Back again. Not mine, and I'm the sadder for it. Excuse the delay.. Yanno. New job, some personal issues.. But I have returned to torment my favorite boys a li'l more.
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Someone was crying- not openly, but quietly. Wrenching, soundless sobbing, as if the person couldn't catch a full breath. The sound hitched, and Strife abruptly realized he was the one crying. Startled, he faltered into silence, gradually becoming more aware of his new situation.
He was alone and unshackled. That held some promise, at the very least. Someone had even gone so far as to clean him up- abraded wrists and ankles had been wrapped in clean strips of linen, and something oily and smelling vaguely of lavender had been slathered over his other wounds. The persistent throbbing in his head had more or less abated, though his throat felt raw and bruised.
Straightening up, he continued his cautious explorations. His new jail was cavernous, dominated by an opulent bed draped in varying shades of blue. He had been curled at the foot of the overlarge frame, resting on a thick woven rug. Standing with a pained hiss, he discovered with some shock that he was tethered to a bedpost via a thin silver chain- attached, of course, to the collar still clasped about his neck. The collar felt different, somehow... lighter, cooler against bruised flesh. Running fingers across its surface, Strife could detect engraving- but his fingertips were not so sensitive as to be able to divulge what the characters spelled. Lips twisting in a bitter smile, he noted other adornments, namely the rings still winking from the swollen discs of his nipples. Someone had also discovered the tiny holes limning his ears, and had threaded hoops of varying sizes through both lobes and cartilage. They chimed faintly when he turned his head. Of course he would still be naked, a fact that distressed him slightly. Agitated, he raked trembling hands through sable locks, noting the soft waves were clean and curling just below his heavily-pierced ears.
Testing the limits of his leash, Strife paced away from the bed toward the only other bit of furniture within his immediate reach- a low table, its highly polished surface laden with fresh fruit, a decanter of wine, and a goblet. Another twist of expressive features as he longingly eyed the provisions, and he retreated from the display. He was beginning to get a very, very bad feeling about this. Some of Ares' warlords kept slaves with them- mostly bodyguards, or to perform menial tasks, like pack animals. Some, however, kept pleasure slaves- pets, soft and young and solely existing to serve the needs of their Masters' bodies.
Swallowing a moan of denial, Strife sank back to the floor. He would not cry, not again. He could figure this out. After all, he wasn't some weak useless thing to just roll over and accept this new twist- he was not a slave. He was Mischief, an extension of War and Discord. Blue eyes flashed, a storm brewing in depths bright with unshed tears. This lord didn't know who he had purchased, but Strife was surely going to show him.
Footsteps. He could hear footsteps approaching the bedchamber. It took a concerted effort not to tremble, and even more to hold tight to his blossoming anger and determination. Settling his weary body into a crouch, narrowed eyes locked on the doorway, watching it swing wide...
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Kyros lingered in the doorway to his bedchamber, eyeing his new acquisition with delight. The boy held himself like a cornered predator- muscles tense, fists clenched, eyes wary. He looked as if he might pounce at any moment. Chuckling, Kyros stalked forward to better see his prize. The slave cleaned up nicely, all sinewy alabaster set off by a scattering of bruises. The jewelry suited him as well... made him look like an exotic pet.
Catching the blue eyes that tracked his path across the room, Kyros grinned- a flash of white teeth in his tanned face.
"Tsk, pet. Didn't Darius teach you not to look superiors in the eye?"
Defiance screamed from the slave's eyes as he maintained a wary stare. Beautiful. Kyros dipped his chin in acknowledgement of the challenge, still wearing his pleasant grin. Without breaking eye contact, he moved to the table next to the bed and poured himself a goblet of wine. He lifted it to his lips, letting the rich redness lap against his tongue, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake. Mustn't swallow.
"Here, pet. I'll wager you're thirsty, hm? Finish my glass and we'll see about feeding you," he murmured soothingly as he held the wine forward, luring the slave from his defensive crouch. Keeping his expression neutral as the slave snatched the goblet and drank deeply, Kyros' eyes flashed in silent triumph. All mine now, pretty one.
The youth was looking puzzled now, glazing eyes snapping an accusation at the goblet held in lax fingers.
