Sex/Violence Disclaimers: There are consensual acts of love between two women mentioned. As for violence... you put Xena  in a room full of vampires, what do you think you're going to get? Hmmm....? So, yeah, there's a bit of blood here. Nothing too graphic on either scale.

General Disclaimers: Thanks to Katrina for issuing the call and allowing us to play with some interesting concepts... I've just added my particular spin to this vision of an immortal Gabrielle and Xena. Please note that this is the first part of a what I think will be a two part story... but you never can tell.

Questions, comments, and other things can be sent to: sbowers@bellsouth.net
 
 

"What do you mean 'we've found some more chapters!!!!!!!!'" Martin Berman bellowed into the phone. Martin was the editor-in-chief at Ballantine Books. He had only been in the position for a few years, but already he was consolidating his position as one of the most savvy publishers playing the game. In this age of spiraling author's advances and dwindling book sales, just having good reviews or decent sales weren't enough. No today, people clamored for "event novels"-- like Grisham's or Clancy's... but the fact of the matter was... there just weren't enough Grishams or Clancys to go around. And he wasn't sure he'd publish them even if he did. For deep down-- way deep down, buried beneath the thousand dollar suits and the gruff talk about margins and returns-- Martin Berman loved books, loved the written word with a passion that surpassed anything else in his life. A situation his wife often commented on bitterly before she left him for the arms of a pool boy, who was presumably more impressed with her... unwritten... attributes.

Martin's particular publishing gift was for finding not only eminently salable books, but also ones that were graced with nuance, style and intriguing prose. In short, books that were literate bestsellers. Event novels. Who was he to point out that well-written novels shouldn't be a unusual thing? Sometimes he'd had to sacrifice a little quality in the name of the almighty bottom line, but he did so as rarely as possible. And now...

Now he was confronted with the very thing that he'd entered publishing for... an unbelievable, once-in-a-lifetime discovery.

Like everyone else, he had read Interview With a Vampire upon its first publication. Then it had been a best-selling sensation, what with its mysterious unknown interviewer, Daniel, and the unforgettable voice of the book's narrator, Louis. There were those who whispered that the stories were true; most passed it off as pure fiction. But the stories had grown and multiplied over the years, and Daniel and Louis had remained a mystery-- an impossibility in the literary world of visibility-hungry authors. So the discovery of additional chapters was something of a marvel.

Briefly Martin pondered the publishing history of the book. He knew that the book had arrived mysteriously in the offices of one of his predecessors, already edited. The terse note attached had asked for no royalties or legal rights, only that the book be published-- if the editors were interested-- as quickly as possible. The result was a mass market paperback that had flown off the shelves at an unbelievable rate. It seemed back then, that no one had known the treasure they'd had. Subsequent re-issues had kept Ballantine afloat in leaner times, but there had never been another word from the book's elusive authors. This discovery was the first indication they'd had that there was some sort of editing process, that there were things left out ...things Louis hadn't wanted to say to the world at large... For Martin was one of the believers-- a small detail he kept to himself, like most things in his private life-- something in Louis' writings had rung true with the literary publisher, and he had always hungered to know more.

"Martin?" The voice of Pete McCarter, his most trusted agent,  prompted through the phone. "Martin? You there?"

"What?" Drawing back from his reverie. "How many chapters did you say?"

"Only two, so far, but Martin, I gotta tell you--" the young man couldn't hide the excitement in his tone. "--It's some amazing stuff. Makes the people in Interview look like kids." Pete was a believer too.

"So far? You think we'll find more?" Martin didn't want to know how Pete had stumbled across the San Francisco residence of the Interviewer Daniel. Pete had some... eccentric... habits that Martin didn't question too closely, in return for which, Pete found some of the best manuscripts around.

"Don't know, Martin. We can hope."

Martin could hear the grin through the static-filled line. "So when do I get to read this 'amazing' stuff?"

"Well, I found it late last night. Delta-Dashed it first thing this morning my time--" Referring to a same day air courier service. "It's what-- five o'clock your time now? You should be getting any minute now."

