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"Goddess of War" is based upon the events in the X:WP episode "Ten Little Warlords." The author shamelessly takes creative liberties with the end of the episode, and this story takes place thereafter. 

DISCLAIMER: This story contains mild violence and bad poetry. If either offends you, please read a different story. 


XENA: WARRIOR PRINCESS

Goddess of War


by ecuyer

She ducked into a crouch, unfamiliar hands reaching for the sword. He was on her in an instant, one of the last warlords, pressing what he saw as an advantage. 

His mistake. 

Her hands, the hands of a stranger, were on the sword. She jumped up and spun, sword whirling in a pattern she’d spun hundreds, maybe even thousands of time before. 

She’d lost count. 

The sword slashed deep into his midsection, and he froze, furious, knowing his life flew as swiftly as that sword. In his last moments, he looked up; his eyes meeting hers, staring into the face of the woman he thought was his killer. She stood back, eyes locked with his, as he fell. 

A pattern she’d spun hundreds, maybe thousands of times before. 

She’d lost count. 


I tear up the hallway, anger spurring me on faster than, in a rational moment, I would have thought possible. I almost pass the doorway, but I hear Joxer (again!) and I throw myself through that door. He’s there ahead of me--how did he get there ahead of me? 

No matter. I have the sword. 

What’s that he’s babbling about? I wish I could hear. 

Again, no matter. There’s Xena, who isn’t Xena, or is she? I don’t care. I have the sword pointed at her, Callisto, whoever, I can’t tell. I’m saying something to her; I want to . . .But there goes Joxer again. I have him by the collar, sword at his throat, and it’s about time I . . . 

The haze starts to fade; I’m confused. It’s almost a relief, such letting go. I pull the sword away from Joxer’s neck. I very carefully don’t think about what I almost did. 

And then I look to where Xena stands, on the table, Ares’ bloody sword in her hand. She’s holding it up, and I see flames licking up the length of the sword. I have to think about what she’s doing; I can’t avoid this, and I look to meet those strange brown eyes. They don’t see me at all, I realize. They see something totally different. I start to feel fear now, licking at me much like those flames . . .Blue light fills the room; I want to close my eyes, to look away, but the bard in me knows I won’t see a deity born every day. 

I watch. 

In an instant, Sisyphus is gone, consumed by those flames of Tartarus he thought to escape. The last . . .living . . .warlord crawls into a corner to die. And the former god of war, blood on his hands too, shrouded in mortality, watches the same thing I do. What does he see? The fear his face wears is a different sort than I imagine mine to be. He’s a mortal seeing a god for the first time. I’m a mortal seeing . . .I don’t know what I’m seeing. 

And then Xena stands before us. Well, not really Xena, I correct myself. She looks much like the Xena I knew--tall, dark, proud. But I know it’s not my Xena. I am awestruck by this stranger. She’s beautiful, wild, and fierce. I haven’t often seen this Xena; my Xena buries her quickly when I do. I imagine the warlord must have looked like this, all those years ago.  

I wonder if all those people thought it worth the dying, to see this. 

I still try to hold those eyes, familiar blue now, yet anything but familiar at the same time. Cold, so very cold; whatever part of my Xena might have been in them is gone now, in a silent instant. And then Xena, Goddess of War, is gone. I stand in an empty room, kept company only by Joxer, Ares, and the cooling corpses of warlords on their last journey to meet Hades. 

 


*Choice and fire and new worlds. Endless possibilities. It all starts here and it all ends here. Like stones on path, a child’s marbles into a pattern.*


We walk into town, boots kicking up the dust. It’s a big enough town that Argo doesn’t draw too much attention, and small enough that people stare at Joxer as he rattles along. Nobody takes note of us otherwise; these people haven’t had much reason to see the former god of war. And I figure nobody has much reason to recognize me, not without . . .

We’ve come for the Festival of the Sun; a weeklong celebration dedicated to Apollo. Every year, the townspeople leave an open invitation for all bards to come and tell their best stories, to get Apollo’s attention and break the summer sun’s spell. It’s also a great excuse for a big party. This year, I think, it comes not a moment too soon. The people of this arid town have learned to live with the annual droughts, but this year it’s been pretty bad and getting even worse. And I could use a party anyway. 

I step in time with my staff in one hand, and hold Argo’s reins in the other. The rest of my new little family follows me. Argo, Ares, Joxer. I find Argo the easiest to get along with. 

