Chapter XXIV

‘Rude Awakenings'

"Praise Morpheus," Manus intoned in a whisper, the most his lazy vocal cords could manage after a year of disuse. Seemingly unaware of his audience, he stretched his arms out before him, studied his hands and long fingers as if he were seeing them for the first time. Momentarily, he shifted, carefully easing back into limbs dormant for many months. As he moved to swing his legs to the floor, he felt a sharp stab of pain. One hand flew to the source and came away from his thigh bloodied. "Hazards of the flesh," he muttered, ignoring the pain to take a full inventory of his reanimated body.

Quietly, by eye, Xena located her sword and chakram. Each was a half dozen paces away, in opposite directions. Attaining either of them would leave Elkton unguarded and vulnerable. She still possessed her breast dagger and boot knife, concealed. She could hurl either one-handed with lethal accuracy -- pierce the heart -- IF THE BASTARD'S GOT ONE...

Restrained by Xena's hand, Lysandra managed to choke out a strangled, "No!"

Xena weighed the two threats, Lysandra versus Manus. In a heartbeat, she deemed Manus the more dangerous of the two. She released Lysandra to fall giddily to her knees while simultaneously reaching for her bootknife. She flung the razor-sharp blade at the mystic's face while the breast dagger, taken from Gabrielle during their first visit to this valley, sped for the broad expanse of Manus' chest. Instinctively, Manus threw up his hand to cover his face, a defensive reflex that had unexpected results; the knives screamed to a halt, one a hair's breadth from his prominent brow, the other just piercing the priest's robes above his heart; as he exhaled in relief, he could feel its sting. And there the vipers hung, the focus of attention to everyone in the room.

"You see now? You can't defeat him!" exclaimed Lysandra, scrambling to her feet. "He's a god!" she proclaimed, jutting her chin out petulantly, ignorant of the tempting target she presented to Xena.

"Lysandra," Manus called in an imperious voice. "Child, come to me." Without hesitation, Elkton's prized pupil moved to stand at Manus' side. STILL SO WEAK... he mused as he leaned heavily on her shoulder.

"Lysandra," cried Elkton. "Fight it! Fight him!" But the girl merely returned a blank stare, as if his words were foreign to her.

"It's useless, Elkton...her devotion to me is complete," said Manus. He turned to look down at the girl. "Is that not true, child?" Lysandra smiled, nodded and gazed up at him with the sort of keen admiration generally reserved for heroes. "You're to be commended for your initiative, and your quick thinking, and you shall be rewarded."

"Your release is reward enough for me, Master," she replied sweetly. She leaned into him and stared in rapt fascination at the two blades, poised with such murderous intent. "You did that, Lord," she whispered conspiratorially. She elaborated in words meant only for him. MORPHEUS' GIFT TO YOU -- A TOY TO OCCUPY THE LONG HOURS SPENT IN THE DREAMSCAPE.

She was in his head, tucked into the same comfortable little niche he'd allocated for her moons past, and yet as he tried to respond in kind, he found he had no connection to her, that the bridge was, for all intents and purposes, one way. Frustrated, he gave voice to his thoughts, heedless of whom else might hear them. "Yes...yes...Morpheus always rewards the faithful." Manus' voice, newly strong, was quietly marveling. He beamed down at Lysandra who was looking at him with such open, genuine passion -- the passion of a disciple for her Master. IRRATIONAL! He shook his head. He had never in the past cared what others thought of him, and yet now, looking into her youthful face, he found he wanted to live up to her expectations. She looked at him seriously and nodded, and he knew that his thoughts were laid out to her like an open scroll. The idea was both comforting and disconcerting. "I'm flattered Morpheus gave me any thought at all."

HE HAS THOUGHT OF LITTLE ELSE SINCE YOUR EXILE INTO THE DREAMSCAPE. Her attitude was casual and easy-going, and she could feel Manus reaching, stretching, groping for some kind of purchase, some toe-hold in her psyche and she could sense his disappoint when none was granted. "You can do other things, too," said Lysandra, leaning into him to speak into his ear.

Manus moved his free hand experimentally -- up and down, across the width of his chest -- the two knives mirrored his actions. "Amazing," he breathed, squeezing Lysandra's shoulder in a display of satisfaction. He shook his hand once, towards the ground, and the knives dropped with a clatter to the crypt floor. "Truly amazing."

Xena determined that Manus' fascination with his new-found godly powers would be short-lived. Choreographed to a resounding rendition of her warcry, she armed herself and executed a standing somersault. The acrobatics in the air, engineered to befuddle and surprise as well as cut distances, had the desired effect. She touched down, sword poised, less than one stride from her target, but with no more effort than it took to flick aside an insect, Manus wriggled the fingers of his left hand, flinging Xena across the crypt and into the wall with breath-snatching force.

