A WARRIOR'S HEART

by Linda Tellez (aka Saahira)
linda_c._tellez@hud.gov

Xena winced as she dismounted, squeezing her eyes tight against the pain.

"This is a lovely spot, don't you think?" Gabrielle queried, her tone just a little too bright. Making a great show of breathing the fresh pine-scented air, she turned in place, studying the sun-dappled glade. "Look, Xena," she pointed happily, "we even have a little stream to bathe in."

"It's nice," Xena agreed without enthusiasm. Moving guardedly, she began loosening the girth of Argo's saddle.

"I'll go gather some firewood and see what I can find in the way of dinner. Don't you run off on me now," the bard cautioned with waggling finger and playful grin.

Xena did not respond. Instead, she waited until the girl's soft footfalls had faded among the trees, then let herself sag heavily against the saddle. Argo turned her long neck back, snuffling curiously at her mistress' hand.

Xena smiled slightly, stroking the mare's velvety soft muzzle. "We've been here before, haven't we, girl?" she whispered. She closed her eyes then, leaning her forehead against the saddle, and let the mare take her weight.

As the bard moved through the thick concealment of trees and shrubbery, her smile dissolved; her pale brows furrowed and her mouth pinched tight with worry. Though Xena refused to admit it, or even to admit the possibility of it, Gabrielle knew what was wrong. Well, she suspected. The symptoms of wound fever were pretty obvious, after all. As she walked, she made a mental list of all the medicinal herbs she needed. Also as she walked --- and for at least the thousandth time since this whole thing had started --- she cursed the bounty hunter who had caused it all with his ruthless attack, unashamedly wishing his soul into the foulest and most miserable recesses of Tartarus. *As if his suffering could possibly make a difference here*, she chided herself with unaccustomed bitterness.

By the time she returned to the glade, Argo's gear was piled on the grass and the mare was grazing unfettered near the stream. Xena sat with her back against the trunk of a great old oak, her eyes closed, her face waxy and far too pale.

Gabrielle swallowed once, hard, and forced her features into happier lines.

"Well," she said cheerily as she strode forward, "look what I found." She dumped an armload of dry kindling to the ground, then used both hands to hold out the fruits and vegetables she'd held balanced in the other. "A veritable king's feast! Just wait'll you taste the great stew I'm gonna cook up with all this!"

"I can hardly wait," Xena murmured dryly, with only the mildest hint of sarcasm lacing her voice.

"But first," Gabrielle continued energetically, pausing only long enough to put the vegetables aside, "we're going to mix up a nice poultice to help draw the poison from those wounds."

"Gabrielle ..." Xena began wearily.

"I know, I know --- I've already heard it all at least a hundred times. 'It's only been a couple of days, Gabrielle.' 'Wounds don't heal overnight, Gabrielle.' 'You worry too much, Gabrielle.' 'Quit treating me like a baby, Gabrielle.' 'I'm fine, just leave me alone, Gabrielle.' 'Shut up and walk, Gabrielle.' 'You can't expect a ...'"

"OK, OK," Xena sighed, apparently lacking the strength to fight a battle of wills. That --- and of course she must know Gabrielle was right.

"Good," the bard continued steadily, "now that we've got that settled ..." She quickly prepared the firepit, then dutifully crushed a pungent concoction of herbs and roots which, when heated, formed a moist healing paste. The poultices made, Gabrielle carefully removed her friend's armor and leather, then the blood-stained shift and soiled bandages underneath. All three wounds, she saw at once, had grown red and angry while they had traveled, swollen with fever. Wincing in quick sympathy at this grievous proof her friend's condition, she eased the warrior onto a bed of fresh pine bows. Steeling herself, jaw firmly clenched, she drew a deep breath and set to work ...

Strife popped unannounced into Ares' presence, jubilantly proclaiming, "She's dying!"

"Who's dying?" Ares grimaced, in truth not really caring.

"Your sweetheart. You know! That she-demon mortal they call the Warrior Princess. She ..."

"Xena?" Now --- his interest sparked --- Ares shot piercing dark eyes on his nephew.

