Beltane's Eve: pt 2

The air between them lit with sparks. It sang with hum of steel-against-steel.

One of the residents on that floor, a high school music teacher by profession, would later swear the sounds of the duel were the inspiration for at least eight orchestra pieces she would eventually write. Each of these would become famous for their complexity and beauty, as well known as any symphony by Beethoven, and only the most accomplished of orchestras would ever manage their intricacies.

It would be impossible to recount the stratagems and tricks each used against the other. So fast were their movements, so easily were they blocked and countered, the entire duel might as well have been choreographed beforehand.

The remainder of the residents paid the noise little mind. Some, like the music teacher, would ascribe it as music. Others as cable reruns of "Highlander" turned up too loud. Most simply ignored the noise and slept the night peacefully, having long ago gotten use to their eccentric (if attentive) landlord.

Morgan's heritage was not dual, but a trinity, and so more than a match for Michael's millennia of skill and practice. Her Olympian blood, diluted perhaps but there nonetheless, mixed with her human DNA and natural unpredictability alone made her Michael's equal. Forever boiling beneath the surface was more raw power than might be found within all the stars of the heavens. Morgan knew this as instinctively as she knew she breathed and liked the taste of nutbread, and for this reason she deliberately avoided learning quite literally anything of substance.

Oh, she could speak most any language on this planet (and quite a few 'dead' ones to boot), and easily write them all like a native. She wasn't so backwards that she couldn't operate a microwave or repair faulty electrical wiring.

But training in the arts of war, or painting, or cooking, or most anything, those things she'd avoided with a fear more rabid than that which she herself had long been regarded with. The irony to this was not lost on her. Untrained she might be, but more talented and experienced than conceivably any other mortal (or immortal for that matter) on this planet. The fact she did this entirely out of a sense of an overdeveloped sense of responsibility to those who, more often than not, tried to take her head, was but sauce for her already-cooked goose.

You would think those years with that Norman rabble-rouser and his daemon-spawned tutor would have taught her a thing or two.

She'd commanded armies, presided over ceremony, protested atrocity, raised children to their potential, and cooked mean stews, all without more preparation than simply watching it be done.

Little wonder then that Michael's katana was shattered with one of the few blows Morgan delivered at full strength. The force telegraphed by the attack was quite sufficient to throw the unfortunate duelist back a good six feet. He didn't enjoy the experience, neither the raw force of the blow rattling both arms as though they were twigs caught in a windsheer nor being propelled over several pieces of furniture. No, sir, not something he'd willing choose to endure.

Not that having the business end of Caliburn hovering less than an inch from one's eyes was anything to sneeze at either.

"Give me one, just one good reason not to rid myself of you for all eternity, Unseili!" Morgan said the first bit calmly, practically hissed the last bit, and all but spat the title in his eye. It terrified Michael. Not Caliburn so much, but the way her voice had gotten softer and softer with each word. But even that would have been bearable, had she not called him by his old House's name.

It meant she was pissed. Not angry, not enraged, not even spitting-I-am-gonna-tear-your-eyes-out-with-my-unsharpened-fingernails-very-very-slowly furious.

She sounded ready to call down Oberon himself.

The world had more of chance surviving collision with Sol herself than having Oberon leave Arcadia.

Michael let himself consider none of these things at all. To do so would leave him dangerously close to panicking, if not the suicidal sort of impulses generally reserved for stock brokers after a crash of 200+ points. Throwing himself off her balcony wasn't even an option. It wouldn't do much good anyway.

One good reason, he thought to himself. Let's see. . .

"Ye owe me a drink."

Oh, brilliant, that was. That evening didn't really count, and damned if he could immediately recall another incident even close.

The point of Caliburn slowly withdrew, though not without obvious reluctance. Morgan's eyes narrowed quite a bit, communicating something between grudging respect and outright loathing. "Hmm," she grunted, as though considering the legitimacy of such a claim. She drew it out.

Just to see the bastard sweat it.

She liked the feeling it gave her.

She hated the fact she liked it.

"Nhh," was the only sound she'd give in concession, making some vague gesture with Caliburn for Michael to stand and warning him against so much as blinking wrong. Morgan could communicate quite a bit with the smallest gestures. Holding Caliburn one-handed and waving it about like it was one of Senticlese's wooden toys didn't hurt, either.

"That," she gestured with swordpoint at the shards of metal now adorning the carpet near him, " was an irreplaceable piece of history, old son. Any reason I shouldn't take it out of your hide?"

"'Cause I'm a piece of walking history myself?" Michael risked a smile. She didn't return it.

The chances he'd walk out of this place intact were growing ever more remote. The balcony was looking more attractive all the time.

