Games were Strife's favorite thing. He learned to play them in the womb and they didn't stop when he was born, they only grew larger and more complex.

It started when he first became aware of his "mother," of her godhood, which, by its nature made his very existence an unnatural thing. He *felt* that from her, her disgust and loathing of what was growing inside her. In the beginning he didn't know what to think of that, what to make of being so unwanted and hated. Then came the first time she tried to make him disappear.

He could feel it, the focus of her will on him, around him, trying to rid her body of every trace of his existence. It was then that he understood, he *learned*; this was a game. A wonderful game where to lose meant the termination of his short life, but to win...*that* was a greater prize than mere life. He reacted instinctively that first time, drawing in his life force around him, making him presence as small as possible until there wasn't even a speck to be found. He let her think she'd won, and in doing so, the victory went to him. When she realized that her fury had been...delicious. It had *fed* him in a way he hadn't understood but had quickly learned to crave.

And so the game continued. She soon realized that will alone wouldn't rid her of him, so she began to try other means. The warmth of her body, which had kept him comfortable those first weeks of life abruptly, disappeared. She cooled her own body temperature to a point no mortal could survive, and certainly no unborn babe. But neither of them were mere mortals and instinct told Strife what he had to do to survive this. Hibernation. It was what *she* had to do to maintain that low temperature, he felt it, so he copied her actions and simply slept. Of course she never intended to keep herself in that state for any prolonged amount of time, it was only a means to an end. The instant his subconscious felt her begin to emerge from her forced hibernation, Strife woke as well, ready for whatever came next.

Like any other child in the womb, Strife had been getting his nourishment from his "mother," but then she started to swallow poisons. Her body with its developed godhood, quickly neutralized the deadly substances, making her immune, but a mere fetus didn't have such defenses. She knew that, and again Strife learned. It wasn't so much the *wrongness* of what her body was feeding him, it was the hopeful malice he felt from her that made him aware of his peril.

He acted quickly to survive, detaching himself from any connection to her body. He remained in her womb, too undeveloped to force his own birth -- although he now understood that he could do that when it became necessary -- but safe from anything she might try to feed him via her body. He wouldn't starve, he instinctively understood that. Without access to ambrosia through his "mother," he would undoubtedly be weak, but until he was in a position to fix that himself, he could feed in other ways. She poisoned herself for weeks in more vain attempts at ending his life, and when she finally realized that he'd outsmarted her, the impotent frustration the bled into pure hatred was enough to feed Strife for days.

He learned to exist like that, glutting himself on the extremes of her emotions. They were almost always negative, but sometimes a twisted sort of joy would make an appearance and he became aware of the world around him then, through her. When she used her godhood, spreading discord in this outside world, she experienced that strange happiness. Strife was able to feed on that, but he didn't find as much nourishment in it as with the darker emotions. He craved those, and fortunately there were no shortage of them.

His "mother" lived in a constant state of negativity, it was her nature. He began to understand that it was his, as well. The disgust and loathing she directed at him on a constant basis nourished him, but he didn't feel it in return. For the most part he felt anticipation, waiting for whatever she'd do next in an attempt to be rid of him. He enjoyed that state, *thrived* in it. And once again he learned.

Strife wasn't aware of how his own mind worked until the day his "mother" stabbed herself. Where will and chemicals had failed, she now attempted brute force. And it might well have worked -- had he not been expecting it. He was already twisting away when the cold, sharp blade came through. He'd actually anticipated this, her attempting to rid herself of him through violence, but he hadn’t been able to predict the method, he didn’t have enough knowledge of the outside world for that. But in that moment he had his first experience,  first acquaintance with the wonderful beauty of cold, sharp metal that would eventually become his constant companion in life. They met in the most tactile of ways, as she shoved the blade deep into her womb -- and it brushed by him, the flat of it connecting ever so briefly with his still forming arm. He'd never experienced anything so...delightfully vicious.

He grew to know the metal better each time she stabbed, again and again. He never let the sharp edge near him, aware that as interesting an experience as that might have been, it would wound him and he couldn't afford any weakness while he existed within her. But he did touch the flat of the blade, let it move against him as it withdrew, learning to love the feel of metal sliding against his skin.

Strife didn't know if he was intelligent, didn't know enough to even ponder that concept, but he was aware that he was instinctively cunning. He'd been developing that instinct since the first time she'd tried to kill him, and now he was clever, clever enough to understand the best angles to kill him, to know where she'd come at him next. Each time he twisted out of the way; he simply wasn't there to be stabbed. Unless she was willing to completely tear herself open, she couldn't get at him and her unadulterated fury at that realization kept him fed for a long time.

Eventually, after days, she stopped. Her attempts were only causing her harm, not Strife. Even as exhausting as it had been, being constantly on his guard, twisting and dodging any attempts she made to impale him, Strife found that he missed that blade, but instinct told him that they wouldn't be parted long.

At this point he was shrewd enough to know that she only had one recourse left to her, and she would eventually take it. She wouldn't wait for him to leave her body of his own volition. She considered him a violation, a parasite that had to be removed at any cost. She *would* tear herself open, if that's what it took, and Strife fully intended drive her to that point. He understood it was his only chance at survival.

The little games were over. "Survive one day at a time" was no longer a game he could afford. He had to work towards making it through his own birth and beyond. To do that, he changed the way he fed. He still devoured every negative emotion he could get from his "mother," but instead of using the nourishment to grow bigger, he developed every vital system he had, everything instinct told him he'd need to survive when he escape her womb. He understood, just by his very nature, that gods weren't bound to the physical form, but he would be until he achieved his full godhood, so he had to do whatever it took to live that long.

Internal organs were developed at an accelerated rate, appendages and features grew defined where they normally wouldn't have for weeks more. He wouldn't be large when he came into the world, but he'd be able to survive it. And when he was sure he could do that, he went to work on *her*. He couldn't just wait for her to get to him in her own time; it was too dangerous to allow her the comfort of planning for that. He had to force the issue before she was ready, and he couldn't let her think it through in any clear way. His survival depended on her hatred for him driving her to rashness.

So he began touching her mind. He couldn't exist within her and not feel her emotions, but he'd never attempted any type of mental contact before, knowing what kind of rage that would drive her into. While he hadn't been ready for that then, he was now. He insinuated his thoughts into hers, becoming a constant, buzzing presence she couldn't shake, although she did her best. She screamed at him in her mind, trying to drive him out with words of hatred and abuse. He didn't leave, but once again he did learn.

Language was a powerful thing. It wasn't just communication, it was a way to touch people on an emotional level. If you used it right, you could mold them, reshape them -- and tear them apart. Now Strife understood that. It didn't effect him that way, not with *her*. He had no emotional attachment to his "mother" that she could use against him, so all her words accomplished was to instruct him in their use.

When nothing she did removed his presence from her mind, she finally decided to remove *him* entirely. It was what he'd waited and planned for, *anticipated*. It didn't disappoint.

She stabbed herself as she'd done before, but this time it didn't stop there. She cut herself open, slicing through the lining of her womb until he tasted the cold air of the outside world for the first time. And when he felt that, he made his own move. Strife knew he didn't dare wait for her to remove him herself. If she ever got her hands on him, he'd be dead in seconds. She was in too much of a fury to have any sense of control. But he knew how to stop her.

Strife pulled himself from her womb. He clawed his way out of the jagged hole she'd carved, tearing his way free of bloody flesh, and fell into a cold world filled with her screams of hatred and agony. Covered in gore, choking on air he'd never had to breath before, he was still able to scuttle out of her grasping reach. He was small, tiny, and he used that to his advantage. Ducking under the pale, delicate-seeming hand that reached for him, he launched himself off her stomach and fell.

The crashing landing on a hard surface was jarring, but he didn't let it faze him. He instantly looked up with newly opened eyes, waiting for *her* next move.

She was looking down at him, pale, pretty features twisted with loathing.

"Hello, *mother*," he sneered.

She snarled in response and raised a blood-coated hand. That hand trembled from pain and fatigue but a powerful ball of blue fire formed there and Strife instinctively knew what she intended it for. But he'd learned much from her mind, the laws of the gods just one of many things, but at the moment it held the most use.

"I'll scream in Tartarus," he said in a hissing voice, rough in its first uses. "I'll tell everyone how my 'mother' killed me. A god killing a god. They'll all hear. Even on Olympus, they'll hear."

The expression on her face twisted further, fury just this side of insanity showing for a brief instant. Then the fire disappeared from her hand and she slumped back. A bed; he could spare the attention to put a name to that now that he was out of immediate danger. She was sprawled naked on a black-covered bed while he hunched on the cold, black marble of a floor. He was starting to shiver from the chill but he didn't dare turn his attention too far from her, not yet.

When she spoke again, her voice was almost a monotone. "You sucked life from me for almost four months; you'll get nothing else. Ever."

"Of course, *mother*," he responded, schooling his own voice to a parody of pleasantness that would grate on her ears.

"And don't *ever* call me that again." A hint of anger again. Good.

"Whatever you want, *mommy*."

"What I *want* is you out of my sight!" She pushed herself up with one arm, struggling to hold the ragged edges of her stomach together though they kept slipping through blood-soaked fingers. "You're not welcome here, you sick, twisted *leech*! If I see you again, I'll throw you down to the mortal realm; see if you survive there!" She staggered from the bed, blood sliding down her legs, quickly pooling at her bare feet.

"Yes, Discord." This time he let his tone become conciliatory. He had what he wanted from her after all, no need to push her to further rage. He'd only been experimenting with what she'd taught him, the use of words to poke and prod, to wound where none could see and yet all could feel. She'd taught him that, through her memories and now her differing tones. He knew it was the only time, other than his "birth" that she would ever be a true mother to him, and he felt some gratitude for that. Enough to maintain his silence as he watched her stumble from the room.

She did try to have the last word, in a way. A harsh down-sweep of her hand cut off all light in the room, leaving him surrounded by complete darkness and the smell of drying blood.

Strife smiled. He wasn't sure if she'd done it intentionally, but she was smart enough. This was like being back in her womb for those few days when she'd tried to freeze him to death. It was really quite clever because instinct again told him to hibernate from the chill rapidly spreading through him, but he knew better. She would expect him to do that, wanted him to so he'd be in no condition to put up a protest when she threw him down from Olympus.

He knew, from Discord's thoughts, that Hera herself had done such a thing with her own son so there would be no official condemnation of Discord's actions. If Strife didn't survive down there on his own, she could easily claim that it wasn't her fault. It was obvious that he was far from being a babe mentally, and that was all that mattered with gods.

Yes, it *was* all that mattered. Strife's eyes narrowed as he began to think outside of his current predicament, *outside* entirely. There was a world outside of this room, one that knew nothing of him or what he was. He'd be taken at face value -- until they learned differently. But there was so much he could *do* in that time, so much to be explored, investigated, *played* with. But first he had to survive to greet that world, and he wouldn't do it by staying where he was.

He shook off the instinctive urge to curl up to preserve what warmth he could. Instead, he stood up. He'd deliberately developed his muscles as best he could in the womb, knowing that without Discord's emotions to feed him, he'd need the ability to transport himself to the next available food source. He just wasn't certain where that would be.

His first steps were slow, wobbling and awkward, but he was a fast learner and he had watched closely when Discord left the room. He *knew* how to do this, his mind did. His body would soon catch up.

And so it did. Within minutes he tottered from the room, arms outstretched for balance. It grew less difficult with each step as he learned his center of gravity, how to shift his weight with each forward step, how to make his toes grip at the cold floor. Soon he was walking as well as any mature god.

Wandering through the darkness didn't bother him. He'd spent all of his existence in a dark place and this felt comfortable. It no longer even seemed completely black to his eyes. He could discern shapes, walls and doors, furniture, and he easily steered himself around the obstacles. As he walked he listened closely for any sound indicating that Discord was near, but he heard nothing. The trail of blood had disappeared just outside the door to the room he'd birthed himself in and a careful extension of his senses revealed no trace of Discord's presence anywhere. She was gone. Completely. Probably to heal herself somewhere. He didn't know how long that gave him but he needed to find a place that didn't *feel* like her before she returned.

Everything around him, the walls, the floor, the air itself, was saturated with traces of Discord's power signature. It spoke of the fact that she spent a great deal of time here. She would call this place "home," a word that held no real meaning for Strife, in the emotional sense. It only meant that he needed to leave as soon as possible.

Stretching his senses out further, he finally touched on something that didn't feel like *her*. There seemed to be a point where her presence simply ended, cut off abruptly. He focused on that and let it the feeling guide him through a maze of darkened rooms and corridors. It led him, after long minutes, to a set of heavy marble doors. Closed doors that he knew he had no chance of opening.

But that was the only way he'd found that led to, if not safety, then out of immediate danger. He had to get to the other side of those doors. But how? How could something as small as he, not even half the size of a full term baby, find a way to get through something the size of those doors?

Strife turned the problem over in his mind, examining it, *knowing* there was a way and that he could figure it out. Then he did.

Discord had apparently disappeared, and he knew from her thoughts that gods could do that, relocate themselves from one place to another with a thought. That was what he needed to do.

Clearing his mind, knowing he'd need all of his concentration for this, Strife focused on the other side of the doors. He couldn't picture it, never having seen it, but he knew it was there, and that was all he needed. Reality could be shaped by the mind. The thought came to him and he held it for a moment, examined it, agreed, and then let it go.

In that instant, he felt himself *dissipate*. What made him solid suddenly wasn't there anymore and he was in pieces. But not motionless. The bits of him, somehow still connected on some level to what made him *Strife*, were moving, but not in any way measurable. They simply were one place, then they were in another -- and then he was whole again.

It was a momentary shock, finding himself standing on something soft, surrounded by warm air and almost blinding light. But Strife quickly adjusted, blinking until his eyes focused and took in his surroundings.

The softness beneath his feet was...ground. Olympian ground. Where he stood it was gray, bordering on black, but as it stretched off into the distance, it changed colors. White was predominate, but there was green and gold and silver, and where those colors appeared, buildings stood on that ground. Temples. Looking behind him, Strife found a black temple, small and blocky in construction compared to some of the more graceful, high-reaching ones he could see, but he understood this one to be Discord's. Just as the other temples belonged to other gods.

That left him with a bit of a problem. Where was it best for him to go? Where could he find safety? He could feel that he'd used up a great deal of the power reserves he'd hoarded in the womb. Wherever he went, he'd have to make a good choice and it would have to be fairly close.

The colors of the temples and the ground around them probably told stories. He needed to learn to interpret them quickly. Black...that he already understood. When the day came for him to have his own temple, it too would be black. But just as no one would find safety there with him, he knew now to avoid any temple even bordering on that color. The silver and gold ones looked important, large and complex as they were from the outside, and instinct told him to avoid those as well. Gods with high authority could be very dangerous to him if they didn't like him, and the possibility of anyone liking him was slim indeed. That was fine. He didn't need to be liked, not in the long run anyway. He just needed to fool someone long enough to insure his survival.

The green temples, small and unimposing, looked welcoming enough, but they were also quite far from where he stood. He had no chance of either walking or transporting himself there. That left the single pink temple. It wasn't the closest, but it was the nearest one that didn't radiate danger to him. In fact, it held quite the opposite feel. He wouldn't be able to walk there though, that distance was beyond him presently. He'd have to risk the energy drain of a transport. Having done it once, he knew it wouldn't be a problem now, but he also knew it would leave him nearly helpless. He had to hope he'd made a good choice.