Strife's grin widened delightedly, pleased to be the bearer of such terrible news. He explained gleefully, "Yep. She has wound fever. That annoying little friend of hers is trying to save her. And not doing a very good job of it either, I might ... *gggghhhfff* ..."

Ares' powerful fist tightened around Strife's throat, deliberately lifting the smaller god one-handed off the ground. He snarled slowly, dangerously, "Why didn't you tell me this sooner?"

Clawing ineffectively at his uncle's fist, Strife still somehow managed to reply, "... *nngggg .... gaaaaafffhhh* ..." while his immortal face darkened to an alarming shade of purple.

Lips curling in disgust, the god of war released his grip on Strife's neck. Strife dropped like a stone, landing in a clumsy heap on the floor. Gasping through all-but crushed airways, the godling wheezed, "J-ju-st ... fou-nd out ... my-s-self ..."

Ares crossed his arms over his broad, leather-clad chest and paced slowly away. One hand stroked his goatee in silent contemplation as he considered the demise of someone who had always, after all, been one of his favorites ...

"Besides," Strife continued, climbing indignantly to his feet; he brushed the dust from his clothes before finishing sullenly, "you've been so busy lately with your newest pet warlord, I wasn't sure you'd be interested. What's his name? Ghengis Something-or-other?"

"Poor little Xena," Ares purred, blatantly ignoring his nephew's prattling. "Such a pity. Mortals have such brief little life spans as it is, and then for something like this to happen ... I had so hoped she'd eventually come around again. Callisto was such a let-down, you know."

"Well, I know where Xena is. If you want to watch the fun, I mean," Strife offered with an evil grin.

"No," Ares replied smoothly, "I'm not really in the mood for such maudlin mortal displays. I need to kidnap Ghengis' wife and cause a tribal war, and there are a few other loops I'd like to toss his way, too. Oh, and there's a young lad called Alexander I need to check out as well. He shows a lot of potential." He sighed. "No, I'm afraid poor Xena is nothing more than yesterday's gyro ..."

"There," Gabrielle said as she completed her ministrations. Two poultices were bandaged against the front and back of Xena's shoulder --- entrance wound and exit --- and a third was bound below her ribcage. The warrior had kept her eyes shut the whole time Gabrielle tended her, her lips pressed to a tight thin line. It was the only indication she gave that the bard's gentle touch may have brought pain in its wake. "I'm sure you'll be much better by morning," the blonde said, as much to reassure herself as the warrior.

"I'm sure I will," Xena returned stiffly. She opened glassy eyes, and for an instant it seemed she had trouble focusing on Gabrielle's face, even though they were but hand spans apart. Moisture beaded her brow and upper lip. "Thank you," she murmured.

"Hey, well ... what're friends for, right?" Gabrielle shrugged lamely. *By the gods,* she thought dismally, *and I have the nerve to call myself a bard!* "Here," she quickly continued, "let me cover you before you catch a chill," and a blanket was slipped across the warrior. Sitting back, eyes fixed to her friend's pallid face, Gabrielle sighed unhappily. Despite all she had done, despite the tinctures and poultices and teas she had brewed, Gabrielle was afraid. Very afraid. She swallowed hard, nervously fingering the edge of the blanket. "Xena, I ..."

Xena smiled slightly, and her eyelids drifted shut.

Her thought left unspoken, Gabrielle let her eyes close, too. She felt overwhelmed. Helpless. Alone. A single tear rolled down her cheek.

She didn't know what else to do ...

"Xena ...?" The voice seemed to echo from some far distant place. "Xena, it's me. Don't tell me you've forgotten? Has it really been that long?"

She swallowed, tried to speak; swallowed again instead. Her eyelids fluttered.

"That's my girl." The voice was closer now. She could hear the smile in it, the welcome. "Come on, Xena, I know you can hear me."

She opened her eyes, blinking to help them focus.

"Marcos?" she whispered in amazement. Seeing him, she felt her heart skip a beat.

