a n g e r

- please see part one for disclaimers -

Re-iteration: violence alert. This story contains scenes of graphic violence, blood, cruelty and torture involving humans and animals.
It also contains detailed suggestion of sexual violence.
It is suitable for mature audiences only.
If this is offensive to you, please do not proceed.

iii. anger

The sun had yet to grace the sky and the guttering torch-fire had been left behind in the sooty grime of the city - in the wan trickle of light from the moon an army marched into darkness along cobbles that gradually smoothed to the blocky flagstones of the Imperial Highway.

The main artery to the capital was well worn but immaculately kept, attended to by its own army of slaves that hauled rocks split from the quarries that lay just beyond the city. It was characteristically empty for this time of the day - no merchant or traveller in his right mind would make their way through the countryside at this hour, despite the strong security presence that the Conqueror had installed throughout the highway network. The fields of the dead were too close; and the Greeks were a superstitious people.

The blanket of cold has kept the stench of decaying flesh at bay for now. Even though the telltale crucifixes lay beyond the hills that rose to meet an uncaring horizon, the scattered stumps of fallen trees and the receding line of the forests can be seen from the road if one were to stop and look - the timber having been consigned to the ever-growing field of corpses that littered the ground like macrabre scarecrows.

But very few people did stop - and as the ghostly army began to flowinto the jaws of the valley, the wood seemed to thicken and consume them whole.

The silver-haired general nodded, gesturing to his bodyguards who parted in a wave, preparing to follow the Conqueror - when she ordered them away just as quickly.

But she was already riding away, her receding figure becoming shadowy and indistinct as ethereal soldiers and fog enveloped her. Deucalion shook his head, knowing better than to counsel the Conqueror against such things. Better that she be surrounded by an army, at least...

The last campaign to Parthia had been a security nightmare - with the Conqueror choosing to depart ahead of the column to scout ahead in enemy territory, alone with her golden horse with no escort. For a woman who had spent her entire life commanding armies, she had a strange tendency to run off alone...

The last man. The early days of her campaign were as clear to him as yesterday - perhaps he was the final, remaining sentry to that turbulent, bloody time.

He stroked the mane of his own palomino; a rare breed in these parts, this horse had been a gift from Xena herself - given without ceremony, without fanfare. His servant had found the stallion tethered in his stable one morning, with a slip of paper under the bridle bearing nothing but a simple "X" - the mark of the Conqueror. It was a subtle sign of her favour - and for him, a reminder of another side to his commander's savage reputation. I have seen your rise, Lion of Amphipolis, as surely as I had seen your first steps in your mother's tavern nearly thirty summer's ago....

Deucalion was a soldier's soldier, and one of the original band that first rallied to her magnetic power - where Darphus and others had gone, only he remains. In my middle years it was easy to be seduced into your bloodlust, Xena, but now... Strong, weathered fingers stroked along the graceful neck of his horse. The only thing that gives me hope is your kindness to an old man, a fragment from your past...

A faint rousing of shouts echoed from the rear of their column, and Deucalion turned, smiling at the glittering flashes of swords raised in salute at the Conqueror's presence. Perhaps it was wise to allow this lapse in security - the troops' morale can only rise with their charismatic leader marching with them, and it was inevitable that news would spread of the fate of the Tenth in a forest no doubt very similar to this one...

Besides, I am certain the Conqueror is more than capable of taking care of herself. He raised his eyes to Meriones and shared a gruff chortle with his bedmate over the dim refrain of an old tavern song that wafted from the rearguard. Swaying with the steady step of his horse, Deucalion hummed absently along with the familiar melody - the notes briefly punctuated by shouts and war cries from the enthusiastic soldiers.

It wasn't until he noticed the wave of shouting growing nearer that he felt the familiar twinge of something amiss. A sensation that was spearheaded home with the sounds of clashing metal and the roar of foreign men.

The cry was cut short - the characteristic, sickening sound of an arrow in the throat - Deucalion readied his sword with the rest of his men while the enemy spilled towards them from the steep embankments, as if they were emerging from the very trees themselves...

Soldiers became blurred expressions of violent movement as the clash of steel rang desperate counterpoint to the furious battle. In the blurry twilight there was little to tell the difference between friend or foe - pure instinct reigned in a feverish melee of duelling and death; a soldier runs his sword through his comrade, and realises in horror too late - and is in turn struck down by another. The carnage continued with the confusion - until it could be see that some had a thin black armband where others did not, barely discernable in the half-light; and the tide of the battle began to turn.

