Going Home Chapter 1, a xena: warrior princess fanfic

Summary, continued, from review on site of original posting: In this beautifully written account of growing up and finding you are different, AJ and her twin brother Bastiaan lead an idyllic life in a Montana ranch...or do they? As their 18th birthday approaches, AJ, who is dyslexic and whose entire world is the farm and the open spaces she will soon inherit, learns a secret about her twin brother about to go off to college. Simultaneously, new neighbors move into the nearby farm and she makes a new friend by taking the small green-eyed redhead home after being lost almost a day. That begins a friendship that threatens the world the tall lanky dark-haired youth has known...and makes her question who she is and where home really is. This is a great coming-of-age tale.

Going Home

By: C. E. Gray

Time Disclaimer: I actually began this story several years ago, hence the 1997 bit in the copyright above. I wrote three pages of it, almost the exact same first three pages you have here, and then lost it. Nothing on my computer, nothing in a notebook, nothing but a hard copy drifting around somewhere that I'd typed on a whim. Six years later, I stumbled across it again, and managed to flesh it out. From three pages without a single line of dialogue, this is what my muse has come up with. grin Sometimes I scare myself.

Sex/Violence Disclaimer: There is mention of love between members of the same sex, though nothing extremely graphic (sorry Tina! Not this time.). If this notion bothers you, you're welcome to continue reading; maybe you'll gain a new perspective. Or, let me know, and I'll see if I can send you a few oatmeal raisin cookies, because I really do feel bad for you.

And, there is talk of self-injury, most specifically, cutting. This can be a strong topic, and if it bothers you, you may not wish to read this work. However, I promise I have tried to portray it as accurately as I can. Please let me know if anything is incorrect.

If you, or someone you know, is a cutter or struggling with self-injury, there is help. The hotline 1-800-DONTCUT (366-8288) is available - see the final page for more information, and more phone numbers.

Location Disclaimer: While I have never been to Montana, I did consult a native for much of the information used within. Also, I have a terrible memory and have used many resources from the Internet for information about San Francisco. However, my muse likes to twist things for creative license, so it sounds better. If there are any glaring mistakes, blame them on me.

Other: I am not dyslexic, but a few of my friends and family are, and I have done some research, so I have tried to be as accurate as possible. Also, there is a wonderful story out there, Dyslexic Writer by Red Hope, which yields a first-hand perspective of dyslexia. Definitely a work to read over at least once, and thank you, Red Hope, for sharing your friend's story with us. Again, when my muse gets a hold of things, sometimes any sense of reason goes out the window. But if anything is too out there, please let me know, and I will attempt to correct it.

Special Thanks: More thanks than I can express to Lis for all her help and patience in answering my questions, and for poking me with a blunt stick to keep me writing, and to my former roommate for all her Montana knowledge.

And Finally: A thank you to all my friends (fans and readers and fellow bards are all included) for keeping this little bard going, and for keeping fan fiction going. I write because I enjoy it, but I'm glad other people have found some good points in it as well. To Amber, Char, Misty, Tina, and everyone else who kept bugging me to write. Any comments, good or bad, may be emailed. Please put "feedback" somewhere in the subject line, and note that any flames will be promptly extinguished and discarded.

This one is for Lindsay – for bringing me back, and Alex – for being there when I returned.

"I know that this ain't wrong, what we do. Only that the world says it is."

- From Tipping the Velvet, by Sarah Waters

"I can hear you laugh
When I close my eyes
I can picture your face
And the strength inside your smile
I can see the words
Dance across your lips
I'll remember forever
Something more than this

And you can't go farther
Than my heart can will go
Cause I'll still be loving you
Thought the sadness and the madness here
And I'll always be with you
In the distance
That has taken you
From me…"

- Plumb, Taken

Chapter One

I guess it makes the most sense to start at the beginning… but in order to understand everything I'm going to tell you, I'd better go back just a few days. Then maybe it'll be clear - why I did what I did, and why things are the way they are right now…

It was warm, and the sun shone down brightly across the flat, dry land that I called home. The land had been my home for all my seventeen years, and if I had any say in it, that Montana ranch-land would always be my home. The brush was dry, the sand had been scorched by the sun, and after the summer, rain was a cause for celebration; but it was home.