"That's right." Marcos gazed down to where she lay on her bed of pine bows, his dark eyes misting with emotion. He lifted her hands, pressing them to his lips.

"I don't understand," she said muzzily. "Where's Gabrielle? She was right ..."

Hesitation. Perhaps uncertainty. Then a gently whispered, "You've crossed over, Xena."

"What?"

"I'm sorry. It was the fever, it ... it took you during the night, while you slept ..."

"No," she said firmly, her voice growing stronger. She managed to sit up then, but the world spun sickly around her, making her feel dizzy and faint. She swallowed hard, steadying herself --- and realized she was in the glade still, the same sun-dappled glade she had shared with Gabrielle. Yet there was no trace of the bard, no sign of Argo ...

"Those arrows were unclean," Marcos explained carefully. "And then when you fought Tarsus in that downpour and reopened your wounds ..."

"NO."

"... you took an infection from the wet soil. You knew it could happen. You should have let Gabrielle treat you for the sickness then, before it was too late ..."

"I don't ..."

"Xena," he whispered, his hands cupping her face. Gently, he silenced her protests with a kiss.

As their lips slowly parted, she found herself mesmerized by the sight of his face, a face she had once known as well as her own. Marcos' face. Her lover's face.

"This isn't right," she frowned, drawing suspiciously back. "If I've crossed over, then why isn't Hades here? Why haven't I met Charon, and crossed the River Styx ...?"

"You know yourself how many times you've helped Hades," Marcos was quick to respond. "He owes you more than a favor or two, so he agreed to skip the formalities and let me come for you instead. By his grace, you're already here, Xena --- in the Elysian Fields. With me ..."

Again she swallowed, looking deep into his eyes. Marcos' eyes. And as she did, gods forgive her, a part of her almost ... almost ... wanted to believe.

"It's true," he whispered as if sensing her thoughts, her doubts. With gentle hands, he drew aside the blanket covering her, letting it slip to the ground. "See," he told her, kissing first her bare shoulders, then her neck; he caressed the unmarred flesh along her ribcage. He said, "The wounds are all gone. Healed." He reached for her then, more intimately, carefully pulling her into his embrace; and despite her suspicions, despite her better judgement, Xena felt herself shiver at his touch. "By the gods, Xena, I've missed you so ..."

Later, as they rested together on their bed of pine bows --- body snuggled tight against body, flesh pressed seamlessly to bare flesh --- Xena lay wide awake, staring into a sky bluer than any she ever remembered seeing. Fluffy white clouds drifted slowly past, each one changing its form to her will, politely conforming to whatever shape she desired it to be. Dragon, fox, raptor. A mare with flowing white mane. The tree branches danced above, whispering her name in the breeze.

She rolled over to view the man sleeping beside her, admiring the play of muscle beneath his skin, admiring the contrast of dark flesh against light. Seeing him again, being with him again --- Xena knew it was too sweet to be true. She smiled sadly, caressing the tight curls of his hair ...

The man stirred at her touch and rolled onto his back, stretching luxuriously. He blinked up at her and smiled.

"You'll like it here, Xena," Marcos assured her, gazing up into her eyes. "Here in the Elysium, you can do whatever you want. You can be anyone you want to be. You can be with anyone you want to be with."

Xena sighed, and sat up.

"What's wrong?" Marcos asked worriedly; also sitting up, he placed a brawny arm around her shoulders.

"Something's not right," she said, frowning. "It ... feels wrong somehow. I shouldn't be here," she told him with absolute certainty. Turning to face him, she added, "It's not my time yet, is it?"

Marcos laughed aloud and said, "Xena, death isn't something you can pick and choose! If it were, no one would be down here, and the world would be overrun with walking corpses. You must learn to accept what you can't change. Here," he said, rising; reaching down, he pulled her up beside him. With a single flick of his hand, they were both fully clothed ... he in his leather breeches and shirt, she in her leather and armor. Marcos grinned, "Come on, Xena, let me show you your new world. Let me show you how wonderful it can be. But first," he added indulgently, and there appeared before them two snorting, pawing warhorses, "a gift from Lord Hades himself."

