The Birth Of Solan by Eva Allen--Part 1

DISCLAIMER: Characters which have appeared in the TV series Xena: Warrior Princess or Hercules: The Legendary Journeys are the sole property of MCA/Universal and Renaissance Pictures. Their use in this story does not represent the intent to make a profit or otherwise infringe on the existing copyright. All other characters are the clever invention of the author. Copyright for this fanfiction held by Eva Allen, July 1998

BE ADVISED: This story includes the depiction of sex between two consenting adult women. If this offends you, please find something else to read! Special thanks to Mary for taking time to read, advise, and encourage. And thanks to Jeanne for answering my many questions about giving birth and nursing.

Constructive criticism and unadulterated praise are always welcome! Write to me at

The Birth of Solan


All day the dull, cramplike sensations had come and gone, moving through her body like a long, tired funeral procession. But later, in the darkness of the night, when the pains began in earnest, she started to hope that her time was near at last. Even so, she did not move, but lay there on her side in the darkness, waiting for what was to come. She lay unmoving, staring at the thin cloth walls of the tent, wondering how they managed to support such a heavy weight of moonlight and shadows.

She had not really been asleep when the pains began, had not slept well for weeks now, with the child kicking and shifting inside her each time her own body was still. So she had lain there, night after night, on the low, fur-covered bed where she had once lain with Borias, and sometimes she still reached out without thinking, reached out for his warm, sinewy body, and found only cold, empty air.

She lay there now, alone in the darkness. She lay in the place where she and Borias had lusted and panted for each other, moaning and sweating, bruising and cursing each other in the power struggle they called sex. On this bed where she now lay, the child had been conceived, the child they had neither dreamed of nor wanted, the child who had no place in the lives of two warlords driven only by the desire for wealth and power.

For a time, there was no more pain, and then it came again, pushing its way sharply through her body before fading away. There was no need to go yet, no need to move, even, no need to do anything but wait. Outside the tent, men's voices and footsteps sifted through the night. It was the changing of the guard, which meant it must be nearly midnight.

She had kept her secret well, had guarded it as zealously as the centaurs guarded the secret location of the Ixion stone. Thank the gods it was winter and she could wear a heavy cloak to hide her swollen belly. Even on the warmest days she wore it, keeping it draped carefully about her so that it hid the grotesquely misshapen figure that was now hers. The cloak had been her salvation, the cloak and some old tunics that had belonged to Borias. She had worn his trousers, too, with darts cut in them and a drawstring loosely run through and tied above the swelling -- the swelling that grew within her day by day, threatening to reveal her weakness and give her army reason to question her command. She could not lose control, could not show herself to be weak in any way. She was the Warrior Princess, Destroyer of Nations, delighting in the terror she saw in her victims' eyes.

She had not even told Borias that she was pregnant, had been afraid to let him gain the upper hand. Yet he had gained it anyway, betraying her to the enemy, going to the centaur camp and revealing all her plans to Kaleipus. That filthy bastard Borias, that scum, that low-down dirty dog! He had once wanted the power of the Ixion stone as much as she did, but he had turned on her, and in some fit of cowardly nobility had betrayed her quest.

Another pain moved through her and she eased herself over onto her back in a futile effort to relieve her discomfort. When the pain had passed, she pushed herself up to a sitting position, hating the awkwardness with which she was forced to move, hating the pain she knew had barely begun, hating the child within her and the man who had fathered that child, the man who had betrayed her. And this hadn't been the first time. He had betrayed her once before, in the land of Chin, had betrayed her to Ming Tzu, who had had her hunted like an animal by his dogs. Borias had never loved her, had never cared about her except insofar as she was useful to his purposes. Nor had she loved him. Their relationship had been nothing but a battlefield, a place where each one tried to outsmart and use the other in a bid to gain the ultimate power. Well, she had won, in the end. Borias had betrayed her, but he was dead now. He had paid for his betrayal with his worthless excuse for a life.

