H E L L B O U N D

8. The Question of Command

They found Mirthig where river mist touched the pale light of afternoon, the Ford of Bruinen whispering over stone and memory. He rode at the head of his men, helm unbound, sword sheathed yet eager, eyes already measuring what could be destroyed.

When he saw her, surprise flickered, swift and sharp, before defiance smothered it. "You," he muttered. "I thought you remained in your forge, dreaming of a kinder war."

When she spoke, her voice was not loud, yet it unstrung the silence. "I commanded you to raise this army," she said, guiding her horse across his path, "not to burn whatever draws breath."

"We cannot build dominion by restraint," Mirthig answered, loud now, for men watched him. "Sauron's hosts endured because they crushed resistance. You taught us strategy, yes. But war is not a strategy alone. It is fear."

Maarwookr's voice broke in, firm as an anvil beneath a hammer. "He is not wrong."

Xena did not flinch. "The Dark Lord does not seek dominion alone. He seeks ruin." She paused, and for the first time, those who followed her heard something in her words they had never known before. "And there is a difference."

Mirthig's stare sharpened. "When did you grow a conscience?"

Maarwookr did not smile. "When she began to remember, she had one."

The silence that followed moved through the company like frost. Her horse stirred. She dismounted. That alone changed the air. She stood among them, not armored by rank, nor shielded by horse, but as herself. And some among them, though they did not understand why, felt unease.

"You speak of fear, Mirthig," she said softly. "Of strength and dominion. Yet you know nothing of any of them."

He answered, voice like cold steel, "That mercy is weakness."

"You know nothing of it." There was no fire in her voice, only sorrow. And it was that which unsettled him.

The soldiers watched. Not waiting for blood. But for the decision. She stepped nearer to him. "I gave you command," she said, "but I did not give you purpose. That you took for yourself, and you twisted it."

His eyes narrowed. "Perhaps it is time," he said slowly, "that command be decided again."

Before any hand could reach for steel, she answered, "Then let it be decided."

But she did not draw her sword. She turned, not to him, but to the army. An assembly not of hers, nor of his, but of men who had long followed whichever voice sounded most certain. Her voice, when she spoke, was quiet. But it carried to every ear.

"If you would ride under me," she said, "you will ride with purpose, with discipline, with restraint. We will crush our enemies, yet we shall not become them."

Mirthig answered, sharp as flame. "And if they follow me, they will ride unbound, unafraid, unsoftened."

A rustle passed through the gathered ranks. Some turned from Mirthig. Others turned from her. And in that silent, fateful parting of loyalties, she understood at last the truth that had been knocking at the doors of her mind for many long, forgotten years. She had not lost command. She had outgrown it.

She had seen it before, in a life she could scarcely remember yet could never quite forget. In that other world, long buried beneath centuries of ash and war, she had stood upon battlements and crossroads where men whispered that she had grown weak, too measured, too merciful. They mistook restraint for hesitation, and discipline for softness. And now, in this realm of shadow and stone, the same murmurs rose once more.