Time Out Of Joint

The time is out of joint – oh cursed spite,
That I was ever born to set it right.

Shakespeare, "Hamlet"

Virgil propped himself up on one elbow and watched as Gabrielle opened her eyes next to him and smiled, stretching under the covers. Dust motes sparkled in the slices of sunlight which fell through the shutters, marking glowing stripes across the bed and across Gabrielle's face. Her hair was pressed into the pillow like a halo of gold thread, lit into something almost divine.

He wanted to remember her like this: the woman who believed in him, who had a gift far greater than his own and yet did not dismiss his work as the fumblings of a child or the laziness of a man shirking responsibilities at home. Gabrielle had listened to his poetry – appreciative, curious, asking questions he hadn't thought to ask himself – then read some of her own, taking his breath away. Later, entwined in each other with no breath left for poetry, they had turned lovemaking into another expression, their bodies speaking as freely as their voices had done.

Gabrielle wrinkled her nose against the brightness, squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again – and then she was human once more, and wonderfully close. Virgil cupped the curve of her small shoulder in his hand, then drew his fingers gently across her collarbone and her breasts, pushing the covers over the slightly swollen nipples and down to her waist.

In the gold stripes of sunlight, long strings of words danced on Gabrielle's skin, inked across her chest and abdomen. With a twinge of desire, Virgil knew they continued lower, to her hips and thighs, then broke off, only to pick up again on his own chest and arms and back. They had started writing when the night had faded from black to a smoky grey, laughing at the scratch and tickle of quill against skin, as if the night had freed them both.

Gabrielle looked down at herself, then at Virgil's similarly decorated torso. Her eyes twinkled. "Not much room left."

"No," he confirmed, slipping his hand over her waist and drawing her close. "But we don't need much room."

Gabrielle's small body stiffened against his. Virgil released her immediately, afraid he had offended her somehow.

"Virgil," she began carefully, moving her face back a little to watch his, "I had a wonderful night..."

He stopped her with a gentle finger to her lips. "So did I," he said. "Last night, when I came here to write, I thought it would be the last time... I thought that maybe my family was right, that maybe it really was just childish silliness – but now..." He paused, outlining the shape of Gabrielle's mouth with his fingertip. She met it with a quick dart of her tongue, a playful shock to his nerves.

"But now?" she prompted.

He smiled. "Now I know better. I could never thank you enough."

"You'll finish the poem?"

Virgil inclined his head, a promise. Gabrielle acknowledged it, putting her hands on his shoulders as Virgil untangled himself from the sheets. "You better," she threatened. "I'll be listening for minstrels singing it."

He bent to kiss her one last time. Her mouth opened to his, and no good-byes were needed. They hugged fiercely, once, and then Virgil was putting on his clothes and heading out the door.

He became aware that the writing on his arms and chest was visible around his vest, but it was suddenly funny and he found himself grinning at curious passers-by. He remembered a conversation he'd had with his father once, years before his death.

"If you want to write, boy," his father had said, amusing Virgil with his seriousness, "the writing's got to be a part of you." – "Part of me?" – "Yeah. That's what Gabrielle used to say." But then his mother had scowled at the mention of the name, and said "Joxer..." in a warning tone that put an end to the conversation. His father had spoken no more about the woman, whoever she had been, and Virgil had never asked.

He glanced at the words on his arms – the writing really was a part of him, it seemed to have poured from his heart to his skin. It struck Virgil as exquisitely ironic that it had been his own Gabrielle who had reminded him of his father's advice and had turned it into reality.

Gabrielle. He liked the sound of the name. You couldn't say it without smiling – which Virgil did, walking a little faster through the greyish morning. He wanted to be home quickly, to write.

* * *

Xena could not recall how she got out of the palace, or how she made it back across the square to retrieve her cloak. She only knew that she must have done it, and quickly, because the cloak was whipping around her shoulders as she ran through the streets, and the air was still dark.