But if she had told him, what then? If he had known that she carried his child, would he have been as quick to betray her? She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around her chest, rocking slowly back and forth. She had not known, herself, had not admitted that she could be with child until she was into her fourth month. The morning sickness, the missed moontime bleedings, the thickening of her waistline -- all of these she had ignored or explained away. And when at last she could disregard the signs no longer, she had tried to rid herself of the child, having heard old women whisper that such things could be done. She had sought out a healer, a man known for his skill with herbs. She had gone to his hut, and had stood looking at the multitude of dried and packaged herbs, knowing there must be some among them which would achieve her purpose. She had gone there and begged him for the herbs that would cure her, had begged and pleaded to be relieved of the burden she carried. But he had refused to hear her pleas, had turned away, saying he was a healer, not a murderer. He had scorned her and called her a wanton killer, a destroyer of life. He had withheld from her what she needed so desperately, and no amount of money she offered him or even rough threats could make him change his mind.

Another pain came, and she waited with bowed head for it to pass, remembering now the old woman she had visited, a creature with clawlike hands and a strange, raspy voice. The old woman had cast a spell, using many smoky incantations, a spell which she claimed would bring the birth to pass long before the proper time. But the spell had not worked. The thickening and swelling of her body had continued against her will, and although she rode hard and fought hard and took long swims in cold lakes and encouraged Borias to vent all the force of his passion on her body, nothing produced the result she so desired. Day after horrible day, the child continued to grow within her, and she knew that Borias would soon notice, would soon perceive her weakness. She knew she could not keep her secret from him much longer.

But on the very night she had meant to tell him -- that very night he had come to her talking like a madman, talking of a change of heart, professing his admiration for the centaurs, for their honesty and courage. He had tried to persuade her to give up her quest for the Ixion stone, but she had refused. She wanted -- no, desperately needed -- the power it would give her, needed that power now, especially, when her condition rendered her so vulnerable. She needed all the wicked power trapped within the stone, needed it to conquer all her enemies, to conquer the whole world, and to destroy Caesar, above all. If Borias didn't want to share in her conquests, that was fine, but she herself would not be dissuaded.

She should have seen it coming, his betrayal, should have recognized his unexplained absences and increasing moodiness as signs. But so preoccupied was she by then with her pregnancy that her ears refused to listen and her eyes refused to see. The morning after their confrontation, he was gone -- gone to betray her to the enemy, to those despicable, not-even-human centaurs he now claimed to admire.

With a heavy sigh, she wrapped one of the furs around herself and staggered clumsily to her feet. She had gone to bed with all her clothes on, even her boots, which she had taken to leaving on anyway because it was so difficult these days to reach them to lace them up. And besides that, they served to lend support to her swollen ankles. Slowly, she began to pace back and forth within the confines of the tent, to pace as she had so many nights over the worn rugs that covered the dry, matted grass. The tent had stood on this spot for almost three weeks now, the length of time her army had held the centaurs under siege. Borias' betrayal had given the initial advantage to the enemy, and they had used it to drive her forces back. But she had quickly seized control, regrouping the men, inspiring them, and leading them into battle again and again, until at last the centaurs were trapped, cornered like rats behind their fortifications.

Yes, she had them where she wanted them now, surrounded and at her mercy. She felt certain she could crush them with one last, all-out offensive, yet she waited. She waited for the centaurs to run out of food and arrows, to weaken and perhaps surrender -- although they had proved such fierce fighters that she doubted they would. She told her impatient troops that they were waiting for the centaurs to weaken so that they could be more safely attacked, but in reality she was waiting only for her child to be born. No longer able to haul her heavy body into the saddle, she could not ride, as she should, at the head of the attacking force. And so, day after day, the siege dragged on, the siege which her men hated, but which she welcomed as good fortune. Soon it would be over, though. Once the child was out of her body -- and she hoped that within a few hours now it would be -- she needed only a day or so to recover and the final battle could begin.

