Start All Over
By Absinthe
Disclaimers and warnings and stuff: Ahem. The characters of Xena: Warrior Princess obviously aren't mine, and no harm is meant by this author's little romp with them. I promise, the X:WP folks can have them back when I'm done. BUT, the story and characters contained below that aren't Universal's belong to me myself and I.
ALSO, I would like to say that there are some screaming grammatical errors below, but they are quite intentional. This story contains mention of a loving relationship between two women.
AND last, but not least, this story takes place after "Maternal Instincts" and is operating on the premise that there was no reconciliation after the events of that episode.
It's been over ten winters since she died, and I suppose I haven't gotten over it. I've become a little self absorbed, admittedly, but I didn't break my promise to her. I didn't become a monster. I thought for a long time that my light, the one she gave to me, would be enough to keep me going, but it wasn't. Silence and the sounds of bird song or wind in the trees called to me now more than the sounds of battle or the cries of those in need could. I sometimes wondered why I had allowed it to go on for so long -- why I hadn't killed myself. I had no answer to that question.
Today is a special day, and I've been dreading it for weeks. Today I go into Potediea for a few desperately needed supplies -- a new knife, thread, and other oddments that I can't make for myself. I sit and gather strength from my surroundings, my legs crossed, and my palms firmly pressed to the sun warmed stone beneath them. Green hills roll away before me in waves like the ocean's, only these waves are dotted with twisted silver trees and random worn rocks. It is the sight of a rabbit breaking cover and dashing across my line of sight that causes me to leave my haven. If I don't go soon, it will be too late and the markets will close up for the day.
With heavy feet I take a barely visible foot path through the trees, out towards the road that would take me into town. A candlemark later, I see a few fellow travelers. They, for the most part, ignore me, though I can tell that they are giving me the same surreptitious scrutiny that I am giving them. It's funny how life can change you. There was a time when these same people would have run in fear at the sight of me, and another time when there would have been titters of amazement that they'd seen the "warrior princess". Now I am just a vagrant to them, unrecognizable in my home made leathers and toned down amazon jewelry. That is the way I want it.
In the bustling market, I slip uneasily through the crowd, jumping every time someone bumps into me. At the kiosks, I trade for what I need, though I am almost sure I am being taken advantage of; I never had her skills for bargaining. As I am about to turn to leave, a pile of fresh parchment catches my eye, and I reach out to finger a corner of a sheet longingly. The merchant lady smiles and starts to say something, but as she opens her mouth, shouting breaks out behind us and I hear -- no, sense -- the whistle of a throwing knife cutting through the air. Instinct alone causes my hand to dart out and snatch it from its trajectory, straight into the chest of the merchant.
I turn, ignoring the woman's hysterical gratitude and take stock of the street brawl that has started up. Unthinkingly I wade into it, feeling the sting in my knuckles as I land blow after blow. As the men realize that someone is interfering with their fun, though, they unite and I am faced with more opponents than I, in my current state anyway, can take on. I do my best, but it isn't long before my lack of practice catches up with me and I see an explosion of light behind my eyes. Blackness wells up and fills my mind as the ground rises to meet me.
I wake up with a headache that would have felled hephaestus. Slowly and reluctantly my eyes open to the sight that I know will be unpleasant. Just how unpleasant it actually is, however, I am unprepared for. I use my bound hands to push myself upright and try to ignore the whirling spots I have to look through to see my surroundings. There are maybe two dozen men and 20 or so women stationed about the tent, each wearing a heavy collar and wrist shackles, each chained to a stake with just enough chain to touch fingertips to their neighbors.
"Oh, she's awake," someone nearby whispers. I meet the gaze of my closest neighbor, a painfully thin and fragile looking beauty of a girl.
"You've been out for four candlemarks," she says.
I am momentarily lost in the depth of her eyes, and I sense a touch of delirium in my feverish thoughts.
"Do you have any water?" I manage to get out around my thirst swollen tongue.
The girl nods and calls the word, "bucket", and soon a plain bucket half full of tepid wa
ter is thrust into my hands. I tip it up clumsily and drink a few mouthfuls. It tastes of other people.
"My name is Erykah," she says when I am done.
"Where are we?" I ask.
"Mmmm. I don't know for sure, they keep us on the back roads," she frowns, "but I can tell you who picked you up. His name is Chaymon, and in case you hadn't noticed, he's a slaver. Looks like you knew that though, and you put up quite the fight."
