Disclaimer: None of these lovelies belong to me, and so much the sadder am I. Be kind.
Ow.
Owowowowowow.
Somewhere along the line, boredom had been replaced by pain. The pain was swiftly followed by surprise, confusion, elation, bewilderment. And then–
"Am I naked?"
The voice creaked, rusty with disuse. It wasn't a bad voice, really. A masculine tenor, just the barest hints of hysteria thrusting the last uttered syllables into a more boyish octave.
The owner of the voice, the same owner of those blue eyes, blinked and sat up. Damp grass clung to pale flesh, the broken blades scattered through disarrayed locks a shade so black as to hint at blue in the weak light of dawn. Another blink of those eyes and clever hands rose to irritably swipe at the clinging grass... and paused, hovering in shock. Incredulous, the man peered at his own long-fingered hands. They were the hands of an artist, a thief- quick, elegant, scarred in odd places. Callouses had built on the pads of fingers, scars running silver lines across pallid skin. The man's gaze trailed up, following the lean muscle of forearms 'til he stared at the sharp curve of a shoulder. Down and down he peered, eyeing the flat planes of his abdomen, scars gleaming here and there- some the long silver scratches that spoke of a blade wound, odd star burst patterns that might have been the sight of an arrow penetration, and shiny patches that hinted at burns.
Dazed blue eyes continued a slow perusal of that body, newly returned. Pale and smooth as white marble, visibly veined in blue, marred only by those wounds that told eloquent tales of battles fought, enemies vanquished. All this took place in a matter of moments- silent moments finally broken by-
"I'm alive!"
And then Strife, former God of Mischief and second hand to Ares himself, fainted dead away.
Awareness returned slowly, long black lashes fluttering to reveal those ice blue eyes. They shot wide, joy and disbelief vying for dominance upon expressive features.
It was then, of course, that he realized he was no longer alone in the clearing. Startled, Strife curled onto his knees, trying to protect the exposed areas of his body (which was really a lost cause, as he was still quite naked).
An exasperated sigh sounded followed by a quick snap of fingers, loud as an explosion in the silent field. Strife found himself abruptly clothed, rough homespun trousers and tunic covering his frame. The color could only be described as... an unflattering shade of brown, and the fit left something to be desired, but at least he was covered. Vaguely relieved, he peered between the fingers that had been attempting to protect his head and face, eyeing the newcomer with trepidation.
"Zeus?"
Strife stared, looking all the world like a lost little boy in his ill-fitting clothes. The other figure shimmered, solidifying into a dignified older man- silver haired and bearded. His eyes were also blue, though deeper, hiding more within their depths. He strode forward, pausing to look down upon the confused younger man.
"Yes, Strife. I'm here, you're here... oh. And here is just outside Thebes, in case you were curious."
Strife gaped a moment, doing a very good impression of a very pale goldfish. Then he scrambled up, lurching slightly as he adjusted to the use of the new body- so much like his old body but made awkward by lack of...
"Zeus! I'm mortal! I mean.. I...ah...wha..?"
The King of the Gods chuckled, reaching to steady his bewildered grandson. That done, he would step back and fold his arms across his chest, unconsciously adjusting the folds of his toga.
"Eloquent, as usual my boy. Yes, you're mortal. No, I can't explain. Just know that it has been decided that you deserve a chance- a second chance, I should say. Use it wisely."
And with that he flashed out in all his usual pomp and splendor, leaving a staring ex-Godling in his wake.
"Of all tha...I can't believe... ridiculous... what in tha name ah Hades... can't for tha life of me.."
The grumbling faded in and out, rising with a wild gesture only to quiet with a despairing sob as the distraught Strife stumbled along. Bare feet maintained an uneven path just to the side of the well-worn ruts of the road into Thebes. Every time a rider or wagon approached, Strife would duck out of sight, throwing himself behind trees and into scrubby bushes with a speed and elegance of movement that was at odds with the rest of his appearance. Hiding out of sight, holding his breath, the former Godling contemplated his situation. He was confused, alone, tired, hungry... and he sure as Tartarus didn't want to face down any curious mortals (fellow mortals, he grudgingly reminded himself) just yet.
Soon he drew to a halt in his dispirited trudging, staring forlornly at a crossroads. He really didn't want to go to Thebes- too busy, too crowded. So he pivoted upon a dusty heel and set off down the opposite trail, humming a tuneless melody beneath his breath.