"Why didn't you call me last night?" The publisher demanded. "If it was as good as you say, I could have hopped--"

"I don't think so, Martin." Pete replied quietly. "Besides," the infectious sound of his grin returned to the line. "I was up reading it and rereading it most of the night. You will be too, Martin."

A knock on his office door interrupted the conversation. "Come!" Martin called.

"Package for you, Mr. Berman," Lyta, Martin's secretary of five years, brought the carefully-wrapped parcel in and laid it on the corner of Martin's desk.

"Thanks, Ly--" Returning to the call. "It just got here, Pete."

"Great! Then I'll ring off and let you get to it."

"Thanks Pete. Make sure you let me know if you find any more."

"I will. Oh and Martin--" Pete recalled him to the line as he was about to hang up the phone. "Find someplace comfortable-- and well-lit-- to read it. I did."

Martin chuckled as he hung up. Taking the package in his hands, he walked the long length of his office and settled comfortably on the couch, turning on a lamp as he sat down. Not much light... he mused briefly, before tearing open the manuscript in his hands ...but I guess it'll have to do...

Deep in my heart, I knew that I could never forgive myself for having a hand in Lestat's destruction, but I could not bring myself to truly mourn him. Rather, he was like a phantom pain, a ghost of a missing limb. I felt him near always-- even as his body rotted deep in a Louisiana swamp.

Claudia and I hunted separately on these Parisian streets. Her taste in victims did not match my own, and indeed the joy she experienced in bloodletting reminded me a little too much of Lestat. While she preferred the aristocrats-- another inheritance from our dark father-- I kept to the vermin of the City of Lights. The theives, pickpockets, and murderers that were the city's underbelly became the life's blood flowing through my veins. I took to spending the evenings in caliginous taverns where the whores went on slow nights. There they showed me much of what my fine literature, my exquisite art, did not show me. The crawling, seething mass of a people desperate for survival proved that life will find a way, no matter what its conditions.

This night started no differently from any of the others. We had been in Paris for about three months, and had seen no sign of others like us. Claudia was happy-- happy as she ever could be, an immortal trapped in a child's body. And she went off to hunt with that primal gleam in her eye that always made me shiver.

I returned to my tavern.

There was a brawl along the bar between two tavern whores-- scratching, clawing over something I doubt either of them could remember. And the men just stood jeering, calling out encouragement to their favorites. As long as the gold pieces kept flowing and the whores didn't damage too much, the barkeeper wasn't too inclined to break up the scuffle. Free entertainment.

I saw her immediately. Sitting at the corner of the bar, clutching a glass of ale tightly in her hand, although it didn't look like she was drinking too much of it. She wore the garish costume and make-up of a streetwalker, but her eyes were still tender. If she were truly plying her trade in the streets, she couldn't have been at it long. I noticed that mine were not the only pair of eyes upon her. Indeed the waif seemed to be the subject of considerable leering scrutiny. One of the pimps-- a youth that I seen here a number of times-- stood at her shoulder, whispering intently to her, a rapacious glint in his eyes. I had heard him called "Christophe" and had witnessed the effects of his "patronage" before. His girls never lasted long-- suffering not only at the hands of those who offered coin for their services, but also at Christophe's hands as well. For he had a mean streak that left his girls bloody and marred. Tonight-- I decided-- watching the trembling girl under his hands, would be the last time he misused anyone.

I bided my time, the thirst simmering at the back of my throat, content to let it build now that my choice was made. I tried not to look at the young one or think about the supple flesh visible at the base of her neck. That was not for me. I had spent too many years watching Lestat make a mockery of their softness, listening to their cries for mercy falling on his deaf ears. No, I would not feed on the tender one, as much as the hunger might clamor for it.

Although I was prepared to be patient, my waiting was abruptly ended as I watched Christophe drag her towards the back entrance to the filthy alley where there was no light. It was a place used by the whores when their "gentlemen" had neither the time nor the wherewithal for a more suitable location. I frequently heard the noises-- unnoticed by human ears-- emanating from the darkness. I waited for few moments, wanting Christophe to be certain he was alone with his prey. Moving silently and unseen, I followed them, intent on ending the tender one's suffering and feeding my own hunger.