She smiled, thinking of the victory that would be hers, then grimaced as another, sharper contraction took hold of her. Stopping near one of the center tent poles, she gripped it with both hands and leaned her head against it. Her labor had surely begun. She felt certain the time was near, but how long should she wait? The midwife had told her she would have plenty of time, that first babies almost always took many hours to be born. Still, she would feel better if she could get out of the camp, away from anyone who might hear if she cried out or made some other sound. Yes, she would go very soon.

But when the pain had subsided, she stood, still clutching the tent pole, feeling, if not frightened, then at least profoundly alone. "Borias," she murmured, and in spite of the rage she still felt toward him, at that moment she wished for nothing more than to feel the comfort of his arms around her.

She had sent three of her best men out to capture him, had sent Estragon, Dagnine, and Cretus. She had sent them with the strictest orders that Borias was to be brought to her unharmed. She had given them to understand that she wanted to deal with him herself, that she planned to avenge his betrayal in her own chosen way. And she had her plan all ready, her trap neatly set. She would punish him with his own remorse, would take his hand and lay it on her swollen belly, would let him feel the child kick and move, the child he had planted within her. When he learned the full extent of his betrayal, he would be sorry, she knew. He would come back to her then, and they would make up just as they always did, with a night of wild passion, rutting like animals on a bed covered with animal skins. She remembered now that she had smiled, thinking about how it would be, anticipating the excitement and the pleasure of it.

But late that night Estragon had come to tell her that Borias was dead, that they had found his sword-pierced body in the woods near the centaur camp. And she had been totally unprepared for the chilling pain that clutched her gut, or for the way her hands began to tremble uncontrollably. She could not even speak at first, but luckily there was no need to do so. Estragon had talked blithely on, as if he were delivering the best of news. He told her they had left the body for the centaurs to discover, having first performed a few mutilations well befitting the traitor dog Borias had been. Let the centaurs honor him if they had a mind to, he had said, laughing. Let them honor him as the hero they apparently believed him to be.

She had responded then, at last, had said something like it was about time someone killed the bastard, or something lame like that. Then she had thanked Estragon and dismissed him with the order that she was not to be disturbed again that night. After which she had spent the long, torturous hours in the tent alone, alternately pacing and lying, unsleeping, on the bed. How had it happened? Who had killed him? Had her own men done it? They would deny it, she knew, but she also knew their anger at Borias' betrayal was almost as great as her own. Or maybe someone in the centaur camp had done it, had wanted to make it look as if she were the murderer. In the end, it did not matter. Both the centaurs and her own men would believe she had ordered him killed.

There had been so many times when she had thought she wanted him dead, but now that he was, she felt no relief. He had managed to betray her once again, had betrayed her one last time, leaving her alone to deal with the odious burden of her pregnancy. It had been the ultimate betrayal, and she pictured him now, watching her from the Other Side, watching and laughing at her in that irritating way he had, and she hated him for it. She hated him for betraying her, for impregnating her and then leaving her. She hated him for being dead. And through all the hours of that long, dark night, she had nursed her hatred, had clung to it like a life raft in an angry sea, had used it as a shield to keep herself from knowing, to keep herself from feeling what she did not want to feel, to keep herself from missing him as she did, with every fiber of her being.

* * * * *

She released her hold on the tent pole and began to pace again. Her memories had grown as heavy as the unborn child within her. She did not want those memories, did not need or want the added burden of them. She felt another pain beginning, but she set her mind against it, ignoring it as she paced steadfastly back and forth within the tent. Were the pains coming closer together? She could not tell for sure. Certainly they were coming regularly now, as they had not earlier in the day. Was it time to go, or should she wait a while longer? She came to an abrupt halt as she felt a sudden rush of warm liquid pouring down her legs, soaking her trousers and running into her boots. Embarrassed to think that she had lost control of her bodily functions, she ran one hand over the wet fabric and sniffed her fingers. It was not urine, she realized with relief. Her water had broken. It was time to go.

