Hunched over and travel-weary, the man approached the little hut
he had been directed to; a small, neat building that stood oddly
isolated from the others. The day-long walk across the parched
savannah had been almost too much for him; his weary bones had been
screaming in protest before he had even lost sight of his home. He
was not young, his graying hair swaying in thin wisps around a face
of dark leathery skin that was heavily lined.

A dark-skinned youth was sitting outside by the doorway, huddled
into the sparse shade the reed-covered roof provided in the middle
of the day. He was reading a scroll that seemed to completely
captivate him.

The weary traveler stopped and inclined his head in polite
greeting. "Please, is this the home of the one they call the
Sad One?"

The boy looked up, blinking against the glaring sun. "It
is. But she doesn't see people. Not today."

Alone in her small hut, the woman they called the Sad One sat
cross-legged on a mottled sheep skin, staring into emptiness.

Fifteen years today.

Fifteen years of hollow existence, and she still lived. It
seemed impossible and cruel. Her past was fuzzy, and each new day a
bad dream she knew she would not wake up from.

Her hands played with a circular weapon that was shining as if
fresh from the forge. Closer scrutiny, though, uncovered countless
traces of use on the inlaid metal, each tiny scratch more than
likely telling its own morbid story.

Feeling the smooth coldness of the Chakram under her fingers,
she thought about how many times this thing had saved her life. She
chuckled bitterly. Her wish had been granted – she had indeed been
taught everything Xena knew – right down to the pain of loss and
the terrible emptiness, and what they can lead you to become.
Ironically, now that she fully understood all her partner's
dark motivations, that partner – that soulmate – was long
gone.

Everything happens precisely as it should. The phrase
held no comfort.

Her back itched, but she ignored it. She wanted no part of the
dragon tattoo etched into her skin. Too many memories. Once, many
years ago, close to insanity, she had put fire to her back and
removed the torched and tattered skin with the blade of a sword,
just to be rid of it. After a fever that raged for weeks and
brought her near death more than once, the skin had gradually grown
back – and so had the tattoo, in all its detail. Akemi had been as
thorough with this as she had been with her other ploys… but what
was done was done.