She calls attention to the blood that is clotting my hair. I touch it woozily and feel the stickiness of my shirt on my back. The tent flap rustles behind me and Erykah's eyes widen. The reflection in her eyes is upside down but I still use it to take aim. When the guard is close enough I swing with my bound fists and almost immediately regret it. The impact leaves my head swimming to the point that I don't even enjoy the brute's groan. He recovers quickly, or perhaps I lose track of time, but it is only moments before he stands up and lets fly a kick in retribution that brings the blackness back into my vision. Before I realize his intentions, he takes hold of the ropes binding my wrists and drags me unceremoniously outside. The sun makes my eyes tear and before I have a chance to focus, I find myself at the feet of a lean, predatory looking man.
He finishes a conversation with someone I can't see before peering down at me. I blink up through my blood and dirt matted hair. I take it that this man is Chaymon. He squats down and pulls my head up by the hair. Gritting my teeth I glare at him, but the effort is wasted.
"I hear you gave my men quite the fight today," he chuckles before dropping my hair, "Hmm. Not too bad. Too bad you're so old."
He stands up, chuckling a little, "I see her as something of a gladiator. Take her to Pymer, get her cleaned up, then I want her collared."
My guard nods his assent and drags me elsewhere, then through a tent flap into a smaller canvas structure that smells of spices and herbs.
"Got another one for you," the brute announces.
"Leave us," a soft but still harsh masculine voice replies, and my guard leaves to stand outside. A grey bearded man comes to stand in front of me and pushes my head forward so that he can probe, none too gently I might add, the back of my head. I see spots again, but say nothing. He examines my teeth and clucks disapprovingly before lifting my tunic and grunting in surprise at the network of scars that I know are there.
"How old are you?" He asks.
"I don't know," I say, which is the truth. I stopped keeping track of that long before the other half of my soul died. He feels my ribs, which, I also know, are crooked from being broken and healed repeatedly. Finally he finds the tattoo over my hip. It is in the shape of my chakram, and I shudder involuntarily when he touches it. Finally he resettles my shirt and looks me in the face. I see his eyes are hard and flint colored.
"Who are you? No lies, woman," he warns, jerking roughly at a strand of my hair.
"My name is Minya . . . I am, no, I was an Amazon," I quickly supply, hoping to account for the battle wear. He says nothing more about it, but I know he doesn't believe me.
"And the tattoo? What does it mean?"
For that I have no answer, I can't think rationally like this.
"I rather thought so," he replies, taking my silence for the admission that in was. As if in reply to my painfully obvious attempt at deception, he takes out a knife and begins sawing through the knotted mess of my hair.
"If you were young enough to go to a harem or to be a servant for someone, I'd be able to leave it, but . . ." he manages to sound a l m o s t apologetic. When he is done I have hair that hangs down to my jaw, or at least that is what it feels like. He summons the guard again, and again I am dragged outside, beginning to feel the wear of rope on my wrists, I do not struggle this time.
This time I land at the feet of a stocky, sweaty man who is also obviously a slave. He measures my neck with his moist, meaty hands and lumbers off. He returns with a bronze collar and four smaller rings. My guard hauls me to my numbed feet and loops my arms over a hook sunk into the trunk of a tree so that I can't get loose no matter how I try, and I do try. They laugh, and I stop, glaring at them both. The smith seats the collar around my neck while my guard holds my legs down against the tree hard enough for the bark to leave little abrasions. A rod is inserted through the joining of the two halves of the collar, bent and broken off. Nothing will remove this collar now but a very skilled blacksmith . . . not without taking my head off too. I snarl and spit at them, raging, and I am glad to feel something again, even if it is only fury.
My struggles abate a little with the hopelessness of the situation and I more or less allow them to fasten the anklets and wristlets. Chains are attached, and at last the ropes are cut away. I think for a moment that I am done, but I am wrong. My guard roughly turns me to face the tree, and this time I feel that my ankles are being bound to it's trunk. The smell of hot iron give me enough warning that I bite my tongue and do not scream when they brand me. It's just a tiny burn mark, really, in the shape of a C on my left shoulder blade. I smell my skin burning, and when they at last let me down, my knees nearly give way.
My stomach roils, and I barely contain my desire to vomit. Back in the tent, things are just as I left them, only this time, I too am chained to a stake. I make a halfhearted effort at pulling it up, but I am too exhausted, and I collapse on the hard ground, cradling my head on my arms and trying to ignore the burning in my shoulder.
"Your hair!" Erykah exclaims sympathetically.
