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Higher Wisdom - Cont'd

It was deep night, stars out, by the time she's reached the tavern. Fully lit, too: strange, the rooms should have been unoccupied. This time she's not as shocked at the foul odors on entry; she knew Kleis purged the tavern daily, so the customers must have brought the smell with them. Amused, she scans the room: no Kleis. But she'd got Rhadamon's eye; the stout little man walks right up to her, spitting at her feet.

"Xena! I know who you are. Murdering warlord, now you've got your bloodied hands on my niece. Why don't you get off the island, tonight?"

She simply picks him up: holding him, by the front of his tunic, well off the ground, eyes finally level with her own. And swings around, innkeeper in hand, to catch a hand, an amphora directed at her head. "Don't want to break the nice landlord's wares, do we?" She twists; the amphora flies up towards the ceiling; kicking outward and the man is down, amongst the tables; catches the pottery and sets it down. And she turns her gaze to the landlord.

"Now is that any way to treat your new ruler?"

"You'll rule Samothrace over my dead body."

"But not tonight, landlord." She drops him and he falls, knees collapsed: much more afraid than he'd let on, and with good justification. Looks down at him: "And tell Stepissos that Xena says hello." She looks once around the tavern, picks up the amphora "Mine" and leaves.

Riding back to the campsite: easy to guess where Kleis had to have gone: the assassination attempt would be this evening. The campsite itself clearly disturbed: they might have already been there. Cursing herself for missing the opportunity, she almost fails to see: two blankets, rolled up neatly under the tree, supporting a jug of wine. Kleis had visited; not finding her there, had left gifts and gone home.

Or on to Stepissos' palace: she knew far too little for trust. Mentor, after the first two cups of wine, had broken his reserve. Careful, thoughtful Mentor had lashed out at her.

She could have told him: she was making a safe home for Gabrielle and her chosen lover, that nothing else in her life mattered: not Athena's political agenda, not Kleis, not him. She couldn't face it: he'd simply have to trust her, even if he never understood.

Still it was unlike him, to be upset; he, who'd urged a calm reasoned approach to Stepissos. He surely wouldn't approve of the challenge she'd thrown at Stepissos' feet, in the tavern.

She sits, back against the oak, sword and chakram at her side. Very unlike Mentor. But . . . how honest was he? He did seem concerned about Kleis; maybe too concerned. She had to smile: so Mentor had plans for the other beautiful, forceful woman on the island. Well: so did she, and she was satrap. Poor Mentor. Smiling again: she liked him a great deal more, now she'd found his weakness, found he'd been misleading her.

Checking the area: rock, tree; she could make good toss, get the chakram back, but they might simply run off, back into the woods. Better was to let them come close, then feel the quick bite of the chakram.

A few would have to live, briefly, so she could be sure it was Stepissos. But there'd be no pardons for assassins; she'd take the bodies to the tavern, perhaps, hang them up there. Her way wasn't Mentor's way, but Gabrielle would be safe ever after.

The brush was still; the moon hung low and bloated in the sky; the Pleiades had set. It was getting late and she could feel something. Stripping off her shorts: clean, but it was coming.

Quiet, and she could see out over the entire valley. She wanted to share it, with Gabrielle. Not just share it; she wanted her in her arms; she wanted to feel her head against her breast. If she had the chance, she'd do it: let anyone call her a fool, she'd take marriage vows even this night.

Her vision, her lust to see Gabrielle, Destroyer. Had she been betrayed? Or was that just in her mind? They'd resolved all that. And resolved, Gabrielle had gone on to sleep with Agape, then lie about it.

She feels it now, puts her hand down, to check. Just a little blood. She hated this barren fertility, cycle after cycle. It wasn't as though the blood released anything, resolved her pain. She felt just as heavy, wanted sex just as much.

It appealed to her, the idea of sitting, letting it trickle slowly over the grasses, returning to Ge. She couldn't sit there three days, though. An idea: drawing the sword, she lifts one leg, sets it close, letting blood fall on the blade.

The blade felt cool and smooth under her thigh, contrasting with the scratchy grass, roots she'd been sitting on. It amused her to think of the blood of her cycle as somehow between realities. An image skitted across her mind and she captured it: captured like taking a butterfly on the wing: it was a fragment of a dream. She held it gently, examined it like a beautiful fragile thing: her sword, drawn red from the forge; Hephaestos himself hammering the near-molten metal, suffusing it with power, with his godhead. And Athena: when Hephaestos had hammered his last blow, had held it up to the blue sky admiring the edge, Athena took the sword, ran it straight through Xena's belly: doubled over, embracing the sword, quenching thesword with her blood, she could hear it hiss.

And this: moon in attendance, alone in a field and embraced by stars, this was as close as she would come.

A movement in the brush, a soft lover's kiss then she's falling: eyes open, awake. Gabrielle wasn't there, and daylight had come. Motion in the underbrush, remembered from her dream: she listened, motionless, eyes barely open. Fresh blood on the air . . . she makes out Kleis' body, coming towards her. Alone: so bold, but a perfect plan; Kleis kneels in front of her, lifts a hand . . . gently brushes back her bangs.

"Xena? Are you alright?" Leans closer, sniffs. "You haven't been drinking, but you're a mess. What happened?"

What happened was the feel of a hand on her forehead, gentle. She wanted to tell her she liked a kiss in the morning but maybe this was enough, maybe almost a kiss.

"I fell asleep; thought maybe you'd come back."

"Look, you you want me to make you a pad or something?"

"We use sponges. I'll get"

"Sit" She puts a hand on her shoulder, pushing down, then gets up herself. "You'll get blood on the leather. We: you and Gabrielle; let's see . . ."

"In the tent." If she could find a rag or something, she'd clean the blade before Kleis noticed.

"Istis! Come here, honey." But she doesn't, comes to her instead, lifting her arms and smiling

"spash"

"This it? I don't really want to watch. C'mon, Issie." She turns her away, back to the tent. "We brought breakfast. She was like that all yesterday so I brought her. You could use some spash yourself, and you can give her a bath too."

Finished, she'd found leaves for herself but not the sword. "Where were you last night? I stopped at the tavern and you weren't there."

"Excuse me?"

"Are you seeing someone else?"

"I sleep next to you one night and you think you own me? And you're just waiting for your lover to get here. I don't believe this, Xena."

"Gabrielle is coming with her lover; I'm here to make this island safe for them. Taking care of Gabrielle is all I care about, Kleis. And if that's too much for you, just go back to Stepissos."

She stands, retrieves her chakram and finds a large leaf to wipe the blade of the sword: it leaves blood in long parallel streaks down the blade, but she leaves it be, sheathes the sword. Bends over to pick up her shorts, and Kleis is standing in her way.