She stopped only when she found she had reached the Tarpeian rock, jutting out from the Capitoline cliffs. A thin line of blue steel on the horizon was already encroaching on the blackness. The world dropped away abruptly at her feet, onto a tumble of jagged rocks and bleached bones far below, where generations of criminals and rebels had met their end.

Cold drizzle stung her face. She hunched her shoulders into the cloak and remembered the last time she had done that. After Solan's death. She didn't want to remember that time, it seemed so ancient now. Screaming her grief on a snow-covered mountain peak, and Ares beside her, urging her to kill Gabrielle... Snow. There had been snow all around back then, but the dawn of this damp spring morning seemed no warmer than the mountain's blazing chill.

There would be no more Illusia. Twenty-five years had dropped away, like pebbles skittering down the cliff-face from under her Roman sandals. Years which Ares had spent turning their daughter into what Xena would never be for him.

She looked down.

She felt dizzy, lurched backwards from the edge and sank down on all fours. Gravel dug into her skin cruelly, slicing through the servant's dress, and a screaming pain seared her right hand. Xena jerked it off the ground and sat, staring numbly at the cut on her palm. Her chakram. She had squeezed the blade too hard and the blood now welled into the cup of her hand, mingling with dust and bits of rock. It wasn't deep but bled profusely, ruby tears falling freely into the dust. Xena made a fist and let them fall, gritting her teeth against the pain.

Dawn echoed purple from the rocks below. It could all end here – but it would solve nothing. No, Eve would still be Ares' ... something. Something that did not bear thinking about, so Xena dropped the thought and tried again. Nothing came. No solutions, plans, no answers. Her body rejected reality – even her breasts still swelled slightly under the cloak, hurting with milk for her baby... Only there was no baby. Just an empty space in her arms, cradling a dirty, slowly bleeding cut.

A worm of a thought crawled through Xena's mind. Guilt. A feeling familiar like the rain on her skin or the receding pain in her hand. How many times had she silently resented Eve's night-time feeds? Or the thin cries which refused to be silenced, no matter what Xena tried? Or the changes in her own body?

I didn't love her enough.

Xena fought the thoughts half-heartedly. This was going nowhere. She saw Ares' face again, the way shock had splashed over it when he'd seen her at the bacchanalia. Was all this his fault? Or hers? How could she have trusted him with her baby's life, counted on him to save Eve when she couldn't? Motherhood must have addled her brains.

Ares had just done what he always did; took in the situation and made a few changes. Enough to take control. With sickening clarity, Xena saw it his way. A child of his own blood, even a mortal one, was a powerful tool. A warrior queen who would be intensely loyal, would never defy him the way Xena had done, would share his goals – and his bed. His own child! But what did it matter, to a god? Now he had everything he'd ever wanted. And she had allowed it to happen.

"You gotta tell me what happened."

She flew to her feet, whirled around.

Ares stood a few paces away, the flash of his appearance dissolving blue against the sky. Xena took a step backwards, more shaken by her inability to sense him than she cared to admit. It was like seeing a ghost. Her mind arranged the picture of him: the short black hair; the guarded dark eyes; the long fingers curling over the hilt of his sword, the silver on black leather... He probably thought he looked composed, but his mouth betrayed him; there were reddish marks on his full lips, as though he had bitten them.

For an instant Xena's heart hovered in weightlessness, then dropped. "Ares."

"See, I thought you were dead."

His sarcasm split something raw and Xena did not know what she wanted more: to hurt him, or to touch him. In this alien world, he was the same. The deep resonance of his voice, at the base of her skull and deeper, dispelled all notions of ghosts – no, this was Ares all right. Without warning, rage flooded back, filling her, drawing her mouth into the snarl of a wounded animal. He had mutilated Eve's life. Nothing else mattered.

"I am dead. I died the day you turned my daughter into your warrior whore."

The sarcasm crumbled into a stricken look on Ares' absurdly perfect features, a face that had not changed a jot in the intervening years. It felt good to see him hurt. He took a sharp breath, his nostrils flaring a little – "I didn't know." He swallowed, "We didn't ... I ... Xena, I swear, I didn't know."

