THE WARRIOR AND THE BARD - RETRIBUTION
Part Three of the Alpha/Omega Trilogy

by maven

STANDARD DISCLAIMER: The Xena: Warrior Princess stories utilize characters which are copyright © by Universal / Renaissance. No infringement is intended.

SUBTEXT and VIOLENCE DISCLAIMER: The concept of a same sex couple is central to this story.  Some violence.

CONTINUITY DISCLAIMER: Takes place after the events in the show and totally ignores season four and half onward.

FEEDBACK, COMMENT AND FLAMES: Email me at poelgeest@greynet.net

 


"It has been 30 days.  The scrolls are nearly prepared and will be ready for when the merchant arrives in a few days.  I had thought it would take longer but it hasn't.  One of the benefits of ill sleep.  Ephiny has sent a second letter asking me to return to the Nation but I can't.  Not yet.  With this last task finished I'm not sure what I want.  But remaining here with the memories has as little appeal as taking up my duties to the Amazons, even with the children there ..."

Candles illuminated the small corner of the room where the Bard sat.  Scrolls covered the table; all neatly bound and sealed with wax.  The only sound was the scratch of the quill against the parchment and the occasional drum of fingers as she sought a phrase.  Over the last few months the words hadn't flowed as easily as they had in the past.  The creation of tales had lost all appeal and even the recording of the day's events in the diary had become a chore rather than the joy of reflection it had been before.

Her head dipped as she fell into a light doze, the only form of sleep of she had enjoyed for the last moon.  Oblivion only came after hours of work that exhausted both body and mind and only when she was surrounded by the scrolls at the writing table.  Never in the bed.

"Where..." With a start the Bard felt herself propelled forward from a blow to the back of the head.  Her forehead crashed onto the table sending scrolls and candles flying.  A hand grasped the neck of her tunic and started lifting with uncanny strength.

"Is..." And with no real sensation of movement the Bard found herself sliding down the far wall, breathless from the force of the impact.  The room flickered into near perfect darkness as the last of the candles guttered out.  But there was enough light from the full moon through the window to see the silhouette of a figure bending over her.  To see the blonde hair and the pale skin in sharp relief to the black leather clothing and armour.  A hand was suddenly on her throat and pulling upward until not even her toes could support her.

"She!" Thundered the voice.

"Dead," the Bard managed.  "She's dead."  And then waited patiently for the dark oblivion.  Waited for the ice of the steel or the tightening of the grip or... anything that would reunite her.

"No," the figure whispered.  Then louder.  "Its not fair!"

The Bard  felt herself moved forward and then back, heard the dull thud of her head against the wall.  And then consciousness began to slip away as she was released to fall bonelessly to the floor.  But not into the desired oblivion.

It has been 36 days.  This morning I left Amphisopolis, leaving 'Stra in charge of the inn.  She had served first Cyrene and then us well, it was more her inn than mine really.  As I left she told me that I would always have a home there.  And, as I couldn't decide to laugh or cry, I simply left.

I made about two leagues - a bit less than we would have made.  But without a horse to carry supplies I'm..... Gods, I even miss that horse.

The campsite was very small, a banked fire next to a single bedroll.  The haver sack of provisions lay packed at the foot, ready for the next day.  Sighing the bard put the small scroll beside the clothing bag which she used as a pillow and lay on her back, waiting for her mind to catch up to her tired body.  She stared at the night sky, the stars undimmed by either moon or clouds.

"What, looking for that water dipper?"

Without being aware of the mechanics of her actions the bard found herself on her feet, staff held defensively.  She didn't bother to look for the speaker, instead she tried to open all her senses for some clue to their whereabouts.  But the figure simply stepped out of the shadows of the forest and into the dim light of the fire and stars.  Red light reflected off the silver studding and mail making them looked stained.  She stood silently for several seconds, hands clasped behind her back before cocking her head to the side and continuing.

"No, wait, you were the bear.  She saw a dipper.  Strange.  I'd have thought it'd be the other way around."