"I thought there was a reason I liked you." This time she does kiss her, hand rested on her chest, kissing lightly, on her lips. "Stepissos is my . . . godfather, Xena. When my parents died, he took responsibility for me, paid the bride-price to the temple when they took me in for the training. I owe him."

"And Mentor?" Though she puts a hand at Kleis' waist, she wasn't ready to stop.

"You want me to pretend I never see him? I like him, but this isn't a time to choose a husband." Kleis turns in her hand, puts an arm at her waist, gives a hand to Istis, and directs both of them to the waterfall. "There'll be blood between them, Xena. Even Kleisthenes, dear, innocent boy, saw that. You have your Gabrielle? Well, I have Istis, and nothing matters more than being alive, for her. I can't get caught between them."

"I could get you off the island. My mother owns a tavern, on the mainland."

"Hmm. And I thought you were aristocracy; breeding usually tells. So you want me to be a barmaid, but away from my family, my friends? I don't think so, Xena."

"Then stay close to Gabrielle. It'll be the safest place on the island."

They've come to the waterfall; she and Kleis each strip, then work on getting Istis out of her clothes: like a nymph, she couldn't wait to get into the water. In theend Xena holds one hand, with Istis reaching the other to the water, while Kleis removes the tunic. Xena takes a deep pool all to herself, while Kleis bathes, plays with Istis. It was a beautiful scene, and there was even a part of herself that wanted to yield to it, to join Kleis. Instead, she leans, back into the water, lets her hair float; half-submerged, a roaring in her ears but she can make out "Thinking about her?" and she pretends to be isolated, simply watches the clouds pass over.

Splash: heads up; a smiling Istis is in her pool. "Spash" she says, and grins back. "So how'd you get involved with Kleisthenes?"

Kleis is on the bank, unloading food from the hamper: she could smell fresh-baked bread, but there would be much more inside.

"He came to the temple; everyone does, eventually. Xena, he was so lost . . . I think his father was a royal scribe, or something, and this was his reward. He wasn't any match for Stepissos or Mentor."

"You felt sorry for him." Only a little part of her mind on Istis; she alternated tickling, splashing and dunking; just a little attention: she found herself surprised how little it took to win the child's love.

"No, I was assigned by the high priestess, because I was a virgin and he was the ruler. But he kept coming back . . . donating, the priestess made sure of that. And we talked about the island, the people. I thought I was helping, teaching him how to be a better ruler. I didn't think I'd care for him as much as I did."

Not the version she'd got from Mentor, and she had to make a decision. She falls back in the water, this time taking Istis on top of her, and the child seems happy, lying peacefully on her belly; she lets the water roar in her ears.

It all sounded so simple, an innocent love Kleis had simply fallen into, though innocence was a word she could never associate with Kleis. It reminded her of Gabrielle, their first years together; how, against her own will, she'd fallen in love with the young woman. Portrait of simple love, glazed over by betrayal and loss.

Istis has crawled all the way up to her breasts, is looking in her face; reaching one arm under the child's butt, she rights herself, lifting the baby. "Sounds like me and Gabrielle."

"Mmmm. So then what? She told you she loved someone else?" Handing her a biscuit, with butter and honey: it was warm, and flaky and the honey tasting of meadow-flowers.

"She didn't have to; I knew she felt it. I won't force her, Kleis."

Kleis isn't eating her own biscuit, and Istis splashes at just the wrong time, ruining hers.

"You didn't tell her you love her. And you see her with this other woman . . . no-one says anything, but you decide you can't stand in the way of true love, so you walk out. I have this right?"

"You got another one of those?"

"No; save it for Issie; she'll eat anything."

"Mentor gave her a peach; it's back at camp."

"Old sweetie; he adores her. I wish . . ." Then she's back on her case.

"You know, Xena? You're a fool. How long have you been with this Gabrielle woman?"

"Three years."

"If I were you, I'd be doing everything I could, to tell her I wanted her. I'd fight for her, Xena."

It wasn't a question: no response required. Istis, on the other hand, needed tummy-tickling; she goes for it with a vengeance, making terrible faces and Issie squeals even louder.

"So it's about pride, is it? She's supposed to want you, even without you asking, or telling her. Funny thing about you, Xena: just like you wanted all my trust, and didn't want to give any."

"How'd it end, with you and Kleisthenes?"

"Fire in the night; men in our bedroom: they held me down, put a mask over my eyes and I couldn't see but I could hear him shouting. We rode for a long time and next thing I saw was Stepissos. He told me Kleisthenes decided to go back to Persepolis. Maybe he killed him." Kleis is pensive, for a moment, then looks directly at her. "C'mon: bring Issie and dry off; I've got some bread and jams for breakfast. Like I said, Xena: I can't break through to you. Maybe your Gabrielle can." Then, changing her tone, "Issie! Come on, let's get breakfast."

Herse, this time, was in her shop, but stripped almost naked, wearing a short camisole and her black mane of hair pulled back. Large-breasted, wide hipped with a flat belly, her thighs and arms muscled, Herse could have been a heroic statue, monument to strength, carved from pure obsidian. She smiles, with apparent joy "Xena! Good you come. Take the charcoal, from the back, and add it to the oven, the large one."

Two ovens in the back, in addition to the forges; each surrounded by heavy brick, the large one glazed blue. Herse must have practiced on the bricks; one by one she takes bricks away, revealing a cavity and a furnace already hot. She places Herse's charcoal, itself carved into bricks, stacks it around the inside; closes the oven quickly. She'd felt the fires of Hades, and this was worse: following a memory, she looks around, sees a well. Retrieving a bucket from the depths, she takes it in both hands, pours cool water into her mouth, over her shoulders. Standing, gasping, she remembers.

Iason, that was his name; one of the boys she ran with; they were all older but seemed glad to have her around, not like the older girls, who talked of nothing but marriage and children. Iason was apprenticed to a smith, and when the old greybeard was absent, he let her help. It built her upper body strength, pumping the bellows, swinging the hammers; they used to compare biceps.

Until that day: she joined the boys late at night; one of them had got hold of wine, and before she got there they'd started a contest, to see who was going to have her. Iason, sullen, was already at the sidelines when she came in settling the issue quickly and permanently.

And so, next day, both of them: alone, tired, working at the forge and she stumbled, dropping a red-hot piece of iron on his forearm. Memory brought back the stench of burnt meat, burnt like a pig left too long to roast. He screamed and she got in back, held him, put a hand over his mouth; no-one but her ever heard the scream, ever knew.