The transportation itself was as easy in practice as he'd expected it to be. With a clear visual as aide, he had no problems or concerns with making it to the high, arched doors of the pink temple. The problems came once he'd rematerialized. He simply collapsed, utterly drained of energy.

The ground was even softer here than it had been at Discord's temple, so the impact was cushioned, almost comfortable when he fell. But even with a soft surface and pleasantly warm air surrounding him, Strife knew he didn't dare risk staying where he was. He was still too vulnerable, out there in the open.

Lying there, staring up at the vaulted, delicate-looking overhang far above him, he considered his options. He could do nothing in the way of moving himself, so he'd have to rely on others. Others he didn't know, who might seek to harm him. He had to minimize that risk in some way. But how? How could he, as tiny as he was -- and then he had it. He'd thought about this back in Discord's temple and now it was time to put the theory into practice.

First though he stretched out his senses again, just as carefully as before. Instinct told him this was his own power signature and other gods would be able to feel it. He'd have to use it sparingly, but at the moment he didn't have a choice. He had to know if there was someone here at this temple to be drawn by his "performance."

There was.

Strife quickly withdrew the probe he'd sent out. He'd touched...something. Something warm and soft and brimming with a cheerfulness that startled him. He'd *never* felt anything like that, certainly not Discord. She'd been all coldness and harsh edges, something Strife had learned to wrap himself around without being cut. *This*...this threatened to wrap *him* and not let go. But he still didn't sense any danger from it. It wasn't something that sought to consume him; its very nature felt utterly giving instead of the grasping, devouring need to *take* that was his own nature. This was his opposite, maybe not completely because he did feel an edge of selfish greediness, but nothing compared to what he was capable of. Still, this was close enough to being a polar opposite that he knew he'd be safe with...whoever that was. All he had to do was draw attention to himself, preferably without using his power signature.

Opening his mouth, Strife let out a keening wail. He wasn't too sure how normal newborn babes sounded, but he thought, being one himself, he had a chance of doing a credible imitation. Apparently whoever was inside the pink temple agreed. He felt...something bare moments before there was a flash bright pink and gold sparkles near the doors. When the goddess materialized, Strife realized he'd sensed more of her power signature, this one more personal than what he'd touched before. He memorized that feeling so he'd always be able to sense her, wherever she'd been, whenever she'd been there. He'd do that with every god eventually, it would be a useful tool. He ceased his crying, having accomplished his purpose, and just looked at her.

The goddess, a lithe blond creature barely covered by scraps of silk in various shades of pink, was looking down at him with wide blue eyes.

"Eeep!" She covered her mouth with one delicate hand, nails painted a darker pink than her "clothing." Utter shock shown on her beautiful features -- much prettier than Discord's -- and Strife had to wonder if maybe he'd made a mistake. Were the gods in pink temples meant to be pretty decorations without any real use or intelligence? It was certainly starting to look that way as she just stood there, staring.

Then her expression changed and Strife learned an important lesson: *never* judge *anything* by how it looks. Her hand dropped as her entire demeanor became serious, focused.

"You poor, poor thing." Crouching down beside him, pink silk flaring out around her, she reached out to brush warm, soft fingers over his forehead. "What kind of monster would leave you like this?"

He saw, when she drew them back, that her fingers were covered with flecks of dried blood. He'd forgotten the image he had to present. Tiny, naked and still covered in the gore of his "birth." It was surprising that such a lovely, polished creature would touch him at all. But then she did more than that.

"Come on, sweetie, let's get you cleaned up so I can take a better look at you." She could have easily lifted him with one hand, but instead she slid both hands under him and pulled him to her ample chest, cradling him there as she stood.

Strife was getting used to the feeling of being rendered into minuscule pieces as he transported, but this was the first time he'd let someone do it to him. No, when he thought about it he realized that Discord had to have done it when she carried him, but he'd never been aware of that. It didn't feel any different, really, having someone else do the work. He still dissipated and reformed just fine.

This time he ended up inside the pink temple. It was just as pink inside. Slender columns supported the vaulted roof. Pastel silks in a variety of pink and gold shades were wound around the columns and the delicate-looking furniture. Murals covered the walls, depicting scenes Strife was fairly certain children weren't supposed to see. But then, he wasn't a child, not in his mind. He examined everything as best he could while being carried at a fast pace across the room they'd transported to. He learned what he could from his surroundings, including the murals. Those he found educational, but only in the sense that it gave him an idea of what this goddess' purpose was. She surrounded herself with beauty and sensuality, she *personified* both things, he could feel it as she held him. This was her.

"Hmm, I don't think you'll appreciate a bath yet." She'd stopped walking and was looking down at him thoughtfully. "You're just too small; it would scare you."

That was...amusing. Fear wasn't something Strife had experienced and he had the instinctive feeling that he never would. Not true fear anyway. But no need to correct her. Let her assume what she would, for now.

"Let's just do this."

Strife felt a *tingle* around him, over every inch of his body. It didn't last long enough to worry him and when it disappeared he felt, well, *clean*. It wasn't a feeling he'd experienced before and he found that he liked it. He no longer itched from the dried blood -- although he hadn't even known he *was* itching until that sensation disappeared. The matted feeling on top of his head was gone as well and on a whole he just felt...more free. The last remnants of Discord's body were gone and now all ties were cut. Good. She'd been useful but he no longer needed her, or any connection to her.

"That's better." The goddess sounded pleased. She smiled down at him. "Well, look at you; so tiny! And such pretty eyes!"

Fingers trailed along his head and for a moment Strife didn't know what to make of that, but again he decided he liked it. Being touched, by this goddess anyway, wasn't a bad thing. She was...nice.

"You've got wonderful hair; you'll be able to do so much with it when you're older. Oooh, you're just so *cute*! I could hug you forever!"

Strife had to resist the urge to raise his eyebrows in disbelief. He didn't show any reaction. Now wasn't the time to let on that he understood. The goddess was beautiful and kind and very, very strange. But he didn't find that displeasing. If her reactions were anything to go by, he had protection here and that was what mattered. That and food. How did he convey that need? But he didn't have to, she seemed to already know.

"Here, sweetie; I bet you're just starving." Holding him in the crook of one shapely arm, she unhooked the front of her outfit with her free hand. Pulling silk aside, she bared a breast and angled him towards it.

For a moment Strife wasn't sure what she meant by that, then he understood. This was how babes fed and she assumed that's what he was. Food was food and he needed it too much to turn away any source of nourishment. He quickly clamped down on the proffered nipple and began to suck.

Yes! *This* was what he needed. The milk was laced with ambrosia, he could *taste* it. He could use this to rebuild his energy stores, then, if she continued to feed him, he could grow. He sucked hard, trying to get as much as he could before the source was cut off. He didn't think she would be deliberately cruel, taking away nourishment to hurt him; that wasn't something he read in her nature. But he was well aware that circumstances could change and something might happen that would take her attention.

"Hey, Mom."

Like that.

"Hi, sweetie. What's wrong? You look totally bummed."

The deep voice drew closer. "My crossbow broke, again. Think I'll have to go see Uncle Hep for a new -- whoa. Um...Mom? Something you wanna tell me?"

"What? Oh! No, it's not what you're thinking, dear. Can you believe I *found* him right outside the doors? He was just laying there crying, all covered in afterbirth."

"Okay, ew. And aren't babies supposed to be, I dunno, bigger or something?"

"Yes, much bigger." The goddess' voice grew serious again and she began slowly stroking Strife's hair.

Strife wanted to look at the intruder, judge whether or not the god was a threat to him, but the nourishment was more important. All he could see at his present angle was a close-up view of the breast feeding him, he couldn't see anything else without releasing the nipple and that wasn't an option he was willing to consider at this point. He didn't dare reach out with his senses to explore this new god's power signature, as much as that would tell him it would also give away just how mature he really was and that was also not an option he'd consider at this point.

"He's...kinda cute, isn't he?" The male voice drew even closer.

"He's adorable." Her tone was firm yet still soft and...comforting. Yes, that was what Strife felt from her. It was a strange sensation, and one completely alien to him. It wasn't unpleasant, but he didn't think it would benefit him to grow attached to it either. So he drew back from it, not physically but in every other way he could. The only thing that mattered was gathering energy.

"Could I, maybe, hold him?" The god sounded curious but not at all threatening.

"I don't think so, honey. He's practically starving, aren't you sweetie?" She continued stroking his hair. Strife found that harder to distance himself from than the caring and concern in her tone. "I probably couldn't detach him if I tried. But you don't worry about that, hon, you just take what you need." She ruffled his hair a bit before moving her hand away.

That phrase struck a chord with Strife. Take what he needed. Yes, that was the way to survive. Perhaps a way to live as well.

"D'you know whose he is?"

"No. I was more worried about getting him cleaned and fed than checking up on what immoral bitch left him there."

"Mom! Not that I'm not totally agreeing, but you're the one who isn't cool with that kinda language around kids."

"I know." She sighed, long and drawn out. "I just don't get what kind of...woman would leave her own child lying around like that. It *really* pisses me off."

"Right there with you. Hey, d'you think he'd mind if I...?"

"He seems pretty into feeding; he probably won't notice. Go ahead."

There wasn't a thing Strife *didn't* notice around him, but they had no way of understanding that and he wanted it that way. Still, it meant having to tolerate things he'd rather not, like a large, warm hand covering the top of his head, hesitant in its touch. Then it began, the same stroking motion the goddess had used and again Strife found that he didn't mind it so much.

Then he felt something touch him. Not on a physical level, it touched *him*, whatever made him who he was. He was too surprised to do more than flinch away from the touch. Physically he continued to feed but inside he withdrew as much as possible from that probing...something. Like the physical touch on his head it wasn't unpleasant, but he hadn't been prepared for it and without knowing exactly what it was or how to counter it, his only recourse was to hide from it. But apparently he hadn't been fast enough.

"Hera's tits!"

"Cupid!" the goddess said sharply.

"Can't you feel it, Mom?" the god, Cupid, went on without acknowledging the reprimand. "There's, like...*nothing* there, absolutely *no* love at all!"

The strange probing touch was withdrawn and Strife cautiously allowed himself to cease the withdrawal. This sounded important on some level. It was another's impression of just what Strife was and it was of interest to him in what was almost a purely objective sense. It held no emotional meaning for him, it was just information to be used in some way as yet undetermined.

"Oh!" The Goddess' whisper was filled with sorrow. "I didn't think to check for *anything* like that. It--it's obvious that his mother didn't care for him, but.... Are you totally sure about that? He's just a baby and they're always just full up with the *potential* for love."

"Hey, God of Love here; I'm, like, *way* sure. Check for yourself if you don't believe me." He didn't sound offended, just absolutely certain.

"No, honey, I believe you. I just don't *wanna* believe it, you know? Oh, you poor, poor thing!" And she was suddenly stroking Strife's cheek as Cupid continued to stroke his hair.

Love? What was this thing they were so worried about? It was apparently important enough to require a god to represent it. Was it so absolutely vital that Strife have it? Somehow...no. Instinct helped again where he had no experience or knowledge to draw on. Deep inside, in the core of what made him Strife, he felt that love was not something he had to concern himself with. It wasn't a part of who he was therefore he had no need of it. That didn't mean he couldn't become rather...fond of the touching from the god and goddess, but it wasn't going to effect him all that much either.

"We're gonna change it," the goddess said with determination. "You just need someone to teach you how totally awesome love is and since I'm the Goddess of Love, I'm absolutely *perfect* for that job!"

"Uh, Mom? You're like, the Goddess of Beauty and Desire, not really Love. Hey! What's with the dirty look? Just pointing out a fact here. Besides, you don't gotta be the Goddess of Love to show a kid *how* to love; mortals do it all the time, you know?"

"Well, okay." She sounded somewhat mollified. "But since *you're* the God of Love you're gonna help. He needs both of us."

"Maybe. When I checked him he felt, I dunno, kinda cool. I think I'm gonna like him." The tone was cheerful and held not a hint of doubt. That interested Strife.

What made Cupid so certain of that? Apparently it was something about Strife himself, but what? Strife hadn't given any consideration to the prospect of others liking him; other than how it related to his survival, it hadn't concerned him. Now he examined the idea. If people liked him, he could use that, and them, to his own advantage. Instinct told him that people were easier to manipulate if they lowered their defenses by having fond feelings like that. But that same instinct also told him he wasn't the type of being that attracted those sort of feelings. Maybe he could fool people for a short time, but it wasn't in his nature to maintain that kind of deception and people wouldn't want anything to do with him when they learned his true nature. Except for these two.

The goddess seemed prepared to try and change him to suit her version of "normal." He wasn't at all interested allowing that to happen so he'd have to hope he could finish feeding before she started on him. She was nice enough, and he found that he could appreciate that, but he didn't want to become any version of her.

The God of Love, Cupid, he was different. He'd agreed with her about trying to change Strife, but he hadn't sounded as enthusiastic about the idea. He'd also sounded as though he'd grow to like Strife the way he was. That didn't make sense to him. He realized then that as much as he needed to keep a distance from the goddess, Cupid might warrant a closer look. Allies would be helpful in his life, no matter in what form they came.

"You know there's only one side of the family he coulda come from," said Cupid, withdrawing his hand.

"Totally obvious there, hon. I'm just trying to figure out *who's* responsible."

"Maybe Dad knows."

The goddess snorted, a strangely delicate sound. "Say what you want about ‘Tall, Dark and Leather,’ he's a good father and he wouldn't let a kid in his family be treated like this. He won't know who this little guy's mother is anymore than we do. I'm kinda surprised I couldn't pick up her power signature when I found him outside the temple. If she left him here, I shoulda been able to feel who she was."

"Unless she didn't leave him here."

"What? Don't be silly, sweetie. It's not like he just *walked* here. Look at how tiny he is!"

"Yeah, that's kinda what I *am* looking at, Mom; he's not as small as when I first got here."

There was abrupt silence and Strife sucked harder, feeding as much as he could, certain that any moment he'd be pulled away. He'd already refilled his power reserves and he had been using the excess to grow, but he'd been doing it slowly, hoping that it might not be noticed so soon. Apparently Cupid was much more observant than Strife had thought. He'd underestimated this God of Love, a mistake he wouldn't make again. It was too late to salvage this situation though.

"Well look at you." The goddess sounded impressed. "You're a real survivor, aren't you, sweetie?"

That was unexpected. She approved of his deception - no, she just didn't see it as a deception in the first place. She thought this was his nature. And wasn't it, in a way? She was right; he was a survivor. He did what he had to.

"He's growing up like Apollo does. He wasn't a baby more than a few days. Think there might be a relation?" asked Cupid.

"Could be. I'll check on it. That reminds me though, he's 'volunteered' his temple this month for all the children to stay at when their parents can't look after them."

"'Volunteered,' right." Cupid laughed, a deep, pleasant sound. "Who saddled him with it this time, Aunt Hestia?"

"Yep. She said he needed to learn responsibility." The goddess laughed as well, a light, trilling sound that was pretty enough but just didn't hold the same warmth of her son's voice.

