Start All Over
By Absinthe
WARNING: Violence and death ahead. For disclaimer see part one.
The Mega Sad Ending:
My vision blurs red and somewhere I hear Erykah shrieking. The remaining guards circle me warily, and I can hear Chaymon groan as he comes around. The screaming stops, which does nothing to reassure me. Suddenly something wraps around one of my ankles and jerks. I stumble forward and for a split second my attention is on my balance. At that moment, my feet are swept out from under me, and I go down. The world grays out a bit. The last thing I see is Chaymon's boot swinging towards my face.
I wake up several candlemarks later, aching all over. I realize that I am tied over the back of a horse, and my face is pressed against dusty grey fur. I sneeze and try to lift my head, but catch only a dizzying glimpse of the ground and a flash of iron shod hooves. The blood pounds in my head like a thousand drums, and the remains of the day passes agonizingly slowly. My entire being is focused on the pulsing of blood in my head and the pressure of my own weight on my diaphragm.
When at last the caravan comes to halt, someone unties me from the pack saddle and I slide into a boneless heap under the horse. I desperately will my limbs to move, to show some defiance, but the fight and the rigors of the long day conspire against me. I squint up at Broken hand, who is now the proud owner of a cut across the forehead and a finely smashed nose. I grin at him and am rewarded with a sharp kick.
"Hold off on that," Chaymon calls, his voice a little stuffy from the swelling of his nose, "Xena, Xena, Xena. See what you made me do?" he says, and with a gesture one of his men drags Erykah forward. Her eyes are nearly swollen shut and she looks disoriented. When she sees me she breaks into a relieved smile and opens her mouth as if to say something. Her words are cut off by the horrifying crunch of her neck, when, with a casual gesture, Chaymon orders his guard to snap it. I feel the sickening noise down to the very core of my being, and something inside of me snaps too. I hear a dry, furious, animal scream and after a moment I realize that I am the one making it. I can't stop myself and somehow I manage to get to my feet though both of my ankles are chained close together. I throw my full weight at the slaver, but Chaymon trips me up easily. I writhe in a rage on the ground, my mind devoid of any rational thought.
That night, alone with my chains, I wonder why the death of a girl I had known so briefly could affect me so profoundly. I think that she might have been a second chance for me because she reminded me so much of Gabrielle. I don't know why, but there was something about the way that she moved, the way she talked. It was almost like losing my love again.
The next few days pass in a blur. I am in a state of utter torpor, only dimly aware of riding slung over that same horse day after day. Then, on the outskirts of Athens, Chaymon once more shows his greasy face. A matronly woman in a slave collar follows him at a discreet distance, and I am roused from my stupor by the fact that it is mid afternoon and for some reason we have stopped. I am kneeling in front of the grey horse. It feels odd to be in a different position after spending so much time either draped over the back of a horse or piled in a heap on the ground.
Chaymon turns to the woman and says, "See what you can do to fix her up a bit, eh? Make her look a bit like her old self." He self importantly hitches up his breeches and saunters off. I notice that his face is looking a little more human now that the broken nose I gave him is healing. The woman stares at me, and for the briefest moment I think I catch a look of despair on her otherwise impassive face. Broken Hand is nearby, and he cautiously lengthens the chain between my feet, and then drags me into a standing position. He supports my weight until my deadened limbs respond enough to hold me up, and then the matronly woman grasps my collar and walks ruthlessly towards the bank of a stream. It is barely a trickle of water, but it is enough. Broken Hand watches intently, waiting for any further excuse to resort to violence, but I give him none.
"Are you really who they say you are?" The woman whispers as she sponges off my face. I nod mutely, but the flicker of hope in her eyes makes me wish I had denied my identity. She cuts off my clothes as this is the only way to get them off without removing my chains. I can't bring myself to be either haughty or embarrassed about it. She washes my hair, then puts henna in it to hide the silver. No one wants an old slave. When she is finished, I stand in a knee length tattered skirt, and a hastily hacked off midriff shirt. It was obviously once a man's.
When we get going again, I am walking on my own two feet. It's a real struggle to keep up, as the chains are still short and restrict me to a shuffling fumbling walk. I soon forget about that though, for Chaymon is as good as his word in that people are expecting us. Gawkers stop to watch us pass, pointing and jabbering. I have the presence of mind to straighten my shoulders and hold my head up.
The Market in Athens is packed, and Chaymon has to send a man ahead to clear out a path for the rest of the caravan. He stakes out a prime spot and set out the trained slaves where they'd be looked at. They won't be sold until later though. The sea of people around us rises and falls, sometimes leaving a few shoppers in our midst, poking at us, bargaining with Chaymon. I lose track of time, deep in my own thoughts, until we are lead towards a platform, and Chaymon takes his position at center stage. He starts his routine of selling, building up each slave as they are brought forth, trying to get the most for them. The crowd is in a buying mood, and with each shout of "sold" my heart sinks. Another of Chaymon's slaves sold, and my turn up there grows closer. There are over seven hundred people gathered in this corner of the street market, much thanks to the rumor flying around that the Warrior Princess is going up for sale, judging by the comments I hear sometimes.
I hope that no one can sense my fear as I approach the platform. It figures that my courage would choose to sell out now. I am not afraid to die, I am more afraid of what will happen if I don't. I don't realize that I am being pushed up the steps onto the platform until I am already at the top of it, looking out over the crowd. Chaymon starts spewing phrases like "Xena, Destroyer of Nations," and "The greatest warrior since..." and "The woman who burned . . ." There is a momentary lull in the noise, and then someone in the front row begins to laugh. Have I changed that much? My relief is short lived though.
Chaymon declares the bidding to start at one thousand dinars. The heckler laughs even harder and a few others join him, but somewhere someone shouts, "One thousand dinars!" And so the bidding begins. At last, at 4700 dinars, I am sold. All I can hope that it is either someone very stupid, or very eager to see me dead. All I want is a quick death. One that takes Chaymon with me would be preferable. The man who comes forward wears royal livery. I recognize his colors and remember the kingdom. More importantly, I remember the king's daughter, raped and killed by one of my lieutenants oh so long ago. I had killed that man myself, but I doubt that matters to the king.
Two days later, he declares my sentence. For pillaging, murder, robbery, and causing the death of his most beautiful child, the sentence is death. A hanging. As I sit on the horse that is to be engine of my demise, my fingers brown from touching the henna in my hair, I am glad of the rope hanging loosely about my neck, and the uneasy horse between my thighs. I have been here too long, and as Ares had once said "Only the young can die well." He'd been joking at the time but he had also been right. My thoughts are cut off when the animal jumps forward, and the noose tightens.
In the immortal words of Wayne and Garth, "FISHED IN!!! Didddly doo diddly doo ..." To the Scooby Doo ending
Or the Mega Happy ending!
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Email: absinthe@earthling.net