Xena tensed her body, treading lightly towards him across the gravel, as if she was all right, not falling apart inside. "Didn't know what, Ares? That I'd be back to foil your plans? That I wouldn't let you corrupt my daughter the way you did me?"

"That Livia was – is – Eve." He tried to reach her hand; Xena snatched it back. "You got the wrong idea, Xena," his voice rose in defiance, "I never touched her!" He dropped his hand, and Xena looked despite herself. His fingers were shaking. Ares clenched them into a fist. "She's not my lover. Believe me."

Something was wound tightly in his searching face; to her astonishment, Xena found she did believe him. Or perhaps she just wanted to believe him... But she knew him too well not to notice the tension lines around his mouth, not to see how badly shaken he was. Dangerous relief washed over her. She clamped it down, remembering the victory parade – and the slaves brought in as spoils. He didn't need to sleep with a warrior to corrupt her. Bile rose at her own bitter memories.

"What did you promise her? What did it take, to turn her into your little warrior queen?" Xena looked away, past him. "How much power?"

"She's not."

Her eyes flashed back to where Ares stood. "I don't believe you."

Frustration strained his voice, "I told you – I didn't know she was our daughter! I thought you were dead, dammit! All of you!"

In the silence that followed, two thoughts sliced into Xena's mind. The first, a memory of Lao Hsu's tiny form in the flames, the body Ares must have taken to be Eve's. Dully, she realised why he had never suspected Livia's true identity. And the second thought – that had he known that Livia was Eve...

"And if you had known she was your daughter?" she looked at him in resignation. "You would have made her your warrior queen. Princess."

Ares set his jaw. "I might've tried harder."

Xena continued looking at him, numbly aware that the rain had stopped, and the sky behind him was no longer black, but the colour of ash. Ares' brows were heavy over his eyes, and his body as taut as her own, as though he wanted at once to reach forward and to shrink away.

"If I'd known she was our daughter, she would've had the best of everything, Xena. The world at her command." He spoke so quietly that Xena found herself taking another step forward to hear him. With detached surprise, she felt him raise the back of his hand to her cheek, warm against her wind-chilled skin. "She still can."

He moved his hand lower, to the curve of her jaw, barely even a touch. Xena began to shake. "Ares... I'm going to save her."

"From what – from me?" He stroked her neck and threaded his hand through her thick hair. Then he dropped his hand. "I don't think so. You saw her, Xena. She's exactly where she wants to be."

"In Rome!" Xena pulled away, her voice breaking. "I saw the slaves; she's a monster!"

"A warrior," Ares corrected, then the corners of his mouth tightened. "She takes after her parents. What did you expect – a Hestian virgin?"

"I'll tell you what I expected," Xena heard the shrill note of hysteria in her voice – "I expected to raise her myself! To show her a way beyond the violence..."

"So go ahead."

She felt the words bodily, like a blow. She stared at Ares. "You're letting me take her away? But she's one of your warriors..."

"So are you." He shrugged nonchalantly, but his gaze was too intense, holding hers. "I've missed you, Xena. For twenty-five years I've wanted you back – to see you in battle again, fighting beside me. To have things the way they were before..."

"That's changed," Xena said, but did not move when Ares took her hands. There was a peculiar tenderness in the gesture, a sort of warmth.

"That's right, it's changed. There is no going back; Eve has seen to that. So let's move on." He brought his hand to his lips, and Xena shook so badly that she thought she would fall. "Join with me, Xena. I'll take you and Eve someplace safe, away from Rome. I swear, I won't disappoint you. All I'm asking is your word that we'll be together – and Eve is yours. You'll be her mother again. I can make it happen."

"I see." She snapped back from him. "You'll give me back my broken dolly if I promise to fuck you?" Xena fought a wave of nausea. "To think that I had your child, Ares," she spat – "that sickens me!"

