Are you immortal?

To tell you the truth...I don't really know. All I know is...when the sun is up, I feel like I'm going to live forever. But when night comes...the next monster is going to get me for sure.

Deianeira (as played by Renee O'Connor) and Hercules, The Lost City.

kiraananke@hotmail.comm

She is a warrior, like Xena.

She is uncertain of her destination. It is a breathless experience, somewhat daunting. Euphoric...hardly. There is rage, at times, and grief that bends her to weak knees, and always remaining disbelief.

For years, she wandered. Fought. Prayed. Found herself captive to memory and to desire.

Egypt. How odd that he had been there as well. How typical that she had crumbled, allowed him to take control. He had led her through her darkest days and darkest nights, and had he not been called away, she knew now that the control would never have been regained.

Still, then she had been angry and alone, and in no mood for self-analysis. She had replaced his erotic scent, gentle touch, with wine. Opiates. Bloodlust. Xena had left her even in spirit, unable to bear the changes. Unable to face the guilt of her creation.

Gods, yes, she had blamed Xena. Foolish warrior, die for ungrateful souls. Leave the only one who cared starving.

Bloodlust had been the strongest pull. It was a hunger, once you found a way to numb the guilt. And it had never really gone away, for all her city dwelling and pretenses of gentility. She still touched the blade, gripped the chakram. Fought the fight, and occasionally surrendered to Ares and his maddening, enlivening war demands. He could touch her, almost as much as her foreigner in Egypt. Almost as much as Xena. Almost.

Eyes closing, the battling bard drew a cloth along her blade. War, what was it worth? A sword, a blade to slaughter? Does the nightly shining to avoid rust refute the fact that blood flowed across its surface? Who does she fool, with her noble teachings and her noble fights?

What is noble in death?

Years have passed since her return home, with Xena's ashes, and there are duties, rites, expectations. She would be lying to say that it has not occurred to her to fulfill any of them. She has no excuses.

There is a certain diabolical freedom in evenings out upon the town, late mornings celebrated with wine and fresh fruit.

She can only pray that the urn on the mantel does not damn her the weakness.

There are the people that have found their way to her door, of course. Allowed entrance, they smile warmly, falsely, glance around and attempt conversation. Eons ago, in the companionship of another, the attempts would have soared. Soon, they understand that this residence, this haven of hers, is that of a warrior princess, but not that of The Warrior Princess, and leave, discomfited. She does not mind the solititude...or so she attempts to believe.

He finds her again in the Ehyptian marketplace, and meets her gaze beyond swaying folds of imported silk. The moment is a study in choices, she realizes, for he, now, is perhaps the only one still capable of driving her directly into ways and self-examinations she would prefer to avoid. Has avoided, with impressive success.

There is a certain diabolical freedom in evenings out upon the town, late mornings celebrated with wine and fresh fruit.

He, now, is perhaps the only one still capable of rendering that freedom hollow. Kindling the ashes.

She walks away, aware that he follows, unaccountably pleased.

His grip is harsh when he catches her, yet his eyes are gentle, and she suspects that his voice would be as well, were words necessary. They are not. He does not attempt further injury, only examines. She allows the barrier to fall and does the same, granting that person she does not wish to be anymore free reign, free inner commentary. His hands travel over her hips, her arms, fevered, desperate, as if even human flesh is strange to him.

Somehow, she captures the strong hands, turning her head to meet his eyes, voice steady, surprisingly unchanged to her ears. She speaks rarely enough. "How long, my friend?"

How long had he been alone? How long had she been rotting spiritual dead? How long had they wasted? How long had they left?

His smile is heartbroken, warm, as if the faint touch is succor. "Too long, my friend."

Nodding, she surveys him. He is older. Again, this should not be a surprise, and yet somehow is. He is, after all, mortal, in a fashion, as is she.

Briefly, uneasily, she questions her own vibrant self-image. Suddenly, she wishes that he would speak once more, the barest word, desires to dissect the rise and fall, the inflections...does the voice remain ageless?

It is a trivial curiosity, and yet, unaccountably, not so. His voice, she is convinced, was once her salvation, her ballast...a calm amongst the storm of the gods and a beacon amongst the chaos of mortals. His voice, her light.If it has changed...

His large, battle-tanned hands frame her face, and she reads his lips, as if to draw sound from silence. None is forthcoming, but the word read is...beautiful. Beautiful. He repeats, smiling faintly, and somewhere, she feels the barrier shatter.

She is uncertain of her destination. It is a breathless experience, somewhat daunting.

She is a warrior, like Xena.

The realization falls years late, and she feels unaccountably hollow. His arms are still strong, still gentle, as he carries her into her haven, as if cradling a lost child. The bed is soft, and clean, and he seems to understand that there have been others in it as well, though she could not recall faces or names if pressed. His touch is fire, and time, and destiny, and silently, relentlessly, they cry together, in memory of a desire and a ghost. Fools. The word echos against her thigh, on her belly, higher, against her chest, as he touches and kisses. She agrees, tangling still soft fingers in his hair. They groan again, touching, kissing, waiting for the dawn.

The pain will not yield. Nor will it change what is. The Fates are the Fates and they...

They are only mortal.