"Wha...you..." sleepily outraged, the slave touched fingers to his numbing lips. Kyros simply chuckled, sweeping in to catch the goblet before it fell from the nerveless fingers.
"Shh, pet. Just relax... so much nicer if you relax. Listen to my voice, listen to Master," he sing-songed in a syrupy baritone, malicious laughter rumbling deep in his chest.
Replacing the goblet on the bedside table, he glanced back to his new toy. The youth was sprawled in a boneless heap, limbs twitching as he attempted to fight off the effects of the drugged wine. Kyros leaned over the slave, trailing hands along the flat planes of his abdomen to linger on narrow hips, stroking thumbs against the hollows made by the protrusion of sharp bones. The boy's eyes tracked the motion sluggishly, expressive mouth shaping a protest.
"Don't, pet. Relax and stop fighting me. I don't like to mark my slaves... I prefer to shape you this way- absolutely painless if you let it be. Don't struggle. The herbs in the wine are intended to make you...suggestible. But if you fight it, you'll make yourself sick. And a sick slave is of no use to me," Kyros hissed, digging fingers into those narrow hips as he spoke.
"Just let yourself drift, pet. That's right, let Master help you," and back to crooning now, hefting the limp body onto his bed. The youth's slight weight was negligible. Kyros was not a small man by any means- broad shouldered, barrel-chested, and long of limb. And though he was built like a brute, he rarely used his strength to coerce. He was far more patient than that. Patient and insidious, that was Kyros.
"Now, will you let Master help you?" he breathed against the hoop-laden shell of the slave's ear, hands busily stroking along the smooth, hairless planes of his chest. Fingertips trailed lower, dipping into the well of the boy's navel. Perhaps another piercing there, mused Kyros as the slave's breath hitched.
"Tell me, pet. Tell Master to help you, that you want to learn," he whispered, tongue setting the hoops to chiming gently.
The slave writhed, hips arching into Kyros' stroking palms, vacant eyes rolling back as whimpers sounded.
"Ye-essss," breathed the youth in a sibilant tenor, squeaking as a hand snuck lower to tease the joinder of thigh and groin.
"Yes, what? Say it, pet," admonished Kyros with a pinch of sensitized flesh.
"Y-yes, M-mastah," and the slave was crying now, tears leaking from the vacant blue eyes as the words tore from lips set in a rictus of bewildered pleasure.
"Good, pet. So good. Now listen to Master," Kyros murmured, and began his evening's work. Reshaping this one's mind would take some time, but it would be enjoyable... a treat, always, to break a spirit such as this. Laving a moist streak across the youth's collarbone, he could taste his mastery over the boy.
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Strife was floating- no, drowning. Floundering in a sea of disconnected sensation, blood pounding in his ears. There was someone with fingers and an insistent voice and a touch that broke open the universe 'til everything was stars and undulating waves of pleasurepainbliss. There was no up, no down, no right or wrong- there was only feeling and the drone of a voice. Bone-weary, Strife let himself sink, let some visceral part of his psyche take control and ride the overwhelming tide of sensation while words washed over him. Respect, obey, lay yourself at my feet and be a good pet, and then the stars exploded and darkness pulled him down.
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Cupid was frustrated. Beyond frustrated, actually. Ares set him down right outside this charming little slave market, but he had no idea in which direction might be. Now, if I'm somewhere between Thebes and Delphi, and Megara is that way... Hades. Hollowing is cheeks and then sighing out an explosive breath (and half a curse), he spun on a booted heel and set off in the direction he thought Thebes might be.
By the Gods, he missed his wings. And why didn't he ask Ares for a map or something? Grumbling, Cupid settled into a brisk walk on the rutted path. Well, the road is well-traveled, so it has to go somewhere big, right? Hades, I'm going to end up in some backward little hole and leave Strife stranded in that miserable place. It was then another thought occurred to the former God of Love, one that set him cursing a streak that would make Eris blush... well, maybe. What if that stranger took Strife before he could get help? He'd never find his cousin then, and why hadn't he already thought of this?
