Insert my usual rambling about how much I regret that these characters and their little universe do not belong to me and never will. And be forewarned, it's gonna get real ugly from here on out. Not a place for the kiddies.
Aphrodite untangled herself from a pile of well-formed limbs, smirking at one of the Muses as she murmured a sleepy objection to being disturbed. Muses... always some of the last to leave a good party. The Goddess of Love stood back, surveying the small disaster area with no small amount of pride. Zeus was buried somewhere beneath the pile of Muses, Apollo was curled loosely around a snoring Bacchus, and was that Demeter draped over a satyr? Or was it two satyrs? Maybe a nymph, Aphrodite conceded with a muffled giggle. Definitely a bitchin' party.
Standing back, she noticed the continued absence of her son with a little pang. Poor kiddo, she really ought to check in on him... and then on Eris. Not that the House of War usually partook in these little soirees, but Eris had been known to sneak in and set the Muses to arguing over who got to cuddle up with Apollo or Asclepsius, and there was that time some of the residents of Asphodel popped in just to irk Demeter. Ah, gotta love the whole family.
Speaking of which... Aphrodite blinked what appeared to be a compact into her manicured hand, flipping it open to peer into the small scrying mirror concealed within. She watched Strife curl up beneath a tree for the night, watched him shiver in the cool air, watched him grimace at an inability to find a comfortable position with his bruises and bumps. Content that he was safe, if not entirely well, she blinked the small mirror back into nonexistence (or wherever those things come and go from) and heaved a sigh.
Time to go play dutiful and overbearing mother. She took a breath, readying herself to blink over to Cupid's temple... and then paused, glancing down at herself. Hrm. Maybe a quick bath first. Of course she could just think herself clean, but a nice bubble bath was so much more relaxing. With a giggle, Aphrodite blinked out to her own temple, intending to spend the next few hours relaxing and primping.
Strife awoke to a dull but insistent throbbing in both his head and his shoulder. Groaning, he uncurled stiff limbs and came face to face with a leering stranger. He yelped, scrambling upright despite the warning protest of muscles and his pounding skull. Almost without conscious effort, he found himself holding his staff in a defensive position, stance loose and anticipating attack.
The man chuckled, visibly amused by Strife's panic. He stepped back, easing outside of the striking range of the younger man's staff.
"Hello, pretty. Lost, are you?" And he leered again, dark eyes flashing beneath heavy brows.
Strife regarded the man warily, taking stock of his potential opponent. He was easily as tall as Ares, muscled just like his aggressive uncle. Dressed in well-worn leathers, a sword was slung low on one hip, a whip and a set of keys riding the other. Strife felt his heart sink- not only was the many physically imposing, but he obviously knew how to handle himself and his weapons.
"You're a quiet one, pretty. All alone in the woods, too. Tell Darius, are you lost?" His words were gentle, but his voice... it made Strife's skin crawl.
"No. M'not lost. M'goin' ta Thebes... yanno, road's that way," Strife shot back, jerking a thumb in the direction he knew the road to be. The man's smile widened just a fraction.
"Got a mouth on you, pretty. I like a bit of spirit."
Strife found himself slowly edging back, bumping his sore shoulder against the tree that had been sheltering his rest. He forced himself to stillness, glaring at the stranger through blue eyes gone cold as ice.
"M'not pretty," he muttered, almost hissing the pet name.
"Oh, but you are. Get you cleaned up a bit, with that skin and those eyes... someone'll pay a pretty dinar for a lad like you."
The man's grin widened again, avarice glittering in his eyes. He took a step in Strife's direction and found himself dodging back as the youth swung his staff in a clean arch. Darius' expression darkened, grin faltering into a startled grimace.
"Pretty's got teeth, hm? We'll just have to pull those."
Strife smirked, spinning the staff in lazy circles, keeping the other man at bay. His muscles may be stiff and bruised but they were familiar with the use of this weapon. The former godling found himself silently thanking his uncle for making him train with a variety of weapons, not allowing him to rely on his godly powers alone in battle.
"Back off, why don'cha? M'just tryin' ta get ta Thebes."
"Now, pretty... I just can't let you go. You're valuable- more so than I originally thought. Put the toy down and I won't have to hurt you."