Shrugging off the fur she had wrapped around her shoulders, she dropped it on the bed and picked up her heavy woolen cloak. Putting this on, she moved to the opening of the tent, pushed aside the flap, and stepped outside. The camp was drenched in moonlight, a thick, oppressive moonlight which revealed no human activity, but only the long rows of tents standing still as stones. She crossed to a small tent nearby, hesitated briefly at the doorway, and then ducked inside. Four figures wrapped in blankets lay sleeping on the ground. Approaching one of these, she bent down as far as she was able and nudged it with her toe. "Deros," she whispered.

"Huh?" the young man mumbled, then turned over and peered up at her with sleepy eyes. "Xena?"

"I need you to deliver a message for me," she said, still in a whisper.

"Right now?"

"Yes. Come outside."

She backed out of the tent and moved a few paces away to wait for him in the shadow of a tree. In a few moments he emerged, his feet in unlaced boots and a blanket clutched around his shoulders.

"I'm sorry to wake you," she said softly when he came to where she stood, "but I need you to take an urgent message to the village. Do you know where the blacksmith's shop is?"

"Yes," he said, nodding. "I was there two days ago when I took Darphus' horse to be shod."

"Good," she said. "There's a house next to the shop, on the east side, with a small fig tree in the yard. Go there and ask for Calandra. Tell her Xena sent you to say that the moon has risen."

"The moon has risen," he repeated, giving her a quizzical look. "Is that the whole message?"

"Yes. She'll know what it means."

"Should I wait for an answer?"

"No. Just come back here when you've delivered it. And then at first light I want you to go to Darphus and tell him--" She stopped, gritting her teeth as another pain ran through her, hoping Deros could not see her face in the shadows.

"And tell him what?" the messenger asked. "I'm sorry," said Xena as soon as she was able to speak again. "I thought I heard something."

He glanced around apprehensively.

"No, don't worry," she said quickly. "It was just my imagination."

"So what should I tell Darphus?"

"Tell him that I had some business to take care of and that it may be a day or two before I get back. Until then, he's in charge. He knows what to do to maintain the siege."

 "All right," said Deros. "Is there anything else?"

"No, that's all," she said, "But Deros," she added, moving closer and putting her hand on his shoulder, "don't tell anyone about your trip into the village. That message is to be delivered in the strictest confidence. Can I count on you?"

"Of course, Commander," he said with a grin. "Have I ever let you down?"

"No, you haven't," she said, squeezing his shoulder and then releasing it. "You've been a trustworthy aide and a brave fighter. In fact, I've been wondering whether you wouldn't make a good scout for me -- if you think you would like that kind of work."

"Yes, I think I'd like it very much!"

"Good. Next week I'll arrange for you to start training. Now go and deliver my message."

"Consider it done, Xena," he said, and with a salute-like wave, he turned and disappeared into his tent.

She walked slowly back to her own tent and slipped inside. Picking up her sword, she hooked its scabbard to a strap which she then looped over her right shoulder so that the sword hung down her back. In the past, she had worn the weapon on a belt at her waist -- in the past, when life was simpler and there had been no need to hide her body under a heavy cloak. But the past was gone now and the present required her to make certain adjustments.

Moving about the tent in the cloth-filtered moonlight, she opened a wicker chest and knelt in front of it, pulled out a clean tunic and then dug down until she found an old, loose-fitting chiton. She had not worn the garment for many months, but she hoped to wear it again soon, maybe tomorrow, as soon as this ordeal was over, as soon as the child was out of her, and her body had resumed a more normal shape. And then, within a couple of days, she would surely be able to wear her leathers again, her leathers and her armor -- the battle dress she had so missed wearing during these last few months.

The cold, damp trousers clinging to her legs made her wish she had a dry pair to put on, but Borias had left only one pair behind, and that was the pair she now wore. Well, it didn't matter. When she got to the cave, she could take the horrible things off. She wouldn't need them anyway for what she was about to go through.

