Mid-afternoon. A strong breeze came from the sea, blowing dust across the square before the Athens Academy for Performing Bards. Gabrielle sat on the edge of the dressed stone pool, anxious eyes fixed on the gates. They opened, and Homer came out, looked around, and moved to sit next to her. An embarrassed silence held for some moments.
Gabrielle tugged at blue-green cloth finally. “Changed your tunic, I see,” she said.
He smiled. “I can’t believe how wonderful it is to be clean again. I—just want you to know, a part of me will always envy you, Gabrielle. Living your tales as you compose them. I—guess I’m better suited to finding them and finding a way to retell them.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Gabrielle protested. “Maybe I live a story—like the last battle for Troy—but then someone else comes along—like you—and finds a way to make it matter to people. To lots of people. That’s at least as important as sleeping in the mud and expecting to die at any moment. All right?”
He gazed down at her, finally smiled, a playful gleam in his eye. “All right. I guess Docenios thinks the same way, because he said he wasn’t going to report me to my father as a truant. He’s going to call it fieldwork, even though I’m not supposed to be doing fieldwork for another two years.”
“Oh, Homer,” Gabrielle murmured; one hand cupped his beardless cheek. “I’m going to miss you.”
“I’ll miss you, too,” he said very softly. Silence. They gazed at each other, and finally he set one hand under her chin and bent down to lay a gentle kiss on her mouth.
“I wish,” she began, then shook her head. “It just wouldn’t work, would it? I—Xena means so much to me. You do, too, but it’s different. And I tried, once, for the Academy. I couldn’t give up the traveling, the hardships—whatever it is, I have to be out there, learning things firsthand.”
“That’s good,” he said quietly. “And I’m happiest here—I know that now; I tried your way, and it isn’t for me. What I do best is take the stories others bring me and make them real in a way that—that maybe you wouldn’t have seen at the time.”
She smiled, then set her lips against his for a very long moment. “Goodbye, Homer. I’ll see you again. Soon, I hope.” She blinked as Vision suddenly reasserted itself. “Don’t forget, I think it’s important. Catalog of ships.”
“I won’t forget. Goodbye, Gabrielle.” He stood to watch her go: a slender, golden-haired, almost childlike figure—incongruous in Amazon brown. Who would think it? Behind him the Academy loomed, its stone walls familiar—a haven—a home.
Down at the Athens docks, Atalanta turned to extend a hand; the fingers trembled. Xena shrugged, took the hand, and held it firmly. “You’ll be fine. Trust me, you’re doing the right thing. Just like you’ve done since you pulled those girls from that ledge.
“You tricked me, vanishing like that,” Atalanta complained, but her eyes were warm.
“It had to matter to you; you had to see what counted. I was there, close enough to fix things if you couldn’t handle the pressure,” Xena said. “You did fine.”
“Those poor children,” Atalanta whispered. “I—if their parents don’t understand, don’t help them—”
“Most of them do. Gabrielle talked to the girls last night, after you fell asleep.” She raised an eyebrow; the huntress grinned abashedly.
“I was tired,” she said. “And sending Ixos back to his cabin—I didn’t think I’d ever convince him. But he’d be lost on a ship, and I really don’t think he’d like Colchis. He’s not fond of mutton, you know.”
“Go,” Xena said, and gripped the other woman’s fingers, hard. “Don’t forget to eat occasionally,” she added dryly. Atalanta shook her head.
“That’s not an easy promise to keep. I’ll—try.” She looked beyond the warrior, and Xena turned. Arachne stood, her color high and a green-covered bundle between her outstretched hands. Though it had been only a few days, it seemed like months ago that they had all met on the beach for a simple footrace.
“I—Gabrielle said you’d be here on the docks. I—I brought you this, the work of my hands, to honor what you do with yours,” she said shyly. Atalanta took the bundle, and shook it out. Her eyes widened, sought Xena’s. The warrior shook her head very slightly. The huntress squared her shoulders, brought her chin up, and gave the weaver a very warm smile.