What happened next astonished me beyond all measure...

A shadow, blacker than the night itself, flickered across my line of vision and separated Christophe from his victim. Had I been mortal, I wouldn't have seen it. Certainly the pimp had no idea what happened. The girl-- who had been in the process of "servicing" her pimp-- fell away with a quiet cry. A minacious, throaty laugh filled the alley as the shadow picked Christophe up tossed him solidly against the stone wall. "Get up," the specter growled, bending over him. It stilled long enough for me to discern the barest hint of a face as the silvery moonlight glanced off the sharp angles of her features. A female. "You like bullying women?" She barked. "Let's see you try it with me." She hurled him the length of the alley and again stalked over to him.

By this Christophe had regained what few senses he had left and was scrambling to his feet. There was no longer any fight left in him-- for his true sport was torturing the helpless-- and I could see the desperation in his face. He struck out blindly at his attacker, who batted his arm away as if he were a child. "Please--" he whispered.

"Is that what they say to you?" She asked, menace snaking through her low, even tones. "What do you do when they beg you to stop?" She grasped him by the hair as he flailed about, dragging him up to his knees. "Do you laugh?" She back-handed him hard across the face, and I could see the blood running in black rivulets down his cheeks. My mouth watered at the sight, but I knew he would not be my sustenance tonight.

My senses prompted me to leave, to vanish silently in search of other nourishment, but I was spellbound by the creature before me. She was not of my kind-- I could feel the warm thud of her heart and smell the heady, rich scent of her blood. This one was flush with life in a way I had never encountered before. And standing in the darkness, watching her,  feeling her life, I hungered. Not just for the flesh and blood that were no longer mine, but for the wild joy that pulsed through her being. I did not think to make her one of my own victims-- not least because I doubted that I could overcome her, even though she was only human-- but also because it would be a grevious sin to steal such a vibrant force.

She pummeled him with steady, effortless strokes, denying him the mercy he mewled for. "What's the matter, little man?" she laughed. "You don't like the taste of your own medicine?" I saw the glimmer of metal in the moonlight and realized that the pimp had managed to free his blade. Before I had truly registered it, Christophe swung the blade at the specter. There was a soft grunt, followed by a growl of rage. The pimp's head was jerked abruptly up and twisted, the neck snapping with a loud crunch! that echoed off the walls.

She flung the corpse down disgustedly. "Fool!" she spat. I didn't know if she was cursing him for making her kill him or herself for getting cut. There was silence and then the quiet squelch of the blade leaving flesh. I saw the wicked looking metal clatter on the cobblestones next its deceased owner.

I waited for the specter to leave, but she stood in the alley, her head slightly cocked. The whore had long since fled; not wishing, I presumed, to trade her master for a new mistress. So we stood there-- two hunters-- one knowing and one not.

Or so I thought.

"You can show yourself," she remarked in the silence. "I know you followed them out.  And I know you're still here."

I hestiated. I had never known a mortal to detect my presence when I did not wish it. What was she?

Slowly I stepped from my cover of darkness.

"Ah-- You." A lop-sided smile in my direction. "I've seen you before, you know. And wondered."

Up close I could see the striking nature of her features. Long, raven hair tumbled wildly about her shoulders, framing the elegant line of her face. Her lips were curled back in a half-smirk, half-smile revealing even, white teeth. But what hypnotized me most about this stunning creature was the fierce, burning pale of her eyes. Even in the darkness they simmered with sentience-- so different from my own.

She was dressed all in black, in the tight-fitting trousers and boots that the gentlemen of the day wore. I could see the sleek outline of her muscles resting against the fabric of her shirtwaist as she moved her hand away from her side. The air around me was filled with the almost over-powering metallic scent of her blood, and involuntarily, I licked my lips. The movement was not unnoticed by the one standing before me. I saw her mouth twitch in suppressed amusement and began to grow irritated that I seemed to provide her with such entertainment.