Suddenly the flow of milk slowed to a trickle, then stopped all together. Strife immediately released the nipple, realizing that his food source was being taken for some reason. He didn't think it was anything malicious, but it didn't hurt to be prepared, so he braced himself, fixing the outside of the temple in his mind just in case he needed to escape.

"Okay, honey, I think that's enough for now." A small flash of light and her "outfit" was back in its original position. "If you're growing then you should be fine for a while." Changing her grip on him, sliding a hand behind his head for support, she raised him up to her eye level. "I'm gonna drop you off at Apollo's for a little bit, 'k? There'll be bunches of other kids there so you should enjoy it. I'll be back for you but I wanna have a look around for your 'mother' first. I wanna have a little chat with her." The goddess' tone had turned dangerous and Strife had to force back an approving smile. She wasn't rejecting him in some way; she actually intended to find Discord and make her pay for abandoning him. How...nice.

Strife realized then that his decision to distance himself from this goddess may have come too late. Certainly he didn't feel any deep affection for her, but he was...fond. She'd taken him in, fed him and cared for him even after getting a glimpse of his nature. That was far more than he'd expected from anyone. He owed her, certainly, but yes, he sort of liked her as well. Not in the way one would like a friend, he wasn't capable of that. This was something else. He was starting to believe that she'd never intentionally harm him, regardless of what he was. That required a certain level of trust from him and he didn't want to give that until he could put a name to what he felt for her. He'd have to think about it.

Thinking would come later, apparently, because at that moment she cradled him in her arms again and he felt the now-familiar scattering sensation of being transported from one location to another.

When the world came back into focus, Strife was nearly blinding by *brightness*. It was worse than emerging from Discord's temple into Olympus proper. As he struggled to focus through eyes that were tearing up, he was almost overwhelmed by the sudden cacophony that enveloped him. Young voices screaming, laughing, singing, crying and talking, all rising up in a din that spoke of utter carefree joy. Over it all came the sound of music. A light, airy tune that seemed to come from all directions, echoing the joy of the children.

It all made Strife grind his teeth and struggle not to throw a *real* tantrum, not an act. He most definitely did *not* want to be left in this place where everything around him seemed the complete antithesis of what he was. He'd probably lose whatever energy he'd stored in an effort not to be completely submerged in a wave a chaotic happiness. The place was making his skin crawl.

"Apollo! Get your over-tanned butt right here!" the goddess shouted over the noise.

Strife wanted to speak up then, tell her that he'd be fine on his own just so long as he wasn't left *here*. But he couldn't even get his thoughts together with this madhouse surrounding him.

"Hey, Sis, what's up?" It wasn't a deep voice and it sounded much younger than the goddess.

"That better not be any of Bacchus' latest batch you're drinking there. You *know* you're not supposed to have that 'round the kids, 'Pol."

"Oh, c'mon, 'Dite! How'm I supposed to deal with all this crap *sober*?" This Apollo sure could whine.

"Do I have to go to Hestia with this? You *know* what she'll have to say, and what she'll do."

"Fuck! Okay, fine, I'll get rid of it, just leave *her* outta this."

"Watch your language around the kids!"

Apollo muttered something that most probably couldn't have heard, but given something to focus on besides the incredible din around him, Strife had transferred all of his attention to the conversation, tuning out everything else. He heard Apollo just fine and he made note of the interesting vocabulary. If children weren't supposed to use these kinds of words then he needed to know them. Just like he probably needed to learn and imitate their speech patterns. He didn't think he'd ever truly belong with these gods, but if he sounded like them then they might marginally accept him, be willing to talk with him, and that was all he needed. Give him a way in, even just a small one, and he'd find a way to turn it to his advantage.

"Okay, everything's nice and *proper* here, so what d'you want, Aphrodite?" Apollo sounded more than a little annoyed and Strife took note of that as well. Apparently not getting his way made this god upset. He'd be very easy to provoke. An interesting pastime if things were as unbearable here as Strife expected them to be.

He also noted the name Apollo spoke: Aphrodite. So that was this goddess' name. He felt better, being able to put a name with the face and job description. He didn't like having incomplete information.

"Here's someone you need to look after for a while." Aphrodite held him out. "We don't know who his parents are, yet. Cupid and I'll be looking though. Just keep him with you, hold him, okay? He needs all the affection he can get."

Strange hands touched him, took him from Aphrodite and this time Strife was prepared for the feel of another god *touching* him with their power, trying to get an idea of what he was. Strife was a step ahead of Apollo, closing off anything within him that would give away his true nature. He was becoming good at that.

When Apollo searched him that way though, he gave away far more than he could hope to discover. Strife could *feel* this god's nature. Not nearly as warm and caring as the first two he'd met, this one was quite selfish and vain. Perhaps it was related to his godhood, but Strife didn't think that was entirely to blame. Apollo just felt deliberately spoiled, not by any outside influence, but by his own doing. His power signature radiated that impression. That was material Strife could work with.

"He feels healthy to me, Sis," Apollo said, sounding bored. "Doesn't look like it -- or maybe he's just naturally ugly."

"He's *cute*," Aphrodite replied firmly.

Strife's eyes were starting to adjust to the glare around him. He was able to see the pink and gold sparkles as Aphrodite vanished, leaving him in this nightmare of noise and happiness.

Apollo didn't waste any time. Changing his grip, he slid his hands around Strife's sides and lifted him up, letting his feet dangle. His head would've fallen back if Strife hadn't had control over those muscles, but Apollo quite obviously didn't care.

Blond haired and blue eyed like his sister, Apollo was very handsome, but those pleasant features were twisted into a mask of distaste when he looked at Strife.

"Great, another brat." He sighed in disgust. "Hestia's getting a real kick outta this, I bet. So what the fuck am I supposed to do with *you*? I'm *not* gonna carry you 'round; you're way too ugly to look at all the time. Guess love really is blind if 'Dite thinks you look like anything 'cept a bleached worm. I got better things to do than deal with something like you. One of the kids can do it."

Was that right? Strife held back a smile. Apparently anything that didn't fit in with Apollo's idea of beauty really disturbed him. Strife sensed that there might be an opportunity here for him to invent something to do to make his stay here bearable.

As Apollo began walking, still holding Strife out, Strife studied him; he had a good view of the older god. Apollo was dressed in gold boots, pants and a vest, leaving most of his tanned, muscled chest bare, which seemed to be the point. Everything about the outfit seemed designed to draw attention to him. Other than the color, which shined in the bright light, there was nothing there to detract from Apollo himself. The vanity was astounding, and highly amusing to Strife.

"Hey! You two!" Apollo yelled over the noise. Apparently he'd succeeded in attracting the attention of whomever he'd singled out because he stopped walking. "Take this and, I dunno, do *something* with it. Just don't bother me."

Strife was pushed into arms that nearly dropped him before getting a grip, too tight of one. Strife found himself looking up at a girl, younger than Apollo, with black, curly hair and wide brown eyes. She looked utterly confused.

"It's a baby." That monumentally unintelligent observation came from beside the girl holding him where another girl stood, she looked about the same age as the first only blond and blue eyed instead of dark.

"I *know* what it is, 'Sephy," the dark-haired girl said with a roll of her eyes. "I just dunno what to *do* with it."

"Isn't it kinda scrawny?"

"Maybe he's supposed to be like that."

"It's a he?" The blond leaned over Strife, then raised her eyebrows. "Guess so. Maybe we should get him some clothes, Neme."

"I can't make things appear like that yet, can you?"

"Uh-uh. Mom says she'll teach me when harvest time's over. She's too busy now. Maybe Cousin 'Pol has something we can use."

"Okay, um, you go look over where the Muses are hanging out, I'll check in back where all those instruments are sitting."

"What about the baby?"

Both girls looked around with matching frowns until Neme smiled. "There!" She didn't stop to explain, just began to walk, carrying Strife with her. A moment later Strife was lowered onto a soft cushion.

"Stay here, okay?" Neme said to him with a smile. "We're gonna be right back so don't move." Then she hurried away, stopping to give 'Sephy a push in the opposite direction before heading towards one end of the temple.

And it was a temple. Strife could see that now. Sitting on what seemed to be a throw pillow in a deep shade of gold, he could finally see his surroundings to some degree.

It bore a superficial resemblance to Aphrodite's temple with its high, vaulted ceilings and narrow columns supporting it, but the likeness ended there. Gilded furniture was scattered haphazardly around the cavernous room. Gods and goddesses of varying ages, mostly young, were sprawled upon it and on golden pillows on the floor. There were windows everywhere, including a large skylight in the ceiling, presumably to let as much light in as possible. Mirrors strategically placed on the walls reflected that light around the entire temple, giving it that glare that Strife disliked. The air was warm as well, much more so than could be accounted for by the light and the congregation of people.

Strife was beginning to form a theory concerning Apollo's godhood. Letting a finger graze the gold marble of the temple floor near him, he smirked slightly. The entire temple was gold, but it wasn't any sort of paint. The marble had been manipulated to this color -- it was also heat resistant to a degree completely unnecessary for anything but the hottest temperatures. Like maybe lava, or the sun, and since there was nothing around him pointing towards Apollo being some sort of fire god, that left the other option.

So the golden boy had something to do with the sun. How...interesting. It went a long way towards explaining him actually. Life revolved around the sun, so why wouldn't a sun god think the world revolved around him? Apollo took it to extremes though, and that made him very vulnerable.

Studying the light reflected in the mirrors, realizing it was sunlight in its purest form, Strife saw an opportunity for entertainment, amongst other things. It would cost him all the energy he'd stored, if he could even pull it off at all, but the payoff would be ten times over what he put into it, assuming he calculated it right, of course. It would have to be slow so no one would notice until it was too late, then...then he'd have what he needed.

Checking for any sign of the two young goddesses who'd left him there and finding them still at opposite ends of the temple, Strife took a deep breath let instinct guide him. He had to focus deep inside himself, down in the core of what he was, to draw the power needed for this. Leaning over the pillow on which he sat, he braced both hands on the heated marble and concentrated. He *felt* what Apollo had done, coating the stone with a thin layer of power to repel excess heat. He hadn't reinforced it in a while though and Strife's nature drew him straight to the weak points. Testing them, he found a few that were worse than the others and focused his own power there. It wasn't as difficult as he'd thought, fortunately. He'd never attempted to exercise his own godhood before and he'd picked something rather large for the first attempt. But within a few moments he'd pushed the weak spots to the breaking point. One last *shove* of his power and they cracked.

Strife slumped back on the pillow, trembling from the effort and grateful that what he'd started was a self-perpetuating chain reaction. Once again he was without energy, helpless. But if this worked the way he'd planned it, that wouldn't last for long. He just had to wait and try not to sleep. As tired as he was, sleep would be deadly when things started happening.

He couldn't help closing his eyes, exhaustion made the brightness around him too much to deal with. He concentrated on trying not to gasp for air he really didn't need and cooling himself down. Apparently slipping into Apollo's heat shielding had forced his own body to match the temperature to avoid detection. If he hadn't pulled out when he did he might've overheated and either revealed himself or passed out, neither of which was safe. He'd have to be more careful with that in the future.

"Neme, I think he's asleep." 'Sephy's voice came from beside him. He really *was* exhausted to have missed the goddesses' return.

"I dunno, I think he kind of looks sick. He's just so *thin*." Neme's voice came from his other side.

"I didn't find anything to put on him, what about you?"

"Just this silk thing off 'Pol's altar. Hope he doesn't freak, but we can't let the little guy go naked, right -- what's wrong?"

Right then Strife felt something from 'Sephy, a lovely mixture of apprehension, confusion and dawning fear.

"I, uh, Neme? I think maybe you should use that to put out the fire."

"Fire? What're you talking abo--Oh, sweet Zeus!"

Now he felt it from Neme, the same emotions, growing quickly to match the level of 'Sephy's. And he could feel what they saw too. It was small yet, but the cracks in the heat shielding were growing as a result of his tampering. The heat of the sun was reaching the stone, firing it. Soon it would start to melt under the intensity.

"We've gotta tell Apollo!" 'Sephy sounded close to panic and it *fed* Strife in a way he hadn't experienced, but one he'd suspected would work for him. If he could draw energy from negative emotions, then why couldn't he do the same from chaos of his own making? And he'd been right.

But he couldn't let the goddesses stop it. They were very close to him, judging from their voices, kneeling beside him probably. He reached out with both hands and was rewarded by the feel of warm skin. He'd found 'Sephy's hand and Neme's arm from the feel of it. He immediately gripped both appendages tightly. He knew he couldn't hold them, but he didn't need to, he just needed them distracted long enough for the damage to become irreparable.

'Sephy squeaked in surprise and Neme gave a small, suppressed gasp. Strife's eyes flew open. The *contact* -- he couldn't just feel their growing panic, he could practically *taste* it. Just a simple touch and he had full access to their emotions. Didn't the fools know how to shield themselves at all? His good fortune that they were so ignorant.

He was able to pull what he needed from them; their fear as they realized something was wrong with his touch, their horror as they began to understand what he was doing, and finally their disgust and growing dislike of him -- and that was the sweetest of all. It was only moments before they yanked back out of his grip, but he'd already accomplished his purpose.

They were both unsteady as they hurried to stand and back away from him, eyes wide with a mixture of emotions. He sat up and watched them go, movements easy now that they'd helped to replenish his energy.

"What *are* you?" 'Sephy whispered.

If she'd been any more mature, if either of them had, then they would've known. He'd left himself wide open when he'd drained them like that. Any adult god would've used the opportunity to learn just what he was; these two hadn't had the first clue about it. Strife just smirked at them, the only answer they would get.

And that was when the screaming started.

Fire was racing along the temple walls now, far too quickly to stop. Many of the stones in the upper part of the temple had burst into flames, the lower ones were glowing with an orangish tinge as they heated internally. As they began to lose their shape, stone turning molten from the heat, more and more caught fire.

Where the stones had been heat-proofed, nothing else in the temple had been. As the fire rapidly spread from one stone to another, it began to touch other things, musical instruments propped up against the walls, tapestries, furniture; they all burst into flames.

The melting, burning stone had apparently caught the attention of some of the other children who had panicked and started screaming. At first, Apollo had used his power to try to contain the fire while the only other adults there, seven women, the Muses, tried to gather the children together calmly and comfort them. Strife watched it all with open amusement, smirking at Apollo’s increasingly creative cursing as he started to realize that the fire was beyond his control. The Muses couldn’t keep the children calm enough and the screaming continued, turning even more panicked as the fire spread.

Strife’s smirk widened as the situation rapidly spun out of control, fear, anger, terror all mixing together, becoming almost tangible to him. He reached out with his senses to touch it, feed from it - and it was like a wave broke over him, yanking him under.

^^^^^^^^^^^^

Strife woke to the sensation of intense heat surrounding him. Instantly alert to the possible threat, he opened his eyes and stretched out his senses at the same time.

Fire surrounded him, eating away at the temple furnishings while reducing the foundation stones to red-hot sludge. Already the ceiling was dripping molten rock and he could *feel* the instability of the structure around him. The fire hadn't reached him yet but if he'd remained unconscious any longer he would've woken to find himself a living bonfire, if the dripping sludge didn't get him first.