Then Kara arrived from the east, came to her village, changed the course of her life. She heard the arm never healed properly; Iason bore the scar and a twist in his arm until he died in the battle that took Lyceus' life.

The sound of glass breaking: she returns to the shop to find Herse breaking a large clear-glass jug into fragments small enough to place into a clay jar no bigger than a drinking cup.

"What are you doing?"

"Transforming, Xena. Now you learn the secrets." After a wink, she's at a shelf, row of pottery jars; picks up one. Inside, a powder like gray ash; she sprinkles some in with the broken glass. Another, a blue colored powder she doesn't recognize. Finally, the tiniest pinch of . . . wheat flour, it seemed. And Herse lids the pot, shakes it with a rocking motion, and goes outside.

She dons a heavy woolen robe, woven in an intricate pattern with earth browns, greens and a sky-blue. Multiple scorch marks, holes burned through: protection against the fire of transformation. Squatting in front of the smaller oven, using tongs to set the clay pot in the middle, Herse watches intently like a sorceress peering into a cavern.

"It's hot, Herse. C'mon back here." But Herse doesn't even move.

"Only one way to do this right. Needs focus, Xena. Heat part of the process."

Herse removes the pot, opens it; the glass had melted into a sludge that she stirs with a short iron rod then pours into what looked to be a cup carved of stone.

"Now, Xena; open the other."

She quickly opens the second oven, the one she'd fed; hit by the wave of heat she steps away, and Herse' places the cup in the center of the furnace. Reaching for a bellows, a spark flies, landing on her leg but Herse's caught it, before she can even feel the heat. Herse's hands are callused like her own, the back covered with burns, but her touch is light, as she places a hand on her shoulder. "You have a maiden's skin, Xena. And this was not the scar meant for it." Then whatever mood had taken her passes.

"So, Xena, great prince, ruler. Tell me of Gabrielle, and of why she is not here, with you."

"She wants to be with someone else."

"And you believe this." Sounding only a moment away from snorting, in contempt.

"I don't know what to believe, Herse."

"So you choose to believe she loves another."

"And what do you expect me to do?" Pumping harder, she was beginning to be angry; Herse acted as though the world was some great mystery; that everything was more than itself, as though the texture of events had been written in some complex sacred script.

"Open the furnace. It is time."

She does, and Herse sets the cup down, quickly takes the top row of bricks off the furnace, revealing a very hot stone, with a large deep groove worn in. She's got a long tube, iron, one end fitted with a mouthpiece of bone; the stone cup holds red-molten glass and she dips her tube in, pulling out a misshapen lump. Spinning the tube, it takes shape, descending from red and she watches it becoming orange, like the molten fluid was on fire, but, trapped behind a glassy wall, the fire was turning in on itself. The sphere of fire grows under Herse's hands, taking life from her breath. Putting it back into the furnace for a moment, then out again, she draws out the glass, making a neck. Finally, nods to her and she rebricks the oven, as Herse takes the cooled glass, quickly breaks the neck.

Back at her campsite, leaving Argo to graze, she wanders to the stream's edge, finds a place to sit. Herse hadn't been in a very talkative mood, but she'd seen artisans like that before, after creating. They'd simply sat, together, and she watched Herse, using a stone, smoothing the lips of the glass. She'd done something to it, because now the glass took the light, gave back colors, shifting as it turned under her hands.

Hands as callused, as hard as her own, hands she'd trust to birth a child, to make gentle love. But not, perhaps, to kill an enemy. Thinking about Iason had put her in a bad mood, invoked too many spirits of the dead.

Cyrene knew she wouldn't marry, but she could have become an artisan. A year, not much longer, and she'd have been apprenticed, her life set on a track allowing no deviation. Then Kara came to Amphipolis from the east, instructed her in martial arts. That was her apprenticeship; Kara her master, the one who shaped her.

It was time to change; leaning over the water, she dips her sponge in the cool mountain runoff: the clotty thick blood streams away running red then disappearing in white foam, crashing against rocks, on its way to the ocean. Re-inserting the sponge: it all reminded her of the drinking song, 'the earth drinks from the storm-drenched sky' ending with 'and all the world drinks from the sea' and she tried to envisage all the world drinking her blood.

If Kara'd been her master, Lao Ma would have been her teacher, spiritual guide. She'd imagined it would purify her and she'd become something higher, but that had turned out to be illusion. Lao Ma would have appreciated the joke.

She reaches into her pouch, draws out a small gold coin. Herse had given her the first one struck: Gabrielle, in profile, backed by the owl of Athena. It was a beautiful likeness and she resolved to keep the coin; it was as though she'd traded it for the Milesian stater she'd carried for so many years.

Herse talked, while she polished the glass. "You see some glass; and think you know what it is, its qualities, even the essence, you think you know. But in my mind, something other: in fire, I transform, remake."

Looking at the coin: the fire inside her was Gabrielle. Telling herself that this time, finally, she'd get it right. She'd focus, holding in her mind just this one woman, give all her will to this one task: protecting her, preserving her innocence.

Artisan of death, her craft corruption, destruction the gods' gift to her: her hands had slipped, letting go or worse, holding too tightly while Gabrielle writhed under her control. All her control, all the protection she could give had simply led her to the edge of a burning pit. She watched as Gabrielle fell, incandescent, burst into flame. Protecting her.

Gabrielle wakes to a chilly morning, sun hidden by the clouds. Alert immediately: cold always did that. Two more days: though she'd been telling herself that most of the night, it sounded better in the morning.

She blinks, not quite believing what she was seeing: a miniature lizard had perched itself on the edge of her blanket, staring at her with its weird eyelids, a tiny brown creature with long yellow stripes looking at her as though to ask what business she had under his tree.

The heat: of course, the lizard just wanted her heat. She moves a finger by its side and it climbs on, trusting. Hmmm: she wasn't looking for new friends "Come on, little one; let's take a ride" and she helps it climb onto a leaf in the underbrush. Malcontent: it scurries down immediately, blending with the yellows of a vine, vanishing.

Great. She was spending her mornings talking to lizards, her afternoons in verbal fencing, trying to deflect advances from the goddess of wisdom, and her evenings dreaming of a warrior princess. Somewhere, her life had taken a wrong turn.

At least she was getting better organized: after cleaning up, she sits down to berries gathered the previous night, while she was waiting for her roots to bake. Fish would be good: maybe Goppie would even help, though she always found some excuse to 'be on Olympus' when it was time to clean 'em.