True, I didn't use my dark nature to cow my victims as Lestat had. Perhaps it was years of watching him toy with his victims that made me shun the inherent power of my state. But if I didn't consciously use my power, I had grown accustomed to at least making mortals uneasy in the face of my strangeness. They saw the stillness that was awareness of things hidden to them and the veil of remoteness that covered my eyes. They were instinctively afraid. This one was not.

"I guess I interrupted your dinner," she smirked. "Tell me," she said, circling around me. "Who were you after-- the pimp or the whore?"

She knew what I was and was not frightened. A chill crept down my spine, the likes of which I hadn't felt since I was last mortal myself. "What does it matter to you?"

"It doesn't." She face me again and shrugged. "Because one is dead and the other has run away. You're out of luck."

"There is always you." Wondering if being in the presence of one who was beyond death did not frighten her, what in God's name would?

At this, she threw her head back, baring her throat in a deliberate taunt, and laughed. "No, I don't think so..." She cocked her head again at me. "What is your name?"

"Louis," I replied, not knowing why I did so.

She nodded, "Louis. Others of your kind have tried to make a meal of me..." She regarded me soberly. "They didn't enjoy the results."

"Others?" The word leapt out before I could stop it.

The strange hunter arched an expressive brow and considered me. "Yes. Your kinsmen, I assume. Are you alone?"

"There is one I travel with. And the one who made us." Emptiness filled my voice, much to my shame. "But other than that, I am alone. How do you know of us, if you are not one--" My brain was teeming with questions. This mortal had answers to things I had only dreamed about knowing. She knew of others-- had fought with them and won. A thousand things danced on my tongue. "How?" I began, but she cut me off with a shake of her head.

"Look... I'm no storyteller." Here she grinned inexplicably. "But I know a really good one. Why don't you come with me, Louis? Maybe we can help." A warmth shone from her eyes and curled its way into my frozen soul. Silently I acquiesced, and we left the alley. As we headed down the dimly-lit street, she turned to me. "But the way," she smiled. "My name's Xena."

Except, apparently, for the woman who walked beside me.

The hunter, this Xena, was not one for talk. She remained silent on our short journey, and I took the opportunity to study her further. She was as tall as I, standing straight and proud. When she moved, it was with a primal grace that called to mind great jungle creatures. I could feel her heart, smell her warmth-- still I couldn't help but believe that she was more than human. It wasn't just that she defied all conventions of what I had been taught a woman should be; there was a preternatural awareness in her. I could feel the darkness surrounding her soul, but I sensed no evil. Certainly not the evil that lurked in the souls of those that had created Lestat, and by extension, Claudia and myself. I knew she was conscious of my scrutiny, but she seemed not to mind. As if she were used to people staring. Which, in fact, they were doing as we made our way into one of the well-lit establishments.

It was a light, airy place, with none of the stench and crowding of the taverns I was accustomed to visiting. This was a place people came to share companionship and conversation. It was not a place of dissolution or escape. Immediately I noticed the hunter's eyes searching the crowd-- and lighting up with a quiet joy when they found the one they were seeking. I followed her gaze and saw a slight, honey-haired woman making her way towards us-- the same joyous expression on her face.

Like Xena, this one moved with a quiet grace as well, but unlike the hunter, there was nothing predatory about her. As she moved, she looked to me to be the essence of light itself. Seeing her smile at the woman beside me was like watching a sunrise-- something I had not seen in more years than I could remember.

Then she was beside us, raising her arms to the tall woman and encircling her neck. Catching her in a full embrace, the hunter buried her face in the light one's hair, and I heard her whisper, "Gabrielle..."

Then they separated, and the smaller woman poked her companion in the stomach, "You're late--"

I missed the tiny wince from the tall woman, but the minute gesture didn't escape the one she called Gabrielle.

"Xe-- What happened?"

"It's nothing," she shrugged. "Just a scrape. We can stitch it up. But first..." she motioned to me. "Gabrielle, this is Louis."

