The Warrior Princess

by ArdentTly

Disclaimer: The characters of Xena and Gabrielle both belong to Universal Studios, MCA and Renaissance Pictures. Infringement of their rights is not intended.

Sexuality Disclaimer: The following short story is intended for mature audiences; that is, people over the age of consent. It contains scenes of graphic lesbian sexuality. Should this type of fan fiction not be to your liking, please feel free to move along and read something else.

Final Disclaimer:. This is a rather harmless bit of fluff, merely an idea that's been rattling around my brain for a week. I hope you enjoy it. All offerings, burnt or otherwise, can be directed to me at ArdentTly@yahoo.com.

Xena, stood proud, her hair flying freely in the breeze. She looked over the battlements upon the field, littered with so many bodies. Her army has succeeded, of course. There was never any doubt. She placed a hand over her eyes, shading them from the afternoon sun. There, in the distance, lies what is left of the Roman Elite, their banner in tatters.

Her skills as a well seasoned warrior, a battle tactician, have won this day; it was her vision, her will, her desires that roused the men to reach for the moon and settle for nothing else. Her indomitable will.

As the smell from the putrifying bodies began to waft up towards her, Xena could feel the blood in her veins come to a boil; images of The God of War filled her sight and she trembled with need. No one would know just what cost she paid, ignoring that calling, that flaming desire he wrought up in her.

Her nights used to be filled with the noises of the wounded and dying, the boisterous sounds of men rutting and the wailing of women (the spoils of war), crying out in fear and pain. Those days were spent hardening her heart, encasing it in the hot molten lead from Hephastus's forge. And then she would retire to her own tent, looking for solace; sometimes in the arms of other women but most times by using her force, her desire for control, pain and the look on a man's face as she took his body, corrupted his mind, reducing him and others to either wimpering fools or automatons who would willingly do her bidding. She held her army tightly in the fist of her hand, slowly crushing all that would defy her.

Ah, but those days were long past. Now she shared her heart with those she loved. Her family came to mean everything to her. That which Cortese had stolen from her was now something she enjoyed at her leisure. She reveled in the emotions her friend elicited from her. While it did her soul good to follow the path the bard had set out before her, it was truly Gabrielle's will that kept her to it. The wee bard from Poteideia wasn't even totally aware of the power she held over The Destroyer of Nations.

Xena trembled in the hot afternoon sun as if from the cold crisp days of winter. Yet it was not the climate that affected her so; she could sense Gabrielle's presence; her darkened soul illuminated quietly, every corner of darkness being vanquished until, at last, the bard stood beside her. The warrior's lower lip protruded as she clenched her jaw. Every muscle in her body twitched and spasmed as she fought for control. She was a stoic warrior, a woman without weakness. She straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath, steeling her desire, tamping it down.

Turning to face her friend, she put a quirk upon her lips, cocked an eyebrow and began talking about the battle won and lives lost. She was in control. And yet....the golden colour of her hair in the rays of the sun; the twinkling of her sea green eyes, amber flecks floating within; the smooth contours of the bard's silky form; her rose red lips, wantonly begging to be kissed, to be consumed.

And Xena faced the truth again: it was she who was conquered, she who had lost the battle once more. The terror of Greece humbled and whipped before the beauty and purity of a plain poet girl. Oh how the gods must be laughing! And yet... Xena was comfortable to bask in the light the bard threw off. She could feel the waves of unconditional love wash over her and she knew, without a doubt, the myths were fact; here lay the other part of her soul, the missing piece she had longed for even before she knew what it was. Here lay her salvation.

In the arms of a bard.

Copyrighted by ArdentTly, January 1999