"You read the scrolls," the Bard said, voice flat and emotionless.

"Yeah, why did you take out her name, your name.  Why are they all about some anonymous warrior?  Trying to steal her immortality?  Like you killed her kid?"

"Don't.  I, we knew how and why Solan died.  You can't hurt me with that," the Bard said.  She hesitated briefly before continuing.  "I'm protecting her from becoming a myth.  No one, even now, believes that she accomplished all she did in such a short time.  So I made the stories anonymous.  There's some scrolls hidden away which are the true stories with the names and deeds intact.  But she was a person.  Not a story, not a myth.  I didn't want her turning into another Hercules."

The other, nodded once.  "Alright, just wondered," and with a step back she disappeared again into the shadows of the forest as if she had never been there.

It has been 48 days.  Strange how life on the road is coming back to me.  I find I can easily make a couple of leagues a day.  And, as I am traveling the main roads, there is usually a campsite or hamlet at days end.  And few bandits although yesterday morning I found the body of some thug about a hundred paces from where I had been sleeping.   Doubtless a falling out between thieves; I was lucky that they didn't discover me.

But what I am finding most confusing, no bewildering are the mysterious gifts.  I will sometimes awaken in the morning to find a freshly killed and cleaned rabbit or bird.  I know who is leaving these - I just don't know why.  And, although I was at first tempted to leave them to rot, I have been 'accepting' these gifts.  And again I don't know why.

It has been 52 days.  The road has been uneventful, the most difficulty coming from the inn keepers who ask me to tell stories when I stay in a town.  I have a set of excuses; too tired or feeling ill or a raspy throat.  They might understand me if I were to tell them the truth but then... then they would pity me.  She hated pity.

"Hey."

The bard awoke, rubbing her forehead.  A second acorn arced across the fire and grazed her cheek.

"Gods, you sleep deep.  Aren't you afraid someone will sneak up on you?"

The Bard sighed and sat up.  The other woman sat cross legged, the bard's diary held in one hand and a fistful of acorns in the other.

"What do you want?"

"I wanted to know what the truth was.  Why don't you tell your little stories anymore?"

"Why should I answer your questions?" the Bard asked.  She absent mindedly tossed the acorn into the fire, watching it begin to glow red.  "Then again," she continued, "why shouldn't I?"  She looked up, "Sure, but you have to answer one of mine."

"What, Truth or Dare again?  You weren't much good at it before.  I got a better idea."  the fighter stared  at her over the campfire and the Bard saw the glint of the fire reflected from the dagger.  "Truth or Death."

"Hardly sporting.  You know I can't and won't kill you.  So..."

"I'm not the one with the history here.  I've always answered your questions.  I'm just giving you an... incentive... not to run off again.  I'll go first."  The voice went hard and flat, "how long did it take him to die?"

She stared at her, remembering the reaction that same question had caused a dozen years ago.  The pain was gone now, as was the anger and hate.  Now the question could be answered.

"A few moments.  Not very long."  The Bard paused, "My turn.  When she confessed to the villagers what did you feel.  And no evasion this time."

"Betrayed," she whispered without hesitation.  "The villagers just nodded and went on with their little lives.  And her words turned your look of hate into one of pity.  And her... acceptance... of her past, of what she had done to me..."

"What you did to yourself."

"She made me!" the other roared, standing to full height.  "I was a child and she took it all away."

"Perhaps.  But not every survivor of Cirra became like you.  Where you took it, that was your decision.  A decision you reinforced each day but which you could have changed."

"I didn't want to.  Hate was all I had left."

"And now?"

"That's a second question.  I'll answer.  But you'll owe me one question."

"Fair enough.  So, now, do you want to change?"

"I don't know.  Because now there's nothing left at all, at all, at all..." and the voice faded away as she disappeared into the darkness of the surrounding forest.

