Chapter Text

And foes bear arms to the Doors of Death.

”Why did you try to save me?” Jason asks.

The Bane of the Olympians kneels beside the River Phlegethon, cupping its fiery water into his hands. He gulps the water down and burps, childlike, wiping at his mouth with his palm.

The Bane shrugs. “Falling into Tartarus seemed like a shitty way to die,” he explains. “Wouldn’t wish that fate on anyone.” 

Jason’s eyes flick over the Bane, appraising. Across from him is the harbinger of ruin, the lost hero, the Torchbearer of the Apocalypse, the Fire-Wielder, the weapon of Gaea that is destined to destroy the world. But he is different than Jason expected. He looks young. Younger than Jason, even. The Bane of the Olympians has a baby face. 

“We’re supposed to be enemies,” Jason points out. “You’re supposed to hate me.” 

The Bane laughs. It is dark, and without humor. “Gee, thanks for the reminder. Sorry I tried to do something decent, I guess.” 

Jason narrows his eyes. He watches as the Bane rubs at his eye with the heel of his palm, studying the Bane’s silent profile. 

Jason had been warned, before his fight with the Bane, not to underestimate him. He had been told that the Bane was a vessel of chaos, a creature of anger and violence, a force of nature capable of exacting great damage when he put his mind to it. But when they fought for the Athena Parthenos he showed Jason mercy. Jason doesn’t understand why he would do that, or why he would endanger himself in an attempt to rescue Jason. It doesn’t make sense. 

Out of nowhere, the Bane asks: “You got a name?”

Jason regards him evenly. “It’s Jason.”

The bane nods, fixing the upturned collar of his jacket. “Jason,” he repeats, and the name sounds different in his mouth. “Cool. I’m Leo.”

“I know,” Jason says. He was debriefed on him: Leo Valdez, the destroyer. Son of Hephaestus. Cursed. 

The Bane eyes him, curious. “Well, Jason, if we want to avoid getting turned into monster meat we should probably stick together. And we should probably get moving before some dickwad finds us,” he proposes. 

Jason shifts from foot to foot, weighing his options. He doesn’t trust the Bane—he’s fated to be Jason’s enemy, after all—but going it alone seems like suicide, and Jason doesn’t plan on dying before he can end this war. So, he concedes: “Alright,” he says, thumbing the surface of IVLIVS in an unconscious gesture of self-comfort. 

He looks out at the landscape in front of them. Tartarus is different from what he expected. Just beyond the river Phlegethon’s banks are a wall of trees, each one steeple-high and reaching far into the reddened sky. Their trunks are contorted, strange, and their branches are unnaturally thick, borne down by their own weight so that their thinning fingertips are reaching for the ground. 

Strangely, it feels like fall. Browned leaves christen the ground below them and there is a chill in the air. Jason can see the puffs of his breath with each exhale. 

“Not what I expected,” the Bane remarks. He leans over the Phlegethon, coaching the fiery water into a plaid patterned thermos. “Thought there would be more fire and brimstone or whatever. Not this… woodland autumnal landscape.” He gestures vaguely. “You see any exit signs around here?”

Jason shakes his head. He tilts his head towards the heavens and mutters a prayer. 

And then he sees it: a flock of Stymphalian birds, flying overhead. 

“The monsters—they point the way,” he says, watching as the birds fly in the direction of the woods. He points to the flock for the Bane to see. “They’ll know where the Doors are. If we follow them, we’ll find our way out.”

The Bane snorts. “Great. Guess that means we’re heading into the creepy woods, huh?” 

Jason says nothing at that. He is about to tell the Bane that they should start moving, but before he can he senses something. There’s a change in the air. The hairs on the back of Jason’s neck stand up. 

“Do you have a weapon?” Jason asks. 

The Bane shakes his head. “Nope,” he answers, popping the p.

“Then stay behind me,” Jason instructs. He unsheathes IVLIVS and it unfolds, golden and gleaming, glinting against the dim light of Tartarus. He tests the familiar weight of it in his hand as he steadies himself.