“How beautiful this is. I’m honored, and blessed, that you should think me worthy. Tell me your name, so when anyone asks whose work this is, I can tell them.”
“I—honored huntress, I’m Arachne,” the weaver whispered, her eyes wide and adoring. The huntress slipped the cloth over her shoulders, then took the weaver’s hands between her own.
“Arachne. If I have any say, your name will be revered for always. Thank you so much.”
Moments later, the ship eased away from the docks. Xena offered one final wave, then turned and glanced at the sky. Getting late. Athens would be warming up for the late hours. Time to find Gabrielle, and go.
Very late evening. A sickle of a moon rose over the eastern sea; Xena strode down a broad avenue, Argo’s head on her shoulder, Gabrielle prattling happily beside her and skipping occasionally to keep up.
“So,” Gabrielle finished, “what’s next?”
Xena shrugged. “I don’t have anything in mind.”
“Me either. Well, except finding something to eat. Do you know,” she added indignantly, “I never did get any of the meat from that stand on the shoreline?”
“Maybe just as well,” Xena murmured. “Someone said this afternoon that half the people who ate there while they were at the races got sick.”
Gabrielle snorted. “Wonderful. If you can’t trust your nose, what can you trust? Anyway, if you owed me for that boat trip to Ithaca, I don’t want to think what I owe you! So what’s next?”
“Getting out of Athens,” Xena said. “Without getting arrested for some stupid breach of law that wasn’t a breach last time I was here. Too many ridiculous, hair-paring rules, and more coming every day. Let’s go.”
Gabrielle glanced over her shoulder; in the crowded market behind them, someone was yelling furiously about his pilfered purse. “Fine with me.”
Summer passed; heat faded, and leaves turned from green to brown. They fell. Spring came to the island kingdom of Phaecia at long last, and Nausicaa, who had grown several fingers’ worth, came down to the shore in a splendid car drawn by two high-stepping horses. Her best friend, Mitradia, rode with her, Mitradia directing her hands so the horses went the right way, Mitradia describing the sights. Half a dozen servants and young friends of both girls followed with a cartload of clothing and draperies.
Laundry, Nausicaa thought gloomily. Still—her father was becoming insistent on the proper forms of behavior for maidens, as well as the duties of a princess; he wasn’t forbidding her her own ways of carrying out those duties. She pulled back on the reins when Mitradia told her the stream was at hand; the surf in her left ear bore the right pitch and strength of sound to agree with what Mitradia said. Four steps ahead, one short pace to the side. Water within reach, and within hearing. She directed the girls and servants with her to deposit the soiled cloth on the shore, then to take all the cars but her own away. Easier for her and her friends to have fun if they weren’t being watched so closely by a bunch of—of dull grown-ups.
The afternoon passed pleasantly; the air was warm, the horrors of a year before—hard hands on her arms; hard, chill, implacable voices against her ear—dissolved in this moment of languid, spicy heat. There is only the moment, she told herself. Gabrielle had said that to her. Only the moment. Take the moment, and enjoy it, or learn from it. But don’t try to trade it for another moment.
Squeals from those around her. “Mitradia?” she demanded. Of all her friends and servants, only Mitradia had common sense to match her own.
“Oh!” Mitradia’s voice was too high, her intonation astonished.
“Tell me,” Nausicaa demanded.
“He’s—he’s unclad!” Well, that would account for the babble of frightened girl voices all around them. “And he’s—he’s—” Mitradia’s voice was no less astonished.
Water splashed not far from her feet. Nausicaa swallowed and stepped forward; warm salt water sloshed around her toes and receded. “Sir, as the only child of King Alcinus, and his heir, I bid you welcome. Whatever travails have held you in the past, there is no trouble here awaiting you. I am Nausicaa.”
“Nausicaa,” a rough voice whispered. “Nausicaa? Dear child, I do humbly claim the sanctuary you offer in this hour of need. I am your father’s friend, home at last after so long a time. I am—Odysseus.”