I’d like to say we came to town just for the party, but that would be a lie. It’s been lean times, and the revelers tend to reward good stories. Besides, I could stand to spend some time with others like me, the bards who are sure to come. Maybe one of them will spin a good enough tale that I’ll quit thinking about the ones I’ve been in myself. 

The festival won’t begin until sundown, which always struck me as kind of contradictory; but I guess Apollo’s not too busy, then. And it does keep the revelers from passing out in the heat of the day. They can save it for the wine; I know Ares will. 

Now, though, we’re just interested in water, and we head for the public well. I see some older men sitting there, faces seamed from the sun. I don’t pay too much attention to them as Ares and Joxer reach for dippers, and I lead Argo to the neighboring trough. A few words drift over to me.  

They speak of Xena. I listen.

"Wasn’t that something?" 

"Yeah, it’s the damnedest thing." 

"That army--Tantus’, I think--hits that village very time they come through."

"Not no more, they don’t." 

"No, guess not. But I don’t get why." 

"Well, would you? I wouldn’t cross that." 

Frowns. "No, me neither. But I still don’t get why she’d do that. She’s supposed to be Goddess of War?" 

Shrugs. "Beats me." 

They move on, the sun or maybe my curiosity being too much for them. I didn’t know anything about it, but it sounds like Xena’s been busy . . .I feel a little bit of hope. But I don’t know what I’m hoping for, really. It’s been weeks, and I still don’t understand. 

I move to take my own drink, and I look at Ares. They were talking about his successor, or maybe his usurper; I don’t really know what he thinks about it. He wants to talk about it, or fight about it, I know he does, and soon he won’t let me put him off like I have so many times before. He looks at my face and I show him that now still isn’t the time. I almost feel sorry for him; his eyes look so hollow, so empty. The look on Joxer’s face says the same of mine. I shake myself and take a drink; I refuse to feel so . . .so . . . I refuse to feel. The part of me that I won’t listen to, that I won’t allow to speak knows there’ll be time enough for that soon enough. It murmurs now, and I firmly crush it underfoot. 


The sun finally sets, and night works its magic as we again walk into the weather-beaten town. The night isn’t cool, but darkness brings relief from the day’s heat. 

We pick our way toward the square and the center of the festival. I hear the drums begin to beat, and some musicians pick up a tune. It’s a lively tune, simple and happy. Joxer smiles, even stiff Ares smiles; clapping, they pick up the beat and look at me. I do not feel simple, or happy; but I smile anyway, tuck my staff under my arm and join them. 

Soon enough, the music dies down, and the bards get ready. I see some young ones; right now I think they’re all younger than me, they’re all nerves, rehearsing their lines, eyes shut tightly in concentration. I figure I don’t have too much to worry about from them, and when they get up on stage, I’m right. Some of the older ones, some who’ve been around, they know the ropes. They know which stories to tell, which stories the people want to hear. 

I’ve heard of Xena, Goddess of War, for weeks. 

It sounds like I’ll hear it again tonight. 


Some stories are new, some are not. They are not the stories of my Xena; they are the stories of a stranger. I hear some of my own stories retold, stories from before, and they are the stories of a stranger, too. 

And then another bard takes the stage. He’s neither young nor old, and none would recognize him if they saw him again . . .but he says he will tell us of Xena’s claim of the sword. And so we all lean forward to listen. 

He speaks.

From battles bloody
To innocences lost
The warrior princess
Cheats Fates at all cost.

In promises broken
And damnation made
The warrior princess
Quests for War’s blade.

Uncalled as guest
Nor rival in truth
The warrior princess
Steals passage by death of two.

Once-pawn of Sisyphus
Hiding in another’s name
The warrior princess
Turns the game.

By death of nine warlords
And death to the beast
The warrior princess
Finds her defeat.

Life stolen forever
And power from afar
The warrior princess
Betrays her charge.

Sword in hand
Mortal no more
The warrior princess
Claims title to Goddess of War.

It didn’t happen that way, I want to say, it’s all twisted truths and straight lies; and I feel myself getting just a little bit angry. It wasn’t that way at all. He looks directly at me, eyes gleaming, challenging me . . .I mean, really . . .what does this big-mouthed no-talent would-be bard think he knows of Xena? Of my Xena? 

I want to say that . . .but I don’t. I don’t have the words to say what these people will hear. 

You do, says a voice in my ear. 

