the heavy lingering musk of the dead cat to keep him company. With an ominous finality, the Sovereign closed the door to the box with a metallic clang, and the experiment was underway.

After the initial attack of panic, I suspect the little jester didn’t think his situation was too bad. Oh, he knew he was to be trapped in there for a long time, but I’m sure he figured it could have been worse. After all, he was much smaller than a fully grown tiger, and he had room to stretch out in the box and to sit up without hitting his head on the top. Maybe he was even glad at first, thinking that nobody could hurt him if he were locked away behind a wall of metal. Or maybe, he knew the Sovereign all too well and knew exactly what kind of torture he was in for.

All the endless weeks that he was trapped in the box, he was given nothing. Not a blanket to line the metal floor. Nothing to attend to his personal needs. And no food. Of course, he wouldn’t have survived long without water, so he was granted a few drops here and there. Sometimes, a cupful would just be dumped in on him. The kinder water bearers would wait until he scrambled up, pressing his mouth against one of the slats, and then try to trickle a little of the liquid over his cracked lips without spilling it or choking him. But nobody dared to defy the Sovereign’s orders that nothing but water be given to encased pet. Not after what had happened to the old seamstress.

She had been caught slipping thin slices of watermelon through the slats of the box to the jester. The Sovereign had been angered, but even he couldn’t directly execute a seventy year old woman. So, he had her banished instead. She was taken to the outskirts of the city and left in the desert. An old woman, all alone except for the tumbleweeds. It was a toss up as to which would finish her first. The scorching sun or the sand mantas. Later, I heard a rumor that the soldiers in charge of her punishment had killed her outright, sparing her a lingering, painful death. It was my duty to get to the bottom of these stories and take action against those that had defied direct orders, but I chose to let it slide. I may have been a hard bastard, but I’m not completely heartless.

After that, the Sovereign decreed that a guard was needed for his little pet. For after all, the conclusion of the experiment, and therefore the actions to be taken next, was dependant on controlled variables. People tampering with the conditions of the experiment could throw the whole thing off. So I put some of my men on rotating guard duty, monitoring the people coming in and out of the throne room and making sure the jester was not being given anything unsanctioned.

Not that there was much traffic to monitor. The servants quickly learned to hurry through, averting their eyes to the large metal box that had become the showpiece of the throne room. Even the members of the Sovereign’s entourage who had always enjoyed his demonstrations of cruelty found this particular stunt to be too much. People began finding any excuse to avoid the throne room, even if they couldn’t avoid the knowledge of the suffering that was going on there. But how could they be expected to stop it? No one had ever stood up to the Sovereign and lived to tell about it. And disobedience to such a degree would not result in a quick beheading. Such disrespect would undoubtedly buy a death fraught with such pain and torment as to make the box experiment seem like a vacation. So no one dared to come to the jester’s aid, although quite a few prayers were made to the gods, mostly asking that the pitiable man be granted a merciful death.

As for the Sovereign, he took ruthless delight in the experiment in the beginning. He would glower down at his cowering jester through the slats, issuing verbal barbs and psychological torments. Often, he took inhumane pleasure in arranging an elaborate feast to be brought into him, knowing what the aroma of roast quail would do to the starving man. One day I was summoned in to find he’d set up a lemonade stand right next to the box. He’d brought two children in from the street to run it. The young urchins were terrified, their eyes huge in their grimy little faces. But they obediently followed his orders, peddling their wares in shrill little voices as the staff dutifully came forward, on their master’s command. I don’t know what he did with the children when he finally tired of the fun. But then again, I don’t want to know.

After a couple of weeks, the Sovereign’s patience waned and he turned his short attentions to other matters. The little man in the box was all but forgotten, except to the men assigned to guard him. One night, I found myself taking over the task, relieving an ill guard. I sat there in the dark throne room in the dead of night, watching as the silvery slice of moonlight shining through the window made its way across the floor. The castle was silent and slumbering, the night peaceful. But then I heard something. It was very faint, and I got up and approached the box.

The jester was singing. Not a raucous tavern ditty or a ribald song strictly for laughs. It was one I’d never heard before, about the glory of the true love between a hero and his damsel in distress. For a moment, I was completely stunned. I was a free man in a lofty position and I didn’t have it in my heart to sing. It amazed me that this man, who was starving and neglected and suffering, still had spirit left to do so. I moved closer, to hear him better, but he heard me approaching and immediately went quiet.