Darius sneered, edging closer to Strife again. The younger man shook his head in silent denial, swinging the staff to ward his would-be attacker back. The man grinned wolfishly and swept his sword out to meet the staff, slicing it neatly in two. Strife gaped for a moment and then bolted, throwing his lithe frame through the trees heedless of the scratches he was earning from the grasping undergrowth. He could hear pursuit, but couldn't tell from which direction it was coming.
Lungs burning, Strife stumbled and found himself sprawling headlong into the brush. He lay panting for a moment, hearing only the sounds of the forest and his own harsh breathing. Somewhere he'd lost his borrowed water skein, and noticing that just made his thirst that much worse. Groaning, he clambered upright. Now he was well and truly lost. Muttering some choice words, he picked a direction and set off... only to find himself caught by the back of his homespun tunic.
"Going somewhere, pretty?"
Strife twisted around in desperation just in time to have a fist connect with the dark bruising on his temple. He dropped like a stone, stars exploding behind his eyes. Dimly, he felt the cold kiss of metal around his wrists and the slim column of his neck... and then he slid into darkness.
Cupid lounged across a scattering of pillows, wings tucked tightly back so no feathers would suffer for his current lack of posture. He was watching his son sleep, a pastime that he always found relaxing. Bliss sprawled in his own small mound of cushions, thumb tucked in his lips, golden curls in disarray. He looked... well, angelic. Cupid knew better- once the little cherub was awake, all illusions of peace would be lost to the whirling dervish that was a toddler.
Stroking a calloused hand across his son's tousled head, he thought about the godling's mother. Psyche. Their relationship had been based mostly on lust- she was beautiful, after all. Once the effects of his arrow had worn off (and how much teasing had he endured for shooting himself), he found he didn't really love her. Their marriage had been brief but happy, and Bliss had come from the union. While he had been saddened to find the formerly mortal woman was not his true soul mate, he didn't think he would've changed a thing about their past. He and Psyche still got along, taking care of their child at turns. She had moved into Athena's temple, still mastering her godhood.
Sighing, he rolled onto his stomach and peered irritably at the day's batch of scrolls. Not one of today's matches would bring him close to Thebes. Maybe he could just... no. He had meddled enough yesterday, and couldn't risk another trip. Strife was fine, Hercules would make certain of that. Puzzled as to why he was so concerned with his younger cousin's well being and fighting back a sudden urge to check the mirror for his whereabouts, he returned attentions to the day's work. True love match here, quick flash of lust there... at the very least it would keep him busy. Making plans, he waited for his son to awake so he could drop the toddler by 'Dite's temple. Grandma's day to watch the rambunctious little godling.
Struggling back into consciousness, Strife realized two things: one, he had the most awful headache, like he could actually feel the blood pounding in his bruised skull; and two, he was naked. That could not be good. Quelling a whimper in the depths of his throat, he peered blearily at his surroundings.
For all appearances, it looked like a stable. He had been sprawled in his own rough wooden stall, another appearing across the way. Squinting, Strife could make out another figure curled in the shadows. Sitting up, he lifted a hand to sweep errant bits of straw from his hair... or, he tried to. Dazed, he eyed the metal bands circling thin wrists, the shackles effectively hobbling his attempts at grooming. Heavier bands circled his ankles, a chain leading from one of the restraints to a bolt in the back wall of what he had begun to regard as his pen. Grimacing, he tipped his head to one side, feeling another metal loop circling his neck, biting into his collarbone as he tried to sneak a peek at it. No chains were attached to that particular bit of jewelry yet, and he felt immensely relieved by that.
The sounds of approaching footsteps drove all further attempts at exploring his current predicament from his scattered mind. Instinctively, he curled in on himself, trying to hide his body from potential danger. A low chuckle sounded, and he risked a quick glance upward. Darius, his captor, stood at the bars of the little enclosure, staring down with no small amount of amusement.
"So glad you're awake, pretty. Now we can appraise you a bit better, hm?"
Strife glared, chains rattling as he abruptly threw himself at the older man. His frenzied motion was brought up short by a tug on his ankle, and he very nearly pitched into the straw-covered floor. Spitting curses, Strife righted himself and sneered at the man.
