Green Isle

Many a green isle needs must be
In the deep sea of misery
Or the mariner, worn and wan,
Never thus could voyage on
Day and night and night and day
Drifting on his weary way.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

I found them in Virgil's home, seated around the fireplace. Virgil and Gabrielle were leaning forward, arguing vigorously, laughing with it. Xena sat back a little, staring into the fire. I waited until the laughter had stopped; then, when Xena started to look around for me, I appeared to them.

It was quiet for a long time.

She had gone to the people who lived by the Caspian Sea, I told them; she had tried to prevent a war, had offered herself as a hostage, and had been slaughtered for her trouble.

Did she prevent the war, Gabrielle asked, in the silence that followed. I still had the girl in my arms; I moved a lock of her hair from her face and looked up.

Yes, I lied, and then Xena screamed at me and took her daughter. I left the house then, but I could still hear her screams.

I watched the funeral fire that evening. Xena was surrounded, with Gabrielle on one side and Virgil on the other; everyone who had known her mourned with her. At one point she moved a little towards the flames, but they held her back from the burning. I saw her face; it was empty, I did not recognise it. A strange voice offered up a lament, and then Xena turned her back on the fire and went inside the house.

When I came to her she was sitting in a chair in her room. On the wall was a small painting, a river scene, and she was staring at it impassively.

Here, I said, mark me, hurt me; and I placed a blade in her hand. She looked at it, and dropped it, as though she knew not what to do with it. I lifted the sword again but she took my hand instead. I saw that it was shaking.

Tell me they spared her, she said.

They spared her, I said; and now I noticed my voice shook too.

Tell me she stopped the war, she said, tell me, when they saw her acts of mercy they loved her and changed their hearts.

This time I could not speak; I just looked upon her, and I saw the corner of her mouth drop and heard a soft sound – ah –

We fell to the floor and I had her in my arms, and I felt the grip of her nails in my skin. After that she lifted up her face and bit down hard on my lip, and heard my involuntary cry.

Then she moved back. I want that sound, she said, oh, I want it. Her mouth moved back to mine; she pressed her lips gently against my mouth and heard my cry again.

Not like this, I said suddenly, and pulled back. She dropped my hands and shook her head sadly.

There is only like this, she said, there is only ever the mourning. Then she kissed me again.

Her mouth was so soft. She kissed me again and again, while I dared not move, dared not breathe. Her face so warm against mine. She drew herself back and looked upon me with almost tenderness, before she moved closer again and kissed me, her tongue warm in my mouth. Then she sighed.

My heart hurt at the sound. I cradled her in my arms and kissed her, kissed her mouth, kissed her face, buried my face in the warmth of her breasts. She stroked my hair and tensed as I tasted the soft skin of her breast, as I drew my hand down over her body.

I lifted my head a moment and watched her as she pulled her tunic over her head. Her hair free about her shoulders. You search for something in me that isn’t there, she said, her eyes meeting mine; there isn’t a part of me that hasn’t yet been touched.

I pulled her back down to me, finding her lips again, finding her eyes. Except by me, I told her, and then I slid down to taste her, her hands in my hair again, her body arched. You are new for me, I told her, my voice hoarse. I took her wrist in my mouth and tasted her pulse on my tongue. You are new for me, I told her as I slid her hips under me and joined her, feeling her soft body moving gentle under mine.

I cried out her name; she sobbed, once, and whispered my own.

*****

She was alone on the plains, with the fire banked up high, the flames shooting up high into the night. I heard her wail. She screamed and sobbed, and though she had been dancing now she was on the ground, clawing at the earth.

I had heard her sing before at funeral fires but this keening was no music. She rocked and wept, and then she had a dagger at her hand, and she drew it down her bare arm, and smeared the blood across her face and chest.

I stopped the blade before it could scar her the second time.

I’ve been here a thousand times, she said, her face lifted to the fire even as she rocked on her knees. I’ve lit the fire for lovers and friends, for son and now for daughter.

You’ll never light it for me, I told her, and then I grasped her by the arm. She turned her head towards me and looked at me, her face lit by the glow of the flames.

I think I’ll live forever, over and over again, lighting the fires of the dead, she said. I’ve died so many times now but I come back again and again, just to mourn someone else –

Her voice broke and her head dropped. She sobbed convulsively.

You’ll never light it for me, I repeated, and waited with her until the fire burned out and her wailing ceased.

...h.o.m.e...
bleeding-heart[dot]net