By Phantom Bard (J. Nakamura)

Jn401160@aol.com

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction, and is offered for non-profit entertainment. It may not be sold, may be downloaded for personal use only, and must contain this statement. The characters and concepts from the TV series Xena: Warrior Princess, including, Xena, Gabrielle, Ares, Atrius, Cyrene, Toris, Lyceus, the Fates, the Furies, etc., are the adaptations or creations and property of MCA/Universal, and Renaissance Pictures, (or whatever entity owns their legal rights at present). No malice is intended towards these characters and concepts. I wish to express my thanks to the creators of this outstanding production for sharing them with us for six seasons.

Warnings: This story contains depictions of violence, emotional turmoil, alcoholism, domestic dysfunction, and embarrassing situations, (someone has a potty accident), perhaps a bit in excess of what was presented in the TV series. As such, I would not recommend this story for the young or immature. There are spoilers and references to many episodes from the show, including, Sins of the Past, The Furies, Motherhood, Return of the Valkyrie, When Fates Collide, and A Friend in Need I.

Notes: This story elaborates on, but does not introduce, any characters to the Xenaverse. It does not make any speculations on the relationship, nor does it create situations that upset the canon of the show. Consider it a fill in the blank sorta tale.

The time frame is post Many Happy Returns, but proceeds A Friend in Need.

¤ Twenty-Six Years Before Sins of the Past ¤

Everyone with ears knew the village alarm had been raised. A bell had been ringing frantically, for almost a quarter candle mark, and they could hear people shouting. Now there were also screams and fast hoof beats approaching from the other end of the village. They were rapidly growing louder. Danger and urgency filled the family's hearts. The village had planned against such an invasion, but still, at the inn, their fear was so thick it could almost be seen. Even father was affected by it.

"Don't argue with me woman! Take the children and hide in the root cellar. Toris, you're with me! Let's go, NOW!"

Father's haste was making his replies to his wife's protests uncharacteristically gruff. She listened as her mother tried to keep her father from going out to meet the invaders, but he would hear nothing of it. He had been a warrior all his adult life. Now his home village was under attack and his own family was endangered. There was no greater threat that he could imagine. Though he had fought many enemies, in many places, this was the fight he had always known would be closest to his heart. The defense of his home and his own, fought against the predations of an evil warlord. It was a fight he would never leave to others. She'd listened to enough of her father's war stories to know her mother's objections would never sway him. It was his sense of honor.

"A warrior fights for the safety of those he loves. The village, the state, and the nation are just bigger versions of a man's family. Those who fight to kill the ones they hate become trapped in their own darkness, but the truly damned are those who fight just because they love to spill blood. Love, honor, and hope, these are worth fighting for." Her father had told her this many times, and she agreed. He was her first hero. Though as a warrior he worshipped Ares, the patron of soldiers, he had always fought with honor.

She saw that father had already buckled on his sword belt and he was moving towards the door. His heavy boots made his steps resound on the wooden floor. It had been a while since she'd heard those boots. She could remember being a little girl, when those boots, and the greaves that buckled over them, had seemed as tall as she was. Her father was a very tall man, and the boots came up to his knees. His sword actually had been longer than she was tall back then. Father had reached the door, but turned back for a moment to face his wife as she approached him. The expression on his face softened. For a moment they stared into each other's eyes, and then the tall man drew his wife to him and kissed her deeply. When he released her, she held her hand against his cheek for a moment, and then turned away to gather her daughter and younger son. Mother had tears starting in her eyes, threatening to overflow.

Cyrene had always feared the battles her husband fought. With three children and an inn to run, she had plenty of reasons. Even now, though her children were old enough to actually help, she dreaded losing her husband. For years she had dreaded the appearance of some comrade-in-arms, bearing the sad tidings of his death to her door. Through the many campaigns father had ridden off to, mother had seemed to taste her widowhood. Then, just the year before last, he had ridden home to stay. He had decided to settle down, his heart heavy from the killing. He was finally willing to leave fighting to younger men. There was never any shortage of them.

When father had told mother of his decision, her eyes had glowed, and she'd seemed to shrug off a dozen years. But now, with the invasion of their village, he had ripped open the trunk in their room that held his armor and weapons. In a few short minutes of long practiced activity he had changed, from the innkeeper back into the warrior, as though he had never been anything else. She could see her mother falling back into the fear she had thought she'd left behind.

Her older brother came bounding down the stairs. The younger man struggled to don his bracers; his sword belt still draped over his shoulders, trying to ready himself. Over the years he'd learned many of the skills of war from his father, and he wanted to make him proud. He had become a decent swordsman, and in their father's absence it had been so reassuring to have him at the inn. Still, he had never left to join an army. They'd known it would have devastated their mother, and so he had stayed at home. Now he would be fighting, in a battle for their survival, but he didn't have any practical experience in war. He had never had to kill another man. He would be at a disadvantage against those he would face today, and he knew it. It made his hands fumble with the familiar buckles, and it made his heart flutter.

"Steady, my son, take a few deep breaths." Their father told his eldest, as he gripped his shoulders and looked him in the eyes. "You've the skill and the heart to do good this day, so don't doubt yourself. When these bandits see our village is willing to fight them, they'll be more scared than we are. They're not used to resistance and they've a lot less to fight for than we have. It will be our heart, more than our experience or numbers, that will bring us victory today."

"Father, I know I can help drive them out of our village. You've taught me how to fight…and what's worth fighting for. I'll be ok once we get out there. I know I will."

"I know you will too, son. Just do what you have to and don't take any unnecessary chances. Call me if you get in a tight spot. We just need to show them this village isn't going to be easy and they'll leave. That's all we want."

Father clapped her older brother on the shoulder, and they turned to leave. The door slammed closed behind them. It seemed so ominous, like they were being separated by a lifetime, or living a world away. Through the window their receding forms seemed like phantoms in a dream.

She felt her mother take her hand as she watched the men leave the inn. Young Lyceus held her other. Together the three of them headed for the kitchen where the stairs led down into the root cellar. Somehow she knew they'd be alright. Her father and the militia would drive Cortese away. What she couldn't understand was that for some reason she wished she were headed out the door to join them, with a sword in her hand. It was strange because in all of her seventeen years she'd hardly ever even lifted one.

For over a candle mark they stayed there, quietly waiting. She watched her mother pacing in the small dark space, gnawing her knuckles and shaking her head with worry. Mother looked like she was imagining the worst. Lyceus mostly stared at the floor. She tried to sense what was happening above them, outside the inn. Only the faintest sounds came to her ears. Though she tried to project her senses, nothing she heard gave her any clue as to how the fighting stood. It left her disappointed; somehow she expected more. The helpless waiting was worse to her than anything she could imagine. She knew it had to be even worse for her mother. Somewhere in the village above, her father and brother were battling alongside the militia father had trained.

She begged the gods to grant their favor and aid against the warlord Cortese; a name she had heard for a man she had never seen. If only he would just turn around and leave them alone. She knew enough about the world, though, to know that her father was right. The invaders would only leave if they were driven out by villagers determined to fight for their homes.

After what seemed like an eternity they heard footsteps above, crossing the floor from the door of the inn to the kitchen. Mother stared at the stairs, fear and worry etched on her face. Lyceus stood and moved towards their mother, and she could see he was terrified. She knew those footsteps though, so she rushed past them and started up the stairs even before the door opened. She was the first to greet her father and brother, safely returning from the successful defense of the village. Atrius' smile widened as his teenage daughter Xena leapt into his arms, hugging him and kissing his cheek. He prayed that she would never have to suffer the evils he had seen in his years at war; hoped that fighting and death would never darken the sparkling blue of her eyes. And so long as he was around, it never would.

¤

Four immortals stood before an ornate frame, silently watching the pictures that moved within its border. Unlike the viewing mirrors or skrying bowls of the other gods, this one could show events yet to be. It was attendant to the duties of the three hostesses. The frame floated, untethered, before a sooty wall. The setting was dismal, an undecorated stone hall, dimly lit. Only a few torches sputtered in sconces, emitting oily black smoke and a wavering yellowish light. They had been lit for so long that the entire ceiling had disappeared into a carbon impregnated gloom. The overbearing stench of unburned fuel permeated even their clothing and hair. The visitor loathed it, while the hostesses had long ago come to ignore it.

The visiting god regarded the surroundings with disgust, and the pictures they were watching with a growing anger. What he saw was nothing less than the demeaning of his daughter…her warrior potential sapped by domesticity and mindless happiness. He hated it, and he was actually becoming physically ill from the viewing. By the time she reached her teens, she would already be ruined, useless to him.

Some yards away, a machine clattered softly as it performed its duties unsupervised. The thing annoyed him as it always had. Just one fireball, he speculated, and it would go up in flames. The idea tempted him unmercifully every time he saw the contraption. He despised the three hostesses no less. The sniveling smart mouthed brat, the middle aged one whose face couldn't have been plainer if she'd been born without eyes, nose or mouth, and the crone who smelled as if she hadn't washed since her birth. He was losing his patience as he always did when he came here. Something about events not directed by a strong willpower just turned his stomach. Yet he was aware that this was how the majority of the living passed their years. They accepted their fate…and those losers deserved whatever they got. It fueled his overriding contempt for mortals.

"And is this abomination that you have tormented me with what shall be, or only what might be?" The God of War demanded of the three women, who shuddered as they faced him. He had never liked them, but they had never seen him so angry. Just one fireball, they knew, and their precious loom….

"This is what shall be in fifteen years time, for it grows from what is now," answered Clotho, her childish voice quavering before Ares' rage.

"This is what shall be as her fate now stands," answered Lachesis, as she checked the thread of Xena's life. Satisfied, she returned to chewing her nails.

"This is how her future will unfold, for it is her soul's appointed path to the gates of eternity," answered Atropos, her aged hand working her shears like a nervous tic.

"This is a disaster!" Roared the God of War. "No daughter of mine is going to wind up as a sweet little barmaid in some flea bitten village in Thrace!" Ares promised them, before disappearing with a flash. His last words echoed through their sooty hall, "Noooo, this is not acceptable!"

"But, you can't change her fate," Lachesis started to reply in shock, "it will change so many others…" But he was long gone, and Clotho had started sucking her filthy thumb.

"Unfortunately, he is a god. He is one of the most willful and self-serving of all the gods, and he claims that this Xena is his daughter. I feel there will be much suffering ahead for all." The elderly Atropos predicted sadly, punctuating her words with a snap of her shears.

¤

Ares was in a lather when he returned to his mansion on Mt. Olympus. What the Fates had shown him had turned his stomach and was rapidly bringing on a headache. He was hard pressed to recall when he had been in so foul a mood. Blood would flow and heads would roll, he promised himself with a grimace, oh yeah. Somehow a good slaughter always made him feel better, but it wouldn't solve his problem this time. Or would it?

Granted, Xena was just a child of two, but already he believed her senses and coordination put her years ahead of her age mates. It wasn't as though he spent much time comparing mortal rug rats, but he was convinced that his daughter was superior. The girl could already sense him when he looked in on her, though she had no idea whom or what made her feel the tingling. Ares perceived that she had the potential to be an outstanding warrior; a warrior blessed with a divine heritage, and deserving of a great destiny. She would become his mortal Chosen, he decided, capable and willing to do his bidding on Earth; the one mortal who would deserve and receive his favor. It would be a first, and she would be unstoppable. The Fates be damned. Like all else in life, these possibilities existed for he who had the strength to bend events to his will. Ares could not allow the desecration of his daughter to unfold as he had seen it. That would be an abomination.