Eyes widening in disbelief, Xena swallowed the sudden lump in her throat and moved forward, one slow step at a time. The roan shook his thick black mane at her, rattling the ornate bridle he wore, then pushed his great head against her in greeting.

"Agrinon," she whispered in wonder. She smoothed the stallion's forelock, with the other hand scratching under his chin in just the spot he had always relished; the giant warhorse closed his eyes and groaned in pleasure while Marcos looked on, grinning. Swallowing, Xena murmured, "He died so many years ago. On the battlefield, he took a spear and ..."

"He's here for you now though," Marcos explained. "And he's not the only one. Your brother, Lyceus ..."

"Lyceus ...!"

"... and Solon's father ... your grandmother --- anyone you know whose crossed over. Anyone you want to see again, Xena. All you have to do is think of them."

She looked away, hoping he hadn't seen the sudden shine of moisture in her eyes. "I'm not ready for that ... yet."

"There's no hurry," Marcos said gently. He moved closer, caressed her arm. "Here there's all the time in the world, Xena. If you want, you can re-live your life, undo your mistakes."

"It wouldn't be real," she said grimly, blinking back the tears.

"No. But it might help soothe your soul." He grinned suddenly and jumped away, swinging his lanky form atop his own bay gelding. "Come on!" he cried. "I'll race you!"

"Where?" she replied, and swung up into her own saddle, relieved by the idea of losing thought to action.

"Wherever your heart takes us, Xena!" he yelled, and kicked his horse into a run. Without urging, Agrinon surged forward in hot pursuit ...

Xena crested the rise first, for Agrinon had never been beaten in a race ... never in life, nor now in death. Out of breath, flushed from the heady excitement of the ride, she glanced down the hill to the valley lying below. Already it was bathed in the dim glow of sunset, and in those lengthening shadows could be seen a vast encampment where soldiers milled and cursed, and fires glowed. The scent of roasting meat hung heavy in the air. She recognized those men and their encampment. She recognized the valley.

The smile faded from her lips.

"Ho," Marcos cried as he reined the bay in beside her. Also glancing down into the valley, he said, "I recognize that camp. That was where we stayed the night before we raided Optikris." He reached out, caressing her cheek, and murmured, "It was the first night you and I made love."

Frowning, she shrugged away from his touch.

Marcos said carefully, "This is where you brought us, Xena. It doesn't mean you want to relive the battle, or your victory. Maybe you just want to re-live our first time together." He sighed, dropping his voice solicitously. "Don't look for evil where there may not be any, Xena. This isn't Tartarus."

Her mind swept up with images battle and blood and death, and a village in ruins, she stated flatly, "If this is where it takes me, it may as well be Tartarus."

"Then let's find out. Together," he urged. "If it's not what you want, we don't have to stay. I promise."

Xena said nothing.

From far below, one of the soldiers glanced up and caught sight of them on the hilltop. "Xena!" he shouted happily, and soon the cry was taken up by more and more of the men. They stopped what they were doing, dropped whatever they were holding. Her name became a chant carried through the twilight.

"Come on," Marcos encouraged, taking her hand. "We'll go down there ... together."

Her tent was exactly as she recalled from that long ago time, a time when she had prided herself on riches won on the battlefield and paid for by innocent lives. Tapestries, silks, gilded statues of the gods, gold and silver, jewels and slaves ... they were all there, all just as she remembered. Her Nubian had prepared a steaming hot bath spiced with perfumes from the orient, and her Indian had laid out nightclothes delicate enough for royalty.

"Xena," Marcos said, interrupting her thoughts. He came to her as she soaked in the tub, his own bath already complete. He smelled deliciously of sandalwood and myrrh. "Do you remember?" he asked softly.

She looked up at him, her eyes very large and blue in the candlelight.

Shrugging off his silken robe, he climbed into the tub with her ...

It was all still there when she awoke the next morning. All of it, just as it had been. All of it ...