A new contraction began and she sighed deeply, closing her eyes until it had passed. Afterwards, she rummaged in the chest again and pulled out a section of an old, frayed blanket. Then, closing the chest, she lurched awkwardly to her feet. She spread the blanket out on top of the chest and laid the chiton and tunic on it. Next, she added a hairbrush, two small loaves of bread, a handful of olives, several figs, and two apples. Wrapping everything in the blanket, she tied the bundle up and tucked it under one arm. Then she crossed to the tent's opening, lifted the waterskin from the hook where it hung on a tent pole, and took a long drink. With a last, quick glance around, she hung the skin over her shoulder and stepped out into the night again.

When she reached the edge of the camp, she stopped in the shadows and looked to see who was on guard duty. After a couple of minutes, she saw him, moving slowly along the camp's perimeter. It was Dagnine. At the other end of the camp, around the centaur fortifications, the guard was much heavier, but a few watchmen had also been posted here, where there was little potential for action. She could pretty much predict that Dagnine was not happy to have drawn so boring an assignment.

Standing still in the shadows, she waited, knowing she must let the next pain pass before she approached him. Dagnine was a skilled warrior and a fearless fighter, but he was clever in a sneaky, conniving sort of way, and for that reason she considered him dangerous. Neither Borias nor she had ever trusted him, and in fact, Borias had ordered Dagnine flogged on more than one occasion as punishment for his insubordination. And while he had not caused any real problems since she herself had taken command of the army, she knew it was just a matter of time until he did.

The pain began, and she steeled herself to endure it silently and without moving. Concentrating her thoughts on Dagnine, she watched how he walked, his body slightly twisted, his head thrust forward. Severe battle wounds received some years ago had left him marked forever with a grotesque scar on the left side of his face and a left arm that was virtually useless. But he had refused to give up the warrior life, compensating for the weakness of his left side with the skill of his right, as well as with the strength of his cunning.

Feeling the pain ease up, she stepped quietly out of the shadows and moved towards him. "Dagnine," she called in a low voice.

He whirled to face her, clearly startled, but just as clearly trying to hide the fact that he was. "Xena!" he exclaimed, smiling in that false way she hated. "Did you get lonely in your little tent and decide to come out and visit me?"

"Don't flatter yourself, Dagnine," she said with her own false smile, "I just need to leave the camp to attend to some business, and I want to make sure you don't mistake me for a deserter and stab me in the back."

"Very prudent of you," he said, laughing. "But surely you don't think I would do such a thing."

"No, of course not," she said sweetly. "I expect my soldiers to recognize me at any hour of the day or night -- to recognize both my person and my command." She paused for a moment to let the words sink in, then continued, "Darphus will be in charge while I'm gone, and I don't want to hear you've given him any trouble."

He grinned. "Now Xena, you know I would never think of giving my commanders even a moment of trouble."

"If I knew that, we wouldn't be having this conversation, would we?" she returned, then added, "I'll be back in a day or so." She started moving away, but stopped when he spoke again.

"When are we going to get up enough nerve to attack those stinking centaurs?" he asked.

She turned back to face him, deciding to ignore his insinuation of cowardice. "Very, very soon," she said, and this time her smile was genuine.

He seemed pleased with this answer and she walked away from him across the moonlit field, aware of his eyes on her back. She walked as deliberately and as confidently as she could, although her pace was, of necessity, somewhat heavy and awkward. And as she felt the next pain coming on, she made herself keep walking, concentrating on putting one foot steadily in front of the other. She walked away without looking back, walked away from Dagnine, whom she did not trust in the slightest, and to whom she could never give the power of knowing her secret.