For a while he raged. Curses rang, echoing off the stone walls and shaking the foundations of the halls of war. For a while he vented. Statuary flew, shattering against the masonry, the bronzes flung with inhuman strength. Finally though, Ares' rage gave way to a calm that was even more deadly, for now the God of War focused his mind on his goal, conceiving a strategy, reviewing tactics, and weighing assets. The campaign he contemplated was dearer to his heart than many a war he'd waged, for instead of the bodies of mortals, now the destiny of his own flesh and blood hung in the balance.

Slowly a plan began to form. The problem, as Ares saw it, was Xena's parents, and of the two, her father posed the real threat. Atrius was the family's protector. With him present, Xena would never have to lift a weapon. The man would inspire Toris to become a warrior, making the likelihood of Xena taking arms even more remote. She would fall under her mother's dominion, and Cyrene was simply too content with her husband safely at home. If Ares didn't do something, his success in disguising himself and seducing Cyrene would simply go to waste. And the other gods would never let him live down the fact that his daughter was a barmaid instead of a conqueror. He could almost hear them snickering already.

So Ares, the God of War, gave thought to removing Atrius from the mortal world. A shame really, because the man had always been a faithful follower. The irony of the situation was that Ares had chosen Cyrene, not for her outstanding beauty or inflaming passion, but because her husband was one of his most distinguished warriors. Two years before, the god had conceived of a change in his quest to bring order to the world through force. Rather than favor many that served him, as he had traditionally done, he would concentrate his favor on one warrior. Who better to be his first Chosen than a child of his seed, raised by a favored follower? Yet now he had seen the unexpected ruination of his strategy, unfolding in the Fates' mirror, and he prepared to amend his plan. He would be sorry to lose Atrius, for the man had always fought with inspiration. Still, he was only a mortal, and the God of War was willing to sacrifice him for his own goal.

Days passed in the mortal world, as the God of War remained deep in thought, almost motionless on his throne. He barely noticed the passage of Helios; his relatives he totally ignored, knowing they'd still be around. Even his dear horny sister Aphrodite couldn't budge him, but he did register the peeved expression she directed at him before leaving in a huff. Still he sat. Bit by bit, the details of a plan filled themselves in. There was a clockwork precision to the interlocking of the various factors, and this spoke to him of destiny at work. Finally the plot shimmered in his mind's eye, symmetrical and beautiful to behold. It would accomplish his purpose. For the first time since his visit to the Fates, Ares allowed himself a real smile.

In the mortal world, Xena was two. Atrius was afield fighting wars while Cyrene stayed home in Amphipolis with her children, running the inn. Several months before, on his last home leave, Atrius and Cyrene had started the life of their second son, Lyceus. As was their custom during his furloughs, they had rolled around like crazed weasels. Now Cyrene rejoiced in the new life she felt growing within her, but she also worried about her husband, and she struggled to keep an eye on young Toris and Xena. Toris was helpful, when he wasn't getting into trouble, but Xena always seemed to be trying to explore where a two-year-old shouldn't. Cyrene had nearly fainted when she'd discovered her daughter playing with the kitchen knives, vigorously stabbing the floor, while her brother had gone exploring in the root cellar, suspiciously close to the ale vats. It reassured her not at all that Xena was only killing a roach and Toris was still sober. She dreaded the time when they'd reach their teens. They needed their father….

¤

"Eumenides, answer the summons of the God of War! Appear before me!"

In the throne room of the Halls of War there appeared a swirling of flame, shadowed by immortal darkness, which enveloped a flash. Before the throne of the God of War, the three Furies writhed in a hysteria of malice. Ares regarded them with the discomfort one reserved for the insane. Their endless giggling and cavorting was viscerally abhorrent to the god who had always sought order…it was all to close to chaos.

"Why does the all powerful God of War call on we spirits of retribution?" Inquired a grinning Alecto, the most communicative of the three, as her companions Megaera and Tisiphone wove around her like choreographed ferrets.

Ares took a deep breath and regarded them for a moment before answering.

"I have foreseen a crime against my family being committed as we speak," he declared, causing the three to focus their attention on him. To the other Olympians, they were like poor relations, seldom privy to family gossip. In another time and place they would have been locked in an attic.

"So what's new?" Asked Megaera, the grudging.

"We hear such things constantly; all mortals are blasphemers at heart!" Declared Alecto, the unceasing.

"We'll torment them all eventually." Tisiphone, the avenging, chuckled, though mostly to herself.

Ares rolled his eyes and steadied himself with another deep breath.

"My own daughter suffers at the hands of mortals who would debase her and deny her destiny." The God of War accused. "Her mortal parents seek to entrap her into a wasted future. They would make her little more than a servant of the indigent, while I would make her a conqueror."

"So why then not raise her yourself in a temple or on Olympus?" Alecto asked, sounding remarkably sane. Then she ruined the effect with a spasm of giggling and a succession of curious postures.

"Though her abilities are enhanced by my blood, she is still mortal." Ares reasoned. "Olympus is no place for her, and the priests would surely botch her upbringing as badly as her parents. Her training will come from experiences best gained where she is."

"So what do you want of us?" Tisiphone asked, bringing the conversation back very close to its start. Ares shook his head as if he were throwing off a vexatious dream. He was already losing patience with them.

"I want you to visit retribution on the mortal who is ruining Xena's chances for greatness." Ares told them. "I want you to remove her father, Atrius."

"Atrius," Megaera giggled, "an honorable warrior, you have called him in the past…a faithful follower, is he not?"

"The one you chose to raise your daughter," Alecto reminded him, picking at the scab.

"And the reason you decided on Cyrene to bear your child," Tisiphone finished for her.

Ares began to feel that he'd prefer the company of the Fates. These goddesses were crazy, and they paid no obeisance to protocol, taunting him rather than groveling. At least they looked sexy, in a lunatic kind of way, and they always seemed to be enjoying themselves.

"Ahhhh yes," Ares agreed with a sigh, "what was I thinking? We all have our lapses in judgment from time to time, don't we?"

He allowed a few moments to pass while he seemed to contemplate his fingernails. Then he glared at them, perching forward on his throne and scowling.

"I want him gone, but I want him gone my way!"

The Furies actually looked like they were paying attention, finally.

"And what would the great God of War have us do?" Alecto asked, starting the conversation over again, and giggling as the selfsame God of War sat back on his throne with a groan.

Ares covered his eyes with one hand and spoke without looking at them. He was concise as he explained his requirements, holding up his other hand to silence them whenever they sought to interrupt. He gave them a theme, jealousy, to guide them, and he demanded a specific outcome. It was highly irregular, but when they tried to protest, he snarled at them, browbeat them, and finally intimidated them into compliance. They left in a huff, pouting between giggles, already gloating among themselves about the fun they'd have. When they were gone, Ares breathed a sigh of relief. Dealing with them was barely worth it. Someday, he promised himself, I will dance on your graves.

¤

For several weeks, Ares watched Atrius. On the battlefield he seemed unchanged, and the God of War suspected that the Furies were disregarding him. The warrior was as deadly as ever. The god did notice, however, that the man seemed to be drinking a bit more heavily than in the past, sleeping a bit less comfortably, and displaying a more irritable disposition. It wasn't dramatic, at least not at the start. Yet, as the weeks passed, the man was becoming less well adjusted. Finally the campaign ended, the victorious army stood down, and the warriors went on furlough. Atrius was headed home.

The warrior rode through Macedonia with two comrades. He would join them on their way back to Therme, where they made their homes. From there he would continue on alone through Chalcidice, finally turning north towards the Vale of the Stryma, and Amphipolis. The ride was uneventful, and Atrius seemed somewhat more relaxed. Ares watched his progress, until he parted company with his fellow warriors and began his way south.

Five days later, Atrius rode into an obscure little farming village called Potidaea, and proceeded to get drunk. During his candlemarks of drinking, the locals proved to be provincial, boorish, and vexingly nosy. One persistent hero-worshipping young farmer in particular rubbed him the wrong way, begging him unmercifully for tales of battle.

"Do I look like a bard to you?" Atrius asked, drunk and nearing the end of his patience.

"Awww, come on, jes one story," the inebriated farmer asked for the dozenth time.

By now Atrius had actually left the tavern to stable his horse and claim his room at the inn. With alcohol-induced bad judgement, the farmer followed along and continued annoying the warrior, as Ares snickered, watching from the cover of the shadows.

Finally Atrius'd had enough. The farmer had grabbed his tunic, tugging at his sleeve to get his attention. The warrior reacted, slamming an elbow into the persistent yokel's gut, and driving his palm into his chin. The farmer flew through the air, landing on his back in the watering trough. The only benefit of the exchange was the rapid sobering of both parties, Atrius due to adrenaline surge, Herodotus due to the cold bath.

The warrior shook his head, mounted his horse, and rode down the street to the inn. Herodotus clambered out of the watering trough, nursing a newborn hatred of warriors that would remain with him until the day he died. Begotten of embarrassment and wounded pride, his distaste would one day become a factor in the lives of both men's daughters.

Atrius had never harbored a disdain of farmers, though most of his homeland was given to sheep herding. He had always been a warrior, and his wife's family had run an inn for three generations. So, though he'd never felt anything strongly about those who tilled the land, he was surprised at the intense mixture of disgust he felt for the young clod and guilt over losing his temper after drinking so much. None of it was characteristic behavior for him, nor had he ever been aware of the faint giggling that filled his ears in the all too silent night.

Eventually he drifted off. Atrius' sleep, for the first time in many years, was plagued by nightmares of battle, bloodshed, suffering, and death. The faces of his enemies metamorphosed into the faces of his friends, and the faces of those he slew transformed again and again into the face of the young farmer. He never awakened from these nightmares. Rather, he suffered through them until dawn finally woke him. By the morning, he seemed to have become a silent and dour version of himself, and in this frame of mind he made his way home.

Atrius' arrival in Amphipolis brought him no peace. In the past, returning to his family had been a long awaited source of joy. Somehow he found no joy in his home or his family now. His depression left him irritable, and the irritation was only bearably after drinking. Of course the inn was well stocked, so it wasn't difficult for Atrius to maintain a moderate level of intoxication. Predictably, Cyrene, now heavy with child, was horrified by the changes in her husband. At first she tried to talk to him, but after several weeks of being rebuffed, her tactics degenerated into nagging.

It was after a prolonged and bitter argument that Atrius backhanded Cyrene for the first time in over ten years of marriage. The blow threw her back against a bench, and she barely managed to keep from falling on the floor. For silent heartbeats they both stared at each other, neither believing what had happened. When the time finally resumed, Cyrene buried her face in her hands and began crying, for her world was disintegrating. Her beloved husband had fallen to alcohol and brutality, reminding her of the tales of evil warlords that the bards told for her patrons' entertainment in the evenings. The strong and honorable man she knew had never come home from war, while the man who had taken his face was a stranger. Her nightmares had been of his death; she wondered if the future wasn't bound to be worse.

Atrius, shocked and horrified at what he had done, began shaking, the giggling he often heard these days growing louder in his ears. He could feel the stinging in his hand from the blow, but he couldn't remember making the decision to strike. It had simply happened, as if he'd been out of control, just like when he'd hit the farmer in Potidaea. He knew he had been touched by some evil, for he barely recognized himself anymore. Whether something on the battlefield had made him snap, or whether he was simply losing his mind, he couldn't tell. He had never been more confused. All his life, even when the situation had been terrifying or the obstacles had seemed insurmountable, he had known clearly why he was doing his part. Now he had no idea why he was feeling or doing things that were completely foreign to him.

One thing he knew though, he couldn't allow himself to be a danger to his family. Despite all the changes that had infected him, he still valued his family above his own life…it was the most basic reason for which he'd become a warrior. During his time as a warrior he had been a worshipper of Ares, the God of War, and patron of soldiers. Though he had been too pragmatic a man to spend much time in prayer begging favors, he felt the inspiration seize him now. Somehow a line of reasoning came into his mind, that he might find his answers at the Temple of Ares. So, rather than kneeling to help his wife, rather than seeking her understanding and help, rather than even offering an apology, he turned and staggered out the door.