He was the only one left in the temple, although from what he could sense of the trace signatures left behind by the other gods and goddesses, he hadn't been unconscious long. They'd only left bare minutes before. Hopefully they were all still too disoriented and upset for those two goddesses to have told Apollo whatever they might suspect about him. He'd deal with that when it came up. First though, he had to survive this.

And suddenly Strife realized it wasn't going to be any problem at all. Whatever he'd tapped into there before it overwhelmed him and knocked him out, it'd been like some sort of wellspring of energy. The extreme negative emotions put out by so many deities in one place -- he'd planned to feed off of that, of course, but he hadn't planned on just how *much* there was of it, or how powerful it was. He was completely recharged and had more than enough energy to spare. There wasn't much he couldn't do at the moment, walk through the flames and molten rock for a dramatic exit, make it all give way before him and create a path, strike every deity in range with the urge to cause serious trouble for each other, or even grow up completely -- if he wanted to do any of it.

But that was impulse talking. He was riding some sort of high from the massive amount of energy he'd absorbed and it was making him...less than cautious. Strife quickly recognized that and reigned it in. He didn't want to draw any more attention to himself than necessary -- of course he'd be connected to this whole disaster eventually, but he wasn't going to be stupid enough to make his culpability obvious.

That in mind, he drew in his power signature as much as possible, clamping down on it deep inside to minimize his presence. Then he focused outside the temple. A good distance from the temple but still on what could be termed "temple grounds," he could feel the gathered presences of the other gods and goddesses, along with their still-chaotic emotions. He focused on a spot a little ways behind them, hopefully to avoid their notice, and transported himself there -- right as the floor on which he'd rested began to smoke.

His calculations were good; all of the others were too busy with the drama taking place to notice the extremely muted presence of a godling showing up behind them. Apollo's temple was little more than an impressively large pyre now. Flames licked up towards the evening sky, bathing the surroundings in golden light bright enough to be mistaken for day. And maybe there was some actual sunlight involved, released somehow as the fire destroyed its prison. Of course if Apollo really had been foolish enough to keep the entire sun in his temple, he was going to have one Tartarus of a time putting all the pieces back together before he was due to pull it across the sky the next morning.

That thought surprised a giggle out of Strife. He quickly bit off the high-pitched sound, surprised at himself. It was a...strange noise, annoying in it's tone and pitch. That would definitely be useful in time, but not now. Not when he seemed to be having a problem.

They were all far enough from the flames that the heat should've been minimal, certainly no one else seemed bothered by that aspect of it. Strife though, his skin burned. It had started off so minor he hadn't even noticed it, but now, naked as he was, he could easily see the growing redness of his skin. From the feel of it, his face was just as bad as everywhere else, including his palms and the soles of his feet. It *hurt*. Gritting his teeth, Strife said nothing. Blisters were starting to form on his arms and likely elsewhere as well, but he couldn't draw any attention to this or himself by making a sound, regardless of how painful this was. The flames inside the temple hadn’t touched him, but apparently the heat radiating from them had done the job anyway, probably helped along by the hot marble he'd been lying on. A slow burn that he might've stopped with very little power if he'd been aware of it earlier, but now it would cost him a fair amount of his resources to halt its advance and heal himself. Annoying, but necessary.

"Where is he, 'Pol?" The demanding, familiar voice cut through Strife's concentration before he could do anything. Standing behind the small crowd of gods and goddesses, he couldn't see the owner of that feminine voice, but he'd forever recognize any aspect of Aphrodite after how unexpectedly well she'd treated him. He'd even heard this tone from her before, whenever she'd discussed who his "mother" might be. She sounded angry and her next words confirmed that.

"I left a *baby* with you, Apollo. A helpless little newborn and you *never bothered to check* that someone got him out of there?"

"Chill out, 'Dite! He's gotta be around here somewhere 'cause we would of *known* if a god died." Apollo sounded almost frightened which confirmed a suspicion Strife had formed about Love gods being more dangerous than they looked.

"With *that* kind of attitude, you'd better damn well *hope* that little boy is in perfect health, or I'm gonna see to it that not even your own hand puts out. Got it?"

An interesting threat, and one that worked apparently because within seconds Strife could hear Apollo moving through the crowd, asking the others, curtly, if they'd seen Strife. Of course none of them had, except for the two young goddesses and Strife really didn't want Apollo talking to them yet.

'Sephy and Neme were on the edge of the crowd, clutching each other's hands and watching the fire with wide, frightened eyes. They hadn't heard the commotion yet -- probably still too stunned at their close brush with mortality -- but eventually they'd notice and volunteer information Strife didn't want out until he'd put some distance between himself and Apollo. So it was up to him to do something.

The nearest deity to him was a goddess, one of the Muses, he remembered. In the temple she'd been so perfectly coiffed and decked out in her white silk gown and understated jewelry. Her clothing was singed in places now and darkened from the same heat that was still burning Strife. Her black hair had come loose and sweat-dampened curls fell haphazardly along her back and shoulders. She looked exhausted, a look mirrored by the other Muses Strife could see. None of the children appeared to have suffered from the fire but every adult bore some sign of having gotten too close -- singed clothing, partially melted jewelry -- and they all looked ready to drop. Certainly their replies to Apollo's terse queries weren't at all polite, they snapped right back at him. Strife anticipated the same reaction from this Muse as he walked over to her and reached up to tug on the blackened sleeve of her gown.

He'd grown some, probably when he was unconscious and still absorbing energy, but he was still the smallest of the children in the group and he had to stand on his toes to reach the edge of the Muse's sleeve. The material gave in his hand with the first pull, sending him stumbling back a couple steps. That movement, more than the failed tug, seemed to draw her attention away from Apollo and the fire.

For a moment she just stared at him uncomprehendingly, then her eyes widened and her mouth formed a little O of surprise. "Over here!" She suddenly yelled out over the roar of the fire and the babbling gods and goddesses. "I think this is him, 'Pol!" She didn't grab hold of him but she did drop to one knee before him and reach out to smooth down his hair. "How did you ever get out?" she asked wonderingly.

Strife didn't know if children his size talked yet so he played it safe and kept his mouth shut. Apparently a smart move because she just gave him a comforting smile and continued to stroke his hair. She hadn't been looking for a response and if he'd given her one it might've shocked her, and made her question a few things. He wasn't fond of her touching him, and really his scalp was starting to burn as much as the rest of him, but at least she wasn't trying to touch him on his bare skin which would have been much more painful.

Apollo wasn't as thoughtful.

Strife managed not to yelp when hands closed roughly on his arms and lifted him into the air. The burning intensified where the hands grabbed him but Strife refused to make a sound. To draw attention to his injuries was to admit weakness, and he wouldn't show that to anyone, especially this god. At least the Muse hadn't commented on his state and hopefully he'd get a chance to heal himself before anyone paid too much attention.

Holding him out like he had some sort of catching disease, Apollo carried him through the crowd without even looking at him. The tanned god had a grim, angry look on his face and his attention was mostly on the fire consuming what was left of his temple. Strife had to fight back a satisfied smile. The waves of anger and impotent frustration pouring off the sun god were simply delicious. He couldn't help feeding -- only a little and subtly -- not when Apollo was directly touching him, it was too much of a temptation. Fortunately Apollo had too much of his attention elsewhere to notice, and they arrived at their destination too quickly for Strife to soak up anything that would have attracted notice.

"Here." Apollo shoved him into a pair of soft, familiar arms, then crossed his arms over his chest and focused completely on the rapidly melting ruins of his temple.

"*There* you are--you poor thing!" Aphrodite's cooing welcome quickly turned into a cry of horror. Well, Strife supposed it was too much to hope for that *she* wouldn't notice his burns. With her caring nature she'd locked onto the problem almost instantly. At least he thought he could trust her not to harm him further.

Trust. When had that come into play? Certainly he'd thought about it when he'd been with her earlier, but he hadn't made a decision, consciously anyway, as to whether or not she warranted that level of acceptance. Apparently something inside him had made that decision for him. And not without cause, he supposed. He'd already determined that it wasn't in her nature to maliciously harm him or use any perceived weakness against him. She wanted to change him, true, but she couldn't do that without his cooperation and he wouldn't be giving that, so there was no real danger there.

A tingling sensation spread over Strife's skin, distracting him. He remembered a similar feeling from earlier when Aphrodite had cleaned him, but this time it didn't stop at the surface, the sensation *sank* into his skin, moving beneath it and...soothing. The burning began to fade gradually, seemingly muted by whatever she was doing. Glancing away from the intent look on her face, Strife checked his arms and found that the blisters were starting to recede, the swelling reducing as the dark cherry-redness of his skin began to fade as well.

She was healing him. This wasn't her nature. Perhaps all gods could heal to some extent but it usually applied to themselves alone, to heal another god would take much more power. Strife understood that and he *never* would have thought another god would do this for him; he certainly wouldn't offer to do it for anyone else. But that type of selfishness wasn't in Aphrodite's nature, she gave love in any manner she could, even when it came to healing where none had been expected.

Strife stared up at her, studying her as she continued to pour energy into healing his burned skin. Her concentration was completely focused on the task but at one point her gaze flicked to his and locked there, blue eyes crinkling at the corners when she smiled. "You'll be okay soon, sweetie." And she turned her attention back to her task.

It didn't take long at all, no more than a minute or two, but it was an effort that would've left Strife exhausted if he'd had to do it on his own. Aphrodite simply gave a satisfied little huff -- blowing a stray blond curl out of her face -- and smiled at him again, not a trace of fatigue showing. And why, exactly was that? Was it due to her age, her gender, or something else? Strife would have to think that over, later.

"That's much better. And you're such a brave little boy, not even a tear out of you and you had to be in so much pain!" She practically crushed him to her chest then, hugging him tightly, but not so tightly that it hurt or made breathing difficult. It occurred to Strife that Aphrodite would have been a wonderful mother to him, if things had been different. But they weren't and that wasn't a path he wanted to travel down.

"I woulda taken care of that, 'Dite." Apollo sounded sulky and annoyed at the same time. Blinded by ruffles of pink chiffon, Strife couldn't see the sun god but he had no problems hearing him, or Aphrodite's scathing response.

"You *could've* taken care of him before you *shoved* him at me, bro. But you couldn't take your eyes off your precious *wreck* of a temple long enough to see that he needed help!"

Apollo didn't respond to that and really, what could he have said? If Strife was right in interpreting what he'd heard in Aphrodite and Apollo's last conversation as well as this one; Apollo was some type of healer as well as a sun god, and he hadn't healed Strife. Strife had to wonder if Apollo was capable of feeling guilt, not that Strife was offended, or emotionally effected in any way really, but if he could guilt-trip Apollo at some point over this, it would have some entertainment value.

Then Aphrodite was holding him out a bit, giving him a bit more freedom of movement, and he could see Apollo. The tanned -- and rather soot-covered -- god looked more angered at being chastised than guilty, so Strife dismissed his half-formed plans in that area. It seemed that along with being deeply selfish, this god hated anyone pointing out when he was wrong and now that he gave that some thought, Strife realized that had far more entertaining possibilities than a simple guilt trip.

"You're getting so much bigger, sweetie," Aphrodite said fondly, ruffling his hair with the tips of the fingers supporting his head.

"Yeah, what's with that, sis?" Apollo asked, his tone still mulish. "He was *standing* over by Erato and he's way bigger than when you dragged him in. Still skinny and ugly though."

"Ignore him," Aphrodite said with a warm smile down at Strife. "He's just upset because he's going to be impotent for the next few weeks."

"*'Dite*! You can't! I mean, the brat's okay and--and--*why*?"

"If you have to ask, you need the lesson. Now let's do something about you." Her eyes had never left Strife and now she focused her attention completely on him. Dropping down to the ground, a graceful move that ended with her kneeling, she gently set him down on his feet.

"Do you think you can stand for me, sweetie? You're big enough now for some clothes and I want to see what would look best on you."

Strife deliberately let himself plop down into an uncoordinated sitting position. He didn't want her to know he could understand yet so deception was necessary. That in mind he looked away from her, staring at everything in his surroundings with a wide-eyed, uncomprehending look. Best to let her think he was still too young to understand anything. Well, not so much her as the other gods and goddesses, some of whom were watching them.

"Oh, well, I can work with that too." Aphrodite just shrugged and began to study him thoughtfully, a little frown line appearing between her carefully shaped eyebrows. A few moments later she smiled again and waved her fingers.

A tingle of energy, a flash of gold sparkles and rose petals, and Strife felt...different.

"Oh, for Zeus' sake, sis!" Apollo groaned theatrically.

"He's *cute*," Aphrodite insisted, her tone saying that he'd better agree if he didn't want something bad, or worse, in his case, to happen.

"Yeah, fine, whatever."

Looking down at himself Strife was struck by the overwhelming *whiteness* of everything. Sandals, pants, vest, it was all white and while he was glad it wasn't pink, white wasn't much of an improvement. His head felt strange and it took him a second to pinpoint the difference. His hair had grown with him each time he increased his size and up until a few moments ago it had touched the back of his neck, covered his ears. Now he couldn't feel it in either place. Reaching up he touched the nearest lock -- curls? And what was that -- oh, a bow. She'd stuck a bow in his hair.

"What do you think, sweetie?" She was nearly beaming at him now.

Strife hesitantly reached down to poke at the pants he wore, wondering what they were made of. It *felt* comfortable, smooth and supple, maybe some sort of treated leather? But the color...Strife just couldn't help the way his nose wrinkled in distaste. This most definitely wasn't anything he felt comfortable wearing. It went against his nature.

"Least the brat's got some taste," Apollo muttered. Aphrodite glared at him and he didn't say anything else.

Maybe it wasn't the best time to show some of what he could do, but Strife simply couldn't stand being confined in something that *white* and he didn't doubt that her next attempt would be in the pink realm, or worse, gold. He had to show that it wasn't *him*. It only took a tiny flick of power. It wasn't like he was changing the nature of the material, just the chemical make-up of the dye, and it didn't even take a fraction of one second. The blinding whiteness was replaced by soothing black -- and he took care of his hair at the same time, flattening it back down the way it had been and letting the bow drop to the ground. At some point maybe he'd decide on a style for his hair but *he'd* make that decision.

Aphrodite stared at him for a moment, her eyebrows raising. "Oh," she finally said, and Strife wondered if he'd made a bad mistake.  But then her usual bright smile returned and she shrugged again. "Oh well, I guess I should've known. That, um, 'fashion sense' does seem to run in your side of the family, sweetie."

"Wait a sec, it's one of *them*?" The disgust in Apollo's tone spoke volumes. "You never said *anything* 'bout that when you made me take him, 'Dite. I *never* woulda let him in my temple if I'd known--" He stopped speaking abruptly and Strife realized he had miscalculated a bit. His little display, as minor as it was, had allowed Apollo to make a connection he wouldn't have made until much later if Strife hadn't done anything. But really, Strife just couldn't have worn all that white. It *grated*.

"Get that *thing* out of here." Apollo's voice was abruptly cold. "I don't wanna see it *anywhere* near me ever again!"

Aphrodite glared at her brother again but she picked Strife up all the same, standing up as she did so. "You're a real pain in the ass, bro."

"*That* torched my temple, 'Dite! No, I can't prove it, but I *know* so get it outta here!"