There were many, many people who could not wait to leave, to go on to the city - Livingston was the largest and just due west of us - and they called me crazy because I wanted to stay. I could never understand why they would want to leave the peaceful living they had in the country for bustling and noisy cities where people feared their neighbors and double-checked their locks. So I ignored the people who called me insane.

What did it matter, as long as I was happy?

My name is Annika Justine Mulligan, but those who didn't call me crazy called me AJ. Even my twin brother Bastiaan, my mother Susan, my father Justin, and my few close friends called me AJ. Well, unless I was in a heap of trouble, in which case I was Annika Justine in that tone of voice that makes me wince.

I had let my brown hair grow to near the middle of my back, and almost always held it back in a loose ponytail. I was fairly tall, for a girl, as I stood at about five-foot ten-inches. I doubted I would grow anymore, which was fine with me. The eyes I looked through were light blue, although they were often called gray, and I was blessed with the even smile of my mother.

As I stood overlooking the property of my father that day, the property that in a few short weeks would be mine, I smiled. The creek that ran through the land, part of Spring Creek I believe, shaded and partially hidden by trees that grew alongside, was almost too bright for my eyes as the sun's rays bounced off the clear surface. I saw birds of all sizes scatter themselves across the sky as I roamed, and even caught a glimpse of a hawk. There were patches of vegetation here and there, but where it grew, it thrived. I had been keeping a mental record of the size of the greenery, and noticed that every couple of months, it increased. And it increased at such a rate that in a couple of years, nearly half of the land would be overcome with grass and shrubs. Yes, those who wanted to go could go, but I would stay where you did not have to visit some park to find plant life.

I walked around, and climbed a small hill that I hadn't explored before. I'd only recently learned that the land would be mine upon my eighteenth birthday. Specifically, I would get just over a thousand acres, several hundred head of cattle – dairy and beef, nearly two dozen breeding horses, four herding dogs, two cats, and one very talkative parrot. I wouldn't be solely responsible for all of it until my parents passed on, of course, something I hoped was far off yet. My dad would help me learn more about just how the business end of it worked, but my name would be added to the deed for the land and ownership papers on the rest of the property, and that was enough for me to call it mine.

Cresting the hill, I had a very good view of the land below, and noticed that it had more lush grass than any other area. Looking at the hills surrounding the valley, I assumed the plants grew better because a lot of the water from the rain drained down there, and soaked slowly into the ground even after the rain had passed.

A noise caught my attention, and I looked to my right. The sight I saw made me reach down and pinch my arm, as what I was seeing then, I had only seen before in my dreams. A group of at least twenty horses ran past, and since I didn't see anything chasing them, I figured they were running for the pure pleasure of it.

The mighty black stallion in the lead thundered across the ground, leaving a trail of thick dust behind him. His muscles were visible, even from the hundred feet that separated us, straining as he pushed himself to run faster. The horse's immense hooves, which seemed to be made of steel, propelled him along at a speed so fast I could have sworn he never touched the earth. His tail was arched regally behind him, and he lowered his head, snorting as he exerted his energy. The animal was a beautiful sight to behold.

Many wild horses traveled through our lands, although they were rarely seen, and certainly their travels so close to a human were even less frequent. I just stood there, watching them. There were six or seven colts, I observed, but they seemed to keep up pretty well with the others. Two pregnant mares followed not far behind, though at nowhere near the speed of the rest of the herd.

I saw dark horses, white horses, golden horses, paint horses, grays and bays, but the one in the lead was the only completely black horse. I'm sure the only word resounding in my head was "wow".