"It'll grow back. Tell me, Erykah, how long have you been with Chaymon?" I say, without raising my head.
"About . . . three weeks," she says, after counting off on her fingertips. I sigh, and I try to imagine her as a concubine. The thought only serves to nauseate me further.
"And how long does someone usually stay with him before he sells them?"
"I don't know. I haven't been here all that long, but they say that we're near Athens," her eyes widen fearfully, "Where do you think I'll wind up?"
Three weeks and already she is resigned to remaining a slave the rest of her life. I close my eyes for a second. The slavers Dagnon used to traffick with kept their slaves for at least three months before taking them to market. A well trained, broken in slave is worth far more than a wild and untamed person.
At sunset, everyone is asleep, and a few are snoring. They are all exhausted. I try to stay awake, the fever in my body is rising, and I feel like I might not wake up, but I can't help myself. The dreams come. I wake up screaming as Erykah tries to calm me. She thinks I am afraid of Chaymon, but I cry now not for the future but for the past. I have lived in the past for the last 10 winters, and this does nothing to change that. But the fever has passed overnight, and things can only improve.
At dawn, we are awakened by the arrival of four guards bearing two long tent poles from some structure that has already been dismantled. We are about to get under way. One by one they unchain the prisoners and thread a pole through their leads, creating two strings of slaves, one male and one female. I stand ramrod straight; the blush of fury on my face will not be mistaken for shame.
By early morning we are walking the dusty road, a rider at the head and tail of each string of slaves. The wagons of supplies travel ahead of us, and we cough on the dirt they kick up. We are not far from Potediea, I realize. Some of the travelers we pass on the road are familiar. Some pretend that we are not there, others stare openly. I stare back when I can, until they look away in shame.
We walk for candlemarks straight with a few rests for the horses. Midafternoon found Erykah flagging. She is too skinny, and not even three weeks have acclimated her to this life. She stumbles, but if she falls, her neck will take the weight. I reach forward and steady her. She tosses a grateful smile over her shoulder and we continue on.
The sun is low in the sky when two horses drop back to ride on either side of our line.
"This one?" Chaymon asks, pointing to me, "The one that gave Tylsian the concussion and all the rest?"
"Yes. She is not who or what she claims, of that I am sure," Pymer says casually. Chaymon silently observes me from atop his grey horse, but I pretend to be too worn out by the long walk to notice them. In actuality my head still pounds and my body aches a little, but nothing more.
"Hmm. Have her brought to my tent when we strike camp tonight," the slaver says, and spurs his horse back up to the head of the caravan.
At dusk the well oiled machine of Chaymon's organization set up camp in less than a candlemark. The new captives are returned to the same large tent and given something to eat. This is our daily meal, I am told. I shrug and silently toy with the travel rations. Erykah is talking, but I cannot focus on her words. It isn't long until my guard from the day before appears and I am taken to a medium sized tent.
Inside, Pymer and Chaymon are having an involved conversation. My guard clears his throat, but Chaymon continues to ignore him. I peer about me at the well appointed tent. It is lushly set up, but nothing is too decadent and all is easily portable. I had always kept a relatively Spartan tent, and this won my disapproval. Finally, Chaymon looked at us. He dismissed the guard, who fastened my hands to a post before leaving. The chains between my feet have not been replaced; their absence was the only thing for which I was grateful on the day's journey.
"So Pymer, show me this tattoo," the ass demands. Pymer steps up to me and raises my shirt to reveal it. I purse my lips but do nothing. I resolve to save my anger for the healer's master. Pymer points out the tattoo, the scars, and my misshapen ribs. I doubt that Chaymon can make any of it out in the dim light. As if to confirm this, he comes closer and leans forward to look at them. I twist and connect solidly with my foot and the heavy manacle thereon. Chaymon's face makes a satisfying crunch. He falls back into a camp table, and Pymer calls for a guard while using a tablecloth to mop up the blood already covering his master's face.
The guard just outside runs in, and, surveying the scene, raises a fist to hit me. I catch his hand in one of mine. My left hand hangs uselessly from the right one, and my eyes never leave his, which are bugging out of his head as he stares at his hand. I squeeze a little harder and hear bones breaking. The blood drains from his face. I marvel at how difficult it is to make him fall to his knees and remember a time when this was second nature. I twist and break his wrist, finally sending him with a scream onto his knees just as four other guards run into the tent, one of them still wearing part of his dinner. I drop the brute's crushed fist and raise my hands to defend myself as best I can with my limited freedom of movement. Mostly I use my legs, my hands are pretty useless now.