Two more days: the sky was definitely cloudier; it was probably from being north again, just on the border between Ionia and Macedonia. It'd be nice to stop in and see family; it had been so long and she could tell them about Xena. But cruel reality was, a day in Poteidaia was a day stolen from Xena and she couldn't afford it. Anyway they wouldn't let her stay just a day; there'd be a whole feast and she'd have to stop at everyone's home, all the people her father had befriended. Somehow, it all reminded her of when she was thirteen, on the edge of childhood, when Lila was just a kid, almost the last time they were kids together, before she became a woman. If things had gone right she would have had her ceremony that summer.

Spring had come early to Poteidaia and one morning her father doesn't take the boat out. Early, still cool, they left for the hills and a surprise picnic. The walk was long but even Lila was good, skipping, holding her hand and asking for stories about the nymphs and what every cloud meant. And when they found it they knew they'd found what her mother had known was hidden there, what must have come with the spring rain: the wildflowers, a field of spring wildflowers: fast-blooming poppies and purple hyacinth, tasseled like the cushions at temple; cuplike cistus, pure white leaves and Lila picked, smelled it, bright orange-yellow pollen on the tip of her nose; spider orchids, white and purple with fuzzy black combs looking like bumblebees: she could name every one of them and Lila knew some too.

Her mother unpacked lunch while she wove a garland for Lila and sang her a song she made up, she could still remember: it was about if your hair was black, weave it with ribbons, and if it was golden like honey then a garland was best, when the earth moved; dust like a wave coming down the hill towards her and Lila sat down, heavily, started to cry. She comforted her, holding her and stroking her hair; held her and looked into her father's eyes, empty. So empty she was shocked and then they packed, quickly, without eating.

The tidal wave had hit the docks hardest but her father said they were blessed, because the Thetis had landed on top of two other boats; they were smashed and even the Thetis' mast had come down. But it became clearer during the summer, that they had been lucky; her father took the other fisherman in his boat, took the reduction in the catch, as they reached out to the villagers, shared. It was the first year she had to work outside their house, sitting the young children, making a school for them, while their mothers and older sisters looked for work in the farming villages nearby.

She was lucky, she really was but it never felt like it; she couldn't even talk about it with her parents because everyone was always so busy. And they expected her to take care of Lila too. She missed her ceremony that year, with the other girls, left behind a year and no-one ever asked what she wanted or felt.

Sad thoughts for a pretty morning: she stands, begins folding her blanket, Xena's. She stops to smell the blanket again: the smell was almost gone; she musta used it up, from smelling so hard. Well, Xena woulda laughed anyway. At least she left her the blanket.

Left her: that was the right word, too. She really thought they were over that, when Xena used to leave her behind every time she had something important to do. It was like Ch'in all over again: there wasn't any good reason for Xena to leave her behind.

Alright: enough. She stops herself, saddling Athanike, trying to calm the horse who just had to sense she was mad. She'd already forgiven Xena for that, when Xena'd said "I'm sorry" and "Don't leave me" she looked so vulnerable; what got left in her mind was crying when she saw Xena on her knees, begging. Of course she forgave her: it changed everything.

Finally calm enough to ride; Agape was late this morning. Silly, missing her like that, but . . . well she was maybe her best friend now and she missed her, even at nights.

Anyway, it gave her time to think. She'd camped on a hillside; looking down, forest giving way to scrubby bushes, then to fallow land, alongside a road, twisting into the distance. Goppie could catch up later. So: she owed Xena, for the whip, for what she'd done to Ephiny and Joxer. She still needed to talk about it but she was . . . it comes to her that she was afraid. She never wanted to see Xena's face like that again, deeply ashamed, deep whatever that meant, deep like she was submerged, only her eyes showing from a pool of dark water. It would be like what Callisto had done, making her confess because she knew, they both knew what she'd done, that they'd never talk about it.

"Hey Gabrielle! Pay attention. You're late."

"Goppie! What are you doing here? You're the one who's late, you know." There she was, sitting by the side of the road, linen shorts tied off with a belt with silver tips, wearing a simple cotton blouse, pure white. Entrancingly beautiful, as usual. Why didn't wisdom ever look aged and maybe even ugly, for those things you didn't really want to know?

"I know. But you're not supposed to leave the campsite, where I set the wards. Don't do it again, Gabrielle."

"Hey. I don't take orders." This was ridiculous; she was supposed to be glad to see her.

"No breakfast again? Not enough sleep? Tell me, Gabrielle, what is it this time?" she reaches up, and Gabrielle helps her on the horse.

"Nothing. It's just . . . what have you got to be late from? You never do anything."

"Got held up, on Olympus; had a run in with Aphrodite. She finally noticed the bath stuff was missing."

"I can give it back." Panicked: she'd see Xena in two days and she didn't want Aphrodite mad at her. The timing was working out fine; everyone's period would be over and if she didn't make any mistakes, they'd have a whole night together. Joxer would be on the mainland and

"Don't worry. I told her a mortal used it and she said as long as it'd been contaminated

"Thank you for sharing that with me, Agape."

"No problem. You were asking."

"So you go to Olympus after you leave me?"

"You know, we've been on the road seven days? And this is the first time you asked me about me? You alright, Gabrielle? Have a fight with Xena, or something? I mean, it's a whole two minutes gone by and you haven't mentioned her."

"No." Agape made it so hard; she didn't ever let up. No wonder her shoulders hurt at night. "No. I missed being with you, that's all."

"Oh." Now she was quiet, but what could they say?

"Look, let's talk about something else, alright? I think we need a new blanket for Athanike; having both of us on her is rubbing her back. We'll stop in the next big town, alright?"

"Thessalonika. I checked, last night after I left."

"Why?" It really never occurred to her that Agape had a life of her own, aside from when she was seeing her. She felt ashamed, for not ever asking, like she took her for granted.

"Why? Xena said to protect you; just doing my job. I go lots of places; it's a really big world, Gabrielle."

"Will you tell me? Share it with me?" Trying to sound casual but it didn't work and she sounded . . .

"Don't worry, Gabrielle; I've gotten used to it. Anyway, like you said let's talk about something happy. I have a lot of places I like to go. There's a meadow in the shadow of Olympus and it's filled with flowers all year long. Usually I just take my clothes off and lie on my back and I think about things, and about people."

"It sounds like the meadow in my dream."

"Probably you're just seeing the future a little, where we get married and live happily ever after. On Olympus. Stop laughing; it could happen."

"So you didn't plant the idea in my mind, hmmm?"

"If I could do that, wouldn't I plant something more direct? About how happy we'd be together?"

"I don't know; it was a really sweet dream. Anyway, I always heard that future-dreams come from the gods. Oh, wait! Maybe it was from Ares, maybe he wants me and Xena to break up." Right as she said it, she knew it was wrong, it would bring up, it would bring back: why'd she say that?