“No, don’t stop,” I murmured, sitting on the floor next to the box. “Keep singing.”

He was silent for a few moments, then he began again, louder than before. His voice was pure and sweet, not the “funny” voice that he had always used when singing his ridiculous songs for the Sovereign’s entertainment. I closed my eyes and got caught up in the story, his passion carrying me beyond the castle walls out into the dark, cool forest of his tune. When he finished, I snapped back to reality, a bit disturbed that he had stirred up a hint of emotion in me. I stood up, dusting off my uniform with my hands, and went back to my post by the door.

After my shift was over, I retired to my quarters for a few hours’ shut eye. But my mind was troubled, and I felt restless, so I gave up on sleep and went to see one of the courtesans that the Sovereign kept at the castle. Not something I frequently did, but I was hoping it would take my mind off other things I knew I shouldn’t be thinking about. The girl that I chose was well trained and experienced, and she knew just how to coyly handle a cranky soldier. She convinced me to join her in a scented bubble bath, where she treated me very well indeed. But still, my thoughts kept drifting back to that damn jester. No warm baths for him. No lovely young wench to pour sweet wine down his throat, feed him grapes, work out the tension in his shoulders, or give him that ultimate pleasure. No soft bed to collapse in. Not even light to see by, except what filtered in through the slats in that damn box. Never before had I even given a thought to what those the Sovereign had sentenced must be suffering. Why now was my mind so troubled over what this little fool that I’d always despised was going through? Maybe it was because I was the one who had sentenced him, however inadvertently. It had been my suggestion, and one that I was powerless to stop.

That night, I left the warm, inviting bed of my concubine and went back to the throne room, offering to spell the guard on duty. He was a little surprised, but he wasn’t going to turn down the chance for a night off and quickly accepted, hurrying away before I could change my mind. Asking myself what in Tartarus I was doing there, I sat back down and waited. And again, when the castle had fallen silent and still, he began to sing. A sweet, melancholy song about two ill-fated lovers. I listened to him, realizing that these songs were the only sounds he had made during his entire confinement. He hadn’t broken down. And he hadn’t begged for anything. Not to be let out, not for food, not even for so much as a damp scrap of cloth. I started thinking that maybe he wasn’t so weak after all. When he finished his tune, I got up and approached the box, trying to see him through the slats but it was too dark.

“Why do you sing these songs?” I asked him. When only silence greeted my ears, I gentled my tone a bit. “I’m not going to punish you for it. I’d just like to know why you do it.”

“I guess because I like to,” he admitted hesitantly, his voice a bit muffled by his prison.

His answer confirmed it in my mind. He wasn’t broken. There was still something left inside of him. Something pure and strong that the Sovereign hadn’t managed to crush. Something removed from the beatings and the abuse and the torture. Something free.

“Do you want anything?” I said abruptly. It was a stupid question. I couldn’t give him anything, and he knew it. So he asked for the only thing he was allowed.

“Could I have some water, please?”

The water in the bucket in the corner of the room was warm and stale. I went out to the well and drew up a fresh bucket of clean, cold water and brought him some in a mug. It was inevitable, but I tried my best to get the water to him without spilling it on top of him. He didn’t seem to mind, though, and slurped greedily at the liquid. When he’d had enough, he moved away from the slats, sitting back down in his prison, and actually thanked me.

“Sing another one,” I ordered him, moving back to my post by the door. “Something without such a tragic ending this time.” And he did.

It was a relief for me when a skirmish broke out on the border of our land. Turned out just to be a rag tag army of peasants trying to make a stand, something that was beneath my involvement. But I went anyway, out to the front lines to command my soldiers personally. It was something new to think about, to occupy my mind and get my thoughts away from that damned jester. Though I knew better, I was letting myself become involved in his plight. I had lost my objectivity, and what it left me with were feelings of... Well, feelings of any kind were bad in my line of work. No point in trying to identify them. It was better to just lose myself in battle, and get my head back on straight.

Of course, those poor idiots never had a chance. We slaughtered them. But after the fighting was over, I kept my men on the border for days, patrolling and monitoring the area for any more signs of resistance. But eventually I couldn’t stall any longer. We returned to the castle, and I gave my report to the Sovereign, who was pleased. I had told myself that once I got back, I would no longer concern myself with the affairs of the jester. But that night, I found myself creeping back down those dark corridors to the throne room. I waited, but the only sounds I heard were the snores of the sleeping guard by the door.