Elkton had followed Xena's assault on Manus with concern, and now he cringed openly at the sound of armor, flesh and bone impacting unyielding stone. He looked at Xena, crumpled and unconscious, dead or dying for all he knew, and his head was filled with raging, contradictory thoughts. As much as he abhorred violence, he could see no other way to end the confrontation. Clenching his teeth, he picked up the fallen Sword of Psyche, though he had neither Xena's youth or skills; he did, however, share her motivation. He turned at the waist to confront his enemy and, hiding his anger behind the barest of restraints, said, "Say goodnight, Manus!"

"Oh, my night is just beginning, old man," retorted Manus. He threw out his arm, stiff and straight before him and Elkton's progress was brought to an abrupt standstill. The old mystic strained against the invisible bonds that held him, giving him the appearance of a man walking against a strong wind. The effect was almost comical. Manus grinned, enjoying himself immensely. "Lose the sword, Elkton," he said. "It doesn't suit you." Elkton dropped the sword like it was his idea. Manus cocked his head slightly and regarded the old mystic with contempt. "You look constipated, old man."

"That's disgust, Manus," replied the priest in as dispassionate a voice as he could push out between clenched teeth. "You disgust me. It was a mistake to take you into the priesthood. You always were a liar and a cheat."

"And a good one!" retorted Manus with misplaced pride.

Elkton shook his head and snorted, "And to think I once called you friend..."

Manus lifted an eyebrow. "You're so naive. You trusted me and I betrayed you. You have only yourself to blame."

Elkton struggled briefly against the unseen forces holding him, but it was like walking through treacle. Finally, winded, he spat, "Bastard!"

Manus clicked his tongue and said, "Sticks and stones." Supported by Lysandra's sturdy young shoulders, he took a few tentative steps off the dais before stopping briefly at Hesperos' body. His face was a mask of disappointment. "Pity about Hesperos. He was quite useful."

"Now he's a throw rug."

Manus whipped around to meet Xena's eyes and the look in his own dark orbs was nothing short of pleased surprise. "Ah, Xena! Why aren't you dead?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"Maybe if you show me how it's done," drawled Xena, the intimation unmistakable. The threat was still hanging in the fetid crypt air as Xena struggled into a sitting position, favoring her ribs. She had enough experience with fractures to know that although the ribs were painful, none were broken. They didn't concern her half as much as her legs which, tucked beneath her, had no feeling at all.

"Xena!" called Elkton, awkwardly twisting a complete one hundred eighty degrees to catch a glimpse of her; he didn't like what he saw. "Are you badly injured?"

"I'm just peachy," retorted Xena dryly, as she forcefully massaged the calves of her legs; they were not broken, as she had feared, but they were weak, as if after a long, strength- sapping illness. "Just peachy," she muttered. In counterpoint to her casual demeanor, inside the warrior a fire burned; it popped and hissed as it fed on the promise of revenge. Vengeance, Xena knew, was a powerful motivator; Manus was proof of that. "Manus," she called, and she realized her voice was the only thing about her still able to convey strength and threat. "This is between you and me. Let Elkton go."

Manus chuckled warmly. "My dear, Xena, why should I choose at all when I can have you both?"

"Lord," hissed Lysandra. "You're not yet fully recovered...the sleepers, Lord... they rob you of your strength..."

Manus shot her an angry glance. "Nonsense," he refuted, and to illustrate his claim he made a threatening gesture with his hand in Elkton's direction.

Powerless to move of his own accord, the old mystic closed his eyes, anticipating the worst that Manus' fertile imagination could conjure: a sword in the belly or a deadly fireball engulfing his body. Instead, he felt a tickling in the pit of his stomach and was simultaneously overcome with a feeling of intense vertigo. His feet and legs, formerly rooted to the ground, took on a feeling of weightlessness. He found he wanted to vomit and by keeping his eyes screwed so tightly shut, he knew he was only exacerbating the condition.

Manus knew his contemporary was expecting something extraordinary and if and when Elkton opened his eyes, he would be surprised, if not amused, to find himself hovering, wraith like, 10 feet above the floor and rising still. Manus tucked his tongue between his molars and glared at the impotent manifestation of his power.

Xena's hands came together twice, loudly, in a mocking salute meant to wound. "Impressive parlor trick. Can you pull a rabbit out of a turban, too?" She saw Elkton's eyes snap open and the utter surprise on his face at learning his predicament. She hoped he was prepared for gravity to kick in at any moment. "Hang in there, Elkton," she quipped. "I'll get to you." Drawing from a pool of resolve fed by a trickle of raw anger, she braced one hand against the wall and used it as a lever to coax her legs beneath her. They were rubbery and weak, and she tottered unsteadily, like a practiced drunkard; her right leg buckled and she went down hard on one knee.

"Xena, Xena, Xena," crooned Manus. He strutted and preened with the arrogance of a man who'd been born to godhood. "As much as I am enjoying your valiant performance, the time has come for you to die."

"What a coincidence: I was thinking the same thing about you," drawled Xena, once more getting to her feet. Her eyes swept the floor for a weapon, all the while wondering if she would have the strength to wield it with any kind of effect. The feeling was returning to her legs but with it came pain. With barely disguised effort, she pushed away from the wall to stand on her own. She didn't fail to notice the surprise on Manus' face as she did so. He still feared her, and that knowledge gave her strength.