"Better believe that I'mma kill yah when I get outta this," he snarled in a pale imitation of Ares' enraged bellow.
A length of whip suddenly uncurled in the bigger man's hands, and he eyed the enraged former godling with no small amount of interest.
"Tsk, pretty... I might like you with spirit, but I doubt our customers will appreciate the mouth on you. I think we had better start teaching you some manners."
Strife quailed inside, a slow horror creeping up his spine, widening those pale blue eyes. Outwardly, he maintained a stony silence, glaring defiantly at his captor. The slaver, for he was obviously a dealer in human flesh, grinned widely as he swung open the barred doorway and stepped inside the narrow space.
"Definitely start with some manners. Now, I want you to pay attention to everything I say, pretty. Repeat it back to me after I say it."
While he spoke, he swung the whip idly, the leather whispering across the floor. Strife watched it with a morbid sort of fascination, hissing in surprise as the bigger man suddenly wrenched at the chain binding his wrists together.
"Pay. Attention," Darius ground out, looping the short chain through a hook on the wall before Strife could properly react. His arms effectively pinned just above his head, ankle tethered to the opposite wall, Strife found himself in a very uncomfortable position. To avoid having the shackles dig into his wrists or his ankle, he had to stand awkwardly- arms stretched high, one foot braced back in a stance that bared the long lines of his body to the slaver's interested gaze.
"Quite a prize I caught in the woods," the older man murmured to himself as he stood back, just out of sight. Strife couldn't catch a glimpse of his tormentor, not without some serious contortions of his torso and neck... and his posture was already reawakening the throbbing ache in his bruised shoulder. He startled when the other man spoke again, trying not to shudder at the man's words.
"You will repeat everything I say word for word, pretty. Rule by rule. Ready?"
He didn't give the younger man time to answer, snaking the whip back with a whistling displacement of air to lay a line of fire across the exposed plane of Strife's back.
"One. I will be respectful to my betters."
Strife bit back a scream, biting at the insides of his cheeks. He wasn't going to give this man the satisfaction. His betters, indeed. He was a God, for Zeus' sake. Or, he had been. He could've squashed this petty little man like a bug. Comforting himself with visions of the slaver's gruesome death, he missed the second crack of the whip, jerking as another line burned across his upper back.
"Oh, pretty... I can see this will take some time. Let's try again. One. I will respect my betters."
The whip bit again, and Strife hissed, trying to yank his wrists down. Metal bit into his flesh, abrading, scraping... distantly, he felt blood begin to wend lazy rivulets down his straining arms... and still the whip whistled, biting into exposed skin with precision.
"One. I will respect my betters," continued Darius, his voice insistently droning in the background of Strife's pain.
Iolaus had been unable to resist another effort at tracking their wayward former charge. Hercules, patient as always in the face of his companion's exuberance, watched the smaller man disappear into the treeline. Smothering a yawn, he watched the traffic on the rutted path to Thebes with mild interest. He hadn't precisely been looking forward to the festival, but it would be a welcome distraction from whatever mess his family was currently embroiled in. Disquieted, he recalled the plea in Cupid's hazel eyes... and the faint stirrings of guilt. Strife would be fine. He probably had any number of Gods looking out for him at this very moment. The demi-god's expression darkened as he thought of his half-brother, Ares. No doubt he was watching after Strife... the boy had been his protege, after all.
He had just managed to bury his guilt under the beginnings of self-righteous anger (after recalling some of Strife's antics at his half-brother's behest) when Iolaus reemerged from the lengthening shadows of the surrounding forest. Hercules frowned, eyeing the items his friend was carrying.
"What is th-..."
He trailed off, noting the hunter's grim expression as he twirled the severed halves of Strife's staff in capable hands.
Hercules groaned, burying his face in his hands for a long moment.
"Cupid is going to kill me..."
Iolaus snorted, tossing the useless bits of staff back into the underbrush before he managed a half-hearted swat at his friend's broadly muscled shoulder.
"Nah, Herc... but I wouldn't count on either of us being too lucky with the ladies any time soon."
Another groan, and the two set off into the trees in search of the missing former God of Mischief.