Cupid fought the sudden urge to run back to the stables. No, he'd just sneak around the other way and keep an eye on things for a while, just in case... so he turned and stepped off the road just in time to miss being trampled by a horse. Scrambling, hazel eyes flashed as he drew breath to shout after the rider only to choke. On the back of the horse, slung across like so much baggage, was Strife. A naked, bruised, and unconscious Strife.
Cupid could only stare as the rider disappeared into the dust and distance. Now what? He wasn't a tracker, not by any stretch of the imagination. Rubbing the bristles of his jawline in agitation, he resumed a dogged trudge back towards Thebes- he'd just have to find Iolaus. The hunter could track Strife and his new owner down.
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Zeus had materialized what looked roughly like a long, rectangular conference table and accompanying chairs. Seated at the head of the table (of course), he eyed the other Olympians gathered around the table. Hera sat at his left, elegant and uncharacteristically silent, her violet eyes distant. Ares brooded on his right, fingers steepled beneath the strong line of his jaw. Next to Ares slumped Eris, dark head bowed, a raven curtain obscuring the sharply delicate angles of her features. Deimos and Phobos had long since vanished, leaving space vacant next to Eris to be occupied by a discomfited Athena, features impassive but grey eyes betraying unease. Artemis sat next to her sister, trying not to fidget, clever fingers tangled in tousled auburn locks. Apollo lounged across from his twin, a study in uninterested repose save for the faint worry lines marring his tanned brow. Next to him hunched Hephaestus, sooty hands curled around Aphrodite's slender digits, offering silent support to his wife as she leaned against his side.
They had tried to conjure Strife's image on the mirrored tabletop, but the picture failed to resolve, instead treating them to a smear of darkness shot through with jagged lines of silver and blue. Unsettled, Aphrodite turned the image to Cupid instead, and now the nine assembled Olympians watched his progress in tense silence.
Zeus finally cleared his throat, drawing attention to his end of the table.
"I trust we are all in agreement that the Fates' little show of theatrics had something to do with Strife," he began, only to have Apollo interrupt him with a snorting laugh.
"Strife, pops? Since when does that little weasel merit a prophecy?"
Eris hissed at him from the opposite side of the table, pale eyes flashing dangerously. Ares, surprisingly, placed a restraining hand on his twin's shoulder, glaring at his golden brother.
"Wake up, 'Pol, and get over yourself," interjected Aphrodite, shocking more than one member of the family with the unexpected outburst.
"Yes, Apollo. Do be silent unless you care to contribute something useful," pronounced Athena with a vaguely condescending smile. Artemis bristled, but held her tongue, kicking her twin under the table as he opened his mouth to protest. Settling into a sulky silence, the Olympians returned attention to an unamused Zeus.
"As I was saying... clearly, the Fates have something in mind for Strife. No, I do not know what," he cut of Athena's question, anticipating it from the glance she shot him.
"But you brought him back. Surely they told you something," protested Artemis at last, still not quite caught up on the situation, confusion reflected in eyes as green as new leaves.
"I...well. Yes, I brought him back, but I had no idea this would happen. I just assumed they had a soft spot for the boy, felt like they'd cut him out of life too soon...wanted him to enjoy a second chance," Zeus concluded weakly, finding himself at somewhat of a loss to describe why he had revived the dead godling.
Ares snorted, sitting forward to level a black stare at his father.
"They tricked you. Those meddling hags used you to set some ridiculous prophecy in motion and now we're down two Gods and who knows what's going on down there. Now revoke that idiotic rule about interfering and let me go retrieve my sons," he snarled in his rumbling baritone, and if anyone was astounded to hear the God of War claim Strife as a son, they were too smart to mention it.
Zeus was looking distinctly embarrassed now, a look Hera recognized with a roll of her eyes.
"He can't, it's not his rule. He thought he'd act like he was in control of this little scheme, but he's not. They are," she realized out loud, causing a round of disbelieving murmurs.
"You got played by the Fates? That's pretty dumb, pops," muttered Apollo, earning himself another kick from Artemis.
"Yes, well- that's not the point," blustered Zeus, "We need to determine why Strife is so important and how we can ensure his continued well-being."
"You mean your continued well-being," spat Eris, throwing herself into the conversation with characteristic fire.
