fic: metamorphosis 5/10
title: metamorphosis
fandom: xena:warrior princess, canon AU (xena the conqueror)
pairing: several - f/f, m/f, m/m
author: angharad governal
thanks: to vivian darkbloom for beta duties
for: JF- Fyrfeax, fæger heorte, ic þancie þe for ðin léafa, ðin cystig gást, and for lárdóm min heorte hyht mid þy þe hit wæs be-seten mid geomrung
other chapters: found here
5: The Shape of Fear
Midway in our life's journey, I went astray from the straight road and woke to find myself alone in a dark wood. How shall I say what wood that was! I never saw so drear, so rank, so arduous a wilderness! Its very memory gives a shape to fear.
Dante Alighieri, The Inferno, Canto I, The Divine Comedy
"An army? Are you mad? What chance have we against soldiers and warriors? We're farmers and merchants!"
"We can't stand by while they raze our lands, burn our homes and take our people into slavery. Please, I beg you -- we can beat them. We have something that those warriors don't have -- our lands, our homes, and our family and friends to defend and protect. That is our strength and with it, we can beat an army, any army!"
She looked at the anxious faces crowding around her, faces of friends, of loved ones, and waited. She fervently hoped that her words were enough to rally the village to defend itself. A young fair-haired man stepped out from the crowd and walked toward her. He grasped her arm and gave a lopsided, but confident grim towards her before turning to the gathered villagers.
"She's right. Xena's right. We can win. We can beat that warlord and protect our families. For Amphipolis!"
The villagers began to cheer and gather around them. She turned to the boy by her side and gave an encouraging squeeze to his shoulder. "Thank you Lyceus. Come on, let's gather some weapons and start fortifying the town."
"We're gonna win, Xena. I know we will. I believe in you Xena. I trust you."
She looked at her younger brother once more and a strange, overwhelming fear came over her. Her eyes blinked and she saw Lyceus's eyes staring at her in shock. The boy staggered towards her and she caught the brunt of his weight in her arms. Suddenly, the sounds of battle surrounded them and the sickening smell of smoke and blood wafted through the air. She looked down at the body she was cradling in her arms and screamed. She rocked Lyceus's body gently against her own, tears streaming down her face as grief and anger began to seep into her limbs. She no longer knew how long she sat with the dead boy in her arms; she only knew of the rising hate filling her veins and clouding her vision with crimson.
"Kill them all. Kill them all!"
She looked up and suddenly, she found herself alone in an empty field. A woman wearing a black mask decorated with whorls of gold upon its delicate surface approached her. She opened her mouth to speak, but the woman placed a finger against her lips. The masked woman leaned forward, placed a delicate kiss upon her forehead, and then briefly kissed her mouth. As she pulled away, the woman took the mask from her face to reveal a halo of reddish-blonde hair and deep green eyes. She felt confused and she reached out to touch the woman's cheek. The woman shook her head and took a step back.
"Wait. Who are you? Why do I feel like I should know who you are?"
The woman smiled and shook her head. "Go and seek the oracle, Xena. Go to Delphi. Seek the Pythia."
The Conqueror awoke. She sat up and as she stared out into the darkness of her chambers, a glint of light caught her eyes. She pulled the silk covers from her body and walked to the far end of the enormous room. Lying against a small table was the mask she had worn when the rebel woman was brought to her castle, the same mask that she wore while she helped in healing the woman's injuries -- injuries she knew she had ordered to be wrought upon the red-haired prisoner. Questions had plagued her waking mind and, in a fit of anger, she had broken the black shell in two. For reasons that still escaped her, she had kept the shattered pieces. Those same questions now found their way into her dreams. She picked up the remains of the mask and studied them carefully.
"Delphi. The Pythia."
***
The warmth of living flesh contrasted against the cold, hard blade of the knife pressed lightly against it. The young victim struggled vainly against the strong, but gentle hand that held it down upon an altar of white marble. The scent of incense rose from nearby copper tripod stands; smoke from the stands permeated the air, beckoning the Gods to give witness to what was about to happen.
With a final futile kick, the sacrificial victim -- a small ram -- tried to escape from the hands of the woman who held it down. The woman held the ram in a firmer grip and waited until it ceased to struggle. With a sure and straight stroke, the woman eased the metal blade of the knife against the ram's throat and ended its life.
