Genre: Uber, gen
Synopsis: Storyteller Clovis finds his soulmate in repressed poet Brenna.
Author's Notes: This is a uber-Joxer fanfic, but despite its resemblence there are no descendants of Gabrielle in this fanfic. I came up with the idea for this story a little while before Virgil was introduced on the show, but it does fit in nicely with the fact that Virgil's a bard. At the time I came up with this story, I was thinking that because Joxer has such an attraction to Gabrielle, it'd be nice if one of his descendants was a bard like she was.
Poetry/Storytelling Disclaimer: I don't claim to be a poet. If the poetry sucks, it's entirely my fault. Likewise, if the storytelling by the bards sucks, it's also my fault. It wasn't the strong point of my Solstice fanfic either.
Revisionist History Disclaimer: This story takes place 1000 years after the time of Xena and Hercules, so stories that resemble episodes of Hercules are not going to say exactly what happened and everybody who was involved. Would you expect someone today to give an exact account of something that happened 1000 years ago, even with text? I know I wouldn't. I know everyone who was involved in these episodes, it's the characters that don't have the whole story.

1082 A.D. Hartfordshire, England

It was the middle of winter, and most men in the town were either at home around a cozy fireplace or at the local taverns drowning ale to forget their troubles for awhile. It was still the Dark Ages in England, when tales of legendary heroes fighting gigantic and horrendous monsters were preferable to any Bible story. It was this atmosphere that allowed Clovis to thrive.

Skinny and short for his age, with an unruly mop of light red hair, he was ridiculed most of his life. His brother Russell went off to war and became a hero, while Clovis was turned back at the door. It still stung to have lived in his brother's shadow.

Here at the tavern, though, he had his nitch. He always loved reading when he was younger, having been taught by his mother. He brushed up on ancient Greek and Roman plays and myths, old English literature (what little there was on hand), and memorized it.

"Boy, stop filling your head with this nonsense," said his father Griswold once, closing a book Clovis was reading. "Reading'll never get you anywhere. It's the sword that'll get you places, boy. Take it from me. I was a shy kid like you until I joined the army. They made a man out of me."

"I'm not good with a sword," Clovis protested.

"That's because you haven't practiced enough," said Griswold. "Your brother's got the warrior spirit. I'm bettin' a day's wages you have it too."

He didn't. Try as he might, he could never fight well, and his father eventually gave up. Clovis turned to reading again.

It was two years ago that he first heard about the storytelling gig at Old Kenyard's Tavern. The town had low morale after a bad harvest and freezing winter, and business was bad. Pedraic, the current tavern owner, decided that some good tales might raise the spirits of the people, and he searched for local bards to entertain, three days per bard, for a few pence per day.

"No Bible stories," he told the group. "I don't need the lot of ye tellin' these people what to b'lieve. Jes' make it fun and excitin'."

A local kid named Sephard, who was about 10 now, would accompany the storytellers. He'd been playing the harpsichord since he was four, and never got any recognition. He was paid half the salary of a single bard, but never complained.

Clovis was accepted right away, after telling a slightly exaggerated tale of twin brothers fighting over the same woman. It was actually a story passed down in his family over 600 years, but he didn't let them know. His income helped the family at least a little.

This night, Clovis was sitting to the side, anxiously awaiting his turn. He had come in just five minutes ago, and didn't have very long to stay. A nice quick story was all he could manage. Whendl, one of their first members, was telling the crowd a story about a man who roamed the known world looking for the antidote to the spell his wife was under. Clovis was impatient. Whendl knew exactly four stories, but kept changing the characters' names to make it sound fresh. None of the patrons had caught on, not even the regulars, because they were usually too drunk to tell one story from another, but the other bards knew. They hadn't confronted Whendl, but they hoped it was only a matter of time before Pedraic got rid of him.

Whendl put his arms down, and the crowd generously applauded. Yes, they're definitely very drunk, thought Clovis. Whendl bowed, left the stage, then slapped Clovis on the shoulder as he walked by. "Your turn, chum."

Clovis waited for Sephard to get a drink, then he turned to the audience. "I bring to you tonight a story of a time long ago, a time of myth and legend. I sing of Hercules, the legendary Greek hero, the champion of men, an inspiration to all."

The audience settled back in interest.

"Imagine, if you will, that the fires you huddle by were to extinguish," he said. "Imagine that you could not restart them, no matter how you tried. How would you stay warm? How would you eat? How would you see where you are going? Once, Hercules faced this very problem. The goddess Hera, who hated mankind for squandering its gifts, took fire from us. Not all at once, but one fire at a time, until the eternal torch was all that was left."

"How did people survive?" asked one little boy.

"Because Hercules worked quickly," said Clovis. "He learned that he had to retrieve the eternal torch to restore fire. He had many obstacles thrown in his path, including his own father, Zeus."

"His daddy wouldn't let him help people?" asked the same boy, wide-eyed.

"He did it for Hercules," said Clovis, "for, you see, the flames could drain his special powers and kill him. He freed the torch and almost perished, but his father made Hera back off before killing him. Fire was restored, and Hercules went on to perform many more labors."

The crowd applauded, and Clovis headed toward Pedraic for payment.

"Aren't you goin' to stay till intermission?" Pedraic asked, raising an eyebrow.

Clovis shook his head. "No, I've got to head home. Mom's sick, and I'm the only one around to help in the evenings."

"All right," said Pedraic. "Ye'll miss a good show. We have a new one startin' out t'night."

"Maybe next time," Clovis. "Take care."

"So what was the story tonight?" asked Sabine that evening. "Another dragon story or some myth?"

"Hercules," said Clovis, putting her supper on the table.

Sabine smiled. "You always loved the Greek myths. It's too bad your father's never appreciated your talent. I've always been proud of it."

"Thanks mom," said Clovis with a grin.

Sabine picked at her food. "You should have met your great-grandfather Dempster. He was a bard, just like you. When I was a wee girl, he'd sit me on his lap and tell me stories of our ancestors and old Gaelic tales. He died when I was eight, and I still miss him dearly. I always wondered who'd be the next bard in our family. We've had too many fighters, men and women."

"We've had women fighters?" asked Clovis, surprised.

"Oh yes," said Sabine. "You'd be surprised at how many women fought for England before women were barred from the military." She smiled weakly. "Remind me to tell you some stories sometime. You'd be surprised, Clovis. Women aren't as fragile as men like to think they are. Sometimes all they want is to be loved and respected by men." She coughed.

"Are you all right?" asked Clovis, worried.

Sabine nodded. "I'll be fine, honestly." She put her hand over Clovis's. "Don't waste your gift for storytelling, Clovis. Don't care what your father and brother brag about war. Follow the path you're happy with, and you won't regret it."

"I will, mom," he said. He then left her to eat, and later helped her to bed. Sabine got better within a few days.

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