"You alright, Gabrielle?"

"No. It's about Xena, though."

"Oh, now there's a big surprise."

"Sorry; you were telling me about things you like."

"Yeah: I like helping people, I mean friends. People I love" She got the last part out really fast. "You can talk with me, Gabrielle. It's part of why I'm here. Athena knew you'd need someone to help you get through things. I mean, it's not like you and Xena talk."

She wanted to hug her, hold her close; that was how she wanted her to know she loved her, because she knew she couldn't say it. But she was in front and Goppie in back and she couldn't touch her. 'Thank you for letting me be one of the ones you love' sounded so lame, it'd be like an insult.

"I love you too, Agape. But promise me later we'll talk about other things you like. And I really did like the meadow. Even if I can't ever go there; it's a wonderful place to dream about."

"So, this sounds bad, Gabrielle. What is it?"

"Is Xena a god, or something? Like you, or maybe if she's half-god, like Hercules?"

"I am not getting into that. You ask her. Anyway, what is it you really want to know?"

"Well, if sheis, shouldn't she be able to stand up to Ares?"

"Even if she isn't a god, yes, she can sometimes stand up to Ares. She's a very strong woman, Gabrielle. And you . . . you've seen her stand up to Ares."

"So why is it? Everytime Ares tells her to hurt me, she goes ahead, and she does it? If she's so strong?"

Agape says nothing; as they ride through the hills, she catches a glimpse of the ocean, and it chills her: dirty gray, and white with wind-harried waves.

"Hey, Gabrielle! Look, between, the hills. You can see the port, the harbor: it's Thessalonika." After a few minutes she hands her a cloth from the saddlebags: one of her own blouses, but she wipes her face anyway.

"You didn't answer."

"Why do you put up with her? Why can't you just walk out on her, next time she does something like that?"

"I am not going to talk about that. Not with you, not with anybody."

"Fine; don't talk."

They ride into town along the ocean road, leaving them at the beach. Boats, left along the sand or being loaded, unloaded: it was still early enough to watch the catch coming in, and as they're halfway past the boats a young boy, just old enough to start thinking about marriage, runs alongside them, offering a fresh bonito. "You won't find bigger or fresher fish this side of Amphipolis, my ladies" his browned skin glowing in the early sun. "Take this as a gift and remember" but Agape takes the fish just as she leans forward and Athanike breaks into a gallop; they never hear the boy's name, just managing to catch, looking back, his astonished face.

"Lunch."

"I ate."

"I don't get it. You never need breakfast but you never eat."

"Basic everyday day for a goddess: there's a dining hall on Olympus; mornings and evenings we stop in for nectar or ambrosia. Sometimes I run into Athena and we talk, how things are going. Say, like with you and Xena."

The boats on shore were finally met by buildings, coming down from the townright into the waterfront: small shops, places for the fishermen to buy supplies, food: bread and wine or maybe a sweet, something with honey. The boats were pulled up, right in front; she'd never get a horse through. She turns Athanike down a sidestreet, narrow passage along a road half-paved with rough stones, high buildings on either side blocking the sun, providing cool. Old section of town: the plastered sides were spiderweb-cracked; higher up large pieces of stucco had fallen. She could make out strings of wet laundry, dripping on them, the clothing grayed out from too many washings. The street twists itself up a hill.

"Lost."

"I've been here before."

"Yeah, with Xena. And I bet she made all the decisions."

"There's something I don't get. We made love and you just talked about being married but you're supposed to tell Athena how good Xena and I are getting along."

"Is that any more complicated than being in love with someone who beats you?"

"I never said I was in love with her and she doesn't 'beat me' like it's all the time."

"Yeah: then she tries to kill you."

"How did you find out about that?"

"Everyone knows the story: how Xena rode into the Amazon village like death on a mount, took her girlfriend, then tried to kill her. You think I don't hear what people say, behind your backs? Don't you think someone like Joxer sees a bruise on you, and wonders? Be real, Gabrielle: they all know what Xena is."

"That isn't who she is!" She shouts, turning 'round in the saddle and knocking Agape off, onto the cobblestone. She falls hard, gashes an elbow and she watches in horror as Agape rolls in the dust, holding the cut, grimacing with pain. She's off Athanike, kneeling and she holds Agape by her shoulders, kissing herforehead.

"I'm sorry I didn't mean it; I didn't do it to hurt you, Goppie. Please believe me."

"It's alright, Gabrielle. It isn't bad."

"Is it bleeding a lot? I'll get a bandage" and she does, quick rummaging through her saddlebag, throwing junk onto the street, she takes her herb kit and a blouse, sits again beside Agape. The goddess is crying a little; anyway her face is wet and Gabrielle kisses her cheek and Agape lets her, gives her a little hug. She tears the sleeve off her blouse, then chews beech leaves, puts the wad over Agape's cut, binds it with the disjointed sleeve. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah. It's my sword hand, tho, so you'll have to defend us. Hey, Gabrielle. I thought we were just going to get a new blanket for Athanike, move on?"

"Yeah. Can you ride?"

"Mmmm. Let me ride in front; you hold on in back."

"Alright." Relieved she wasn't hurt worse, that she forgave her, that they didn't have to talk about it again, Gabrielle helps her up, then kisses her, hard, on the neck. "I was so worried you got really hurt."

"Yeah. Let's just move on. I don't see a market, though."

"Not a market day. Tell you what: let's get out of town, stop for lunch."

"Fine; the ambrosia's almost gone." and she unwraps her elbow, showing perfect, healed skin. Unreal: she quietly turns Athanike on the road to Amphipolis; harbor at their backs, she leaves Thessalonica behind.

"Gabrielle, we have to do something about this fish."

"I'm looking for a place. We're barely out of the city."

"It's still alive: it's flopping in your saddlebag."

"Oh. So there's lots of time."

"I don't like seeing things die. Hurry up."

Then,

"Remember, I said I could eat fish? I don't think I can eat fish."

"Look up ahead." She pointed, so the goddess could see: a small group of people, one side of the road, and sheep grazing on the other.

"Bunch of mortals. So what?"

"Gypsies. They'll help cook the fish. I mean, I bet I can get 'em to trade us for."

The migrants looked like a family: grandparents, babushka with a black cape over her head, gray hair and black eyebrows, lying back in the arms of a man, hair still mostly black. They were laughing, her hand taking one of his: it looked like someone had just made a joke. Another couple, with two children, both still in diapers: she, heavy from the recent pregnancy, blue scarf around her head and a red cape, embroidered with white and yellow meadow-flowers. One child old enough to sit up and she was playing with him: she could hear singing, and the young boy clapping his hands, totally out of sync with her song. They sat content in the shade of an olive grove; to Gabrielle it looked cool, a perfect place to spend an hour, trading stories.