I did not enter the room. There was a possibility that he was dead, and that was something I didn’t want to face. Or, there was a possibility that his spirit had finally broken, and he no longer had the heart to sing, which would have been even worse. Instead I gathered up a few scrolls and went to my quarters. The calculations I came up with told me that the little fool still had three days left in the box. Three more days, and his imprisonment would be over. If it wasn’t already too late.

The next night I entered the throne room and rapped gently on the top of the box.

“Hey,” I whispered. “Are you all right in there? Do you want some water?”

Only silence. I strained my ears, but I could hear nothing, not even the sounds of breathing.

“Hang in there,” I told him, not sure if he could hear me or not. “You’ll be out soon.”

I talked with a few of the regular guards, and they confirmed that the jester hadn’t made a peep in the last few days. Nor had he stirred at all, not even to rise and take water. It didn’t sound good. I was starting to believe that when we pulled him out, we would be pulling out his lifeless corpse.

When his time was finally up, I went to the Sovereign and told him his forgotten experiment was finished. He was completely unconcerned, more worried about attending the chariot races. But when I reminded him that the trader’s fate was still hanging in the balance, dependent upon whether or not the jester was still alive, his interest grew considerably. He led the way to the throne room and bade me to open the box. I pulled the little man out, and I don’t know if I was more happy or horrified to see that he was breathing.

“He’s still alive,” I reported, hoping that nobody noticed the slight tremor I couldn’t keep from my voice.

“Really?” The Sovereign approached, looking down at his jester with new interest. “My little buddy is tougher than I thought. Maybe we’d better put him back in there. After all, the point of the experiment was to see how long he could last.”

“Do you really want to put him back?” I asked incredulously. The man was still alive, but he wouldn’t be for much longer. His breathing was so shallow it was almost imperceptible, and his pulse was sluggish and erratic.

“No,” the Sovereign answered dismissively after a moment’s consideration. “It’s starting to smell in here. Just get him out of here, and then you can help me pay a visit to my trader friend. We have a little unfinished business to conduct.”

I’m a healer. I have to tell myself that from time to time, because its an easy thing to forget here. Most of the Sovereign’s victims never make it that far as to need my services. More often than not, my knowledge of medicine is used to inflict pain and torture. So I have to keep reminding myself that I’m a healer, trained in the art of relieving human suffering. But I’m trapped here, just like everyone else, without a choice, forced to submit to the whims of a madman. I spend most of my time shut up in my quarters, hiding from the violent world that makes up the opposite wing of the castle. Anyone that actually needs my legitimate help knows where to find me. And the Sovereign is content to leave me be, until he needs somebody maimed, mutilated, or poisoned.

Like that poor Egyptian trader. I was summoned to pay a visit to him, not told what was to be done, but I knew I could leave my bag of healing herbs at home. From the conversation they had, I figured out that the man had stiffed the Sovereign on some kind of deal. Not a minor transgression, and the trader knew it. Anybody with an ounce of sense knew to fear the Sovereign, especially if he felt he’d been double crossed. The man swore that it had all been a mistake and pleaded for the Sovereign to spare him, offering him anything he asked in return.

“How about this?” The Sovereign held up a beautiful clay jar. It was brightly painted with the image of some dog-headed figure, one of their gods I imagine, surrounded by Egyptians waving palm fronds. It was glazed with something, giving the paint a brilliant sheen. All in all, a gorgeous piece, and obviously very expensive.

“It’s yours,” the man babbled, relief written all over his face. “With my compliments.”

The Sovereign nodded and turned as if he were leaving, but then stopped suddenly and turned back to face the trader.

“There’s just one more thing,” he said, a cruel smile creeping across his face. “I can’t take it empty. You have to give me something to put into it.”

And so I castrated the man. I tried to be as quick and clean as I could, but with nothing to deaden the pain first... I knew that the man’s crazed screams of agony would be haunting my dreams that night, and for many nights after.

The Sovereign left the trader’s shop, holding tightly to the jar, caressing it possessively as he chuckled to himself. I lingered a few steps behind, trying to wipe the blood from my hands, when the Sovereign’s general appeared at my elbow. In a few hushed whispers, he gave me the details of the sick “experiment” the Sovereign had performed on the jester and bade me to go and attend to him. We hurried back to the castle, and I rushed to the room of the poor, unfortunate man.