She watched his lips part incredulously, heard the soft exhaled air leave his lungs. There was no blood. Then she turned and fled, her cloak brushing past him, snapping as she ran downhill. Ares didn't try to stop her.

At the foot of the hill, she glanced up. His figure was black on the ashes of the sky, alone and unmoving as the rocks he stood on. Xena felt a new resolve steel her. Darkness would not claim her baby forever. Not if she could help it.

* * *

By the time the front door of the inn slammed behind her, Xena was at the top of the stairs.

"Gabrielle!" She tried the room door, but it was locked. She had to be in, she promised she'd be waiting – "Gabrielle, come on, there's no time!" She'd have to tell her everything, and it would hurt again, but everything would work out in the end, now that she had a plan... Livia would be in Ares' temple before going on campaign, she'd have to be – but she'd leave to join her army soon – no time, no time...

"Xena?"

A strip of morning light expanded into a white rectangle of the doorway, Gabrielle's figure silhouetted in the brighter room. She was clutching a sheet to herself. "Uh... give me a minute."

"We've got to hurry!" Xena came inside, blinking in the glare – then saw the writing.

It was everywhere. On Gabrielle's shoulders, chest, arms – inked characters disappeared under the sheet and reappeared on the other side, crisscrossing her like layers of parchment. Xena's eyes slid to the bed, she took in the rumpled sheets and the half-empty inkwell on the floor, a broken quill dripping blue beside it. The room smelled of wine and sex.

She looked back to Gabrielle. The sheet was marked blue where she was clutching it, there were blue streaks on her forehead and in her sleep-tousled hair. The sight reminded Xena of someone she had met in her pirating days, a boy whose skin had been tattooed all over in a spidery testimony to his own stupidity.

"Well, are you going to tell me?" Xena's voice refused the intended humour; the words came out as an impatient rebuke.

Gabrielle's face wavered in an uncertain smile. "Ran out of parchment." The smile died at Xena's hard expression. "It doesn't matter. I'll be ready in a minute, just ... wait."

"Gabrielle, I can't wait, there's no time to lose..."

"You can't wait?!"

Gabrielle's outburst threw Xena off-balance, she froze where she stood.

"You can't wait!" the bard repeated, louder, advancing. "And I can? Because none of this concerns me, right?! Because Eve isn't my daughter, so I can just wait until you need me for some plan of yours – to mind your sword or whatever else you happen to need?"

Xena rocked back, stunned past all anger. No. No, not now. She couldn't handle it now, not when Eve was Livia and Ares was back, and Rome was crushing her with its weight. She searched Gabrielle's face for a hint of the understanding she had been expecting, but it was hard and closed, lips drawn painfully thin.

"What's the matter?" Xena said, lamely, knowing that it would only make things worse.

Gabrielle reached under the bed with her foot and slid Xena's sword towards herself, flipping it into her hand. She shoved it towards Xena. The scabbard and armour followed. Xena took everything wordlessly.

"Get out," Gabrielle said. "Get out, and let me get dressed, then we can go and do whatever it is you've decided to do without so much as asking what I thought."

Something snapped inside Xena. "Thought? Doesn't look like you've been having many of those last night! Or have you learned to write poetry on your own back?" She gestured with her chin. "It's quite a piece of work – you could sell tickets!"

Gabrielle flushed an angry scarlet. "You sound like Ares."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Gabrielle laughed, a bitter sound. "You saw him, didn't you? Last night, you saw him!" Then, before Xena could deny it, "I don't recall you doing much thinking when you decided he'd make the perfect daddy for your child!"

Xena felt the blood rush from her face. You had to hand it Gabrielle. She didn't hit often, but she rarely missed. It was that carriage all over again – the one she and Gabrielle had pushed off the cliff before their world fell apart... Hurtling out of control into an abyss, far too late to stop now. She hit back. "How about whoever you were with last night? Would he make a good daddy for your child, if you have one? Or did you not think of that?"