For what seemed an eternity Atrius wobbled through the town, parading his decrepitude before the good people of Amphipolis. But finally he made his way to the temple. He entered the building, and knelt before the altar. Having brought no sacrifice, he drew his dagger and slit his palm, dribbling his blood onto the brazier, feeling the heat of the coals scorching his skin. He could smell the hairs on his hand and wrist burning before he deemed the sacrifice sufficient. Then he prayed.

For several candlemarks he knelt motionless on the limestone floor, barely breathing. He found his mind filled at first with the scenes of battle that had plagued his dreams that night at the inn in Potidaea. But now the face of the young farmer was sometimes replaced by the face of his wife, and sometimes by the face of a young woman who, though she seemed familiar, he knew he had never met in life. Such a tall, black-haired beauty he would have remembered, but he saw himself slay her over and over again. Towards the end of his vision, Atrius saw an image of the God of War, but rather than blessing him before battle, the god smiled at him and walked into his wife's inn, while he rode off the war. He heard the god's laughter follow him as he rode out of town.

Finally the alcohol wore off, his burned hand became a torment, and he had found no satisfying answers. If anything, he was more disturbed after the visions than before he'd arrived. Slowly he got to his feet, both his heart and his body heavy with too many feelings. Yet, for all the torment he'd been subjected to, he left feeling that his answers might still be found at the temple someday. All the way home he heard that damned giggling. If anything it had grown louder.

After the incident that afternoon, Cyrene became wary of her husband. The children sensed something wrong with their father, and they too maintained a distance whenever possible. When Atrius went to the stable, the cats fled from him, and even his horse shied away. The effect of these rejections first brought Atrius sorrow, but as the days passed, this sorrow changed to resentment. His resentment fed the cycle of confusion and anger, depression and alcohol, argument and abuse.

Soon a week had passed at the inn, under a cloud of potential violence. The next week Cyrene stopped joining her husband in bed, fearing for her safety and the safety of her children. She took to sleeping with Xena and Toris, in a room with the door barred. After several days, mostly alone and drunk, Atrius returned to the temple. He had just thrown Cyrene into a wall and screamed at his son, while his daughter clung to his leg trying to keep him from hurting her mother. He had barely stopped himself from turning on her, and she was only just nearing her third birthday. Then he had fled.

The giggling in his ears was constant now, day and night. He was plagued with nightmares, and no matter how much he drank he couldn't keep them away. The visions he saw at the temple that evening revealed to him that he had been supplanted in his wife's heart by his children, particularly his young daughter. They, rather than he, were the focus of his wife's love and attention. He was furious, and the seeds of jealousy took root in his heart. He left the temple resenting his daughter and his wife's preoccupation with the children, the inn, and the life they led when he was away. He had come to feel that they had cut him out of the family he had fought to support. But deep within his heart a new suspicion had been planted. Not something for which he had any proof, of course, but the feeling was there. He had come to doubt Cyrene's fidelity.

This suspicion grew over the next week, until he found himself searching for the slightest shred of evidence. Although he never found even the least bit of gossip in the village, still he became convinced of his wife's harlotry. Then he took the next step. He began to suspect his paternity of their children, and Cyrene's attempts to segregate them from him became damning proof in his eyes. This impression was only reinforced when the children shied away from him in fear. So, as the second month after Atrius' homecoming drew to a close, the God of War reveled in the degeneration of the warrior's domestic bliss, and perceived that the time had come for his daughter to be freed of her father's bad influence.

The day of Xena's third birthday came and went. The celebration was stilted by the pall of tension that hung over the family. Cyrene and Toris tried to make her happy, but she was upset from the time she scrambled downstairs in the early morning.

The first thing she saw was her daddy slumped over a table with several empty mugs around him. He had drunk to the point of unconsciousness the night before, and had passed out in the spillage. Only thus could he silence the constant giggles in his head. He was snoring loudly, his throat thick with phlegm. Sometime during the night he had risen briefly, and staggered a few paces, to relieve himself on the side of the bar. The stinking puddle had partially soaked into the floorboards.

Xena approached him warily, but he didn't move. In the past she had never been able to sneak up on him. His finely honed warrior's senses had always alerted him to her approach. At those times he would feign sleep until she was close, rising suddenly to grasp her and lift her, squealing and laughing, overhead. These happy memories still played in her mind, though they were becoming overlain with images of his raging face, loud angry voice, and violent outbursts.

Now she approached in a tense silence, half expecting him to seize her and lift her almost to the ceiling, laughing as he gave her an eagle's ride. But instead he didn't move. He just continued snoring. On tiptoes, Xena looked about the table. There were a lot of mugs and a dagger stuck into the tabletop. It was one of his two daggers with the lion's head at the butt of the hilt, and the crossed swords worked into the crossguard. Then, being of a height that allowed her to more easily see under the table rather than over it, she never saw that Atrius had carved her name into the tabletop before slamming his blade into the X.

What she did see was Atrius' trousers hanging open, and the thick meaty shaft projecting up through the cloth from his body. He'd been too drunk to put it away after his last trip to the bar. Something about it made her skin crawl…it was about the size of her lower arm, and it bobbed when he breathed. A visceral fear petrified her as she stared at it, rooted to the floor as she felt ice creeping up her spine. Then, when her fear had grown for several moments, she saw it jerk, and suddenly a stream of morning urine spewed from the tip, jetting up to splash the underside of the table. Atrius groaned in his sleep, and Xena, only understanding that what she saw was very wrong, fled, crying, back upstairs to her room.

The sound of her footsteps, half scrabbling, half crawling up the stairs, the slamming of the bedroom door and her tears woke Cyrene. Shortly later, after getting nothing intelligible from her daughter, she threw on a robe and went downstairs. She was aghast at what she found, horrified that her daughter had seen it, and enraged at her husband for his conduct. All the doings of the last two months welled up, and though she was not a big woman, somehow Cyrene found the strength to hoist Atrius onto her shoulder and drag him out to the stables. She left him in a pile of straw, and he never moved. She did this, in spite of the fact that her baby was due in less than a month. Then she returned, and though her stomach was threatening to heave, her anger sustained her as she stooped to begin cleaning up the mess.

When Cyrene saw the dagger stuck into the tabletop through the carving of her daughter's name, it chilled her heart. She wasn't sure what to make of it. So far Xena's youth had spared her from Atrius' worst outbursts. That and the fact he had always been very fond and protective of her. Now, Cyrene really didn't know what to think. Xena had been a child of their love, conceived on a single night when her husband had surprised her by coming home from war. She had thought his unit had left Thrace by then, for they had ridden away a week before. Still, the night had been filled with passion, and she held the memory dear.

She tried to make the day special for her daughter, but the morning's trauma had laid a dismal sadness over the girl, that lingered through the afternoon. By suppertime she still hadn't recovered her vivaciousness, and she sat merely picking at her birthday dinner. Cyrene noted that Xena's eyes often strayed to her father's empty chair.

Atrius had awakened to a stupefying hangover. At first he scarcely recognized the inside of his own stables. As the sun sank through the afternoon sky, it was all he could do to withstand the throbbing in his head and the queasiness in his stomach. The idea that this day was his daughter's birthday never crossed his mind. Of the evening before, he had little memory beyond midnight. Of the morning, he had no memory at all. He was aware that the giggling in his head had returned to torment him. As the afternoon passed, the giggles were joined by a thread of whispers that urged him to the temple of the God of War. Finally, as the sun was kissing the horizon, he staggered up, and with wobbling steps made his way to the temple of his god.

When he arrived at the altar, Atrius was surprised to find his dagger missing. Now unable to shed his blood in sacrifice, he was at something of a loss. He stared around the temple chamber, and finally his eyes lit on a ceremonial blade, used for slitting the throats of sacrificial animals. He rose from his knees and approached the altar. As he reached out to lay a hand on the sacred blade, he saw a movement. By reflex he jerked away, turning to face the figure of a scantily clad woman standing by his side. She had a look of madness in her eyes that unnerved him, for she should never have been able to approach so closely, unobserved.

Atrius didn't notice that the giggling and whispering voices in his head had been reduced from three to two. He was held captive by the woman's smile and staring eyes. She was attractive without really being beautiful. Her smile held an edge of cruelty, and her dark eyes appraised him from below an unruly mop of chestnut hair. Then she addressed him, shocking him with her knowledge his name.

"How the mighty have fallen, oh Atrius, once warrior of Ares, brought low by the deceits of a trusted beloved," Tisiphone said. Her voice was strangely familiar, and her words were punctuated with laughter.

"Who are you," Atrius managed to ask, "and how is it that you know my name?"

"I am Tisiphone, the avenging sister of the Eumenides. All know of your torment, Atrius. All know how you have been betrayed."

"But I came here in supplication to Ares, this is his temple, and he is my patron god."

"Atrius, you bring no sacrifice, and until you amend the wrong done against you, Ares, the God of War, finds your presence in his temple a blaspheme. He will not speak to you, cuckold."

"But, but…then it's true? Cyrene has been unfaithful?"

"Not seven days had passed since you had ridden to war, when she lay with another, conceiving in her sluttery, and producing a daughter for you to raise as your own."

The words forced Atrius to his knees. Their truth he had no resources to aver. What he had come to suspect was confirmed by the Fury who stood over him, laughing at his dishonor. Worse yet, his god had abandoned him for failing to keep the order of his own household. And yet…

He had loved Xena since the first day he saw her, when, after returning from battle, his proud wife had shown him the babe. Already she was several months old, conceived on his last furlough, judging by the date of her birth. She had looked up at him with piercing blue eyes, and she had smiled at him, melting his heart. Since that day he had rejoiced in her, astonished by her growth each time he came home, and charmed by her antics. He could sense the fire and intelligence in her soul, and he had felt that she could have a special destiny. Cruel was his fate that denied him paternity of this outstanding child. Crueler still were the circumstances that had brought them into opposition. It was claimed that fate was blind, and yet he felt as if the craftiest of enemies had unerringly struck him where he was most vulnerable, taking his most valued treasures.

Atrius was miserable, but in what heart he still possessed, he was a warrior. He would somehow make amends to his god, and then he would set about recovering his life. Being a mortal this was his lot. It was inescapable. Like so many tragic heroes, he was trapped in a web of events beyond his control, but unlike many of them, for him there could be a way out. The Fury said he had to amend the wrong that was done against him. There was hope, though it was bitter.

"Warrior," the Fury commanded, startling him to attentiveness, "bring the misbegotten fruit of your beloved's union to the temple as a sacrifice, and you shall regain the grace of your god. He will see your strength, your resolve, and your devotion to him."

"Is there no other way?" Atrius asked the laughing Fury.

"Go home, Atrius," Tisiphone instructed, "slay this bastard daughter, and regain your honor. Spill her blood on the land where the betrayal occurred, then bring her lifeless body here."

Atrius looked into the eyes of the avenging spirit of the Eumenides, and saw there was no alternative. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. It broke his heart to contemplate taking Xena's life, but he could not live when his god dispised him. Things would only get worse, and he might not be offered a second chance. He now understood that his life could only be repaired by performing the appeasement his god demanded. When he looked back up, Tisiphone was gone. At last, with a heavy heart, the father went home to slaughter the daughter he loved.

Around him the world was quiet. It was as if nature held its breath, and indeed Ares watched in breathless anticipation as the warrior made his way home. He watched as Atrius opened the door to the inn. He watched as Atrius searched for his daughter.

The warrior made his way through the deserted common room and went to the kitchen. His heart bled for the deed that was demanded of him, but the whispers in his head urged him on. In hopes of silencing them and calming his own shaking hands, he drew a mug of ale and quickly gulped it down. He filled it again, and drank the second mug just as fast. After the third he felt resigned. He heard a noise behind him, and turned to see his wife standing in the doorway.