It has been 72 days.  She shows up every few nights to ask a question.  Sometimes she appears while I'm still awake but usually she awakens me with one of her infernal acorns.  It's a ritual; she asks her question and then I ask mine and these questions are always answered truthfully and fully.  At least by me.  Sometimes the answer breeds further questions.  And sometimes they're answered but sometimes not.  I know that she reads my diary as she often asks about things I've just written down mere hours ago.

So hello.  Thanks for the rabbit.

The slavers were camped just of the road, by the steam where she and the warrior had camped so often in the past.  With a grimace the Bard took in the scene from the concealing bushes and began to make preliminary plans.  The captives were chained together: keys would be needed.  All the slavers save one where asleep; he'd have to be dealt with quietly.  The others were snoring the din of the drunk, a sound the Bard was well familiar with from her time at the inn.  Taking a deep breath the Bard dropped the pack and clasped the staff in a nervous, two handed grip.

Using all her stealth the Bard moved until she was a few feet from the guard's back.  Raising the staff above her head she hesitated before shaking her head in disgust.  Instead she changed the grip on the staff until she held it near horizontally and cleared her throat.  As the man spun around she torqued her body.  The tip caught the man on the chin; spinning him around twice before he crumpled to the ground.  With a grimace the Bard knelt, checking for a heartbeat before searching for the keys.  With a sigh of relief she found both.

It was, she had to admit, a perfect plan.  Simple, almost foolproof.  Until one of the hostages began screaming her head off as the Bard unshackled her.  Within seconds the bard was surrounded by panicky captives and bewildered slavers.  With a sigh she tossed the keys to one of the freed hostages.

"Free the rest.  Then run."

And she turned to face the slavers.

There were only six and they were still groggy from drink and sleep so the first two went down quickly.  But the other four managed to grab for their weapons.  Darting forward the Bard concentrated on one; picking the man furthest from the others.  With three passes she disarmed him and winded him before catching him across the temple.  Glancing over her shoulder the Bard saw the last of the captives disappearing into the trees.  She turned to buy them a bit more time.  And cursed as she saw one of the slavers finishing cocking a crossbow.

"You cost us.  You die," he said, pointing the quarrel at her stomach.  And pulling the trigger.

From the eaves of the forest a spinning disc of silver arced, deflecting the quarrel before embedding itself into a slaver's chest.

"You woke me.  You die," teased the voice as she walked into the clearing.  As she calmly walked over to retrieve her sword the survivors' nerve broke and they ran.

"You'd better go catch up to them, before they run into more trouble," suggested the blonde, gesturing in the direction the freed captives had taken. "Go do some good."

"Where are you going?" the Bard asked as the other turned to the opposite direction.

"Gonna go do some bad," she said as she disappeared after the fleeing slavers.

It has been 90 days.  The village was very poor and raiders had been attacking it like the phases of the moon.  After I arrived and learned what was happening I began to see to the making of barricades, to the readying of healing supplies and the bolstering of spirit.  The warlord, an Athenian ex-mercenary by the name of Mathias, has a considerable force, over two score men, who are all well armed and trained.  The villagers were so use to just taking it, praying that the raiders would leave enough for the winter.  And by doing so they'd lost all hope for their future.  Hope is a terrible thing to loose...

The Bard poked despondently at the vegetable stew in her bowl, chasing the carrots around the potatoes.  She tried to dredge up the energy but was too tired to eat.  That's a first, whispered the dry voice of a memory.  The Bard closed her eyes tight for a few moments, capturing the threatening tears.  When she opened them again it was to see an acorn land in the centre of the bowl.

"Your turn to go first.  Ask a question."  The Bard looked up to see the warrior putting a spitted rabbit over the fire.

"I'm really tired.  Not tonight."

Another acorn landed beside the first.  "Come on, I've been...bored.  You've been in that town for days."

"I can't think of..."

This time the acorn was bounced off her forehead before landing to create a neat triangle.  The Bard sighed in defeat.

"All right, what's your favourite colour?"