"Stay where you are, Xena," warned Manus. He shook off Lysandra's grasp and moved forward under his own power. He jabbed a bronzed finger towards Elkton. "Or watch him drop like a stone!"

"I'm prepared to die, Manus!" exclaimed Elkton, his back to the smooth stone ceiling. His one consolation was that the circumstances afforded him a unique perspective, and although he suspected the fall would kill him, he showed no fear. "Your intimidation won't work here!"

Xena gave Elkton an almost imperceptible nod of approval. "You heard the man, Manus. He doesn't fear you. And me..." She shrugged and added nonchalantly, "I just wanna rip out your black heart and go home."

Lysandra tugged at his sleeve, all the while keeping her gaze fixed on Xena. "Lord," she whispered fiercely. "Release the last of the sleepers. While they divide your energies, you will never reach your full potential." Again, Manus shook off her grasp and again, Lysandra persisted. AS LONG AS YOU MAINTAIN EVEN THE MOST FRAGILE OF TIES BETWEEN THE WAKING AND DREAMSCAPE WORLDS YOU'RE VULNERABLE. FREEEEE THEM, she said, drawing out the first word. FREE THEM AND BE FREE YOURSELF.

Manus observed Elkton, his former mentor, trolling about on the crypt ceiling using his hands and feet to move about and wondered at the old man's ingenuity and grit; he looked at Xena, ten paces distant...injured, unmoving. He wondered why he should fear her in such a state. WHAT HAVE I TO FEAR FROM MORTALS? I'M A GOD! MORPHEUS' CHOSEN! He felt another tug at his elbow.

"Trust me, Lord!" Lysandra spoke ardently, drawing his attention to Xena who appeared to be making a miraculous recovery. YOU HAVEN'T MUCH TIME.

The Warrior Princess teetered and lurched, putting the flat of one hand against the wall to steady herself. Her injuries, such as they were, were just debilitating enough to give Manus the space he needed. Inwardly, she wondered why Manus did nothing to stop her. Her earlier flight across the room and subsequent impact with the unforgiving stone wall left little doubt that he was capable of killing her if he chose.

"I'm warning you, Xena!" exclaimed Manus. "I can kill with a thought -- remember Lias?" He concentrated hard; in his mind's eye, he pictured her flying through the air, arms and legs flailing like a child's ragdoll, but try as he might, he was unable to turn the image into a reality. He gave an inward groan of disgust and frustration as he realized that he could wound her only with words. Gesturing with an open hand towards the body of Gabrielle, he said, "And then there's the matter of your dear friend..." He'd stopped her cold with the reference. "Gabrielle... wasn't it?" He arched an eyebrow in mock confusion. "Yes...Gabrielle...that's a nasty-looking wound...do you think she suffered...much?"

"Not half as much as you're going to," quipped Xena, her face set in stone. The Sword of Psyche lay at her right foot; she could've sworn it hadn't been there moments before. As her legs began regaining their strength, she surreptitiously slid the toe of her boot beneath the hilt.

"Master, your enemy is about to arm herself," cautioned Lysandra in a sing song voice. She stepped away, leaving his side for the first time since his awakening, and although her actions spoke of fear and self-preservation, her face showed nothing but contempt. FREE THE SLEEPERS, MASTER...FREE THEM OR DIE YOURSELF.

Manus regarded Xena with renewed interest. She was armed, the sword having been popped effortlessly into her outstretched hand. She no longer needed the wall to stand erect and though she moved slowly, with great care, it was clear that her strength was returning. Briefly, he conceded that in his desire to revel in his victory, he had lingered too long in the crypt. When Xena positioned herself between him and the only exit in the room, he was sure his arrogance had cost him.

Lysandra stood at the periphery of the scene, one small hand clenched anxiously down upon the other. There was genuine anxiety in her entreaties to Manus. MASTER, SHE WILL SLIT YOUR THROAT IF YOU DO NOT ACT NOW!

Looking into the Warrior Princess' eyes, Manus was doubtful he would get off that easy. Finally, it was his fear of a prolonged and painful death at her hands which galvanized him into action. With unseemly haste, he returned to the loathsome, yet familiar dark recesses of the dreamscape. It was like coming home...to an orphanage. Women, men and children, mingling, wandering in the profound blackness, clutching one another in fear and uncertainty. Silvus, Photis and the other priests moved among them, whispering words of comfort and reassurance, much as they had done in waking life. These were the trump cards he had been waiting to play. At Lysandra's insistence, and for his own survival, he began releasing them, one by one. Each release left him with a pang akin to hunger, but almost immediately he was suffused with an overwhelming sense of well-being which he attributed to a massive influx of psychic energies.

LET GO, MASTER. NO FEAR. A GOD FEARS NO MORTAL.

From his trance-like state, with his eyes rolled back into his head, he could sense Xena lunge for him, the sword poised to make a two-handed plunge into his chest, but he knew no fear. A god fears no mortal.