Rolling her eyes, she held Strife against her, one arm supporting his butt while she kept a hand in the middle of his back. She turned around, putting her back to Apollo and effectively cutting off anything he might've wanted to say to her face. It also gave Strife a good view of the sun god. One arm around Aphrodite’s neck, chin resting on her shoulder, he looked at the other god, seeing the absolute rage on Apollo's face, his clenched fists and the hatred in his blue eyes.

Strife smiled at him, smirked, rather. "Later, 'Pol," he mouthed the words, deliberately exaggerating them to make the motions readable. It succeeded.

Apollo's jaw dropped, a stunned expression momentarily taking over his features. But only momentarily. The fury was back in seconds, doubled in intensity, as was the pure hate there. Strife's smirk just widened. Before Apollo could react further, Strife felt the surge of power from Aphrodite that signaled imminent transport, then the world dissolved around him, leaving Apollo far behind.

^^^^^^^^^^^^

When the world recoalesced, Strife had to blink to get his eyes to focus. He'd gone from being surrounded with brightness to this, black everywhere he looked. For a moment he worried, thinking that he was back in Discord's temple, that Aphrodite would try to give him back to his "mother," but then he felt it, the presence that permeated everything around him. He hadn't felt this presence before, it was dark, volatile and yet authoritative, a strange and interesting combination.

"I know you're here, Fun-Buns, so quit ignoring me!" Aphrodite's shout startled Strife out of his concentration on the presence, and he suddenly noticed the surroundings themselves.

This temple was much bigger than Discord's, although it had the same hard-angle and black marble architecture. There was so much space and so many...weapons. Strife's gaze fixed on the wall behind Aphrodite where various pieces of armor hung. From Discord's memories he could put names to all of it, helmets, shields, breast plates; if that type of thing was displayed here, then could it be that there would be other, *sharper*, items displayed elsewhere? Now Strife wanted to be put down, he had a nearly uncontrollable urge to explore every inch of this temple, to see what other fun things might be hanging on the walls, or maybe even left sitting around.

He wiggled in Aphrodite's grip, trying to convey his desire to be let loose without speaking -- although the urge to explore was strong enough that he'd resort to words if he had to. After a few moments though she gave him a small pat on the back and knelt down, carefully setting him on his rear.

"I suppose you'll be okay if you crawl around here -- this *is* your House -- but be careful, okay, hun? I'll try to keep an eye on you, but once Leather-Boy *hauls his butt in here*," she yelled that, looking around the room with narrowed eyes before turning her attention back to Strife, "I may get kinda distracted. I guess you'll cry if you're hungry or if you're hurt -- and there's so *much* around here that can hurt you!" Her eyes widened in concern. "Oh, this is a totally bad idea, I'm just gonna hold you 'till we get stuff sorted out." She reached out for him but Strife quickly scooted backwards, the marble beneath him polished to a smoothness that made sliding easy. Once out of her immediate reach, he pushed himself to his feet, making it look awkward so she wouldn't suspect he'd been fooling her, much anyway.

"Oh, okay, if that's what you want, sweetie." She sounded a bit disappointed.

A sudden surge of power, so close to them and the flash of blue light accompanying it startled Strife, making him wince and cringe away from it. A god stood there, dressed in black leather, heavily muscled arms crossed over his chest as he glared down at them.

"What d'you want, 'Dite, I'm busy -- and what's with the kid?"

"He's why I'm here, Ar'," Aphrodite stood, brushing off her dress although from what Strife could tell the floor was spotless.

"He's yours?" the god frowned at Strife, then his eyes widened and he looked at Aphrodite in something akin to horror. "Now wait a minute! There's *no* way! I know we had that thing at Bacchus' last party, but I was careful and there's just *no way* he's mine!"

Aphrodite rolled her eyes. "Look, bro, I didn't give birth to him -- wish I had though, he's just so sweet -- so I can't tell you if you're the dad or not. I *still* can't figure out who the bitch is who bore him and left him all alone." She muttered that last but Strife could hear her.

"What're you talking about, 'Dite?"

"Oh, it was just so *horrible*, Ar'! There he was, on my doorstep, crying because he was *starving*!"

Strife turned his attention away from her back to his surroundings. He'd lived this story and didn't see the point in hearing it repeated; he wanted to check out this room. Neither Aphrodite or her brother seemed to notice when he walked away from them, Aphrodite was still telling the story, complete with exaggerate motions and overdramatisicm and her brother just stood there listening with a frown that was rapidly turning to an intimidating glower. Strife wasn't fool enough to tune them out entirely, just in case they should decide to focus on him, instead he kept a portion of his attention tuned into them while he looked around.

The only furniture in the room was an occasional wooden chair, a large table that was too tall for him to see over and a single black marble throne towards the back of the room, raised up on a dais. There was nothing ornate or decorative about anything in the room, it was all functional, even the armor on the walls looked like it could be taken down and put to use at any time. There were no statues or artwork as there had been in both Aphrodite and Apollo's temples, just different examples of armor and -- yes! -- weapons. There, on the wall in the back of the room, and the walls adjacent to it, hung so many varieties of weapons that it took Strife long moments to identify them all. He quickly skipped over the bows, spears and swords and focused on the daggers and knives. There were certainly plenty of those, some plain and some sporting curves and barbs, and he just couldn't decide what was his favorite.

Approaching the wall where they were displayed, he tried standing on his toes, bracing himself against the wall, trying to grasp one of the nearest daggers, but it was well out of his reach. Glancing around, he saw that the nearest chair was towards the front of the temple and he'd attract plenty of notice by going over there and dragging it back to use as a ladder. It was time to make a decision.

This place *felt* welcoming to him, or at least as much as he thought he could ever expect. It felt *right*. He was comfortable enough with the atmosphere and if the wall displays were anything to go by, the god who owned this temple would have a great deal in common with him. And there was so much to learn, he'd grasped the possibilities from Discord's mind, but not the applications and he needed someone to teach him, so why not this god?

Strife looked over at where Aphrodite was still talking, focusing on her brother. The god looked intimidating, felt powerful, but not dangerous to Strife personally and that was what counted. Strife needed a teacher but he'd have to prove that he was worth instructing before he was sent off to someone else to be "babysat" again, so that meant dropping the charade. He really didn't want any attention when he did this, so still keeping an eye on Aphrodite and her brother, he slowly relaxed his tight grip on his power stores, harnessing and redirecting the power where he wanted it, into his physical growth, and, as an afterthought to comfort, the clothes he wore.

He didn't really want to be fully grown at this point, being perceived as a child was just too full of opportunities to cause trouble, plus growing up fully would sap too much at his power reserves, so he stopped his growth when he was just tall enough to reach up and grab one of the daggers. He'd seen children the size he was now in Apollo's temple, although he couldn't have said how old he looked, he knew he'd be expect to walk and talk at his size which was good enough.

The dagger was only resting on hooks in the wall and came away easily in his grasp. It was plain, an unadorned wooden hilt with a thin, flawless, double-edged blade, almost more of a dirk. It was light in his grip, maybe too light for throwing? He couldn't be certain, there was just too much he didn't know. But he did know that he liked this weapon. Maybe if he asked he'd be allowed to keep it, or, if not, maybe he'd be given a replacement one.

He tuned fully back into the conversation still going on, looking for an opening.

"You're sure about that, 'Dite?" the voice was almost a growl.

"Oh, totally, bro. I mean, I can't say for *sure* that his father wasn't around when he was born, but I kinda doubt it. I mean, it's hard for two to keep a secret like that. His mom had him and abandoned him, probably alone, and I just *know* she's outta this House. Cupid'll let me know if he finds out anything; I'll tell him to fill you in too."

"I'll find the bitch, count on it. No one in this House ignores the responsibilities of having a child."

"I knew I could count on you, Ar'. You were always such a good father to Cupid." Aphrodite leaned forward and kissed her brother on the nose. He jerked away and scowled at her, but Strife didn't get the impression that he was all that upset either. "I'm gonna go check with him now," she continued, smiling at her brother, "maybe he's figured something out, I mean, even in your house the threat of eternal celibacy carries some weight." She giggled at that. "So where'd the little cutie get off to? I wanna say goodbye to him before I -- eep!"

The instant Aphrodite caught sight of him, her hands flew up to her mouth to stifle the little shriek of surprise she let out. Strife just raised an eyebrow in her direction, amused by the reaction. Her brother was staring at him now, equally surprised but only showing it through a slight widening of his eyes.

"Discord," Strife said calmly, still fingering the blade of the dagger he held.

"Wh--W--um, what was that, honey?" Aphrodite finally managed after clearing her throat a couple times.

"My 'mother,'" Strife sneered the word. "Discord."

"Oh, well *that* explains it." She sighed and shook her head.

"I think I'll be having a little talk with my 'dear' sister," her brother said with a growl.

Discord was his sister? That made this god Strife's uncle. Interesting, but something he'd have to explore later, first he had to head this off. "Don't," he said, walking towards them. When his uncle raised an eyebrow, obviously wanting an explanation, Strife continued, "She tried to off me, then said she was gonna drop-kick me off Olympus; if anyone gets to mess with her, it's gonna be me, 'k? 'Sides, I don't wanna let her know I'm still 'round here, making connections, know what I mean?" He stopped in front of them.

"Not really; who taught you to speak?" his uncle was frowning at him.

Strife motioned towards Aphrodite. "And 'Pol, guess I picked up some from the brats wandering 'round his place -- before it turned into bonfire city anyway." He smirked.

"Figures. How much do you know, about the world, about the gods?"

He shrugged. "Just what I picked up the last couple weeks from Discord, her mind -- kinda hostile territory there, you know, so it's bits 'n' pieces. Need someone to fill in the blanks; up for the job? Maybe show me all the fun ways to use this?" He held up the dagger.

For a moment the god said nothing, just staring down at him. When he did speak it wasn't quite what Strife had been expecting, but it wasn't bad news either.

"I'll be teaching you strategy, how to deal with warlords, generals and troops and anything else directly related to war. There're other gods in this House who'll teach you whatever else you need to know -- you'll wanna see Phonos or Bia about that violent streak -- but you'll answer to me, Ares, God of War."

"Cool," Strife grinned at him, "Unc," he added.

He could see Ares grit his teeth but to his credit the God of War didn't rise to the bait.

"You aren't a kid at all, are you, hon?"

Strife abruptly turned his attention to Aphrodite and found the goddess watching him with something akin to sorrow.

"If I'd known, I wouldn't have left you with all those children, it must've been so totally miserable for you!"

"Made my own entertainment," Strife admitted with a slight shrug. She didn't seem to see the humor in that, didn't lose that look of sadness at all and Strife didn't care for that. He owed her big time, she'd quite possibly saved his life by taking him in, feeding him and by finally bringing him here, somewhere he might actually belong. He owed her and he wouldn't see her sad. He held out a hand towards her and she didn't hesitate, gripping his hand in both of hers. "I'm good," he said seriously, squeezing one of her hands.

"Oh, sweetie!" She pulled him into a near-suffocating hug, one he endured patiently, not bothering to attempt to breathe until she finally let him go. "It's just that I was so looking forward to raising another baby. I love babies and you were such an adorable little thing!"

She didn't think he was "adorable" now? He wondered abstractly what had changed and if he should try to correct something, would it give him an advantage somehow?

"But you're still a cute little boy -- or whatever." She kissed him on the top of his head, her tone completely free of any sarcasm. "Come and see me if you've ever got *any* problems or if you just need to talk, hon, 'k?"

He nodded because she seemed to expect it, but he really didn't see any reason for them to cross paths very often from now on.

"And 'Ar?" She stood up straight and looked at her brother. "I want another baby."

"*'Dite*!" Ares didn't get a chance to finish his protest, Aphrodite cutting him off with a sharp wave of her hand before planting her closed fists on her hips.

"We totally make cute babies, bro, and I want another one, *now*. Once you've gotten this little guy settled in, I want your gorgeous ass planted naked in my bed, got it?"

"Fine," Ares replied through clenched teeth.

"Good." Instantly Aphrodite's serious manner disappeared and she smiled brightly down at Strife. "I'll see you later, sweetie. Have fun here!" And she vanished in a flash of pink and gold.

"Great," Ares snarled, "see what you've gotten me into?"

Strife just looked up at him, completely unconcerned with Ares' problems. "What d'I do now?" he asked calmly.

Ares shook his head in exasperation. "You're gonna be a real pain in my ass, I can already tell," he muttered, then held out his hand, palm up. "Gimme that."

Not bothering to pretend ignorance, Strife handed over the dagger, albeit reluctantly. "When can I have one of my own?"

"When you know how to use it," Ares slid it under his belt, "and when I'm reasonably certain you won't stick it in my back the second I'm not looking. Now I'm gonna introduce you to a few of the gods you'll be working with, learning from for now -- what do you do anyway?"

Strife smirked. "I'm the God of Mischief."

Ares rolled his eyes. "Oh, just wonderful. I have enough trouble in my House without its personification taking up residence. C'mere." He grabbed the back of Strife's vest, not violently, but firmly. "Let's go have a chat with Maniae, I'm starting to think you two might have something in common."

"My name's Strife," he supplied, just to see the effect.

"It would be," Ares said with an annoyed growl.

Strife's smirk widened just as they disappeared.

^^^^^^^^^^^^

Propping himself up on one elbow, Strife touched his lip with his free hand; his fingers came back damp with blood.

"Huh." His eyebrows rose slightly in surprise. He flicked his tongue over the wound, tasting his own blood, learning it, letting himself feel the pain that began to radiate from the cut. It wasn't at all comfortable, but it was interesting, extremely so.

"You're getting better at falling," Phonos said in a bored tone from across the room, "next time though try to keep your face out of the way of my fist."

Strife nodded, still licking at the wound. It hurt when he touched it but he found that he kind of liked the taste of blood, his own anyway, and the pain was sort of...nice, in a way. He'd have to explore that later when Phonos was done with him for the day. He quickly jumped to his feet and walked back towards Phonos, stopping to pick up his dropped shield on the way.

He wasn't sure how long it'd been since he'd started lessons with the gods in his House, months, possibly. If Phonos wasn't teaching him how to use weapons, Bia was showing him how to kill and maim -- well, whenever Bia was having a "good day" and it was safe to let him out of that little room in which he was normally locked. He'd only seen Ares a few times and usually only to receive a quick, concise lecture on various troop movements and strategy -- that was so boring Strife had to fight not to fall asleep, although it wasn't as bad as the one time Clio had come to lecture him on the history of battle.

Clio had been in Apollo's temple when Strife had immolated it and when Strife first walked into the room where she waited for him, he felt her apprehension. She didn't given any outward signs of it though and instructed him to sit and read every scroll she'd brought with her. Strife wanted to learn, knowledge was the way to power and he understood that, but sometime it was just so *boring* and this time was one of those. He read through the scrolls -- it took a few days but he wanted to get it over with so he just pressed on until it was done -- but that wasn't all that she required of him. Once he finished, she started to lecture him on the meaning of each of the battles and conflicts he'd just read about, how they'd affected Greece as a whole. After five days of mind-numbing reading, Strife had pretty much reached his limit of boredom and wasn't been in the mood for a dry lecture, so he really didn't think he could be blamed for becoming distracted.

