Chapter Twelve: Street of Dreams

Gabrielle had tickled and teased, restrained and tormented, slowly taking Xena to that edge time and again. Promising release, only to leave her dangling. And when release finally did come(pardon the expression), Xena would have sworn she heard glass breaking.Would have, had she managed to stay conscious afterwards, rather than slip into blissful oblivion.

Not to say she didn't get her own licks in. Gabrielle wouldn't be sleeping on her back for a while, at least not comfortably.

They were spread out over each other now, a tangle of limbs, bronzed skin against crme complexion. And all glistening with sweat and other, richer fluids, they both fairly glowed in the silvery light of Luna.

Xena was dead to the world, which was as it should be, given the supreme effort Gabrielle had put into their lovemaking. She'd nearly lost herself in it this time, a rare enough occurrence, and could count on one hand how often she'd been as selfish. Their first time certainly, though Gabrielle wasn't sure if that necessarily counted. Coming in from her ritual hunt two days ago. A time here and there, when it had become painful to look at this child, only to see her warrior.

Tonight had been deliberate. Tonight sheâd let all her passions loose and driven them both beyond their limits, beyond all known boundaries, and still this mortal child given as well as received. Better, truth be told, given the way Gabrielle's every pore was humming, her muscles, joints, and who-knew-what else all joining in a chorus to ecstasy.

It was so seductive, the idea to let it all lie. This was her heart spread out atop her, her very life. Asleep or awake, the aura of innocence clung to this one, though she kept it well hidden from most. Even Gabrielle hadn't seen it at first.

She might loose it all this night.

Gabrielle, who for centuries had prided herself on her decisiveness and courage (sheâd advised dozens of royal courts, relocated the entire Amazon nation she ruled far from he corruption of the patriarchal world, even took to raising and riding horses though she could never conquer her fear of them), was very close to reversing herself for the first time in centuries. Very close.

Xena's whimper, which suddenly disturbed the sleeperâs even breaths, made the decision for her.

With a last lingering look over her companion and love, as though it would be the last opportunity she would ever have, Gabrielle closed her eyes and let herself drift away.

No sooner had she relaxed, all consciousness melting away, than unnatural shadows fell upon the two sleepers.

Xena dreamed.

She opened her eyes to an unfamiliar street. An empty place, barren of everything save choking shadows and towering buildings on either side. All black and gray and void of life. The street was undivided, and simply stretched to the horizon in either direction.

There was no wind to be heard, nor clouds to be seen. The sky overhead, so impossibly far distant it seemed, was a flat ceiling of slate gray. So distant, yet to look at it for even a breath was to feel it press down upon you, crushing you with its weight. Xena avoided the sky and peered down the street to both ends, expecting the Powdered Wig, or the Toga, or the Voodoo Priestess to suddenly appear. She had no wish to see the one in filthy robes, yet wished with all her heart that the skull in clean robes would come again.

Xena was mildly shocked by this realization, knowing instantly the comfort this apparition brought was equal only to the same Gabrielle brought to her.Xena smiled in memory of their wild lovemaking. Even in this barren place, she felt alight with the passions and love the small woman set aflame within her.

And so she had no fear here, hence her decision to wander this shadowed place, a grin curving her lips and a lightness to her step. Xena occupied her thoughts by reliving the lovemaking which had so exhausted her, a whimper of tired arousal issuing at one point.

There was no way to know how far she had traveled (somewhere between one and one million steps) before she heard the distant voice filter to her.

"Xeeeeeennnnnnnaaaaa?" it echoed, faint to all ears...save her's. A voice she could recognize even amidst the busiest crowd. She snapped her head around in search of it...of her.

"Xeeeeeeennnnnnaaaaaa?" it echoed again, stronger now.

It made little sense for her to go running off in search of someone in this place. The fact it was entirely a figment of her disturbed subconscious notwithstanding, Xena simply had no idea which way Gabrielle (she was absolutely, positively, one-hundred-thousand-percent sure it was the genuine Gabrielle) was approaching from. There might have been only two directions to choose from, but to choose the wrong one would serve nothing save to turn this all from an oddity to a nightmare.

Gabrielle, out there, alone and unprotected...that was fodder enough for all the nightmare she'd ever need.

So Xena waited, and endured Gabrielleâs calls silently. Oh, she longed to scream out at the top of her lungs in answer. Again, practicality reigned. What point was there to making even more echoes, which could only confuse Gabrielle's search as well? This gave time to think, which proved a mixed blessing.

Thinking allowed Xena to consider a bit more carefully her situation here. The landscape was, of course, utterly alien to her. Since she could divine no purpose or hidden Freudianesque meaning out of it, and so largely ignored it.

It was Gabrielle's being here which raised doubts concerning her sanity right then. And doubts on that count were something she had in abundance. This whole day, from waking and knocking Gabrielle on the head, straight through their butting heads in the bedroom and kitchen, and her ending up on the floor, pinned down and laughing herself hoarse under Gabrielle's tickle torture-foreplay... she'd been swinging from one high to the lowest low faster than Martia the Python Handler had during all three trimesters. The flashbacks were nothing new, at least not lately. But the arguments she was picking, the accusations she was throwing around...

Could it be she'd been possessed by some demon from the lower depth of the Underworld had taken possession of her for the day and done its level best to ruin their relationship, thereby ensuring she would return to the streets and end up having to sell her soul to him, him in his convenient pimp-disguise, and practically guaranteeing him a nice cushy position on the thirteenth level of Hell.

Or perhaps all those ranting paranoids she sometimes ran into on the streets, the ones screaming about vampires stalking the alleys and the undead ruling the world, were right and the government was spiking the drinking water with powerful psychotics, targeting her and Gabrielle as a test to see if they could systematically wipe out homosexual couples by driving them to murder one another since AIDS was no longer doing the trick.

Then again, maybe it was simply her time of the month.

"XEEEEEEENNNNNNNNNNAAAAAAAAAAA!" bounced off the cavern walls of the buildings, interrupting these thoughts, which was just as well they were quickly spiraling down the metaphorical gutter.

This, unfortunately, turned Xena's attention to something more immediate. Namely how in Hell was she so sure, so damn sure, that it was the one and only Gabrielle calling to her? For all she knew it could be a twisted monstrosity out there, conjured up by her eternal guilt, trying to lure her to her doom.

"XEEEEEEENNNNNNNNAAAAAAAAA!"

Then again, what guilt-demon of her's would have the poor taste to deafen every non-entity not in sight? Xena sighed. God, you need help, girl!

"Here!" Xena shouted, daring greatly.

"Where?" came the response, close enough and clear enough Xena almost felt confident trying to follow it down the left branch of the street. The direction, she noted, which took her right into shadow-city. How appropriate.

"How should I know?!" Xena shouted, conveying her annoyance and growing impatience by quickening her pace towards the supposed direction of the voice. The street felt surprisingly smooth beneath her feet, and so Xena thought nothing of practically breaking into a run when her sharp eyes caught sight of the small figure fairly melting out of the shadows. It was without doubt Gabrielle, her calm stride and casual aura all the confirmation needed. At that point Xena wasn't sure if she wanted to kiss the redhead or punch her lights out. Right then, all she cared for was to have Gabrielle in her arms again.

She did not have opportunity to resolve this small dilemma, as Gabrielle's appearance rendering the matter quite moot.

Xena, her sight of the smaller woman naturally clearing with each step bringing them closer and closer together, became less inclined to punch her...and still less inclined to embrace her.

The redhead approached her in surprisingly long strides, her relieved smile wide and bright. This only further disinclined Xena and actually prompted her to take step backwards. Gabrielle's smile faltered and collapsed at this, her bright eyes losing their shine and regarding her with confusion. Gabrielle stopped some paces before the suddenly wary Xena and asked "What?"

Several questions tumbled through Xena's mind at this point. Why was Gabrielle suddenly appearing in her dreams? How Gabrielle, the genuine and one-of-a-kind- article Gabrielle, was appearing in her dreams and not simply some idealized representation of her? How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood? What exactly was the meaning of their meeting here on an undivided street in the midst of some art-deco fantasy realm? How long is a piece of string? What are these bicycle clips which British comedians are always so obsessed with?

Only one question managed to make it up her throat and out her mouth.

"Gabrielle?" Xena asked in a perfectly calm, perfectly reasonable, and utterly terrified voice. "Why is your mouth bleeding?"

It had been over seven hundred years since she'd attempted this, and still Gabrielle had no difficulty slipping from one realm to the other, and from there one mind to another. It left her at once reassured and unsettled; reassured that her more exotic abilities still functioned at their peak despite centuries of disuse...and unsettled for exactly the same reason.

She'd found her way to Xenaâs dreamscape almost instantaneously, feeling the powerful pull of her lover's soul as if she'd been lassoed by it and was all but dragged into the dream. Gabrielle had learned long ago that any dreamscape was purely a construction of the mind involved, a sort of reflection of its inner workings which took a tangible form for the conscious mind to relate to while there. Sleep, she had found, was merely the consciousness moving from one level of awareness to another, this movement allowing the body to rest and rebuild its strength.

To judge by the surrounds she found herself in, Xena was in need of at least a year's worth of rest, relaxation, and more TLC than a newborn infant. All of which Gabrielle resolved to give her (and then some) when this was all done with.

Still, Gabrielle was quite lost when it came to seeing how deserted streets and empty towering buildings could generate anxiety of such force to disturb her sleep *every* night for the past several weeks. If anything, this place was positively serene.

Serene, but to the point where it quickly wore on her nerves, leading her start screaming Xena's name without really thinking. All Gabrielle could think of then was to get Xena out of here, fast.

This place was serene, calm. The sort of calm coming before a storm.

She kept screaming Xena's name, hysteria welling in her stomach.

Dreamwalking, as Gabrielle called it, it an inherently dangerous proposition. The dreamscape might be constructed by the mind, but it is the continued presence and attention of the dreamer's consciousness which maintains the construct for any length of time. A dreamwalker caught in the demise of the construct is lost, conceivably forever. She'd seen this happen only once, when an ambitious kin of her's had sought to assassinate Xena's mind. His cries for mercy and help, slowly consumed by the abyss she herself only narrowly escaped, still haunted her at times.

There are no words to convey her relief when Xena did call out in response. Gabrielle, however, kept her pace slow and relaxed. There were eyes watching them now, and damned if she'd tip them to her knowing it.

Xena practically running to her was difficult enough to take. Gods, did the woman have any idea how powerful she looked moving like that? Gloriously nude, heavy breasts hardly swaying, her every step a display of muscles in harmony, long ebony locks flowing about those broad shoulders...

But then she suddenly slowed to a dead stop, all in the space of just a few steps. She stopped, stared, took half a step back, and asked a question which turned Gabrielleâs blood to solid ice.

"Gabrielle? Why is your mouth bleeding?"

Her hand shot up to her lips, fingertips coming away damp and sticky. She couldn't stop her mouth dropping open.

Xena asked another question, still with that maddeningly calm voice of her's. "And why do you fangs?"

Gabrielle's tongued her elongated canines and her head shot up, eyes wide and skin chalk white. Or so she thought.