They attack at once, but it takes Chaymon's interference to take me down. He hauls hard on the leash that's attached to my collar, and I stand my ground for a moment or two before losing my balance. Two of the big men pin me down, I spit and snarl at the one on my chest.
Chaymon stands at my head, his booted feet dangerously close to my ears. He is still swabbing blood off of his face. The guard with the broken fist stands behind him, his mangled hand cradled by his other arm. Chaymon draws his foot back and snarls, on the verge of kicking me in the head again. Then he stops and laughs.
"Yes, yes I think you'll definitely make a fine gladiator, whoever you are. Try anything like that again, anything at all, and two slaves die. Understand?" he asks coldly.
"And why should I care if you destroy your own merchandise?" I snarl back, still panting a little.
"Oh I think you do. Think I didn't see that little display of concern this afternoon. I think you've got a soft spot for that little weakling brunette," he smiles unpleasantly and turns to ‘broken hand', "You'll be responsible for spreading the word about her once we get to Athens. I want to get her off of my hands as soon as possible."
I am surprised to find myself returned to my spot next to Erykah. She is already sleeping fitfully and I try to join her. I wake before dawn according to my normal custom, and discover that her head is resting on the small of my back, still quite asleep. I try not to disturb her and lay still as long as I can stand it. My head feels better. I let my mind wander back in time, and I think about my friends. I make up stories about them sometimes to ward off the darker thoughts. To keep the Destroyer out of my mind. I wonder what has become of Hercules and Iolaus; of the centaurs, of Cleopatra, of Helen. The list of names goes on, and I am amused by these wonderings for a little while at least. And I to try to avoid wondering about Gabrielle. I miss her so badly, but force myself to give up kicking myself about her death. She wouldn't want me to. She gave her life for her people, though I know that if only I had been with her during the battle.. If only...
A squeaky yawn rouses me from my self pity. Erykah has awakened. She begins to apologize profusely for using me as a pillow. I just smile and reassure her that it really is ok. I used to sleep that way all the time. Different woman though.
We spend that day traveling and it is identical to the previous, nearly eternal day. At the end, I am taken to Chaymon's tent, though this time, Pymer is notably absent. I am made to kneel in the trampled grass outside the slaver's abode with my hands chained tightly behind me and my feet chained so closely together that I cannot walk even if I were to try. He paces contemplatively in a circle around me.
"Who are you?" he says at last.
"Minya."
"No, I think not. There's something terribly familiar about you," he goes on.
"Aren't you getting tired of this crap yet?"
"As a matter of fact, I am. So why don't you end it? Just tell me who you are, and you can go get some rest. Just a name is all I ask," he smiles. I turn my head away from him. The longer I can avoid telling him who I am, the more time I have. There are all sorts of people who still want my blood...or body as a trophy, but either way, most people think I am long dead. There's No reason to have this guy broadcasting my whereabouts all over the bloody place. Chaymon shouts and in response the doorway parts and a guard with two good hands leads a meek Erykah out of the tent and into the waning sunlight.
"Now that you two have had a little time to bond, I want you to know Woman, that every time you give me an answer I don't like, she suffers," he smiles again, circling menacingly behind Erykah. The girl isn't looking well. She might not survive the journey if Chaymon decides to make things any harder for her. I nod my comprehension to my captor. So much for being incognito.
"My name is Xena of Amphipolis," I say, adding my hometown to be sure that he does not mistake me. Chaymon is surprisingly un surprised.
"Ah. That's the one, you know, rumor has it you're dead," he laughs. That's the way it's supposed to be you son of a hydra. I think.
"But then again, before long everyone is going to know differently," Chaymon is lost in thought for a moment, "You know, you almost put my father out of business back when you were running around trying to save mankind. I want her isolated from the rest. And, tomorrow we'll take a break. I want to see if she's as good as they say she is."
Chaymon waves a dismissal to his men, and Erykah and I are split up. She gives me one last look of awe before she disappears into the slave tent.
I spend the night outside, and stay awake most of the night thinking. The stars are bright and cold through the screen of leaves and branches overhead. I could kill Chaymon first chance I get, but the question is, what will his guards do? How loyal are they? There is absolutely no chance for help from the outside as far as I can see, and even less of a chance that any of the slaves that had been with Chaymon for a while had keys to these blasted locks. I am actually beginning to feel the old fire again. I think I'm going to make it through this.
That night I have an old, familiar nightmare.