Across the way, pasture: trees few and short; great swaths of grass cropped so close to dirt that she could see the rocks underlying. A hundred or more sheep, black-faced and clean-white pelted. Even the dog had its nose in the grass, looking for lunch.

"Like I said, bunch of mortals. What's a gypsy?"

Instead of answering, she dismounts, walks up, casually, to the older couple. They withdraw, and at the edge of her vision, she watches the mother draw close her children. Closer up, they looked foreign; remembering that the gypsies came down from very distant mountains, to pasture their herds in the summer, paying in milk and wool and cheese. She wasn't sure they'd speak Ionian at all, and Xena never taught her more than five words of her dialect . . . change of plans. She kneels, holds the fish out in front of her: "A gift."

He'd combed his hair to hide the places age had taken hair away: close up, he looked older, and a lot less friendly. But he does take the fish, smell it, then smiles at her, sets it down. Grandma's moved aside and he gestures, palm up: "Sit, talk. Share food."

Whew. She smiles graciously, folds her legs under her, and sighs.

It looks as though they'd already started lunch: a quarter round of bread, from a loaf that musta taken up a whole oven: holding it to herself, she tries cutting, but is awkward, almost turning the knife into her abdomen. The young mother tries to sit on the ground like her; instead tumbles over on her side, then mimes sticking a knife in her tummy, sending everyone into fits of laughter. Her husband puts a hand over her own, very gently, smiles and takes the bread, quickly and easily slicing off a thick chunk, while his wife unwraps a fresh-pressed cheese. Couldn't have been more than a couple days old, pressed round and tall, like a section of a marble column except this had a starburst design on the top, and it crumbled easily with her touch. Tasting clean and fresh, like milk that'd been made solid: all she has to do is smile, and the older man rubs elbows with the grandma, proud of their food. Goppie smiles too, reaches for more food.

"Live in city?" He points down the road.

"No, Mount Olympus." Agape couldn't resist: she'd have to talk with her.

"What gods?"

She takes in her breath, watches Agape, sitting erect, looking back at him. Then, after a moment, "Wisdom."

The old man turns, says something -- something Thracian sounding, into his wife's ear, she in turn looks respectfully and a little fearfully at her, and whispers to the young mother. It'd all been laughter, sharing of food, making fun and enjoying being on the road together. Now it was still, silent, serious.

"Her?" The old man, now looking right at her.

"Faith." Gabrielle's mouth opened but nothing came out, and the mother was handing forward her eldest son, to the grandfather, and he in turn sets the child, on wobbly legs, before the goddess. He was so young, the family pride, their hope for the future, looking innocently into Agape's eyes. She looks at the boy, looks in his eyes and he in hers like she's taking his soul, looks then puts a hand on his forehead. Something was happening, she felt something happening: she felt a chill and felt the presence of the goddess.

The child steps back, smiling but quietly, not really like a child was supposed to smile, at all. The child steps back into his grandfather's arms and he picks up the boy, sets him in front of her.

"No!" She stands, and the family does too, the grandfather afraid like she'd cursed them all, she realizes just then she had; stepping back she reaches to take Goppie's elbow, pulls her up. Pointing at the family to keep them distant, she drags Agape "We need to get out of here. Get on Athanike, fast." For once she listens, and when Goppie's safe, she makes a quick running mount and has pulled Athanike's nose away, down the road. The shepherd is in back, dog barking but he stops it . . .

"Agape. What." She stops because she didn't believe what Goppie'd just done and she couldn't say it.

"It's my fault, Gabrielle."

"Do you have to tell everyone you're from Olympus? Couldn't you be from Amphipolis or Sounion or even just plain boring old Poteidaia?"

"I couldn't lie, Gabrielle. When they ask me like that I have to tell them."

"Can't lie? Can't *lie*? I'm the goddess of faith? Faith, Agape?"

"You."

"I. You're going to tell me something that isn't a lie. You . . " she suggests

"I shouldn't have taken Aphrodite's stuff. Uh . . . it's based on ambrosia, that's why it makes your skin feel good. You look like a goddess. A little part of you is, now. I"

"You did this on purpose."

"No. Yes. I'm sorry."

"You didn't ask, you just . . ." The dog was barking, in the background but it was right; she couldn't believe what Goppie had done, what was happening inside her, what she'd done inside her: she wanted to get on her knees and howl too.

"And Xena. Does she get ambrosia too? Because" she stops as the thought hits her, but it couldn't be. "You asked Xena, didn't you. You and her, you arranged it all when I was sleeping. Didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"She said I could try, because I should have my chance for us; she gave me ten days. And I was going to tell you."

"Agape I hate it when people try to arrange my life. If you wanted me"

But then she stops as the meaning of the sounds rises up from unconsciousness: she puts her hand up . . . something wrong, the dog had stopped but it wasn't, that last sound, it wasn't barking, it was the howl, the scream of a dog dying. She looks back:

Three men, tall, heavy, with black leather, pants and studded leather vests. Two with drawn swords, and one had a child, and one had a sword against a child's throat. She could see chains: slavers.

"Goppie. Get off the horse" as Athanike turns.

"No. Xena said to protect you; they have swords, Gabrielle."

She pushes her, sideways, and Agape dismounts on her own "Don't do this, Gabrielle."

"I have to. You made it so I have to" assembling her staff. She'd hold it by the middle, butt under her shoulder

"Don't" and she leans forward; Athanike knew her mind: she races forward, faster than ever they'd gone. They had swords, and when they went down they'd have to stay down because Xena wasn't guarding her back.

He drops the boy; they both hold swords out, chest height, good: first the one on her left. Hades! She'd dislocate her shoulder holding the staff like that, and thinking fast, just before passing him she twirls the staff out, hits him on the side of the neck. Solid: she can hear crunch but doesn't look back until Athanike turns and she sees: one down. The third man has a whip: she smiles at the idea, preparing a second charge: not today, slaver.

Swordman trembling, she notices him trembling and she yells, does her best Xena yell but he turns at the last moment, blocks so it isn't clean, only hits him on the side of the head she'd

Pain, unbelievable pain: she can't see; she's falling and Athanike slowing, she knows she's falling.

Hears, "worth the price of ten of them" opens her eyes: looking up into the sky and the whip-man was coiling it. He leans down over her, big, he was so big and he's grabbed her arm, pain again, but it wakens her fully this time; she struggles to her feet; yes she was using the staff to help balance

"Look at her: perfect; I bet she's a virgin." she hears just before bringing the staff up, into his face.