"And why do you have red skin all of a sudden?"

She couldn't form words of explanation, but simply stand there, lips trembling and eyes fixed on Xena's equally wide eyes.

"And horns?" Xena was backing up another step, followed quickly by another. "And... you've got...claws?"

Somehow Gabrielle managed to snap out of it enough to look at her hands, both of had, indeed, become a pair of wicked-looking claws not unlike Bacchus' own. One hand flew to her forehead, only to jerk away at feeling the two small protrusions there.

She looked back at Xena, grateful to see she hadn't back away any further...though she certainly looked ready to run for the hill in the opposite direction in a second. Gabrielle knew the least movement or sound on her part would lead Xena to do just that, not that she could move so much as her big toe right then.

And the words still eluded her.

Again, just as well. The tremble of Xena's own lips, the mist settling over her eyes, these were enough to freeze her heart as well as her thoughts.

Xena whispered the question.

"What are you?"

It might as well have been screamed a thousand times over all at once, Gabrielle suddenly going deaf from those three words. Not "who". "What" was she?

She didn't hear what came next, any more than she felt it.

Xena sensed their presence long before she heard the clapping. Eyes, several pairs of them, watching. Each of them she knew burned with such malice she could taste it, smell the stink it left to the air as it blurred past her...and towards Gabrielle.

Xena knew all this the way she knew she was breathing, and consequently wasn't paying close attention to it. The sight of her lover (again, she had no doubt that this was her Gabrielle) looking like a over-made-up reject from a Hammer spaghetti vampire flick, with a bleeding lip no less, was more than her cognitive faculties could handle just then.

Still, the combination of cackling laughter coming from four different sides(three of them from forty-five and fifty degrees up from the horizontal), the sudden whooosh whoosh whoosh of air swirling about her, the continued clapping, AND Gabrielle suddenly being seized by both shoulders and being carried straight up and away proved just enough to jar Xena to full awareness.

She saw the Toga and Voodoo Priestess flying directly over her head, their laughter joining that of the smaller woman in orange robes, Gabrielle dangling between them. Out of the corner of her eye, she spied the Powdered Wig, loosing a full-belly laugh and clapping as though giving a one-man ovation.

Without hesitation, Xena bent at the knees and sprung upwards as though shot from a cannon. She managed to grasp both of the Toga's ankles, though one hand quickly lost its grip. Through tight-clenched teeth, she hissed above their laughter "Let her go!"

The Toga looked down at her, incredulous. A savage kick failed to dislodge her, each successive try only hardened her resolve to hold on. "I said," she repeated, voice easily carrying over their's combined. "Let...Her...Go!"

The Voodoo Priestess threw her head back and laughed with glee at her fellow's discomfort and dismay. The small one, her arms not engaged in holding their prey aloft, glided upwards, coming to rest for a moment directly above Xena's twisting and struggling back.

She descend like a missile then, the heels of both feet impacting squarely on the fierce woman's spine and jarring her grip loose. Xena acknowledged the pain only with a forcibly expelled breath; the scream of rage she issued (backed by a silent vow of retribution) was directed solely at her lost quarry, the three of whom misunderstood what their heard and laughed harder still.

Xena fell only a short way to the ground, instinctively tucking into a ball and controlling her angle of impact enough that she landed in a roll. An out-of-control roll, it turned out, and one which landed her directly at the Powdered Wig's feet.

The fat prig hadn't stopped his damn clapping. "Bravo, my child," he fairly bellowed as she got to her feet. "Bravo!"

"Bring her back!" Xena hissed, drawing herself to her full height, her eyes level with his.

Yet he continued on as though she hadn't even spoken. "You performed beautifully, dearest. Played your role to perfection. I am so proud!"

Xena leaned in closer still, fists now clenching and heart pounding against her ribs hard enough to burst. "I said..." she began again, only to be cut off when the Powdered Wig seized her by the throat with a single beefy hand.

"You," he hissed in reply, "say nothing! You are a slab of meat to us, whore, and never forget that." He raised her by the throat, still using only one hand, it felt like a full foot off the ground. Xena desperately grabbed his wrist, so to prevent herself from choking.

"You should thank us, whore. Because of us, you will inherit her fortune." He drew her a little closer, giving a good look at his fangs. "Perhaps we'll even allow you to keep it."

He laughed again, his stinking breath robbing her of her own, and threw her away as though she were a child's toy. Xena sailed through the air, her thoughts racing ahead of her...to the wall she knew she would collide with in seconds.

It would be a clichŽ to say her life flashed before her eyes. It was more a disjointed series of images, running from the mundane and childish to the erotic and shameful. Tears having nothing to do with the wind cutting into her through the short journey collected in both eyes...eyes which could only see her lost love now, fangs, horns, and all.

"GabrielleIamsorrysososorryIdidnotmeanitallIwillfindyouIpromiseIswearIloveyou uforeverILOVEYOUILOVEYOUILOVEYOU"

She hit the solid-looking wall of gray brick and mortar head-first, her entire universe filled with the tinkle of a thousand mirror breaking.

Chapter Thirteen: Path of Shadows

It was, Hope had to admit, a terribly elegant little plan they'd played.

The house stank, positively reeked of the Circle's creatures. This in itself was nothing exceptional, as the lower ranks forever tried to raise their status by braving the Ancient's house. More often than not, Gabrielle's presence proved sufficient to terrify them from doing more than simply lurk in the corners for a moment or two. But that night...

Hope looked down on the sleeping Xena, marveling at the seeming innocence there. She'd squinted and scowled a moment back, but was now the picture of calm and repose.

Gabrielle was nowhere to be seen.

The indentation and creases in the bed sheets spoke of her being there earlier, though Hope herself needed no such evidence. She had seen and heard all that had passed between them that day, from their argument in the morning to the scene over dinner to Gabrielle tickling her partner into utter submission in this same bedroom. She'd left them to their sleep for only a short moment, returning to her own home to double-check on a few more esoteric facts concerning stellar alignments and the like, returning not even five minutes later.

She returned to a half-empty bedroom and a haze of Bacchae scent.

Only two thousand years worth of self-control kept her from tearing the room apart. Even her grip on the handle of Caliburn looked relaxed.

Her jaw tightened reflexively as she glided towards the sleeper, her hand reaching out and brushing the side of her pristine neck. Hope relaxed as she felt the strong beat of a pulse. They had, at least physically, left her alone.

Mentally? Spiritually? Hope wasn't sure on either score, her vision of the insubstantial vague in this muddy atmosphere. If harm was there, Hope recognized there was little she could do just now. Yet another casualty who's only crime was proximity to her.

The knight. The old centaur. The boy. The monks who had taken her in. The settlers of Roanoke. Those archaeologists only a few decades ago.

Each one more reason to struggle against her dead sire and grand-sire. Each one more reason to loath herself all the more.

Hope sat on the edge of the bed, Caliburn now a weight hanging limping in her hand. Hard set as her features were, her eyes now spoke of despair.

How arrogant she had been. Running all about, melting into and out of the shadows, all mouth and trousers. So bloody sure she could out-think those degenerates, beat them at their game, but playing by her rules...

She could only shake her head at this. You'd think after two millennia on both sides of the veil...two millennia of plots and plans and conspiracies, complex and simple-minded...you'd think she'd have learned not to underestimate any opponent. You'd think she would...

Of all the ways to be proven wrong.

It was just past ten, All Soul's Night nearly over. They had Gabrielle and she had close to nothing! No location, no trustworthy contacts, and only the vaguest inclining of their plans.

Oh, and an ex-prostitute lying beside her, asleep and looking utterly innocent.

Hope had no idea what to do now. Everything she'd planned had revolved around keeping Gabrielle out of their hands until All Soul's was finished, which had entailed keeping her (and Xena, of course) in sight and under guard. So what does she do? She abandons her self-appointed post and runs off to read up on some pointless piece of astronomy. And of course the Circle must have chosen that moment to do their business. What's new?

Hope brushed a tuft of dark hair from Xena's forehead, marveling at the perfect similarity between her and the warrior.

Her earliest memories were the arguments between Gabrielle and Xena over her, calls for her death and naÔve declarations of love and trust. Hope had understood each word, though she'd been incapable of expressing herself. Dahmok had held her tightly in its sway back then, and too many had died for it. Gabrielle's poisoning her had been the first step in her redemption, and if acceptance had proved impossible for the warrior, and trust equally so for both herself and the warrior, they had at least gained a careful respect for each other.

But the warrior was gone now, and this mortal child had never given reason to distrust her. In fact she'd done everything to convince Hope of her sincerity where Gabrielle was concerned. She'd touched none of her fortune, done nothing to hurt Gabrielle, and in fact had gone out of her way to avoid either such difficulties. The only reason Xena had ever given Gabrielle to scream was with pleasure the likes of which Hope had never before seen or encountered...which, to be frank, was saying something.

Hope knew her mum too well, and knew that if it came to a choice, Gabrielle would insist Xena be protected over herself. Xena herself would doubtlessly demand the same, all of which left Hope with a proverbial Sword of Damocles hanging over her head.

To leave Xena now might well have been tantamount to signing a death warrant. There could be a dozen minions hiding in this bile fog of Bacchae-stink and Hope could be none the wiser. And, by the same token, not leaving Xena might well result in fulfillment of the Circle's designs: the final death of Gabrielle. There was always a chance Gabrielle could turn the tables on them, as she had so often in the past. It was possible...and unlikely.

Who to risk and who to save. Either prospect left her cold and indecisive. Hope looked once more on the sleeper beside her, as though the sight alone would give her the answer.

The entire debate was rendered moot when one of Xena's arm snapped out, the two extended fingers connected with the base of throat. Hope crashed to the floor, her limbs suddenly so much dead-weight, her ever muscle stiff and unflexing.

She heard the bedsprings move as the mattress' former occupant rose and moved away. Rather than try to divine what Xena was about, Hope instead concentrated on moving her wrists, willing them past all weakness and paralysis to bend back inch by inch...ignoring the approaching, consuming darkness which covered her sight...bending the wrists millimeter by millimeter...ignoring the screaming pain of her empty lungs...fighting for the fading clarity of her thoughts...

...and snapped the wrists forward, fingers likewise striking her neck in the exact same places as Xena's strike.

Air rushed into both her lungs and brain, leaving her gasping and dizzy. Still, she heard the remark spoken above her. "Thought you'd get out of that."

Hope only had time to snap her head to the side, her eyes coming to rest on a pair of hiking boots and denim-clad legs there. Xena's presence was akin to a bonfire right then, emotion and energy fairly rolling off her. Before Hope could offer any word of question or defense, a solid blow to the base of her neck knocked her flat once more. She instinctively recognized the weapon used, her last conscious breath giggle at the irony: the pommel of Caliburn.

Still, Hope heard the comment that followed, the words striking an ancient cord of memory within her. "Hm...nice blade."

And then the burning presence of Xena was gone, taking with her all consciousness.

When she came too only minutes later, it was as she expected: there was no sign to be seen of Xena or Caliburn.

