Author's Note: The seeds of this story were actually sown over ten years ago with a character I created to tell stories in the Xenaverse with some friends. While Xena and Gabrielle feature prominently in the tale, they are not the main characters and actually take a hiatus in later chapters. Worry not, loyal reader, for there will be other, much-beloved secondary characters from the Xenaverse to take their place. This story begins closely following Season 4 canon continuity but will diverge into a slightly different take on later events. The reason for this is because I didn't necessarily like the way Season 4 turned out and I certainly didn't care for what happened in the next season, so with the Power of the Pen I can change things to suit my tastes a bit better. All part of the perks of being an author. I don't have all the time in the world to write these days so some chapters may be slow in coming, but hang on if you dare because you're in for a crazy ride. This story is NOT FOR KIDDIES. This is the raw Xenaverse and explores issues of violence and perhaps sexuality later on, and there will be strong language.
The Battling Bard of Potedaia sat despondently in the corner of a tavern, surrounded by countryfolk yet feeling completely alone. Her traveling companion, Xena, was tending to Argo at a local stable and had left the young strawberry-blonde to wander the town with only her thoughts as company. Their last battle wore heavily on Gabrielle's mind, filling her with remorse and self-doubt.
If only I had been just a moment faster, or made a more accurate throw, Gabrielle admonished herself. I can't believe I let Phlanagus die. I'll never forget the look on his family's faces at the funeral. They've lost a husband and father they can never replace. Why couldn't I have hit the mark with that javelin? I've thrown my staff and disabled attackers at a much longer range than that. Did some part of me miss on purpose, because I didn't want to be burdened with taking another life, even if it was a Roman soldier? But what good is it to say I avoided taking life when I failed to protect another life, the life of a brave and dutiful man who was counting on me? If I can't make a stand when it counts, especially if it involves killing, do I even belong in battle in the first place? And if I don't really belong in battle, what does that mean for my life with Xena?
Gabrielle's musings were rudely interrupted by a mug being shoved under her nose. She saw her troubled reflection in the dark ale it contained and frowned. Looking up at the server she protested quietly, "I didn't order this."
"Compliments of the shaggy one over there," the gruff man replied shortly, jerking his head in the direction of the back wall. There on a box sat a figure slumped in roughly the same pose Gabrielle had been in a moment before, staring into a mug. Her benefactor was dressed in a fur sleeveless tunic and a wraparound skirt made of some kind of hide. An unkempt mane of brown hair spilled over the stranger's face.
Gabrielle stood up and made her way through the crowd to where the figure sat. She stopped when she was still a couple of paces away. For some reason she couldn't identify, a chill ran up the bard's spine as she approached and she thought it best to stay where she was. "Hi," she began uncertainly. "Thanks for the drink."
The stranger did not respond or even look up. Gabrielle tried again. "Were you the one who bought me a drink? Because the server said…"
This time a hand came up to silence her. The hand brushed back the brown frizz, and Gabrielle came face to face with a striking young woman who could not have been older than eighteen. The two eyes that met hers were such a deep brown they were almost black, burning through her with an intensity Gabrielle had rarely seen in her life. It unsettled her enough that she took another step back in spite of herself. "I got you somethin'," the girl growled in a low voice. "Don't mean you can talk to me." The young woman's manner of speaking was a perfect imitation of common dialect for that region, but she had a slight accent Gabrielle couldn't quite place.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bother you," Gabrielle apologized. "I just thought I'd thank you, and maybe ask why you did it."
The young woman returned her eyes to her ale and shrugged. "Looked like you were havin' a day is all. 'S all over your face."
"It's true. I've got a lot on my mind." The bard looked more closely into the young woman's face, now that the disquieting eyes were no longer on her, and thought she saw a trace of sadness there. "How about you?"
"What did I just say 'bout talkin'?" The stranger took a deep swig of ale, then wiped her mouth on one of the battered leather bracers she wore around each forearm.
"Sometimes it helps to talk things out."
"Oh yeah? Then why were you hidin' out in a corner, if you were so keen to talk things out?"