Blood poured from the wound and hooded priests caught the tide of red into large copper bowls while the woman quickly butchered the animal, wrapping shoulder and thigh bones in a protective layer of fat and strips of meat. As the woman placed the bones into the incense-sweetened fire, a prayer rose from her mouth.
"Apollo, Artemis -- Hear me! I am Xena, conqueror of Greece. I give these offerings to you, so that you may grant the Pythia the gift of vision on behalf of my people and myself."
Near the altar, a woman stood and watched with keen interest. A man with silver white hair stood with her and watched as the Conqueror, garbed in a long white toga, entered the mouth of the cave of the Pythian Oracle. He turned to the young woman as he gestured to the retreating form of the Conqueror.
"Are you familiar with the rituals associated with the Oracle, Gabrielle?"
Gabrielle, her gaze never leaving the cave entrance, leaned against her walking staff, and shook her head. "Only very general things, Thereusis: Supplicants must take a ritual bath, sacrifice a ewe and a ram, enter the cave and hear the Pythia's words. The priests must interpret Pythia's words for the supplicant. They say that she speaks a language only the Gods know."
The old man nodded and smiled. "Yes. That's good, Gabrielle. But do you know what happens in the cave?"
Gabrielle shook her head once again as Thereusis began to speak.
"The cave is dark. No torchlight blazes within and the Conqueror must walk in that darkness for several feet. At the far end of the cave, she will come upon a small flight of stairs. At the foot of those stairs, there is a light and she must walk towards its source. It will lead her into the inner sanctuary where the Pythia resides."
***
The light was faint, although to her eyes, it seemed blinding compared to the darkness of the passageway. The air within the cave was stale, but once she climbed down the small steps, she could smell faint wisps of fresh air, mixed with the odor of incense and strong fumes that made her eyes sting. She moved towards the light and entered a wide room. Its contents were in half shadows and she could barely see her hand before her eyes. Although her sense of sight was compromised, she could detect movement within the room and instinctually, she reached to a weapon -- a sharp, rounded metal disc -- which lay hidden beneath the folds of her toga. She heard the sound of faint laughter and her name trilled in a half-mad singsong cadence.
"Xeeenaaah. Weapons are not allowed within the sanctuary of the Pythia."
Greek. Her eyebrows rose in surprise. "Well, that's one myth that had no basis. They said that you spoke the language of the Gods. I never realized that the Gods spoke with the accent of peasant farmers."
Laughter filled her ears once more. She looked around; her eyes rose to find a cage several feet in front of her and suspended near the ceiling. Below the cage was a fissure that belched strong smelling fumes into the air. Within the cage itself was a throne where a young woman, her white blonde hair spilling down her shoulders, sat. Her eyes, bright and deep brown in color, stared out into space.
"Enough of this. Pythia, I am here to seek--"
"You are here because the mask weighs heavily in your dreams and you wish to know why you spared the life of the rebel woman."
Before the Conqueror could answer, the Oracle's body shook in uncontrollable convulsions. As suddenly as it had started, the convulsions left the woman as she began to speak in the same mad singsong that had greeted the Conqueror as she entered the Pythia's sanctuary.
A bloody sword lies with the bright huntress Queen.
Gray mountains run rampant, a harvest they glean.
Castle, town, and sea will then quickly burn,
And one with ambition will find death in turn.
The sweet sounding lyre tames both man and beast.
All shall succumb from the first to the least.
The wood shall embrace a lost, wounded soul.
The mask that is broken shall again become whole.
The serpent shall dance to a tune that it makes.
The farmer finds joy in the harvest he takes.
***
"And what happens after the supplicant meets with the Oracle, Thereusis?"
"The priests scribe the Oracle's words and the scroll is given to the Conqueror. That, of course, is where we step in, Little One. We have, within the library annals, a vast collection of the Oracle's words and prophecies -- some possibly dating back to the first Pythia Oracle Priestess, Herophile. It is up to us to both record and store the scroll for posterity, as well as try to glean any knowledge from it if we can."
Gabrielle watched as the priests began to take the strips of meat from the tripod stands. A few white robbed priests placed the cooked meat into clay containers, while others covered the bowls of congealed blood with a large white cloth. "The first Pythian Oracle, Thereusis? I thought there had only one Oracle since time immemorial. Are you saying that Herophile--"
The old librarian looked thoughtfully towards the gathered priesthood, "It must be done," he whispered softly to himself, "And it is for the best that you know this." He turned again toward the scribe. "Herophile. Yes, Herophile was the most famous of Apollo's Oracles. Each Oracle takes the First's name as her own to honor Herophile, as well as the Sun God. We do, however, know the actual names of the Priestesses of Delphi. You are surprised, yes? This knowledge is known only to a select few, Gabrielle. I am honored to share it with you."
