by Ella Quince
quince@shentel.net
DISCLAIMER: The characters of Xena and Gabrielle are property of MCA /Universal. No
copyright infringement was or is intended. This fiction may contain descriptions of a
sexual nature between two consenting adult women. Please do not continue if you are under
18 years of age or this is illegal in your locale.
Epilogue
"I want her well taken care of."
"Oh, she will be," said Gothous. The warrior must have sensed his admiration because she handed over the reins without another comment. He didn't mind that she followed him into the barn, watching him stable the mare. If this had been his horse, he would have done the same.
The woman had strong bones, too, he noted with approval, and that jet-black hair of hers would have made an impressive mane. Her companion, on the other hand, reminded him of a mountain pony, all muscle in a sturdy package. Not a striking beauty, but with more strength than you would expect unless you looked closely.
"Two dinars to stable the horse," he recited, "three dinars each for your supper, and twelve dinars for a room."
The warrior arched one eyebrow. The young woman frowned and shook her head.
"We'd be more comfortable here in the barn," said the warrior evenly. "I like to stay near my horse."
"Suit yourself," said Gothous. He'd heard that excuse often enough from travelers who couldn't afford a room, although with this horse he could almost believe she was telling the truth. "You can stay for free as long as you don't eat the hay... or give me cause to muck straw."
The warrior grinned back at him. It was an old joke that took the sting out of asking for charity.
He went back to pitching hay into the stalls, but it was hard not to overhear the whispered conversation between the two women as they stored their gear in an empty stall.
"How long can we last if I can't earn my keep?"
"We've managed just fine for the last three--"
"I was a bard for the last three years, now I'm... I'm... nothing."
"That's not true! We're partners, and I can't do this without...."
Gothous was just as glad to move out of the range of their voices. Horses had their own share of problems, as he well knew, but they didn't go on and on about it like people did.
No profit from these two, thought Darius as he cheerfully greeted the strangers who walked through the inn door. You could almost smell their poverty, at least he certainly could. There was a worn quality to their clothing, a resigned air to their weariness, that was all too telling. People with dinars in their pocket knew their troubles would be over soon; adversity made them irritable rather than stoic.
Even so, he ushered the women into the common room and made sure they got a good table. No point in being rude. They might not have much money, but the warrior had a sword and he'd rather not see her use it. Bad for business, very bad.
At first glance, Raena would have said the warrior was trouble. Years of serving drinks to travelers had honed her instincts, and this woman wore a subtle aura of power that was as ominous as her battle-worn leathers. But then Raena took a closer look as she passed by the table. The warrior was talking quietly to a young woman with the most lovely shade of auburn-red hair, and Raena was almost startled by the expression of gentle affection that passed between them.
They were halfway through their supper, so she should have taken their drink order much earlier. Wary of having earned a customer's anger, Raena took a deep breath and approached her neglected post. "Port?"
Raena caught the sharp gleam of longing in the woman's blue eyes before she shook her head. Her companion must have seen the reaction, too.
"If you were traveling alone, you could afford a drink."
The warrior shrugged off the comment. "I'm not that thirsty."
Not much of a warrior after all, Raena decided, not if she didn't have two dinars to rub together. Oh, well. No tip, but less work; it all evened out. "Eat slow if you want some entertainment tonight. Our bard will be here soon."
"Oh, gods," said the young woman. She pushed her bowl of stew away as if it had been poisoned. "I'm...I'm not hungry any more."
Raena winced. "Don't let our cook hear you say that."
"I've got to get out of here."
"Gabrielle, wait...."
But the young woman didn't listen. She slipped out of her chair and practically ran for the door.
After a moment of uncomfortable silence, the warrior reached for a small pouch on the table. "How much port can I get for this?" And she poured out a handful of small copper coins.
The coins weren't worth much at all, but Raena felt sorry for her. "Half a cup?"
"That'll do."
"What about your friend? Is she coming back?"
"I don't know," said the warrior so softly Raena could barely make out her words.
"So you don't like my stew, eh?" said the cook, scowling down at the half-empty bowl on the table.
"It's my friend's--"
"Folks have no idea how much work it is to feed every sore-footed, dust-covered traveler that stops at this inn."