I don’t think it’s mine, so I turn and look. Nobody’s there, but when I turn away I hear it again. 

Speak of what you know. 

I step up on the stage and take my place. 

I will speak of Xena. 

I think of all the things that have happened. I think of all our adventures, our fantastic encounters and improbable victories despite impossible odds. 

I think of all this. 

But I speak of Xena. 


We leave the festival early. The next day, we walk out of town; my purse is full but I am still empty. I’m on the road again, to . . .I still don’t know where to. Apollo must not have been pleased; the sun still beats down mercilessly, and we never leave the dust of our journeys behind. 

I’m still thinking of that bard, I don’t know why; it didn’t mean anything, it didn’t happen that way. 

So I can’t figure out why some of his words sound true. 


Another night; some other time, later on. Nobody’s much in the mood to talk tonight, which is just fine with me. 

I’m in the mood to talk, but not with them. 

But I won’t pray. 

I shrug a bit, inside my head, and decide that’s a pretty stupid idea anyway. I suppose the Goddess of War wouldn’t be much interested in the musings of a scruffy, down-on-her-luck bard. Wrong domain, I’d guess. 

I go to my blankets early, and lay back looking at the stars. There’s no getting away from it; I’m going to have to think about what I’m going to do now. I just haven’t thought about it too much. I suppose I should go to Amphipolis and tell her mother . . .tell her what, I don’t know. Still, I should go. 

Xena’s never going back home, I think, and it saddens me. 

Still, maybe Xena can see Lyceus again now, and Marcus, and all the other dead we’ve left behind. The thought comforts me a little. 

Just a little. 

I won’t think about the living she’s left behind. 

I don’t like nights so well; I think too much. That’s enough, I decide, and firmly close my eyes against both the night and thought. 

I say good night to Xena. 

Just in case she’s listening 


*Turn it back on itself and let it consume itself. Hate and rage and anger, around and around.*


Days later, we find ourselves in farm country. These gentle hills should be green with late summer’s bloom, but the drought has found its way even here, too. The rich soil is turning dry, and again my boots kick up the dust . . . 

Joxer is impatient with all this; I don’t know why he hasn’t left. But I don’t think about it too much. I spend my time telling stories, the great myths, heroes from a time gone by . . .but I no longer speak of Xena. 

Much like Argo, Ares now simply follows along. 

And soon the villages grow few and far between, the people also; these are farm folk, working folk, and they spend their time in the fields. My purse and our supplies grow ever lighter, and at the next village, I find honest work for us. 

Later in the day, we walk a narrow path through high hayfields, barking dogs, and chattering children. We come to the farm; it’s a proud place, ambitious in building and planting, but it’s beginning to show the toll of an absent caretaker. The kids run ahead, still playful despite the hard work of farm living. We meet their parents--an older man, leg wrapped and splinted, his face tight with both pain and anxiety for his family. His young wife, not much older than me, yet worlds away in hard experience; her face, too, shows the strain. I’m glad we have come here, not just for ourselves, but because these people need help. There are battles for ordinary folk, and we’ll fight that battle here, not with swords, but with our backs, against time and an indifferent nature. 

Farm days are long, and there’s plenty of time to get started. Ares shoulders the yoke and buckets and goes to the river to fetch water. I send Joxer off with an ax (and a quick prayer) to fill the woodpile. I can only hope he doesn’t hurt himself; the wood itself may not be in danger. 

He opens his mouth to argue, but I tell him to pretend it’s a battle-ax, and his eyes light up. The kids want to follow, so he happily heads off. 

Well, I can only hope he doesn’t hurt them. 

I go to help the farmer’s wife, and I’m surprised when a young man comes in, dusty and tired. I figure he’s my age, just a little small, but when she introduces him as her husband’s son, I realize he’s barely out of childhood. And then I look at the shadow of responsibility in his eyes as he tries to fill his father’s boots, and I realize his childhood is long gone, and not in years. The farm ages people just as much as any battle, I think; just in different ways. 

Time passes. 

We’ve cut the hay. Today, we’ll gather it and put it up, though there’s not much chance of it spoiling in the field, I think, as I look at the cloudless sky. The farmer’s son hitches the draft mare to the wagon; they look at Argo, but I will not allow it. This battlemare has been packhorse for weeks now, but I will allow no more than that. I will work in the fields myself; it is where I am from. It is not for Argo, as it never was for her rider.  