Distantly, he realizes that protecting the Bane is sacrilege—it violates all that Jason has fought for, and to use IVLIVS to protect the weapon of Gaea is to desecrate it as well—but he and the Bane are on the same side, at least for now. Jason will use him to get through this hellscape and to close the Doors. After this, they will go back to their prescribed roles, and Jason will not have to worry about what any of this means. 

“Is something supposed to happen? Is that why you’re just standing there with your spear—“

“Look,” Jason says, eyes steely as he focuses on the dark figures at the edge of the woods. 

“Ah,” the Bane says before shifting into some kind of fighting stance. “So. We’ve got company.”

Three men emerge from the thick wood. The one at the forefront is one that Jason recognizes—Lycaon, King of the Wolves. He is in his human form for now, his blonde hair matted and greased against his scalp. His pale skin is littered in scars, and he wears a thick vest of mismatched furs—trophies, Jason remembers, and shudders slightly. Lycaon is an abomination: one that Jason had killed not too long ago. But Jason had barely been able to vanquish him then, and that was with a lot of help. He does not like his odds now. 

Lycaon’s mouth twists into a shark-thin smile. “Heard that you took a little spill,” he calls out. “Thought that we could be the first to provide you with a personal welcome to Hell.”

Jason adjusts his grip on IVLIVS. He lets his fingertips crackle with electricity, blue sparks running up his blade. “Step aside,” Jason commands, his voice hard-pressed like a knife. 

“No can do, little pup. I’ve got a bone to pick with you,” Lycaon says. He tilts his focus over to the Bane. “Hmmm,” he hums. “How interesting.”

“What?” The Bane raises an eyebrow. “Like what you see?” 

Lycaon’s lip curls into a sneer as he and his pack stalk closer to them. Jason tightens his grip on his blade.

“I know you. You’re the Fire-wielder,” Lycaon says, and he moves in a slow diagonal as if to flank them. The other two lycanthropes move in the opposite direction, and Jason keeps a careful eye on each of them. “What are you working with this soldier for? He’ll kill you the first chance he gets.” 

Jason shifts, uneasily. Without turning his head, he eyes the Bane, trying to analyze his expression. He looks—indignant. 

“Leave us alone,” the Bane says, squaring up to Lycaon. He is much smaller than the lycanthrope: he is a whole head shorter than him, and is significantly less solidly built. But the air is growing hotter, simmering around him. Jason can see the way the heat moves around the Bane, distorting his image ever so slightly. 

Lycaon could tear the Bane’s skull from his spine, could rip an arm out of his socket with his jaws, but at this moment Jason feels as though they are evenly matched. 

“What would Gaea think if she found out her pet was protecting Storm himself?” Lycaon says. 

The other two lycanthropes begin to circle around Jason. Jason is beginning to see their strategy. He watches how they shift gears, determining the threats the Jason and the Bane pose: the two lycanthropes have oriented themselves against him, and Lycaon will most likely hold off the Bane from attempting to protect Jason. Lycaon is still killing time—just taunting the Bane, trying to determine how powerful he is, and whether or not he can convince him to abandon Jason. 

“Gaea won’t find out,” the Bane answers. He lifts his chin. The line of his shoulders, the tilt of his jaw, is a threat.

“How is that?” Lycaon asks, which is his mistake, because the Bane answers by shoving a flaming hand against the King’s throat. 

The other two lycanthropes transform into wolves and they pounce towards Jason. Jason orients himself so that he is only facing one, keeping that wolf in between him and the other. The wolf snaps at IVLIVS, attempting to break Jason’s spear where he jabs it towards him. He misses IVLIVS as Jason begins to swipe at him, but is able to pounce on him. 

The wolf pushes him down with his front paws, pinning him to the ground. It leaves Jason winded, the air in his lungs evaporating as his head thuds against the dirt. The wolf’s claws tear into Jason’s shoulders. 

“Bye bye, little hero,” the wolf says. He moves to bite Jason’s head off but before he can, Jason electrifies his entire body. The wolf yelps, a high-pitched whine that pierces Jason’s eardrums. As he moves off of Jason, Jason reaches for his spear and shoves it through the wolf’s side. 