Silence. Gabrielle remained where she was, breathing heavily, clutching at the sheet. Xena thought she had seen her look like that before – of course... Before Illusia. When she had tried to kill Gabrielle.

Shame flooded her heart. Not again. Please, anything but this... She could not lose Gabrielle again. But she had done it now, it was like waiting for an arrow to strike – and then she'd be alone. The panic at having done something irreversible rose in Xena's throat, she wanted to call the words back, but could not find the breath.

Gabrielle did not scream. She said, very quietly, "No."

For a moment, it made no sense. "No?"

"No," she said again, just as quietly. "I didn't think of that."

Xena remembered the way the wheels of that runaway cart had spun in the air, a second before it fell. "Didn't think of what?"

"Getting pregnant," Gabrielle said, just as quietly. "Because I can't."

"Can't think?" Xena said before she could catch herself – that's not what she means! – and then, the idiotic mistake broke through the tension, suddenly the last straw for both of them to cling to. "I mean..."

The corners of Gabrielle's lips quirked slightly, against her will – and then she burst into laughter. Hysterical, Xena laughed too, gulping shattered half-breaths – all the poison of grief and helplessness and loneliness had finally collected itself and burst from its own pressure, and though it would hurt worse than before for a little while, eventually, it would heal.

The laughter drifted away, and Xena was struck with how ludicrous the whole scene was. Gabrielle with her inked-over skin and tatty sheet – and her own servant's dress under the cloak, stained with mud and torn where the rocks had snagged at it. Evidently, the same thing had occurred to Gabrielle, because she reached out and fingered a corner of a scarf at Xena's waist, studying it with far more attention than it deserved.

Xena swallowed and took Gabrielle's elbows, forcing herself to say the obvious. "How long...?"

Gabrielle raised her eyes. "Since Hope." She smiled slightly, with the infinite sadness of someone who wished she could grieve. "When she was born ... She'd grown too fast, and I ... bled. Badly. But then it stopped. Eventually, so did the pain. With everything that happened, it seemed hardly surprising. Then later, in India... The physician asked me what manner of man tortured me so, to tear me up inside. She said there were scars, too many scars for my body to heal right. Too many to hold a child."

"You never told me," Xena breathed, dismayed. "You never said a word, not even when Eve was born."

Gabrielle's face was almost tranquil. "I was afraid to talk about it at first. Then, later, it was a kind of... consolation. A promise that there could never be another Hope. When things got really bad, I'd remember that, and it helped me, somehow."

Xena stared at her in appalled silence. Gabrielle... And she had never suspected, never asked!

Gabrielle bit her lip, looking at the floor between herself and Xena. "When you told me you were going to have a baby, I thought ... I thought we'd bring her up together. That it would be a second chance – for both of us."

Guilt assailed Xena. Ares may be her father, but Eve will never be his. She is yours and mine, Gabrielle. Our daughter. She hadn't made good on her word, she'd been so wrapped up in Eve, in everything that she had missed with Solan – and she didn't want to think about Hope, couldn't bear to face those memories... No wonder Gabrielle had never told her! Was it too late?

"Xena, I'm so sorry."

Xena flinched at the honesty in those words. "No – you have nothing to apologise for, I'm the one who..."

Gabrielle put a finger to Xena's lips. "I do. I resented Eve for coming between us, but it was so stupid. I was stupid. You mean more to me than anything in the whole world, and I let you suffer all this alone – what does that make me?"

"Human?" Xena said awkwardly, as a huge weight lifted from her chest.

Gabrielle sobbed, shaking her head, but her eyes were peaceful, as though a fever had broken. Xena drew her close, holding her, afraid to let go.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "So sorry." She breathed deeply, inhaling Gabrielle's closeness, the smell of her hair, almost broken by the strength of her answering embrace. Only now did she realise just much she had missed this, how badly she needed to have Gabrielle beside her – and how badly Gabrielle needed her support, too. She'd been so selfish...