"I don't really have a good answer for that." The slim young woman squatted down until she was at eye level with the stranger. It was then she noticed an enormous knife hung in a sheath at the brown-haired woman's side. That almost looks like it could be a skinning knife. She's wearing animal hides. Is she a hunter, or…? "My name's Gabrielle. What's yours?"
The stranger guffawed. "No one knows my name. I only tell my name to my friends."
"But if you tell your friends – "
"Like I said," the other woman interrupted, "no one knows my name." She stared meaningfully at Gabrielle.
"You don't have any friends."
"Damn straight. Now get outta my face and go take care of whatever it is eatin' you. You wanna talk about it, you find a different pair of ears than mine. Someone friendly like you, talks to someone you don't even know, I'm sure you got people that will listen."
Gabrielle realized that was probably all she was going to get out of her brusque new acquaintance, so she rose to go. Before she turned away, she felt compelled to reach out one more time to the strange girl who had offered her generosity but now seemed so unfriendly. "I know you aren't looking for someone to listen right now, but whatever it is that's wrong, I hope you find a way through it too." The blonde moved off, but before the crowd closed behind her she heard, "Gabrielle."
She returned to where she had stood before and waited. The woman sitting on the box sighed, seeming hesitant, then took another drink. "You can call me Tira Darkheart."
"Your name is Tira?"
"No, no, Tira Darkheart. You have to say the whole thing every time. It's not a name. It's a damn title, and you can bet that I've earned it. You satisfied?"
"Despite what you might think, I'm glad to have met you, Tira Darkheart. But I have to go. You were right. There's someone waiting for me."
The woman calling herself "Tira Darkheart" nodded. She watched Gabrielle walk away and couldn't stop the corner of her mouth from curling up into a smirk. Broke her out of her mood, at least for a minute. Somethin' about her, didn't seem right for her to be so down. She studied the blonde woman more closely, intrigued. Wait a bit, Gabrielle. Gabrielle. Where have I heard that name before? Is that – no, couldn't be. There's a famous bard Gabrielle, but no way it's her. Then she watched as the other woman gathered up a staff and a bag from behind her table. Poking out of the bag was one end of a scroll. I'll be damned. It's THAT Gabrielle. Those must be some of the Xena scrolls in there. I wonder if she – ah, hell with it. She followed Gabrielle out the door with her eyes. Like she'd wanna answer a bunch of questions about that anyhow. Probably gets tired of the attention. I know I'm damn tired of attention myself. So why would I wanna be talkin' to some random adventurer anyhow? Ought to know better.
Although the tavern was loud, the fur-clad loner could easily hear a telltale scratching outside a nearby window. Easily hefting the heavy crate she had been sitting on, she put it beneath the window ledge and peered down to the alleyway below. There an enormous long-furred cat, larger than any bobcat but still smaller than a lion or a panther, was clawing great chunks out of one of the tavern's supporting beams.
"You're making a mess," she said casually to the massive cat, no longer speaking Greek.
"Just making sure everyone knows it's mine," the cat replied easily in the same language as he had been addressed. The woman and the cat undersood each other perfectly, although none of the local villagers would have.
"That one beam, or the whole building?"
The cat seemed to shrug, as best a cat could be supposed to shrug. "Both I guess."
The loner known only as "Tira Darkheart" smiled broadly. "Good to see you again buddy. You done carousin'?"
"Yeah. What about you? Looks like you're having a rough day."
"Try a rough life, man."
"I'm sorry. Anything I can do?"
"Nah, it's the same old. He came to see me again. I told him to fuck off again. Bitch of a situation, but what can I do? Can't really get rid of him."
"We could move on again."
The cat's companion spat distastefully. "We're always movin' on, but it changes nothing. I'm sick of it."
Suddenly from outside there was a shrill, piercing scream. A washerwoman carrying some shirts to the line behind the tavern had spotted the large feline apparently talking to a wild-haired woman leaning out of the window. The cat's eyes went wide and his hairs stood on end, making him seem even more freakish. "You know what that means."
"Sure do." The roguish loner hoisted herself through the window, tumbling down to land on her feet. "Time to go, Mendi." The unusual pair sprinted out of town, drawing stares from the confused villagers before disappearing into the nearby forest.