So the farmer’s mare stands in the traces, content with it; it is what she is for. She dozes in the day’s heat, her young colt frolicking about her. Soon he settles down for a nap in the welcome shade thrown by her body. I wish we could do the same, but that’s not what we are for, not today. We turn our pitchforks to the hay, bend our backs, and fill the wagon time and again under the relentless sun. 

Time passes. 

It’s time for us to move on. We’ve taken in all the vegetables we can, put up all the hay, repaired all the shelters . . .still, I find myself worrying about what will happen to these people if the drought doesn’t break, or during harvest time, if it does. It’s a bad break on the farmer’s leg, and the farm is hard on people. 

In some ways, Xena and I had it easy. We always rode off after the day was won, to new places, new battles. These people must fight, too; they must fight the same battle, day after day, for simple existence. 

I decide that we will come back through this place, later on. Just to see. To help as we can. 

It is what my Xena taught me. 

This last night, we sit outside the farmer’s home after a meal of rich vegetable stew, cheese, and bread. It’s simple fare by the standards of some, but to us, seasoned with hard work, it’s a feast. We listen to the sounds of the farmlands--hum of cicadas, restive animals in their pens . . . This is still not my place. It isn’t, as Potadeia was not. These are not my people, as Perdicus, sadly, was not. My "people" . . .there was really only one, and now she’s gone. I must move on. 

A neighbor’s boy runs up, carrying a pack, his father’s rusty sword, and a glimmer of starstruck folly in his eyes He tells us of the challenge issued by the Goddess of War, never noticing the strange silence that falls upon me and my companions. The goddess is calling all warriors to the plain by some other nameless village. He wants to be so much more than a farmer, he says, so he’s going there, to fight for his place in the goddess’s army. 

I want to tell him he’s going there to die . . .but I remember this farm girl, drawn to Xena and adventure, too, and not so long ago. The farm girl found something more, but this boy will not, not now. 

The farmer’s son tells the boy much of what I would, and says he will not go on that fool’s quest. He knows where his place is in the world, and for a moment, I envy his certainty. But his place, his people, and even his certainty are not to be mine, and I accept it. I say good evening, and head for the hayloft and sleep, which is all the certainty I’ll have this night. But not before Joxer joins in on the fool’s quest, as I knew he would. That quickly, my strange little accidental family is smaller by one. 

Later on, Ares comes to his corner of the loft; I’m surprised, I’d half-expected him to leave, too. But he surprises me further by saying he will stay, not only tonight, but permanently, here, at the farm. It seems he’s found his place, too, here among the plowshares, and the irony is not lost on me.  

Or maybe he’s found somewhere to be because he has nowhere to go. 

I think about the family I have lost, and tonight, Ares and I talk about it, or fight about it, as much as we ever will. This challenge, this fearsome army . . .I wonder what she’s thinking, but even Ares cannot tell me. He’s forgotten everything about being a god. He tells me Xena’s forgotten everything about being mortal. 


*Life, death, victory, loss. Around and around, circular path, endless pattern.*


It’s just Argo and me now, and I’m on foot. I still don’t much like riding, but I’d never part with Argo. She’s taken care of me more than a few times. And she’s most all I have left of Xena now . . . 

I’ve finally decided what I’m going to do. I’m going to see Xena’s mother, and maybe I’ll find Hercules, although I figure I don’t really need to. He has connections, you know; and this isn’t any big secret, anyway. My time with Xena was short; I wonder if Hercules will have forever . . .or any time at all. 

After that, whatever I do, I still don’t know. I won’t go back to my village, and I won’t go to the Academy. I don’t know about the Amazons . . .I just don’t know. 

It’s almost funny, if you think about it; warlords, bounty hunters, and even gods hunting after Xena every day, or Xena going after them . . . I never once really thought about what I’d do if she . . .died. Although she didn’t really die, that part of me speaks up. I squash it again. 

The one time it was close, I thought she was gone, I didn’t have to think about anything past getting her back to Amphipolis. And then Xena came back anyway, and I didn’t have to think about it at all. 

I thought it would last forever. 

And I shouldn’t be thinking so much, because Argo’s stopped, tense and trembling, head up. And there’s a pack of rough guys, bandits, standing in the road. They’ve come up on me while my mind is elsewhere. Stupid, stupid bard, I think. Ordinary thugs, with no interest in glory and war . . .just opportunity. As they approach me, daggers and sticks in hand, I think, well Xena, I guess even you couldn’t stop them all. 

