A Strange Reflection

by Swiss
Author's notes: This was inspired in part by the HTLJ episode, "Media Culpa" when in the first scene Jason teases Hercules and Iolaus with his kingship. To me, it begged the question: What if the boys really were members of the court in Corinth? Under what circumstances would Jason be king?

Title: A Strange Reflection Author: Swiss (dragonswissarmyknife@hotmail.com) Characters: Iolaus, Hercules, Jason Challenge: #26 - Warrior Summary: What if the boys really were members of the court in Corinth? The boys play a different kind of warrior.

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Misty tendrils of expanding purplish smoke rose from a great bronze brazier, glowing dimly while the smolder snaked scented coils around monolithic pillars, making them look like cloud and ash more than stonework. The embers hissed black and blood against the metal, enough to reflect indistinctly on the rooms three occupants - a hazy light against skin, against leather the color of pitch.

And Jason's cold crown, gleaming gold.

The young man sat lounging on the great throne of Corinth, absently stroking the circlet in his hands instead of placing it on his head. His grin curled, a little wildly, and laughed softly to himself as he looked at it.

Beside him, his towering friend stood leaning into the mottled granite of the obelisk, brooding absently while he fingered the stubs on his heavy leather jerkin. Hercules was at that awkward stage of almost adulthood, his voice deeper and his hair darker - sloughing a youth's lanky height in favor of a more impressive breadth. His developing muscles bulged under copper and gold bangles and inked symbols. And though his arms were weapons alone, a heavy club reinforced with rings of iron was propped just within the reach of his hands.

The last person in the throne room stood at the far edge of the dais, as though subconsciously putting as much distance between he and the others as possible. He lacked the neat obsidian trappings that were marks of power and some wealth. Instead he looked roguish, wild, and tousled. A flat eastern talisman was weaved into his longish hair, braided up the sides to keep it away from his face. He was still boyish, slimmer and smaller than his companions. The room's shadows hung close to him obligingly, and his body instinctively inclined towards the dark lines streaked across the marble.

His lord watched him discreetly. However waiflike and unprepossessing he appeared, he knew the ragged, rough-hewn patchwork would be a labyrinth of hidden weapons and little deaths.

Cheekily, the ruler turned to his right hand, breaking through the younger man's gloomy silence, "Planning you're next prank against the gods, Hercules?" he asked.

The brown, dark faced demi-god soured. "They aren't pranks," he rumbled. But then, taking the bait, his lip turned upward, "And yeah. Hephaestus is supposed to have a shrine left in outside of Mycenae. I was thinking about stopping by."

Wryly, Jason heaved a dramatic sigh, "Funny. You used to be so close."

Sharply, Hercules snapped, "It's possible he took offense to my borrowing a couple of weapons for our army." A false pout, "Or perhaps it was the demolished alters and workshops. Unreasonable, really. Apollo, Ares, and all the others - it wouldn't have been fair to play favorites among brothers."

"What about Artemis' shrines? Demeter, Athena, Hestia, Aphrodite?

The feral grin worked it's way across his face, "I like to think I don't discriminate among those I hate."

From the periphery, Iolaus cast a look at them that Jason interpreted as more of the same paled, dying outrage. Perhaps it was some illness at their audacity, or how little he believed the words matched the friend he knew. He'd always retained some little kind of quiet fear or respect for the gods, despite their history. He protested their blasphemy especially strongly for Aphrodite - and Artemis, his once-patron. Though vainly.

"Will we never hear the end of that?" Jason referred with exasperation to the demi-god's seemingly insatiable need to attain the attention of the gods and Zeus. For years he'd had to listen to the endless, increasingly mad ranting about it, the reckless endeavors. It was boring.

"Hey, I do it on my own time. It doesn't affect my duty to his majesty's throne," Hercules spoke the last words with a rolling lilt of deep amusement, sarcasm, or both.

Jason rolled his eyes, managing to look both cross and dignified. As though to say, this was what became of having a close friendship with his advisor. No respect. And he grinned, wolfish.

Softly, the blond broke in, "You're both sick."

It disrupted the rhythm of their dialogue, and both men regarded the third coldly. Jason dropped him a command laden, "Don't be so sullen," and then turned away as the other subdued to a silent contemplation of his soft boots. Iolaus.

If Hercules was his friend in this world, then Iolaus was the one who had been. He'd used that loyalty once, and his pseudo-kindness to the bastard peasant had paid off hugely. Schoolboy chums had to be worth something, after all. Though he found it ironic that when it had come to the coup and bloodshed, it was the former thief who balked.

He remembered one of the many times he had explained it. It was a game, he had soothed, sweeping oily locks back from a smooth, smirking face. Hercules had been settling into a mood, the sullen and distracted demigod, and had been no help. So Jason had swung a casual hand around the smaller man's shoulders, undeterred when he flinched and then stilled, scowling.

And then he'd reminded Iolaus of all the good reasons to play.

He had Hercules after all, even if all other things failed. And this Iolaus - his warrior, thief, interrogator, infiltrator, assassin, and spy - all those were trumped by Iolaus-friend. He'd proved he was committed to that, up to and including his life. No, the dark youth considered. In games and war, the hunter wasn't going anywhere.