* * * * *

In the woods on the other side of the field, she stopped and leaned her back against a tree for several minutes while she caught her breath. Everything seemed so difficult these days -- sleeping, walking, getting dressed, sometimes even breathing. How could this small thing growing inside her cause such a huge disruption in her life? It didn't seem fair that this should have happened. She had done nothing to deserve it, other than to be born a woman. Could this be why so few women became warriors? Well, men were the lucky ones, she had always known that.

Glancing back towards the camp, she saw that Dagnine had resumed his rounds. The cold night air was creeping under her cloak and making the still-wet trousers feel icy. She needed to get moving. She needed to get to the cave, where she could light a fire and warm herself. Straightening up, she drew a deep breath and let it out, then began to make her way through the deep shadows among the trees. She knew the route well, but could not travel very fast, both because of the partial darkness and because of the heaviness of her body. After a time, she came to a more open area, a place where dry grasses poked up between the rocks, and where a stream, swollen by the winter rains, made its turgid way down from the hills.

 She walked along beside the stream for some distance, following a dim game trail, pausing periodically to rest and wait for contractions to pass. Eventually, the path began to climb, leading slowly and gradually upwards, with rocky outcroppings on one side and the stream on the other. She continued her laborious trek for a while longer, watching the landmarks closely. Then, finally, she turned off the trail and rounded the large boulder which hid the entrance to the cave.

Standing beside the opening, she listened carefully for a short time, then drew her sword and stepped into the black interior. The moonlight did not penetrate here, but she knew the contours of the small cavern well, knew where everything was -- or knew, at least, where she had left everything at the end of her last visit a few days ago. She felt her way slowly along the left wall until she came to the blankets and furs which lay spread out on the ground, like a gentle invitation to her tired body. Kneeling on the bedding, she listened again, but heard no sound other than her own labored breathing. Cautiously, she laid down her sword, her bundle, and the waterskin, then took off the belt which held her scabbard. Crawling forward a couple of paces, she located the woodpile by touch and began to lay a fire on the ashes within the circle of stones. When the kindling was ready, and the tinder in place, she struck two flints together and quickly blew the spark into a flame.

A new contraction began, but she ignored it as best she could, continuing to nurse the tiny flame, bending over it on hands and knees, fanning it carefully until the bigger pieces of wood started to catch. When the fire was burning well at last, she clambered to her feet and opened her cloak, found the knotted drawstring of her trousers and untied it, then slid the damp garment down over her belly. It dropped to her feet and she kicked it aside, then stepped to the fire and held the cloak open so that the heat could warm and dry her legs.

In a short time, the yellow firelight flickered its way into the dark corners of the cavern, making the stone walls appear strangely soft and warm. It was not a particularly large cave -- perhaps some eight paces by twelve -- but it was plenty big enough for her purposes. She had found it soon after the siege began, had sought it out in the same instinctual way that a mother wolf seeks a den. And after having found it, she had visited the place often, gradually stocking it with food, bedding, and a good supply of firewood.

She had spent the night there, too, on more than one occasion, trying to accustom her troops to her eccentric pattern of comings and goings. And her ploy had apparently been successful. Deros and Dagnine had both accepted her leaving tonight without blinking an eye. Darphus, too, would think of it as a now-normal occurrence, and command of the army would pass smoothly to him. And if she died this day in childbirth and never returned? Well, she suspected that Darphus had certain ambitions of leadership. He would be a happy man.

She smiled grimly and stepped away from the fire, then lowered her heavy body onto the bedroll. After checking to make sure her sword was within easy reach, she leaned back against the wall of the cave, covered her now-bare legs with her cloak, and took a long drink from the waterskin. She had considered coming here alone to give birth, had considered it very seriously, in fact, aware that her secret would be safer if no one else was involved. But although she knew a great deal about healing, and about treating every manner of battle wound, she had had little contact with other women, and almost no experience with childbirth.

That's why she had decided, in the end, to hire the midwife. She had realized, at a certain point, that while she was not afraid to die in battle, she was indeed afraid to die in childbirth, as so many women did. Above all, she was afraid to die alone, in this weak, woman's way, alone in a cave where her body might never be found and given a warrior's final rites.