Gabrielle's face showed surprise and grateful acceptance. "Thank you, Thereusis. I'll treasure all that you have taught me and will keep it in the strictest confidence."
The old librarian nodded his hoary head. "The last Oracle was Cassandra-Herophile and she died shortly after the first year of the Conqueror's reign."
"And what about the present Oracle? Do you know who she is?"
A brief look of regret passed along the old librarian's face before a look of resignation settled over his features. "Ah, yes. Her name is Callisto. Callisto-Herophile. She was the last survivor of the Battle of Cirra."
***
"You lie!"
"No, Iolaus. I'm afraid that it's true. Our spies within the castle have confirmed it. Gabrielle is alive, but Xena has turned her from our cause. She's an ally of the Conqueror now."
"But shouldn't we give her the chance to try and contact us? Maybe she hasn't. Some of the resistance members within the Conqueror's household are unknown, even to us."
"There are resistance fighters working within the castle that we do know of, Iolaus. Many have suffered and died trying to bring whatever information they can get on that crazed woman!"
Iolaus looked around the small room to the anxious faces of resistance members. News concerning the fate of Gabrielle had been sporadic at best; some news seemed borne of hope, but most, like the news he now heard, was borne of profound despair.
A knock at the door suddenly interrupted the meeting. As one of the resistance members let the latecomers in, she let out a surprised gasp. A murmur followed the two cloaked figures as they made their way into the small room. The smaller of the two figures carried a walking staff, and crossed the room with a prominent limp in his step, while the taller trailed behind in a protective stance. The hooded figures stopped in front of Iolaus and drew their cloaks from their bodies. A collective gasp escaped from the small group.
"By the Gods!"
"Phileta!"
"You're alive!"
"We thought you were killed during the raids!"
Phileta, leaning heavily against her staff, turned her gaze to the gathered few. "I am alive, but barely. I escaped the raids and with the help of others in our group, managed to enter the Conqueror's household as a servant. As you can see, our beloved ruler welcomed me with her usual grace and charm."
Phileta turned in a slow circle. Her limbs were set in a grotesque angle that suggested to the silent group that she had been severely beaten and both arms and legs broken. Her face contorted in a grimace of pain as she turned to face Iolaus. "I was a servant for several weeks -- menial tasks -- cleaning the kitchens, sweeping the grounds, lighting the indoor lanterns in the Great Hall. I didn't gain access to the dungeons until much, much later." She gave a sardonic laugh that caused her face to contort in pain. "I did hear rumors that a guest was housed in the private residency chambers of the castle. Servants talk, even in the Conqueror's household for the right price. They said the Conqueror had taken someone from the crosses, and the prisoner was now living in that harpy's private rooms! I tried to find out more, but somehow, the Conqueror found out I was gathering information and I was captured!"
Phileta's face took on a frenzied look and her voice reverberated through the room. "CAPTURED! I was brought before that monster-- and -- and--" She clung to the man who came to the meeting with her. "Her guards dislocated my arms and hobbled my feet. But I never betrayed you. None of you! That whore, that evil bitch laughed in my face and said that what I was suffering was an act of mercy!"
Phileta laughed -- the pitch of her voice bordering on madness. "I was brought to the dungeons. There, I found out that Gabrielle had turned from us, Iolaus. She's the Conqueror's slut now -- a whore! A filthy bed slave!"
The room was silent. All turned toward Iolaus. The blonde's eyes were sunken, his face an ashen gray as he leaned heavily against a nearby wall. Phileta, seeing Iolaus's defeated manner, continued. "My friends, Gabrielle is lost to us. She's the enemy now. The Gabrielle that we knew is dead. She's dead to us! But have no fear, we have a powerful ally now. He and his people will help us destroy Xena the Conqueror!"
Phileta turned to her taller companion. He looked about the room. Suddenly, he raised an arm in a gesture of victory. A collective gasp went through the small gathering of resistance members as they stared at the man. He addressed them; his voice was strong and carried through the room, although his Greek bore a heavy foreign accent. "My friends, I am Lavinius. My people and I will help you in your cause to overthrow Xena!"
