"The more things change…" Xena Amphipoulis muttered to herself as the line at Customs slowed to its usual crawl. Heathrow Airport, despite reported downturns in recent years, remained an international locus for travelers. The volume of traffic, both human and aircraft, had actually seen an increase as the presence of the European Union became more pronounced in British politics and policies, without a corresponding increase in personnel for Customs inspection.

The discomfort this caused weary travelers was of course not taken into consideration. Particularly with respect to the multitude of red-eye flights coming into the complex.

"Name? Passport? Length of stay?" The overweight official reeled off the questions with all the interest of discussing weather that had remained unchanged for a month. The tall, dark-haired woman handed her passport over with a equal amount of interest, and answered in a passably polite tone. His boredom was briefly alleviated, as were sections of his anatomy, by the smooth tones of her answer coupled with the surprisingly well-done photo in the passport. Looking up, he was caught by a face whose power and pose was nothing short of magnetic, for which the photo was a poor medium.

"Xena Amphipoulis of the United States. I will be here one week."

The officer realized he had been staring for some seconds and quickly shook himself awake, looking back at the small booklet and searching for an unstamped page. "Purpose of visit?" he demanded in as gruff a voice as possible.

"Business trip." Again the sonorous tones did embarrassing things to his blood-flow.

"Anything to declare?" he finished, daring to look up once more, only to be stopped around her well-concealed but generous bosom as she placed two wooden cases atop the long counter. One was exceptionally long and rectangular in shape, the other far smaller and a perfect square.

"Just these," was all the tall woman said, with all the weariness of one who has repeated the same answer for years on end.

The official, as if remembering his purpose for sitting there, stood up and gestured for her open them. Xena did so, her expression one of quiet suffering and consummate boredom, and was not a little gratified as his eyes went wide. The sword was polished to a shine, its edges so fine as to be invisible. She repeated the procedure with the smaller case, its contents causing the man’s brows to furrow in confusion. He looked up once more.

"You have licenses for these…objects?" It was only the fatigue that kept Xena from laughing at his weak effort at sounding official and intimidating. Instead, she reached into her leather jacket and presented her registration and licenses as an antique dealer. The man made a face-saving show of examining the papers, much to the consternation of the rest of the line (and the secret amusement of one in particular).

Eventually, he nodded in satisfaction and grumbled "Well, everything seems in order, Miss Amphi-poo-luss." He handed the papers back and did his level best to deliver a warning look, only to have his hands start shaking at the electric blue eyes regarding him. He nonetheless managed to squeak out "I trust you won’t be using…these…will you?"

"I’ll try to avoid it." It was an honest response, if questionable given the thin grin accompanying it.

The official "hurmphed" and handed back her passport, calling out "Next!" as the woman closed both cases and made her way to baggage claims. Forcing himself not to look after her (despite the provocative sight her long-legged stride made, her hip-hugging jeans accentuating her every move), the officer stared down at the countertop as another American passport was handed to him. He nevertheless called out "Passport, please. Name?"

"Rickie Gardner, of the You-Ess-Aye," was the too-bright response, delivered in a classic southern drawl so pronounced it could only be fake. The officer winced, the onset of a headache hitting him.

She made it to the baggage area without breaking stride. Xena kept her steps steady, giving no sign of the internal struggle raging within her. Memories of their past year together, most often the bad bits, snaked their way into her dreams more and more of late, leaving Xena increasingly irritable from being awakened so often and (loath as she was to admit it) not a little frightened. She was thankful Rickie slept completely through these episodes, particularly as she featured rather prominently in them.

One scene in particular had come to haunt her: how it had been her, not Rickie, who had stumbled into Jeanne's chamber of horrors. She could always recall it clearly.

"So tell me, beautiful," her lover’s voice drifted across her, shattering the spell. There was a heat to its tone that melted all tension. "Is that a killer frisbee in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?"

Xena bit down her initial retort, something between a growl and scream of shock. She settled for turning on the smaller woman with a growl of a entirely different tone. "Guess," she mouthed and delivered, much to the surprise of both the girl and the few other passengers in the immediate area, a less-than-chaste kiss, breaking it only when their bags arrived.