"'What's your favourite colour?'  This is the question?  This is how you're going to unravel the mysteries of my twisted mind?  'What's your favourite colour?'"

"Look," the Bard snapped.  "I have not had a good week so back off.  I've spent the last three days helping to build barricades and convincing farmers to use their pitch forks and hunting bows against people.  And today I spent an hour fighting off 25 raiders and two hours helping heal the wounded, three of which didn't make it.  I'm tired, hungry and just don't care so either answer the damn question or slit your throat.  Your choice."

The silence was heavy for several minutes as the two glared at each other.  Finally the blonde leaned forward and turned the spit.

"Yellow," she said, after a pause, addressing her answer to the roasting rabbit.

The Bard frowned slightly before suddenly smiling.  "Yellow?  I'd have thought..."

"What, blood red, steely silver, black?"  A snort of genuine amusement.  The first the Bard had heard from her.  "No, yellow.  My mother had a festival dress the colour of buttercups," she continued, more to herself than the bard.  "My turn," she said.  But fell silent for several minutes.  "Ummm.  What's your favourite colour?"

"Excuse me?"

"Hey, my week hasn't been much better.  And the reason you had only 25 raiders is because I took on the other ten this morning.  So that's my question."

"Blue, like her...

"Like her eyes.  I swear its like listening to honey.  Not blue.  Doesn't count."

"Green, then.  The shade of Hope's eyes."

"Look, do you have any favourite colours not associated with eyes?"

The Bard laughed.  "Probably not.  I find eyes very fascinating.  They're like small shards of a person's soul."

"And mine?"

"Soft brown, like the inside of oak bark after the rain.  Your eyes that is.  Your soul I don't know about."

"Bards."

"Don't worry, brown's way down the list," the Bard said.  She paused and then spoke, hesitatingly.  "Did she talk about me?  Say anything...?"

"Nothing, at least nothing a loving mother would want to hear.  She really hated you two.  She hated everyone, everybody, everything."

"She killed Solan," the Bard said.  But it was a question.

"I could make your life hell, couldn't I?  Just by saying that I killed the br... Solan.  Don't worry; your daughter killed her precious son.  She really wanted to.  And she really wanted the warrior to know it was her.    She had a special hate for her."

"Why," the Bard asked.  Not noticing the tears that covered her face.

"Because she could never fool the Warrior, never manipulate her.  The Warrior could see right through her, even from the beginning."

That night, after the other had left, the Bard pushed the three acorns deep into the soft soil at the edge of the clearing.

It has been 112 days.  Long lazy summer days and warm nights.  Strangely I find myself waking far earlier than normal.  Not as early as... well not at dawn. But I do awaken soon after.  How she would have laughed to see this.

He had appeared suddenly, leaping from a bush and rushing her with a dagger in his hand.  Too close to use the staff so she'd dropped it and grabbed his weapon hand, twisting and pulling, trying to remember a long ago lesson.  And being absolutely amazed to find herself staring into his suddenly shocked eyes.  Seeing the sudden fear in them.  Feeling the sudden fear within her.

She stood there, holding the long dagger, staring into his eyes for a timeless moment, willing her muscles to lock, to freeze, to hold still for just a second longer until...

The man's nerve broke and he turned to run.

Right to the blonde warrior.  Who's left hand swept into his hair while her right plunged into his stomach with the knife.  She held him, watching with an almost puzzled look on her face as his expression went slack.  Then she released him so that he slid off the blade to land in a heap at her feet.  The fighter's gaze met the bards and held it until the bard finally broke free of it, bending to pick up her scattered things.  And when she finally looked up again she was alone.

It has been 113 days.  Gods, it would have been so easy.

"Why did you murder him?  He was running away.  He was no threat to me.  Or you."

The other tightened her grip on her knees, drawing them even closer to her chest.  "Right then he wasn't.  But tomorrow.  When the next traveler came up the road?  Do you really think you're sparing him caused some... some light of goodness to enter his heart?  You knock them down and walk away.  They get up and go find easier targets.