Something cracks, she can hear it as she stumbles forward, out of reach, turns and hits him again in the head: she can see blood, spurting out as he falls to his knees: back of neck and then he just falls.

The one with the sword is backing away: sword still out but afraid. She was losing it and he couldn't be standing, had to go down. She staggers to him and he chops: block, twist: the sword is out of his hand when the staff hits throat, head, neck. Down.

"Goppie?" She was looking up, into her face. Was in her lap. "Are the children safe?"

"Yes."

"The slavers; where'd they go?"

"Can't move. I think you paralyzed them. They're alive. I'm worried about you, more."

"It hurts."

"The whip got you, in the back. It cut into muscle, Gabrielle."

"Bad?"

"How do I know? You . . . "

She could see a little; Xena was watching, just in back of Goppie; she'd been watching after all. "Tell Xena it hurtsbad."

"Xena?" Goppie looks, then turns and stands, "No!" but Xena pushes her away and is leaning over her, except he has a beard, leaning over just like the slaver, takes her arm.

Her arm goes numb and her body rushes with the euphoria of release, she stands straight and looks. "Ares."

"Very good." He looks at her, appraisingly, insultingly, looking over her body like he owned it. "I see I've been paying attention to the wrong warrior princess."

"Ares!" Goppie's there but he pushes her away and she falls.

"Tell your little godling to go home. We need to talk." He's circling her, and she tries to follow but gets dizzy, and he catches her.

It was like fire in her: she watches, from the outside, the battle: slow, everything was happening so slowly, like an elegant dance: she watches herself swing the staff, perfectly, hitting the swordsman in just the right place, but this time she can see him fall, knowing he'll never get up: it was beautiful and she'd done it. Exciting: he'd put his hand on her hip, and that was the key, releasing her: releasing all her sexuality, she turns into him.

And he takes her, she can feel his strength but it was surging into her, she was the one who was powerful, and she looks into his eyes.

There were flames, orange and yellow and black smoke rising in his eyes. Which was right because she was burning, she wanted him, could already feel him inside.

Break: surge of pain because Ares has let her go, Agape trying to wrestle him to the ground. She falls to her knees and sees Agape and Ares on the ground before the pain takes her, leading her once more into unconsciousness.

Wakes, briefly. Goppie's talking: it doesn't make any sense, she's talking about meadows and forests and warm waterfalls. Tries to say 'Tell Xena it hurts' but she's burning, and she falls into sleep, listening to her voice.

Wakes. The sky almost dark but Goppie's holding a cup, and makes her drink. Again, she forces it down.

"What is that?" and it comes to her that she's awake, can look around.

"Nectar. How do you feel?"

"Good." She did: the pain was gone again, not the memory.

"Xena isn't here, is she?"

"You'll see her tomorrow, I promise."

"Whew! What's in that?"

"It's what we eat and drink, I mean the gods. No-one was looking and took it." Goppie's touching her face. "You're gonna lose all those crinkle-lines 'round your eyes, from when you laugh."

"I sleepy."

"Yes. Sleep now, Gabrielle."

It was a forest then a clearing, a meadow except there weren't any flowers. It was so strange: here she was in bare feet, feeling blades of grass between her toes, but the ground was smooth, even, and the grass perfect, deep and soft.

The no-flowers thing bothered her; also she'd lost her own clothes and was wearing just a white tunic. Notices the grass sloping uphill, and, following it with her eyes, there's an unexpected building, like a temple: it was round, topped with a sky-blue dome held up by marble columns. There wasn't anything inside except a couch, one of those really fancy ones that looked like a scroll unrolled in the middle, except there were cushions instead of parchment, and tassels of gold.

The air was just right, dry and a little cool; she must be on Olympus, or the Elysian Fields, but she'd thought there was going to be more life, especially children and flowers too. Which was strange: she didn't remember seeing the maiden before; she had long black ringletted hair and was wearing just a plain peplos, except it dipped, right between high collarbones. The face was hidden, then she sees it's Xena, but she isn't walking like Xena, she's walking like any maiden, delicately, and she's laughing. She didn't remember that Xena laughed, that Xena could laugh like that. 'This is what Xena was like when she was sixteen' she decides, just before the young woman enters the temple, kneels in front of her. The ringlets are woven with ribbons, purple and gold, and Xena's face is softer. She's holding her hands; they're cool, and the fingernails are trimmed; she runs her index finger over the edge of them: very soft, hands uncallused and holding them, in her own hands, makes her feel a strange emptiness. Now Xena's stroking her hands, and then she wraps one around her fingers, places her lips on the back of her hand: warm. As Xena closes her lips on the hand, she can feel a light warm breath too: each sensation stood out like in sharp relief, and linked, all down her arm, linked like a chain binding her body to Xena's lips.

"Gabrielle: I've never been in love before. Be gentle with me." Xena looks, innocent, right up at her, in her eyes. Blue like the dome, unblinking and pure, waiting for her. Xena nods at her, like she knows,

"We have to leave here. The forest, Gabrielle." Xena takes her hand and they run, together, to the edge of the forest and there's a rose, right there, because her gown's tangled in its thorns. Tearing off the lower half, she follows Xena into the wild. Rocky, and her feet hurt but Xena's found a path taking them down, along the edge of a deep gorge. Flowers, exotic blossoms, Xena pauses to show her one: waxy and red with a yellow stem projecting from a trumpet-shaped cup, and everywhere the smell, not of flowers but incense.

They can't even get near the river, tearing its way through the canyon, fed by mountain runoff, ice melting: even the sound tore at her and they couldn't talk. She doesn't need to: Xena's taken off her peplos and her body is perfect, unscarred, her breasts, nipples virginal. Xena takes her by the shoulders, brings her near and shouts "Show me how to love you."

She does, and Xena makes love to her, as though the gods had granted them eternity together. Xena was discovering her body, or maybe Xena was showing her everything that she could feel: it seemed to take forever, but she's brought to new levels, until finally she needed to end it. And ending it, she shows Xena how to come inside her, what she needed, to be loved.

"Goppie?" She's looking up into her eyes, and her head is resting in the goddesses lap. The sky's still a bit dark, but dawn was only a little away. "How long have you been here?"

"All night."

"I'm sorry, I kept you."

"It was my fault, so I owed you this."

She sits up, looks around. "Where is everyone?"

"The gypsies left, right away. I gave the slavers a little nectar; it healed them a little and they can walk, but I think they'll never walk straight again."

"Is that what you gave me? More god-food?"

"I was scared, Gabrielle. It was a deep cut and I was afraid you couldn't use your arm again. After Ares left, it felt like you were burning up, like a high fever."

