And It Rained

I think it was three days before we reached Amphipolis. I'm not sure. I don't remember stopping to eat, or sleep, though I think I must have dozed on and off in the saddle. By the time we got there I had run out of water and my throat burned with thirst. The sun glared, and everything was horribly bright. I dismounted just outside the village, my knees buckling as I landed.

I turned to Argo, fumbling with the reins as I gathered them in my numb fingers. The rough leather in my palm was an anchor, keeping me focused when all I wanted was to stop, to sit down and let exhaustion and grief sweep me away into blissful sleep. I would say that I led Argo through the streets of Amphipolis, but that would be untrue; she led me, guiding me unerringly towards Cyrene's tavern, as though she knew I was in no condition to lead the way. I didn't think about how I would break the news to Xena's mother; the clawing, burning thirst that scraped my throat drove all other thought from my pounding head.

If I had had any coherence to spare I would have seen the many eyes that followed us through the streets. People stopped and watched as we passed, hands going to mouths as gasps were drawn from them. To the people of this village, Xena was a hero and a villain, but never had they thought about her mortality. Her vibrant aliveness had led them all to believe she was invincible.

They watched as Argo came to a halt outside Cyrene's tavern, watched as I swayed away from the mare, my feet dragging as I stumbled to the door.

The wood was hard and rough against my palms as I pushed it open and the sensation somehow cleared the fog from my head a little.

Inside, the tavern was dark and cool, only a few people sitting around the creaky wooden tables at this time of day. Those few that were there, however, turned to watch my graceless journey to the bar, more than one rolling their eyes and muttering about drunkards finding shelter in their village.

Cyrene turned away from the tankard she had been polishing, a welcoming smile fixed to her face as she prepared to serve me as another customer. It took a moment for her eyes to take in what she was seeing, but when they did she frowned in confusion.

"Gabrielle? What are you doing here- where's Xena?" She tactfully avoided mentioning the fact that I was wearing armour just like Xena's. She didn't know that this was Xena's armour. Armour she would never wear again.

I squeezed my eyes shut as tears threatened to spill over. I don't know where my body was finding the moisture to produce them, but it managed somehow.

"Gabrielle?" She asked, concerned. "Are you okay?"

I nodded, my jaw clenched with the effort of keeping my grief at bay.

Cyrene paused, a frown deepening the faint lines of her face.

"Is Xena with you?" She paused when I didn't answer, worry dawning on her face.

"Is Xena okay?"

I shook my head, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. "She's outside," I managed in a choked whisper.

I didn't watch as Cyrene dashed around the end of the bar and hurried out the door. Tried not to listen as her keening cries filled the midday air with grief.

Finally, after days of exhaustion, I slid to the floor and allowed the darkness to pull me under; I crumpled, unconscious.

It rained the day of her funeral. How cruel could the gods be? Not even a bright, sunny day to herald the passing of a great hero.

I think I saw Ares there. He stood apart from everyone else, head bowed beneath the hood of his dark cloak as dirt was thrown over her shrouded body. I wondered what Xena would have thought of that, to have Ares attend her funeral.

Eventually it was over and everyone slowly trickled away in twos and threes until I was the only one left. Friends had dragged Cyrene away when it became obvious she planned to stay by her dead daughter's graveside in the rain and mud. No one pulled me away. They didn't know me and I couldn't leave. If I left, then I would have to go on with my life and I wasn't sure I knew how to, without Xena.

It seemed like hours that I stood there, silent and numb, not moving or even crying. Eventually I heard footsteps approaching and someone came to stand by my side. I didn't look to see who, I couldn't muster enough emotion to care who had come to intrude on my grief.

"Don't you want to know who killed her?" He said. I'd only heard his voice once before, but he sounded different now. He had been so confident, so sure of himself then. Now he sounded a little broken. The God of War sounded defeated.

I didn't reply, couldn't think past the great, overwhelming gonegonegonexenasgoneohgodsgonegonexenasgone that crawled monotonously through my head. It didn't rush, it crawled, every word drawn out, the syllables stretched to their limit so as to ensure maximum impact.

Eventually he spoke again.

"When you're ready for revenge, call me. I want to be a part of the destruction of her murderer," And he was gone.