The tall woman promptly broke the kiss and collected their bags, looking not the least bit encumbered or unbalanced by the two weapons cases, two overnight bags, and two large suitcases. This left her blonde partner standing there in what appeared to be a sensory swoon, which she soon blinked herself out of. Looking towards the warrior, Rickie shook her head and muttered "Oh, so that's the game, huh?" She set off after her soulmate, the grin she wore equal parts adoration and pure evil intent.

Neither noticed a youngish man in a leather trenchcoat and sporting a trim goatee sitting some distance away near a coffee kiosk. His eyes had been cast surreptitiously their way several times, always covered by turning the pages of his Spanish-language newspaper and taking deep gulps of his coffee. He was alone among those who'd witnessed their kiss in not showing the least surprise or embarrassment at its heat.

He had drained the coffee and folded the paper away into his coat as the two women broke apart. Standing, he gave the two women a last, brief glance before turning on his heel and heading toward the nearest exit. He fished a cellular phone from the interior pocket and hit the speed-dial. No voice greeted him on the opposite end, which was not unexpected.

"They've arrived," was his only message as he continued walking, resisting the urge to glance back.

For someone who had spent the past two days alternately lounging in uncomfortable and badly-shaped airport chairs, enduring uncooperative weather and two flight cancellations, and being crushed into confining-if-well-padded airliner chairs, all while waiting for Virgin Atlantic to live up to its reputation of efficiency and courtesy, Rickie appeared…energized by their arrival. She alternated between staring out their cab's window at the early morning skyline and streets, and chatting away about where they would visit this time.

She seemed utterly unfazed that neither of them had caught more than four hours sleep in the last sixty, or that it was only just past six in the morning (with their bodies telling them it was sometime around 10 p.m.) as their taxi coasted to a halt before their hotel, an elegant brownstone facing the south end of Hyde Park. Xena herself was exhausted, as much from her restless nights as from their journey. No surprise then that found her companion's exuberance a bit hard to take. She knew better, however, than to make a scene over Rickie struggling with their overnighters as well as her laptop case. It wasn't that they were especially heavy, merely bulky and a tad unwieldy. Still, her heart made a go of it, managing to half-stumble, half weave her way to the front door.

Her own steps were no steadier, though in her case it was the sheer weight she carried. She was consequently a bit slower getting to the door and perhaps doubly exhausted. Gods, they'd have to lie down for a few hours before trying to call Cora or Gwen.

By the time Xena made it through the door (the traditional doorman absent) and succeeded in collapsing gracefully into one of the small lobby's overstuffed chairs, Rickie was already in the unfortunate desk manager's face and sounding ready to curse up a blue storm. "Whaddya mean you can't let us into our room?!" she demanded, hands wrapped around the counter's edge in a white knuckle grip. Neither seemed to notice her arrival, which suited her fine.

She listened with only half an ear to their arguing, preferring to instead to admire the elegant furniture and dark paneling of the walls. Clearly some redecorating had been done since she was last here, all of it tasteful and satisfactory. Her musings, however, were soon interrupted by the increased noise her lover was making at the manager.

The unfortunate object of Rickie's ire was a youngish-looking gentleman with a military-style crew-cut who wore the black blazer and starched shirt of a junior manager His gray eyes met her's with a strained calm reflected in his voice. "I've explained, Ms. Gardner, we simply don't have a reservation under your name. And it is hotel policy that previously unoccupied rooms cannot be checked into until after twelve o'clock."

"Yeah. And I've explained to you we set reservations up three fucking months ago." The bard took a deep breath, seeing the iron-clad denial of this small fact set in his eyes and decided to try a different track. "Look, you do have at least one extra room, right?"

"Yes."

"Well, we can pay for the extra day if that's what the delay is about."

"Its not that simple, Ms. Gardner, as I've tried to…"

"Is the room currently occupied?"

"No."

"Somebody drop a bomb in it?"

"What? No."

"Some kid with diarrhea run through it without his diaper?"

The young manager looked stricken by the imagery this conjured. "No! No, of course not."

"Then I don't see why you can't let us in!"

Xena couldn't help the tired chuckle, debating momentarily whether to intervene or simply watch. It was certainly eye-opening, watching her lover brow-beat the unfortunate where in the distant past she would simply haggle them to near-poverty and undying servitude. Amusing, to say the least, and a clear sign of how tired she actually was. She was dead on their feet, they both were, and really needed a few hours shut-eye before doing anything more.