Panicked, she tore herself from Marcos' enfolding arms, waking him from quiet slumber. She hurriedly dressed herself in the gilt armor she had discarded years ago, she pulled on the fine boots she had had imported from Alba Longa, she armed herself with the weapons she had killed a king to obtain --- all to the unmistakable sound of troops readying themselves for battle. She raced from the lavish confines of her tent only to find that she was already too late.

Too late.

The army's encampment had vanished into thin air, had been replaced by . ..

She swallowed hard, surveying the ruins of what had once been a peaceful farming village known as Optikris. Grime-coated villagers trudged listlessly past her, their shoulders slumped, their eyes downcast in defeat; behind them, around them, loomed a smoky backdrop of smoldering thatch homes. One of her soldiers galloped past, crying her name, saluting her with upraised, bloody sword. Then Marcos was there, his strong hands warm against her shoulders.

"Xena," he whispered.

She closed her eyes.

"It's not what you think," he continued. "Only a handful of villagers died here. One of them was a man named Krykus."

She opened her eyes. They stood now on a high summit with her troops spread out on the vast plain beyond. As if from some great distance, she heard them chanting her name in victory.

Marcos explained, "Krykus was an evil man. He beat his wife, abused his children. If you hadn't raided Optikris, if Krykus hadn't died that day, he would have killed his wife and been driven from the village. He would have banded together with other renegades. Within five years, Xena, his army would have taken Amphipolis."

She sighed uncertainly. The chanting grew louder.

"Isn't that what you lost sight of, Xena? The need to protect your home, your mother and kin? Your instincts were right, your intentions pure. You did the right thing."

"How do you know all this?" she murmured.

"I know," he returned, his large hands massaging, kneading the tight muscles in her shoulders. "You've already proven yourself, Xena," Marcos assured her. "You've earned your right to be here, and make your paradise whatever you want it to be." He grabbed her arms suddenly, turning her to face him. His dark eyes intense, he said, "Here you can be what you were meant to be, Xena. Think about it --- us together, with you at the head of your own army again. It doesn't have to end with the dawn. You can conquer our paradise, Xena, just as you were meant to conquer Greece. And since we're here, in the Elysium, no one will be hurt. No one will have to suffer or die. It's our paradise, to do with as we please. Don't you understand? That's the absolute glory of it!"

She searched his face, the face of her lover, the face of a man she had once trusted above all others.

The chanting grew closer, more robust, more insistent, and she felt the old fire burning through her veins. It was electrifying, invigorating. She closed her eyes, savoring the thrill of her own name echoing across the countryside, ringing louder and louder in her ears ...

Putting it all aside was one of the hardest things she had ever had to do.

She sighed, looking deep into his eyes, and asked quietly, "If it's true what you say, and we are in the Elysian Fields ... then why is it like this? If I can choose my own paradise, then why have I let my past follow me here, after I've worked so hard to put it behind me? And why haven't I heard Gabrielle think of me, even once?"

"Well, I ..."

"And why haven't you heard all my thoughts to you, these past two years? Why don't you know what my paradise *should* be? I've told you so many times ..."

"Xena," Marcos told her urgently, "you've got to believe."

She drew a long, deep breath and sighed, "I'm sorry, but ... I want to go home now, Ares."

The man stepped back a pace, shimmered brilliantly like bright sunlight glinting off armor, and as Marcos dissolved into nothingness, Ares formed. Seemingly undaunted, he said reasonably, "I think you should reconsider this, Xena. You've been mortally wounded. Life can't hold you much longer, and there's no guarantee where Hades will actually send you. Once you've crossed over, I can't help you anymore."

Xena smiled slightly, but shook her head. "It's a chance I'm willing to take, Ares. Besides, your offer isn't one I can accept. I have ... other considerations."

"You're little bard, you mean," he returned gruffly.

"She's my best friend," Xena conceded mildly. "But there's my mother and Toros to think of, too. And Solon and Hercules. And Marcos. My Marcos." She closed her eyes briefly, smiling. "He knows I'm thinking of him." She opened her eyes then, saying firmly, "Send me home now, Ares. Whatever awaits me there, it's still my fate to meet it."