"Atrius, where have you been all day? Today was Xena's birthday, you know." Cyrene said. Then she noticed the mug in his hand. "What's the matter with you? Why are you always drinking? Do you realize where you were this morning? You were passed out at the table out there, and that's how Xena found you…you scared her, Atrius. She's been sad all day because of you. She misses her father."

"Xena…" Atrius muttered, more to himself than to Cyrene, "where is she?"

"Where do you think she is?" Cyrene spat at him. "It's almost midnight. She's asleep."

"I have to take her, woman…the gods demand it. Go, bring her down here."

"Atrius, what are you talking about?" Cyrene was confused, but a chill of foreboding swept through her.

"She's not my daughter."

"What are you saying?" Cyrene asked in shock. "Of course she's your daughter, she's our daughter, our little one."

"She's the product of your harlotry, you slut!" Atrius screamed. "She has to be sacrificed to regain my honor!"

"Nooooo…." Cyrene wailed. She was too horrified by the accusation to think. She had been faithful all the years her husband had spent away. Everyone in the village knew her virtue was unmarred. The words he had so vehemently spoken cut her like a blade, coming unseen, piercing her heart.

"She must be bled and her body lain on the altar of war." Atrius told her.

Then he turned away from her, taking a knife from the kitchen to replace his missing dagger. He checked the edge. Not sharp enough, Atrius thought, the cut need not be painful. I shall make sure it is sharper than the sword of Hephaestus, and she'll feel almost nothing. He still loved Xena enough that he wished to spare her a painful death. After all, her parentage was not her fault.

Cyrene was petrified. She watched her husband testing the knife's edge and finding it wanting. Gods, she thought, he's serious, and he's crazy. She was rooted in horror.

"I'll make the cut quickly, woman," Atrius said without turning, "she'll feel almost nothing. Bring her down asleep. She shouldn't have to suffer."

Cyrene watched him as he went to the kitchen door and stepped out into the night. He was going to the stables, to the whetstone, to sharpen the blade. For a while she couldn't move, but finally her terror roused her, and panic drove her to follow him. She could hear the rasping of the steel on the stone as Atrius honed the edge fine. In the light of an oil lamp she could see him bent over the bench, his arm making the sure motions of sharpening. He was obviously crazy, but he was so methodical. She approached him, fear and the weight of the unborn child within her making her stagger.

"Please…" she begged, "she's just a little girl."

"Shut up woman!" Atrius yelled, turning towards her, "if you don't bring her down here by the time I finish with this knife I'll kill you too, you back stabbing whore."

The look in his eyes was one of pure hatred and madness. It took Cyrene's breath away even more than the curse. She feared for her life, but her maternal instincts were already primed by her pregnancy, and she feared for her daughter even more. She had to try to change his mind, but she was terrified, and she couldn't stop her tears. It was a nightmare; she was so frightened she could barely think. Again she tried pleading with him.

"Atrius, I didn't…I've been faithful…please don't hurt our daughter, please." As she spoke, Cyrene put her hand gently on his sleeve, trying to stop the motion of his arm as it drew the blade across the stone. It was the same place the farmer in Potidaea had grabbed him.

Atrius whirled at the touch. The harlot was lying to him again. After prostituting herself and bearing a daughter of cursed blood, now she had the audacity to lie to him. She would go against him, he expected it from such a snake, but she was also defying the gods. He couldn't believe it. She was trying to make him disobey a direct command from a Fury.

"You would have me defy the gods, you bitch?" He screamed as he shoved her aside.

Cyrene lost her footing, landing against the chopping block. The edge of the heavy stump rammed into the middle of her back, knocking the wind out of her. For a moment she couldn't believe what he'd done, and then she felt the pain exploding along her spine. It took her breath away, making her gasp, and she saw him turn back to sharpening the knife. And now she truly feared for her life. She feared for the life within her, and the life of her daughter. There was no question in her mind that he would carry out his threats. The three of them would surly die. Oh please, gods help me, she begged, please.

And a god heard her plea. He stood invisible not ten feet away, watching as his plan came to fruition. Helping Cyrene had always been a part of that plan, for otherwise his ends would not be achieved. He needed Cyrene, and in the years ahead she would have a part to play in the creation of his warrior princess. Her suffering now was just as necessary, sharpening her fear of the darkness within the soul, and leaving a legacy of guilt. When the time came, she would react with sorrow, anger, and rejection, just as he required. Ares would help her now; she would help him later. The help of a god always had a price

Now he strengthened her, in mind, and body, and spirit. His will focused her mind on the necessity of action. His strength became her strength as she silently raised herself to her feet, suppressing the pain in her back. His spirit became her spirit as she wrenched the axe from the chopping block behind her, and staggered forward two steps to get into swinging range. She wanted to swing the flat side of the axe head into his back to incapacitate him, but it didn't happen that way.

Atrius heard her behind him, and he turned just as she began her swing. The surprise on his face turned into a howl of rage and hatred, as he perceived her treachery. The blade of the axe buried itself to the shaft in his chest. With god given strength, Cyrene jerked the weapon out of her husband's body and swung it again, and the bright blood, spraying from the lung wound and his mutilated heart fountained over her, bathing her in its warmth.

Cyrene couldn't believe what she had done. Later, when she thought about it, she was amazed that she didn't pass out from the horror or the pain in her back. She was no less amazed that she had somehow found the strength to drag Atrius' body out of the barn and into the yard, where she buried him in a shallow grave. She even managed to slosh away most of the spilt blood; with bucket after bucket of water, before cleaning herself and staggering back into the inn. The strength she had been given didn't leave her until she finally fell into her bed and slipped into sleep.

The God of War couldn't help but rejoice. His plan had worked flawlessly, and there was but one small part remaining to finalize his victory. For this he prepared the libation carefully. The sweetest wine, a vintage recommended by Bacchus himself, combined with a splash of water from the River Lethe, in the realm of Hades, and ambrosia, the food of the gods. Ares had planned a little celebration for his assistants, and the wine was central to his purpose. No god could resist the ambrosia when dissolved in sweet wine, and the waters of the Lethe would bring forgetfulness.

When the Furies joined him, answering his summons to the Halls of War, they predictably emptied the amphora he provided. Rolling around with the three of them afterwards was a bonus Ares could have taken or left. At least when they were blind drunk they giggled less, and acted less like idiots. The avenging spirits were actually much more pleasant company while inebriated…more pleasant still when unconscious.

In the morning, when Cyrene awoke drowning in guilt and horror, the Eumenides wondered why they were sprawled naked across Ares' bed. The night before was a blank, no surprise when they discerned how much they had consumed. The fact that the past few months were also a blank wasn't even questioned. Being immortals, and being half-crazed, the passage of time wasn't the same to them as it was to mortals. Beyond a certain point, they remembered events rather than days. They had completely lost their memories of the events surrounding Atrius, and existence of Ares' plot.

¤ Fifty-Eight Years Later ¤

Gabrielle was a deep sleeper, but even she couldn't ignore the restless shifting and muttering coming from her soulmate. Xena was enmeshed in some sort of disturbing dream, and her thrashing was making sleep impossible for the bard. At first, Gabrielle suspected her friend was engaging in a belated birthday prank, unsprung a few days before. She still remembered that revolting "eel thing", squirming over her feet, under her blanket. The bard drowsily raised herself on an elbow, preparing to chastise her tall friend, but she stopped when Xena uttered a name in her sleep. The shock of hearing it wakened the blonde more fully, and she focused, trying to hear the other words the warrior was muttering. The raven-haired warrior didn't usually talk in her sleep. Gabrielle's frustration grew because the rest was spoken too softly for her to hear. She was still staring at Xena with growing curiosity, when she jerked upright, launched from her dream by some event Gabrielle could only try to imagine.

"Hey," Gabrielle asked, resting her hand on Xena's forearm and gently shaking her, "are you ok? That looked like some dream you were having."

Xena seemed to relax at her friend's touch, exhaling deeply as she turned to face her. For a moment she regarded the bard with ice blue eyes.

"Yeah," the warrior confirmed, slowly nodding her agreement, "strange as anything I've ever dreamed."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Gabrielle asked, with a familiar expression of concern.

For long moments, Xena thought over what she'd seen, trying to put the dream into concise words that would convey not only the images, but also the feelings. It was something she'd been getting better at, but self-expression still wasn't her greatest skill. Like many dreams, it resisted rational description. The delay caused the bard to suspect she wouldn't get an answer; perhaps it was too personal, perhaps she was prying. She was just about to capitulate and withdraw her question when Xena spoke.

"Well, it seemed very real. Almost too real. It was something I know could never've happened. Something I haven't thought about in a long time."

It wasn't much real information, but it was a start, Gabrielle thought.

"Xena, sometimes dreams grow from the sources of our deepest feelings, things that have lain hidden inside us for years. I know how deeply memories can be buried, it's something I learned at the Temple of Mnemosyne…"

"I don't know, Gabrielle," Xena responded, then continued thoughtfully after a pause, "it's something I thought I'd come to grips with long ago."

The statement still wasn't particularly informative. As usual, Gabrielle suspected that her soulmate might be feeling guilty over some ancient wrong. On top of that, her curiosity had been inflamed by the name she had heard Xena utter. So she decided to take a chance, in hopes of coaxing more details from the warrior. Often, talking had helped Xena resolve a lurking issue, but just as often, she needed to be prodded to approach a topic at all. If the subject was important enough to disturb her sleep, then it was probably important enough to warrant attention before it festered into brooding. The bard proceeded.

"Xena, you mentioned a name…"

"Huh?" Xena glanced at her quickly, then looked away. She was a bit unsettled that she'd been talking in her sleep at all, and that Gabrielle had heard her. "What'd I say?"

"Well, you were muttering a lot, but I only heard one word clearly. It was the name of your father, Atrius. It wasn't long after that when you awoke and sat up."

"Oh, well, he was in the dream. I was talking with him…strange thing is, I was alot older than I was when he was killed."

"That is kind of strange, Xena, but it makes sense if you were wishing he'd been alive while you were growing up. That's natural enough."

For a few more moments the warrior sat in silent self-analysis, her dark hair shrouding her face in the ruddy light from the embers of their campfire. Had anyone else broached the topic, they would have received a threatening scowl. Since it was Gabrielle, Xena gave the statement serious consideration. Even with her soulmate, it was a sensitive subject.

"For years I missed him, Gabrielle. I really wished I could meet him. Ya know, ask him why he left us. Then there was that business with the Furies, remember? When I found out mother had been forced to kill him? I guess the whole question just kinda lost its meaning after that."

Gabrielle remembered the torment Xena had endured at the hands of the Furies. It had turned out to be another of Ares' plots to reclaim the warrior's soul. He had convinced the Furies to visit persecution and madness on her soulmate, for the crime of not avenging her father's death. To regain her sanity, Xena would have had to avenge his death by killing her mother. But that vengeance would have damned her to further torment for the murder of her other parent. It had been a no win situation. As usual, Xena had escaped the trap brilliantly, accusing Ares himself of being her real father, and then beating him in combat to prove her divine heritage. It was a claim Gabrielle secretly believed to be true. Though it was never confirmed, it was the best explanation for some of the warrior's almost superhuman abilities. Reticent as always, Xena herself had never discussed or elaborated on her own beliefs. She had never again mentioned Atrius.

"Well, it does seem kind of odd after all the time that's passed since then," the bard mused, "but maybe you still aren't satisfied with how things ended."

"Ha!" Xena laughed sarcastically, revealing a trace of bitterness. "How ungrateful of me, huh? A warrior dissatisfied with having the God of War for a father."