Then she did something totally unexpected. She buried the swordtip into the carpet and leaned upon it as one might a walking stick. The brought Michael up short. In all the centuries he'd known this woman, he'd never seen a moment of whimsy from her, especially when it came to two things: her mum, and that damned pig-sticker she was presently leaning on.

Michael communicated his confusion on this by blinking, quite rapidly, several times. To which Morgan gave a sort-of-but-definitely-not-complete smile. Smug bitch.

"You'd better have a good reason for all this then, clown," she said with humor that would have chilled the blood of corpses. "Or that blade won't be the only thing needing to be rebuilt."

So here it was, the proverbial moment of truth. Trouble was, Michael wasn't exactly sure what the truth was, never mind what possessed him to approach her that night. He only knew rumor and a few names. The names were common fare and fodder for her, and rumor swirled about them all like so much noise that it went pretty much unnoticed now.

Morgan suffered him as a fool in centuries past, but no more. Not since that mad bitch Callisto managed to do in her mum's warrior.

Honesty, dishonesty, honesty, dishonesty, honesty. . .

"Your mum's not alone anymore." Truth, though not necessarily honest. He might be Unseili, true, but there were limits which even his House might press. Besides, this little declaration had the desired effect.

Granted he wasn't expecting to have Caliburn pointed back into his face. . .

"Explain that." Morganıs lack of tone alone would have loosened his tongue. Coupled together with the blade holding still right before his eye, Michael would have cheerfully recounted his entire life's tale. Or admitted to every murder ever committed. Goddess, the woman was terrifying like this.

He opted to follow her instruction, mind racing all the while over what he could and could not tell her. Somehow the words came through sounding both coherent and, more importantly, complete. The smallest admission would be deadlier to him than the most grandiose lies. Lies she would cripple him for, but an omission she might catch would sing of untold truths, truths that he would have no choice but give.

"She found a companion a short while back. A. . . lookalike. . . of her warrior. They're living together now in the mansion, though the girl has pretty much taken it over." Morgan's expression hardened to the constitution of granite, causing Michael to quickly add "But in a good way. She hasn't touched the businesses or the money. She's refused salary, gifts, everything. She bloody argued with your mum in the stores over prices and had to be dragged, literally, into Victoria's Secret! The girl's only been good for her, anyway. Never seen the old bard smile as much in my life. . . "

"Where?" Morgan interrupted, eyes still narrowed. "Where did they meet?"

"In town, by all accounts. I heard it to be a chance meeting."

"Who is she?"

"Calls herself 'Xena', and that's the lot of it." He risked a grin. "Don't think I didn't try to. . ."

"What is she? Callisto out for mischief? Valeska, maybe? Strife or Discord?"

Michael interjected quickly, and prayed to whatever deity might listen he'd go quick. "She was a streetwalker, and looking no more than twenty-five."

Caliburn was suddenly out of his face, only to be replaced with Morgan herself, nostrils flaring in a way that promised imminent mayhem. "And Mum knew about this?"

"How d'you think they met? Over coffee?" That earned him a glare, though a distracted one. At least she was out of his face.

Now Morgan took to stalking towards the bay window, her back fully to him, not so much as glancing backwards. Michael wasn't sure whether to be relieved or offended. He'd worked hard to earn her distrust, if only so she wouldn't end up blindly trusting everyone she came acrossŠas her mum once had. Even that bastard Myrren hadn't robbed her of that.

"Get out." It was soft uttered, a voice trembling on the edge of a whimper.

Michael rose, but didn't leave. Just as he'd done his worst to earn her hate, he'd done his best to keep her safe. Damned if he'd leave her like this.

"Ye know," he drawled over his shoulder, calmly wandering towards the door, "it doesnıt seem like such a bad thing to happen." He didn't sense so much as a twitch from the room's other end. . . except for the fly brushing its hind-quarters down with its back legs over in the kitchen area near the balcony door. He reached for the doorknob and said with perfect calm "At least she's shacked up with someone. . . experienced."

He was out the door just as the vase hurled at him made contact with the wood. Mission accomplished! Though aloud he parted with "Yer landlords goin' to love you for this."

Michael of House Unseili wasted no more time, and was gone before another missile found its way to her hand. The danger was actually nonexistent.

Morgan had far more important things on her mind, not even aware that she muttered "I am the bloody landlord."

It was all Morgan could do to lean her forehead against the sliding glass which separated her from the cold night's air beyond. She opened her eyes and dared to gaze at her reflection.

A woman, as she always was and always recreated herself. Middling height, olive skin, blue eyes hinting towards gray, hair a deep russet shade, though hennaed slightly by so much exposure to Sol. The point of her chin, gentle slope to her ears, cheekbones prominent, though not, all these spoke to her true heritage, that of her long-dead father. Only the shine to her eyes, the fullness and gentle quirk to her lips spoke to that of her mother.