"He was unarmed, I had is weapon.  I couldn't murder him."

"Well, obviously.  But I could.  And you have murdered, you know.  C'mon, tell me.  How many people have you murdered."  The other twirled her fingers over her head in a mocking motion; imitating a staff flourish.  "Not hit on the head too hard in a fight but killed when they had no chance to defend themselves."

"Two," the Bard said, so softly that the other could barely hear her.

"Think I'll take that question you owe me," she said, and then her voice grew hard, pressing as she sensed a way to hurt the Bard.  "Who where they?"

The Bard stared at the other for a long moment, eyes bright with unshed tears.  Then her head dropped onto her knees.

"Dare," she said, the sound muffled by her arms.  "Dare."

"It has been 143 days. And it has been 30 days since I refused to answer the question.  She has been coming to me more and more frequently, becoming almost desperate.  She taunts me through the day and awakes me in the night to demand her answer.  And I am weary; body, soul and heart.  So, if she won't kill me for not answering maybe..."

"Answer."

"Why won't you kill me?  I've never known you to break your promise."  The bard's defeat was in every tone, every motion, every look.  The other pressed harder, sensing victory.

"Just answer!  Answer, who did you murder?  Why would you rather die then tell me?"

The Bard picked up a chip of bark and threw it into the fire.  "I murdered Hope."

The blonde grinned.  The pain in the Bard's voice was worth the wait, worth the sleepless nights.  But she held inside the joy that the simple words 'murdered Hope' brought to savour later and concentrated on the Bard.

"And the other.  Who was the other!"

And the Bard looked at her with fearless eyes, staring at her death.  "Xena."

"It has been 155 days and over  10 days since I've seen her.  I awoke with a bloody head that I didn't remember getting and the noon sun high overhead.  I've given up wondering why she hasn't killed me.  I've given up wondering why I didn't lie when she asked how many people I'd murdered.  It would have been so easy to say one, just Hope.  Velasca once asked her if she had a death wish.  I wonder now if I do."

"It has been 170 days.  There was a rabbit at the fire circle tonight.  Neatly dressed and ready for the spit.  Which makes me wonder about the firewood left at the last two sites.  Perhaps it was her and not simply the last occupant.  Tomorrow I should arrive at a town.  And be about two days walk from the Amazons.  Perhaps its time to go there.  For a visit."

"Why?"

The Bard awoke.  The other sat cross legged at the Bard's feet.  Her expression closed.  The Bard sat up, blanket pooling at her waist.  She sighed.

"The disease was a wasting one.  She knew that the disease attacked either the persons body or their mind.  That at the end they'd either be helpless or insane.  She had seen it in others; an aunt of hers had died from it when she was a child and it haunted her.  To die that way.  Neither end was acceptable to her.  She made me... she made me promise...to let her keep hers..."

"When?"

"It affected her mind.  She'd sometimes forget who we were. She struck one of the children; nearly broke her arm.  And it was getting worse..."

"How?"

"Poison, same as Hope."

They stared at each other in the moonlight for long minutes.  The woman could see acceptance in the Bard's green eyes.  Not a willingness to die but rather a readiness.

"I didn't kill you because I wanted to know.  Curiosity sated."  She stood.  "Now, I know you.  You'll come to grips with this, rationalize this into your precious code of love destroying the hate cycle.  And eventually you'll forgive yourself.  Like you were able to forgive me.  Tell me when you do."

"Why?" the Bard asked.

"Because until then you're suffering.  And your suffering is all I have now," the Nemesis looked up, her face blank of all expression but her eyes dark with a need that the Bard couldn't fathom.  "And when that's gone, then I'll kill you."

It has been 171 days.  The village, which I suspect will one day get around to giving itself a name, is totally unchanged since the last time we... I was here.  The inn keep asked me to perform but I begged off with excuses.

The last seven years have spoiled me.  The tight roof, a soft bed and a stout door look so good right now.  There's a cool breeze to take the summer heat from the room.  And it is so nice to eat something I haven't had to cook.  And clean.  And dig up.