He raised his arm again, displaying to the crowd a cloth covered stump where his right forearm would have been.
end ch 5
fandom: xena:warrior princess, canon AU (xena the conqueror)
pairing: several - f/f, m/f, m/m
author: angharad governal
thanks: to vivian darkbloom for beta duties
for: JF- Fyrfeax, fæger heorte, ic þancie þe for ðin léafa, ðin cystig gást, and for lárdóm min heorte hyht mid þy þe hit wæs be-seten mid geomrung
other chapters: found here
5: The Shape of Fear
Midway in our life's journey, I went astray from the straight road and woke to find myself alone in a dark wood. How shall I say what wood that was! I never saw so drear, so rank, so arduous a wilderness! Its very memory gives a shape to fear.
Dante Alighieri, The Inferno, Canto I, The Divine Comedy
"An army? Are you mad? What chance have we against soldiers and warriors? We're farmers and merchants!"
"We can't stand by while they raze our lands, burn our homes and take our people into slavery. Please, I beg you -- we can beat them. We have something that those warriors don't have -- our lands, our homes, and our family and friends to defend and protect. That is our strength and with it, we can beat an army, any army!"
She looked at the anxious faces crowding around her, faces of friends, of loved ones, and waited. She fervently hoped that her words were enough to rally the village to defend itself. A young fair-haired man stepped out from the crowd and walked toward her. He grasped her arm and gave a lopsided, but confident grim towards her before turning to the gathered villagers.
"She's right. Xena's right. We can win. We can beat that warlord and protect our families. For Amphipolis!"
The villagers began to cheer and gather around them. She turned to the boy by her side and gave an encouraging squeeze to his shoulder. "Thank you Lyceus. Come on, let's gather some weapons and start fortifying the town."
"We're gonna win, Xena. I know we will. I believe in you Xena. I trust you."
She looked at her younger brother once more and a strange, overwhelming fear came over her. Her eyes blinked and she saw Lyceus's eyes staring at her in shock. The boy staggered towards her and she caught the brunt of his weight in her arms. Suddenly, the sounds of battle surrounded them and the sickening smell of smoke and blood wafted through the air. She looked down at the body she was cradling in her arms and screamed. She rocked Lyceus's body gently against her own, tears streaming down her face as grief and anger began to seep into her limbs. She no longer knew how long she sat with the dead boy in her arms; she only knew of the rising hate filling her veins and clouding her vision with crimson.
"Kill them all. Kill them all!"
She looked up and suddenly, she found herself alone in an empty field. A woman wearing a black mask decorated with whorls of gold upon its delicate surface approached her. She opened her mouth to speak, but the woman placed a finger against her lips. The masked woman leaned forward, placed a delicate kiss upon her forehead, and then briefly kissed her mouth. As she pulled away, the woman took the mask from her face to reveal a halo of reddish-blonde hair and deep green eyes. She felt confused and she reached out to touch the woman's cheek. The woman shook her head and took a step back.
"Wait. Who are you? Why do I feel like I should know who you are?"
The woman smiled and shook her head. "Go and seek the oracle, Xena. Go to Delphi. Seek the Pythia."
The Conqueror awoke. She sat up and as she stared out into the darkness of her chambers, a glint of light caught her eyes. She pulled the silk covers from her body and walked to the far end of the enormous room. Lying against a small table was the mask she had worn when the rebel woman was brought to her castle, the same mask that she wore while she helped in healing the woman's injuries -- injuries she knew she had ordered to be wrought upon the red-haired prisoner. Questions had plagued her waking mind and, in a fit of anger, she had broken the black shell in two. For reasons that still escaped her, she had kept the shattered pieces. Those same questions now found their way into her dreams. She picked up the remains of the mask and studied them carefully.
"Delphi. The Pythia."
***
The warmth of living flesh contrasted against the cold, hard blade of the knife pressed lightly against it. The young victim struggled vainly against the strong, but gentle hand that held it down upon an altar of white marble. The scent of incense rose from nearby copper tripod stands; smoke from the stands permeated the air, beckoning the Gods to give witness to what was about to happen.
With a final futile kick, the sacrificial victim -- a small ram -- tried to escape from the hands of the woman who held it down. The woman held the ram in a firmer grip and waited until it ceased to struggle. With a sure and straight stroke, the woman eased the metal blade of the knife against the ram's throat and ended its life.
Blood poured from the wound and hooded priests caught the tide of red into large copper bowls while the woman quickly butchered the animal, wrapping shoulder and thigh bones in a protective layer of fat and strips of meat. As the woman placed the bones into the incense-sweetened fire, a prayer rose from her mouth.