"Nothing personal, she just wasn't--"
"Picky, ain't she? No wonder she's so small. Well, thanks to her delicate constitution this goes to the pigs." She glanced over at the warrior's plate, which was empty... except for a few heavy smears of grease that could easily have been sopped up with a piece of bread. Even so, the cook had learned you could count on a fighter to do justice to a meal. There must be something about killing that encouraged a good appetite, or maybe it was wearing all that heavy armor and weaponry. Her eyes returned to the offending bowl. "You'd think folks would be grateful for every morsel of food they could get. We could have a famine this year, same as any year, and then where would they be?"
"Look, I'll eat the--"
"Don't do me any favors." She whisked the bowl away before the warrior could reach for it. "Imagine, a grown woman like you taking food out of the mouths of my pigs. Where do you think that ham you ate came from?"
With an emphatic huff, the cook hurried back to the kitchen, anxious to start her cleanup. Titus had taken his place at the far end of the room, so the customers would be doing more drinking than eating from now on and that was none of her concern, thank you very much.
Looking out over his audience, one woman in particular caught the bard's attention. There was a life-time of adventure in those haunted blue eyes, and Titus longed to sit and talk to her. Perhaps if he listened for long enough he could regain....
But no time for that now.
Taking a deep breath Titus began a familiar tale that should have flowed from him like water from a fountain. Instead, he labored to recite each stilted phrase. The inner voice that had once filled him with such confidence had been fading for months now; tonight it was steadfastly silent. Reaching for it was like reaching for a limb that had been lost, and the pain of that loss fogged his mind. He used to feel like he was singing when he told a story, but now his mouth was choked by dust. He stuttered, groping futilely for what came next....
"And then the phoenix rose from the ashes."
Titus gasped. The lilting voice wasn't his. Soft and honey-sweet, it reached only his ears. He echoed what he heard until he picked up the strand of his own thoughts again, and each time he stumbled the voice was there to catch him and gently lead him to the ending.
Ignoring the applause from the audience, he turned to the window at his back, his eyes searching the shadows outside. "Please," he begged the muse who was cloaked by night, "please, would you tell the next story?"
"They don't make warriors like they used to," declared Gothous to the cook and the innkeeper as he sat down at the kitchen table. He wished Darius would count his money somewhere else; the clink of coins always set his teeth on edge.
"What are you prattling on about?" demanded the cook as she set a plate in front of the stablehand.
"That woman who arrived today, all decked out in leather and armor with her sword and that nasty looking ring with the sharp edge -- you'd think she was a hardened fighter, but it's all for show."
Darius looked up in surprise. The warrior had seemed rather formidable to him. "For show, you say?"
"Ah, yes. I found her in the barn this evening, hanging on that horse of hers, tears streaming down her face just like some silly village girl." And talking to the horse, too, although he didn't hold that against her since he was in the habit of talking to horses himself. For all he knew, the mare had understood the meaning of the warrior's whispered words, 'She's telling stories, Argo. She's telling stories.'
"Well," sniffed the cook. "That young friend of hers is as bold as brass. Taking over the stage from poor Titus, staying up there all night long. I thought she'd never stop."
"I"m sorry she did stop," said Darius as he dropped the last stack of dinars into a bag. "Best night we've had for a month. And then she spent half of her tips on the most expensive room in the inn. She even invited the warrior to join her."
The cook frowned, unwilling to make concessions. "It's just not fair to Titus!"
"Oh, don't you worry about him," said Raena as she strode into the kitchen, an empty tray dangling from one hand. "Titus didn't mind. In fact," she added with a knowing smile, "if that new bard had twitched her finger his way, he'd a followed her to Tartarus."
"He fell for that skinny young thing? The one who wouldn't eat my stew?"
"She must have got back her appetite. Who do you think ordered that platter of food I just carried upstairs?"
With a gratified smile, the cook said, "She did tell some good tales, now, didn't she."
A thoughtful look creased the innkeeper's face. "I wonder if she'd stay the week? Word travels fast, and it would be worth giving her a free room to pull in those crowds." He started for the door.
"I wouldn't," Raena called out quickly.
"What?"
"Go up there."
"Why not?"
"Never you mind," she said primly. "Just take my word for it. That warrior was in an awfully good mood and you don't want to be the one to bother them just now. Especially after she's finished off a bottle of port."
Darius shrugged. "Tomorrow morning, then," he said and sauntered off whistling.
After puzzling over this conversation, Gothous shook his head and muttered, "Daft. The woman is daft. Crying one minute, celebrating the next."
Taking a last bite of gravy-soaked bread, he heaved himself up from the table and headed back toward the barn. Horses he understood.
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