"So, what do you call me?"

"What?" the Bard asked.  She set down the quill, corked the ink bottle and then turned her full attention to the figure who crouched on the window sill.  Like a giant house cat, she thought.  Maybe not a house cat.

"She's the Warrior, you're the Bard.  If you were still writing your stories, who'd I be?"

"Ummm, you used to be the Enemy.  But now you would be the Nemesis."

"The Nemesis,"  she repeated, turning the word over in her mind a few times.  She, unfolded, the Bard decided finally, into the room.  Straddling the other chair and resting crossed arms on the back.  "I like that, you calling me your doom.  Kinda final and accepting."

The Bard hesitated and then shook her head.  "Not that meaning,"  she said and then continued when the other looked at her blankly.  "The just and mete punishment; for my sins."

The Nemesis looked startled.  "How arrogant.  You think I'm here to punish you?  You think I'm here for you?"

The Bard shook her head.  "You're not..." but she abruptly closed her mouth and looked away, out the window and toward the fields.

"Not what?"  The other asked.  "Not here for you?  Or....you don't think I'm here!"  She laughed, and then laughed harder at the Bard's expression.  "This is priceless.  How do you explain the rabbits?"

The Bard smiled and shrugged.  "I don't.  But if I can imagine you I'm sure I can imagine other foods tasting like rabbit.  And any... injury I might have I can imagine is because of you.  And no one else has seen you.  And even if they did then maybe I'm just imagining them too.  And perhaps this is all a dream or my own little corner of Tartarus."

It has been 172 days.  I woke once in the night to see (or to dream) that she was sleeping in the chair - head resting on her arms.  And my sleep fuzzy mind accepted that.  When I awoke again she was gone.

We talked long into the night.  About nothing really.  Our families when we were small.  The Gods.  Which she has a very unique perspective on.  A talk that got very slow and dozey towards the end.  Like when Lila and I were in our teens.  'Why', she asked me once, 'do you believe that I'm capable of redemption when you don't belive that you are?'

Sounds like something I'd ask.

Maybe it was.

There were seven of them, dressed in patchwork leather armour that had been carefully mended and cared for.  All held swords.  And all looked at her with greed and lust and the Bard just knew she was in trouble.

She dropped the pack to the ground and took her fighting stance; staff diagonal across her body.  Paling slightly as she saw two of the men shake out nets.  Nets were not good.  Especially against a staff.  Gritting her teeth she dredged up the look, the attitude and the confidence.  It was borrowed; but it was all she had.

"Come and get me, boys," she growled, in her best warrior impersonation.  Which didn't even impress her let alone the thugs.

"The lady wants to play," the leader said, motioning his men to spread out in a rough circle.  They had a leader who wasn't overestimating her.  The situation, she thought, was going from not good to bad very quickly.  "Take her!"

As they moved forward the Bard sunk to one knee, ratcheting the staff horizontally so that it smacked into the leader's knee with a sickening crunch.  Stopping the momentum she punched the staff back into the groin of the attacker directly behind her.  A silence fell as the other five paused to reassess the situation.  Then the man with the broken knee began to scream and they moved in again, net flashing in a circle toward her.

The Bard tried to swat the first net aside only to have it foul on the staff, encumbering but not disabling her.  The other net was avoided but she could feel her balance going as she twisted to the side.  One of the thugs grabbed the net, jerking it and the staff away from the bard.  Desperately she rolled to the pack, seeking some kind of weapon.  Finding a familiar shape.

"Listen, I got dibs on her.  So take off."

"Another one," crowed one of the men, swinging the net in slow sweeps as he approached the Nemesis.  She watched, not drawing her sword, just waiting with the tense wariness, the feral cockiness that the Bard recognized so well.  A wordless prayer to Artemis and the Bard drew out the weapon, tossing it towards the Nemesis awkwardly from her knees in an under handed throw.