"Xena, it would be understandable to me. Especially after all the things he's put you through. Just the idea that you had a god for a parent would be unsettling enough for anybody. Knowing you'd been led astray by him would be even worse. It would be pretty hard for anyone to accept, and you've never liked having gods meddle in your life."

"You're right about all that. Thing I can't understand is why I'm dreaming about this now."

"Can you tell me anything more about what you dreamed, what actually happened?"

"Sure. Cortese came to sack Amphipolis and my father led the defense. I hid in the root cellar with mother and Lyceus. He and Toris returned safe after their victory. I never lifted a sword."

"You mean, you weren't a warrior?" The blonde asked in shock.

"Nawwww, I was a barmaid."

Xena's terse recitation of the vision of an alternate timeline chilled Gabrielle. It reminded her of the world created by Caesar that she had destroyed by burning the loom of fate. But the reality that Xena's dream described seemed more desirable than what had actually happened in her life. And yet it implied the Warrior Princess had never been. The expected corollary was that she and Xena would never have met. Just what was it about alternate timelines, Gabrielle bitterly wondered, that consistently doomed their relationship? She shivered. It had been many years after Cortese's attack that she and Xena had met. Perhaps she was simply being self-involved and fatalistic. The dream didn't really preclude their meeting. Finally she focused back on the dream. Gabrielle was curious about Xena's father, what she'd dreamed he be like.

"What was he like, Xena? The Atrius in your dream, I mean."

"I felt he was an honorable warrior, a good man. Gabrielle, I don't really remember him…I was too young when he died. In the dream he'd come home to stay, but he'd trained a militia, and they defended us."

"He doesn't sound like the man your mother described."

"No, he wasn't anything like the man she said wanted to sacrifice me to Ares. Gabrielle, I'd just chalk this up to wishful thinking, but it felt so real. It didn't feel like a dream at all."

"Well, you were definitely asleep," Gabrielle reminded her, trying to lighten the mood, "at least you woke up."

"Yeah, I guess." Xena agreed. Then she seemed to dismiss the whole thing. "There's a few more candlemarks of darkness left, Gabrielle. Let's get some sleep."

She lay back down, staring into the embers of their fire, and Gabrielle joined her, snuggling close and wrapping an arm around her waist, while burrowing under the blankets. The bard was soon asleep, softly snoring, but Xena just couldn't drift off. She lay quietly as the stars silently followed their course overhead, her eyes reflecting the glow of the coals, while her mind wandered, many miles and many years away. The warrior traveled back in her memory, always seeking for something earlier. Before her earliest image, her oldest conversation, her first remembered incident; she found only impressions and feelings. What she discovered was laughter, a remembrance of flying, and the feeling of safety.

When the dawn rose and the sky paled with the coming day, Xena gently rose as well. She left Gabrielle undisturbed and walked to the stream nearby to wash up before returning to reheat some leftovers and make tea. When the water was hot, she steeped some herbs in a mug, enjoying the warmth as it penetrated her hands. She sat back down on the bedroll, enjoying the stillness of the early morning, letting her friend continue to snooze. After a while the warrior shook herself, rousing the bard slightly, and realized that the most disturbing thing about her dream was how preoccupied she had become with it. She filed it away for future contemplation, and set about waking Gabrielle.

Sooner or later they would have to be on their way, south from Thebes, where they had delivered Hermes' helmet, to cross the isthmus, passing Corinth. They would traverse the Peloponnese and Arcadia, finally arriving in Olympia for the Panhellenic games. It had only been held once in all the years they had traveled together, at least during the years they'd been conscious, and the last time, Xena had been only recently reformed. There had been no question of the kind of welcome she would have received. She probably never would have left Olympia alive. Much had changed in the last thirty years.

Breaking from her musings, Xena reached out and gently peeled back the blanket, revealing Gabrielle's head. She leaned over and softly kissed the bard's hair while whispering her name. As usual, Gabrielle shifted in annoyance and tried to roll over. A mischievous grin spread across Xena's face. She reached behind herself and dipped a finger into the leftover stew she had set to warm by the fire and she painted the gravy on Gabrielle's lips. She watched her partner's nose wrinkle, then saw her tongue dart out, followed by a more vigorous lip smacking. Finally the blonde's eyes flickered open.

"Was that the start of breakfast in bed?" Gabrielle joked sleepily. "How romantic."

"I realized food would wake you in a better mood than cold water." Xena deadpanned.

"Don't you dare, Xena. Besides we'd be stuck here all morning waiting for the blankets to dry." Gabrielle reasoned, while stifling a yawn.

"Wouldn't want that, now would we." Xena answered, grinning. "Well, since you're up we may as well eat."

"Since I'm up now…" Gabrielle observed acidly.

Later, after packing up their campsite, they headed back onto the road. The day was becoming comfortably warm, and they let the horses walk at a leisurely pace. The land was wooded, with gently rolling hills. The road curved around the rises, seeking the midground away from the bottomlands, which sometimes flooded, and the highlands, which were sometimes whipped by wind and storm. During the first half of the morning they passed a few other travelers headed in both directions, greeting them with a wave or a nod. Soon they were lost to sight and hearing among the trees. As the morning wore on though, the traffic dwindled down to nothing. Eventually, a candlemark passed without seeing another soul. Other than the songs of birds and the occasional whisper of running water in the distance, the woods were silent.

Xena judged noon by the height of the sun when they came to a small clearing. Above them the sky was revealed, in the rare space free of branches, and they decided to stop for a meal. The clearing held the first grass they'd seen all day, and they let the horses graze free. After Xena certified the safety of the area, Gabrielle picked up two of the water skins and headed downhill towards the faint sounds of running water. It turned out to be further away than she expected, not just down the hill, but around the base of the hill and into a ravine that branched off the bottomland. She found a spot where a leaning willow shaded a large flat boulder. It projected into the stream that flowed swiftly around it. The fast-running water had cut a small pool below the stone, and Gabrielle filled the skins with clear, cool, running water.

For a while she watched a school of minnows flitting in the pool, and even spied a crawfish walking cautiously on the bottom. A few dozen of them could have made a meal, she thought. Above her, in the willow branches, a woodpecker's staccato pounding broke the stillness as it excavated a dead snag for bugs. Gabrielle decided she could take a few moments before heading back, and she slipped off her boots and dipped her feet into the cool water. The feeling of refreshment was almost instantaneous, making her smile as she swished her feet in the current. The minnows darted away, to lurk near the opposite bank. She couldn't resist splashing her feet, just to see them scatter.

Before long, Gabrielle drew her feet back onto the stone, squeegeed off the water with her hand, and swung her feet off the side of the rock, waving them back and forth to dry them off. She soon had her boots back on, and picked up the water skins, preparing to head back. Above her, the woodpecker had fallen silent. Some distance away, she thought she heard a branch snap. Maybe Xena had come after her, wondering at her delay. She realized she must have been gone longer than anticipated, and so she hastened down the ravine towards the bottom of the hill.

It didn't take her long to retrace her steps. When she reached the mouth of the ravine she heard sounds in the distance, filtering downhill from the direction she'd originally come. It was the unmistakable sound of steel clashing against steel. From above her, the sound of Xena's battle cry rang through the woods. Gabrielle dropped the skins, and took off running towards their campsite. She sprinted around an outcropping at the base of the hill, and nearly slammed into half a dozen armed men. They were as surprised to see her as she was to see them. Then they realized they outnumbered her six to one, and they already had their weapons drawn.

Gabrielle skidded to a halt. These men, she realized, were probably heading around the hill to approach the battle from the rear. She didn't know how many were fighting with Xena already, but she knew the odds would become worse if they joined up. On the other hand, she would have preferred facing a dozen of them with Xena, than face a half-dozen each, alone. She quickly reached down and pulled the sais from her boots. The men were already forming a circle around her, moving cautiously and without hurry. They spent no time boasting or threatening. They were more dangerous than the average highwaymen, she realized; these men displayed discipline and experience.

They attacked in pairs, from opposite sides, relieving each other frequently. The bard realized they would quickly wear her down. They could be planning to kill her with the minimum risk of injury to themselves. Now she was worried; they had never made the typical mistake of underestimating her. She was honestly getting frightened. She was beginning to feel the muscles in her arms burning and the spring leaving her legs. She'd only gotten in a couple of glancing blows, which amounted to nothing. Uphill, the sounds of Xena's battle continued. If they could maintain an engagement against her this long, they had to be very good.

To the blonde, it seemed they'd been fighting a very long time. She felt her fatigue and sensed her luck was running out. Almost as she thought it, her foot slipped on the leafmould, and she went down on one knee. They didn't leap on her at once, as she had expected. Instead, the attacker nearest to her slashed her right upper arm and withdrew, being replaced by the next pair. The pain of the cut shocked Gabrielle to her feet, a grimace on her face, as her blood started to flow. It was a moderately deep wound that would weaken her and require stitches. Now she saw her enemies changing their tactics, increasing the pressure on her by moving to attack in threes.

Suddenly, the air rang with a battle cry, almost familiar. A figure launched itself from the outcropping and hurtled through the air, landing outside the circle of attackers. A quickly drawn sword slipped under the ribs of the nearest enemy, and he was flung off the blade as the warrior spun to face the second. As the man moved to engage the newcomer, Gabrielle took advantage of the diversion and rolled out from the midst of her assailants, slamming a sai into the shin of the closest one as she passed.

As Gabrielle regained her feet, the unknown fighter flipped over the man facing him and slashed him across the neck while still in the air. He landed feet first on the third man who had been waiting to attack, driving him to the ground. In a flash, he spun the sword on his palm, reversing the grip and impaling the prone opponent. The movement was so like one of Xena's that for a moment Gabrielle stood frozen in disbelief.

The remaining three attackers were distracted, turning to face the warrior who had killed three of their number in only seconds. The bard slammed the closest in the back of the head with the butt of a sai, sending him to the ground. The last two turned to flee. One got five paces away before a thrown dagger pitched him onto his face. The last managed to get eight paces away before dying. The speed of the killing and the level of proficiency the stranger displayed left the bard speechless. There was only one warrior she had ever seen who could pull off such a victory. She simply stared at her savior.

Now motionless, she could discern that he was a tall man, dressed and masked in black. He stood motionless, examining her, and when she met his eyes, she saw they were ice blue, almost hypnotic. Whisps of dark hair had escaped from a shoulder length ponytail that hung down his back. He wore tall boots, with armored greaves buckled over his shins, leather pants, not unlike Ares', with a wide belt and a sleeveless leather tunic. He also wore limited armor, and again Gabrielle felt her breath hitch. The ornaments on the bracers and chest guard were of bronze, the design swirling and decorative, but at the same time anatomical…like Xena's. He continued to look at her without speaking, but he sheathed his sword in a scabbard at his back with a swift movement.

Then he turned away and broke the spell, moving towards the downed men and retrieving a pair of daggers that he wiped on their clothing before replacing in his boots. He turned back towards her, seeing that she was still rooted in place. His experience told him her wound was affecting her as much as his sudden appearance.

"Don't you think you should go to the aid of your friend?" He asked, in a voice that was both smooth and resonant, as he gestured uphill with a nod.

At that moment they heard another of Xena's battle cries, and a man's scream of pain. Gabrielle took off, running uphill as fast as she could. Behind her came a laugh, deep and hearty, but not at all mocking.

By the time Gabrielle reached the clearing where Xena was fighting, there were only two of her six attackers left standing. Gabrielle appeared behind one so suddenly that he never heard her before she whipped the blade of one of her sais across his temple. The other man's concentration shifted for a second as his comrade fell, and Xena impaled him. They traded a glance, and Gabrielle realized she felt lightheaded. There was something about the warrior's eyes. To Xena's horror, Gabrielle wobbled, collapsed, and lost consciousness.