The others followed the midnight horse, and he led them on an undetermined path, dodging this way and that, sometimes heading forward, sometimes going in a circle. Suddenly, he leapt up into the air and bucked. He was having so much fun! I couldn't help but laugh at how carefree they seemed, how much joy they got from just running.

I watched them for quite a while, and eventually they settled down, grazing in the valley. Watching the black one in particular, I noticed that each time I moved, the ear that was closest to me would quickly flick in my direction, but then resume its forward position. Even with distance between us, the horse could hear me step on a twig or shuffle the small rocks as I walked.

At first I was worried, because I thought, If they hear me, they're sure to run, either away from me or right at me. We had horses, sure, and I knew a lot about them; spent a lot of time with them. But these were wild horses, mustangs, free and untamed. I didn't feel I had any right to guess their reactions based of that of their domestic cousins.

Soon, however, I realized that they didn't think I was much of a threat, and the ear didn't move my way quite as often. It seemed that they got used to my presence and the slight noises I would make. Perhaps it was because I was so far away, or because I had yet to move any closer. I was positive that if I did, I would frighten them, so I stayed right where I was on top of the hill.

Besides the horse the color of coal, there was a young colt that got my attention. He had a golden coat, a silver mane and tail that shimmered in the sunlight, and a white sock on his left hind foot that went halfway up his leg. I knew the color pattern to be called Palomino, meaning a yellow coat and white mane, and I nicknamed him Moon Dancer. The colt was gorgeous, but he was also a trouble maker.

As I watched, Moon Dancer walked up to one of the other colts and butted his head against the smaller one's side. The small chestnut colored colt, with a diamond star on her forehead, tried to ignore Moon Dancer, but the head butting continued. Finally Little Star, as I called her, had enough, and was forced to return fire. Backing away, Moon Dancer tried to escape Little Star's reach, but she struck out with her powerful legs, and landed a direct blow to his chest. It was not meant to do any damage, as no blow followed, but it was enough to convince Moon Dancer to move on.

I looked around at the other horses, and named each individual amazing creature. There was Cuddle Bug, the bay stallion who just wanted to be loved; and made the rounds, giving everyone the chance to do so. He would walk up to each one, lower his head, and gently nuzzle them. A couple returned the affection, but most just turned away. Ever optimistic, Cuddle Bug went, undaunted, to another part of the flatland, giving the other a chance to cool off. A few minutes later, he would return, and repeat the process until one of the others allowed him to stay by their side. He was strong, and very large with no markings, but he was so docile it was adorable.

Rose was one of the pregnant mares, with a beautiful red coat and black mane, as well as a white streak that ran from the middle of her forehead down to her muzzle. She was very stand offish, unless Cuddle Bug or a colt came up to her, then she would nuzzle and nip and love them. I figured she would be more social when her colt was born, and from the size of her stomach, as well as the month, I didn't think it would be too much longer. I found Cuddle Bug snuggling up next to her most often.

Copper Wonder was a young colt, who was such a lovely shade of golden brown it was hard to believe he wasn't a Palomino. His black mane and tail proved him to be of Buckskin coloring, and I noticed that all but his right front foot had socks. He was spunky and playful, but seemed to enjoy the calm that surrounded his mother, and stayed by her side much of the time. The only time he left was to visit Rose or to teach some of the younger ones a lesson.

Those were the five that seemed to stick out from the crowd, so those were the five I named. The black stallion also hit me as unique, of course, but I couldn't decide on a name that sounded right for him, so I decided to give it more thought. I wanted it to be special, as names were important in my family.

For example, my first name was Scandinavian for "grace", and my middle name, besides being reminiscent of my father whom I loved dearly, meant "just" in Latin. My parents always told me the name is an indication of the person, not disregarding individual personalities of course, and I applied that to the animals in my life, whether it was the same or not.