The wolf howls as Jason turns the spear inside it, shoving it deeper into its flesh. And then: the other wolf lunges towards Jason, and before he can shift out of the way it captures his arm in his jaws. It bites down, hard, tearing flesh from bone. There is a sickening crack—a wet ripping sound—and Jason howls. 

He breathes through the white-hot pain that sears through him and does the only thing he can still do: he unleashes a burst of lightning, channeling it through his arm and through his spear. The wolf that he had wounded slumps over, falling half on-top of Jason before turning to dust. The ash coats his face, flies into his nose, and Jason splutters. 

The other wolf has recoiled. It hisses, its tongue drooping out of its mouth, and Jason can see the jagged burn marks left behind by his lightning. Jason pushes himself up to his feet, ignoring the limp way that his arm hangs, like a ragdoll, barely held together. 

He steadies himself, pointing the tip of his spear towards the wolf that is circling him. 

Jason is about to attack when the Bane beats him to it—a white-hot stream of fire assaults the wolf, burning it alive as it yelps and eventually turns to dust. 

The Bane makes his way over to Jason. “You okay?” he starts to ask, before seeing Jason’s arm. “Oh. No you’re not.” 

Jason is shaking from the knife-sharp pain that runs in silver-quick streams up his arm. His breathing is shallow and he can hardly stand. 

Despite this, he swings IVLIVS so that the tip of his spear presses against the Bane’s throat.

The Bane’s eyes widen in surprise. 

“Why are you doing this?” Jason asks, voice ragged. 

The Bane moves a hand, slowly, as if to remove the spear-tip from his throat. In response, Jason digs the blade in deeper. He’s broken skin: blood wells up, the red stark against the gold of his blade. 

“Doing what?” the Bane asks, his brows furrowed. 

“Trying to save me. Helping me,” Jason breathes out. “You heard Lycaon. Gaea is your master, and she would not want this.” 

The Bane’s face is impassive, his eyes dark. “I’m just trying to survive this place. Same as you are.” 

“We’re supposed to be enemies,” Jason repeats. His hands are shaking. Surely the Bane can tell, because his spear shakes with him. “You’re supposed to kill me.” 

And I’m supposed to kill you , Jason thinks, remembering his orders. Retrieve the Athena Parthenos. If you encounter the Bane, eliminate him before he can eliminate you.

The Bane swallows against Jason’s spear. Jason watches as his jaw tenses. “Didn’t remember reading that part of the prophecy,” he says, as if it’s that simple. “I’m not your enemy, Jason.” 

“You are the bane of the Olympians. You are the man of lawlessness, the harbinger of destruction, who opposes and exalts himself against every God and everything good,” Jason recites. 

The bane snorts. “Right,” he says. “Well, that was neat. I almost saw your wind up string go, then.”

Jason’s face crumples into a frown. He shudders through his pain, fights the urge to lower his spear. 

“I don’t want to die here and I’m guessing neither do you,” the Bane continues. “It’s as simple as that. We make it to the Doors and then…whatever. Prophecy bullshit, yada yada yada.” The Bane gestures vaguely. 

Jason’s eyes narrow as the Bane reaches into his toolbelt but he does not pull out a weapon. Instead, he has retrieved the plaid patterned thermos from earlier. He offers it to Jason in spite of the blade still pressed against his throat. 

A hot burst of agony twists throughout Jason and in that moment his survival instincts win out against any sense of righteousness he may have had. He lowers his spear and reaches for the thermos, gulping down the fiery water as fast as he can. 

He can feel the way his arm remakes itself—the way flesh and bone stitch back together, the bloody tangle of his arm and shoulders returning to some semblance of wholeness—and relief settles through him as the pain echoes and fades. All that remains is guilt. It twists uneasily through Jason as he returns the thermos to the Bane and sheathes IVLIVS. 

The Bane eyes the emptied thermos, inspecting its insides. 

“I guess that settles that.” He shrugs. “Time for a refill,” he says, pointedly looking away from Jason, shaking the thermos as he wanders back over to the Phlegethon. 

Jason watches his back as he goes. As he runs his hand over the newly-formed scars on his arm, a prickling sensation grows just behind Jason’s ribs. Jason recognizes the feeling for what it is: regret.