Who caught it so effortlessly, bringing it up to gaze at the new leader through the hollow centre.  Sunlight reflected off of the silver and gold circle.

The Nemesis sighed loudly, shook her head in mock sympathy.  "You boys are in so much trouble."

The Bard didn't see the chakram.  Just the four attackers falling to the ground and the hollow thumps as it struck their helmets.  And then the Nemesis and the leader were still standing.  And the chakram was in her left hand and her sword suddenly in her right.

She approached the man, sword spinning in lazy figure eights, smiling as he simply stood there.  The sword suddenly leapt forward, resting on his collarbone with the tip pressing against his neck.  Still the blonde moved forward, lowering the hilt of her sword, causing the tip to scrape along until it pressed upwards into this chin.

"You any good with that sword?" she asked.  He shook his head, gulping as he felt a slow trickle of blood slide down his neck.  "Well, then maybe you should learn how to use a plow.  When you wake up."  And faster than either the Bard or he could see the pommel of the hilt was smashing into his temple and he was collapsing.

The Nemesis looked down at him for a few moments before turning her attention to the Bard.  Who hadn't moved since she had tossed the chakram.

"What?" the Nemesis demanded.  The bard simply shook her head.  "Look," the other continued.  "Don't get all poetic.  And don't think this meant anything.  Because it didn't."

"Right," said the bard, reaching up for the chakram.  And surprised when the other placed it into her hand.

"Listen, you should have a talk with your regent.  These guys are awful close to their little Nation."

"Right," agreed the bard, retrieving her staff and pack.

The Nemesis cocked her head, staring at the bard.  "You alright?"

"Right," nodded the bard.  And then, with a quick shake of her head, "I'm alright."

The other sighed, "Guess I'll walk with you a bit.  Gods, you'd think you'd just seen a miracle."

"Right," agreed the bard, falling into step.

It has been 173 days.  I am writing this in the morning, just before entering the Nation.  We walked together for the remainder of yesterday but she disappeared before I finished preparing the evening meal. I do not for an instant think that she will respect the borders.  So, I suppose I'd better warn the sentries not to interfere if they see her.  If, rather, she allows them to see her.  If if if if if.

They sat on the rise, looking down at the empty practice field.  The others were leaving them alone recognizing this as the ritual it was.  The true passing of leadership, not the ritual which they had just completed.  It had happened every time the Queen had returned.  And again just as she was leaving.

"You're making those ceremonies of greeting and welcome longer each time, aren't you," the bard complained, stretching out on the grass in a vain effort to relieve the knot in the small of her back from sitting on the uncomfortable chair.

Ephiny nodded seriously.  "Anything to get you to stay longer. Sometimes the ceremony and this little hill talk is all we have."

"Remember the first time we sat here, Eph?"

"And the second.  And every one after," Ephiny stared down at her mask.  "I'm going to be wearing this a bit longer, aren't I?"

Gabrielle nodded.

"Thought so," Ephiny said, smiling to remove any sense of recrimination.  "Well, I'm getting use to it.  Been doing it long enough."  She paused, seeking words.  "Terris talked to me, soon after they arrived."

"What about," asked the Bard, knowing already.

"That her mother was sick.  That her mama was hurting so badly.  That you had given her your right of caste."

"I wasn't sure what was going to happen.  I didn't want her and Lyta not to have a place..."

"Idiot."

The bard smiled, "I know.  I wasn't thinking too clearly back then."  She smiled suddenly, "Some kids we had, huh?"

Ephiny smiled back, "Terris is taking on girls twice her age with the staff and winning.  Lyta is... she reminds me of Ep."  The smile turned sad but didn't fade.  The bard reached out and brushed a tear as it fell down Ephiny's cheek.  "Anyway, caste or no they both have a home here.  We owe both their mothers too much to ever turn them away.  Solari will have the trainees back in a day or two.  You can wait that long, can't you."

