"In the Beginning"

By Scxin

Disclaimer: Any characters appearing on Xena: Warrior Princess or Hercules: The Legendary Journey's are NOT my property. It is not the intention to infringe on any copyrights-

Summary: a postscript to LDITE, Aphrodite's view

In the beginning, there was only the purpose. He was the purpose, and there was nothing else. No doubts, no conflicts - he was War, and war was his reason for being.

In the berserker rage that eventually became his signum, his Way if you like - there was no room for hesitance or for second thoughts. And so he had none.

In battle, there was only the cleanness of killing, the want and need to stain the blade with the enemy's blood. Any enemy - any sword. Any blood. No doubts. There was only War.

Year one

My brother never knows when I watch him. Perhaps he would hurt me if he knew - that is, after all what he does. That is who he is. And watching him, wanting - needing - to watch him, is part of what I do. Now, at least.

He is alone. Sprawling across his throne; one leg carelessly hooked over the armrest, chin in his hand, dark and brooding eyes fastened on something no-one else can see. Just like the stories of men would paint him; the archetype of the dark, evil brooding ruler of a vast, nameless kingdom.

He acts annoyed at the concerned interruptions from his servants and priests, even at those among them who used to please him the most. Their prayers and tales of battle and gore fail to even bring a glimmer of interest to his eyes. Surrounded by men he may once have called friends, he is still alone.

It would probably have been easier for him if none of his minions knew of... her.

Would it have been easier if he could have lied - or if the ones who prayed and listened to him back then didn't understand? Most of them were and are still human after all, still part of my flock as well as his. Would it have been easier if he had never said it - if he had never even hinted that she was...perhaps... something to him that the God of War should never have known?

Now... when he speaks, which rarely happens, it is in a dead voice. Because it is what he does, he spurs his warriors on, a cold, unfeeling voice speaking dully of killing and hatred. It's the same words he has used for millennia, all darkness and blood and gore. The same words of struggling, battling and raging against faceless enemies, against superior odds... and then... sometimes, he slips, and the words start to carry the message of sacrificing yourself for others, for the greater good. And this is what unsettles his priests most of all. This is something new.

It's basic. I get it. That selflessness was part of War even before, only a carefully buried part. She would have understood as well. I guess the tragedy of the whole thing is that none of the others ever did - and that neither of them ever knew.They talk, and there is nothing there to build from - they talk, and as much as I try to listen, there are no other voices. If hearts could speak... I could have rested then.

Bah, this gloominess is so not me... but still I watch, I wait. I have to.

Year four

There are no interruptions anymore. He has dismissed the servants and priests, and I've even seen him ignore the prayers directed at him from his warrior followers. What he is and was matters little to him now. There are battles being waged across the world without him, and he doesn't seem to care.

I know what he is, who he is. Who he should be.

He is War. But somehow along the way, he became something else.

Oh, I teased and taunted him, and giggled and laughed. Again - and again. But that's what sisters are supposed to do, right? There was something so... almost endearing in the way he fumbled through their every encounter.

I watched his clumsy dream seduction, and then the teasing turned sour in my mouth as his desperation started to show. Did he think the warrior would fall for that? Really? Sex-is good. But she has been there, done that before, without love even getting involved (and I should know). Sex could so easily be only a game for the warrior-leatherbabe - had been a game for so long... C´mon, brother-love. Figure it out.

All you ever had to do was stop lying - and just tell her.

Year seven

He is always alone. Watching, waiting, for something, someone, he'll never see again.

When he was watching her move... there were moments I reveled in back then, moments of joy breaking through the grimness he lives with. There were times of happiness and laughter that briefly dispelled the darkness he owns. Even opposing him, she could so easily bring out that playful, softer part of him, the one most of his family didn't even suspect existed. He was never more happy than after one of her frequent "victories" over him - he could go on for hours about how clever, strong and smart she was…

We were always so much the same, my brother and I. We share a fire that the others lack. Now… I would have happily welcomed his anger and passion, the darker side of the one I carry, but there is nothing. I long for it, even try to provoke and taunt him - but there is nothing. I can't reach him anymore.

I watch him, and there is nothing left but shadows where his spirit should be. I'm starting to hate it - those dark, cold eyes like bleeding holes.

I miss his smile.

He still plots and schemes, since that's what he was born to do. But I'm watching. Every night I see him leaning further back in his throne, eyes ever more vacant, his mind busy with what I vainly hope (shockingly enough) are plans for glorious battles and horrific bloodshed. But all I see is despair.

War is what he is, all that he was ever meant to be.

If he would talk, we could at least share our grief. I loved them too, after all. And it was beautiful, but mortals die, he must have known that, I should have ...and I guess gods die as well, now. They will never come back.

I cannot rage or strike at the uncaring world - but I miss the way my father smiled as he found yet another willing woman to enjoy. I miss my stepmother's temper. It was all for me... and for me, they died.

I miss my brother.

*****

In the beginning there was only purpose. He was what was created to control the reaching void, to contain it. To give it a meaning .The fire inside... the burning passion, the freedom from reason... he was it. He was nothing and all. He was War.

And then... somehow, somewhen, a soul cried out - not for him, but for the rage he carried. Not for him, but he answered... and for that the world changed; the purpose changed.

And he changed.

Year fourteen

He is finally mourning as only a war-god can mourn - not with tears and whimpers but with silence and rage. As she would have mourned.

Brother... is she worth it? The way she left you on that beach, letting you hold her in your arms as she took the poison that would kill her…

I wonder if she had the time to see the damage she did to you, how badly she tore you apart?

I loved them both, but what she did almost makes me wish my husband had finished what he started, back when she ended up defeating Death... of forgetting- None of those are for him. I heard... I listened, and there was so much pain... but there was nothing but lies.

If the roles had been reversed, would she even have cried over you? I heard the words you spoke at her grave. Was she listening then?

Or did she only hear the lies?

*****

In the beginning... but this is now. The man who loved is dead. In the beginning there was only purpose - and that is all there is now.

Brother - is it worth it?

Year eighteen

He mourns as a war-god mourns - and I watch.

He mourns - and what he was becoming those last few years suddenly seems too cruel for words. He is war, he is the berserker's rage, he is passion and blood - and now... he is defeated, broken.

I watch the human in him die, and I hurt since he is dying for me.

We all suspect the twilight is still coming, and I don't think he even cares anymore.

We all know our days are numbered - but he is the only one not fighting it. He is pulling himself even further away from the rest of us, even from me. Sometimes I think he would welcome an end.

Even now, the part of him that was once human is still clinging to its illusion of life, bringing nothing but pain to the part that was always a God. There is no joy in his schemes and plots anymore. And I guess there won't be again. The mourning will end, but he'll never allow himself the luxury of becoming almost human again, not with the pain it has brought him. He will be War, incarnate.

Brother, I'll miss you

*****

They pray to me with light hearts and smiles, and to him in rage and for blood. They see the hair and the clothes, the ditzy smiles and playful flirting - and they love me.

I watch him suffer, and I know that what I am is crueler than he could ever be.

Just ask my brother, broken and bleeding.

Just ask War.

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