I couldn’t hold back a gasp of horror when I saw him. Over the years, I’d treated Iolaus numerous times for a whole host of injuries. The poor guy was the scapegoat of the entire castle, but the Sovereign in particular seemed to take a sadistic delight in torturing the timid man. But this time, he’d not only crossed the line, he’d circled all the way around to cross it again. The gods have mercy on his soul, he’d been starved and neglected to the point where he didn’t even look human anymore.

I gathered him in my arms, not a hard task since he weighed next to nothing, and carried him through the castle to my quarters, barking out orders to a few servants along the way. They brought buckets of hot water, and I bathed him gently, trying to take stock of how bad off he was. I cleaned and dressed the gaping sores on his skin, and got him settled into a warm, soft bed. One of the kitchen maids brought a mug of the weak broth I had asked for, and I managed to pour a little of it down his throat. Then there wasn’t much left to do but wait.

In the hours just before dawn, I answered the knock at the door to find the general standing there, holding a steaming mug and looking sheepish.

“I ran into one of the servants bringing this up here, and I told her I’d take it,” he explained, stepping hesitantly into the room. “How’s he doing?”

“How do you think he’d doing?” I snapped, taking the mug from his hands. “That maniac’s had him locked up in a box like an animal. I don’t even want to think about how long he’s had to last in those conditions. Tartarus has to be better than that! To tell you the truth, I can’t figure out how he’s even still alive.”

I looked back at the general and I was surprised to see something in his face. The hard, impervious mask he always wore had crumbled away. He looked... concerned, and even vaguely sorry.

“Right now his biggest worry is infection,” I told him in a gentler tone, stirring a few herbs into the mug of tea he’d brought. “He’s so weakened, its not going to be an easy fight. But if he can make it through that, he’ll probably be ok.”

“What can I do to help?”

I couldn’t understand what was going on. As far as I knew, the general had always hated Iolaus. In fact, I’d treated him a few times for injuries that the general had personally inflicted. I just couldn’t figure out what had brought about the change.

“You can hold him up,” I said after a moment. “I need to get this into him.”

The general carefully lifted the jester’s wasted body up and supported him against his chest, tilting back his head and holding him steady. With him in the proper position and both hands free, it was much easier to get the medicine down his throat. I’d been worried about accidently getting it in his lungs, a complication that he surely didn’t need, but it was much less a concern since I had help.

I figured the general would be on his way, but instead he made himself comfortable and dedicated himself to helping me care for our patient. Diligently, he wiped the fevered body down with cool, wet towels again and again. He assisted me in changing the dressings over the ugly sores, never flinching as I cut away the necrotic tissue and he very gently dabbed the healing salves on the wounds. With unwavering patience, he trickled fluids into Iolaus’ slack mouth, using the utmost care not to choke him. And once I even caught him with his head next to the jester’s ear, softly humming a melody to him.

Finally, I had to ask him why. He was a seasoned warrior, hardly a stranger to battle and death and suffering. I’d heard tales, and had even borne witness to a few incidents of him exacting the Sovereign’s brand of justice. It never seemed to bother him to bring down a torturous vengeance on an innocent head. And never before had he shown the slightest interest in the fate of the hapless jester. So, why now?

“I feel.... guilty,” he confessed wearily, running a hand over his face. “I’ve done so many horrible things to so many people, but I was always able to justify it before. But with him... His only crime was weakness, and now I’m not even sure that’s accurate. I think he’s stronger than anyone could have expected. How else could he have survived this long? He’s been through so much... and yet, there’s still no hate in his eyes. He just accepts, and he goes on. More than that, he LIVES. There’s still hope inside him. There’s still love. That died in me a long time ago.”

“I don’t know about that,” I whispered. “I don’t think you’d be here now if that were true.”

“It’s my fault,” he continued. “I gave the Sovereign the idea to do this to him. And what’s worse, I could have saved him. He had forgotten all about doing this. I could have gotten him out of there sooner. But instead, I abandoned him.”

“You couldn’t have helped him,” I tried to reason. “The Sovereign would have found out, and what he would have done to you, someone he trusts, would have been a thousand times worse. We are all prisoners here, doing what we can to survive.”