She cleared her throat and clearly spoke up. "Perhaps I can help here?" She presented a card from her breast pocket to the young manager, who eyed it somewhat suspiciously while moving to the telephone on the desk behind him. Rickie stared daggers into his back as he made a show of dialing and muttering into the receiver. She turned a raised eyebrow at Xena when he jerked his head away from the earpiece, someone's outraged voice buzzing loudly on the opposite end.

The manager quickly made apologetic sounds first to the receiver, then turned and did likewise to Xena, careful to avoid any eye contact with Rickie. "My…apologies, ma'am," he stammered a bit, quickly pulling a small manila envelope from his jacket pocket. "I didn't realize…"

"Quite alright," Xena said smoothly. "I normally don’t announce my visits." She took the envelope from his slightly trembling hand and dumped two key cards out of it, immediately handing one to Rickie, whose eyes narrowed in her direction to dangerous slits. Xena appeared impervious to such attacks, fixing eyes upon the youngster behind the counter for the first time.

The manager gulped again. "Will you need any assistance…" he began, only to be quieted by a upraised hand.

"No need, thank you." The Immortal resisted the urge to grin at the poor boy's flustered efforts. She recognized the signs, all recognizable after so many centuries of experience. In the next few moments he was sure to be falling to his knees and swearing eternal fealty to her, or some other damn idiotic gesture.

"Uh, as you wish…uh, ma'am." He could only stare as the dark woman once again picked up the suitcases and calmly strode to the elevator. Rickie had joined him in this, her adrenaline still pumping from their now abortive argument and her brain still trying to process just what had just happened.

After about a minute of this, she leaned down and picked up her own bags. Seeing the young manager still staring at Xena's back, she growled "Ferggit'. She's taken." She then hurried off, seeing the elevator doors opening and Xena stepping through. The latter was kind enough to keep the doors from closing, a surprise given the wicked gleam Rickie could see in her eye.

Once they were both inside, Xena pushed the fourth floor button and inserted her card into a slot at the panel's top. Only when she did this did the elevator final begin its ascent, which, while brief, proved enough time for the two women to feel the onset of claustrophobia. It didn't help the elevator was rather small and cramped between them, their luggage, and the swordcase.

It would be an exaggeration to say they practically fell out of the elevator in a heap of bodies and bags the instant the doors opened, but only a small one. They’d been pressed into far tighter surroundings than the elevator, but with the addition of the bags and their raw fatigue, they made a less than graceful exit. Xena ended up half-dragging one of the suitcases by its strap, which only served to trip up a barely-balanced Rickie, who in turn managed a quick juggle of two well-stuffed overnighters and her computer case, somehow managing to keep them all from falling.

They made it to their room, which Xena unlocked with her card (Rickie was nowhere near dexterous enough to do so herself), and dragged herself and the luggage in. Rickie closed it behind them, her foot kicking the door shut automatically as she carefully placed the bags upright on the floor and set her computer case atop them. Xena herself was trying to wrestle a suitecase onto its proper side and open it…simultaneously.

"Leave it."

Rickie's voice was quiet, ringing in the warrior's ears like a rifle shot, and easily a hundred times more commanding. Xena's sharp ears caught the whisper of cloth sliding from skin, followed by the buzz of a zipper being undone. She moved to turn and watch, only to be stilled by her lover's command. "Don't move."

It was delivered with such heat the exhausted warrior felt dizzy. Her condition only worsened when she felt a warm body pressed against her back, strong, sure hands divesting her of her jacket then circling about her waist, drifting here and there and leaving a trail of fire behind them. Those same hands slowly pulled her shirt out and began the laborious process of unbuttoning. Xena leaned back against the smaller woman, a groan issuing in frustration as those hands stilled and left her.

"I said 'don't move'." Rickie whispered hotly into her ear, her own voice shaking. "Or do you want me to stop?" Deep breaths were the only response the warrior could manage right then. "I'll take that as a 'no'." Deft fingers made short work of the remaining buttons and still shorter work of sports bra underneath, the latter stretched to the breaking point as Rickie wrestled it off her.

Both of them gasped at the first contact of flesh-against-flesh, Rickie grabbing both her breasts and pulling her back, her own mons crushed between them. The light kisses the bard rained on her shoulders and neck was nearly enough to undo her then and there, the movements of her hands no less distracting as they dipped lower and came to rest on her jean's waistband.