Chapter Fourteen: Stare Into the Abyss…

A thousand mirrors shattered, their razor shards broke against too-solid flesh. The world of empty streets and dark buildings fell to dust about her.

All Xena could do, all she wanted to do, was fall into the deepest abyss fall in and disappear for all eternity. Life had hurt her too much to endure anymore.

As she fell, Xena saw not her life, but Gabrielle. Gabrielle laughing... crying...glowing with joy...scowling with ill-disguised anger

Gabrielle with horns...and fangs...Gabrielle smiling with a mouth full of...

Blood...

Xena fell through the shards of broken dreams into the darkness beyond dreams

She fell

stopping when her shoulder hit solid rock, the rest of her following to land in a heap.

Xena lay there, panting, numb, but too aware to simply lay still. Her senses were too alive, too sharp all of a sudden, to stand the flood of sensations. The solid rock beneath bit into her skin with its thousands of tiny teeth of grit and pebbles. The soft wind was a disjointed siren's song, which stung and tore at her ears. Even her own shallow breaths pressed like a vise against her ribs and burned her throat. Somewhere she found the strength to push her head up and look upon her surroundings.

She lay before the great yawning cave once again, its interior as endless and impenetrable as before.

Strength flowed to worn muscles, muscles which uncoiled and straightened of their own accord, pushing her body to stand. Xena neither knew nor felt any of this, all thought centered solely upon the darkness before her.

The darkness, and the crack of a whip which could be heard very clearly coming from within.

This thought was broken only by the cracking sound...of a whip...that could be heard very clearly coming from deep within the same darkness.

The crack of a whip, and the whimper of pain which always followed.

Xena felt her feet step backwards, head pivoting left to right to left. The feet took a step away with each snap of the whip. Her head shook again with each whimper.

Xena didn't realize how close the ledge's end was until a foot met emptiness rather than rock. For a mad moment she considered taking that final step, fleeing that vicious whip and pitiful cries forever and ever. She considered, and refused the choice. Why escaped her just then, but the choice was made.

As though from a distance, Xena heard herself ask "So what now?"

"Now you choose."

The answer was spoken directly against her ear, though no breath scratched her ear with it. Xena spun to face it, her hands balling and coming up. Xena found herself crouching in a low stance, at once relaxed and ready to spring forward, her arms singing with the urge to lash out.

Staring into the empty sockets of the skull, which looked down from beneath the rim of its pristine hood, Xena bared her own teeth and demanded "Choose what?"

"Choose your course."

"My 'course'?"

"Choose what you shall be."

"I don't have to choose that!" Xena practically spat in contempt. "I know what I am what I've always been!"

"You have no choice!" the skull bellowed, then spoke with surprising gentleness. "You know only a moment's experience. You have forgotten the rest of what you know." The figure, who had hovered tall and distant, now descended to stand eye-to-socket with Xena. "You must choose whether you remember all that you are and have been."

Xena shook her head, not in denial but in confusion and fear. Frost seeped once more into her core, chilling her beyond mere pain and numbness.

Even so, even this did not keep her from meeting those empty sockets, nor rob her venom for her words. "WHY?"

Again, that gentle voice. "You know why." No accusation, nor venom for venom. Only understanding and acceptance. An answer that allowed no argument, no denial.

Xena spun away from the robed figure, suddenly too-familiar to be faced, and stared ahead into the equally familiar darkness, suddenly a mere step before her, offering her no retreat or evasion.

"I'm afraid," Xena whispered.

A hand of bones and phantom flesh settled on her shoulder. "As you should be," the voice assured.

Xena acknowledged the truth of this with a tight nod and fists balling once more at her sides.

The hand didn't leave her shoulder as she took a single step forward, the darkness swallowing her them whole.

One moment she stood in darkness. The next, cold hands grabbed her wrists, stretching her arms wide and holding tight. Panic froze her voice as it did her limbs.

Fire lashed her naked back. Again. And again.

She couldn't even scream from the pain.

The lash tore at her shoulder. It traveled down her spine, burning through her.

"Scream, pretty whore. My new, pretty little toy."

The voice behind her was gentle, prodding, and demanding all in one. It was innocent, almost childlike.

Another lash burned her across the spine, bringing tears to her eyes. The red fire dripping down her back even burned through her panic, a strangled sob escaping.

"Not good enough," declared the sing-song voice.

Another lash.

Another sob, only a little stronger.

"Stilllllll not good enough...my pretty."

More lashes, one atop the last, each cutting deeper into her, each now accompanied by a sob of its own. A pained breath coming with each strike, louder and louder with each repetition, the hot pain finally breaking through the dam of her panic and fear. The scream finally torn from her, a howl both guttural and full, resounded in both her ears and head, drowning out for a single blessed moment all the pain and horror. It left her drained, her body sagging and eyes drifting shut.

"Good," purred the voice, one she now recognized. "But I want another."

Her head shook of its own accord, her voice likewise issuing a faint "No please "

"You're my fun thing, pretty whore. My property!" She felt the heat of the body as it pressed its sensual curves against her. "You. Are. Mine."

Xena's eyes snapped open at this, and the sliver of pride she built and guarded so jealously wound its way past the barriers erected by fear and panic, lighting fire in her blood. Without thinking, without even any realizing doing it, she straightened and threw off the thick arms which grasped her. All things became a blur then, her arms moving of their own volition. They did not simply swing out wildly, but rather struck out with a series of exact punches, each connecting solidly with the body behind her.

Xena saw nothing, felt nothing, heard nothing save the smack of flesh hitting flesh and crack of bone fracturing beneath the assault and the body reeling beneath each of those blow until it collapsed completely at her feet. A savage joy built in her, erupting in a cry of triumph as savage as any jungle cat concluding its hunt.

The hand reappeared onto her shoulder, and all the savagery drained from her like so much water rushing through a funnel. Xena couldn't help but continue to pant hard, her mind's eye still filled with the memory of both then and now. "Who was she?" she managed between breaths.

"Someone who hurt you," the skull (now less of a skull, Xena saw, a network of red veins and the first strands of muscles having appeared over its polished surface) replied. "Hurt you so badly, so brutally, that she is forever burned into your soul." Xena listened as the body of the vanquished, slim and deadly even in broken repose, dissolved into the darkness.

"Is she gone now?"

"Yes."

"For good?"

"Never." Strangely, there was no regret in the skull's voice, but rather, weary resignation. "She is as much a part of you as your own heart and teeth. She protects you from things you cannot face."

"Like this?" Xena swept an arm out into the darkness in which they stood.

"Once, perhaps." Now the phantom sounded thoughtful, as though needing to think before answering. "But her purpose here is done. Now, you may proceed unimpeded."

This caught Xena short. "What? You mean that wasn't this choice I…"

"This," the phantom cut in, "was but the first step in a long journey now before you. Nothing more."

"Easy for you to say," Xena muttered.

Perhaps the phantom heard this, which was why it pushed her shoulder hard enough for Xena to suddenly loose her balance and go tumbling forward. She instinctively braced herself for an impact…

…which never came.

Xena fell to her hands and knees, panting, but not very hard.

"C'mon, cat!" Millie yelled to her sister. "We're racin'!"

"Wait up, mouse!" the taller girl, her waist-length black hair waving all about in the summer's wind. Millie called her adoptive sibling "cat" because most everyone else in the caravan called her "mutt". Everyone knew she came from no womb of theirs. She'd been found wandering lost in a forest glade, naked and alone. The child had been kept first out of charity, later because she wasn't afraid of the hard work all hands put in. She stayed with the old fortuneteller, who was generally disliked by all, and the bitch's granddaughter. Kept more like a pet than a child by all accounts, and hence she was "mutt" to everyone.

She'd actually chosen her own name, rejecting the one given her by the old woman. "Xena", she demanded everyone call her, those who would occasionally call her "Ruth". The girl was a sharp one, having learned to read almost before she'd learned to walk, more often reading Edgar Rice Burroughs, Robert Howard, or Sofie Pappas than the Bible her ëgrandmother' forever quoted from. It was from the last that she took the name of the warrior woman, though only Millie acknowledged it. Even the caravan's patron, with his bossy swagger and vicious switch, called her "mutt"...or more often "mongrel".

Their days were broken into sleeping times, eating times, working times, and playing times. Xena had never known a day without work of some sort, the jobs getting harder, the loads heavier with each year. She accepted it all, never knowing anything else.

Playing times were rare, and precious to both. They had no toys, nor did they need any. A field or prairie, even a small stretch of beach, was all they had need of. The epic quest of a turtle to reach the water, the rise and fall of a queen bee, the busy business of chipmunks, the sly plans of spiders and hidden wood nymphs; these were all the things they needed.

That day, they ran among the ancient conifers and redwoods, who looked down upon them with tolerance and fair piece of amusement. The caravan had stopped for the day, an engine needing repair and the patron gripped by one of his moods. They had a few moments to themselves, and were determined to enjoy it all to the fullest.

The trees reverberated with their laughter. "I'm a panther, and yer my prey!" Xena declared, deliberately letting her sister run ahead.

"Can't catch me!" Millie fairly screeched, and the chase began in earnest. She ducked and weaved through bushes and behind trees, Xena giving chase and threatening to overtake her. But Millie was every bit as agile and quick as her nickname, eluding her taller sibling time and again.

Xena's senses always sharpened during these games, and right then she picked out something different. The scent of oil and rich smoke. The noise of low snickers and cruel laughter. A growl of something hungry and cruel. She stopped her pursuit and let her senses tell her where these new, dangerous things were, her heart leaping into her throat realizing they lay directly in Millie's path.

"Millie," Xena hissed, as desperate to keep quiet as to alert her sister. "Millie! Stop!"

Laughter, louder than a thousand thunderbolts, issued out from the bushes ahead. It proved enough to halt even Millie's wild flight. No sooner had the younger girl stopped than an explosion of growling and barking shook the bushes she was about to leap into.

No words were exchanged, both girls knowing their hazard immediately. They turned and ran the way they'd come, not looking back when a minute later two huge pit bulls broke through the bushes and took off after them, froth dripping from their jowls.

Their lungs burned, their legs pumped harder and faster than ever before. And for all that the dogs closed the distance far faster than they could keep that distance. Xena, taller and longer, managed to keep her lead. Millie, for all her quickness, could not do the same.

The dogs leapt as one, one clamping its jaws tight on her shoulder, the other catching her arm. They dragged the girl down and proceeded to rend and tear at her delicate form. Millie's cries were matched by Xena's own, the latter more like those of an animal mad with bloodlust.

Millie's screams were replaced by those of the dogs, who found themselves sudden torn, literally, from their prey and set on by the one they'd chosen to ignore. One was tossed against a nearby tree with such force it died instantly, its skull caved in and neck shattered. The second, the more cowardly of the pair, whimpered and tried to turn and flee. It was caught by its hind legs and pulled back. Quickly realizing escape wasn't possible, the dog spun and dug its teeth into the forearm grasping it only to feel the other hand close about its throat and neck…and twist.

Its neck broke with the sound of celery being broken in half, sharp and sudden as a rifle shot in the now silent forest.