They’re on me quickly, too many to count. I swing my staff and remove what’s left of one tough’s teeth; I doubt he’ll thank me for the favor. I keep swinging--I don’t have to be too careful--but I can feel them closing in. I see Argo whirling and kicking, plunging through the bandits, defending me as her rider once did. 

Finally, I lose my staff, and one of them has Argo’s reins. She tries to pull away, to keep fighting, but he knows horses and turns her head so she can’t do much. 

I figure this is it. I begin to think of that green, peaceful place . . . 

And then this wind comes howling down the road, kicking up sticks and rocks and gods know what else. I crouch down and cover my head, and hope Argo can run. But the wind misses us, and not the bandits. I stand in my own silence while both the wind and bandits howl around me. They scream and run, and Argo and I are left standing alone, but not untouched, in the roadway. 

I turn my face to the sky. 

"XENAAAAA!!!!!!" 


*. . .*


The oracles say it will rain, but there’s not a cloud in the sky when Argo and I walk into one more dusty town. This time I ride. No one answered my call on the road that day, so I’ve decided to be more persistent. 

This is that nameless place, the place where all the warriors gather before they battle to meet the Goddess of War. We walk through the streets, Argo and I, past both time-scarred veterans and hopeful young boys willing to play at war. I am neither, and although some of them give me a second look, none of them look for too long. 

I come to an inn, a place I’ve been before, in the old days with Xena. The owner is--was--a friend of Xena’s, and she will care for Argo when I am gone. 

I will care for myself. 

The stablegirl takes Argo, her eyes bright with appreciation for the golden horse. She’ll be well cared for. Turning away, I head to the common room. 

I enter and I see Joxer’s there, as usual; he hasn’t met his fate, whatever that might be, just yet. He’s telling lies of our exploits, and some part of me appreciates the irony; another part would like to set him straight this one last time. 

But he is not my quarry today. 

I look into his audience. Glory-seekers hungry for a moment of fame, of power. All they’ll get is eternity with Hades. My Xena would tell them to go home. I don’t know what this Xena would do . . .will do. 

I see what I’m looking for: a hopeful young face, adoring eyes . . . new leather armor, untested weapons. He will not live out the day, I decide. 

I settle back into the shadows to wait, and I do not have to wait long; the group breaks up and heads for the door, the plain, and death. I quietly slip behind the young man; he’s not much taller than me. We step outside the door, and, like some common thug, I pull him into the alley. 

It’s only a few moments before I’m adjusting my . . . borrowed . . . armor. Gauntlets, breastplate, shoulder- and shinguards, a helmet; I tuck my hair inside and pull it low over my eyes. I leave the boy’s sword and dagger. 

The boy? Of course I didn’t kill him. He’ll live to fight another day, if he’s a fool; he’ll live to do something else, if he’s not. 

I go to the stable, where the girl has stored our . . . my . . . possessions. I retrieve what I need from the packs, and leave my staff behind. It’s not what I need now. 

I touch Argo’s muzzle gently, and say good-bye to yet another friend. 


I stand on the bluff overlooking the plain. The clouds are gathering in the western sky, fierce and dark, and the warriors gather below, fierce and dark themselves. I wonder what I must look like, in my newly won armor and . . . my . . . weapons. I miss my staff. But I must have an edge for this battle, even though I know an edge is not enough. I wonder why I have come here; this is not my place, either. Maybe the hospital, to care for those who may never leave here, wounded both in body and pride. . .Perhaps, when this is done, it will indeed be my place. One way or another. 

I look down at the plain, at all the souls I would wound, and maybe I will, if only I have the power . . .I see them all, battling for their places at the Goddess of War’s side. 

Behind me, I hear thunder growl. The storm is about to break. 

And so am I. 

I go. 


I come to the battle, and I see Xena on the far side of the field, dark and dispassionate. I imagine I can see the spark of those blue eyes, but I know that’s just my imagination. I know the spark is long gone, weeks gone. Still, I stand and watch for some long moments. 

If she sees me, it doesn’t show. 

I don’t know how all this works, and I don’t care, really. They fight, they live or they die, and the Goddess chooses those who will stand at her side. What happens after that, I don’t know. When is after? 