Rickie delivered a final, forceful kiss to her neck before sinking to her knees as her undoing the jeans and drawing both them and her panties to her ankles. The tip of her lover's nose trailed down her spine as she descended, her breathing keeping perfect counterpoint to Rickie's warm exhales there, eyes closing involuntarily from the accompanying chills that traveled up and down her length. The light kiss applied to the base of her spine invoked a shudder that was half-ecstasy and half-shock.

"On the bed," the bard ordered with a small push. Xena toppled easily onto the King-sized mattress, her legs ready to fold under her. She giggled and kicked a little as Rickie divested her feet of sneakers, socks, and clothing, Rickie's fingertips invariably finding every ticklish spot on her toes and soles. To add to the torture, she blew a few times on them, delighted at Xena's responsive shivers.

Rickie wasted no time in pulling the still-unopened suitcase from the bed and climbing directly atop Xena, lying fully atop her. Her nipples were quite erect now (seeing Xena shiver like that always had that effect), and thus all the more sensitive. Her entire skin was like that, hot and flushed as it was, and keeping such close contact to Xena's own burning skin was making her begin to sweat and tremble.

Rickie gathered her strength, fighting off her drowsiness and feeling at once lightheaded and completely focused on the woman underneath her. She'd reach that point of gritty stubbornness that comes of too much caffeine and too many catnaps in cramped airline seats. She also hadn't been able to touch her lover (or herself, really) in the last sixty-plus hours, and so was bordering on something between withdrawal and utter desperation. For one so afflicted, her voice was seemed eerily calm and collected.

"Have I thanked you for all this?" she purred-growled-panted into the ear she nibbled on.

"Well," came Xena's slow and equally purred reply. "You 'thanked' me back in Portland." She rolled herself unto her back, making sure to keep as close contact with as much of the blonde as possible. Rickie permitted the action only because it would make it easier to reach certain areas. "But you haven't…"

"Thanked you, yet," Rickie completed, the familiar phrase bringing a smile to them both. "Terrible oversight of mine." She slid down Xena's body, planting a kiss in the valley between her breasts. "Please say you forgive me." She slid further, speaking into a rock-solid abdomen before leaving the bed altogether, kneeling on the floor and parting Xena's long legs.

"You're forgiv…oh, GODS!" The only vocalizations the Immortal could manage once Rickie's lips reached their target was exclamations towards various deities and incoherent sequences of vowels and hard consonants. When the bard's tongue joined in, circling her folds several times before flicking lightly across her clit, Xena forgot even the basest form of speech. Her toes curled and every muscle knotted tight as her lover's practiced lips teased her closer to the plateau.

She shook violently with her first orgasm, its force far more intense than she'd though her bacchae capable of summoning. She was only able to groan as all the colors in the world exploded behind her tightly shut eyes, her essence pouring out between her legs and into her lover's eager mouth. Yet her bacchae gave her no rest, a second, then a third following close behind, agony and ecstasy intermingling as her strength drained away. Tears were the desperate cries she could no longer utter; cries for mercy, begging those lips to stop their delicious ministrations, cries urging them on, and cries of love for the woman driving her beyond herself.

The fourth was utter torture, the most teasing and gradual yet, with her bacchae all but ignoring her dripping center, instead kissing her inner thighs and rubbing her nose into rough pubic hair. Xena was past her endurance, only able to pant with the effort it took to remain conscious. Light once again exploding in her mind as the plateau was once again reached, the bard finding her center and kissing it tenderly. This time, she had no reserves left to resist the fall, and tumbled headlong into oblivion.

As she fell, a solid, warm weight clamored atop her. There was the taste of salty essence on her lips and a honey-sweet voice that breathed into her ear. "G'night, warrior-mine."

The darkness beyond dreams swallowed her whole.

Another taxi came to a halt in from of the hotel, its single passenger disembarking quickly and crossing the street. He took shelter beside one of the larger trees on the park's border, eyes alert and focused upon the brownstone before him.

He gathered his leather trenchcoat closer around him, the late summer morning still chilly, and tried to ignore the complaints of his bladder as he concentrated on his vigil. He managed to do so for the whole of five minutes before having to sprint to the nearest public WC.

Afternoon.

Dial tone.

"Anan Galleries of London."

"Marie, please."