Xena stood there for a time, looking down on the ruin of her sister...and her heart.

"And what happened then?" the once-skull, brilliant blue eyes now filling its sockets, layers of raw muscle and tendon covering its ivory surface.

"They found me the dogs' owners they found me." Her voice was softer than a breath. "They… "

"They took me with them."

Again, that comforting hand rested on her shoulder. Even absent flesh and skin, it was soft and gentle in its touch.

All Xena heard was the laughter.

They were silent for a time, there in the darkness of half-memory. Xena continued to stare at her feet, and so didn't see the wrap of first flesh, then skin work its way over the phantom's entire form.

"I can't remember how I got away from them " Xena said, sounding reluctant in admitting to such a lapse.

"You remember Lenny?" the phantom asked.

"Which one?" Her head came up, but didn't turn around.

The phantom smiled. "It doesn't matter."

"No?"

"No. That you know there was more than the one, that is enough for now." The phantom glided forward, turned and faced her directly. Indeed, it almost was a face now, one with expressive eyes and lips, its full features still hidden from clear view by the hood.

"If so small a detail as that is remembered," the phantom elaborated, "then the rest can be recalled in time."

"Lenny…the second Lenny…sold me away," Xena said, as though this were a great realization.

"Yes," the phantom acknowledged with the slightest nod.

"But the other one he didn't put me on the streets… "

"No, you were his prize and payment for a… "

"A business transaction." Xena's voice again became quiet, the contempt in it all the stronger.

Xena shook from the memory of that moment, flinching from both the voice the imagined blow, no dope fogging her mind to protect her from either. If the phantom took note of this, it gave her no sign, its attention instead given to the middle distance beyond them both.

It took a moment for Xena to gain control over her breathing once more, images and scenes tumbling forth as though churned and spat forth by some insane factory hidden within her mind.

Until then, she clearest memory stretched back only to the first night with Gabrielle. Now...now she saw and tasted images of antique balls, wars fought in heavy armor with broadsword and crossbow, candlelit banquets and painted faces, the crisp air of mountain peaks, beautiful and wild women adorned in animal skins and crude leather leaping from tree to tree herself and Gabrielle at the center of each scene and moment always together.

Xena could literally not stand the flood, and fell to her knees, shaking like a leaf beneath a bitter wind. Her arms wrapped tightly about her bosom, applying every bit as painful a grip to herself as she would an attacker.

"What's...happening..." she managed through clattering teeth.

"You are remembering."

"What " Fiery pain, a thousand times more intense than anything come before, consumed her right arm and side. "What am am I remembering ?" Even through the haze of agony, even as all consciousness fled, Xena heard the calm answer.

"Yourself."

Chapter Fifteen: …and the Abyss Shall Stare Into You

Screams filled the air. Screams and cries of horror. Of rage. Of glee and desperation.

Screams coming in a chorus of voices which Xena dimly recognized as issuing from her own throat.

Fire and chaos surrounded her now, at once a dimly strange and clearly familiar scene. Flames licked at the wooden walls around her, and ate into the rafters overhead. Her own clothes were smoked and alight here and there; nothing to be desperate about. The fires had already done there damage, leaving her right shoulder and side charred and festering.

She caught sight of Gabrielle across the flaming room, and felt her heart constrict at the sight there.

Their attacker, the blond woman with wild eyes and her mad screams, held the smaller woman by the throat with a single hand, her other glowing with a fierce corona of blue and white. The was no fear to be seen in Gabrielle's eyes, only resolve and a fire a thousand times fiercer than the flames surrounding them all.

Xena moved without thinking, the pain of her burns suddenly a small thing. She heard her shoulder crack, dislocated, as she caught their attacker square in the back. New pain lanced through her good shoulder and side, but it accomplished its goal, the new issues of pain and shock not her's alone.

So powerful was her attack, her momentum alone carried the both of them far beyond her strength's limits. They plunged as one through flame-weakened timbers, out into the flat green beyond. They tumbled like lovers over each other and the grass, more howls issuing from both, pain and anger intermixed.

"I WILL KILL YOU!" screeched the blond wildcat, who scratched and clawed at her cheeks and throat, her perfect nails finding no purchase, drawing no blood. Xena, on blind instinct and intuition, braced her abused shoulders against the soft earth, coiling her legs between herself and the wildcat's waist, snapping them straight out and propelling the blond still further away from the house and, more importantly, Gabrielle.

Xena managed to roll to her feet, both her arms hanging uselessly at her sides. She swayed more from the exertion than her wounds. The wildcat had never, never been able to get this close! Even using little Hope she hadn't gotten this close!

For the first time in her millennia of life, Xena knew she faced death. Cold fear settled across her broad shoulders, though not for herself.

"Gabrielle," she heard herself mutter involuntarily. There was no time for more, however. Wildcat screeches of her approaching death drowned out all else.

"I WILL KILL YOU!!!" Callisto screamed, her usual hysteria in her eyes a dozen times as powerful. She hovered over her ancient enemy, every bit the predatory hawk ready to swoop down upon the hapless mouse.

"Same tune you've sung for two thousand years, Cal," Xena fairly gurgled, refusing to look up. "And we're all still here." She hardly recognized her own voice, its calm and clarity alien to the pain she swam in. 'Must be shock,' she decided from a distance.

Callisto purred in response, her eyes hardening to cold stone. "Oh, but Xena, m'love, now I'm ready to finish this silly little game of ours."

"Why?" Xena could feel the blood seeping into her stomach, dripping into and filling her lungs. She coughed, the back of her hand coming away red and slick.

Callisto, exiled goddess of chaos unbound, smiled a smile of depraved innocence and angelic madness.

"Because."

Callisto raised both arms to the heavens, their blue corona alight, and threw them both towards the wounded, dying demigoddess.

The air, sky, and ground were suddenly alight with a midnight sun of energy and rage. The heat alone scorched the ancient trees surrounding them to ash, their thick bark torn away to their very atoms, the soil beneath them fused to raw carbon and coal. So harsh was the firestorm, it lived no longer than a moment, consuming all that might feed it in the blink of an eye.

Xena, who had stood at the center of the storm

Xena, only daughter of Cyrene, mother of Solon, child and once-student of Ares, the Lion of Amphipolis, sword of the Amazons, guardian of the weak, healer, warrior princess of two thousand years and a hundred times as many battles, warrior princess at whose hand had died more men and women than might ever be counted in one lifetime.

Xena, lover and companion eternal to Gabrielle...

…was no more.

She drifted in a place with no name and no boundaries. She did not speak, for there was no need to.

She did not think, for there was no need to.

This was a place beyond all things. Even time.

Even grief.

Even love.

She was, and that was all.

But she would sometimes hear a distant thing. A word.

A name she recognized without thought.

Xenaxenaxenaxenaxenaxenaxenaxenaxenaxenaxenaxenaxenaxenaxenaxenaxenaxenaxena

The name meant something touched something deep within her.

It forced her to think.

Time passed.

The name resounded in this nameless, empty place more and more often. The more it resounded, the clearer it resounded, the more it disturbed her quiet.

Emotions intruded, taking with them the serenity of her being and defining her by the pain their brought to her. She no longer simply was, but became more with each echo of the Name.

Eventually, when the pain gave her form and allowed no respite, when the Name returned again and again and again, with its irresistible strength then did she remember herself.

With a voice clear in its anguish, Xena of Amphipolis cried out to the void...and to the lost half of her soul.

"GAAAABBBBRRRIIIEEELLLLEEEE!"

Phantom tears streaked across her ghostly cheeks, her pain, the sweet agony of her loss and love giving substance to the etherbeing she had become.

She screamed and screamed Gabrielle's name, her limbs thrashing about, connecting only with the nothingness of this personal abyss she existed within now. For how long she could not judge, her strength seemingly endless. The futility only added fuel to her already-stoked desperation, but slowly drained it as well.

When she finally calmed and quieted, a minute or millennia later she would never know, Xena took stock of both herself and her precious cache of memories. She remembered with hot, vivid clarity her final moments of flesh. Why she hadn't simply landed in Tartarus (or, worse, the Fields) was a mystery she'd have to divine out later. She'd been there before, albeit briefly, after saving M'llia's clan cousin from those barbarians, and would have recognized it instantly.

Could she have found her way back into Illusia? No, Xena decided. Those memories, the nightmare she and Gabrielle had put each other through there were every bit as vivid as those of M'llia rescuing her from that cross in Tartarus.

Ever practical, Xena's interest in where she was extended no further than finding a way out of it and back to Gabrielle. It was a void, she ësaw', and so appeared so eternal and inescapable that Xena momentarily despaired of leaving it.

Her thoughts turned at once to Gabrielle. She envisioned her soul's mate as clearly as if the ancient bard now stood before her, unaged and eternal. Gods, she could actually smell the soft fragrance of her hair. Xena felt herself shake with the strength of the memory, here eyes closing at once in rapture and agony. To remember her, and never touch her again that was the cruelest torment.

Xena opened her eyes...and found herself gazing down upon the sleeping Gabrielle.

This was no memory, no fantasy.

Gabrielle, gloriously nude, snuggled within crisp sheets and blankets within a massive bed, her rich hair spread all about her peaceful face.

Xena reached out with a hand only she could see, to brush away the single strand of honey-red hair from her love's brow. She reached out, only to feel it pass completely through both the hair and flesh beneath.

The cry she issued put to shame all the screams of the damned since time began.

Xena turned and fled, not realizing she ran through both doors and walls without the break in speed, tears once again streaming from her eyes.

She was far gone when Gabrielle roused from her sleep and looked about. "Xena?" she called to the empty bedroom, tears stinging her own eyes, her thoughts filled with what she'd heard in her dreams: long-dead love, screaming out in despair.

Xena fled through buildings and woods, seeing nothing, feeling nothing, heedless of her course and having no destination save the need to be as far as she could manage from her sleeping bard. This would shock her, when she eventually slowed to a halt, this willingness to turn away from the one she loved above all else, to flee the one thing which had rescued her from an empty eternity.

The first flashes of shock and regret were not enough to stop her, no. In fact, the only thing which did stop her was her phantom foot suddenly becoming tangled in an exposed tree root, tripping her face-first into the forest's floor. Too her amazement, she actually felt the pain of her ankle as a physical thing, as well as the bruises of her shoulder and hip where she'd landed.

Looking about, she saw nothing that might explain this sudden ability to feel sensation. The forest clearing about her was every bit as natural and grown as the trees surrounding it. True, the grass here was shorter, and looked as though newly grown, younger than the rest of the area. There were a few old trees, their bark striped from the trunks and their surfaces pitted and marred by black patches.

The area sung out to Xena, at once soothing and disquieting with a familiarity to it she immediately recognized but could not consciously place.

It sung in mad screeches and with the scent of burnt air.

How could she not know this place, the place of her death?

The air was filled once more with her silent cries of rage this time. Xena raged with all her inexhaustible energy at Hades, Ares, the Fates, the cosmos and all its immutable laws.

She could feel here and only here. Not with Gabrielle not with Gabrielle ever again.