"I promise," Xena said, planting a kiss on the top of Gabrielle's head, "I'll never let Eve, or anyone else come between us." She wanted to add something, something that would tell Gabrielle that she understood how much she had sacrificed by choosing this life, how dearly she had paid for their friendship, to promise that it was not in vain, but all she could manage was – "I'll stand by you. Always."

Gabrielle looked up, narrowing her eyes. "You won't try to carry the whole world on your shoulders? 'Cause I've got shoulders, too, you know."

"I know." Xena held Gabrielle at an arm's length, pretending to consider it. "Then again, with scrawny little shoulders like that..."

"Oh-ho, watch it, Warrior Princess, or you just might get your ass kicked all the way to India!"

Xena grimaced in mock fear, letting Gabrielle extricate herself. Gabrielle nodded sharply. "Let's get your daughter back."

Eve... The events of the night finally caught up with Xena, her knees buckled. She stumbled forward, past Gabrielle's gentle hands, and leaned on the windowsill. What a crazy night. Beyond the shutters, the narrow lane bustled with awakening life. A woman's voice, berating her daughter for not hanging our the washing – Don't you take that tone with me, young lady, I'm your mother! – but the girl wasn't listening. I'm your mother, Eve...

Xena took a long breath. "No. Our daughter."

Gabrielle came to join her by the window and laid a warm hand across Xena's arm. "Let's hear the plan, then."

* * *

Ares appeared on a river bank in the woods outside Rome, his arrival startling a flock of sparrows into the sky. The place practically shouted that it was spring; it was everywhere, in the smell of sticky new leaves, in the relentless noise of birds, in the rush of the swollen stream. The water was clear here, although it turned turbid where it flowed into the Tiber further on – but Ares wasn't interested in the scenery.

He unbuckled his sword belt and yanked off his gauntlets, then, quickly, the remainder of his clothing. The bundle landed in the bushes. He waded into the water until the surface tickled his chest and arms, and he was stepping on soft silt. Broken morning light danced on green water. He stood, teeth clenched, naked and vulnerable like a mortal. Just like Xena.

He should have known better than to offer to help. She blamed him for Eve.

The water was unbearably cold, numbing his skin. It felt good, but the cold wasn't deep enough; he could still feel Xena's eyes on him, the revulsion in her face. Ares ducked his head under, trying to get rid of the lingering, sickening taste of Livia's wine-laden kiss, of the memory of her crumpled body on the couch, stretched out in drugged oblivion. His daughter! Xena's words scored his mind. It sickens me... He brought his face back up and stood stock still, willing the current to flow faster, to wash everything away. The air was sharp on his wet skin. Twenty-five years. He'd seen his daughter's death – so how could he have known that she was alive? That whatever he had seen burning had not been Eve's body?

How could he have not known?

Xena should have told him! Ares punched the water, sending a spray of droplets into the air. Why hadn't she let him take Eve away, instead of getting her involved in whatever the ill-fated plan had been? All those wasted years! The thought exploded in a watershed of rage, shattering the sounds of the forest in a cacophony of frightened creatures.

Silence returned. Reluctantly, Ares let the cold water calm him. He could not remember when he'd discovered it could do that, only that it was sometime after he buried Xena... The warm pools of Olympus had become revolting after that. Every time he'd try to immerse himself in their steaming, nectar-scented water, he could think only of Xena – purpled and lifeless, encased in ice – and no matter how good the wine, how attractive and willing the company, he could not bring himself to stay there. He'd seen more of the mortal world in the last twenty-five years than in all the previous millennia combined. It wasn't a pretty sight.

Now she was back, and she'd rejected him again. He'd tried to help, and she rejected him. She really hadn't changed a bit.

But dammit, he had! Why did she never believe him? He really was ready to give up Livia, all the plans he had for her, ready to confirm every word of Xena's story, even the parts he still wasn't too sure about, until their daughter became what Xena wanted her to be. He'd made the offer and he would keep his word, because there wasn't any more time to waste! How could she not see that? But no, the mere thought of being with him sickened her now! A rush of air tore from Ares' lungs, making him grit his teeth uselessly.