"Hold, please."

Silence.

"Yes?"

"It is I."

Hissing. "What the bloody hell are you doing calling here?"

Wide smile. "Surprise."

"Gods, what are you thinking?" Quiet. Nervous. "You know he’s here?"

"Of course. Why do you think I returned?"

"Gods…"

Amused. "How pagan of you, little sister."

"You’re trying to kill Jono, aren’t you? You’re trying to give him heart failure!"

Laughter.

"Gods, he’s going to kill both of us."

"I should expect so." Expectant. "Everything ready for the opening?"

"Of course. I’ve held back a few openings. Cancellation, you understand."

Amused. "Oh, of course. Inevitable."

"You’ll be there?"

"I’ll be there."

Voices in the background.

"I…"

"Go, little sister. I’ll see you soon enough."

Connection cut. Dial tone.

The readout on the digital clock on the bedstand had just turned one when Xena grudgingly opened her eyes. Rickie was still sprawled over her, a knee pressing dangerously close to her center and her fingers still tangled in raven locks. If not for the fact she was buzzing with her usual quiet snores, Xena would have suspected the positioning was deliberate.

She absently stroked her lover's bare back for a few minutes, trying to summon the resolve to wake her. The girl's low moans weren't exactly helping in that respect. Nor did the way she was shifting, which was bringing her dangerously close to certain areas which were still tender as hell. Not that this would be much of an impediment should they decide for another go-around.

She nevertheless tried to wake the sleeping writer gently, wiggling underneath her and whispering into her ear. "Rickie? C'mon, wake up." This had no evident effect, save that the girl adjusted her position so she ended up breathing directly onto an increasingly stiff and sensitive nipple.

"Five more minutes, mommy," she whined quietly.

Feeling a tad wicked right then, Xena let her hand drift down until it came into contact with a firm, young backside. She patted one of the cheeks, then gave it a not-so-light slap. This did wake the snoozing youngster, who's entire form jerked as though hit with a cattle prod. Her head shot up and fixed a glare at her tormentor. Quickly raising herself up on her elbows (strategically positioned so to pin the woman underneath her prone), Rickie looked down and declared "That was completely uncalled for, warrior."

Xena simply shrugged as best she was able, given the weight presently pressing down on her shoulders, and said "Time to get up." It was a sentiment Rickie evidentially did not share, as she pressed down on both shoulders and leaned close.

"You are gonna pay for that one, my love," she growled, obviously irate at being awakened in such a manner.

Xena, however, refused to look the least bit contrite. "C'mon, Dreamer. We've go things to do…" She was interrupted by a pair of rosy lips descending on hers. She let them rest there for a moment, a well-practiced tongue snaking its way between them and brushing her teeth in a familiar ritual. Normally it would be Xena herself doing this, silencing all argument before her diminutive lover drove her to distraction with her babbling. It proved less than effective this time around.

"…Places to go…" Xena panted when they broke apart, trying to catch her breath and continue her original thought. "…People to see…"

"Uhg!" the blonde exclaimed, looking hard into those perfect sapphire eyes. "And what if I don't want to get up?"

Xena raised a single eyebrow to this and deadpanned "One word: shopping."

Rickie eyed her suspiciously. "Is that some kind of threat?"

"Maybe."

"Hmm." She seemed to consider the offer for moment, then refocused on the smirking face beneath her, a thoughtful frown curving her lips. She shook her head. "Sorry, not frightening enough. What else have ya got to offer, hmm?"

Dead serious, Xena said "A bruised butt if you don’t let me up."

"Ooooo, kinky." Rickie taunted, her frown now a grin. She didn’t realize until the last instant how badly she’d misjudged the situation, as Xena herself was now frowning, quite severely in fact. Two very strong hands grasped her by the hips and promptly swung her off the bed, depositing her on the plush carpeted floor with a hard THUD. "OWW!" she cried as she landed, glaring once more at her lover. "Dammit, Xena…I…you…!" she sputtered as the Immortal rolled off the bed and walked, calm as you please, to the rooms well equipped WC. 

"Warned you," she reminded her, equally casually. Rickie sat there for some moments, torn between continuing to sit there and stew, or follow and give the light of her life whatfor and a few bruises of her own. The sound of the shower running led her thoughts in a completely different direction.

