All Souls Night.

Disclaimers in Chapter One. Warning: Just bear with me, folks. This will make sense later.

They were waiting for her, there in the dark. Waiting as they had for so many nights since Samhain last. They were ancient and eternal, only their faces and members changing over the course of centuries and millennia.

They were four...and one other. . .that night, as they had been since the settling of the Americas. Their sixth had chosen that moment to declare war upon his then-allies, though his chair remained at their table, left empty. . .as a reminder of betrayal. . .

Until now.

She knew this was a dream. A figment concocted by her imagination and fears, nothing more.

This knowledge didn't make the stone floor or dank air any less chilling. Nor the voice which rang out from the circular table before her any more friendly.

"Welcome."

This time it was the African woman who greeted her, the one dressed like a voodoo priestess with a colorful scarf wrapped about her head and beaded necklace hanging from her neck. But her eyes were a glowing red, a deep enough shade to remind her of fresh-spilt blood.

"Sit. Be comfortable." This came from the pudgy man wearing a powdered wig and lipstick.

Her legs moved of their own accord, carrying her to the vacant chair. She sat as bade, the bare wood cold to her equally naked skin. The merest glance from any of those who watched her, four pairs of crimson eyes eager for even the briefest contact, dispelled any discomfort. . .and all thought with it.

If those eyes removed her will, they did nothing to her hearing. She certainly wasn't deaf to their words, taking it all in and desperately attempted to make heads-and-tails of what were essentially legs, arms, and trunks of conversation, not simply a clear thread of exchanges. It put her in mind of the tentacles of an octopus trying to communicate with one another. . .when each were of their own mind.

"Is she prepared?" the powdered wig asked once she was settled.

"Perhaps enough. Perhaps not enough." This came from the one sitting two chairs away from the powdered wig, a bodybuilder in a toga with solid white hair and a fetching scar tracing his right cheek.

"I would not have us delay the ceremonies," the African woman declared. "The energies fade fast these days."

Beside her sat another woman, whose skin was only slightly lighter in shade and whose own robes were a striking orange with red fringes. "Our supporters and retainers will be hard pressed to wait another year."

"Leave that to me." The toga spoke in a tone that might have been final, was in no way convincing.

There was a shuffle of movement to her right. The fifth chair was occupied by what looked like a mass of dirty curtains and bed linen, all draped over an old- fashioned coat rack. If this was another participant to the "conversation", it certainly wasn't saying much.

This didn't stop everyone from giving the chair occupied by the dirty linen with the occasional glance or outright stare. They even nodded at it.

Creepy.

"I agree with Gaunt." The African again. But who the hell was "Gaunt"?

"As do I," the woman in orange agreed. Girls against the boys?

"Hmm." The toga grunted in ways men generally do when they agree without wishing to say it aloud. The powdered wig said nothing, but slumped back into his own chair and generally looked quite sulky.

The African gave everyone, including the dirty linen, but not her, dangerous eyes. She couldn't help but wonder what was being communicated. It was potent stuff, whatever it was.

"Which leaves us," the orange and red robe was saying, "with our guest."

Again, four pairs of red stars were on her again. Just as they had been a dozen times a dozen nights before. Some nights it frightened her. Others, simply puzzled her.

Then and there, it was a fear that turned her heart to a lump of. . . something. . . colder than ice. . . and infinitely harder than stone.

She wanted, desperately, to say something. . .anything. . . to get those eyes off her. . .away from her. Her mouth didn't work. They wouldn't let it work.

Panic gripped her muscles, willing them to shake.

Why wouldn't they let her voice work?

Why. . . The African watched this and nodded, as though in full approval. Her full ruby lips broke into a knowing grin and she turned back to the others. "I think she's ready." There was a pride in her voice, as though she were a pet project of only cursory importance.

It angered her. The anger gave her strength.

Not much, but enough. She could feel her muscles again. And if her core was still cold with fear, it was a sheen of ice. . .covering a volcano's explosive core.

She managed to move her own eyes (the others were talking amongst themselves again) from the scene before her. Unfortunately, the first thing they drifted to was the dirty linen to her right. . .

It wasn't simply a collection of rags and filth. It was, she could see now, a filth-encrusted robe and hood. There was a definite shape to it, one with a head (of sorts) distinct atop its. . .shoulders? The hood, while deep, didn't obscure the fact there was something in there. . .

Something with eyes. . .which glowed a red more powerful than the rest of them put together. . .

Eyes which burned into her. . .

Sucked her dry. . .

Then she saw the face beneath those eyes.

Her voice came back.

And she screamed. . .

And screamed. . .

And screamed. . .

Xena awoke silently, her body slick with cold sweat and every muscle clenched. She barely managed to swallow the scream about to form on her lips. It took some moments for her thoughts to calm enough to remind her of where she was.

She lay on her back, Gabrielle curled beside her. A shudder went through her as her muscles tightened. . .in fear. . .again. This time of the small woman sleeping beside her. She didn't know why she felt this. She wasn't even sure she cared.

Xena could only roll onto her side, away from Gabrielle, and closed her eyes.

Sleep came and claimed her. . .eventually.

But not before Gabrielle herself opened her own eyes, staring at her love's back. These nightmares, always coming on the heels of their lovemaking, had started almost the same time her own dreams of her long-lost Hope faded. If those dreams, of finding her infant daughter, left her mildly disturbed (Artemis forgive her she'd barely thought about her first child in nearly a century), then these nightly visitations drove her to distraction. Another night and she would do what to that point was the unthinkable, and intrude upon her sleeping love's dream. . .directly. This would stop, come what may.

No sigh of either distress or acceptance escaped her this time. In time she, too, slept again, but gained no rest from it.

It was a small mercy she didn't feel the silent tears which came in her sleep that night.