"Apollo, Artemis -- Hear me! I am Xena, conqueror of Greece. I give these offerings to you, so that you may grant the Pythia the gift of vision on behalf of my people and myself."
Near the altar, a woman stood and watched with keen interest. A man with silver white hair stood with her and watched as the Conqueror, garbed in a long white toga, entered the mouth of the cave of the Pythian Oracle. He turned to the young woman as he gestured to the retreating form of the Conqueror.
"Are you familiar with the rituals associated with the Oracle, Gabrielle?"
Gabrielle, her gaze never leaving the cave entrance, leaned against her walking staff, and shook her head. "Only very general things, Thereusis: Supplicants must take a ritual bath, sacrifice a ewe and a ram, enter the cave and hear the Pythia's words. The priests must interpret Pythia's words for the supplicant. They say that she speaks a language only the Gods know."
The old man nodded and smiled. "Yes. That's good, Gabrielle. But do you know what happens in the cave?"
Gabrielle shook her head once again as Thereusis began to speak.
"The cave is dark. No torchlight blazes within and the Conqueror must walk in that darkness for several feet. At the far end of the cave, she will come upon a small flight of stairs. At the foot of those stairs, there is a light and she must walk towards its source. It will lead her into the inner sanctuary where the Pythia resides."
***
The light was faint, although to her eyes, it seemed blinding compared to the darkness of the passageway. The air within the cave was stale, but once she climbed down the small steps, she could smell faint wisps of fresh air, mixed with the odor of incense and strong fumes that made her eyes sting. She moved towards the light and entered a wide room. Its contents were in half shadows and she could barely see her hand before her eyes. Although her sense of sight was compromised, she could detect movement within the room and instinctually, she reached to a weapon -- a sharp, rounded metal disc -- which lay hidden beneath the folds of her toga. She heard the sound of faint laughter and her name trilled in a half-mad singsong cadence.
"Xeeenaaah. Weapons are not allowed within the sanctuary of the Pythia."
Greek. Her eyebrows rose in surprise. "Well, that's one myth that had no basis. They said that you spoke the language of the Gods. I never realized that the Gods spoke with the accent of peasant farmers."
Laughter filled her ears once more. She looked around; her eyes rose to find a cage several feet in front of her and suspended near the ceiling. Below the cage was a fissure that belched strong smelling fumes into the air. Within the cage itself was a throne where a young woman, her white blonde hair spilling down her shoulders, sat. Her eyes, bright and deep brown in color, stared out into space.
"Enough of this. Pythia, I am here to seek--"
"You are here because the mask weighs heavily in your dreams and you wish to know why you spared the life of the rebel woman."
Before the Conqueror could answer, the Oracle's body shook in uncontrollable convulsions. As suddenly as it had started, the convulsions left the woman as she began to speak in the same mad singsong that had greeted the Conqueror as she entered the Pythia's sanctuary.
A bloody sword lies with the bright huntress Queen.
Gray mountains run rampant, a harvest they glean.
Castle, town, and sea will then quickly burn,
And one with ambition will find death in turn.
The sweet sounding lyre tames both man and beast.
All shall succumb from the first to the least.
The wood shall embrace a lost, wounded soul.
The mask that is broken shall again become whole.
The serpent shall dance to a tune that it makes.
The farmer finds joy in the harvest he takes.
***
"And what happens after the supplicant meets with the Oracle, Thereusis?"
"The priests scribe the Oracle's words and the scroll is given to the Conqueror. That, of course, is where we step in, Little One. We have, within the library annals, a vast collection of the Oracle's words and prophecies -- some possibly dating back to the first Pythia Oracle Priestess, Herophile. It is up to us to both record and store the scroll for posterity, as well as try to glean any knowledge from it if we can."
Gabrielle watched as the priests began to take the strips of meat from the tripod stands. A few white robbed priests placed the cooked meat into clay containers, while others covered the bowls of congealed blood with a large white cloth. "The first Pythian Oracle, Thereusis? I thought there had only one Oracle since time immemorial. Are you saying that Herophile--"
The old librarian looked thoughtfully towards the gathered priesthood, "It must be done," he whispered softly to himself, "And it is for the best that you know this." He turned again toward the scribe. "Herophile. Yes, Herophile was the most famous of Apollo's Oracles. Each Oracle takes the First's name as her own to honor Herophile, as well as the Sun God. We do, however, know the actual names of the Priestesses of Delphi. You are surprised, yes? This knowledge is known only to a select few, Gabrielle. I am honored to share it with you."