"You didn't care until the Fates went all doom and gloom, did you? And now you're all so worried 'cause you might have to rely on Strife to save your sorry asses," she continued, voice rising in volume and octave.
"Like you ever noticed him before, anyway, Eris- sent him off to Ares and didn't look back," interrupted Artemis, and Eris drew back as if she'd been slapped.
"She's right, Eris. You were hardly a model mother," agreed Athena, perhaps a touch unwisely as she was sitting right next to the Goddess of Discord.
Ares groaned, bracing for impact... an impact that never came. Eris still stood, white-faced and trembling, but looking entreaty at her own mother.
"I..I... I wasn't a bad mother! I just didn't know what to do with him! He was so complicated, this little person that wanted and needed and was always clinging and asking and just... there. I didn't know what to do," she sobbed, and Hera abruptly blinked to her daughter's side, flashing them both away from the table without a word.
Ares, looking more pensive than murderous, glared around the table.
"None of us knew what to do with him. None of us even knew him. Hades, we don't know any of the lesser Gods... not unless they work for us. Is this what it takes for us to notice? A God's death?"
Athena sighed, grey eyes dark with shame.
"He's right. We've divided ourselves up into Houses and now into lesser and greater... and look where we are."
Apollo and Artemis looked less certain, however, exchanging significant looks. Aphrodite had withdrawn, staring at her son's flickering image with pained eyes. Hephaestus sat silent as a sentry, rubbing a thumb across the back of his wife's clinging hand.
Zeus looked over his children and took a deep breath, calling Hermes with a thought. The messenger God popped in and took off again with a glowing scroll, choosing not to comment on the small assembly.
"We'll work out the Fates' meaning. I'll call a council and things will become more clear. We'll just have to hope Cupid can keep Strife safe until we can figure this out," the King of the Gods stated, frowning as his heir stood and stalked away from the table.
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Cupid stared, open-mouthed, at the lone bandit facing him.
"Are you like, for real?" he muttered, incredulous and not just a little annoyed.
The bandit just sneered, menacing the former God of Love with a badly rusted knife.
"Look, dude... just move on and I'll forget you ever tried this," Cupid offered with the dwindling hope the man would just vanish and cease trying to complete a very bad day.
"Do you even know who I am? I could seriously spoil your love life, yanno," he continued when the man showed no sign of leaving him in peace. All the while he was wondering just why he had never taken his father up on any of those offers to teach him how to properly wield a weapon- any weapon. Bet Strife knows how to use this thing, he thought, resting fingers on the pommel of his borrowed sword.
"Need a hand, frie- oh. Cupid. Cupid?" Iolaus goggled, somewhat ruining his entrance onto the scene- an entrance that involved an abrupt drop out of the leafy canopy overhead, not to mention an acrobatic manuever that left him half-crouched in front of a relieved former godling.
"Iolaus," Cupid acknowledged with an easy smile, feeling much more confident at his presence.
The smaller man stood, brushing leaves from patched leather before plucking an errant bit of greenery from shaggy golden curls. He settled a vaguely amused look upon the confused bandit, blue eyes flickering with restrained laughter.
"Did he mention he's a God? You know, the kind that could flatten you with a thought? Or hey, can you do that fireball thing that Ares does?" bouncing in place, he aimed the last question at an openly grinning Cupid, watching the bandit beat a hasty retreat out of the corner of one eye.
"Actually, no... s'a trick that Ares teaches to his crew. I bet he'd teach me if I asked, though," Cupid murmured thoughtfully, moving to grasp the hunter's muscled forearm in greeting. The exuberant mortal just laughed, and the former God of Love found himself unreasonably glad to see him. No wonder Mom liked the guy.
"So where's your trusty sidekick?"
He asked just to see the look on the older man's face, and was rewarded with a long-suffering sigh
"Crashing through the trees right behind me, last I saw. He'll be here soon, assuming he doesn't get sidetracked," shrugged the hunter, and then his brain caught up to him... which, admittedly, took longer than completely necessary. Sidetracked, indeed, he thought before turning solemn eyes upon the God.
"We... me and Herc, we've been looking for Strife. We didn't mean to lose him, really. He just wandered off and I've been worried... um. He's not with you, by any chance?" concluded hopefully, and if the mortal hadn't been so obviously worried about his cousin, maybe Cupid could've been irritated with him. Maybe.