"You going to join me or what?" Xena’s voice drifted out, settling the argument for her. Rickie dashed into the WC and slammed the door behind her.

The man had moved from the tree to a nearby bench some time ago, one which afforded him a concealed view of his target. The morning had turned warm enough he’d removed his leather trenchcoat and draped it over the bench’s back. To keep himself aware, he’d taken to reading his paper again, his eyes flickering between the paper and the hotel’s doorway.

He was on his fourth re-reading about the banking crisis in Argentina when a dusky-skinned young woman in jeans and designer silk jacket came sauntering over. She wore expensive Rayban imports and her hair cut short and brushed close to the scalp, her confident stride belying her evident youth. She sat down beside the man and offered one of the foam cups to him.

"Just set down there," the man said, not unkindly, but not so much as glancing her way either.

The girl did as bade and reclined back against the bench, a study in nonchalance. "They been in there all morning?" she asked. A grunt was the only answer from behind the newspaper. "What d'you think they've been doing?"

The man shook the paper and noisily turned the page as one does when badgered with annoying questions from younger siblings. "Use your bloody imagination." His companion appeared deaf to the sarcasm, crossing her legs and taking a comfortable position as she took up the watch.

Evening.

Anan Galleries of London was located in the Charing Cross area, along St. Martins Place, and sported a fashionable if subdued exterior. Its interior appeared at first glance too small and cramped to comfortably navigate. The walls and few dais were scarcely utilized to the full. One could be forgiven thinking the Gallery was on its last financial legs, there being nothing really to call attention to it and no effort made to distinguish it.

Which made the sheer number of people milling about it that night, both within and without, all the more surprising.

Xena felt a clear stab of anxiety at the numbers. That Cora had secured invitations in the first place put her automatically on guard. Both Cora and her agent at Lloyds of London had said this opening, while routine, had been closed for months. Every invitation had been sent out and RSVPed long ago; over a year, in fact. And two cancellations, with no explanation, were simply too convenient for her tastes, even with Cora's constant assurances as to their validity. Anan Galleries was a social hotspot, and more than a few artists had had their work 'discovered' there.

Xena cast a careful eye at her outfit. The invitation hadn't specified formal dress, so Xena had decided to go in her usual outfit of jeans, collarless white shirt, and leather vest. Something for the peacocks to cluck about, was Xena's thought. It allowed her freedom of movement, not to mention being a good bit more comfortable than the various outfits she spied milling about, but provided no way of concealing a weapon anywhere. She nonetheless missed her sword, which she had, reluctantly, left back at the hotel.

Rickie had decided to try out the midnight blue Savile Row pants suit Xena had insisted on getting her during their post-shower excursion. It fit her lean form perfectly, accenting her curves while hiding them from easy view, and set off the natural highlights of her skin and hair. She'd done up the jacket's buttons, which gathered its fabric against her hips and sides, giving inviting form to the small swell of her breasts. Her pearl silk blouse was open at the neck, and her hair done in such a way to allow it to flow over her shoulders, at once practical and beautiful. She looked every inch the socialite for whom these soirees were commonplace.

There were a few paparazzi watching for someone famous to flash their bulbs at. Obviously memories of the late Diana had faded, as they proved as pushy as ever. The one who approached Rickie was quickly sent into retreat only by Xena's towering presence directly behind her. That, and the low growl the dark warrior sent his way. The London evening was cool but not unpleasantly so, so both went without coats. Just as well, or she'd be in a trenchcoat with forty-odd inches of razor-sharp steel at her back. Be embarrassing as hell when the doorman requested their coats and invitations.

Small and crowded as it may have seen from the outside, the gallery's interior proved remarkably easy to navigate. Despite the numbers of attendees, the babble of conversation was as muted as the clink of the champagne glasses, clustering themselves in small knots near the artwork. There was a balcony overhead where still more attendees clustered and spoke between themselves, none deeming to look down upon their fellows.

Xena gave a quick nod to Rickie and set off into the crowds. They'd agreed it would be better to split up in trying to find the chakrum's buyer, who according to Cora was one of the galleries' owners. Though the woman had expressed her wish to remain anonymous, paying off her purchase in cash and not identifying herself at the auction, their Lloyds agent had managed to chase down registration of the artifact to the gallery along with a description of its manager, the latter of which matched the description of the buyer to a "t". Better, Xena had argued, that they divide their efforts and cover more ground. Rickie had agreed, but only with the vow that Xena would keep her in sight at all times. Initially the warrior had thought it simply fear on her lover's part, until she saw the cast steel in those eyes.