She screamed and raged and cursed and wept and screeched and wept more until the sunlight had died, the stars becoming her silent audience. Luna wisely chose that night to be absent, lest she too hear this anguish.

Xena looked upwards, seeing nothing, her mouth working with only one question.

"Why?"

The stars and trees could offer her no answer.

The wheel of day and night turned many times before Xena mustered herself enough to think beyond the patch of grass she sat on. It hurt to think, because then she would have to remember Gabrielle. The emotions did not wash over her any more. Rather, they taunted her phantom form with prickles of memory and sensation, giving momentary substance to her emptiness; a million tiny itches she could never scratch.

In time, to distract herself from this, Xena took to taunting herself. "Behold the might Xena of Amphipolis," she would declare to the grass and gnats. "Behold she who conquered Death itself. Behold her eternal reward!"

Not once did it occur to her to seek Gabrielle out again.

Occasionally a young deer or bold squirrel would approach her, coming close enough that Xena could actually reach out and brush her fingertips against their warmth and achingly solid down. When such company did approach her, all the rage vanished, and the pain of loss, while never banished for all times, receeded to where she might remember only the love.

Too often, though, Xena was left with only her rage and pain.

More time passed.

Ironically, it was amid one of these rants (this one played for the benefit of a terrified anthill, its colony retreating to its lowest levels and awaiting it annihilation) that The Plan came to her.

"Look upon the great and powerful Xena,"she laughed bitterly to the wind. "Mighty, eternal Xena, daughter of Cyrene and Ares! Warrior princess, spawn of the God of War! Never to kill..." Xena stopped and went utterly silent right then. She was the offspring of a god. Not a terribly good one, granted, nor particularly wise or insightful. But willful, proud, vital and devious.

She bore no love for her sire, any more than Gabriele did her own. Yet they had both lived, even thrived to the current day. Nearly two full millennia had she seen, virtually unchanged and (until Callisto, at least) immortal.

Could her Olympian heritage have bequeathed some gifts to her besides long life and physical acumen?

She had first felt the pulse of life in the arms of Lao Ma, her minds eye catching a glimpse of the threads and veins which connected all things. Her release in the Chin wisewoman's hands let loose such energy, the image was obliterated as the veins surrounding and connecting them were flooded so brightly as if to burst. She had even forgotten the sight existed.

But now, Xena looked about her once more. She looked with eyes wide, and saw the threads of live woven about her in a delicate, unbreakable web of life. Her hand reached out unconsciously and touched the nearest chord, only to jerk away. The sensation of blazing fire filled her right then, so intense was the life-pulse. Perhaps foolishly she tried again to touch it, though this second time she encountered none the fire, her fingertips instead grasping the calm THUD-THUD-THUD of life's eternal rhythm.

Xena lost herself in the rhythmn for a time, reacquainting herself with simple sensation of Life. It was so tempting to simply let go of herself and join the soothing beat...so tempting...

She very nearly did loose herself. A single thought wound its way into her thoughts the heartbeat before she joined the web...a single, smiling face...framed with golden hair...

After that, there was no more thought of finding her peace anywhere save in Gabrielle's arms.

Xena turned her thoughts then towards finding a way back to the existence and solidity of flesh. Unlike her previous experiences, she had had a body to return to. This time she was not so fortunate.

She could try simply possessing a body who's spirit had already passed on, though Xena had to concede the chances finding such a body was slim. And even if she could find one, how could she be certain she wouldn't suffer any loss of self in the process?

Another possibility was entering a newly-conceived fetus. That idea didn't even bear close consideration, the very notion more abhorrent to her as marching under Ares' banner.

Unfortunately, this left her with almost no options. Oh, she might find Autoclytus' descendent and prompt the poor fool into searching out more ambrosia, but such an exercise would be pointless without a body for her to reoccupy. The other options were simply beyond any lengths she was willing to go. Gabrielle might forgive her for taking the body of a deceased, but would certainly turn away were she to take the live of a just conceived innocent. How close they'd come to killing each other over Hope was a memory she would never dare forget.

She needed a body, though. That little fact plagued her thinking worse than the unfilled ache in her heart. But could she risk that same heart on so desperate a gamble?

This debate raged like a war within her, both sides unassailable in their arguments, until the frustration so boiled within her that she could only slam her hand into the earth below her.

The jolt of pain, which shot up through and throughout her, was enough to silence all voices. Xena looked about in shock. True, she'd regained her sense of touch in this place, and hence her 'haunting' it for so long. But the experience only returned when she came into direct contact with the living flesh of another, not simply touching the grass or soil. Could it be...?

Xena reached down, her phantom hand sliding into the ground, and came to rest upon a layer of pure sensation. There was no other way to describe it. Past this layer she felt nothing, yet this same layer was virtually everywhere she pressed her fingers to, here and there. Xena swept both hands in a wide circle, never loosing the sensation. The clearing, it seemed, was the only place where she might be so enchanted, all sensation ending at the treeline.

Could it be her destruction was not as...complete...as all had thought it?

Xena recalled the words of an ancient people she and Gabrielle had happened upon once. A people who had claimed to have unlocked the secrets of life itself, claiming the secrets of every individual's body was hidden within the tinniest bit of skin and drop of blood. That it would take no more than a single drop of a person's blood or the skin of a scratch to ëgrow' their perfect twin. Their demonstration had made believers of both Xena and Gabrielle.

If what she felt was in fact her god-blasted remains, could they not provide enough of 'her' to build herself another body? They were spread thin, true, but she prayed this only meant there was more than enough for the job.

The ancients who had shown her these secrets had used a potent elixir and concoction of herbs to ëgrow' their twins. Xena had no such materials at hand. Indeed, all she had was her insubstantial self and the forest surrounding her.

The forest...and the raw energy pulsing and beating throughout it.

With this realization, a daring plan presented itself to Xena. Just as a plant needed sunlight to live and grow, so too did a living body need the energy of life to course through it. Lao Ma had taught her that as well.

With raw energy enough, could not a new form be built from the ashes of the old? Would not the secret knowledge of her body remember itself if awoken?

The thought of Gabrielle, alone, unprotected...unloved...made the decision for her.

Plunging a hand once more into the living soil, her other reaching out to the nearest glowing vein of life's force, Xena turned her eyes upwards to the heavens. Appropriately, it was just breaking dawn.

"Please," she begged of the heavens, her outstretched hand shaking. "Please let me remember her."

Without another moment's hesitation, Xena grasped the thread of life.

The light of creation consumed her world.

And in that light could be heard the cry of a newborn life.

Xena opened her eyes, finding herself standing once more on the plateau before the cave. This time her back was to the cavern's yawning expanse, her breathing calm and even as ever before.

She remembered it all now, and didn't try to brush away the tears that streaked her cheeks.

"Now," rang a voice she recognized as her own. "Now, you must choose."

"Oh?" Xena replied, turning to face the cloaked phantom of her dreams. "I don't see what choice is necessary."

The phantom drew back its hood, revealing her face to mirror image. The cloak fell away, revealing familiar leather and brass armor, though both sword and chakram were missing.

"You must choose whether to exist as a warrior or as the child of the warrior."

Xena gave a short laugh to this, which sounded more as a snort. "No," she said, shaking her head. "I refuse that choice."

"You," the warrior almost sneered, "don't have that luxury."

"Oh, but I do, warrior." Xena took a step closer to her mirror twin, managing somehow to look every bit as formidable naked as her warrior image did in full armor. "I remember everything. Everything I have ever done. Everything I have ever been. Every battle, every massacre, every cause, and every tear." She took a step back, her voice becoming gentle. "We aren't a dichotomy, Xena. I...we...have always been more than simply a warrior or a victim."

The warrior Xena glared, but said nothing.

The newborn-reborn Xena continued. "The choice you would have us make is a false one, Xena. It would wipe away so much more than..."

"Then let it!" spat the warrior, her fist and shoulders clenching. "Better it all be wiped away than have to relive it every single night!"

The reborn Xena took another step back, this time in shock. She knew what the warrior spoke of, and to some extent agreed with her. She recalled in vivid clarity every time Gabrielle had broken ranks with her and betrayed their trust. In Chin, in Britannia, in Illusia, over the Amazons and the Titans, siding with Sir Ancelyn and his band, fleeing Nord'kapp without her...those were moments her warrior-self too easily remembered.

But...for every one of those terrible moments, weren't there a thousand and one moments of trust and love to be remembered? Had they not cried more tears of joy and spoken of love more than of anger and betrayal?

The reborn one shook her head. "No, warrior. Darkness and light, together, or nothing at all."

"Well," purred the warrior quietly, sweetly. It set the reborn one's hair on edge. "Who says I'm giving you the option to begin with?"

The warrior's arms shot up, their fingers wrapping themselves about her neck. The reborn Xena managed with equal speed to grasp those hands and pry them from her neck, much to the surprise of the warrior. The latter's shock lasted not even a full second, as she abruptly swung her legs out and so unbalanced her naked counterpart that she succeeded in essentially tackling her.

"I will not be cast aside," the warrior spat, her face inches away from the other's.

"You won't be," the reborn Xena attempted to assure her.

"Liar!" The warrrior grasped her twin by the shoulders and wrestled her to stand once more, this time catching her in a tight headlock. The next thing the warrior knew she was tumbling across the plateau, her twin straightening to crouch in readiness for the next attack.

"Damn it, Xena!" the reborn one cursed. "This is pointless. Neither of us can win."

"Then we stay here," spat the warrior, her face the picture of desperate rage. "Forever." The warrior charged again, only to be flipped over and unto her back, landing and straightening herself several feet away.

The reborn Xena shook her head and thought desperately. She was certainly holding her own, and could probably do so for the rest of eternity. As no doubt could the warrior. She'd meant what she'd said. This was pointless. Just as neither of them could likely ever manage to defeat the other, neither could simply surrender and be done with it. Yet, to carry on like this for all time, and just as she'd gotten her memory back...

The warrior had backed herself several step to the plateau's edge, her legs bracing to run. In that instant, Xena saw a...the way for their mutual defeat...and mutual victory.

Her own legs carried her with a speed born of desperation. There would be no second chances with this, and so this one attack would have to be it! She saw the warrior's expression harden, her stance change ever so slightly, bracing herself for what she expected would be simply an effort at pushing her off the ledge behind her.

Judging by the surprise which coiled her body at the moment of impact, she was not expecting her twin to wrap both arms about her and drag them both over the precipice!

The warrior screams of outrage were quickly lost as the abyss of consciousness enveloped them both.

Chapter Sixteen: A Field of Bones

For what seemed the hundreth time since this business began, Hope cursed herself for a fool. She'd left the mansion only a minute after waking, and even then only because she had reached out with her less immediate senses and found no trace of Gabrielle or Xena...if that was Xena...and came to Malachai's bookshop once again.

Judging by the ruin which had once been a bookstore, to say nothing of the owner, doubts over the woman's identity were completely justified.