She didn't reawaken until after nightfall. When she came to, she was lying on their bedroll with her head in Xena's lap, and her soulmate was laving her forehead with a cool, wet rag. She could feel her arm throbbing under the stiffness of a bandage, that covered the stitches closing her wound, and she was dying of thirst. Her eyes finally focused on the smile of relief on Xena's face, and she tried to speak.

"Shhhhh," the warrior hushed her, putting a finger gently on her lips, "I've got some tea I want you to drink. It doesn't even taste that bad."

She held a cup to the bard's lips and tilted it back while raising her head. It took a moment before the wretched bitterness of the brew registered. Gabrielle's eyes widened in shock, but she forced herself to swallow it to avoid choking. Xena grinned down at her.

"There now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" She asked innocently.

Gabrielle sputtered, before croaking, "Gods, that was horrible, Xena. Even worse than your usual poison. Did you get that recipe from Joxer?"

"Actually no," Xena replied candidly, "it came from my mother."

It also rapidly put the bard to sleep.

Through the night, Xena wondered many things. Her soulmate had obviously been in a fight while she herself was being attacked. The wound and the missing water skins told her that much. But with whom? The warrior had not had an easy time defeating the six assailants who had appeared silently out of the woods, saying nothing, and immediately moving to attack. They had been competent fighters, better than most, and their teamwork was efficient and well practiced. Their dress and gear were identical, though they bore no insignia revealing their origins. This alone was worrisome, for though they were soldiers; they were neither a king's guard nor a city's militia. If they were the henchmen of a warlord, then their leader would be serious trouble.

Had Gabrielle managed to defeat similar fighters on her own? She was becoming a very competent fighter herself, but realistically, Xena knew she wouldn't have prevailed against a similar number of enemies. Had she successfully fought off a smaller band? Had she been assisted? If she had been aided in her fight, then by whom? Where had her ally gone? Gabrielle had reappeared alone and wounded.

Xena wanted desperately to question the bard, but the blonde needed to rest, and the herbs would make her sleep through the night. The next best thing would have been for Xena to retrace Gabrielle's steps, but not in the dark, and she was loath to leave the bard alone while unconscious, possibly with enemies nearby. Therefore she waited, keeping watch through the night, with a small fire and two horses for company, as she attended to her companion's wounds.

As Helios' first glow warmed the sky, Xena stoked the fire and set a pot of water and grains to simmer into gruel. She prepared a smaller container to heat water for tea. Next she measured out a different mixture of herbs, that would soothe Gabrielle's pain and help her body fight infection, while leaving her mind clear. Echinacea, yellow dock, burdock, golden seal, and willow bark; she left out the valerian and chamomile. If anything, the bitterness of the infusion will wake her up, Xena thought with a grin. I just hope she'll still be willing to answer a few of my questions afterwards.

The gruel was ready, and Xena added a few raisins, before preparing the tea and waking her partner. The bard was groggy and bleary eyed when Xena coaxed the medicinal tea into her. As expected, her eyes shot open and she swallowed hard to keep from gagging.

"Ggggaaaahhhh! What was that?" Gabrielle looked at her accusingly. "Xena, next time I think I'll let them kill me instead…it would be quicker."

Xena would have laughed at her reaction, but the reference to her being killed sobered the warrior. She had been attacked, she thought.

"Gabrielle, what happened yesterday? Who attacked you?"

The bard groaned as the events came back to her. So much had happened so fast, and some of it was very strange. At last she collected her thoughts and took a deep breath to calm herself. Then, storyteller that she was, she gave a minimally embellished account of her battle, and the mystery warrior who had saved her. Xena listened closely, raising an eyebrow at various points, but withholding her questions until the end.

"So the ones who attacked you were definitely the same as the ones I was fighting?"

"Absolutely, Xena, same gear, same tactics. And just like with you, they said nothing."

"And the man who helped you?" She asked, as calmly as possible, for that bit of news had quickened her heartbeat and brought an edginess she fought hard to conceal.

"I don't know what to think about him, except that I'm thankful he saved my life. Xena, he was good…more than good. He killed five of them quicker than you did up here. I think he knew you were up here fighting too, because he asked me if I shouldn't be going to help you."

"Well, at least he was on your side, Gabrielle," Xena said, relieved and nervous at the same time, "I wouldn't want to have someone like that for an enemy."

"Noooo, definitely not," Gabrielle agreed, thoughtfully adding, "he reminded me of you. The way he fought, the armor, his physical appearance, what of it I could see, anyway."

For a while Xena sat silently thinking over Gabrielle's report. Glad though she was that this mysterious stranger had saved the one she loved, she found the idea of an unknown warrior that deadly very disturbing. She couldn't help but want to know more about him. Finally she sighed and rose to her feet.

"I guess I may as well go and retrieve the water skins. Will you be ok here by yourself for a little while?"

"Yeah sure, Xena. After that tea, I don't think anything out there can scare me." Gabrielle said with a grin, her eyes reassuring the warrior. "They should be on the path at the bottom of the hill, right before an outcropping of limestone."

"Ok, I'll be right back. Yell if you even suspect anything's going on, alright?"

"Of course…they'll hear me all the way back in Thebes if I sense a threat. Now go on."

Xena gave the blonde another visual check, and then smiled at her and turned to head down the hill. She wasn't even thinking about the water skins…she wanted to see the battle scene.

It wasn't hard for her to read the signs on the forest floor that marked Gabrielle's hasty return path. It didn't take her long to find the remains of the battle either. Xena put all her skills to the test as she examined the aftermath, confirming the order of deaths the bard had described, the techniques and weapons used, and the skill of the stranger.

The outcropping was easily three times the height of her body, quite a drop, though far from impossible. To land while drawing a weapon, and to slay within a heartbeat required a high level of skill. Not many warriors she'd ever met were capable of it. The daggers had been thrown with admirable precision at the fleeing enemies, entering from behind and piercing their hearts. They had been long daggers too, thrown hard, and with a very high rate of rotation. Finally, Xena checked the direction Gabrielle had thought the man had headed in; though she'd recalled that she had left first and not looked back. Only the slightest trail could be discerned by reading the clues of disturbed soil or stones, and this soon disappeared completely. It was as if the man knew he'd be followed and covered his tracks.

Xena returned to the scene of the fight for a more thorough examination of the attackers. Their gear bore no identifications, and they were devoid of personal identification as well. No rings, necklaces, ear rings, coins…not even any tattoos. Their weapons had been well made and all were identical. They didn’t even display any rank.

The filled water skins were lying together in a niche in the outcropping. They had been placed there carefully after the fight where they would be easily seen. Ever wary, she uncorked the skins and sniffed the contents. No cloying sweetness or scent of almonds met her nostrils. She dipped a fingertip in the neck of one and let a drop fall on her tongue and detected nothing but clean pure water. The second skin was subjected to the same test. Again there was no bitterness or oiliness, no sign of adulteration. After what she'd seen, it wasn't expected. Nodding to herself, she restoppered the skins and headed back to camp.

As she walked, returning uphill, she allowed her senses to reach out, penetrating her environment. It was a habit for her. The woods seemed hospitable and it was becoming another pleasant day. Then she stopped. At the very lowest threshold of her awareness she had sensed that she was not alone. Her first thought was of a danger to Gabrielle, but then she realized the presence was behind her. There were no sounds and she was convinced that if she turned she would see nothing. Now she probed with all her senses directed at the presence, and she perceived confidence, but no threat. Though she had nothing but an impression, she was almost sure of whom she sensed.

Finally Xena turned and scanned the woods with her eyes. It was just a formality. As expected, she saw nothing. Still, she couldn't help but acknowledge the debt she felt, and so she spoke, clearly enough to be heard for a distance.

"Thank you." She said to the woods, but of course, she received no reply.

When she returned she found that Gabrielle had risen and was cleaning up the campsite. The blankets were rolled up; the cooking pots cleaned and hidden in a saddlebag. Her partner turned away from her horse to look at her, the set of reins dangling from her hands. She didn't think she'd been gone that long.

"Find anything?" Gabrielle asked with a grin.

Xena held up the water skins with an embarrassed smile, realizing she wasn't fooling her friend in the least.

"Xeeeena…"

"Six dead men, two stabbed with a sword, two stabbed in the backs with daggers, one slashed across the neck, and one with the back of his head stove in." She reported by rote. Then she chastised herself under her breath as she saw how her soulmate blanched at the description of the last death. "Gabrielle, I'm sorry. I know you would have been satisfied to just knock him out."

The smile had left the bard's face, and she'd had looked down at the sais running along the outsides of her calves. When she finally looked back into Xena's eyes, she managed a weak smile. "It's ok, Xena, I know they would have killed me. I realize I couldn't have taken any chances."

"Good."

"So, uhhh, who was that masked man?"

"Gabrielle, I have no idea. From what I saw, the battle went just as you said, but he left no trail. There was nothing to follow. I guess we just have to be thankful for his help. We may never know more."

As she'd spoken, she'd crossed the clearing and wrapped her soulmate in her arms, giving her a reassuring hug. She felt the bard's arms wrap around her back, tightening in return. She allowed herself to relish the embrace, waiting until the blonde chose to step away. She had decided to say nothing about the presence she'd sensed on her way back.

After saddling and loading the horses they continued their ride, walking at a leisurely pace through the forest. The road continued to meander among the trees, bright morning sunlight dancing with the shadows as a breeze whispered through the leaves. From time to time they heard squirrels, racing in frenzied chases through the underbrush, or up the trunks of trees. In the distance came the staccato of a woodpecker's assault, and the soft sounds of running water. It was idyllic and lulling, the warrior thought, such a lovely day for a bloodbath.

It wasn't that Xena was overly morbid that morning, but she was still unsettled by the previous day's attack. Too many unanswered questions plagued her and just enjoying the morning's ride was only a distant temptation. Instead, she concentrated on the mysteries that had presented themselves. She was just a small step shy of brooding.

Gabrielle regarded her from time to time with a sidelong glance. Her attempts at conversation had been acknowledged with grunts, mostly, and she'd finally decided to stick with the scenery and the somnambulant and rolling gait of her horse.

Xena registered the approaching hoof beats of a pair of riders long before they came into view, and she held up a hand to call Gabrielle to a halt. They had been riding most of the morning and they hadn't seen another traveler since mid-morning of the day before. They awaited the riders' approach in the shade to the side of the road. It took longer than expected for them to appear. When they finally did, their behavior was unexpected and shocking.

The riders looked to be middle-aged men, well dressed and armed, but not military. Rather, they seemed to be well-to-do traders, maybe even minor nobles. The harnesses and gear on their horses was fine, but not opulent. They were certainly not soldiers or brigands. They seemed to be on an errand or business, speaking to each other as they rode at a trot. They were still twenty yards away when the noticed they weren't alone.

The riders took one look at the pair of women in front of them, and jerked their mounts to a halt. There was no question that they recognized the two, for their eyes were practically starting out of their heads. From the expressions on their faces, Gabrielle would have sworn they were terrified. Cursing in their haste and hauling on their reins, they wheeled their horses about, a flurry of dirt clods launched into the air by their hooves. The men fled at a gallop, just as the warrior began to call out a greeting. In moments they had vanished down the road, the hoof beats of their horses fading rapidly in the distance.

"Have a nice day, I guess," Xena called halfheartedly after them. Under her breath she muttered, "cowards." She turned to face the bard and shrugged. Gabrielle, she noticed, was looking at her, as confused by the chain of events as she was.

"Xena, what just happened?"

"They didn't like the look of us? They're afraid of women? They owed you money?" Xena jested, completely baffled. "I really have no idea, Gabrielle. Bottom line is, they fled like the Destroyer of Nations was after them. A few years ago I might have expected a reaction like that, but now?"

"Xena, it's been over 30 years since you were a warlord. Those guys weren't but children when you changed your life. That's really not convincing."

"Well, maybe they were plotting something, or didn't want to be seen together?"