Amongst the clamouring sounds of war, a voice rose; laboured, with the bite of tension. "Find her!"

The soldier spoke to no one in particular, the angry words spat out as he cut down another man on his way to the inner sanctum of the formation. His uniform made it easy for him to blend in - the design carefully copied from sketches drawn from military parades... it would be easy to find his target, dressed as one of the Imperial Guards - just a little closer now ...

Another footsoldier leapt in front of him and engaged his sword - gritting his teeth, the soldier parried a few expertly delivered strokes before dispatching his enemy, making for that golden horse that was not twenty paces away now. He smiled, a surge of triumph rushing over the bitterness a few moments ago. It was too good to be true - he had feared the fabled horse was nothing more than a piece of ceremonial finery; but it seemed that the Conqueror's need to satisfy her ego was the same, whether in her capital or on military manoeuvres.

Your mistake, bitch. He gritted his teeth, eyes only for the armoured figure whose back faced him, about to dispatch one of his own men...

Three steps. Two steps. One. The soldier raised his arm, sword poised to strike - everything was set into perfect motion, except for the blow.

Suddenly the horse reared, kicking the other assailant aside while its rider twisted in her saddle, the upraised swording sweeping downward in a blurring arc to deflect the calculated blow. In the shock of discovery, eyes met eyes, face to face - and the soldier realised that his target was a grey-haired man.

His answer was a double-handed swipe, delt with devastating force that left his sword arm momentarily numb as he blocked its course. The surprise had broken his careful rhythm, and as the mounted general rained blow after blow over his head the soldier felt himself faltering. A desperate glance at the ropy sinew of the horse's hind leg gave him a means of escape - stumbling away from a nearly skull-splitting overhead strike, his sword whipped out and tore into the tendon.

The effect was immediate. The horse whinnied in pain and terror, stumbling to the ground bringing its rider with it - and the soldier was ready, delivering a pile-driving strike with the point of his sword into the breastplate of the fallen general.

At that moment, a roar broke out in the forest - spinning on his heels, the soldier's eyes searched the mist, still struggling to pull his weapon from the lifeless body. There was a flicker of panic in his eyes - his body was heavy with exertion, and there was something in that devastating voice...

There, in the violent haze of fighting and blurred steel, a pair of flashing eyes emerged from the melee, burning with vengeful blue fire.

His hands gripped the leather-bound hilt, still trying desperately to free his sword while his eyes remained on the Conqueror moving inexorably closer. The mist seemed to dissipate from around her; an aura of heat and death felling his men like mown grass.

She was too close. His sword was lost, and his men were gone. There was only one thing left to do.

The last order, like the first, was cut short - words lost to a dissipating breath that died as the soldier's head fell to the ground. It struck the trampled loam with a dull clang, setting free the flesh from the helmet in a grudging roll that ended by a pair of dark, mud-spattered boots.

Returning her chakram to her side, the figure contemplated the sodden flesh at her feet for a moment. Then, the sneer still on her face, Xena drove the point of her sword into the slack-lipped mouth and held it aloft. Her gaze bore into the unseeing eyes with wintery contempt.

The head was thrown from the sword in disgust. And as it tumbled away, the mist began to settle as the heat of the battle dissolved, resolving the carnage that surrounded them.

Men lay dead and dying, littering the road like rag dolls thrown carelessly by a capricious giant. Pieces of armour and weapons lay twisted amongst the withered branches fallen from the overhanging trees, glittering with innocent lustre as the rising sun touched their bloodstained surfaces with light.

A hoarse cry came from a few paces behind her, and Xena whirled around, prepared to strike at a charging enemy. Instead, she saw a kneeling figure beside a bloodied horse, his head bowed as if trying to hold in an unimaginable grief.

Meriones knelt Deucalion's body, beholding the fallen Spartan with dispairing hands.

The Conqueror stood cold, the image burning itself into her mind fueled by the battlerage that pounded at her heart like a sledge.

"I am giving you command. Continue to Lechnion and board the ships to Lugdunum. Summon Althea from the guard to don my armour and ride on my horse. I will return to Corinth alone."

