Disclaimer: The characters of Xena, Cyrene and Lyceus belong exclusively to MCA/Universal and Renaissance Pictures. No copyright infringement was intended through the writing of this piece.

Subtext Warning: Nope.

Acknowledgements: I’m not sure whom to thank for this, except perhaps Kamouraskan who put me back on track. Now I may be being too serious for my own good, but thank you, honestly.

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I Remember



I remember as a child. My mother’s hand, soft against my cheek, comforting, wiping away tears. Tears that I had most likely cried for a stupid reason, a grazed knee, a bumped head, small, childish things. She never judged me harshly, no matter what I did. Not even when Lyceus and I took off into the woods to play warlords for three days. Well, we only made to dark of the first day. Half the village had been out looking for us, but she never said a word. Somehow that was worse. We never did it again.

I remember as a child. The smell of my mother’s hair as it brushed against me when she would put me to bed. No demons would come for me in the night. I always slept with a smile, or so she told me. She would sing me to sleep, maybe that was why I smiled. I don’t know anymore. I no longer smile in my sleep.

I remember as a child. My mother smiling in pride for me. Those occasions were rare, but then, I have done little of which to be proud. Yet that smile is indelibly marked in me. It showed her love in so many ways that words could not, especially to me. I never was much of a talker. Yet that smile was radiant, like a fire warmed blanket on a cold night.

I remember as a child. The sound of my mother’s voice soothing me to silence when I became angry over nothing. Yet it wasn’t nothing to me. Why couldn’t I have ale with my dinner too? Now I know there are more important things about which to be angry. Some things are more deserving of anger than ale.

I remember as a child. Hiding behind my mother’s skirt, grasping her leg through the fabric in fear. Here was something solid that would protect me from whatever threatened, even though it was nothing worse than a stranger at the door.

I remember as a child. I took it all for granted. That was what I was supposed to do, wasn’t it? That love would always be there, regardless of my actions. Yet sometimes actions are driven by more than will. Sometimes they are driven by pain, by hate, by death.

I remember as a child. Cortese. I remember my mother’s tears, her anguish at loss. Not tears for stupid reasons, as mine had been, but real tears, for real reasons. I remember I cried my own real tears that day. I had changed.

Never again would I remember as a child.

The End.


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Short, I know, but well, I think it’s about the right length for what I wanted to say.

Until next time,