I stayed there, watching the horses in the valley, until the sun began to set. I knew if I didn't start back soon, I wouldn't return to the house before it was completely dark, and while I didn't mind, I knew it worried my mother. And still, I was reluctant to leave. With a silent bid goodnight to the living legends of the west, I turned back and walked the way I had come, marking the place in my mind as somewhere to return often. Even if I was never able to see them again, I would always have the memory.

I entered the house through the front door, stomping my boots on the mat to get rid of all the dirt before I tracked it through the house and on the carpet, a crime my mother could pin on any one of us just by looking at the shoeprint. I wore cowboy boots, my brother wore tennis shoes, my father chose work boots, and my mother… well, she just never attracted dirt, so she was never a suspect. I had tried wearing my brother's shoes out once, but she still knew it was me. I didn't even try to get her to explain how she did it, I just started scrubbing.

Going so far as to take my boots off and placing them next to the front door, under the coat rack, I walked into the kitchen with socked feet, searching for dinner. Bastiaan would be in his room studying for his college tests, my dad was probably sitting in his recliner reading the newspaper, so it was with no surprise that I found my mother on her own.

I kissed her cheek by way of greeting, coming up behind her.

She turned from whatever she was cooking… smelled like minestrone soup if I wasn't mistaken, and smiled at me.

"Oh, AJ, go wash up. Then you can help me finish dinner."

I nodded, and walked up the stairs to my bedroom, peeling off my shirt and quickly removing my jeans. Pulling on a pair of flannel pajama pants and an A-shirt I had borrowed from my brother, I took off my socks, tossed all the dirty clothes in the hamper in my closet, and washed my hands in the bathroom on my way back downstairs.

I had been helping my mom cook our meals for almost as long as I could remember. It used to be that everyone took turns. Bastiaan would help cook one week, then my dad, and then me. Whichever sibling wasn't cooking would clear the table. It didn't taken long for the men to realize that dinner always seemed to taste better if I had a hand in it rather than them, and soon they "bowed to my superior cooking skills", to quote my brother. I think they just wanted to get out of the kitchen, personally. Bastiaan burned whatever he touched and Dad was much too prone to experimenting for anyone's stomach to handle.

They tried, I'll give them that. But if they wouldn't have said anything, I was about to. I don't know how long mom was prepared to handle burnt rice or cooked spinach in marina sauce with tofu meatballs, but she's a stronger woman than I am – by Dad's third week, I was ready to wave a white flag.

So, it became just me and my mom in the kitchen. That was how I liked it. I got to spend quality time with my mom, and dinner turned out pretty damned good, if I say so myself.

I tasted the soup briefly, and added just a bit more salt. My mom handed me the French bread, and I began buttering the slices as I worked, sprinkling garlic over the pieces before putting them in the broiler for a while.

"How far did you go today?"

"A little farther than I've gone before, but I've still got a ways to go before I see everything," I replied. "I did see some mustangs, though."

My mother looked interested. "Oh?"

"Yeah, almost two dozen. They were beautiful, mom." I told her of my experience, and she smiled gently when I was done, at my mention of wanting to stay around them longer.

"You always did prefer animals to keep your company."

I shrugged, and didn't say anything. I didn't have to. My mom knew I preferred my friends to be of the four-legged variety, mainly because they made no judgments against me, and because I hadn't spent much time in school to make many of the human kind. I was dyslexic; unusual for a girl, perhaps, but that didn't change things. When my parents investigated my problems in school and learned of the disability when I was in grade school, they searched for assistance in the form of special teachers, but my frustration mounted when I didn't improve. I was young, and though I wanted to be able to read like the other kids, I gave up quickly. They taunted and jeered, and made up names it still hurt to remember.

I left. It wasn't unusual in our town for kids to leave school early to help their parents with their property. Granted, sixth-grade was a little early even in that case, I didn't care. I tried, and failed. Normally I wasn't one to give up so easily, but I was young, and didn't handle the frustration well. I wasn't going to let the others rub my face in it for the rest of my life.