The pain gathered once more within her, stronger this time, and she allowed herself a low moan. How bad would the pain get? Would it be more than she could bear? Surely not, for she had known much pain already -- had known the pain of battle wounds, had felt swords and arrows pierce and tear her flesh. And she had known the pain of crucifixion, the agony of having both her legs broken at Caesar's command. Yes, she had known pain, had endured it, had lived with it, had triumphed over it. Surely she could do so again.

But she kept remembering the screams, kept remembering how, as a young girl, she and the other children had sometimes stood outside one of the homes in their village, hearing a woman's screams from within, feeling both the fear and the fascination of knowing what those screams meant. And she remembered most vividly of all the night her brother Lyceus was born, remembered it clearly even though she had been only two years old, remembered the pure terror she had felt at hearing her own mother's screams.

Her mother. Cyrene. Suddenly, Xena found herself wishing she could simply conjure her up from one of the rocks inside this cave. Cyrene had suffered through this ordeal not once, but three times. She would know what to do. She would know what words to say to comfort her daughter. She would hold her hand and smooth her brow just as she had when Xena was a child. Yes, maybe she should have gone home to Amphipolis to have her baby. Maybe she should have abandoned her army, turned her back on the warrior life, and gone home to her mother.

But no. To arrive home as she was, unmarried and heavily pregnant, would have only added to her mother's shame. Cyrene would reject her, as would the people of Amphipolis. Oh, they had been happy enough in the beginning to have her lead the defense of their town, but their pride had soon turned to anger. When their sons marched eagerly off to battle and never came home again, the villagers blamed Xena. The fools! Didn't they realize that wars could not be fought nor peace won without some loss of life? Did they think she did not feel their pain? Her own brother, Lyceus, had also been killed. Lyceus, the little brother she adored, the little brother she had taken care of and played with for so many years. He had been brutally killed in that first fight against Cortese. She had always done everything she could to protect her soldiers, but she was not a miracle worker, after all. What did they expect?

But soon she would have all the power she needed to triumph. Soon she would crush the centaurs and capture the Ixion stone. With the power of the stone, and with Ares' blessing, she would conquer the world and rule in peace as the Warrior Queen. Then she would go back to Amphipolis and they would have to honor her. They would see then that she had chosen the right path. They would wave palms to welcome her and would fall down at her feet. They would love her then, would be glad to claim her as one of their own. They would honor her as their beloved daughter, the peasant girl who had become the all-powerful Conqueror.

Another contraction gripped her and she gasped, not so much because of the pain as because of the words which suddenly sounded in her head. "To conquer others is to have power. To conquer yourself is to know the Way." And in her mind's eye, the speaker of those words appeared, a slender, silk-clad woman with black hair and almond skin, a woman whose dark eyes shone with wisdom and peace. Lao Ma. Xena clamped her hands over her eyes, trying to erase the image. She did not want to think about Lao Ma. She had enough pain to deal with right now without the added pain of those memories. When she had left the Kingdom of Chin, she had shut all those memories away in a corner of her mind, had closed the door on them and resolutely turned the key in the lock. But now it seemed they had escaped. How had it happened? And why now? Had Lao Ma herself somehow set them free? Had she used her powers to break down the door and release the memories just to torment her warrior princess?

Xena opened her eyes, sighed a deep sigh of frustration, and heaved herself awkwardly to her feet. Moving to the fire, she added more wood, then began to pace distractedly the length of the cavern and back again. Lao Ma had saved her life -- there could be no question about that. She had saved her from the fangs of Ming Tzu's dogs. "Come with me, if you want your freedom," she had told the warrior, and Xena had gone with her, seeking freedom only from a horrible, bloody death. But later Lao Ma had offered her freedom of a different sort, had handed her the key that could unlock the cage of anger in which Xena had imprisoned herself.