Hope knelt beside the mangled body of Malachai, careful not to disturb his obviously tortured form. His back was twisted at a bizarre (and no doubt painful) angle, as was his neck and right leg. The rest of his limbs were not so much broken as their bones ground to powder or simply bent beyond their structural limits, save his left arm, which had been pulled from its socket and tossed just beyond the rest of him.

The bookstore was in about as bad a shape as the owner. Shelving knocked down or simply torn from the walls, rare volumes scattered all about, several turned into so much scrap paper, large holes knocked through the walls...this was a scene which spoke as much of desperation as of violence.

Even at her worst, Xena of Amphipolis had never set torch to scroll or archive. She'd clearly done far worse this night, and this told Hope volumes...not a bit of it useful.

"Unsatisfied customer, Malachai?" she asked, managing to sound chiding and amused. The shadows were deep enough to hide her anxious eyes.

"That bitch!" the Bacchae managed to gurgle, his voice working in defiance of his wounds. "You see what she's done?!"

"Malachai..."

"My poor BOOKS!"

"Malachai..." Hope's sympathy went only so far, and her patience far shorter.

"And look at me! I'll be weeks healing! Weeks!"

Hope bellowed "MALACHAI!" The broken Bacchae silenced and looked up, glazed and milky eyes meeting her flint-hard ones. Those eyes told Hope what questions had been asked here, and what methods had been used to extract the answers. She herself didn't have the luxury of time to utilize the same, and so accepted she had to trust this worm if disaster was to be avoided.

"What did you tell her?" was all she asked, the tri-blade golden dagger in her hand adding extra emphasis. Not by the sight of it, mind, as Malachai was likely blind right then. He wouldn't need sight, however, to feel the danger in her hand.

A heartbeat of silence.

Malachai spoke only two words.

And Hope was gone into the shadows from which she'd walked.

Leaving Malachai to ask to the empty room "Hey! Won't ya give a guy a hand up?"

There is a moment between dreaming and awareness where the dreamwalker might loose themselves forever, a limbo more barren and terrifying than anything Rod Serling could have envisioned. Upon opening her eyes, Gabrielle wished desperately she might have fallen into that momentary abyss.

The four pairs of red eyes, which burned into her, spoke only of horrors to come, not ones already endured.

She only vaguely recognized them, these self-styled rulers of the night. The Roman was a rabbit she and Xena had literally tripped over when the Visagoths had overrun Rome. The African had been a medicine woman who had been torn from her grace, corrupted by rape and now corrupted all she might touch. And the cloaked one...well, there was history enough between them. The others she had heard of, perhaps even glanced out of the corner of her eye, but not yet encountered.

"Awake again?" spat the Roman. Again? Had she passed out before? She couldn't remember. She couldn't remember anything, in fact...save the pain now coursing down her back...and between her legs...oh, gods...had they...?... oh, gods...

"Now we can begin again." This was from the fat one with the wig, a barbed cat-o-nine-tails in each hand.

Focus, Gabrielle told herself, her eye squeezing themselves shut. Focus! Think about... about... Xena...

She couldn't stop her screams, any more than she could stop lashes which brought them...or what the violations which came next.

When she had been torn away from Xena's dreamscape, Gabrielle had awakened in their bedroom surrounded by strong looking minions. Gabrielle would have normally made short work of them...save that one had his claws pressed lightly around Xena's strong neck. The threat was clear, as had been the one Gabrielle threw in response with eyes alone.

To their credit, none of the minions shifted or showed the fear she smelled from them. It was a vain effort on her part anyway. Oh, she could try and snatch Xena away, or simply burn these degenerates to ashes with but a thought. But these were hardy degenerates, and so Gabrielle was none too sure she could have moved fast enough or killed them all quick enough to keep them from making good on their unspoken promise.

There hadn't been any choice. She exchanged herself for Xena, who slept blissfully on. Gabrielle was grateful for this, and for having the foresight to have changed her will. Her 'princess' would never want for anything, ever. Gabrielle had kept her eyes fixed firmly upon the sleeping child's innocent face, right up to the moment they rendered her unconscious, not being the least gentle about it either.

And here she had awakened, suspended by her wrists, both of which were buried into the native rock of the low ceiling. Her toes only barely brushed the ground, giving her no leverage and her muscle no relief. Not that her 'hosts' would have allowed her any.

These four had begun working on her even before she'd awakened, agony and unwilling orgasm rolling through her time and time again.

Even the sight of Xena's face she focused herself on, a vague sight at that, now did nothing save taunt her. 'Look, but don't touch' it taunted, somehow giving her strength enough to endure another round of their play.

She prayed it would be the last.

"Hillcrest Cemetery."

Those had been Malachai's words. Hope had long suspected the Circle would do something so tacky and unimaginative as settle in a cemetery. It befitted their facade perfectly.

The markers were largely in disrepair, the lawns overgrown, and the few trees in the area were barren. Add the cloudless night and a silvery Luna overhead and the secene was complete.

Hope moved slowly past the markers, more than a few of which were listing to their sides or ready to crumble at a touch. Her slow pace was as much for caution as for silence. She knew enough of the Circle to appreciate their devious nature. So while she had no fear she could deal with their minions in a cold second, finding where they hid was more problematic. Hence her slow, deliberative, stalking pace through the cemetery.

Even so, Hope doubted she could restrain herself much longer. It was quarter past eleven.

That thought alone caused a sweat, though it might have also contributed to her tripping over what felt like a large root sticking up and catching her foot.

She didn't curse, aloud at least, but did inflict the offending object with such a scathing glare it might easily have shrunk away to die a miserable death...which it actually seemed to be doing!

Hope looked closer, Luna's light telling an unsettling scene.

It was not a root or any kind of natural debris which had tripped her, but what by all rights was a human arm. An arm which had been cleft just below the shoulder, and quite cleanly from the looks of it. But that wasn't what proved so unsettling to Hope, as she expected to find such sights near a bacchae den.

It was the fact this arm was literally pulling itself across the grass, one handful at a time.

For the first time in centuries, Hope felt bile rise in her throat.

That was when she heard the low sounds which clung to the marker stones and drifted over the patches of wild grass and brambles. Sounds she might have mistaken for nightsong, save that these were not the melodies of crickets nor the call of owls.

Moans, some of despair, most of pain.

Human moans.

Leaving the still-crawling arm to itself, Hope rose to her feet and moved in the direction of these voices. She steeled herself for sights of horror only the insane fantasies of her sire's imagination.

She was not disappointed...and a thousand times more shocked than if she found the yard empty.

There were bodies in abundance. Well, body parts actually: arms, legs, trunks and torsos, hands, feet...heads...and bits and pieces thereof. Many of these flopping about like trout taken from the water, or were crawling-dragging themselves without clear direction. The trunks and torsos, only a few of which still had their heads, rolled and lolled in empty gesticulations of desperation and despair. The severed heads lay scattered on the ground, all giving incoherent noises which had drawn Hope to them.

Hope herself was unmoved by their collective plight. These were bacchae, one and all, and each in the service of the Circle. Little better than the maggots sure to feast on them soon. Still, she considered, going by the odor of fresh-spilt bacchae ichor and the relative proximity of the more mobile arms and hands, this little massacre had been finished only moments ago. The air was still reasonably fresh, their stink not yet having had time to pollute it.

There was no question as to who was responsible for all this, and therein lie Hope's desperate gamble. She would not have left these wretches alive unless one or another of them had told her where to find her true goal.

The problem this presented to Hope was exactly who would she herself ask? From the look of it, every head was either catatonic with shock or incoherent with the horror of what had befallen him or her. No surprise there. Xena, after all, could be every inch the avenging demon when it suited her. Hope had seen it once, only once, and it had left her shaken as not even Dahmok's true visage had.

She had no time to search. Hope stood tall and all but shouted out to the assembled bacchae "WHERE ARE THEY?"

The only answer was the moaning becoming a little louder. One voice did call out to her; not by name, but by a shrill peal of laughter.

Hope sought out and quickly found the laughing head, one which had been cut along a perfectly horizontal angle, thereby leaving its voicebox intact. Others had not been so fortunate. It wasn't a terribly hansome visage, so lean and thin, every smile seemingly a dozen times wider than should be allowed. She held it by its greasy hair, so not to risk disturbing its ability to talk, not that it should have been making as much noise as it was in the first place. But then, bacchae weren't governed by the same laws of physiology as mortals.

"Where?" Hope asked again, her teeth baring with sufficient menace (you'll pardon the expression, she hoped) to penetrate its lunacy.

More laughter, now accompanied by rolling eyes, was her only answer. Had she misinterpreted this one's response? She had no time for mistakes like this!

Then Hope noticed something. The head's eyes rolled not wildly, not randomly, but between two points. The first was at Hope herself, both eyes meeting her's without flinching. Whether this was courage or simply insanity, Hope could not tell.

The second place it constantly looked towards was an area of ground just behind it.

Hope drew the head closer to her, their noses almost touching. "If you're lying to me," she promised in a low voice, "you will spend all eternity in worse shape than this."

That said, she unceremoniously tossed the now-shrill head over her shoulder and set off.

Desperation and zeal caused her to loose all restraint and forget all caution. It was eleven-seventeen, and time was her greatest enemy now. It might well already be too late to prevent the Circle's designs from reaching fruition. Were that the case, Hope had no intention of living to see morning.

Her research, which had taken her from Gabrielle's side for those critical minutes, had driven home the reasoning behind their choosing this night to work their twisted magicks. There was an obscure conjunction of stars about a distant nebula, said conjunction being cleft in two by a comet between quarter after eleven and five past midnight this night. Contrary to the claims of the rational, the stars exercised great influence upon the affairs of the living, though not in ways easily described or readily comprehended. Just as the simple and implacable force of gravity of such distant bodies prove enough to command the tides of the seas, and so do less measurable forces command the rest of all things in existence.

Their assault was not so much a physical one as it was spiritual, their weapon of choice being the amalgam of old folk wisdom and human corruption. A bit of Druid wisdom, a rite performed only between in the first nights of the season of Samhain and involving the careful mixture of sacrificial blood and the fluids of the living, by which the soul would be released from its shackles of flesh and bone without the trial of the body's death. This ritual gave opportunity for more developed souls to take up immediate residence amongst the living, and as such was a rare event. Unlike many of their successors, the Druids had great respect for the unseen world, this respect keeping them from daring too greatly in their dealings with it.

This rite was taken and twisted to the designs of particularly corrupt Inquisitor, his name forever stricken from any list or record kept by his Church. Many a virgin boy was ruined by his experiments with the knowledge he'd torn from his early victims. He enjoyed no success in altering the mixtures he used, favoring a pinch of one fluid over the other, and so was never reunited with his deceased lover.

Those more attuned to the consequences of his recklessness saw each of those boys torn from their earthly bodies, and yet remained shackled to the mortal plane for the remainder of eternity. They could not transcend to whatever lay beyond, nor could they ever again inhabit a corporeal body, whether newborn or vacant. These wretches were ghosts in the purest form, their fate feared by all. Such a damnation was beyond even the scope of her own sire, Dahok.