And then I’m in the battle myself, sword in hand, chakram at my side, and I don’t know for sure how I got there. The battle is strangely silent; I hear the thunder rumble, and feel the charge in the air. I duck and dodge, moving as if through a dream or deep water. This is not real, I think. 

I know I did not come here to kill . . . so I must have come here to die. 

Things become suddenly real, and the dream ends abruptly. A warrior, one who did come here to kill, looks into my eyes and sees opportunity. He turns to me, sword raised . . . and stops. 

Everything stops. 


*It all ends here. It all starts here.*


I say I don’t understand, but that’s not it at all. I won’t understand . . .I’m afraid to, because once I do, that will make it final. It will be for real, forever, and I can’t risk that.  

I turn, and there’s Xena, this stranger, this goddess. This creature killed my Xena, more surely than anything as simple and mundane as a sword blow. And she didn’t leave me anything to grieve. Nothing to hold, to burn, to say good-bye to.  

And then I feel that anger, like I did on the island . . . no, this is worse. And I welcome it. This is what I will feel. I’m still angry over what she did then, but I’m more angry because of now. 

Now, gods help me, I understand. I have to. 

I know why she did it, and it’s partly because of me, and mostly it has nothing at all to do with me. 

I don’t know which part hurts worse. 

By claiming that sword, Xena thought she could make everything right, or at least make up for what she did . . . but she never could. She never can. 

I tell her this. 

And still, I see nothing in her eyes. 

It makes me even angrier. 

She thought she could control all the rage and the hate in the world, just as she struggled to do every day in her mortal self. Knowing my Xena, I could see why it was so tempting. 

But it didn’t work . . . it couldn’t. She can never stop the violence for everyone, not so easily. We all have to choose for ourselves. But who wants to take care of themselves anymore, when Xena will do it for them . . . the burden she picked up so willingly. That’s what Apollo said (yes, now I know that it was Apollo, that night at the festival). And I understand now. 

She means more as a mortal. 

I can’t stop understanding there, although I want to. I try to smother that voice, that other part of me, but, tasting freedom, it (I?) won’t be denied. It rustles, and wrestles with me, and makes itself be heard. 

This isn’t about the world, that Gabrielle says. 

It’s about you. 

Xena left you. 

She chose the world over you, and you, good little bard that you are, that you should be, you can’t allow yourself to believe that you, you and Xena, are worth more than the world.  

No, that’s the problem, I tell that other me. 

I do believe it. 

And it shames me. 

That shame pushes me even further, and I go willingly into the anger. It’s scary, this anger, but this truth has released me; I feel as if I’ve been holding my breath, holding it for weeks now, ever since Xena left me on that island. Holding it for far too long, and I’ve just now let it go. 

I throw myself into the anger, and I’m free. 

I let go. 

Our swords clash, Xena’s and Ares’. Same dance, different dancers . . . I will find out if it is indeed worth the dying to see this Xena, wildly free yet still bound at the same time. 

Not so different from my Xena after all. 

And then things are quiet, but surprise, I’m not dead, on my way from one god to another, and I don’t know why. I look up at the Goddess of War’s eyes, and, surprise again, I see something familiar. I feel hope, hope for Xena. 

My Xena. And me. 

That’s the hope I’ve been holding onto. 

I tell her this. 

And then Ares is there, Ares the farmer, covered in the sweat and dirt of his mortal vocation. The air is heavier now, charged with more than the coming storm. 

The sword is in Ares’ hand, and I see a deity reborn. 

I look over at Xena, cast in blue light, no longer the source, and she’s much the same; still beautiful, wild, fierce. She turns to me, and it’s my Xena, too. Tall, dark, proud. She doesn’t bury that other Xena, not right away. 

I revel in it. 

It would be worth the dying. 

It is worth the living . . . 

This, I know, is my place. 

I look into her eyes, alive again, lit by an inner blue fire, and then I really understand why, the why of both then and now. I don’t have to ask . . . it has nothing to do with me . . . and everything, too. 

That day on the island, she saw the hate in my eyes, the rage, and she saw what I would do; she saw it again, today. And she will not let me. But mortal or goddess, she cannot save me, not forever. She never can; this I must do myself. 

But she takes it on herself, again and again, as she took my swordblows moments ago. 

I see the why, everything she would give me, for me, in her eyes. 

I hope she sees the same in mine. 

Ares was wrong, that night in the hayloft. Xena, my Xena or the Goddess of War, never could forget. 

The storm, as it breaks, is gentle.

 

 


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