Gabrielle looked down the road, her gaze following the long-gone riders. Even the sounds of their horses had been silenced by the distance. Finally she sighed and looked back at her soulmate. She had a bad feeling about this. Xena just shrugged again and clucked at Argo II, coaxing her into motion, and the bard paced her back onto the road.

For a while they continued on in silence, and now they were both lost in their thoughts. Eventually the natural sounds of the otherwise deserted woods surrounded them again, its peacefulness returning. But now it seemed forced, and Xena scarcely paid any attention to the surroundings, completely preoccupied, pondering the strangeness of the last day's events. The reaction of the riders was as unprovoked and inexplicable as the attackers or the masked warrior. One thing she did know, which angered and worried her, was that Gabrielle was injured. Another attack could bring deadly consequences. Later, looking back on that morning, she wondered if her thoughts hadn't jinxed them.

When they chose to stop for their midday meal, they had traveled perhaps three leagues from their last campsite. They were still in wooded hills, the road still curling among the trees, the soft babble of a stream still to be heard. On the right side of the road a large oak overhung their track. Next to it a smaller set of ruts lead off into the trees, partially overgrown from several years of neglect. Coarse grass grew in the center while brambles encroached from the sides. Perhaps it had once led to a homestead, Gabrielle thought upon noticing it, out in the middle of the forest and abandoned years before. It seemed a lonely place to settle, far from anything they had passed.

Xena had dismounted and tethered Argo II to a snag off the neglected road, where she could graze on the meager offerings growing between the ruts. She had continued on down the track, "checking the perimeter". Her memories of this place, from decades ago, were quite different.

Gabrielle also dismounted and loosened her saddlebag and a water skin. She left her mount with Argo II, and returned to the main road. A fallen log near the trunk of the large oak beckoned her, and she took a seat in the shade, where she could watch both the horses and the road. She sat digging trail foods out of her bag for their lunch, and had soon laid out a flatbread, a couple strips of sheep jerky, a lump of hard cheese, and an apple. She examined the clump of dried goose livers, but decided to save them as a surprise for Xena's dinner.

The bard listened for Xena's return, wondering how far she'd go and what, if anything, she'd found. After waiting as long as her patience would allow, she stood and walked back to the head of the abandoned road. The brambles along the sides caught her attention. They were drooping under the weight of blackberries. The sight made her mouth water. Blackberries and goose livers were a treat. The blonde contemplated changing her lunch menu. At the same time, from a distance down the overgrown track, she heard Xena calling her.

Gabrielle made her way along one of the wheel ruts where the footing was easier, seeing here and there a partial print of Xena's boots. When her soulmate called her a second time, her voice was much closer. Finally the bard came around a bend and stopped. Xena was standing about twenty paces ahead, hands on her hips, staring at the same ruins that had captured her own gaze.

It had once been a sizable inn, the main building having had a partial second floor. It was no surprise that, being in the forest, its construction was mostly of wood. It was also no surprise that, with the exception of a couple partial walls, the chimney, and parts of the foundation, most of it had burned down when a fire had struck it. Gabrielle noticed that the outbuildings, a large stable and storage shed, had not escaped, even though they had been completely detached from the main building. In the cleared space before the inn, the well had also been damage. Stones that had supported a windlass, for well's rope and bucket, lay toppled near those that still stood. It seemed to have been done almost for spite. She realized this was not the aftermath of an accidental fire.

Xena turned towards her, an expression of confusion and sadness marking her features.

"Gabrielle, this was the only inn on this road between Thebes and Corinth. I'd hoped we could stay here tonight. It was clean and the food was good. If I'd known it had been destroyed, I'd have pushed us faster to be in Corinth tonight."

"What do you think happened here?" The blonde asked.

"It was attacked and burned. The job was thorough; as you can see none of it was spared, not even the well. It must've happened less then three years ago, judging by the overgrowth."

"Someone must have had a lot of hatred for the people here."

"No," Xena told her softly, "it was done as an example, to show that no traveler would be safe on the road."

There was more. The bard was sure of it. They had both seen destruction wrought by war or warlords, and though it was sad to think of the attendant suffering, it still didn't account for the look of bewilderment and guilt on the warrior's face. Sure, Xena had done things like this once, but it had been many years, and more importantly, many changes ago. It shouldn't have been affecting her so much.

"Xena, something about this is bothering you," Gabrielle said, "and how can you tell why this place was destroyed?"

"Well," the warrior hesitantly stated, "it's what I would have done if I were moving to threaten Corinth. There are two roads across the isthmus and they join about a league ahead. I would have encouraged riders to hasten through here and waylaid them at the crossroads. And that would have included reinforcements from Athens…it's been a long, long time since they were at war with Corinth."

Gabrielle just looked at her for a moment, puzzled. She couldn't remember any news of a force with designs on Corinth, not since Xena had nearly taken the city with her army decades before. Strategically it made sense, but past events didn't bear out the possibility. The bard tried to remember any stories she'd heard about a siege. Maybe it had happened while they'd been in that ice tomb. The time frame could have worked, but if it had happened in the last three years, surely she would have heard something about it.

"We haven't heard anything about an attack on Corinth in the last few years." She stated. "Maybe it was just local bandits."

Xena didn't reply, but she reluctantly swept her arm in a "follow me" gesture. She had turned away and started walking towards the main building of the inn. Curious, Gabrielle followed. When they got to the ruins, the warrior pointed to a patch of unburned wood, on what had been the wall, flanking the front door. The bard moved closer until she stood next to her soulmate. Burned into the wood was a brand, a ring bearing a familiar coglike design, encircling an even more familiar X.

"I never used such a symbol, though it would've been fitting, I guess." Xena said softly, barely above a whisper. "Thirty-seven years ago I commandeered this inn as a temporary headquarters, before moving on to Corinth, but I spared it."

"Then someone's been trying to frame you," Gabrielle reasoned, "maybe after we had disappeared."

"Gabrielle, Octavius knew we died, Joxer saw us die. We were fighting the gods and four of them were there. Word would've spread very quickly…especially to the cities. No one would've believed I did this. This happened probably twenty-four years after our "deaths". I can still smell the scent of the smoke."

"Then I don't know what to think, Xena."

After examining the rest of the ruins they finally made their way back up the road to the horses. The blackberries were forgotten. Gabrielle wasn't at all hungry for the lunch she had unpacked, and Xena, well, the bard took one look at her and didn't even bother. She stuffed the food back into her saddlebag and lashed it down behind her saddle.

To say that the warrior was now engaged in brooding would have been a gross understatement. She said nothing; her eyes focused inward, lips slightly pursed in concentration. She went through the motions of checking Argo II, but she didn't mount. Instead she went and sat on the log under the large oak, and lost herself in thought. Finally Gabrielle joined her, fidgeting and picking at her bandage. Every so often, she'd glance over at the warrior, seeing the same picture. She had barely moved. Finally, after a candle mark and a half, Gabrielle could stand no more of the silence.

"Xeeeena," she asked softly, "shouldn't we get going? Can we make it to Corinth today? Are we still going to Corinth?"

The warrior took a second to unfold from her cocoon of thought. She looked briefly at her soulmate with a slightly embarrassed expression, checked the height of the sun, and looked at the horses. She even seemed to sample the slight breeze.

"Yes, no, and maybe." Xena finally answered, at last giving Gabrielle a slight smile and rising to her feet.

She held out a hand to her soulmate, and the bard clasped it with her own. Xena pulled her onto her feet, smiling a bit more broadly at the fleeting look of annoyance on the blonde's face. She never liked that kind of answer, she thought, and I guess I haven't exactly been great company here.

"We'll ride in a little bit." Xena elaborated for the bard's sake, knowing the information would help make up for her long silence. "We can't make Corinth before dark, and there's no rush. In fact, I'm a bit wary of going there at all until I find out a little more about what's happening. I remember a nice clearing by the crossroads. Let's camp there tonight. Oh, and don't pick at that dressing."

Gabrielle was a bit astonished at the long monologue. She'd just resigned herself to the silence of the "brooding Xena", and hadn’t really expected more than, "yes, no, and maybe". She couldn't decide whether or not to pester the warrior for more information.

When the bard didn't respond for a moment, Xena added, "And Gabrielle, could you pick us some of those blackberries, I remember how good the ones here are…with goose livers." When Gabrielle's eyes narrowed, the warrior turned towards the horses so her soulmate wouldn't see the wide grin plastered on her face.

They returned to the road after another half candle mark. Xena was still mostly silent, and she was scouring their surroundings like a scout infiltrating enemy territory. Gabrielle had been a bit chatty, but got no more long answers, and her banter finally trailed off as she noticed how wound up and edgy the warrior was. Xena, she saw, was holding the reins loosely in her left hand, her right hand on her thigh near the chakram. It didn't make her feel at ease. Now she found herself staring into the trees on either side of the road, half expecting to be attacked at any moment. So it was that she happened to be looking to the side instead of ahead when she heard Xena gasp and halt Argo II.

They had reached a point where the road wound down a rise above the crossroads, and the trees had thinned somewhat. The afternoon sun was forcing shadows towards them from the west. Ahead, Gabrielle could see that the juncture of the two roads to Corinth was surrounded by a narrow open field, where the forest had been cut back a couple dozen yards. The entire space had been planted with a crop of crosses. They stood at haphazard intervals, in rows two and three deep, and from them hung cruelly brutalized bodies. Her stomach threatened to heave, but she choked back her gorge and only gagged. There were men, and women, elderly, middle-aged, even teenagers. Many had had their legs broken; others their arms. Some had actually been beheaded, but most had been left to die in anguish. Gabrielle also noticed that many had an X carved into their foreheads. Finally she glanced over at Xena.

The warrior princess was staring at the scene in disbelief, still as a statue. She was barely breathing. Whoever had done this was crueler than Caesar, judging by the level of violence inflicted on the victims. She just couldn't help but wonder who would behead someone they'd already crucified. But the worst part, the part that made no sense to her, was the use of her X to mutilate these people. Down in the field she could hear the moaning of those not yet relieved of their suffering by death. Slowly she swiveled in the saddle to look at her partner.

Gabrielle looked pale and her head was shaking back and forth in small movements of denial. She was swallowing as if she was trying to rid her mouth of the taste of medicine. Xena could see her initial shocked expression beginning to change into one of empathic pain as her eyes scanned the crosses one by one. Soon, the warrior thought, it would progress to outrage and condemnation.

I need information, and some of them are still alive, Xena continued thinking, but there is no way I can take her down there to see those people close up. In fact, I have to get her away from the sight of this if I can.

"Gabrielle, take the horses off the road to the left," she requested quietly, "wait for me, I'll be right back. Keep a watch on the roads for me will ya?"

The bard slowly turned away from the mesmerizing horror of the crossroads and her sad eyes fell on her soulmate. "What are you going to do, Xena?" Her voice expressed her shock and hopeless sadness. "We're too late to help them."

"Some of them are still alive. Maybe they can tell me something useful. Maybe I can at least end their suffering. Please do what I asked, Gabrielle, I need you to watch my back while I'm in the open down there."

The bard nodded and watched her warrior dismount. She took the reins Xena handed to her, looked at the crosses again, and then whispered, "Please be careful, Xena."

Then she turned the horses off the road and slowly guided them into the trees, glancing back as her soulmate moved through the narrowing tongue of land between the roads to approach the killing ground.

The bard found a small space for herself and the horses, on a slight rise above the road. Both roads and their juncture were visible below and her position gave her a strategic viewpoint. She remained on her horse to increase her height further. Her gaze flicked back and forth between Xena's movements and the empty roads. The warrior was moving quickly, with her customary cautious grace, slipping from cover to cover. When she reached the last of the concealing trees, she drew her sword and advanced cautiously into the crossroads. After a few paces she unhooked the chakram and grasped it in her left hand.