This was the Circle's plans then: to not simply destroy Gabrielle's body, but to remove her from reach forever more. On this night, when the veil between worlds was weak, all the moreso thanks to that convenient conjunction of stars likewise weakened by that bloody convenient comet, such a spell would prove a hundred times as potent as it normally might.

This is why Hope ran as though possessed by Mercury himself, cursing herself all the way. Oh, she now knew exactly why the Circle had sent its minions months ago to steal a dozen old tomes and scrolls, ones Malachai had sworn to her were not worth the energy they'd expended in the effort. Her own research, done first out of vague curiosity, had dropped hints of their designs.

Hope cursed herself for her lack of foresight, for underestimating the enemy...for not getting to where she needed to be fast enough, dammit!

She ran utter abandon.

Which explains why she fell into the exhumed and open gravesite that lay directly in her path. This particular grave, however, proved deeper than the legal depth of six feet...deeper by several stories, judging by the length of time she fell.

Hope fell, and fell, and fell...until she landed without a shred of dignity on her rump. This did nothing to improve her disposition. Her dagger was still in hand, its bronzed length suddenly alight with her well-stoked rage. This cast a clear glow which revealed all of her new surroundings. The grave emptied, it seemed into a small cavern well below the surface, one just large enough for her to stand up in and move about, though without much clearance in any direction.

Particularly interesting was the open mouth of a tunnel leading downwards immediately in front of her. It was low and would doubtlessly be a tight fit to squeeze through. For all she knew the damned thing had been dug out by Circle-spawned rats, such monsters generally the size of adult Saint Bernards. There was a dim form crouching beside the tunnel. Hope swung the dagger into a ready stance, only to have her shoulders drop in mild disappointment. It was a (barely) intact husk which stood sentry here, its demise clearly recent, given the way its wounds still oozed thick trickles of ichor.

Not willing to waste time wondering about the blatantly obvious, Hope herself crouched down and crawled into the tunnel, the dagger leading her descent.

It actually proved easier crawling than she expected, the shaft's surfaces smoothed from use yet remaining firm and solid. The gentle incline helping her journey along. Indeed, before she knew it, Hope had the opposite end in sight.

Caution now openly warred with desperation, Hope no longer sure how much time she had before midnight...if she even had time at all. To simply charge in might well be suicide, yet to attempt stealth at this late date could only waste desperately needed time. This stopped her just short of the opening, her muscles rigid with tension and mind utterly distracted.

Consequently, she was too surprised to even cry out when inhumanly strong hands closed about her mouth and grasped her shirt's collar. The former applied a crushing grip to her jaw, silencing any protest, while the latter pulling her through the opening as though she were nothing more than a child's rag doll.

Those same hands drove her so hard into the stone floor, Hope felt consciousness slip away, her vision filled with shadows which fell upon her one and all.

Chapter Seventeen: The Place of Skulls

The shadows which covered her were quickly replaced by a galaxy of stars and rainbows, all of which Hope blinked away. In their place came twin points of calm, cold blue. These regarded her with piercing strength Hope would have sworn she felt twin points burnt into her own eyes.

One hand still kept tight grip on her jaw, while the other had let go of her shirt. Hope's field of vision was entirely taken up by the sight of a single, long finger being pressed against lips as firmly pressed together as the grip on her own jaw. The message, even without those eyes, was easily understood. Hope could only nod her agreement, itself no easy accomplishment given the relative immobility of the hand and wrist silencing her. She managed only the slightest of movement.

Still, it proved enough to satisfy her companion-captor, who removed her hand and turned away. The dagger had once again been extinguished, and so Hope could see no detail of this other's face. She had no doubt as to exactly who this was...in body, at least. The curves of the dark form before her were as unmistakable as if they stood beneath the noonday sun.

But the spirit?

Her mouth opened on its own, the question about to mindlessly drop from her throat. Only the form's sharply turning and pinning her with just one of those damned eyes kept it from breaking their precious silence. Her mouth closed, making a comical sounding clack in the process. Hope could actually feel the sequence of scowl-to-grin the other threw at her before setting off into the darkness. Hope herself trailed after, uncertain whether to be comforted or not by her suspicions.

Hope, wisely, did not ignite dagger's metal again. To do so might well have given them away, and so would ruin any chance of taking the Circle's number by surprise. Equally important was that the darkness gave her no clear view of the one stalking ahead of her. That alone was reason enough to continue in darkness.

She was no coward, make no mistake, having stood without flinching (though certainly not unmoved) before her sire's unbound fury, and watched unblinking as the tragedies of one age after another played themselves out. Even the scenes in the graveyard above were nothing she would readily finch from, however much it might turn her stomach.

But to look into those eyes...eyes not seen on this earth for over a century...

Hope was no coward, but neither was she particularly prone to suicide, at least not these days.

They continued on, their respective weapons at the ready, their eyes and ears straining for the least clue that might lead them to their prey.

Said clue drifted to them soon enough. It was a whimper, the soft sound carrying more pain and fear to their ears than might a hundred thousand other voices, both recognizing it instantly as Gabrielle's.

Other sounds attended this: the swish of leather straps cutting the air; a grunted curse in archaic Latin; soft mutterings in a language not immediately recognizable; the infrequent slap of leather on flesh.

For all the sudden clenching of muscles and thoughts now racing, for all the cold fear gripping the heart of both women and private visions that threatened to break their concentration...for all that their shared pace neither quickened nor faltered a step.

There was a sharp scent to the air now. Where once it was stale with soil and rock-dust, it was now thick and tart with the taste of raw copper and salt. So thick was it now that Hope found it a labor to simply breathe. If her ally had any such difficulty, it was not shown. It wasn't the scent which gave her such difficulty. She'd survived far worse in Constantinople, Cambodia, and Achwitchz.

It was actually what lay at the foundations of the scent, what actually made the air so thick and painful to breathe.

Despair, the likes of which she'd throughout her long existence magnified a thousand times. Once, as her sire's pawn and vessel, Hope had sought to unleash this same aura through which they moved upon the world as a whole. The magnitude of those designs, feeling what could well have been, left her appalled. The bile that rose to her throat only hardened her resolve.

Surely her companion must have felt the same. Why else would she pause momentarily and adjust her grip on unseen Caliburn? Hope could easily imagine those eyes now, the single notion of them proving enough to shake her to her very core.

It was well Hope couldn't see the other's eyes, their fury lighting their way clearer than a thousand torches might. She had caught the new scents of the air long before Hope had, and knew full well why the taste of blood and despair soaked their lungs.

It was an exercise now, cold will holding her against hammer blows of ever-mounting rage and fear which beat in her heart. Only the practical necessity of needing to stay alive kept her will intact. If they...she...arrived too late to prevent Gabrielle's passage, well...

There was a lighted bend to the passage just paces before them now. She didn't bother to so much as glance behind her. What was there to say, that every action had not already made clear?

Pressing her front against the stone of the wall, Xena slowly eased her head around the sharp corner and gazed at the scene beyond with but one eye. Hope herself pressed her back against the same, watching the larger woman for any sign of what went on.

She received it when, in but the blink of an eye, this shadowy figure disappeared from view.

And a battlecry not heard by either mortal or immortal ears for over a millennia filled the air.

Augustus had been enjoying himself. Oh, their play earlier that day had certainly gotten his blood flowing, and Cameron's gifts' had been a welcome treat. But this had been a dream come true!

Truth be told, he'd been rather disappointed that the Ancient Bard had surrendered herself so quickly to them. She'd not uttered a word or offered a move of protest when they'd restrained her, nor cried out when they'd begun this little ceremony of pain and violation. This lack of response had dampened his enthusiasm somewhat, leading Cameron and the women to pick up the slack.

The eagerness with which they'd done so might have shocked a lesser soul. But Augustus had seen and done more than the lot of them could have dreamed. Perhaps too much, given he'd become somewhat addicted to the struggle his prey usually gave. It added a certain spice to his play and feeding. If anything, he found the conduct of his fellows...tame.

Oddly, the Ancient passing out on them stirred the same excitement within him as might be felt if she'd screamed and thrashed from the beginning. Perhaps, he thought, there would be some sport to partake of this night.

The Ancient proved more delicate than any expected, not able to remain conscious for more than a few minutes of their play at a stretch. This proved more annoying than empowering, particularly to the Roman, who had no wish to empty himself into a column of unresponsive flesh.

Nassada had made the requisite patterns across their captive's tender and torn flesh, while Cameron and Caliphon did the best to keep her roused and aware. The three of them together were chanting away as the ritual demanded. For his part, Augustus carried on as he had. Whatever his initial misgivings or reservations, this sport proved every bit as enjoyable as hunting the countryside for unspoiled farmer's stock. Moreso, as the prey in question was already caught and could only offer protest but no defense. Or so he thought.

He'd kept a steady rhythm in his thrusts into the Ancient, each as deep and forceful as his strength and her flesh would allow, the rhythm interrupted only when he needed to steady himself or adjust her hips just so. All his concentration had been focused upon his pleasuring and her pain.

As his latest release built in his loins, so to did an accompanying cry, both ready to burst forth in unison.

Suddenly, the chamber rang with a cry of its own which completely drowned him out.

"YI-YI-YI-YI-YI-YI-YAHHHHHH!!!!!!!"

Augustus had intended to simply ignore it...only to be literally torn away from the Ancient by a hand so solid and cold he momentarily envisioned it being made of stone. This one hand, which encircled his throat, not only pulled him from his business but propelled him clear across the wide chamber with such speed and strength as to leave him as insensate as when he impacted on the far wall.

Strong as he was, Augustus could only sink into dark oblivion upon the impact, having no time to wonder at what came next.

She appeared as little more than a streak of black night, her speed and purpose every bit as deadly as the blade of her sword, itself a blur as the stone holding Gabrielle's hands was hacked to dust in the space of a single breath. She caught the Ancient's body and lowered it the cold floor with such tender care as to touch even the hardest heart.

All the Elders present went unmoved by this, at first too shocked to interfere, then amused by such a show. They had no hearts as such to be touched, and so knew only their amusement and arrogance.

"Well, well," Cameron chuckled, the first to advance towards the pair. "If it isn't the little whore..."

His voice died as the intruder stood and met his eyes. Swathed in shadows as she was, only her eyes could be seen. Eyes of cold sapphire blue, hard as the stone itself. Eyes which began to glow with an inner fire of the same cold blue.

White teeth gleamed beneath those eyes, a smile every bit as blinding and deadly as the blade by her side. The shadows which hid her from view were not nature, they all knew, and each tensed against the unbound storm gathered before them. There was no other way to think of this tall intruder.

The chamber vibrated ever so subtly, as if quaking from the emotions and rage coursing throughout its space.

There was no repeat of the battlecry. No hint of her attack before the blade began arcing and slicing both air and flash. She became a blur of motion once, circling about the Elders for a heartbeat before striking her first.

It was Cameron who fell first, his bared chest so open a target. To the naked eye it seemed as though he simply exploded open, his organs spilling forth in a cascade of rich red and black. Those same organs appeared to…shred…to pulp and waste as they emerged. As his arms flew about his stomach to try and arrest the damage. They, too, joined the pile at his feet, cut into as many pieces so cleanly and quickly he registered these wounds visually before actually feeling them.