“Somehow, I just get the feeling that he wouldn’t have done it to me,” the general murmured, looking down at the emaciated face. His hand reached out, as if to brush away a stray curl, but he immediately pulled it back. “I have the feeling that he wouldn’t sacrifice an innocent’s life to save himself.”

“I don’t know why, but I think you’re right.”

“I can’t believe I’m telling you all this,” the general laughed humorlessly, the mask of imperviousness slipping back over his face. “I must be getting delirious from lack of sleep.”

“Why don’t you get some rest?” I urged, but he shook his head. Stifling a yawn, he dipped a towel into the basin of cool water and began bathing the jester once more.

Finally, all of our efforts paid off and the infection subsided and the fever broke. Iolaus woke for a few minutes the next day. He was a bit disoriented and as weak as could be, but he recognized me and managed to swallow a little broth before he fell back asleep. The general watched this from across the room, his arms crossed over his chest.

“I think he’s going to be all right,” I told him. He nodded, his face expressionless, and turned and left the room.

The healer answered the general’s knock.

“Haven’t seen you in awhile.”

“I know,” the general replied awkwardly. “I’ve been doing some thinking. How is he?”

“It’s going to take some time, but he’ll recover. Would you like to come in?”

“No. I just wanted to stop by and tell you that I’m leaving.”

“Leaving?” The healer looked at the other man in surprise. “Where are you going?”

“I’m not sure,” the general sighed. “All I know, is that little fool got to me somehow. And I can’t keep doing what I’m doing. I guess I just don’t have the heart to be a bully anymore.”

“Going out to battle injustice and protect the innocent?”

“Let’s not get carried away,” he grinned. “I may have realized that what I’ve been doing is wrong, but that doesn’t mean I’ve gone all warm and fuzzy all of a sudden.”

“Where will you go?”

“There’s a boat shipping out at dawn. I was thinking of trying my hand at sailing. At least I’ll be away from here, and I won’t have to torture innocents for the entertainment of a depraved mind. You two should think about leaving as well.”

“Nobody’s going to question the Sovereign’s right hand man,” the healer reminded him. “But the guards will never let Iolaus or I leave.”

“I could get you out,” the general offered. “You could come with me.”

“Iolaus is in no shape to be moved right now. And I don’t know if he’d go if he were. He has a loyalty to the Sovereign. I don’t understand it, but I think at one point, they cared about each other. Before the Sovereign was lost to madness. In a strange way, I think that he believes he’s protecting that maniac. Maybe trying to save him from himself.”

“There won’t be much to save,” the general said slowly. “The Sovereign’s begun ranting about taking on the gods. He wants to rule Olympus. I think he’s finally crossing the line from mad to complete, raving lunatic.”

“Maybe that will be his downfall, then, and we will all be free.”

“Maybe.” The general didn’t sound very convinced.

“Well, good luck to you, Jason,” the healer said, holding out his hand. “I hope you find whatever you’re looking for.”

“I’d settle for being able to sleep at night.” The general took the offered hand, shaking it firmly. “Take care of yourself, Goth.” He saluted, then turned and disappeared down the darkened corridor, humming softly to himself.

The healer sighed, closing the door to his quarters and going back to his patient. He pulled the blankets up over the sleeping man, tucking him in warmly.

“What is it about you, Iolaus?” he murmured under his breath. “You can find it in your heart to care about a heartless sadist. You’re the only one that the Sovereign lets even remotely close to him. And you can inspire a hardened general to give up his murderous ways. You know, I think that he was right. You are strong, more than anyone, even you, realizes. You’re a pure heart, in the midst of evil. Maybe that’s what it is.”

He was silent for a moment, studying the jester. In sleep, his features were peaceful and relaxed.

“Maybe you can even inspire me,” the healer whispered, before going back to his scrolls. It would be nice to be able to sleep at night, to find that peace that Iolaus had. Maybe the next time the Sovereign ordered him to use his skills to hurt, rather than heal, he would refuse. Or maybe he’d find the courage to try and leave. He’d long since thought that escaping and starting a new life was impossible. But if Iolaus could still hope, then it wasn’t too late for him.

He sat down at his table, pouring over his scrolls with a new energy, a familiar melody whistling from his lips.

Finis

Disclaimer: No tigers were neglected during the writing of this story, although a few sand mantas went hungry.

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