"Ares; I remember Ares. What did he want?"

"Your soul. He'll be back, Gabrielle."

"I'll fight him."

"Do you really think so?" Agape was looking strange at her, like she knew what she was thinking. Agape had said something important, about not lying. It was a strange idea, that she had to tell Agape or anyone else what her real thoughts were. But, she owed Agape.

"No. I just, I think I just wish I was like Xena, that I could have fought him. But I didn't fight him at all, did I? And I'll never be like Xena, either." It was strange to hear it, hear what she thought, but said in words. Strange and she felt childish, like when she had to apologize to Lila for hitting her or taking her ribbon.

"Gabrielle: Xena's like this . . . this giant, in your mind. And you let her control everything you do, and everything you are. Sometimes it's like she can't do anything wrong and you're in love with her; then the next minute you hate her, because she did something you don't like. It's almost as though you only ever see her with one eye: you only ever see half of her. But you have two eyes, Gabrielle: use them. She's not a goddess and she's not a demon; she's just a mortal. Let her be just a woman, in love with you."

"Do you think she really is?"

"Look at her; really see her, Gabrielle. Be honest, with yourself, and Xena. And with me."

It was getting light enough to travel; she stands, looking around,ß sees Athanike. "Let's go. We can be in Amphipolis by night."

Their path takes them through mountain foothills; dense forest, but near the path, small trees competing for sun, white and blue of sky peeking through, and ahead, yet another mountain they'd have to get through. They stop at a small shrine, right where the road forks off to Poteidaia. Coming back from peeing, she sees Agape at the shrine, reading a fragment, a scrap of paper left there with the flowers, fruits, in front of a simple statue of Demeter, carved from the local pine. The statue hadd been there the first time she passed that way, leaving her family to follow Xena; the wood was a little deeper color now, maybe.

"You know those are supposed to be private." Wondering if there was anything Goppie wouldn't do, if she wasn't watching her every minute.

"It's a prayer to a god. I'm a god. You want to look too? I mean, just for practice?"

"Could we not talk about that, please? You don't have any idea how violated I feel." But curiosity gets her: taking the paper, she holds it up to a shaft of light coming through the canopy: a single glyph, like a pointy fishhook, but upside down. "I don't get it."

"We're near the border, here; this is isn't Ionian, or even Thracian; it's from a lot further north."

"Can you read it?"

"It's not really writing, just, kind of, call it: an invocation of power."

"How do you say it?"

"Lagu. It means water, or flow, associated with the moon. Don't laugh, Gabrielle. The moon has power, to draw together. Here, offered to Demeter, it could mean fertility, or transformation. Maybe a prayer for marriage. A traveler left it here; a traveler from somewhere very far away."

"Wow."

"Some bard you are." She turns, mounts Athanike, offering her hand to lift her up. She didn't sound arrogant, but more like she wanted a response, like she was trying to lead her somewhere.

"That's a lot to read, just from a little fish-hooky thing."

"Yeah, well, you do the goddess thing a while, you learn some things. You're a bard: do words have power?"

"Yes, but not"

"Enough. Think about how you feel, when you're holding Xena. Then what it feels like when she hits you."

"I asked you not to mention that."

"And that's only silence, only the words you can't say. I think you're afraid, Gabrielle. Of the power the words would have, if you said them."

"I can't; I don't know what to say."

"I swear, on the helmet of Pallas Athena, goddess of the just war; goddess of wisdom. I swear I'm giving this goddess thing up, and I'll just follow you guys around."

"Really? That'd be fun. But I'm not sure Xena would like it."

"No, not-really, Gabrielle! It was just" she sighs. "I just couldn't stand it anymore. Anyway, Athena is the one who says what happens, not me."

"What was it like, when you woke up as a goddess? Did you used to be mortal?"

"I don't know; it was like . . . like waking up, that was a good word, Gabrielle. I woke up in Athena's bedroom, and I knew everything about that; I knew who she was, and Artemis was there too; I recognized her. She kissedme."

"Huh?"

"She was . . . wearing a mortal body, but I knew who she was, right then. And Athena was just herself. I knew everything about Olympus, but I didn't know who I was, and I didn't know about having a body. So that kiss was almost the first thing I felt."

"Were you scared, not knowing who you were?" She tries to imagine; maybe it was like when she'd visited Memnosyne's temple. But a kiss sounded better than what Joxer had done.

"No; I knew where I was and I knew I was loved, right from when I woke. But I think." Agape stops, right in the middle, like she didn't want to talk.

"Hey. I told you, what I felt about Ares. Be fair, Goppie. Was it scary?"

"I think the only time I feel scared is when I think about you, when I'll lose you. And about how angry Athena will be, about the ambrosia and the nectar. And sleeping with you. If she's really angry, I'll never see you again. Or Xena, or anyone I care about. So, yeah, Gabrielle: it gets pretty scary."

"Athena wouldn't do that; you said she loves you."

"Gabrielle, I don't even know if Athena knows what love is like, or missing someone, or hurting when they love someone else instead of you. I never knew those things, until I met you."

"If I did become a goddess, like you? And we got together? Would I wake up like that, too?"

"No: I'd kiss you, not Artemis."

"Goppie!"

"You'd remember everything, but you wouldn't know about Olympus and where to eat, and what Athena was like. I'd teach you, though, and I wouldn't let you get scared."

Agape was tense, like there was more to say but she couldn't say it, or maybe it was her turn now, to say what she felt.

"Are you thinking about doing that, Gabrielle? About what you just said?"

"I don't know; I need to think. Let's not talk, for a while. Is that alright?"

They cross into western Macedonia during the quiet: simple bridge with a sign, but everything became different. The earth turning from yellow-browns, mustards, to red; a heavy cloud cover muting the colors, providing cool. Scrub replaced by pines, taller than temples, and Agape takes them around a lake, forested right up to the edges. Viewing it from a distance: lake fading off, framed by hills, one after another like they'd been stacked together. A flock of white birds, rising gracefully from the water, turning in unison, then moving overhead: white cranes.

Even Agape respects the silence; she tries thinking the way Agape'd said, looking at things both ways, but her mind kept sliding. The eight days they'd had together was like the story of her and Xena, rewritten for a happy ending. Everything was new and fascinating to her; no question Agape was fun to be with. She was gentle, loving; she really truly cared for her; they both did, for each other. Passionless . . . a strange word to use, to come into her mind, but right, fitting. The goddess had never learned about passion, and somehow, she couldn't teach her. Because it had been a lie, and there was nothing really to think about: she wasn't in love with her.

Continued (Fifth of Six Pieces)