Autolycus slowly became aware of brightly flickering lights in calm blackness and a scent—so familiar, but he could not quite place it. It meant peace, and rest, and—he suddenly knew, the odd smelling salve when his arm had been broken, and Gabrielle had insisted—

Gabrielle.

All the peace fled, and he remembered his great fear.

He opened his eyes, distantly registered the dark room and the candles, and saw—the piercing, shrewd eyes of the old woman, the one Gabrielle had sent him to.

He tried to get up, but every limb felt impossibly heavy, and a memory of pain pulled at him, down—

But he had to know. She would know. A terrible fear of the answer twisted in him as he tried to speak. He said Gabrielle's name—or, choked it, and he was shaking with the effort of speaking and moving, and how would she even understand what he needed to know?—

But the eyes were wise, and the hands that touched him, on shoulder and on his forehead as he fell back, were feathery soft, old, and kind.

"Queen Gabrielle is safe," she spoke, and then said the same words again, seeming to know he needed to hear them, over and over, until he could believe. She continued, "Gabrielle and Xena returned to the Amazons and told of their defeat of Velaska. They are well."

He knew he was staring wildly at her, wanting to believe her, wanting for this to be real. The dark eyes met his gaze as she repeated the words, and the old hands somehow steadied him, somehow calmed the pounding of his heart.

"Gabrielle is safe," he spoke hoarsely, wonderingly, and felt himself smile. The old woman returned his smile.

"She is."

A knot that had been wound in him for—he didn't know how long it had been, but since he'd first heard Velaska hunted Gabrielle—slowly began to loosen. He closed his eyes a moment, and the old woman—he remembered her, she was Demophile, the Amazon healer—stayed with him, waited.

When he opened his eyes again, Demophile, still patient, now held his right hand in her two hands—but, wait, how—? He remembered that hand, what had been left of it, had tried not to look at it after—

He was afraid to look now, but warily did so, lifting it slightly.

No pain. No blood. No visible bones. His hand—his arm—was whole. He tried squeezing the old woman's hand that helped him hold his own up now, and watched his fingers move—weak, yes, very weak, but he could move them.

He looked his wondering question at Demophile, who was smiling at him, pleased. "Your healing has progressed greatly."

At this, Autolycus tentatively felt several of the deepest and most agonizing gashes he remembered. Now—nothing—he couldn't feel or see even faint scars. Similarly, he tried moving his legs and feet—and though a heavy tiredness made all movement slow, there was no pain, no more twisted limbs or broken bones. "How?" He managed. The full memory of lying on the forest floor, unable to move, had returned to him, along with a fear that froze him in place.

Demophile reached to a nearby table where several items lay. The dagger of Helios. A pendant with a white crystal. His grappling hook and rope—he smiled as he recognized them, so ordinary and familiar. What she picked up, however, was a small pouch. As she brought it to him, he remembered—he had taken it from Velaska, just before she had left, one of her several pouches of ambrosia.

The expression on Demophile's face was now crafty, and Autolycus recalled the other ambrosia he'd retrieved for her. He started to wonder—

"The broth you've been drinking has a small amount of ambrosia." At his slightly alarmed look she added, "Do not worry. So very little will not make you immortal. But, it has allowed your body to heal itself of grievous wounds."

At the word "broth" something felt itchy in his throat, and he realized he was thirsty—had been thirsty, for such a very long time.

Demophile seemed to have the uncanny ability to read his mind, for now she picked up a small bowl of liquid and set it nearby. Then she spoke. "Would you allow me to assist you in sitting up? I would like to give you more of this broth."

He was only too happy to allow, and found that her great age and the thinness of her hands in no way prepared him for how strong she was. Supported in part by the wall and in part by her own shoulder and arm, he watched her hand him the bowl, which he used both hands for, and even then they shook. Her own hand steadied the bowl underneath, and he lifted it to drink, and nothing had ever tasted so good before. Even so, the taste—sweet and substantial and salty and with a strange and pleasant bitterness—was familiar. This was not the first time, clearly, that he'd drunk this, just the first that he'd been awake for it.

He finished it and felt satisfied, smiling his thanks to Demophile. He put his arms down with relief—he'd barely had enough strength to hold the bowl up.

Demophile looked immensely pleased as she set the bowl aside. "Do you wish to rest now?" she asked, with an odd formality that didn't seem to match the warmth in her eyes.

He was overwhelmingly and blissfully tired. "Yes," he replied, and found his voice had begun to return.

She helped him lie down again, and Autolycus knew he'd be sound asleep soon, but he had so many questions. "How long?"

Her answer, given in the phases of the moon, told him four or five days had passed. He tried again to speak—wanting to know how he came to be here, how she came to be taking care of him this way, but he felt so very tired.

"We will have much time to tell all the stories we need to," she replied even though he had not been able to speak, with a squeeze to his hand. His questions must be in his eyes, he thought. "For now, know that you and the ones you have worried over are safe, and you are not alone."

Her words, and the hand that held his, chased away some distant horror. He fell into sleep feeling their truth.