Summary: Two months after Joxer loses his blood innocence his friends get in trouble, he needs to put his own troubles behind him, at least temporarily, if he's going to save them.
And your heart shall lead where your courage fails. Through the shadows, and into the darkness, where light once shined, and never will again.
'Once upon a time there was a warrior. He was a blood innocent who loved life and peace. He would roam the country in gaiety, laughing and singing. His deeds, though not glamorous, were still worthy of pride.'
The scene before him sent his heart into anger. A village that had known nothing but peace was in scattered fear. Dozens of warriors and horses rampaged through it in a manner he would expect from Callisto or Draco. They were swinging at the people. Man, woman, child, it didn't seem to matter.
His friends were already charging into the midst of it, Xena fighting anything that even resembled a threat. The shining metal of her impeccably made-sword sliced through the air with deadly precision, leaving body after body littering the once-peaceful village.
Gabrielle, draped in the fine Indian cloth that he still wasn't used to, was directing the villagers away from the fighting. She had already started for a family near one of the huts, screaming at them to move. She wasn't paying attention; she wasn't even looking at the hut. He was. He saw the figure fill the doorway; he saw the sword.
" Gabby...look out..."
He was already moving, his legs making him run faster than he thought possible. He was there; he was in front of her. He couldn't fight him - he wouldn't stand a chance. He was a useless klutz that they only kept around for laughs, but he could take the blow. He could give his life for Gabrielle's.
'Aphrodite, what ever happens let Gabrielle survive. I don't matter, but she does. The world needs her, Xena needs her...'
He took a shuddering breath as the larger man surged forward. The horrible stench of blood, sweat, and death suffocated him. A deep pounding filled his ears, drowning out everything around him. The world seemed to slow as the warrior halted less than an inch from him. A large clammy hand clamped down on his shoulder, forcing him to stare into his eyes.
The impossibly black pools widened with shock, then stared down at something. A single line of red trickled from the corner of the warrior's mouth. He followed the warrior's gaze down to his chest where his hunting knife was buried. He tightened his hold on the handle and slowly pulled it out, unable to take his eyes off the warlord as he collapsed, staring into the eerily bright sky, lifeless.
He lifted his hand until the blade was at eye-level. The once dark gray metal was now coated dark maroon that was almost black under the sun's dying rays. A single drop of thick liquid traced the edge of the blade to the bone handle and made its way down the beige material until it landed on his thumb.
" Joxer..." Soft skin touched his bare arm as the angel whispered his name on the spring wind.
Fascination. He carefully poked the drop of red on his thumb with his finger. Fantasy. It burst, spraying across his skin. Curiosity. He rubbed his finger over it, trying to get the color off his thumb. Denial. It smeared, it stained, it stayed where it was.
"Joxer..." The skin massaged his arm as the angel moved in front of him. Gods, she was beautiful. Short, pixie hair shifting, flying in the fading wind. " Joxer...are you hurt?"
He gazed at the knife, now lowered in front of him, as though it were a god. A red drop gathered at the tip. The thundering in his ears grew louder and faster, like a crazy band of drums, until it exploded into silence. A soft ping broke through his world as the red drop fell from the tip, landing on the toe of the warlord's boot.
'Blood.' His mind whispered. 'Blood, you drew. Blood, you caused. You. The mighty Joxer.'
" Joxer, you're scaring me..." The angel spoke.
" I killed him."
Two Months Later
The sheen of sweat covered his body under her gaze. His muscles protested the weight on his shoulders, one twenty-pound bag of food on each shoulder. He observed the lightly lifted eyebrow that silently questioned whether he would be able to stand or not. In an equally silent answer he shakingly forced his body into standing position. With a satisfied nod he steadily made his way towards the storage hut.
She easily kept up with him, her hands thoughtfully folded behind her back. He was aware of her critically eyeing him, taking in his change of attire. Knee-high dark brown moccasins, soft leather pants and soft leather jacket of the same shade, and a deer skin long-sleeved shirt. No weapons.
He entered the dim hut and meticulously dropped first one bag then the other, onto the pile in the left hand corner. Turning, he paused as the Amazon stepped into the doorway, blocking his only way out.
"The others can finish this. Right now, you need to rest." She said. Staring at him, she could see the changes in him, and not just in his clothes. His eyes were still the same, but now they no longer held the same innocence. His body was leaner, sharper.
"But the storm..."
"We have time - according to Cyane it won't hit us until early morning."
Ephiny was concerned about the young man. She'd run into him in the nearby town, and he'd been nothing but a numb shell of the man she'd come to know. She'd immediately taken him under her care. When they arrived back in the Amazon village, there had been a number of women who were averse to a man being brought there, honorary tribe member or not.
But there were still quite a few that remembered him from the last time he'd been there, and saw what condition he was in. In the end they'd agreed to let him stay, and over the last two months even the Amazons who'd been opposed to him had become more accepting.
He'd proven himself to be useful, polite but not insulting. He'd quickly become a part of their tribe, an addition that had become something of pride. He'd also become a close companion to Ephiny. They would spend an hour every night just talking. Despite his original impression of chauvinism and slowness, she found he was actually intelligent.
"Cyane tells me you've become good with a staff."
"I still need a lot of work..." He hedged.
"She also tells me that you refuse to use your sword."
"Swords kill." Joxer whispered.
Ephiny felt a slight chill, and gently shifted the conversation. " Otrere wants to talk to you."
Joxer stared at her blankly. The Amazon shamaness hadn't spoken to him at all in the last months. What could possibly make that change now?
He entered the dark hut, trying to see through the shadows. Behind him, heavy furs covered the doorway, blocking out both the cold and the light. He winced as a fire suddenly burst to life. Sitting amongst a pile of pelts was a gray-haired older woman. Her crystal eyes were burning into his until it felt like she was seeing into his very soul.
"So, you're the young man that has the queen so protective?" The shamaness cackled with laughter at the sheepish look that crossed Joxer's face. "Come closer and sit."
He carefully picked his way around the fire and sat next to her. "Ephiny said you wanted to talk to me?"
"That's right. I've had my eye on you." She sighed softly, suddenly looking her age. "Are you still having nightmares?"
"Some."
"They've changed recently..."
"Yes." Joxer stared at his hands, trying to keep control of his emotions.
"Tell me."
"I'm running down a path, and my lungs are burning - I can't get enough air. It's so cold and the snow is falling so hard I can't see more than a few feet at a time. But I keep going. I try to push myself faster. I have to. The path curves out onto a hill and I see two people standing there, an older man and a young girl. I ignore them. My eyes are frozen on the camp below. There are two crucifixions. I can see that they're both women - one with short blonde hair, and the other with black hair. The man rests his hand on my shoulder and says he's sorry that there's nothing they could do. That's when I realize..."
He squeezed his eyes closed, desperate to shut the images out. "I realize that it's Xena and Gabby..." He whispered.
"You know what you must do." The shamaness gently lifted his chin and stared into his eyes. "There is still time, but you must go, now."
"It's really going to happen, isn't it?"
"Yes, and if you want to save them, you must leave immediately."
Joxer turned away. He was a failure, a coward. He killed a man - no, a murderer - and every night he could still see his blood staining his hands. Every night he could still hear the voice of his son, wanting to avenge his father's death.
Instead of letting his friends know just how badly he was really doing, he'd run. He'd run from them, and now they were in trouble. Now he had to go to them. He didn't matter; only they did.