It was bad enough my brother was a straight-A honor student. He had always known he was going to a big-name college, and I was proud of him. But it had taken a long time to get over being jealous of his ability to read books so quickly.

Shaking my head, I removed the toast before it was burnt beyond recognition, and set it on the table. My mother had already set the plates out while I was lost in thought, and I finished by adding the silverware and the napkins and such. Then, calling for my brother and dad, I sat at the rectangular table, and my mother joined us with the pot of soup just moments later.

Bastiaan led us in grace, and my father dished out everyone's meal. We chatted idly, my father quite excited to learn of my time out on the land, not to mention my brother's high hopes of doing well on the SAT. It was early December, and if I remembered correctly, the next chance he had to test was sometime in late February. Nearly three months away and he was already locked up in his room with those books?

I always thought he studied too much.

While my brother cleared the table, my father settled back in his chair and placed his hands, clasped, on the table. He was a good looking man by anyone's standards, I thought. Barely forty, two years younger than my mom, he was still in fine shape. Strong with muscles cut from years of working the ranch, tan from the sun, and thin by nature, I didn't think he had a single gene that would lead to old-age. He took care of himself and ate well – despite raising cattle for the slaughter, we were all vegetarians – and showed no signs of losing any of his brown hair.

The deep green eyes in his patient face settled on me.

"George Ruskin told me someone finally bought the old Tops place, and moved in last weekend," he said, and I raised an eyebrow. The Tops land had bordered much of ours, I knew, and while the owners had died when I was still in diapers, my dad told me stories of their kindness. Our cattle liked to tear down some of the fences, and 'visit' the Tops' land. They didn't mind, but there was no way to tell if our new neighbors (if you can call folks that live more than two miles away neighbors) would be as amiable.

"What do we know about them?"

"All George could tell me was that they just have one child, and a lot of dogs. Said they moved from some city in California. What they're doing here on six hundred acres of land, your guess is as good as mine," he confessed, and I frowned slightly. Our family had started out with a few acres when my dad was small, and built up from there, buying pieces of land whenever they were offered, and sometimes even if they weren't. What a Mulligan wants, a Mulligan gets, my dad was fond of saying. Not that we were ever dishonest in our dealings, the few times we wanted an acre or seven of land and the owner was reluctant to agree, we offered them more than they could resist.

Either that or my dad turned on the charm. That had worked more than once, too, I was sure.

But new people from a big city… I'd heard enough of the folks in California to know they were invading our state in hordes, taking large chunks of land and turning it industrial, all the while claiming they'd come to get away from the city. Then why cover it with buildings that block the horizon and give off too much light in the evening they block the blanket of stars?

That wasn't what Montana was about, I felt. Montana was beautiful country that deserved to be seen as such. Trees growing towards the sun, rain pelting the earth, horses running free; that was all wonderful and beautiful and amazing. Pieces of steel and concrete were not.

The expression on my face must have said it all, because my dad patted my hand. "Don't worry so much on it, Annika. I just wanted to let you know what George had said. I'm sure they'll be fine people," he assured me, and I knew he wanted to believe it just as much as I did.

I went to bed not long after dinner, hugging my parents and choosing not to disturb my twin's studying, wishing him a good night as I passed his room on the way to mine. I could stay up late if need be, as I had no problem being a 'night owl' as my mother put it, but if I had nothing else to do, I chose to turn in. I enjoyed getting up early in the morning and watching the sun rise every chance I got.

That night, I dreamed of watching the sun rise over the land, giving light to skyscrapers and busy freeways on which the mustangs skid, having trouble running properly on the asphalt. Their legs gave way under them often, and I woke up in a cold sweat, recalling in vivid detail the large black patriarch watching, from the safety of the side of the road, as the last of his herd fell. Reality came crashing back in the form of the actual rising of the sun, and he turned a heavy head towards me just as my eyes flew open.