The red-head reluctantly turned her attention from Xena and regarded me with a furrowed brow. Then she smiled again, and it was so inviting that I couldn't help but return it. She nodded in understanding. "He's--" her voice trailed off.

"Yeah," Xena agreed, as if I weren't there. "He's looking for... information." Then she, too, grinned at me.

Gabrielle returned her attention to Xena. "You're bleeding, love," she murmured, plucking at the woman's shirt. The black cloth hid much of the blood, but anyone could see it was soaked through. "Why don't we go upstairs and get settled? Patrice can take care of everything tonight. It's not too busy. Then maybe we can help Louis with what he needs."

I realized with a start that this was their establishement. I took a second look around the room, absorbing the contented mutter of the people, the easy familiarity that surrounded them. After witnessing the brutal efficiency with which she had dispatched the pimp, I had difficulty placing the one called Xena here. Then I looked again at her lean form, the way she enfolded the red-head in her arms, the gentle smile that tugged at the corners of her lips. The ruthless hunter was gone, replaced with a startlingly tender lover. And I understood that what the people surrounding us were basking in was an extension of the bond between these two women.

The hunter shrugged her acceptance and surrendered herself to Gabrielle's gentle ministrations.

"Besides," the small woman continued. "It will save Louis the trouble of having to tell his story twice. While I sew you up. Again." She snickered with only a trace of exasperation in her voice. She turned to glance at me. "You do have a limited amount of time to work with, am I right?"

I nodded, mesmerized by the lilting cadence of her voice and the sureness of her touch against the tall woman. Gabrielle had removed the shirt and tossed it matter-of-factly on the polished hardwood floor, where it lay in a silken heap. There was an ugly gash on Xena's torso that stood in striking contrast to smooth bronze skin on the rest of her body. Gabrielle bustled about the room leaving several times to gather various supplies while Xena and I sat in silence. Although the pleasures of carnal flesh no longer held any temptation for me, I couldn't help but admire the sleek lines of the hunter's body-- the finely muscled abdomen, the broad expanse of her shoulders, and the full curve of her breasts. She had none of the preening self-awareness of a great beauty or the coy modesty of someone who knows they're being watched. She merely waited patiently for her wound to be tended.

I knew they were lovers. Knew it in the first glance I had seen exchanged between them. But here in their rooms, there was an overwhelming aura of their passion for each other. They had been together a long while-- I could feel that-- yet there was an eroticism that simmered just underneath the easy companionship they so obviously shared. As the slight one tended to her mate, I saw the lazy flicker in those pale blue eyes and heard the slight jump in her heartbeat that was her body's response to her lover's touch.

"You know, Xena-- I swear--" Gabrielle bantered as she swabbed the wound. "I think you actually heal faster now. If that's possible."

I focused on the cut area that was now being stitched. I blinked and looked again. The wound was more severe than I had thought. From its placement and the amount of blood I had seen, it was very deep and, in fact, should have punctured her lung at the very least. Yet the woman had reacted to it as no more than a nick. My eyes widened at the sight, and I thought again about what this woman could be.

"There you go--" Gabrielle finished her stitching and tied off the thread. "No stunts for a couple of days, you. Don't want to tear those stitches." She grinned and then bent down and swiftly kissed the wound. I caught a brief flicker of the red-head's tongue against the wound, saw her catch a stray droplet of her lover's blood and swallow it.

And then I understood.

Or so I thought.

"Who are you?" I whispered.

"Tease," Xena muttered fondly to her partner who grinned impishly in reply. "I'm going to get a shirt." With supple grace, she rose from the settee and sauntered from the room.

"You're like me?" I asked. But it couldn't be. I felt their warmth. Heard their hearts.

"Not exactly," Gabrielle smiled. "Tell me... how old are you?"

"I was born in 1771. Reborn to the Dark Gift in 1791. I know of no others but the one who created me and the one I travel with. That's why we came to Paris, because that's where he came from--" Even now I did not wish to speak Lestat's name.

"And you were searching for others like yourself--" Xena returned to the room. She had donned a billowing blue shirtwaist, open at the neck and rolled up at the sleeves. Sprawling on the settee with negligent ease, she rejoined us. Gabrielle took her hand and absentmindedly entwined their fingers.