There was a moment's hesitation - a brief stilling of movement - before the kneeling figure straightened and looked his commander in the eye.

"This ambush never occurred, Meriones. There is a cave a leagues west of here - organise a small group to move the bodies there until I give the order for their return to the capital." Her foot prodded Ajax's crumpled body, then indicated in the directions of distant crucifixes. "Have them haul these ones to the Fields."

Re-sheathing her sword, Xena made a motion to turn away but paused mid-step. Her eyes, pale with barely-suppressed fury, spared a glance for the body sprawled on the ground - a glance that lingered a little too long, betraying a moment where there was another sensation besides the cold fire of anger.

It was a time when the touch of the dawn would temper the ugliness of the city for a little while; sheathed in a warm glow of light being born, joined by shifting columns smoke from chimneys whose fires were just being stoked to brightness once more.

Within the bowels of the castle, however, Gabrielle was oblivious to the evolution to daytime. Roused from sleep not half an hour ago, the girl hobbled painfully behind the soldier instructed to guard her, the endless corridors of Xena's palace becoming one recurring, unending purgatory that repeated over, and over, and over...

The girl looked up, having missed the sound of the door being unlocked and opened - the shock of the soldier's voice, however, forced her to re-orientate herself quickly, and she stumbled into the doorway without further protest.

She looked about her - the small cot, the rough table with a guttering candle and a simple wooden bowl bearing scraps of herbs, the stark, unyielding walls with no windows - where no one can hear you scream. Gabrielle felt a chill course her spine; a spark of fresh fear reminding her that she had every reason to be afraid.

It felt like an age has passed since the Conqueror left her painfully naked on the cold floor of her chambers - too much time to contemplate what she had done. What she has done to me...

The soldier began removing his armour in unhurried movements, his eyes remaining on her. The look was unreadable - but it seemed to burn into her skin with a hunger...

Keep your innocence for now, little girl. You'll see how well it serves you. The dark voice echoed in her mind, dark and powerful like distant thunder. The realisation came to Gabrielle with a fear that gripped her heart in a cold vise. By the Gods - he's going to... she ordered him to -

The broadness of his back faced her - planes of muscle shifting with the jumping candlelight as he folded his tunic and laid it on the table in silence.

Gabrielle tried a laugh - hoping the twist of nervousness might be given a breath of confidence. "Surely you can do better than pick up the scraps from the Conqueror's table."

The hulking back froze, then began to shudder - in amazement, the girl watched as the soldier turned to face her. Laughing. Gabrielle's disbelief dissolved her apprehension even as the inanity of it all came down on her like a weight, turning her fear into irritation which flashed clearly in her eyes. But before she could say anything, the soldier reached out and gripped her chin, directing her gaze to him.

"See this?" The soldier's finger pointed to a shiny scar, just above the left collarbone.

She made little attempt to temper the sarcasm in her voice. "I'd show you my legs, but I think you're already familiar with them."

Thorgen shook his head. "I see why Xena would have been so fascinated with you. Trapped but defiant to the last. She likes hers feisty."

He walked past her and sat down on the edge of the bed, leaning his elbows heavily on his knees. "Come on, sit down. I'm not going to rape you."

He shrugged. "Hey, you're the cripple." He reached under the batter pillow and pulled out a wineskin, taking a healthy pull from the spout.

"Why am I here?" The bard glared at him as he swallowed with gusto, wiping his lips with a ropy forearm. Instead of answering her, however, he turned so that she could see the peculiar tattoo on his right shoulder.

"Not just the imperial guards. That's her personal brand. I was once her most favoured."

He seemed to ignore her question again; he continued on as if speaking of a distant past, his voice peering into the blur of memory. "I was from Thrace, one of four brothers. When Xena came to my village twenty years ago she killed one brother and crucified another. The other escaped capture and swore to destroy her."

"I enlisted in her army." His eyes looked into hers, daring her anger. "I was hypnotised by her. She was like Athena - deadly and powerful and beautiful. She moved like water. She was so beautiful to watch I forgot I was watching her murder my friends, my family..."

The soldier saw, but stopped short of apologising. "The early campaigns were slow - even though there was plunder and loot to be had I only wanted her to notice me. I rose through the ranks quickly because I wanted to impress her. I worked my body to exhaustion for her conquests. I was belligerent to my superiors so she would notice me when they flogged me; when I became a commander I spoke my mind bluntly just to incur her wrath. And eventually she had enough regard for me that I could work my body for her pleasure. I became one of her personal guards... I was intoxicated by her."