As it was, he simply drew the smaller man off to the side of the road to await Hercules' arrival, smiling mirthlessly as the hunter exclaimed over his lack of wings. Took him long enough.
"No, he's not with me... and we really need to talk. I need your help..."
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Somewhere outside Delphi, a nameless slave slept on at the foot of his Master's bed, dreamless and lax on a blood-stained rug.
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On Olympus, Ares raged, and not even his twin would risk passing though the doors of the Temple of War. She retreated back to Hera's temple, inconsolable. The Queen of the Gods tried to comfort her daughter, feeling absurdly pleased when Aphrodite flashed in and joined in the impromptu group hug- soft and light to Eris' dagger-sharpness. A strange family indeed, Hera mused.
Apollo and Artemis had retreated back to their respective temples, one glowering at bewildered Muses while the rounded up startled priestesses, demanding they join her in target practice. The twins, gold and silver, day and night, each warred with their own thoughts- wanting to consult the other but too proud to do so.
Zeus, on the other hand, sat in counsel with his brothers- Poseidon and Hades both appearing impassive and unimpressed at the summons. The conference table had been reduced to a smaller design, permitting the trio of Gods to sit in a loosely arranged circle- none greater than the other, and the fact wasn't lost on any of them.
"What have you done, Zeus? Asphodel has been in an uproar since Strife's disappearance," Hades low bass rumble sounded, dark eyes blazing in a pale face.
"Yes, brother. What has Olympus in such an uproar?" seconded Poseidon, one hand absently smoothing his beard- a nervous gesture cultivated centuries ago that he had yet to rid himself of.
"The Fates... well. They have prophesied our fall, or something very much like it," subdued murmur, Zeus' attention caught by a sudden clap of thunder. Rain? It doesn't rain on Olympus.
Startled, unnerved, the trio of Gods all glanced skyward and stared in mute amazement as the eternally blue sky darkened, roiling with clouds and the intermittent flash of lightening. Zeus quickly materialized a roof- his temple was open to the air, as was fitting for a Sky God- and buried his face in his hands.
Hades and Poseidon exchanged wary glances and as one reached to settle a hand on either of Zeus' broad shoulders.
"Perhaps you should tell us everything from the beginning," suggested Hades, not unkindly... and that was almost as terrifying as the rain beginning to sheet downward in torrents outside.
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In a tavern in Delphi, Gabrielle was doing her level best not to strangle Joxer where he sat. The two were crowded into a corner of the tavern, trying to remain unobtrusive while Xena intimidated information out of someone.
"Do you think she'll be back soon? Who are we looking for, anyway? A warlord, right?"
And the questions went on, spilling eagerly from Joxer's lips. Gabrielle just sighed, eyeing the clanking mockery of a warrior with narrowed eyes.
"Joxer. Breathe," the bard counseled gently, reigning her temper in yet again. Her companion just grinned, dark eyes wide and adoring. He'd removed his so-called helmet upon sitting down, and was restlessly drumming fingers upon its surface. Ready and willing to help out his two favorite ladies, he was ignoring the taunting looks from others within the dingy little tavern. He had years of practice at that, anyway. Spotting their missing companion... or was that fearless leader?... from the corner of an eye, he turned an expectant gaze upon her.
"So, learn anything? Ready to go?"
Xena quieted the enthusiastic would-be warrior with a look, pale blue eyes cold as ice. Joxer quailed, but Gabrielle swept a worried look over her friend. Xena was obviously angry about something, and as irritating as Joxer was, she somehow doubted he was the current object of her ire.
"What is it, Xena?"
The dark warrior did not answer, silently motioning her two companions to follow. Once outside of the tavern, she collected Argo's reigns and quickly mounted. From her higher vantage point, she favored Gabrielle and Joxer with a dispassionate smile.
"Kyros has property outside town. We can be there in an hour," and she wheeled her mount around, setting off at a brisk pace. Confused, Gabrielle followed, leaving a gawking Joxer in her wake. It didn't take him long to follow as well, mismatched armor heralding his every footstep.
"Wait!"