"Louis," Gabrielle spoke quietly. "Why do you want to find others like yourself?"

All of my fears, all of my anger at not knowing why spewed forth. "Because there has to be a reason why God allows this to happen!" I gestured to myself. "By any measure what we are is an abomination!" I looked wildly from one woman to the other. "I accepted the Dark Gift because he said it would take away all my pain, all my anguish at losing my wife and child. I thought my soul was dead then--" I laughed bitterly. "Little did I know that I would truly learn what it feel like to have your soul die, yet remain among the living."

Compassion marked the little one's face, but the hunter looked at me with scorn. "And you think that there's some magical answer for your pain?" I could hear an edge in her low tones.

"Xena--" Her lover's voice held a warning note. The tall woman continued to gaze at me for a moment longer before she looked at Gabrielle and laughed ruefully.

"You're right. You should tell the story." Something that I did not understand then glittered in her eyes. Something forbidding and angry.

"Do you hate what you are, Louis?" Gabrielle gently asked.

"I hate the violence that created me. The despair that led me to seek it. I hate the thirst and the darkness in which I live. But I cannot hate the Gift completely." I shook my head sorrowfully.

"And why is that?" she probed.

"Because I live--" And I thought back to the first night I awoke with vampire eyes. When the statues seemed to move and the silence spoke in siblant whispers. Lestat had taken away my humanity-- and I missed that part of myself fiercely-- but the senses with which he gifted me in its stead were something that I never tired of experiencing.

I said nothing else, but I could see the knowledge reflected in the honey-haired one's eyes. She knew. She understood. And she had a grace that I could not fathom. A grace that I envied and desperately wished for myself.

"When you were in school, Louis, did you read the myths about the ancient gods?"

It was an unexpected question, and my confusion shone clear in my expression. Xena snickered at the befuddled look on my face. I shrugged in reply. "Of course. Everyone did."

"You think I'm like you, Louis. But what would you say if I told you in reality I'm much older than any of your kind. That in fact what you call the Dark Gift is really a bastardization of what I am?"

I stared at her in amazement, and she began to tell me the story of who and what she was...

I cannot tell you all the things she said that night. I learned of ancient gods-- that I thought were myth, fairty tales told to sleep children-- who still walked the earth in silence. I learned of Akasha-- Gabrielle's sibling and Bacchus' other daughter-- how she had betrayed her father and given the gift to mortals. Bacchus' punishment resulted in what I was-- cursed to travel only in darkness and forced to live on the sustenance of the life's blood that flowed through mortals' veins. Gabrielle had no such limits-- she had seen every sunrise since the before the birth of Christ, had known the pleasures of mortality and immortality. Loved and was loved by this strange woman stretched out beside her.

I looked once more at the dark hunter appraising me through hooded eyes. She had been silent throughout Gabrielle's recitation, neither offering commentary nor elucidation. "You're like Gabrielle?" I finally asked.

"Not exactly," she drawled.

"But I don't understand," I replied, turning to the honey-haired one. "You said your sire punished Akasha for bringing the gift to mortals. Yet you gave the gift to Xena--" For I realized now that the woman before me was more than human. Far, far more. Like her mate.

Gabrielle began to speak, but the hunter interrupted her. "Gabrielle didn't give me-- what did you call it?-- the Dark Gift. I was already immortal." She snorted in derision. "Although I didn't know it."

I merely stared at her, uncomprehending.

"My--" here she paused, looking at Gabrielle. "--Sire--" she spat the word. "-- Was also one of the Olympians. Ares-- to be exact."

My eyes widened in astonishment.

"Yes, that God of War," she answered my silent question. "Althought I didn't discover it until I was already grown-- and already in love with Gabrielle--" she smiled at her mate.