And now you're a simple palace guard, assigned to night duty over one of her worhtless slaves... why? Gabrielle remained silent, watching the soldier through his thoughts.

"Argulus - " The incongruity of the question was acute, but she managed a nod. "He was a good friend - we were in the movement together. She executed him a few months ago... he was arrested -"

"- At an uprising. Yes, I was sent to remove the disturbance. She sentenced him to die in public execution and I was to be the executioner."

There was a connection between them; Gabrielle could sense it. She sat down beside him, her legs shrieking from the relief.

"The death-stroke pierced his shoulder, just above the collarbone. I missed his heart."

Of their own accord, her eyes flickered to the scar he had pointed out, located just as he described it. She frowned, not understanding...

"He was my brother. The one that got away." His eyes bored into hers, noting the pain that clouded her gaze. "The scar was a lesson for missing my target. Killing him was my punishment."

Thorgen gave a short laugh - like a strangled breath, then rose to his feet. Without preamble, he began to shift the furniture in the storeroom, as if he was searching for something. Unable to assist, Gabrielle could only stand and watch; and question.

He was bent under the table, fumbling with the stone wall. "This is my penance, Gabrielle. My brother admired you very much." There was a sound of frictioning metal, followed by a click - and a segment of the stone wall swivelled away, revealing a dim passageway that led into an undefinable darkness.

Gabrielle stared first at the hidden doorway, then at her unexpected benefactor. Her ineloquence matched her confusion, and her fear.

Thorgen shook his head, then reached under the bed for basket. Retrieving a few bread rolls, he placed them into a small bundle and tied it together.

"I have matters to take care of." He threaded the bundle onto her shoulder, tucking the bulk of it under her arm. Thorgen led her foward, handing her a sturdy pair of crutches, and led her to the doorway.

The final irrationality that lingered, however, was the panic she felt when she feared rape at the hands of this gentle man, yet with the Conqueror, she had felt desire...

"I very much doubt she will find out, Gabrielle." He squinted at the dark skies outside the window, his dark eyes unreadable.

The dark cloth slid smoothly, silently over her skin as Xena traversed the battlements, her footing sure and unerring as she leapt along and up onto the wall of the south tower within her palace complex. There was a brief scraping sound as the small daggers gripped the mortar securely; a sound that formed a rhythm as she steadily climbed up the wall towards a window dimly lit from within.

Lifting herself onto the generous stone sill, she crouched in the fenestra secure in the shadows to observe her quarry. There was a desk and a chair in the centre of the stone room, and a bed stood to one side. Within the chair sat Machaon, back facing her, his pale hair made almost halo-like by the light of the reading candle on the table.

Her feet fell silently as she leapt onto the flagstones. There was no breath of air as she approached, no stirring - so that when Xena spoke, her victim could hardly have expected the voice to appear right behind him.

"Machaon. Surprised to see me?" She jabbed the point of her sword at the nape of his neck, his stiff carriage betraying his fear.

It was Xena's turn to be surprised, however, when his lifeless body toppled to the ground at her touch.

Limping down a wide alley, Gabrielle's eyes searched out for a door. The streets were not yet busy - the traffic were mostly merchants heading early into market, and beggars that had remained from the night before. Swathed in a blanket and propped up on her crutches, there was nothing to set her apart from the others on the street.

There it was. A wooden door, not much different from the rest, but Gabrielle knew it well. She knocked once, then twice more.

The slight sounds of daily routine from behind the door stopped abruptly. The bard tapped out the pattern again, nearly falling when the door opened with a sudden motion.

A youngish man stood in the doorway, mouth agape as if he had seen a ghost. On seeing his face, the blonde girl's eyes filled with tears.

"Yes Kranios, it's me..." She reached out to still his trembling hand, but he would not take it.

"No, she had other plans for me - " She caught herself, then continued. "Someone helped me escape."

He remained frozen, trying to make sense of this spectre before him. The crackle from the fireplace behind him startled him out of his purgatory, and something within him seemed to crumple.

"Oh, Gabrielle..." Finally, his disbelief broke and he gathered her into a warm hug, drawing her into the house and closing the door behind him. There was a moment when Gabrielle gripped him tightly - the first friendly face in too long - then she felt him release his hold.

