Several days later, he was ready.

He kept them on standby, just a little outside of Amphipolis; far enough for Xena not to spot them, close enough for them to be able to get here fast. They'd been waiting for his signal since the first sun.

It was time.

He teleported himself to their camp. It wasn't that late, it was still way before noon. The time was just right.

For a little while, he just stood and stared; not that there was much to look at — they resembled a pack of wild animals more than an army — but they should get the job done. None of the poor bastards was going to live to see the sunset, but — with three dozens of them, even Xena wouldn't make it to handle them all at once.

Well, it was time to get the party started.

#

Was he surprised nothing went as planned?

Honestly — he was, even though it was hardly the first time she thwarted his plans.

Though, it had to be the first time when she didn't do it intentionally. Well, actually, she didn't even do anything.

It was him.

He fucked this up all by himself.

The troops were almost there, maybe an hour away from Amphipolis, when he made a mistake of opening a portal on her. Just on a reflex, like it often happened recently.

And saw her; in a stone crypt, leaning over a tombstone. Her face was just blank at first. Then, taking him by surprise, she burst out crying — and he frowned, bewildered, and annoyed, and then angry; at her, for this display of weakness, at himself, for witnessing it, and for the sudden urge to go to her, not knowing why — but stopped himself in the end.

Well, one thing was sure. Whoever was buried there, must've meant a lot to her, judging by the amount of pain and hatred he could sense in her even through the portal.

Would've been a shame to waste it.

A snap of his fingers later, he was next to her; another mistake, which he understood a second later, when she looked at him with those eyes, now dewy and soft as he'd never seen them.

It shouldn't have affected him; and definitely not the way it did. Should've angered him, if anything. But there was something about her now that made him — it was just unusual, seeing her like this, vulnerable, no trace of that strength that always radiated off her.

It should've angered him.

Somehow, it didn't. The only thing it did, it made him confused; and embarrassed, about the strange urge growing inside him the longer he watched her. And more embarrassed, that, when he gave in to it and hugged her, he was afraid she would push him away.

She didn't.

He didn't understand; what he was doing or why, or why it felt the way it did; a bit overwhelming; and just good, in some weird way that made his arms tighten around her.

Then, she told him. The story of how, when she was a teenage kid, a warlord named Cortese raided the village; how, when most of the villagers raised their hands in defeat, she grabbed a sword — and it was her, a teenage girl, who poured the battle spirit in them — urged them on to grab whatever they could and fight back against the raiders. Of course there were casualties — they were just a bunch of peasants with shovels for weapons — but that wasn't the point. The point was — godsdamn — he couldn't help looking at her with a newfound respect.

"I don't get it — why do you blame yourself for it? You did the right thing. Noble, even. Not to mention — you were a kid, and you had more balls than any of the grown men around you."

"It cost me my brother's life," she said, leaving his embrace, walking over to the window.

He was about to say that mortal lives ended in death sooner or later anyway, so it was just a time difference of those several years, really — which was a tiny little drop in the ocean of eternity, for a god — but something told him to keep it to himself. She was obviously upset by the whole thing, and if someone as strong as her was affected by it to such extent, maybe it actually was a bigger deal than it seemed to him.

"You don't get it, do you?" she said pensively, not looking at him.

"Frankly? Not quite."

He walked up to her, embraced her from behind and teleported them to his bedroom, a few steps away from the huge, silver-framed wall mirror.

He expected a protest, that she'd tell him to take her back. But they stood in silence, their eyes locked on each other in the mirror. With a wave of his hand, her leathers morphed into his favorite, silken, red robe; and his breath hitched. It wasn't the first time he saw her in it, but — maybe it was the lighting, but — he didn't think he'd ever seen anyone look more royal than this.

And he never loved the sight of any woman, goddess or mortal, by his side, the way he did now.

"You'd need to love someone to get it," she said, breaking her gaze.

"Luckily, I've been spared that misfortune — so, uhm…" he said hastily, to shake off the uneasiness overcoming him. "You should only be proud of what you did back then." He nuzzled the back of her head, inhaling. "You would've made me proud if I'd seen it."

"Of course you'd say that," she huffed. "Fighting is the essence of your life," she said, trying to keep her voice even, but he watched her in the mirror; how she squeezed her eyes shut when his hands roamed around her sides and abdomen, then up higher, her chest expanding with a deep breath as he cradled her breasts, squeezing lightly, enjoying how shallow her breath was getting.

"It's the essence of yours, too… you're just in denial…"

"I'm not that person anymore, Ares. Quit trying. You're wasting your time."

"Maybe…" he pulled her hair aside, pressed his mouth to the nape of her neck. "But maybe I like it…" he whispered close to her ear, pushing she silk down her shoulders, letting it slide down her arms, past the peaks of her breasts; and, never averting his gaze from the mirror, he planted a soft kiss to her shoulder. "Maybe I like it too much to stop…" His mouth glued to her shoulder, he slipped his hand down, parting the robe, reaching the heat between her legs, longing to bury himself in it.

"Don't stop…" she moaned softly, arching herself into him, making everything else tune out as he pushed himself inside her.

They moved to bed eventually, but the sight of them in the mirror haunted him for long after.

He turned to his side. He could tell she was awake, it was just her eyes that were closed; and he drifted away for bit, staring at the little shadow her eyelashes were casting on her cheek, longing to trace it with his finger, stopping himself last moment.

Then, he thought back to the army. They should've been there any moment now. Maybe it was even better she wouldn't be there, after all.

Her eyes opened and she sighed, and turned to look at him. Caught him staring. But, unlike he usually did, he didn't stop, didn't go, didn't even say anything silly to turn it into a joke.

He held her gaze for a while, her eyes slightly narrowed, guarded. And he caught himself holding her hand; but, instead of letting go, on a sudden impulse, he brought it up to his mouth, pressed his lips to her fingers and, his eyes closing, he inhaled, placing several small kisses over her knuckles. Then, he glanced up at her, their eyes meeting; hers so different now, soft and open, looking at him in a way that — gods, what the hell was she doing to him? He tensed, some sudden, strange sensation pulling at his gut.

"I'll be right back," he said, kissing her hand again.

"I have to go."

"I'll be just a minute." And, before she could protest further, he vanished.

If someone — even just hours ago — had told him he'd do what he did next, he would've laughed — or just plain killed them.

Making himself invisible, he appeared on a hill where a group of three dozen men advanced towards the settlement that was already well within the sight. They were in fact so close it was a wonder that none of the villagers seemed to have spotted them yet. And it was perfect that way.

And, with a wave of his hand, it was like they were never there.