"If Xena hadn't been immortal, maybe we would be as you are right now-- because living without her all these centuries would have been unthinkable. Perhaps I would have acted as Akasha did," Gabrielle spoke softly. "I don't know. Louis, I know what your heart feels. I know what the hunt does to you-- believe me. I shudder to think what would have happened to me if I could only live on--" her voice faded, and I watched as the dark one comfortingly encircled her slim shoulders with a long arm. "But please believe me-- you are not evil-- Xena and I have seen evil and fought it. That's not you. I beg you, Louis-- make your peace with what you are. You are not the one who made you, nor are you those you have yet to meet."

I looked at her questioningly.

She nodded at me. "There are others here, Louis. And they already who you and Claudia are." I was shocked that she knew Claudia's name, for I was certain that I hadn't mentioned it yet. "Be careful," she warned. Before she could say anything further, the clock chimed as five delicate strokes marked the hour. Xena rose from her place and strolled to the window.

"It's almost dawn." She looked at me. "You won't have time to get home." Quirking a brow, her lip curled into a feral grin. "Do you trust us?"


Looking into the warm verdant eyes of the honey-haired one, I answered. "Yes."

They showed me to a hidden chamber cloaked behind the walls of their own sleeping room. As they led me through their bedchamber, I looked upon the wide balcony windows with envy. Gabrielle could gaze up the sun as often as she wished-- and from the looks of her softly tanned body-- she played in the sun with frequency. "You'll be safe here," were her last words to me as she slid the door of the chamber safely shut-- keeping me from the prying tendrils of what they called Helios. I still had a few hours before the Sleep claimed me, and I began pondering all they had told me. They looked askance upon my God, whom they referred to as the "one god."  They were immortals who were flesh and blood-- with heartbeats and warm skin-- this Xena and Gabrielle were flush with the exuberance of life. I could feel their love pulsing through their beings as they sat upon the settee in front of me. Gabrielle had told me dozens of tales of how they had traveled the globe over helping others, helping their children, and in Xena's words "generally cleaning up the scum-- At least that hasn't changed in the last millenium."

The dark one puzzled me-- I sensed bloody depths to her-- and that didn't match my vision of the honey-haired one. But the hunter was undeniably tender with her mate, as if Gabrielle touched something within her denied to all others. As I lay in the darkness, the silence descended-- and I heard them settle into their own bed.

A warm kiss-- and Gabrielle's muffled whisper-- "You know he can sense things mortals can't."

"So?" was the reply. "The Sleep will claim him soon enough. Besides-- I haven't held you in weeks." Another kiss. "I didn't mean to be gone so long," softly, apologetic.

Gentle laughter from the honey-haired one. "You still feel like you have to right every wrong you hear of. Love-- when are you going to realize that you atoned for your own wrongs long ago?"

I could almost feel the shrug from the hunter. "I don't think I'll ever atone, Gabrielle. I still live. The ones I wronged don't."

"And it's that simple in your mind?"

"I guess so." I sensed Xena shifting uncomfortably, but the slender hands of the bard caught her.

"Xena-- I don't want to argue." A soothing, loving tone cascaded over my ears. "I don't want to fight. I just want to be here with you right now. Is that okay? Can you put down that load you're carrying long enough to love me?"

That she could, and did, do. I could hear the sounds of their loving, feel their racing pulses, smell the musky scent of their passion. I suppose I should have felt like a voyuer, but there was nothing prurient about their lovemaking. It was at times gentle, fierce, forgiving, and healing. My last thought-- before the Sleep called to me, and long before the sounds died away-- was of the undeniable force of their bond. They were true immortals, I realized, and their love was testament to that.

When I was released the next evening, I emerged from my compartment to find their rooms empty. There was a message left one of the endtables-- a scroll, I noted wryly, looking at the rolled parchment. It was a note in Gabrielle's hand. The script as generous and flowing as I had come to know her to be.

Louis--

I'm sorry Xena and I can't be there right now. I know there are so many more questions you have. But we've just gotten word about a threat to one of our children. And I think you know how Xena feels about that.

As much as we'd like to, we can't be your guides. For when it comes right down to it, we are not your kind. You must find your own way. And your own peace. Whether you believe it or not, Louis, you have a gentle heart. I felt it last night, and so did Xena. Be well, my child, and if you ever truly need us-- we'll be there.