The once-gentleman opened his mouth to cry out. He was given no time to even draw the breath, his had severed at the neck and tumbling to the ground. It landed amid the remains of his heart, guts, and arms with a wet "Thud", still trying desperately to scream.

Nassada and Caliphon took all this in, waited until their fellow's evisceration was finished, then moved as one with a speed all their own.

Nassada, being a daughter of the wise spider, leapt the distance with only the slightest bend of the knees. Caliphon crouched low and sprinted, both arms crossed beneath her generous breasts, hands hidden within her robes. Both Elders hissed and bared their full fangs, eyes predatory and hungry.

The sword's blade flashed again as the shadowed figure dodged away. Sparks lit the darkness, the sword's edge catching those of the long knives the castewoman drew from her robes. Nassada landed gracefully into a feral crouch opposite this stranger, mere steps from the still-unconscious Roman. It might have been the whore's body doing this deadly dance, but the though that the whore herself doing these things was laughable to the both of them. Better to treat her as the known quality that she was than indulge in dangerous fantasies.

Caliphon herself had been knocked off-balance by the force of their blades meeting, causing her to spin into the nearby wall. What further proof was needed that they dealt with something other than a tall, beautiful streetwalker?

The stranger pressed her attack against the castewoman, ignoring the growling African and going so far as to fully turn her back to the chocolate-skinned woman. This was all the invitation Nassada would need. She sprung forward again to take full advantage of this, her hands reaching and nails sharpening to razors.

The fallen daughter of the wise spider was sent to her former totem's judgement when a metre-long length of burnished metal buried itself deep into the back of her skull, its three edged blade punching clean through and clearly protruding through her right eye.

She had not covered even a full meter of the floor when she fell. So powerful were the magicks of the dagger, they leached away all energy and dark vitality from the body. Nassada of the wise spider was but brittle bones and charred cloth when she reached the floor, her remains crumbling to dust upon impact.

Caliphon had no time to contemplate this development. While she herself was armed with two blades, one in each hand and as familiar as her own skin, the shadowed giant set upon her as if armed with three times as many weapons. The castewoman was hardly idle in her own defense, her knives flashing and streaking all about in complex patterns of parry and strikes which by rights should have left even the most practiced of swordsmen on the defensive. Yet, her every strike was brushed aside, every block met and deflected with ever-mounting force of strength. She felt, rather than saw, the opposite blade doing this, so quick was its play so to be nothing more than a blur.

Then, as abruptly as the contest began, so it ended and silence took reign in the chamber. Caliphon was very confused as to why the clash of metal might end so suddenly and the shadowed one now simply stood before her. A glance downwards explained why.

So extreme was the shock of the sight, it took her mind several moments to comprehend both arms had been neatly cleft at the shoulders. Both arms, each now lay twitching at her feet.

Caliphon, scourge of the alleys of Delhi, could only look upwards at her opponent. Distinct features could now be seen in the shadows cloaking her, and Caliphon felt her lips tremble slightly, recognizing her from ages past, not from mere hours before. Eyes and features not seen in more than a century gazed upon her from within those weakening shadows.

Both knew what was to come next, the castewoman closing her eyes to it.

When the blow came, and the sword's keen blade sliced through her throat, she hardly even felt it.

Hope had waited until the harsh melody of metal-against-metal ended before looking in the chamber, not wishing to risk either distracting her compatriot or giving the Elder's a second target. It had only been on pure instinct that she had thrown her dagger upon hearing the growl of the African Elder's attack, her aim as perfect as ever and her blind throw succeeding.

When finally the noise of the battle had died, Hope dared to round the corner and look upon aftermath. It was a scene not unlike that in the graveyard above them, though the number of body parts were fewer and it was the stench death rather than despair that greeted her. There would be no resurrection for these bacchae, and good riddance to the lot of them.

She bent down to retrieve her dagger of the dust that had once been the African, the hungry roar which erupted immediately behind her enough to momentarily freeze her. The toga-clad Elder had simply played dead, waiting for a moment of distraction when he might strike. That moment was now...or so he'd assumed.

The longsword which sailed across the chamber and pierced his chest, pinning him helpless to the wall, proved him wrong. The runes woven into the metal of Caliburn proved every bit as deadly to a bacchae as a dozen driad bones to the heart. The Roman was dispatched before he even realized what had befallen him.

Hope herself was quickly on her feet, facing her savior with dagger in hand, both curses and thanks coming to mind. This other waited for neither, turning away and moving towards the bloodied, still body which lay at the center of this carnage. Hope tensed, then relaxed at seeing the tenderness with which Xena (for who else could this be?) pick up Gabrielle frail form and cradle it to her breast.

Breathing sobs came from the tall woman, giving Hope all the proof she would ever need of her identity.

A fine sprinkling of dust landed on her shoulder, interrupting her musings. More to give the two a small measure of privacy than actual concern, Hope looked upwards, as if in search of the source of this new annoyance.

Sharp eyes quickly found the reason, causing her to scream "RUN!"

Then the earth fell upon them all, both the living and dead.

Chapter Eighteen: A Just Sacrifice

There had simply been no time to so much as flinch, never mind run. The roof was already falling upon them all by then, and by rights they should have been crushed mere seconds after the warning had been issued. Should have been, save that not so much a decent sized rock made contact with either of them.

Plus the fact the collapse was accompanied by a miniature hurricane which simply drowned out every other sound out. Or so it seemed at first thought.

It might have been the wind that deafened them all just then. Might have been...save that same wind punched downward through the solid stone ceiling above them all with more force than any simple meteorological phenomenon should have rightly managed.

To say nothing of the small fact the "wind" could be clearly heard to have a number of distinct...voices...all screeched and moaning with collective force enough to drive all who heard them to their knees in agony. They had already laid low by the force of both ceiling coming apart and the demon wind's arrival, this nearly proving too much.

Those same voices tore apart, literally, the solid chunks of debris as they fell, reducing them to mere pebbles and so much sharp-edged dust. The worst either Xena or Hope received was a few scratches; Gabrielle's still form was spared even that, Xena using every inch of herself as a shield for her unconscious love.

Even after the last mote of dust had settled, the wind and voices remained. It all swirled and darted about between them, their accompanying wind picking at the assorted bacchae bits which littered the floor. Neither Xena nor Hope moved as this demon wind laboriously began carrying the multitude of torn and rotting bodies, organs, and limbs up and through the hole it had punched through the ceiling. At first the pieces would simply levitate mere inches off the floor, then practically shoot upwards and out of sight as though fired from a cannon.

It proved a surprisingly quick process, the chamber quickly cleared of all remnants of the Elders. This did not appear to satisfy the voices, all of which soon began howling in an ever-escalating crescendo of what might have been simple desperation, and soon became like outright demands for MORE! 'More' what was something of a mystery...at least at first.

This same wind, howling in dozens of indecipherable tones and dialects, circled them with all the deadly purpose of a snake's eyes upon its weak prey. Their words were lost among each other, yet their demand was all very clear...though what exactly they might seek was as vague as their very substance.

The force of their presence, signaled by the powerful rush of air and current about them, was enough to push Hope and Xena together and maneuver them towards the chamber's center. There, the fresh-hewn tunnel stretching far above their heads, the force of the wind's pull at them naturally amplified easily ten time. The torrent itself took to curving and twisting around them in a constant funnel, the three of them pressed within its calm eye.

They cooperated with this, the few times they offered resistance having been met with sharp and cutting windshear. "It knows," Hope declared, a touch of awe to her voice.

Xena simply glared at their insubstantial tormentor and tightened her hold on Gabrielle.

As if to prove Hope's observation, invisible tendrils of breeze snaked out and picked at Gabrielle, who shifted and murmured like an unsettled infant in Xena's massive arms. Hope and Xena felt this, for it was far less a physical thing than spiritual. They felt it...understanding dawning in both at the same moment.

"No!" Hope screamed.

"You can't have her!" Xena snarled, pressing the cold body to her own suddenly hot flesh.

The tendrils pulled with their own strength, either ignoring or simply deaf to either woman's denial. Its pull was constant, implacable...and unbreakable. So, too, was the strength with which it grasped at the frail form.

The voices had not stopped their plaintive, demanding cry, its own strength growing with each second its demand was denied.

Xena pitted her own strength against it, pulling and twisting away with vehemence equal to that of the voices. No doubt she could have easily broken their groups, save that she carefully attended to the precious bundle in her arms, and so did she damnedest to keep from jostling her about too much.

Xena threw both a glare and a snarl over shoulder at her oddly silent and still partner. "Help me, damn you!"

When help came, it came was delivered so quickly Xena had no time to block, or even curse, before the blow sent her into darkness once more.

There was no choice. Simple as the rite was, there really never had been any choice.

Hope waved away the tendrils, which now pulled with strength enough to tug Gabrielle slightly within Xena's still-tight embrace. Even unconscious, the warrior would not release her hold.

Unfortunately, the forces awakened by the Circle's idiocy would likewise not release their own hold on the bard, ancient sigils traced and craved in blood across her frail form marking her for sacrifice. The eternal, wailing Choir would not retire to silence until such a sacrifice was delivered to it. Simply wiping away the key sigil from Gabrielle's forehead, an action Hope did with infinite care, would avail them nothing. This one sign was the focus of all the energies summoned. To leave them without such focus and direction would be like releasing the energies of nuclear fission, though, there would be literally no limit to the devastation wrought, as much on the psychic plane as the physical. Sundering the Philospher's Stone, an act which had obliterated the great island-continent of legend, would not have been a tenth as devastating.

A sacrifice was needed, and so a sacrifice would be made.

The complex symbols and patterns which had been cut and rubbed in blood and semen and cum all over Gabrielle's body were, ironically, unnecessary and even contradictory. The sigil Hope had wiped away was the only one of significance. Besides, there simply wasn't time to copy the whole of the Circle's work.

It was two minutes to midnight. On that stroke, nothing would be able to restrain the Choir's song of demand...turned song of rage.

Hope allowed herself no time to think of such things or the consequences she would endure from her actions. Her eyes did not leave either the bard or her eternal warrior as she traced the proper sigil upon her own brow.

There had never been another choice.

This would be justice, would it not? She, conceived of darkness, would to darkness return. A familiar route she had walked more times than she honestly cared to count. Perhaps this time would be the last.

She doubted it.

The funnel of dust and grit surrounding them reminded her of her purpose. The Circle had made sport of the Ancient so she would prove too weak to resist. Hope offered no resistance to the pull of the Choir, its invisible tendrils and countless voices reaching out and lifting her away.

Not once did Hope look away from the two unconscious figures she left. Not when she was carried upwards, not when she managed to twist about so to be lifted away legs first, not even when the chamber and tunnel and ground were left far below her.

Even when the voices of the eternal Choir consumed her whole, when her own voice joined their's once again...Hope never lost sight of these two who were so precious.

And with such a sight forever in her eye, amid a song as old as the first memory, Hope at last knew peace.

Continued...Part 4