Though which 'mother' could have been debated, given the massive blade hanging loosely in one hand just then.

Once, the first time she rebuilt her appearance, having allowed it to decay after a century's wear, it was in the image of her mother, though she'd had to leave that behind soon enough, her mother's kin mistaking her and seeking her life. Not even their ashes were left when they'd 'caught' her. After that, the faces became blurred, unexceptional, unnoticeable. Oh, she'd once made herself beautiful, only to fall prey to the wiles of that daemon-son seer. She survived the catastrophe which resulted and managed to spirit Caliburn away from those that would have abused it. She lived to her name, and nursed the old ways and stories while the rest of the land she'd known went to pot and madness.

She wandered, not unlike her mother, heading first south, then east, across mountain and great sea. She became of every color of skin, was known by the seers and wise elders of every village she encountered. She learned in spite of herself, and could not forget a single thing.

Nor could she ever bring herself to hate her mother. Her father? No contest there, and not for an instant did she regret driving Caliburn into his heart. She'd have cheerfully done the same to every member of every House of Arcadia, had she the opportunity. Goddess, all that power and wisdom, and her da's kin proved so insensitive and mercurial a lotŠsmall wonder the natives usually thought of them as evil embodied.

Using names like 'Al-Shaityn' and 'Dahmok' didn't help much, either.

'Gabrielle' on the other hand. . .

She wouldn't know her now. How Morgan prayed that she wouldn't! Every time. . . every time before had led to pain. If not to her, then to Gabrielle, or to her warrior. . . to her other 'mother.'

No, she couldn't hate Xena either. Not for wishing her dead as but an infant, not for nearly killing her as a changeling when they met again, not for any of it. Love can forgive all trespasses, and she loved Xena every bit as tenderly as she did her mother. Callisto's murder of the warrior was as much a stab to her heart as it was trauma to the bard. She'd visited her mother many a night afterwards, in silence and shadow, soothing her nightmares as best she could. She'd even approached the Ancient a few times over the century, and guarded her cousins and mortal kin with a passion that rivaled her mother's own.

Now she had this bit of news to chew on. And bitter fare it was. Bloody indigestible even.

Oh, she had no objection to Gabrielle finding a new love. The Ancient loved so easily and deeply. But there would forever be a part of her that wouldn't be touched, save by her warrior alone. And in the hundred years since that terrible moment that the warrior had been sent to Charon's barge, Gabrielle had taken many a nightly lover, but never another mate. There were too many years between them for Morgan herself to take that roleŠthough, Goddesses' grace, she would have tried for all she was worth, had she been less of a coward.

Now. . .now she was trying desperately to make sense of the noise in her head. She was blind to everything else, even the small fact she'd started wandering about the living room and secreted Caliburn back to its hiding place, never mind repairing the damaged cabinet and wall with but the merest 'flick' of thought. Her thoughts were far away, in a mansion on the edge of the forest. . .

No surprise she ended up on the balcony, eyes on the dim horizon.

Gabrielle was with Xena. . .a 'Xena' . . .who used to be a streetwalker. . .a whore. . .a whore who looked exactly like the warrior. . .Gabrielle just let her into her house. . .just like that and snap of the fingers. . . Gabrielle never did anything like that before. . . never. . . Xena wouldn't let her. . . but Xena was dead. . . gone. . . but now she was back. . .

Morgan didn't like the way this sounded, not at all!

She could only sigh and resolve to do what she knew would be needed. Gabrielle had never hesitated, even in the darkest hours between herself and her warrior. Morgan. . . Hope. . . herself was testament to this. Her sire's darkness, like that of Gabrielleıs own, failed there.

She would go to her mother, and do as she should have centuries before. Hope would have satisfaction of her mother's happiness, or ensure it however it proved necessary.

The dawn warmed the earth below, readying it for the age-old celebration of life and bounty.

One, in particular, dreamt of an infant afloat on a river, the current carrying it to her waiting arms. It was the same dream she'd had for more nights than might be imagined. This time, though, rather than waking the instant her fingers touched the basket, she lifted the tiny bundle into her arms and murmured the child's name into crown of dark hair over and over.

Tears came from beneath her closed eyes, and splashed down unto her love's bare shoulder and breast. Xena gazed down on her lover, lips tight with worry. Gabrielle was not the sort given to tears, this she knew. Keen ears caught what she muttered in her sleep, and it filled her with both longing and love.

"Hope," Gabrielle was muttering, over and over, a smile as brightening as the coming day belying any sadness to her tears.

Hope you want, my love, Xena vowed silently, tightening her grip gently. Hope you shall have.

Fin.