Xena was tensed for an attack. She continually turned, surveying her surroundings. There were no signs of hostiles, but her nerves were on edge, all her senses alert. The familiar sword in her hand was a comfort, as was her knowledge that the bard was watching the roads for her. Still she was apprehensive. There was no cover and she was completely exposed. She was the only thing moving in the entire area.

The smell of death was overpowering, accompanied by the stench of excrement and corpse juice befouling the air. Some of the bodies, she noticed, had begun to fall apart. A few of their rat gnawed limbs were lying, like swollen and over ripened fruit, below the man made boughs of the crosses. Xena saw that they were writhing with busy masses of maggots. At a subconscious level she noticed other details of the grisly surroundings. The rough-hewn timbers that composed the crosses, the large crude nails that pierced the victims' flesh, and the ragged condition of their clothing. These people had been badly beaten before they had been nailed up, and many showed the marks of the lash through the holes in their garments. The constant buzzing from clouds of flies filled the air. Somehow it seemed appropriate.

She searched constantly for the slightest movement; the twitch of a hand or a change of expression. And always she listened, for the ragged, labored breathing of one whose own body weight was crushing their lungs, or perhaps a groan of pain. She had traversed a third of the evil landscape when she finally heard what she was seeking. Just a puff of breath came to her sensitive ears, the exhalation of a body so tired from the struggle to grasp air, that each filling of the lungs was a torment. She stopped stock still, holding her own breath to hear the next inhalation that would pinpoint the source of failing life nearby. She waited longer than she believed possible, but finally she heard air drawn in through a dry throat, slowly filling the lungs of a woman to her left.

Xena's eyes watered at the sight of this victim who somehow still clung to life. She had been scourged, and her forehead carved with the X before being nailed to her cross. What remained of her clothing had been reduced to rags by the lash, and hung on her frame like flotsam clinging to a branch after a flood. Her eyes had been sewn shut with a few crude stitches. The thickened lids were swollen with pus. As if this wasn't enough, a branch had been rammed inside her, a couple feet of which protruded from under the remains of her skirt, coated in coagulated blood.

Even at her worst, Xena would never have thought to visit such degradation and anguish on another human being. When her army had slaughtered, they had tried to avoid the innocents from whom their tribute would come. There had always been objectives for their killing, strategic or tactical, and related to the military goals she had set forth. What she was seeing here was the result of inhumanity and madness. Her soul erupted in righteous condemnation of the beast responsible for what she saw. For such a monster, no death could ever be too harsh; no punishment would ever be sufficient.

She approached the woman directly, and announced her presence in a soft voice. The woman was beyond sympathy. Perhaps she was already unable to answer. But Xena also knew that when close to death, a person was sometimes capable of clarity, even objectivity, which would have been impossible earlier in their suffering.

"Who did this?" She asked directly. "Why have so many been killed?"

At first the slow and labored sounds of breathing were the only response, but after long moments a rasping whisper was forced through cracked lips. The warrior had to strain to hear the words.

"Xena, Tyrant of Corinth…we resisted her."

The Warrior Princess stood frozen in shock as ice gripped her heart. Time had ceased to be and she very nearly lost her grip on her sword. The whispered answer had weakened her knees, striking her with more force than any threat of mayhem. The woman's words were one of the worst things she could have ever heard, and they sent her mind reeling with a thousand denials of something so impossible. Only one possibility rose in her numbed mind, and she voiced it with her last hope. Perhaps some ambitious impostor was usurping her name for the terror once associated with it. Ruefully, she realized that she had a place in history. She felt her old guilt threatening to return.

"What does the Tyrant look like?" She asked urgently. But she received no answer. She had been so shocked by the information that she hadn't noticed the woman's breathing had ceased. She had spoken with the last of her strength, defiant to the end.

For a while she could only stand before the cross in shock. The woman was limp now, hanging from the nails in her hands and feet, like a rag doll pinned to a board in the games of a twisted child.

Several yards away Xena heard a rasping cough, and she turned to regard a young man, his arms and legs broken. He was further from death than the woman had been, and he had managed to turn his head to look at her. Xena moved towards him as if in a dream, not feeling her feet touching the ground, but finally stopping when she stood below him. He stared down at her with hatred and contempt, knowing no fear for he had already lost all. And then, though his mouth must have been parched, he managed to spit in her face.

"It's true isn't it?" He asked her, his pain forgotten in his rage. "You have no soul, just your madness and your viciousness. Now you come to gloat over your victims, crying tears of what…rejoicing at our suffering. You're a monster! May the One God damn you to hell for killing his messenger."

Xena was stunned. Not by his hatred or his curse, the years had thickened her skin, but rather by what his words implied. There was no doubt he recognized her. Somewhere nearby her double was terrorizing the city of Corinth, and gods only knew how much of the surrounding territory. If she were as ambitious as I was, Xena thought, she could hold all the Peloponnese. She's certainly a monster capable of horrifying cruelty. What Xena had already seen left her no doubt of that. Somehow, Xena would put an end to her predations and cruelty; she had no doubt of this either. But worst of all, this heartless version of herself had killed Eve. Before she could think twice, she felt a cold hatred for any mother who could slaughter her own child. Then her memories of forcing Gabrielle to kill Hope arose to expose her hypocrisy. She had some things in common with this Tyrant of Corinth, much as she would wish to deny it. They were not the same, but they grew from the same base potential. She recognized her thoughts for what they were, a desperate attempt to distance herself from the nightmare she'd found herself in. It was her cultivated reaction, to drown unwanted emotion with cold reason…or violence.

Now another thought came to her. Eve had been the messenger. That meant that she and the Tyrant must be about the same age. Were there were other parallels, and if so, what? What was her Gabrielle like? Had they ever met? Had she killed her years ago? Or had she seduced her bard to bloodlust? She remembered the reaction of the two men on the road that morning, and realized her soulmate was most probably still her soulmate in this place too. Together no matter what, she thought grimly, and will I be able to kill Gabrielle even if I know she's evil? Will I be able to kill myself? There was no doubt in her mind that she would have to try.

She was still standing in front of the man on the cross, and he had been staring down at her the whole time. Now she looked up at him again. She needed more information.

"Where is she?" She demanded of him. She meant the Tyrant, but he misunderstood her and gave her contempt with his answer.

"You know where she is…you had her raped in the arena by twenty men before being drawn and quartered. Then you sat by as her body was fed to your war dogs. She was still alive…and you made all of us watch. That woman closed her eyes so you had them sewn shut."

The shock of his answer struck her harder than any blow. She was overcome by the monstrosity of her beloved daughter's death, and she reeled back away from him, staggering out into the road.

The movement fixed Gabrielle's gaze from two hundred yards away, as she sat on her horse on the hill. She didn't have to hear what was said to know something was very wrong. The state of mind conveyed by Xena's body language had gone from stealth to horror to shocked anguish. She started moving the horses out of the woods but a sound from below stopped her. The bard traced its origin with her eyes. To her disbelief, she spied a column of about two dozen soldiers on the other road, slightly further from Xena than she herself, but headed towards her down the road to Corinth. Though they were distant, she could make out enough to be sure they were the same kind of soldiers they had fought the day before.

She had no real choices. The warrior had ceased paying any attention to her surroundings. To warn Xena of the soldiers' approach would alert the enemy to their presence as well. She did the only thing she could think of. Wrapping Argo II's reins around her pommel, she kicked her horse and broke from the cover of the trees. As soon as she was back on the road, she galloped madly towards the crossroads and the city of Corinth. For the first fifty yards she was still high enough above the soldiers to see they hadn't sped up, but she knew that would change as soon as she was visible through the trees of the narrowing divide between the roads. Then the chase would be on. It was coming up fast, and now she could see Xena turning towards her having heard the hoof beats of their horses. Gabrielle maintained her silence as she passed the last trees separating the roads, gesturing desperately back down the other road towards the soldiers, and watching as Xena turned to look. She saw the warrior's expression change as she realized the situation, and she moved to the roadside, preparing to mount Argo II on the run.

Twenty feet before they met, Gabrielle slowed the horses slightly, and Xena raced to match their speed. Behind them, the soldiers still hadn't given pursuit. Now the blonde was alongside her partner and she saw the Xena's hand grasp the pommel of her saddle. Then the warrior swung her leg up and over Argo II's back, and she caught the reins Gabrielle tossed to her. They both kicked their horses to a full gallop, leaning forward over their necks, as they heard shouts behind them from the soldiers. Now they were finally giving chase, and the road behind thundered with the hoof beats of their horses. Xena and Gabrielle were riding at full speed towards Corinth and the Tyrant.

For miles that seemed to go on forever, they fled the soldiers, neither drawing away nor falling closer to their pursuers. It would depend on the stamina of the horses, Gabrielle thought, and the soldiers are much more heavily laden. Their mounts should tire first. She had no idea that their danger only increased the further they rode.

Xena really didn't think they had much choice but to outrun the soldiers, and hope they could turn away from the city, before they reached the gates or another patrol. There were no roads branching off, that she knew, of in these last leagues before the city, only a couple bridges over the rivers that ran down to the coast. They were approaching the first of these, she noted, when something ahead on the road caught her eye.

It looked like a fight, and as they galloped nearer she became certain of it. A soldier lay sprawled in the road, right before the bridge, unmoving. A pair of soldiers was engaging swords against a lone man who was effortlessly holding them at bay. He looked towards the women when he heard their horses, and promptly slew one of the soldiers. The other turned to flee. He only managed to run about four paces when Xena saw him pitch forward onto his face. She didn't need to see him closely to know there would be a dagger sprouting from his back.

The man had already turned to grab a rope that lay on the ground, and he tied this to the saddle of the nearest soldier's horse. Then he tied the reins of the other two to its pommel. As Xena and Gabrielle swept past, he slapped the horse hard on its flank, starting it, and causing all three horses to try stampeding back down the road. They were jerked to a halt by the rope, and lifted their forequarters, pawing the air in panic. Now the approaching company's mounts were spooked by the bucking horses facing them, and they broke stride, and the column became disordered. Their commander called them to a halt.

He could see the two women his soldiers had chased were almost across the bridge, and there was a man on foot half way across as well. There were three of their comrades lying in the road, their horses gone mad. Other patrols closer to the city would catch the fugitives, the commander decided. The near side of the bridge was the boundary of his company's district anyway. They had to control the three fallen soldiers' horses, and tend their men if possible. He shouted the orders to his men.

The officer of the pursuing company was just starting to dismount when the three horses finally managed to pull free the rope that held them back. The rope pulled out a support timber under the bridge. To the soldiers' amazement, the nearest section of the structure slowly gave way and fell into the gorge below. The man on foot was standing on the far side of the bridge looking at them, holding a dagger and watching to gage how much destruction he had accomplished, before turning and disappearing into the woods alongside the road. He had been wearing a mask, the officer noted, and he was dressed in black with bronze scrollwork armor.

Xena and Gabrielle had ridden another hundred yards around a bend before they became aware that they were no longer being pursued. They reined their horses to a halt, where they stood panting and sweating, while the women nervously stared back down the road behind them. Xena was the first to stare apprehensively down the road ahead.

"We've got to get out of sight," she said, as she hastily directed Argo II towards the trees to the right, finally adding, "this road and the city aren't safe for us. I'll explain later."

Typical, thought the bard, as she led her horse, following the warrior into the woods. She was just thinking, you're welcome, Xena, when the warrior spoke again.

"Thank you, Gabrielle." She said, turning around to smile warmly at her soulmate.

As she led them away from the road, Xena related her experience at the crossroads to her partner. Her voice was steady only with great effort, choosing her words to shock her soulmate as little as possible, while still conveying such horrible news. Gabrielle really tried hard not to hound the warrior with questions, but what she heard left her with more questions than answers. The w