"No, I can't stay, not right now.  Maybe, maybe for the winter.  Or next spring.  Look, Eph, there's a slight problem.  Well, maybe a problem.  There's someone following after me.  As long as you don't interfere no one will get hurt but it'd be real dangerous to try and stop her.  I'm perfectly safe."

"What does she look like, so I can warn the guards."

The Bard took a deep, steadying breath.  "Its Callisto, Ephiny."

"Hades, I'll double the guards.  We'll get her..." and then the words sunk in.  "Leave her alone?"

The Bard nodded.  Searching for the words to define the situation.  "She and I, we..."

But the search was ended as Ephiny lost patience.  She reached out, grasping the Bard's shoulders and twisting her around to face her anger.  And the Bard saw that the anger was magnified by love and confusion and a measure of desperate worry.  Eph's normally soft voice was harsh.

"Why leave her alone?  For the love of Artemis!  What is she to you, other than an enemy?  She hounded and tortured you both.  She made life hell.  She killed your husband, her son!  What is she to you?"

The Bard hesitated.  And in hesitating allowed Ephiny to jump to conclusions.

"Sweet Artemis, you're not..."

"No," the Bard said, rather forceably.  "We're not even friends.  But we need each other right now.  And, while I rule no Amazon will die in some stupid attempt to protect or avenge anything.  Not while I rule."

And then she offered her mask to Ephiny.

And Ephiny pushed it back.

"Did you ever think that your children, that the Nation needs you?" Ephiny asked after several minutes, anger not quite forgotten.

"Yes, I have. They have you.  She has no one."

"You are mad," Ephiny said, half in jest.

"Very likely," the Bard said, in all seriousness.  "She deserves a chance at redemption; everyone does."

"And you'll always believe in the good in everyone."

"No, but I believe in the potential for good.  In everyone."

It has been over 300 days.  When I returned from the noon meal there was an acorn on my diary.  I'm not sure what it means.  I'll plant it when I leave town tomorrow.

The Bard looked up at the innkeeper.  Who stood wringing his hands nervously.  She glanced around the crowded room waiting for him to speak.

"Pardon, miss, but... are you...?"  He took a deep breath.  "You and your friend came through here about five or seven years ago.  And you told such wonderous stories.  Could you...?"

"I'm..." tired, ill, the bard thought.  But instead she found herself standing.  "I'm a little rusty."

"That's no matter, miss.  There hasn't been a bard here in weeks."  And realizing he may have just caused insult the man blushed, backing away quickly and gesturing toward an open area by the large fireplace.

As the bard walked to the area she could feel the room still as people's attention shifted from their conversation to her.  She stood, her back to the heat of the fire.

The Bard took a deep breath, looking at the faces around the common room.  Who were waiting expectantly and suddenly it was as if it was the first time.  The first time she had ever stood before a crowd.  The first time she had ever searched for the right tale to tell.  The first time she had ever strove to bring across a small bit of hope or joy or amusement or love or pride with the power of her words alone.  She looked around the crowd again; looking for the one face she could start telling the story to.  To make it a private thing until she could bring the entire room under her spell.  An old trick.

And then she saw the face.  The blonde hair tied back into a loose tail.  The brown eyes the colour of oak bark.  The black and silver armour and the invisible ring of intimidation that cleared a space around her.  Leaning against the wall and watching. smiling sardonically.  And then the Bard could begin.

"I sing the song of the Warrior with the past of darkness.  I sing the song of the two who's fates are entwined.  I sing the song of their journeys.

"The Warrior traveled north in search of redemption.

"The village was very poor and raiders had been attacking it like the phases of the moon.  They arrived separately.  The Bard stayed in the village to see to the making of barricades, to the readying of healing supplies and the bolstering of spirit.  The Warrior remained without for she knew of the cunning of Mathias, the former mercenary who had served Athens once so faithfully.  So she sought the enemy to know its strengths."

And against the wall the Warrior's smile turned from sardonic to shock to acceptance.  And the Bard smiled and brought the rest of the room  into her spell.

The End

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