Defeated --- and obviously hating it --- Ares sighed heavily. He growled, "Alright, alright. But I do have a question --- before I let you go back."

Bemused, Xena shrugged, and waited.

Seeming suddenly ill-at-ease, the god of war said curtly, "Considering our ... 'checkered past' ... I was just curious when it was that you realized the truth? I mean, how long have you known that I wasn't ... ?"

"... Marcos?" Xena smiled, a mischievous gleam in her blue eyes.

"Well ... yes."

"Why, Ares," she said, now openly amused, as one dark eyebrow arched, "you're the god here. Don't you know?"

When Gabrielle finally stirred the next morning, it was to the rich aroma of roasting hare. She smiled slightly in her sleep, luxuriating in the delicious scent and the warm feel of sunlight caressing her cheeks. She shifted, stretching, and snuggled the blanket closer to her chin.

"Come on, sleepy head," came a familiar voice, as an equally familiar hand tugged the blanket away. "You think you're gonna sleep all day? Think again."

Suddenly the bard bolted upright as sweet dreams fled and dark memories shot back to take their place.

"Xena?" she exclaimed, distraught. Heart pounding, her hand flew to the empty blanket beside her. "Xena ... where ... ?!"

"Where do you think?" came the dry response. "You think that rabbit popped himself into the stewpot?"

Gabrielle whirled, her eyes wide.

"XENA!" she yelled joyously, and threw herself into her friend's warm embrace.

"I don't see why you did it," Strife commented curiously as he and Ares watched the 'maudlin mortal display.' "I mean, I can certainly understand bedding the wench, but curing her wounds, too ...?" When Ares glowered dangerously his way, Strife realized he had once again overstepped his somewhat limited bounds. He stammered, "I um ... well, what I meant was ... um. Oops! Was that Zeus calling?" and he disappeared with a quick flourish.

The glower vanished as Ares returned to the view. He leaned his chin into one palm, observing the bond of friendship between mortals. The Olympians, he decided, really had nothing quite like it. The god of war sighed, and for just a moment --- for just the briefest instant only --- found himself captured by the gleam of raven-dark hair glinting in the sunshine, and the flash of a pearly white grin. A grin meant not for him, but for another.

And despite himself, he remembered the touch of her hands, the intimacy of her body. He remembered tenderness shared, and the passion of her kisses ...

Ares shook himself to be rid of the unwelcome spell. As if any mortal woman ever born could affect a god in such a way! It was laughable to even consider such a crazy notion!

He watched as Xena reached out a hand to ruffle her little friend's hair as one would a child's. The irritating blonde giggled and playfully slapped the warrior's hand away. *Ridiculous idea ... as a god he was, of course, immune ...*

Xena, in turn, picked a vegetable from their stewpot and tossed it, with incredible accuracy, straight at the blonde's face. It smacked the girl, leaving a shiny wet smudge on her cheek.

*Insane to even consider ...*

The blonde picked up a handful of dripping stew and, giggling still, threw the whole disgusting lump at the warrior.

*As a god, he would never consider wanting a part in such ...*

Xena stepped lithely aside, her blue eyes gleaming wickedly, and picked up the whole pot.

*... trifling mortal weaknesses.*

As raven hair and blonde alike disappeared in mottled globs of stew, Ares glowered and turned away, disgusted by the sight. He stalked away, arms folded firmly across his chest. To think he would ever even consider ...

Somehow, he found himself back where he had started, his immortal eyes drawn once more to the chaotic earthly scene. Raven hair and velvet flesh were gone now, coated in stew and soil and filth, though the smile still shone brilliantly forth, joyously happy and alive. But not for him. Not that he would want it, of course. He was a god, after all.

*And yet ...*

Disclaimer: Xena was not harmed during the writing of this story. Ares' immortal heart and delicate sensibilities were harmed; but after a great deal of expensive psychoanalysis, he remembered he still had Ghengis Khan and Alexander, the Great to corrupt, and thereafter felt much better.

THE END

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