But it had been so hard, so very hard to give up the bloodlust that had nourished and sustained her ever since Caesar's betrayal and M'Lila's death. Her rage was the focus of her life, the only meaning in her existence. If she gave it up, what would be left? The thought was much too frightening to contemplate.

And yet, out of devotion to Lao Ma, she had indeed tried to give it up, and had made some poor attempt to bring her feral will under control. Out of her devotion to the woman who had saved her life, she had done this. And she had done it, too, out of awe for Lao Ma's power, and out of a certain desire to gain that same kind of power for herself. The surprising thing was that there had been moments -- entire hours, even -- when her efforts had met with success. She would never forget the day Lao Ma had healed her legs, would never forget the exquisite sense of wholeness she had experienced while the other woman's hands moved over her. She had felt Lao Ma's healing power like a glow of perfect peace within her body. She had never known anything like it before, and probably never would again.

Xena paused in her pacing, sensing the start of another contraction. She slid her hands under her tunic, running them slowly over the bare flesh of her distended belly, wishing that it were Lao Ma's hands which touched her, wishing for the deep comfort that only that gentle woman could bring. "Lao Ma," she moaned softly, bending over slightly as the pain increased. "I betrayed your trust. I'm so sorry," she whispered. Then, after a minute or so, when the pain eased, she slowly straightened, and began to walk again.

She should have known the joy could not last, that the ecstasy of healing love she had felt that day would quickly vanish. Yet for a brief time she had managed to surrender her will, and her legs had been made well and strong again. Afterwards, she had actually floated in the air with Lao Ma, serenely radiant, basking in the warmth of her teacher's smile and soft caresses. How long would it have lasted if Borias had not walked in? Why had he come and spoiled everything, the bastard? She had been making such progress, and she had seen the pride and love in Lao Ma's eyes. But Borias' arrival had shattered the golden peace within her just as Lao Ma had shattered that vase a few days before. Everything Xena had gained was lost, and it was all his fault.

Coming to a stop near one of the cavern's walls, she kicked at it angrily. Then, leaning her head against the cool, rough surface, she closed her eyes and sighed. No, it had not been Borias' fault. She knew that. Lao Ma had invited him to the palace, apparently believing that Xena was now ready to forgive. But Lao Ma had been gravely mistaken. One glimpse of Borias was all it took to bring the warrior's lust for vengeance pouring back through the floodgates of her soul. She could not let his cruel betrayal simply go unpunished, and so she had attacked him viciously, with all the fury of her fists and the strength of her newly-healed legs. But, to her surprise, he did not lift a finger to defend himself. Lao Ma was forced to protect him, Lao Ma, who must have been feeling such pain to see the fruits of her labors so quickly thrown away. But for Xena, the old ways had proved too powerful, too alluring, too familiar, and in the end, they had won out.

Oh, she and Borias had been reconciled, all right -- in an act of wild, sexual frenzy. And afterwards, he had helped her snare the barbarous Ming Tzu in a dice game, and then murder him. Only Lao Ma's fierce intervention had kept Ming T'ien from meeting the same fate as his father. Xena and Borias had left the Kingdom of Chin a few days later, had left at the fervent request of Lao Ma, whose trust they had betrayed and whose dreams for peace they had laid waste. After a long journey by sea and by land, they had at last arrived in Greece, where they had soon managed to kill three warlords, take over their armies, and continue their quest for power and wealth. And in all that time, in all the months since leaving Chin, in all their long days and long nights together, they had not even once spoken of Lao Ma.

Continue to Part 2

Return to the Fanfic Summary Page



You Are On
The Pink Rabbit Consortium
(click the above link to break out of frames)
Send Comments or Questions to Pink Rabbit Productions

| Home | Subtext Zone Art Gallery | Subtext LinksWhat's New | HTDTZ? |
 | Xena Fanfic Archive (no frames) | Buffy Fanfic Archive | In Process |