"You're always such a sulking killjoy, Iolaus," Jason spoke to him with droll unkindness, "And after all, you did help place this in my hands." He rolled the dully shining circlet, gentling the symmetric jewels with the pads of his thumbs. It was cool under his fingertips, and he held it delicately. He was still getting used to the weight of it. Grinning at his dull reflection toothily, he admired it. The burnished metal was a victory.

And they owed it all to a very capable thief.

Blanched, Iolaus stood with his arms crossed over his stomach. He'd looked like that, once, when Jason had first cornered him in a dim passage of the academy and bound him to help take his father's crown. Iolaus had looked at him with that same sick, shocked expression, but with wider, less shadowed eyes. Jason had called him on his loyalty. And he'd answered.

"You act as though I stole something," he continued. Then, possessive and intense, "This throne is my birthright."

"Yes," Iolaus hissed, quietly defiant. "But you shouldn't be on it yet, should you?"

Ice, coming violence. Hercules threw a deliberately careless hand in front of his majesty's shoulder, though even that miniscule gesture was a barrier. He smiled, soothed, "Ah, but things do change, don't they, friends?"

And Jason settled back, the picture of ruffled royalty been mollified. "Yes, they do. And now things are as they should be. We have the southern Peloponnese, my Right Hand has the strength of a god. And then...my faithful agent." A punishing smile, "For the sticker situations."

A low swear echoed in the empty chamber, followed by Iolaus' embittered, sulky, "Why do I -"

To his credit, Hercules tried once again to intervene. He offered, "Because you're so wiry and evasive and -"

"And damn good at it!" Jason snapped seriously, darkly rebuking, "Do you think a king should ignore...particular talent?" His whole face twisted on the emphasis.

Iolaus flinched away from the connotation, and Hercules frowned. It was a little too deliberately cruel, a little too close to a reality he knew Iolaus didn't wait to face. "Jason," he said quietly.

But the intimidating figure merely reclined deeper into the draping shadows of his acquired throne, chin set and unrepentant. In this world, he was the king. And besides, the runt was altogether too sensitive.

Iolaus lurked at the furthest edge of the stairs, fingering the edge of one of his smaller blades, more a fidgeting behavior than an appraising one.

Meanwhile. Jason watched as Hercules jerked a heavy oaken table closer with one hand, drooping with a huge heavy parchment. Leaning over it, they looked upon the detailed geography with a measure of almost delight. Hercules had made it out himself.

"This is very good," Jason commented appreciatively, pointing to an area of interest. They studied the figures and layout.

Iolaus sneering something derisive.

"Do you want to be demoted to jester?" Jason snapped.

Coldly, the hunter returned, "How can you even talk like that?"

The demi-god sighed, "Iolaus, it's not as if this," he gestured to the map, dotted with little villages and towns, "Really matters in the long run."

"War and pillage isn't a game."

"It isn't any different than the war games at Chieron's Academy." Jason was so tired of this.

Iolaus said, "I never liked them either."

It was too much. Cruelly, Jason replied, "You mean you were never any good at them. But that's alright. Because in this world, I tell you what to do, and You. Do. It."

Feral light, a barely perceptible bristling, "You wanna try and make me?"

Hercules sighed. Jason was getting the cold flat look in his eyes again. And Iolaus spoke too much. Taking on the air on one acting out of a lingering comradery for a very old friend, he tried once more to soften the imminent reprimand. "Don't be such a spoilsport, Iolaus," he said, his warning hidden under the joking, kindred smile he shared with his king. It cleared the worst of the dark from Jason's clouded face, and together they scoffed, laughing.

"At least I'm not playing dress up with my daddy's kingship."

Foolish, unwise. Though Iolaus had never been one with much control over his mouth. Beyond petty distraction, Jason turned fully to face his recalcitrant follower. Danger radiated off him, irrespective of Hercules' belabored sigh. "Hey," he growled. "No matter what you think, it would do you well to remember who you're speaking to. And whose kingdom you're standing in."

Slyly, Iolaus asked, "You going to call the guard, Jason?"

Ire put him beyond reason, made his words snappy and deliberately malicious, "I could! And then have them drag a particularly annoying, stunted delinquent back to prison were you belong."

"Jason!" Hercules clipped with outrage, too late.

Iolaus was in a state of wide-eyed boiling. Tightly, he muttered, "Fine, Majesty. I can let myself out." Turning on a heel, he marched down the long, empty audience chamber. Both remaining men winced at the resounding slam as the heavy oak doors slammed shut.

The towering demi-god actually glared at him, "Well," he said. "That might have gone better."

"Oh, he'll get over it. He always does." Jason fiddled with the crown, almost dropping it. His face contorted anew at the memory of the crashing cacophony the doors had made. Now if only he hadn't alerted...

"JASON!" the familiar voice of his steward echoed shrilly amidst the stone-work.

Busted.

The would-be tyrannical king rolled his eyes, finally shoving on the crown only to have it slide down too low over his forehead. The voice belonged to Dareios - the glorified baby-sitter of half-grown princelings.

"JASON! What are you doing in here? You know you're not supposed to play with your vagrant little friends in the throne room, especially when you're father isn't here. Ah! You take that crown off THIS INSTANT. And what is this censor doing in here?"

He looked to Hercules for aid, but the younger man was distracted by his complicated garment. Scratching irritably at his skin beneath the studded leather, the youth grimaced, "I think I'm allergic to nickel."

And Jason sighed, not wondering that between Hercules and Iolaus they could never make it through this game. The two just weren't cut out for careless evil.

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