Like all the Muses, Clio was quite beautiful. Skin like porcelain, eyes the color of the sea, hair like gold, and Strife just knew that skin like that would be a perfect canvas for all those carving skills Bia was teaching him. The eyes, well, they were nice and maybe he'd set them aside to look at later, along with the hair. It looked soft and he wouldn't mind running his fingers through it a bit, of course he'd want to touch it all so he decided to take her scalp off with it, the bone too so he could get a look at her brain, maybe see if poking around a bit in there would make her less boring the next time she opened her mouth.

Strife didn't realize that he'd stood and was walking towards her until he *felt* her abrupt fear. He'd learned to like that emotion for the energy it could give him so he'd latched onto it and fed. When he took hold of her wrists, his touch was almost gentle so he wouldn't bruise that lovely skin, he didn't want blotches to discolor the carving he would put there later. She screamed at his touch and that made him smile. He was so much smaller than her and yet he could taste the fear pouring off of her.

"Shh," he said quietly, "or maybe I'll haf'ta cut out that tongue when I take your eyes."

She disappeared in a flash of white, leaving Strife blinking from the brightness and disappointed that his entertainment was gone. But at least the lecture was over.

He really hadn't counted on Ares' reaction to that. His uncle had called him to the main hall of the temple and had yelled at him about "needing to keep up good relations with the muses." Whatever. Maybe the God of War had to do that, but Strife saw no reason to deprive himself of entertainment possibilities.

"What you did with Apollo was bad enough," Ares kept harping on about it, "*completely* sloppy work; I have enough trouble with 'golden-boy' without *you* making it worse by terrorizing his Muses!"

Tired of the lecture, Strife just shrugged. "So? Not like he doesn't have a ton of them over there. What's so bad 'bout me playing with one of them?"

In what was to be the start of a lifelong trend, Ares backhanded him then, sending him flying back to crash into a wall. The movement, the violence of it had both surprised and to some extent, excited Strife. He knew Ares was a volatile god, as the God of War, stability of temperament just wasn't in his nature, but up until that moment his temper had never been turned on Strife. To see it so abruptly manifested towards him made Strife wary of his uncle, but at the same time it also made him want to provoke Ares more. The pain of the blow and the impact was intriguing; he wasn't seriously injured and it wouldn't cost him much power to heal himself, but he had the distinct impression that he'd be doing a lot of that healing in the years to come. What Strife found most interesting though was the annoyance he felt from his uncle and the ever-present anger simmering beneath it. He'd made Ares lash out at him, caused him to use physical violence; he could make the God of War lose control. The implications gave him a pleasant shiver.

He'd been on his feet again almost immediately, savoring the pain and what it meant just a bit longer before healing himself. He hadn't let on what he'd been thinking although the temptation to giggle with excitement was nearly overwhelming; still, he'd restrained himself and let Ares finish yelling at him. There would be times in the years to come, he didn't doubt, when it would be beneficial to him to provoke the God of War's temper; he'd have to practice, see how many different ways he could do it, but the possibilities, the uses for that ability made the effort worth it.

He still received lessons from Clio although now they came by way of detailed scrolls, which he was instructed to reply to. He never did and he'd quit reading the scrolls after the first one proved just as boring as her verbal lecture. They made a good fire though.

No one said anything to him about his lack of attention to battle history so he simply put the subject out of his mind and instead concentrated on learning everything he could from his more violence-prone relatives. That wasn't as easy as he'd hoped; learning to cause harm took more work than he'd thought, but he was learning and none of his teachers had any complaints with him. He never sensed any fear from them either, maybe a touch of amusement here and there and some scorn from Ares, but it didn't matter to Strife. If he'd ever, for even the slightest moment, picked up on any fear, he would've gone after them, used everything he had to see if he could break them apart, just for the experience, but he never felt anything of the sort from them so he contented himself with simply learning what they had to teach him.

Despite enjoying the pure violence he learned with Bia and Phonos, Strife found that he preferred spending time with other relatives whose godhoods more closely aligned with his. Apatis, Goddess of Deceit was entertaining enough. Nearly as pretty as Aphrodite, her fair exterior was a lie in itself, a mask hiding the vicious, calculating goddess underneath. She showed him how "white lies" and lies of omission accomplished as much, if not more than large, complex, direct lies, and how lies could weave themselves into a trap for the liar. He wasn't so certain that that art of lies would be of much use to him but he enjoyed watching her work. Strife wasn't allowed down in the mortal realm on his own yet, but occasionally one of his teachers would take him there to demonstrate a lesson, Apatis took him often and perhaps that was a major reason he kept company with her often.

She made kings and commoners alike dance to her suggestions, whispering to them how much easier life would be if they just withheld the truth here, twisted it there, or simply told a complete falsehood. As Strife watched, friends turned on each other, families were broken apart, political negotiations failed and mortals died, all due to the words that fell from her lips into receptive ears. Soon Strife was willing to admit that perhaps he could find a use for her methods, certainly they caused enough chaos.

It was Ate, however, with whom Strife preferred to spend his time, when given a choice. Goddess of Delusion whose presence brought forth ruinous conduct from mortals, among all his teachers, her talents were the most closely aligned with his. She taught him the art of bringing out the worst in people and he was eager for every lesson. God or mortal, it was no matter, she showed him what he'd always suspected, that if you learned what someone was most sensitive to, you could use that to manipulate them. Just as importantly, she taught him that everyone regardless of stature had an inner streak of self-destructiveness. The depth of it varied from person to person but it was always there and he watched as time and again she brought it out in an unsuspecting mortal. Paragons of sobriety turned into alcoholics within weeks, men lost everything, even selling their own children as her touch led them down the road of compulsive gambling, virgins became whores and the meekest of men became a vicious murderer. Ate's talent was a thing of beauty to watch in action.

Mischief, in its application, would likely incorporate much of what Ate showed him so Strife eagerly watched her every move. Much of what she did lay in her godhood itself, she couldn't help but bring ruin upon mortals just by the merest touch, but sometimes when she wished the ruin to take a deliberate path, she had to employ different methods. Temptation was a difficult thing for mortals to resist, Strife learned, and if presented in just the right way, even the strongest mortal could succumb to it. At the same time though many mortals resisted and that fascinated him. What was it that made a mortal's will so weak and yet so strong at the same time, sometimes within the same mortal? How was it that they could endure the harshest of circumstances only to succumb to the smallest of temptations? It was a question he began to ask of all his teachers but none had an answer for him. Finally Ares gave him one just to shut him up.

"Look, I don't know, *none* of us know, okay? If you figure it out, fine, you can take over being king of the gods from Zeus 'cause *he* sure never figured it out. Now can we get back to the Peloponnesian War, or would that be too much of an inconvenience for you?" Ares' tone promised a painful response if Strife did anything other than agree with him.

Strife simply nodded, not out of any sense of fear -- he respected his uncle but he had no fear of him -- but because he'd already provoked the God of War twice that day and doing so too often would lead Ares to either think him stupid or realize exactly what game Strife was playing, and Strife didn't want that. If Ares thought he was in any way unintelligent, he wouldn't trust Strife with anything important and Strife was counting on having a position of responsibility in the House of War sometime in the future. Of course he didn't think his uncle had the first clue just exactly how clever he really was, but Ares didn't need to either; Ate probably suspected, as did Aphrodite and if he ever saw past his own anger, Apollo, but those outside his House didn't concern Strife at the moment -- he'd deal with it if it became problematic -- and Ate had no dealings in Olympian politics, so he was safe there.

As much as Strife would've liked to confine his dealings solely to the gods within his House, he soon learned how impossible that was as he was introduced to "family life" on Olympus. At first it was only watching in the shadows as various gods and goddesses visited Ares, or in rarer cases, others in War, but the time came when Strife had to deal with outside gods himself. His early introduction to other Olympians in his first hours of life had given him a somewhat confusing picture of the others and he hadn't had much of a chance, or desire, to correct that, a fact that became apparent when he observed an unknown god talking with Phonos. When the god disappeared, Strife made his presence known; he was supposed to see Phonos for a lesson anyway so he wasn't exactly trespassing in the other god's rooms.

"Who was that?" he asked bluntly. He'd learned that it was best to ask straight questions of the gods in his House, playing word games upset them and sent many of them into a homicidal rage that while fun to observe became tedious when he actually wanted an answer.

Phonos frowned at him. "You don't know? That was Hermes. Who's been teaching you about our family?'

"Someone was supposed to?" That was news to Strife.

"Usually your mother, but I guess that doesn't apply in your case."

That made Strife smirk. He had yet to see Discord and he doubted he would for some time. From what he'd overheard as he practiced hiding himself in various places within the temples of the other War gods, Ares had sent Discord into the mortal world to do a number of jobs for him and she wasn't to come back until she'd succeeded, something that could possibly take years. Strife didn't know if Discord was aware of his continued existence and for the moment he didn't trouble himself with it. That was a matter whose time would come eventually.

"I know some names," Strife offered with a shrug. He'd picked up that much from Discord's mind and the conversation around him since; he didn't know many faces though.

"That's not good enough. You're in this House so you need to know as much as possible about what goes on in Olympus. I'll say something to Ares."

The regular lesson commenced then and Strife knew that Phonos had no interest in teaching that particular subject; apparently "family tree hour" fell to the God of War when there was no one else to handle the instruction.

When Ares called for him though, Strife realized right off that this wasn't something that his uncle had much interest in teaching either. Ares tossed him a scroll listing every member of their family from the start -- Chaos and its offspring -- down to the latest demigod born by the least of the gods -- some water nymph in a moldy pool somewhere -- and included all of their histories. The scroll itself was a deceptively small-looking thing but the instant Strife caught it he was almost driven to his knees by the weight. The appearance of the thing was a lie, he realized, he also realized that such a thing could only have come from the Muses as they kept the gods' records, and quite possibly they'd known that this scroll was meant for him. It would've been a good time to play even this minor of a trick on him, possibly thinking that he'd be offended and they'd have some measure of revenge. It made Strife smile; he decided he'd have to try this one on someone himself.

"Memorize that," Ares ordered, "and when you're done, go...I don't know, talk to some of them, hang out in their temples, whatever gets you familiar with them, just don't bother me with it."

Strife nodded and obeyed, to an extent. He carted the scroll back to the tiny room he'd been given, intent on holing up there until he'd learned everything he could. Upon kicking open the door, he wasn't surprised to find Maniae occupying the only chair in the room. He dumped the scroll on the bed -- ignoring the way the small frame creaked in protest -- and flopped down on his stomach, stretching out across the mattress.

"Gotta study this crap today, sorry," he said before starting to unroll the scroll. Maniae said nothing but didn't move either.

Ares had left him with Maniae on the day Strife had first come to War. It'd only been for a few hours but it'd been enough to convince Strife that while there was nothing the quiet goddess could teach him, there *was* something about her, maybe something about her godhood itself that made him far more tolerant, even accepting of her presence than he was of any other god. She'd done nothing in at first but stare at him, watching him expressionlessly as he looked around her room, moving only her head to follow his progress. Silence was comfortable for him so he'd maintained it, even when he'd found her sister.

While both Maniae and Lyssa were the Goddesses of Madness, Lyssa's domain was raging madness and as a consequence she was chained, naked to the wall of the soundproofed room adjoining her sister's. Where Maniae stayed mostly silent, Lyssa never shut up, she sang, talked, screamed and laughed whenever the mood took her and her moods changed constantly. Strife had been utterly fascinated by the goddess and had spent a good hour just sitting there watching her, listening intently to whatever passed her lips -- perhaps it was pure madness but sometimes it had seemed to make sense to him.

Quite suddenly Lyssa had fallen asleep, she'd just closed her eyes and was immediately sleeping. At that moment a touch on his shoulder had drawn Strife's attention to Maniae who had come to stand beside him. He'd taken her offered hand and she'd led him back to her room, shutting the door behind them. The remaining time had been spent with them sitting on the floor, opposite each other, just watching. Strife still wasn't certain what she saw when she looked at him like that but when time permitted he liked to watch her too, almost as much as he liked sitting with her sister. If he started that though someone would have to draw his attention away because he lost track of time and he couldn't do that right now.

He focused his attention on the scroll and unlike old battles and strategies, Strife could foresee a use for this kind of information so although it was horribly dry and so boring his eyes crossed at times, he forced himself to read and learn every word, every bit of family history revealed on the scroll -- which stretched out for yards -- until it was all clear in his mind. When he finally looked up from the scroll, Maniae was gone. He never saw her enter or leave anywhere; sometimes it seemed as though she just drifted into existence in a room. She visited his room often enough though so he had no doubts that he'd see her again. At that moment he was more concerned with putting his recently acquired knowledge to use.

Ares had been right, Strife did need to put faces with names, learn what the rest of his family was like outside of dry historical stories, but Strife had no intention of meeting any of them face to face. He was more interested in learning about the other gods when they didn't know he was there, that way they'd let more slip, reveal far more than if they were aware of his presence. Besides, he needed the practice in spying on people.

Spending time in unsuspecting relatives' temples, hiding himself in the most innocuous places, Strife developed a habit that he would never leave behind. Just by being who he was, he knew that no one, god or mortal would be likely to confide in him or want to get close to him at all, and that was fine with him, staying hidden in another god's temple gave him access to many of their private moments, their thoughts if they were foolish enough to voice them aloud, and often their plotting against each other. And he didn't confine his spying to simple listening, he spent a good amount of time going through personal items, taking care to always place things back the way he'd found them. Everything he learned he had to commit to memory and it was a great deal of information since he didn't differentiate in his targets; he was just as likely to sneak into Ares' personal rooms as he was Athena's or even Hera's, it was all an exercise to him, one that actually got results.

At first he wasn't sure what he was going to do with all the information he gathered; there was so much of it from gossip to murder plots and it was a bit overwhelming. Still, it was better to have a great deal of information than none at all and he found that he truly enjoyed prying into others' lives. There wasn't much that he felt strongly enough about to either like or dislike, so this was important to him and he continued with it.

Eventually applications began to present themselves, ideas for using what he knew to cause problems. It started simply with interrupting lovers' trysts -- not personally, of course, he didn't want to be as sloppy as he'd been with Apollo and have things traced back to him, but it was easy enough to have a note simply "appear" in the temple of some god or goddess' spouse, letting them know that their wife or husband was out meeting a lover. That one provided him with both entertainment and energy to feed off of until he had to stop. After tipping off Hera to one of Zeus' latest flings, that trick became too dangerous. Strife wasn't frightened of what would happen to him if he were caught, he just knew that it would curtail his activities and he didn't want that, not when he was starting to develop even better plans.

Strife was cautious when it came to other gods' belongings; you never knew what kind of trap had been set or what sort of power trace had been deliberately left on something so it could be tracked, but there were occasions when stealing something became both entertaining and useful. He'd surmised, and been right, that if he never actually touched the item he stole, any traps placed on it remained unsprung. It was easy to "steal" something by simply transporting it from one gods' temple to another's, then sit back and wait for the first god to accuse the second of theft. It didn't always work but more often than not he was able to build his energy stores from the negative emotions generated by a successful plan. That wasn't something he dared too often though less he get caught in the act.