It was fear, but not for herself. Evidentially she wasn't the only one with…memories…of Munich and Jeanne. Xena felt herself burn a bit in shame. Thinking only about yourself, warrior? her subconscious chided her. Shame on you.

Her efforts at mixing were distracted by these thoughts, and so less than successful in searching out de Anan. She somehow found herself in the gallery's rear, looking first at a bizarre metallic construct, then at an unsheathed Japanese katana displayed in glass. The incongruity of the two object managed to penetrated the haze clouding the warrior's thoughts, the former looking like something from an industrial rock musician's nightmares, while the latter was inarguably the finest piece of weaponscraft she'd encountered. From its sparkling blade to the ornately carved hilt of polished ivory, depicting a dragon of such intimate detail she almost swore one of its eyes…blinked at her, the sword was nothing short of perfection of its art.

Her musings again left her distracted to her surroundings, as evidenced by her slight jump at the words spoken near her ear a moment later.

"Quite a piece of work." The voice was soft, audible only because it was almost blown directly into her ear. Xena spun, ready to send her would-be suitor (she'd heard enough pick-up lines over the centuries to fill a telephone directory, but that was something new) into the nearest wall. She tensed, then relaxed at seeing the figure standing beside her was looking not at her, but at the katana. She took a half-step to the side a made a quick visual appraisal of the newcomer.

He was a tall man, with close-cut dark hair and blue-green eyes. He wore a dark gray Italian suit and black dress shirt with the buttons done up to his neck. Wire-rimed glasses were perched on his nose, giving him a vaguely academic look, though Xena for some reason dismissed the idea. It was nothing she could put her finger on exactly, save the vague feeling of déjà vu he invoked.

He hadn’t so much as glanced her way, yet he smirked and clarified his earlier statement. "The sword, that is. Not you."

She noticed he had a drink in his hand, untouched from the look of it. "Hmm," was about all she could say, agreeing with the sentiment.

The man turned to fully and extended his free hand. "Jonothan O’Donhugh."

"Xena Amphipoulis," she rejoined, taking his hand, surprised by the strength of his grip. She tried to take a closer look at him, only to be distracted by his next words.

"You’re looking perhaps the second greatest mystery of weaponsmithery," O’Donhugh said, only the vaguest interest in his voice as he gestured towards the display case. "A sword that by all historical accounts should not exist."

"How so?" Now he had her curious, though more to see how far his facts were off than actual interest in the blade itself. Yes, it was a beautiful piece, but hardly anything mysterious to it.

As if hearing her thoughts, O’Donhugh grinned and said "Oh, nothing you could see with the naked eye. The metal of the blade, you see, is precisely striated, allowing one to count exactly how many times the raw steel had been turned with the hammer. In the case of this particular blade, along with its two reputed siblings, the metal was turned two hundred and twenty times."

"Hmph," Xena almost snorted. "That's hardly unheard of, Mr. O'Donhugh." The name felt strange in its familiarity on her tongue. She shook her head at such thoughts and concentrated on the matter at hand. "The Japanese masters routinely counted two hundred hammer blows to a blade before they considered it done."

"Ah," O'Donhugh smirked again. "That's where this gets interesting. You see, the steel in this blade was carbon dated…back to 700 bc."

Xena couldn't help but look mildly shocked. "That's…absurd," she laughed. "Its been well established the Japanese hadn't discovered such techniques until at least the 1400s ad." I should know, given I was there when old Heidai forged his first in 1422! she wanted to add, but managed to hold her tongue.

She nearly laughed again as O'Donhugh gave her a single raised eyebrow, which if she didn't know better she'd think was exact imitation of her own technique, and a look which asked And just how do you know that, eh? Aloud, he simply said, "Well, that's the conventional wisdom, isn't it? But then again, conventional wisdom also once held the planet Earth was flat as a pancake and still claims reincarnation and the like are so much rot."

"You disagree? About reincarnation, I mean."

He turned and looked her directly in the eye. "Most certainly. I've…encountered entirely too much to believe otherwise." His eyebrows scooted together just a fraction, his eyes becoming intense and studious. "As, I suspect, have you."