I am standing in front of a funeral pyre. I have seen so many of my loved ones burned that at first I don't know who it's for. But then, I realize that it isn't me, but Ephiny who is singing the funeral dirge, and I look to my left, and there stands Gabrielle. Light from a second fire dances off the tears that cover her face. I realize then, that it is Solan and Hope's funeral I am watching. Ephiny's song ends, and the other mourners leave us alone. They all know now that I am Solan's mother. What does it matter who knows anymore? Gabrielle tries to apologize, but I cannot bear to hear her voice. I can't listen to her speak my son's name when his death is all her fault.
"Don't you DARE speak his name." I feel the tears start down my face. "YOU LIED TO ME, and if it weren't for you, my son would still be alive!" He wanted to live with us! I was going to tell him! I was going to give him the mother he always wanted! And it was all gone. As my bard walks away into the dark, I invariably wake up.
I wake from a light sleep, drenched in tears and sweat. Dust clings to my clothes and skin and I long for a bath. My chains rattle as I raise my hand to wipe my face and the shackles are a cruel reminder of my current situation. The crisp white moonlight shines off the bronze as I stare out into nothing. I want only to stand up, to stretch my legs and walk around, but it seems that I am ignored forever as the camp wakes up.
The sunrise is fantastic; one worthy of Gabrielle's parchment I am sure. The camp bustles with life before the orange fades from the sky. Women trudge to get water for cooking, and the guards stomp around acting superior. Occasionally someone comes within a few feet of me, but I am still largely left alone. The slaves cast a few surreptitious glances at me and I imagine that they know who I am and I am now merely an object of curiosity to them. At long last, broken hand and a well armed stranger approach and crouch a safe distance away from me. The stranger, his sword clanking against his leg, stares openly.
"Xena the unconquerable," he sneers, "I find this hard to believe . . ." he gestures at my short hair -- hair that I know now to be shot through with silver, "undone by chronos and band of cheap slavers." He laughs hysterically for a moment.
"Now to business though. I'm to try you out, but mind you if you make one false move, your little friend dies."
I glare harshly at him, knowing that not even the years have changed the steely look of my eyes. It seems that everyone I touch suffers. I am beginning to remember why I was living alone for so long. My feet are liberated and I am led to a practicing area that is ringed with people. Chaymon himself holds Erykah. Without preamble, my arms are freed. The man with the noisy sword tosses his weapon to one of his comrades. I the moment his attention is on his sword, I could take him out, but I bide my time. My opponent then turns his full attention upon me, stepping into a fighting posture. His scars speak of experience, but his stance speaks of a lack of training. I wink at him as he lunges at me. I lean out of his reach. We play in this way for a while, feeling each other out, before the fight really begins.
Once he really launches his offensive, I allow him to push me back towards Chaymon. I start fighting back, deliberately trying to anger him and slowly the sneer on his face turns into a grimace of anger and embarrassment. I am really pissing him off now, and enjoying myself immensely. It's been too long. As I maneuver us closer to Chaymon, I sense the increase in tension as the guards prepare to defend themselves should I try to free Erykah. I am getting nowhere, so I allow my opponent to press the fight away from the slaver. As the guards nearest Chaymon begin to relax a bit, I step back from my opponent and make my move. I leap into the air, flipping over his head, and then continue to handspring wildly until I halt breathlessly near Chaymon, wrenching the blade from his hand, and pulling Erykah away from him. I knock him senseless with the hilt of his own knife. Spotting the slave that I remember as having sized and fastened my collar and cuffs, I shove Erykah to him. I can only hope that he will protect the girl. She stumbles to the ground at his feet, terrified. I turned my attention to the guards that are trying to surround me.
My legs are already starting to ache, and before I close with the first of the guards, I vow silently never to neglect my drilling routines again. Taking the initiative, I kick the nearest man full in the chest. He staggers backwards, leaving an opening through which I dart to pick up a discarded sword, meanwhile flinging Chaymon's knife into the chest of another man. I twirl my new weapon experimentally before attacking. I hear Chaymon approach from behind, but this time I hear him coming and hit him easily with the hilt of the sword. The sound of his body hitting the ground brings a savage smile to my lips, but I am wearing down and beginning to make mistakes.
Now for the fun, Wayne's World Style.
CHOOSE XENA's DESTINY!
Big Downer Ending (Please read with cookie and hot chocolate in hand)
or the Scooby Doo Ending
LASTLY, (cuz you didnt' really think we were gonna end the story like that did you?) the
Mega Happy Ending
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Email: absinthe@earthling.net