There were other things, spiking the wine at any family function was always good for a laugh. He wasn't allowed at any of those gatherings yet but that meant nothing to him, not when there was an opportunity for mischief available. Putting some sort of aphrodisiac in the wine was nothing new and most of the gods tested their goblets for that before drinking; it was an old trick and therefore beneath Strife, instead he tried a few new things. He didn't know how to make potions and had no interest in learning, not when he could grab one or two from someone like Asclepius who was too disorganized to ever notice if say, a vial of expectorant or emetic went missing or a bit of the powdered laxative disappeared. Of course things like that grew tiresome for their immaturity and the fact that after the second time, Ares came right back to the temple, grabbed him and shoved him up against the wall.

"If I *ever* spend another of Zeus' meetings getting sick in *any* way, I don't care if I can't prove you did it, you're gonna pay for it." And he'd proceeded to list what would happen to Strife in graphic detail. It was creative enough that Strife was impressed -- and taking mental notes -- by the time Ares finally let him go. His response had been simple.

"Don't drink the wine. Or eat the food," he added as an afterthought, realizing that there lay another opportunity for fun. That flip comment had earned him a hard right hook across his jaw which left him with loose teeth and bleeding gums, but it was easy to heal and he'd disappeared before Ares could hit him again, giggling at the way he'd made his uncle lose control.

After that he began experimenting more, mixing stolen potions and testing their effect on other gods, individually instead of as a group to avoid suspicion being directed his way. Not knowing the ingredients in any of the potions he mixed, Strife had no way of predicting the results, but that was half of the fun. Sometimes there was simply no result at all, or maybe it just turned pretty colors or stunk or in the rare, amusing instance, exploded, but more often than not it all combined to form something he could work with.

It was difficult to steal from someone like Aphrodite, not just because she was extremely organized and noticed instantly when something was missing, but because Strife found that it bothered him. She'd been nice to him and he didn't want to make her upset. However, after giving it a bit of thought he reasoned that she could always make more of her potions and he really wasn't doing her any harm. He had no such problem with Asclepius, Apollo, or any other god that dabbled in potion making to make their jobs easier; if Strife bothered to give them any thought at all it was usually along the lines of wishing that they'd label their potions a bit better so he didn't have to waste time identifying them himself.

Through trial and error he found that many of Aphrodite's potions could be combined to produce the opposite effect of what was intended and before long he had a small store of what he thought of as "negative vibe" potions such as spite, envy, hate, disgust and a few others. Mixing her potions with those he'd taken from Asclepius usually gave some highly entertaining effects, such as causing someone to throw up on whomever they fell in love with or making a person bleed from their pores every time they felt the slightest hint of lust. Strife found other combinations that worked just as well, ending up with potions that removed inhibitions, ones that brought out the violent side of a person's nature, some simple hallucinogenics, and his favorite, a potion that only required one drop to force anyone, god or mortal, to speak the truth. He'd only tested that particular one once, on Apollo as he had tea with the Muses. Apparently every one of the Muses were still refusing to speak to him and that had been months ago.

By now Strife had a good collection of his own potions going which he kept hidden in the back wall of his room. It wasn't the best or most original hiding place but it had a good trap on it. If anyone discovered the potions and was foolish enough to try and remove them by *any* means, they'd learn what it felt like to have their consciousness torn apart and split between two different dimensions. Part of their mind would still exist here but the other part would be permanently fixed to a place that made Tartarus look bright and cheery, a virtual guarantee of madness.

The problem was no longer a lack of plans for Strife, he had plenty of those and so many lovely new potions to test out, the trouble for him existed now in the lack of venue. Things were getting tense for him on Olympus; it couldn't be proven but almost everyone knew he was responsible for the recent wave of pranks and problems and they were all far more wary now. He knew that he'd be pushing his luck to attempt anything more; like Ares had threatened, sometimes blame didn't need to be officially placed for reprisals to occur and Strife had no doubt that some of the gods could make his life difficult.

It left him at loose ends, so many ideas and no way to implement them and Strife was growing dangerously bored. Lessons with the gods of his House had grown fewer as time passed and he learned what they could teach; he had far more time on his hands than he had before and he didn't care for it. He needed to be *doing* things; it wasn't in his nature to just sit around.

That restlessness led him to spend more time in other gods' temples, watching them and sometimes not even bothering to conceal his presence; their reaction to abruptly finding him there was worth it for the sudden energy boost he received from their shock, hatred and at times, fear. It was good as short-term entertainment anyway. It wasn't satisfying though and more often than not the god or goddess would overcome their revulsion of him to throw him out, usually by trying to hit him with their power but sometimes physically. Apollo was like that.

"How dare you come in here!" Apollo was absolutely furious to find Strife wandering about his new temple. "You think I don't know *you* were responsible for that thing with my girls?"

"Just checking out the decor, 'Pol," Strife said casually as he continued to look around. There wasn't much to see really, Apollo had built an exact replica of the old temple although there were a few improvements. "Better shielding," Strife noted, rapping a knuckle on one of the stones in the wall. "Can't catch on fire now, huh? So, how are the Muses, anyway?" He smirked in Apollo's direction.

That reference was enough to turn Apollo's anger and hatred of him to cold fury, and he could move fast. Strife didn't have a chance to dodge before Apollo was across the room, grabbing him by his neck and arm. Keeping the form of a child did have its disadvantages, proven by the way Apollo easily manhandled him, dragging him from the temple despite the way Strife dug in his heels. Strife could have easily disappeared, flashing himself to some other part of Olympus, but he sensed further opportunity here for annoying Apollo, so he put up with Apollo's bruising grip for the moment. He'd get even later.

"If you *ever* come near me or my temple again, I swear you're gonna pay like you wouldn't *believe*." With that, Apollo threw him down the front steps.

Strife had been a good student with Phonos though and he rolled with the motion and came up on his feet. He shook himself to get rid of the lingering ache from the bumpy ride and smirked up at Apollo. "So whatchya gonna do, 'Pol, maybe gimme a major case of sunburn? Blind me with those shiny clothes of yours? C'mon, tell me; I gotta know!" He cracked his neck, his smirk widening.

Apollo's eyes narrowed and he snarled wordlessly. He raised his hand and a golden ball of fire quickly formed there; he hurtled it in Strife's direction. With a high-pitched giggle, Strife vanished a moment before it would've hit him --

-- and appeared at the side of the temple. Apollo couldn't see him there but Strife could still feel the rage pouring off of him. Strife wanted to wait until Apollo went back inside, and then he'd find something...creative to do with Golden Boy's precious new temple.

"That was like, totally rude, 'Pol."

Strife's plans were immediately put on hold. That voice.... He hadn't heard it since the day of his birth but he hadn't forgotten it either, not when its owner had directed so much warmth towards him.

"Screw you, Cupid," was Apollo's witty reply.

"Hey! Check the attitude problem, 'k? I'm just saying that you could be nicer."

"*Nicer*? To that--that life-sized cockroach? You're just as stupid as you look! That *thing* torched my temple and he got my girls so pissed off at me they won't even look at me!"

"No, you did that yourself." Cupid's voice had lost any hint of friendliness. "All he did was let the Muses see what you're *really* like under that pretty face; personally, I think he did them a favor. And if you're getting any ideas about trying for revenge--"

"What, *you're* gonna stop me? All that muscle's for show, Cupid; you can't fight and I know it." Apollo snorted in disdain.

"No, I'm not gonna stop you; Strife can take care of himself. I just wanna be there when you try something with him, I wanna see what he does to you."

Apollo said nothing to that and Strife felt something strange, an expression he wasn't familiar with was slowly stretching across his face, a...smile. A true smile.

Cupid sighed. "Listen, 'Pol, you're getting your gold foil panties in a bunch over nothing. He's the God of Mischief; this is what he *does*, it's who he is; deal with it 'cause it's not going away and there's nothing anyone can do about it."

"So why're you defending him, *Cupie*?" The nickname was sneered. "Oh, wait, could it be 'cause you've never *had* to deal with his idea of 'fun?'"

"I was at those meetings too, remember, or is the sun bleaching your brain as well as that mop you're calling hair? I was just as sick as everyone else; difference is, I'm not blaming him for doing what comes naturally to him."

"So, what, he's 'naturally' a jerk?"

Again Cupid sighed although this time it was a sound of annoyance. "Maybe he is, butchya know what, 'Pol? Unlike you, he *does* have the excuse that it's in his godhood."

The 'popping' sound of displaced air, along with Apollo's muttered cursing signaled that Cupid had disappeared.

Strife heard Apollo go back into the temple but he didn't move. For an indeterminate amount of time he just stood there, a little stunned and still smiling. Cupid *had* defended him; they'd only met once but still Cupid seemed to understand more about him than most of the other gods outside of War. Strife couldn't tell but it sounded as though there were a slight chance that Cupid would not only tolerate him, as those in War did, but like him as well. He had no friends and quite frankly he'd never wanted any, never felt their lack, but the idea that he could possibly have one...it was unique enough to be intriguing. Only Aphrodite had ever defended him before but never as vehemently as that; on the whole, Strife just didn't know what to make of it.

During his exploration of other gods and their temples, Cupid was the one god Strife had never observed, or even seen at all for that matter. Apparently Cupid spent the majority of his time down in the mortal realm and rarely made it back home for visits. That was twice now that chance had brought them to the same vicinity and Strife wondered at the coincidence. Their godhoods were nothing alike and yet Cupid appeared to accept him; Strife wanted to meet him, see just what made him so insightful. Not right now though; first he wanted to talk to Aphrodite, see what he could learn about Cupid from his mother, then Strife thought he'd do a bit of his usual spying on the God of Love.

"Strife!"

Ares' disembodied voice put Strife's plans on an abrupt hold. A summons like that either meant that he'd done something wrong or that Ares had a lecture to give him, the way things were going lately Strife was betting on the former. It didn't matter to him but it was good to be prepared.

Just before he disappeared he made use of a bit of his power, it only took a slight manipulation. He vanished with a smirk -- and the gold color of Apollo's temple began to slowly fade towards orange.

^^^^^^^^^^^^

This wasn't normal. Strife had been in the main hall of Ares' temple for well over a minute and no Ares. Usually when he was summoned like that Ares was waiting for him right here, ready to dole out whatever punishment or lecture the occasion called for, but not now.

Strife had arrived on the first step of the dais leading up to the God of War's throne, as usual, but he was getting tired of just standing there. If Ares wasn't here then there had to be a reason, maybe he'd been delayed somehow or had to leave or something, so what was Strife supposed to do? The safe thing would be to stay put until Ares returned, but Strife had never been all that interested in "safe" unless it related directly to his survival, so he hopped down off the step and started to wander over to the table where Ares sometimes had a map or two spread out. Maybe he could get an idea of what was going on from that.

The gurgle stopped him. Gurgle? What kind of thing made that sound? Strife stood completely still, stopped breathing, and just listened. That sound didn't repeat, but another took its place, a giggle. Someone else was here. Locking onto the sound, Strife pursued it, moving around the dais and Ares' throne, tracking the strange sounds that were growing steadily closer.

The cradle sat just behind the dais. Constructed of black hard wood it was without decoration but made to be rocked when needed. But what was it doing here? More importantly, what were *babies* doing here? And there were two of them, two little prune-like faces with matching tufts of blond hair. They were dressed in black swaddling clothes and the one on the right was blowing spit bubbles -- the gurgling sound -- while the one on the left laughed in delight.

"What the fuck...?" Strife took it all in and came to the only conclusion possible: blond hair and in sitting in the God of War's temple; Aphrodite had finally gotten those kids she wanted off Ares. Did that mean they belonged in War though? Or was Ares just doing the "dad" routine; Aphrodite had mentioned he was a good father.

Strife reached out with his power and "touched" them, exploring their own power signatures; it was the only way to tell. Almost instantly he had his answer; the one on the right radiated fear and the one on the left was all pain, but the kids weren't experiencing it, they simply generated the feelings. If he'd touched them they would've instinctively zapped him with their godhoods and regardless of the fact that most pain didn't bother him and there wasn't much he feared, Strife would've been writhing on the floor in agony, likely screaming in terror. Good talents to have, he supposed. Of course that also presented him with a problem.

These two obviously belonged here and since they were Ares' they'd probably be raised here too, so where did that leave Strife? He'd thought when he'd matured to Ares' satisfaction that he'd have a place at the God of War's side, helping him out with things. He knew that was what Discord had done before she'd been sent to the mortal realm and Strife had fully intended to take her place. But what if that's what Ares intended for these two? Did he plan on having his sons by his side, giving Strife whatever shit jobs they didn't want? Would Strife have to serve *them*?

They weren't kids anymore, not to him, they were threats. If there was even the *slightest* possibility that they could achieve a higher ranking in War than Strife, then they had to go. He couldn't touch them, not while they still had the capability of defending themselves, but there were other ways.

He still wasn't allowed a weapon of his own yet, but there were plenty around here to "borrow." Checking the back wall, Strife chose a small, plain dagger and with a flick of power, sent it flying to his outstretched hand. He didn't need anything fancy for this, sharp was all that was necessary. He wasn't even sure a god could be killed with a simple blade but it was Hephaestus made and maybe enough stabbing and cutting would do the job. These were only babies, *true* babies, not like Strife had been, and their power sources were limited. Once that was used up they wouldn't be able to heal and then...well, it was hard for anything to stay alive once decapitated.

Twirling the dagger, he let the hilt come to rest in his palm, blade facing down, then he gripped it, leaned over the crib and thought about where to start.

"Do it and I'll throw you out of the House of War."

Strife's head snapped up and he hissed in displeasure, seeing the back of Ares' head over the throne. The God of War was now in residence, just sitting there, and Strife suddenly had no doubt that Ares had been around somewhere the entire time.

"Why're they *here*?" Strife demanded.

"You know why, now get over here -- put the dagger back first."

If he hadn't respected the weapon so much, Strife would've been tempted to embed it in the marble floor out of sheer frustration. As it was, he had to stop himself from throwing it directly at the back of Ares' head. Instead he obeyed, sending it back to its spot on the wall.

With a final, loathing glare at the babies, Strife stalked around the throne and planted himself directly in front of Ares, standing on the top step of the dais.

"They're gonna take Discord's place, aren't they?" he asked, almost growling the words.

Ares looked at him for a moment. "You know, I don't think I've ever seen you truly angry before. I was starting to think you weren't capable of any real emotion."

"*Aren't they*?" Strife repeated, shouting, which he *never* would've done to Ares' face under normal circumstances, but these weren't.

Lightening-quick, Ares reached out and grabbed Strife by the front of his vest, yanking him forward until they were face-to-face. "No, you twit, *you're* taking Discord's place -- if I don't kill you first." He shoved Strife back, releasing his grip. "They're here because they're my sons and I *always* help raise my children."

Stumbling back a few steps, Strife was already smirking as his anger vanished as quickly as it'd come. "Cool," he commented.

"Their names are Deimos and Phobos; remember that 'cause you're gonna be working with them one of these days. They're the Gods of Pain and Terror, they were also your last chance to stay on Olympus for a while."

"Huh?" Strife's smirk turned to a frown as he looked at his uncle in confusion.

"We've had a little meeting about you."

That meant that the twelve major gods had all had a little sit-down to discuss Strife, which couldn't lead to anything good for him. Strife didn't ask though, if Ares wanted to give him bad news then his uncle could just spit it out without any prompting from Strife.