All right, he'd missed her. The world was deserted without her. The Fates knew, he'd had time enough for the whole seven-step mourning thing: numbness, denial, anger, lust for vengeance, despair, comprehension, acceptance... He'd managed to collect the whole set several times over. Except acceptance.

He wanted to punch the water again, to hit something, but let his fist drop, instead catching one of the tiny fish that kept flashing around him. It thrashed in his cupped hands as he brought it out of the water, cold rivulets running through his fingers. Finally it became still; only the pumping of its gills, frantic and futile, proved that it lived. Soon it, too, ceased. Disgusted, he flung the slimy creature back into the water. It floated for a moment – then its gills moved again and, with a flick of its tailfin, it disappeared below the surface.

It was a mortal, that fish. It had a will to survive, a deep-rooted instinct that made every mortal's life a useless struggle for immortality.

Except Xena's. Ares had lost count of the number of times she'd refused a chance to live forever. But even Xena had wanted it once, back when she'd embraced the primal within herself, honing her instincts instead of trampling them down. Immortality. The ultimate survival, an instinct deeper than desire, deeper than will – try as she might, even Xena could not erase it from her soul. Her awakening was proof enough of that.

Brightening a little, Ares regrouped his thoughts, beginning to see the new battle plan.

He was looking at things like a mortal. What he had to do was step back, take the god's eye view – which, come to think of it, wasn't all that grim. Xena was back, and he had a fully grown daughter who was more than competent with a sword and an army. A daughter, moreover, who was devoted to him, and was about to go to war in his name. Admittedly, so was her opponent, but that minor problem could be taken care of later. The important thing was that Xena wasn't keen on the idea. She wanted to take Eve away from the battlefield, and from him. Again.

Eve... Despite himself, Ares recalled the soft little baby he had held in his arms, her milky scent and gummy, childish smiles. Little Eve, and Livia. There was no link there, no connection. He could no longer see Livia as just one of his warriors, but neither was she that baby he had mourned with every fibre of his being, with every nightmare and scream on the battlefield, for years... No. Xena wasn't going to do this again. He wasn't going to bury either of them again, ever.

She wanted to get to Livia, tell her the whole implausible truth. Maybe she really expected the Champion of Rome to collapse into her arms, crying "Mummy!" – as though all those years had meant as little to her as they had to Xena. Well, he knew Livia. It wasn't going to happen. Whether or not she realised it, Livia was Roman to the core; her curiosity might make her listen to Xena's story of ice caves and missing babies, but her Roman pragmatism would win out in the end. She wouldn't believe it, not without evidence or the testimony of a witness she trusted. And that's where the God of War came in.

Xena needed him. She would see it eventually, and she would come to him for help.

Ares looked up at the grey-blue forest sky and felt suddenly dizzy with the depth of it. It seemed to go on forever. And yet he knew in a detached sort of way that it, too, ended, and other realms too strange for his knowledge began beyond it, and probably ended, too. Eternity was an illusion. It was a terrifying thought. It made Ares feel smaller somehow, insignificant; the sensation was a little too close to mortality. It reminded him yet again of way Xena had looked in the ice casket. There was a time he would have gladly parted with his own immortality just to be able to think about her like this – present and future, instead of forever in the past.

He looked back to the light on the water's choppy surface and made a decision. He'd waited long enough for a second chance. Now that he had it, he wasn't going to let it go, not without a fight. Xena didn't want their daughter at the head of an army, even a truly great army – fine. He didn't understand it, but he could live with it. He'd even help her. But if he was going to make sacrifices to her frostbitten principles, he deserved something in return. In fact it could be a win-win situation, if Xena could be persuaded to see it his way. Of course, persuading Xena to see things his way was always the tricky part, but this time the odds were definitely in his favour: Livia already did.

Abandoning the mortal charade, Ares emerged from the water fully clothed and walked directly into the aether.

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