Eternally,

Gabrielle

That was the last time I ever heard from the honey-haired one and her mate. And she was right. I did need to find my own way and make my own peace. Which I did in a precarious fashion of sorts. I heard various rumors about the Ancient Bard-- as I later learned she was called in dark circles. I never heard anything more about the hunter. But sometimes, for no particular reason, I'll feel a blush of warmth spreading through my otherwise cold body. And I'll think of the tender sight of the bard's lips touching the torn flesh of her mate. Oftentimes I wonder if I'll ever cross paths with them-- but I doubt it. They move in places denied even those granted the Dark Gift.

Were they truly blessed? Or eternally damned?

I still don't know.

Martin turned over the last page of the manuscript in his hands. Dawn broke over the New York skyline as he regarded the pages again. It was the fourth time he had read the words-- and they still had not changed. The God of War? The God of Wine? Immortals who walk the daylight? Who don't need to drink of others? He couldn't quite get his complex mind around it. Yet something niggled at the back of this thoughts. There was something familiar about the names the immortal pair.

And then it came to him.

Furiously he raced downstairs to the research room and logged on to the information access terminal. He punched in the keywords Gabrielle, Xena, and Ancient Greece. It only took a moment for the reply to come through.

Gabrielle of Poteidaia-- see also Xena of Amphipolis, Amazon Nation--  c. ? --Commonly thought to be the author of the Xena Scrolls discovered in 1942 by Drs Covington and Pappas. Unknown affiliation to the Amazons, speculation that she was queen in absentia. Some difficulty in naming her eras, as the Scrolls range in time from The Trojan War to encounters with Caesar of Rome. Companion to Xena of Amphipolis, possibly her lover.

Xena of Amphipolis-- see also The Destroyer of Nations, The Lioness of Amphipolis, Gabrielle of Poteidaia-- c. ?-- Warrior Woman believed to have nearly conquered Corinth and Athens. Mythical encounter with Hercules. One of the bloodiest disciples of the mythological god Ares. Responsible for 10,000 dead in one battle. Subject of the Xena Scrolls-- discovered by Drs. Covington and Pappas. At some point in her military career, she disbanded her army and became a crusader for good. Traveled during that time with Gabrielle, Bard of Poteidaia.

"Oh my God," Martin didn't realize he was speaking aloud. "They were real." His mind raced with the implications. "Which means-- unless something happened to them--" and he didn't know what that could be, given that they were immortal and not subject to the same constraints as the Dark Children. "They're still alive." He grabbed the phone and punched the buttons that would connect him with Pete McCarter.

"Hello?" A voice that was far too awake for the early hour answered.

"Gabrielle and Xena are real--" Martin said without preamble.

A soft snicker. "I was wondering if you would notice."

"I took an archelogy class in college from some flaky feminst professor who talked about the Xena Scrolls. It rang a bell."

"You know that most 'serious' archologists discount the Covington-Pappas discoveries because of the time vagaries," Pete replied. "Even though Carbon-dating confirms the authenticity of the Scrolls."

"But it makes perfect since if they were immortal," Martin's voice rose two octives in his excitement.

"Yes it does, doesn't it?" Pete replied dryly.

"We've got to find them." This was no longer a matter of publishing for Martin. This was a quest. For the first time he had the chance-- slim though it was-- to actually talk to an immortal. Probably the oldest ones still surviving. He couldn't pass it up.

"Finding her might prove difficult." Pete remarked. "I mean I don't think she's listed as Gabrielle the Immortal in the phone book."

Martin paused. There was something off about Pete's tone. Something that worried and excitied him in turns. No... it couldn't be. "Why not check under Xena of Amphipolis?"

Silence on the other end.

"Why finding her, Pete? Why not finding them? You know something, don't you?"

More silence.

"Something happened to Xena, didn't it, Pete? That's why Louis said he heard rumors about her and not them. And you know where Gabrielle is, don't you?"

A pause. Then a deep breath. "No, Martin, I don't. But I know where to start looking."
 
 

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