Gabrielle's face showed surprise and grateful acceptance. "Thank you, Thereusis. I'll treasure all that you have taught me and will keep it in the strictest confidence."
The old librarian nodded his hoary head. "The last Oracle was Cassandra-Herophile and she died shortly after the first year of the Conqueror's reign."
"And what about the present Oracle? Do you know who she is?"
A brief look of regret passed along the old librarian's face before a look of resignation settled over his features. "Ah, yes. Her name is Callisto. Callisto-Herophile. She was the last survivor of the Battle of Cirra."
***
"You lie!"
"No, Iolaus. I'm afraid that it's true. Our spies within the castle have confirmed it. Gabrielle is alive, but Xena has turned her from our cause. She's an ally of the Conqueror now."
"But shouldn't we give her the chance to try and contact us? Maybe she hasn't. Some of the resistance members within the Conqueror's household are unknown, even to us."
"There are resistance fighters working within the castle that we do know of, Iolaus. Many have suffered and died trying to bring whatever information they can get on that crazed woman!"
Iolaus looked around the small room to the anxious faces of resistance members. News concerning the fate of Gabrielle had been sporadic at best; some news seemed borne of hope, but most, like the news he now heard, was borne of profound despair.
A knock at the door suddenly interrupted the meeting. As one of the resistance members let the latecomers in, she let out a surprised gasp. A murmur followed the two cloaked figures as they made their way into the small room. The smaller of the two figures carried a walking staff, and crossed the room with a prominent limp in his step, while the taller trailed behind in a protective stance. The hooded figures stopped in front of Iolaus and drew their cloaks from their bodies. A collective gasp escaped from the small group.
"By the Gods!"
"Phileta!"
"You're alive!"
"We thought you were killed during the raids!"
Phileta, leaning heavily against her staff, turned her gaze to the gathered few. "I am alive, but barely. I escaped the raids and with the help of others in our group, managed to enter the Conqueror's household as a servant. As you can see, our beloved ruler welcomed me with her usual grace and charm."
Phileta turned in a slow circle. Her limbs were set in a grotesque angle that suggested to the silent group that she had been severely beaten and both arms and legs broken. Her face contorted in a grimace of pain as she turned to face Iolaus. "I was a servant for several weeks -- menial tasks -- cleaning the kitchens, sweeping the grounds, lighting the indoor lanterns in the Great Hall. I didn't gain access to the dungeons until much, much later." She gave a sardonic laugh that caused her face to contort in pain. "I did hear rumors that a guest was housed in the private residency chambers of the castle. Servants talk, even in the Conqueror's household for the right price. They said the Conqueror had taken someone from the crosses, and the prisoner was now living in that harpy's private rooms! I tried to find out more, but somehow, the Conqueror found out I was gathering information and I was captured!"
Phileta's face took on a frenzied look and her voice reverberated through the room. "CAPTURED! I was brought before that monster-- and -- and--" She clung to the man who came to the meeting with her. "Her guards dislocated my arms and hobbled my feet. But I never betrayed you. None of you! That whore, that evil bitch laughed in my face and said that what I was suffering was an act of mercy!"
Phileta laughed -- the pitch of her voice bordering on madness. "I was brought to the dungeons. There, I found out that Gabrielle had turned from us, Iolaus. She's the Conqueror's slut now -- a whore! A filthy bed slave!"
The room was silent. All turned toward Iolaus. The blonde's eyes were sunken, his face an ashen gray as he leaned heavily against a nearby wall. Phileta, seeing Iolaus's defeated manner, continued. "My friends, Gabrielle is lost to us. She's the enemy now. The Gabrielle that we knew is dead. She's dead to us! But have no fear, we have a powerful ally now. He and his people will help us destroy Xena the Conqueror!"
Phileta turned to her taller companion. He looked about the room. Suddenly, he raised an arm in a gesture of victory. A collective gasp went through the small gathering of resistance members as they stared at the man. He addressed them; his voice was strong and carried through the room, although his Greek bore a heavy foreign accent. "My friends, I am Lavinius. My people and I will help you in your cause to overthrow Xena!"
He raised his arm again, displaying to the crowd a cloth covered stump where his right forearm would have been.
end ch 5