His serious eyes regarded her with concern. "No one escapes the Tyrant's Palace without being caught. When did you leave the grounds?"

"You can't stay here - Xena's soldiers will be tearing the city apart for you. We have to get you out of Corinth."

"No - word is that there has been an uprising in Gaul. There is enough chaos there for you to be safe."

"Yes. Take me to Gaul." A part of her was outraged, not quite believing what she had just said. You barely escaped with your life; and the first thing you do with your new-found freedom is to enslave yourself back to her...

No - what she had seen of the Conqueror was like the fruit from Tantalus' tree - she was so close, if only she reached a little further she might understand how this woman came to be, and in turn, the reason for my current existence -

She took a deep breath, and smelled fresh bread from the hearth. "But perhaps after breakfast...?"

"Breakfast - " Perplexed, Kranios' solemn face grew sheepish, then broke into a smile. "Of course. By the gods, Gabrielle - it's good to see you..."

The Conqueror was the picture of coiled rage as she prowled around her bound quarry, her motion flowing like agitated mercury. They were in the dungeons - one of the larger cells, containing instruments of persuasion both strange and horrifying. There were several thick posts with suggestive iron links, but the soldier was not bound to them. He stood with his hands in irons, his bruised jaw set firmly in a show of defiance. One eye was nearly swollen shut from the blow that had knocked him out - but he nonetheless maintained an unwavering gaze towards his captor.

"I don't suppose you would name the others involved in your little plan?" The words were spoken from four feet away, but the intimation was almost enough to burn his skin.

"What a strange time it is to be finding your conscience." Feeling the blood in her veins mellow somewhat, Xena's voice settled into a forboding calm - rich and fluid with dangerous promise. "And ironic, too, that you would seek revenge in such a bloody manner."

She moved in closer; close enough to kiss. "Two Wrongs doth not one Right make, Thorgen. Didn't your mother ever tell you? Oh, of course..." She chided herself with a chuckle, an almost-seductive sound - then her eyes returned to his face with devastating intent.

With a casual sweep of her leg, she knocked the soldier to the ground even as he prepared to lunge at her. "Uh - uh. Not a good idea, unless you were feeling acutely suicidal. Which I suppose you are, considering the mess you made with Machaon's body. It was almost as if you wanted me to find you."

Her finger drifting wiltingly down his cheek, a taunting gesture. "Why didn't you save yourself the trouble and just come for me?"

"Killing you wouldn't have hurt enough, Xena. You don't have a heart to bleed from."

Shaking her head, the Conqueror laughed as she resumed a lazy meander before her prisoner. "Oh, do your best, Thorgen. Let's see if you can make me bleed."

The soldier clenched his teeth, resisting from being drawn into Xena's malevolent game.

Her voice reached out; taunting him, seducing him. "How do you want to hurt me?"

"Your power. Your army. Your generals." He hesitated, almost for dramatic effect. "That lap-dog commander of yours that has walked the earth far too long."

It was the triumphant note in his voice that gave it away. The Conqueror stilled in her motion then turned slowly to face the soldier, the realisation coming unbidden to her lips.

The smile, despite the contusions on his face, was smug. "Deucalion was the Butcher of Parthia. He deserved to die."

A backhanded swipe broke his nose and cracked his zygomatic arch, sending him flying to the other side of the room. His flight was broken by shoulder, driving his humerus into his scapula, transmitting the force to fracture his clavicle. The menacing figure stalked up to him, radiating dark energy, and hauled him up by the front of his shirt.

Her teeth were close enough to tear at his lips. "He was a far better soldier than any of your cowardly horde. He was a good man that followed orders."

"Then he is another life that is on your conscience, Xena. You killed him, as surely as the sword that stopped his heart."

Xena dropped him, drawing her sword in one smooth, economic motion. Thorgen landed hard on his knees - shattering microfractures into the bony prominences like cracks in sandstone.

Thorgen could only remain on his knees; but instead of bowing his head in supplication, he raised it to look defiantly at her.

The cut was clean. Xena squinted the blood from her eyes, heard the familiar coarse spatter across her battledress, the jarring crunch of bone on metal - as it had happened thousands of times. But as the head fell to the ground, Xena could only watch - no rush, no triumph - her body feeling nothing at all.

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seven deadly sins

iii. anger