Xena was beginning to feel uncomfortable with the direct stare he gave her, though she kept her expression utterly neutral. "Oh," she purred dangerously. "And what leads you to that conclusion?"

Again, O'Donhugh gave her a damnable smirk and nodded towards the wrought metal piece beside them. "I take you aren't here to admire the late Tessa Noel's pointed attacks on the superficiality of modern tastes, are you?"

Xena kept her eyes straight on him, ignoring both the piece and his attempt at changing subjects. "Just what do you know about me, Mr. O'Donhugh?" she purred again, soft and inviting and promising all sorts of mayhem. Normally, The Tone was sufficient to leave even the toughest heavy ready to spill his proverbial guts onto the floor, lest their literal ones follow suit.

O'Donhugh was seemingly unaffected, his own voice placid and sounding not a little bored. "I know you are an American, though you have a strong Greek heritage, and that you certainly aren't here for the art. That much is evident by your name, accent, and behavior." He tilted his head, considering her as he might the Noel sculpture or an early Monet. "You're looking for something…or someone, though you're uncertain who. The way you move and watch everything bespeaks of one who is a trained investigator, one who has been in the game for some time now and works strictly as an independent, as you're deliberately unconventional clothing shows. Undercover police would not miss the chance to dress and behave like the rest of these berks."

"Very insightful," Xena nodded, now covertly scanning the crowd for Rickie, doubting now the wisdom of their separating.

"I know most everyone here," O'Donhugh offered after a moment. "Perhaps if I knew who it was you were looking for…?"

Xena couldn't help letting the name tumble out, too distracted as her eyes now tore through the mix of faces and colors. "Marie de Anan. The manager here."

O'Donhugh smiled widely at this. "Ah, then you're in luck. I see her over…there." He pointed to a distant corner across the room, where Xena caught a flash of dark blue and reddish-gold beside a large black man and far smaller figure clothed in emerald green and crowned with a bob of fiery russet hair.

"Excuse me," Xena muttered, setting off into the crowd, eyes not wavering from her destination.

She consequently didn't see O'Donhugh's smile fade at the sight, his blue-gray eyes suddenly cold as flints, nor hear his automatic reply of "Not at all."

Nor did she hear the crystal in his hand succumb to the force with which he gripped it, shattering into a thousand glittering fragments.

Rickie was talking quite animatedly with the two when Xena arrived. The warrior paused her approach momentarily to size up her nominal targets. The man was easily six and a half feet tall, with dark skin and clad in a white linen suit, the combination making him look every inch the proverbial Caribbean sugar-cane merchant. His equally dark eyes were focused attentively on the blonde before him, the low lighting giving a shine to his perfectly bald dome.

The woman beside him was a less commanding presence, at least physically.  She stood no taller than Rickie, and looked no more than five years older, which made them both seem childlike compared to the giant beside them. Her dress set off her russet hair perfectly, forest green against tanned skin, a flash of gold dangling from her slim neck. The woman shook as if chuckling at a joke, while the dark giant simply rumbled and looked at the floor as one might if embarrassed. Rickie simply seemed confused, judging by the expression Xena caught as she glanced over her shoulder and saw her there.

"Ah," her bacchae nodded. "There you are."

"Here I am," Xena affirmed, voice low and warning. Rickie smiled, as though relieved of some secret anxiety. The woman in green turned to face her, her elvish features slightly scrunched with amusement.

She tucked an imagined strand of hair behind her ear and extended her hand, a semi-smile gracing her features. "Marie de Anan. And you must be the one looking for me these past months." Xena took the offered hand in a strong grip, though the woman refused to so much as wince at the pressure, and raised in inquiring eyebrow. "Your agent at Lloyds was rather less than…subtle…about your interest, Ms. Amphipoulis. I’ve been expecting to meet you for several weeks now."

"Really?" Xena murmured, releasing her hand and moving closer to Rickie.

The de Anan woman nodded, an action that drew Xena’s eyes to the small medallion at her throat. It looked from a distance like a simple cross. Upon closer examination, she could see it was two interlocking, interweaving chords of gold, their path so simple yet intricate it was soon impossible to know where one chord began and the other ended. It was, she realized, indeed a cross.

A Celtic cross.

And with that, the millennia fell away, her bones remembering the cold wind and the nails in her hands…