I remember everything in my life as if it all happened just this morning. Sometimes my emotions run together in an elaborate tapestry of color and rush past me like a free flowing river. It is at those moments that I wish I could reach out my hand and steal one as it hurries by, that I might be transferred back to that place and time simply by willing it. But it is impossible. We all have our time don't we? For a while we are blessed with our youth, with strength, with vigor. Then comes experience, wisdom, clarity. Did I make the most of my life? Did I make all of the correct choices? Did I learn anything? Did I?did I live? To exist is easy; to really live is another matter altogether.
 

 
I glance down at my hands, callused with the evidence of years of hard work. If I stare at them long enough, I can still see them as they were in my glory days, and I can almost feel them as they curl securely around my staff. Once an extension of my very being, The staff leans wearily now against the side of the hut, near the door, and like me, it is long retired from its youth.
 

 
I stand by the window, looking out into the fading light. Dusk is coming on. For a moment, just a second, really, I reach for the staff and wrap my aging fingers around it. It still feels good in my hand and I know there is a fire and a light in my eyes that lingers there as my memories try to pull me back in time.
 
Suddenly I am there, in the middle of town, surrounded by Draco's slavers and, out of nowhere; she is there too. I am hardly more than a babe beginning a journey in life, unable to contain my excitement at what must surely lie ahead. She is beginning a journey of her own, cloaked in redemption, unable to forget what has come before. From that moment on, both our lives are changed forever.
 

 
A noise outside pulls me back to the present, although I don't want to come back just yet. I want to stay longer. I want to feel the sun on my seventeen-year-old face. I want to run and swim and dance on my twenty-year-old legs. I want to laugh and sing and spin tales out of my thirty-year-old mouth. For you see, I remember everything. I feel it, absorb it, drown in it. And my seventy-year-old mind treasures all of it with exuberance.
 

 
Over the crest of a small hill comes a horse. First one, then three or four more. They drift lazily down into a crevice in the side of the hill then upwards again into a small corral that these hands helped build so many years ago. I remember the day we came here. We had come so many times before, here to the Amazons, as healers, as allies, and often simply as friends. A war over boundaries had brought us that time, so off to the battle we went, and we fought alongside our friends until the offending party had been driven back where we felt they belonged. . It was not without cost, however, and among the wounded I lay, pierced through the chest with an arrow from which it would take me three full moons to recover.
 

 
I had been regaining strength slowly, but steadily and I faced each sunrise with appreciation. I knew how close it had been that time.
 
She was there with me, day after day, never wavering. She never wavered in anything. One night, as she sat by my bed long into the hours of darkness, she put her hand on my cheek, ran her fingers across it gently in a gesture of absolute tenderness and said, simply, "That's enough."
 

 
That was 40 summers ago, and we have been here ever since.
 

 
The sunlight catches the sharp edge of highly polished metal and reflects it back toward me. I find I cannot control the smile which has taken over my face. In a breath, a tall, slightly stooped figure emerges in the cloud of dust the horses have stirred with their passing. The leather and the battle armor have long been discarded in favor of more comfortable clothing, but the sword still rests in the scabbard that hangs from the aging back.
 
It's not as if she'll ever use it. She can remove it with ease, but the sheer weight of it prevents it from being of any real use anymore. I have always marveled at the grace with which she still moves, somehow fluid and strong all at the same time, stubborn pride always evident in her gait.
 

 
She closes the gate after the animals and heads toward the hut, the impossibly blue eyes meeting mine while she is still a good distance away. I am still smiling, and the lopsided grin that has been etched into my soul for all time comes to me from her gaze.. The blue eyes twinkle.
 
I have read the greatest works of literature, gazed upon revered paintings and peered into the faces of gods and kings, and yet there is nothing in this world that touches me more than that smile. I have seen it thousands of times, it is as familiar to me as my own countenance, and I know with certainty that I shall never tire of the sight.
 

 
Through the door she comes, the scabbard appropriately deposited on the small wooden table in the corner. She nods in my direction and a single word falls from her lips.
 

 
"Bard."
 

 
I grin. "Warrior." I answer.
 

 
Nothing more needs to be said, for it has already passed between us over many years and countless experiences. Even Sophocles in all his greatness would be at a loss to define it, this bond that exists and flourishes even in the twilight of our lives.
 

 
I glance over at her. She is sitting in a chair by the fire, the last rays of daylight filtering in through the open window. The eyes are closed, a peaceful expression settles on the face and deep, even breathing is the only sound. All at once my memories flood over me again, and I can see her, magnificent, powerful, strong.., all those things and more. Although she will never acknowledge it, all these good years seemed to have buried the bloodstained past forever. In a rush, love for this woman crashes over me like a wave, and settles comfortably in my soul. I speak.
 

 
"I'm so proud of you." I say, though I don't know exactly why.
 

 
The blue eyes open. The eyebrow arches. She smiles radiantly, then closes her eyes again.
 

 
I thank the powers that be that my memories of this life remain with me with unclouded brilliance. That the unavoidable passing of time has not stolen them from me, nor created even the tiniest of gaps between them. There is so much I want to say! I feel I must say?something, anything, to express the tide of emotion welling up inside of me. I open my mouth to speak, but no words come. Some bard, I chide myself.
 

 
She opens her eyes and looks at me. I speak, finally.
 

 
"Xena?"
 

 
"Yes?"
 

 
"We have seen..so many things. We have been?everywhere. What do you think is the single most magnificent thing, the most wonderful event.. the most important thing?.that you've ever experienced?"
 
"Out of everything?everything I've ever done?"
 

 
"Yes."
 

 
"That's not really a fair question, you know."
 

 
"I know. There's probably too many choices."
 

 
"No, that's not it."
 
"What do you mean?"
 

 
"I mean the answer is too easy. If you want to keep my mind sharp, you'll have to ask me something that requires some actual thinking." She grins.
 

 
"You've got to be kidding. Alright, humor the bard. What's the most important thing you ever did?" I lean forward, breathless, unable to believe this woman has an answer for me. Prometheus? No, that can't be it? Gotta be unchaining Death. Or, maybe?gods, she's done so many incredible things. How can she pick just one? I wait expectantly. She leans casually over the side of the chair.
 

 
"Well," she begins, her eyes sparkling in the light of the fireplace, "After Hercules convinced me to turn my life around, I happened to wander through this little village?let's see ?..it was called??oh yeah?..Potadeia." A satisfied smile on her lips, she settles back into her chair and begins to hum softly.
 

 
"I?umm.. ?and?"
 

 
"That's it, Gabrielle. That's the single most important thing I ever did."
 

 
She winks playfully, but the eyes shine with complete sincerity. And I, the bard, marvel at the warrior, who can say so much by saying so little. And I realize with unmistakable clarity that love, in any form, is the single most important thing.