The lack of curiosity Strife abruptly displayed seemed to annoy Ares, his expression reflected it as he swung a leg over the arm of his throne. "You're becoming a problem for everyone on Olympus; Zeus ordered me to either find something for you to do or chain you up with Lyssa."

"Really?" Strife giggled slightly. He'd always wondered what it would be like to be locked up with Maniae's sister. He visited about once a week but Maniae wouldn't let him in more than that.

"Yeah. I was *going* to have you help raise my boys, but I can see that's not going to work out, so you're gonna start coming with me to battles," Ares announced.

"Oh." Strife was a bit disappointed. "Can't we just try the thing with Lyssa for a while?"

Ares stared at him for a moment before shaking his head. "Why me?" he muttered under his breath. "You're spending too much time there as it is, even Maniae knows that. No, you've already learned what you can from everyone here, so it's time to see what you can do in the mortal realm."

Strife just shrugged. "Whatever." And suddenly he was flat on the floor, Ares' boot on his neck.

"Listen to me, you little worm; you're gonna do what I say *when* I say it and if I'm not happy with you down there, *then* you'll get me angry, understand?"

"Yeah," Strife whispered, his voice almost cut off from the pressure on his throat. He'd be depending on his uncle for instruction in the mortal realm so there was no use in angering him there.

"Good." Ares removed his foot and walked back over to his throne. "And grow up, for Zeus' sake," he added as he dropped back into the marble seat.

"I *like* being this size," Strife protested as he stood, rubbing his throat dramatically. "Besides, mortals think I'm a kid, they'll underestimate me."

"No, I meant, 'grow up' in the general sense; that thing with Hera's peacocks was juvenile -- and suicidal."

Strife didn't respond, not willing to push Ares into true anger regardless of the fact that bald peacocks were funny, to him. Besides, the feathers had all wound up in Bacchus' temple and he'd been blamed for it, well, his Bacchae really since they were the ones using the feathers for...interesting purposes. Hera's little impromptu "Bacchae bonfire" had been fun, as well as Bacchus' hysterical screaming and protesting. Still, he did need another venue for his "talents" before the Olympians began to come after him, so maybe the mortal realm was where he needed to turn his attention.

^^^^^^^^^^^^

Another day, another warlord; it was all becoming one and the same to Strife. He'd endured weeks of this now, hoping from one training camp to another, listening as Ares explained who ran the camps and what made them important, standing around looking wide-eyed and as innocent as possible while Ares met with the warlord or general in charge. Once the mortals in the camp came to the conclusion that Strife was just some kid the God of War was carting along and not important for them to notice, they all ignored him exactly as Strife had hoped they would.

Once attention was directed away from him, Strife always set off on his own to explore the various camps and Ares let him. Apparently the God of War had finally realized that dry lectures were the least likely way for Strife to learn, that he had to see and experience for himself to gain an appreciation of something.

The camps were all the same in the respect that they tended towards both noise and dirt in great abundance. Weapons practice and forging were fairly constant, even during night at times, horses were kept and tended to, and supplies were always being brought in. The men, in their free time, formed groups in which they ate, gambled and whored together and hygiene wasn't always a priority. They tended to talk freely enough around him, thinking him a child of no more than eleven, judging from various comments, and either too young to fully understand or old enough to start to get an 'education," either way Strife learned about martial life for mortals. It made him glad he'd been born a god. The idea of spending his life trudging through harsh weather, catching various diseases, suffering from the ravages of advanced age -- it repulsed him.

After the first few camps though the routine became repetitive, the mortals and their situations the same and Strife quickly grew bored. He didn't dare try any of his usual tricks; this was Ares' show and the consequences of screwing this up just weren't worth whatever minor energy Strife might generate from upsetting things. Besides, there was enough that went wrong in a camp on its own for him to pick up a bit of excess power here and there; he wasn't starving for it. He was, however, starving for something to *do*. He had little interest in watching mortals feed, fight or fuck and there just weren't many more options. He tried going with Ares to see what went on with the warlords and generals, but that was even more mind numbing. All they did was talk strategy; sometimes Ares threatened a bit and the mortals would all cower and bow and throw adoring phrases at him which made Strife roll his eyes, and that usually got him kicked out with a warning to "stay out of trouble or I'll find a way of hurting you that you *won't* enjoy." And that left Strife back where he'd started.

He tried visiting the blacksmiths in the various camps; he'd yet to be given a weapon of his own and he'd never stopped longing for a dagger, even a simple one. But none of the blacksmiths took him seriously when he asked them to make him a dagger, they either told him he was too young or simply told him to leave. Only Ares' orders kept Strife from visiting some serious misfortune on those particular mortals.

Strife also tried checking out the horses with the thought of maybe riding one or two; for all that he was a god he'd yet to ride a horse. Unfortunately the impossibility of that endeavor rapidly became apparent when the horses first scented him and proceeded to panic. None of them would let him near and Strife had to quickly slip out of sight as mortals came running to calm the hysterical beasts.

That brought something to light that Strife hadn't realized; apparently most animals wanted nothing to do with him. He experimented a bit more, trying to pet dogs only to have his hand nearly bitten every time, cats simply ran away hissing, sheep and goats trotted away, bleating in panic. It was interesting and he had to wonder if a human would feel the same if he touched one, which was something he'd avoided during all his time in the camps. He had to know, so he touched the first mortal to cross his path, a large man who looked to have been through his share of battles. Strife simply grazed a finger over the mortal's bare hand in passing and the man, as mean and hard-looking as they came, shrieked like a girl and jumped away from him.

"What'd you do to me, kid?" the mortal demanded, looking at his hand as though expecting to see it fall off at any moment.

Strife just shrugged and put on his best innocent look until the man finally stalked off, shaking his hand and muttering under his breath.

One experiment wasn't conclusive, of course, but after over a dozen more in different camps with the same results, Strife realized that his touch truly bothered mortals on an instinctive level. If it were simply a god thing one of his teachers would've mentioned it before, that meant that this was particular to him and he'd have to deal with it. He wondered if there was something he could do to hide what he was, to make animals and mortals accept him; having animals panic at his mere presence or mortals freak out if he brushed up against them would probably be detrimental to his work at some point in the future.

The solution wasn't as difficult as he'd thought it might be and he supposed it should've been obvious to begin with. When he'd first been born and hadn't wanted any other gods to know what he was, he'd simply withdrawn his power signature, pulling it inward and wrapping it tightly down deep where it couldn't easily be found; if that made it difficult for gods to sense him, then it made sense that it would do the same with animals, or mortals.

It wasn't an easy thing to do for long periods of time though. He felt uncomfortable holding his power so tightly inside, like it was struggling to free itself and it was hard for him to hang on. It was a challenge though and he welcomed it as something to do, some way he could improve on what he was.

He spent countless hours practicing different ways of holding his power in, clamping down on it versus gradually reining it in, seeing how long he could hold it before his entire being felt...jittery and he was forced to let go or risk it bursting free on its own and possibly destroying the surrounding area. He couldn't say that it ever got much easier, but after a while he did begin to understand the process and how his actions effected it; he could predict how his power would react inside him when he manipulated it. It also had some unforeseen effects.

The first time he tried reining in his power and approaching a horse, it was a complete success. The animal didn't even bat an ear and when Strife touched it, the horse merely snorted and kept eating. The trick worked with every animal he came across, but when he tried it on mortals, he had a bit of a surprise.

When he went to touch a mortal for the first time he put a tight rein on his power and let his hand brush over the mortal's neck. The man had been sitting by one of the many camp fires, talking with his companions, but at Strife's touch he broke off in mid-sentence and looked around in confusion.

"What's wrong?" one of his companions asked.

"I don't know," the man shrugged, "I thought I felt something touch me."

"Sounds like you need to go find a woman," one of the other men joked, sending them all into raucous laughter, and their attention went back to their conversation.

Strife was still standing right next to the man, staring at him. What exactly had just happened? Suspicious, he put a hand in front of the mortal's eyes and waved it a bit. No reaction, the man just kept talking.

"Hey, can you hear me?" Strife tried. When there was still no response, he leaned down and shouted in the mortal's ear, "Yo, ugly dude! You deaf?" Nothing at all.

"Well, whatdya know?" He stood up straight and crossed his arms, thinking.

Mortals couldn't see him, couldn't even hear him and it had to be because of what he'd done with his power. He knew gods could make themselves invisible to mortals at will, but it wasn't anything his teachers had covered with him and he'd supposed it would come naturally or something. In a way it had.

That gave him some brief entertainment. He'd go around touching mortals, maybe messing with their camps a bit -- spoiling food, fouling water, nothing that would get him in too much trouble if caught, but it was only brief. After a few days it grew old and the little bursts of energy he received from his tricks just weren't worth the effort it took to rein in his power.

He was bored again the day he drifted into the tent where Ares was meeting with his warlord. Neither paid him any attention save for a momentary look when he entered. Strife took a seat in the back of the tent, slumping there listlessly as he tried in vain to come up with something to do. It was almost habit now, playing with his power signature, it didn't relieve his boredom but he had to do *something*. This time he simply drew it in slowly, a bit at a time, knowing it would look to a mortal as though he were fading away and wondering what the warlord would think if he saw it. But the mortal never looked at him, too busy talking to Ares and pointing at various maps stretched out over the table in front of them. It was pretty damn depressing.

By the time Ares announced that he was done with the mortal for the time being, Strife had pulled his power in as tight as it would go and was currently seeing if he could break his personal record for holding it there without precipitating some sort of disaster.

"Whenever I come back here again, I want to see those men trained and ready to move out," Ares ordered the warlord.

"Yes, Lord Ares," the mortal bowed. "I'll see to it personally."

"Whatever. Strife!"

"Yeah, Unc? We *finally* leaving?" Strife knew his lackluster attitude and tone would likely get him a fist in his face, but even that would be more entertaining than the past few hours. Except it never happened.

"*Strife*!" Ares shouted this time, looking around the tent, his gaze passing right over his nephew. "*Now* where'd that little insect get off to?" he muttered.

Strife was too shocked to respond. Ares couldn't see him. *Ares couldn't see him*! Couldn't hear him either, apparently and the implications were...immense. He could hide himself from other gods in plain view. No more hiding in the shadows, ducking down or crawling to avoid being seen, not unless he wanted to; he could simply walk around another god's temple now, into their private rooms. He'd always avoided the traps they set before and it would be even easier now.

"*Strife*, don't make me call you again!"

That jerked him back to the present situation. He could contemplate the uses of his newfound talent later, right now he had a God of War to appease. Releasing his hold on his power, he channeled it into relocating himself to the other side of the tent where he appeared in a bright, flashy show of blue flame and sparkles, courtesy of his power escaping its confines once again.

"What can I do you for, Unc?" he asked brightly, smirking at Ares.

The backhand and resulting broken nose were worth it, all things considered.

^^^^^^^^^^^^

"Pay attention!" Ares snapped, successfully dragging Strife's gaze back to him, for the moment.

The problem was that Strife was reaching his limits here. There seemed no end to the training camps or Ares' lectures on them and it all held no interest for Strife.

"Can't I go back to Olympus now? You go all the time and I gotta stay down here and I'm like, so totally sick of it!" He knew he was whining and wasn't surprised when his uncle grabbed him by the back of the neck and shook him.

"No, for the five millionth time!" Ares released him, sending him stumbling forward a couple steps. "But you can't go in there either." His tone was more subdued when he said that.

"Huh?" Strife looked at the training camp. Even standing on its outer edges the place looked just like every other one he'd seen, so what was going on? "C'mon, Unc, I'll go crazy out here with nothing to do!"

"It's years too late for that, besides, it's safer for everyone with you out here."

"I never messed with any of your precious little camps before, not much anyway, I'm not gonna do it now!" Strife protested, upset enough over the thought of being so utterly, completely *bored* out here that he was willing to push Ares further than he normally would.

"Would you stop the *whining*, already? I'm not worried about the camp; I don't trust you to be anywhere near Barates without doing something...irreparable."

"Who?"

Ares took a deep breath, releasing it a moment later through clenched teeth. "The warlord in charge of this training camp, the one I told you about two minutes ago."

"Oh, right." Strife nodded. "So...whatdya say?"

For a moment he thought Ares would hit him, but finally the God of War shook his head with a muttered, "Always has to be on *my* side of the family, doesn't it?" then he sighed again and focused on the camp instead of Strife.

"I'm not repeating this again so pay attention; I'm here to review Barates' troops, see how things have progressed since he hired on those new recruits last season. I expect they'll be well trained so I'll want to see a demonstration of what they can do, how they hold up in a battle, maybe against me if they're that good."

Strife managed not to roll his eyes, but only barely. This was all old news and he still didn't see what the big deal was.

"Barates broke a leg in the last battle so he'll be sitting this out, mostly out of my sight if he knows what's good for him, and that's why you're staying out here," Ares came to the point, catching Strife's flagging attention. "The man is a parasite, Strife. A sick, perverted, son of a diseased harpy who wouldn't be worthy of licking dog shit from my boot if it weren't for the fact that he's a *brilliant* leader in battle. He makes you look like an innocent school maid, but I need him. If I put you anywhere near him I doubt you'd leave anything larger than a pinhead, forget alive. So you stay here."

Strife was surprised enough not to protest any further, just nodding right before Ares disappeared. He'd never heard his uncle talk about someone like that, mortal or god, and despite tuning out most of Ares' lectures, that was the sort of thing that would've immediately grabbed his attention. What could this mortal have possibly done to make the God of War take such a dim view of him? Dim? Tartarus, that was rock bottom and digging! And now Strife was curious.

That was the problem, even if there was a reason for him not to do something, a good reason, it never stopped him from wanting to experience that reason for himself. Sometimes, like with Phonos' rule about not picking up weapons by their blades, Strife actually found that it wasn't a good enough reason; he *liked* getting cut on occasion. Of course there were things like that hair dye Ate used that she'd warned him about. Okay, so his hair had fallen out and hadn't grown back for months, but he'd learned and decided that while he'd definitely be using it on someone else, it wasn't something he cared to experience again. This situation though...it felt a bit different. That hadn't been a casual warning from Ares and it hadn't even been his usual "do that and I'll make you pay" tone; actually, it'd almost sounded like he was just as concerned about what would happen to Strife as he was about Barates. It made Strife even more curious but also cautious as well. The God of War rarely concerned himself with the welfare of others so what made this different?

Strife decided to play it a bit more conservatively this time and not disobey his uncle, at least not right away. He'd stay outside the camp, but that didn't mean he couldn't look. He began walking the perimeter of the camp, a fair amount of distance to cover but nothing to a god. He observed what he could of the workings of the camp but it was nothing new, same sort of mortals doing the same sort of mortal things and no sign of anything even remotely dangerous or otherwise interesting. Still, walking was better than just standing in the same spot waiting for Ares to finish, which could take hours if not the whole day, so Strife kept going. He slowly circled the camp, hoping to maybe spot his uncle and watch some of the maneuvers; he'd seen Ares work with mortal troops before but it was still slightly amusing to watch them cringe and scramble to obey when the God of War shouted at them.

Training grounds differed from camp to camp depending on what they were most used for. Archery ranges were usually outside the camp perimeters while sword practice was conducted somewhere in the middle, although it could also be moved outside for larger groups. Strife could hear the noise from the drills, thought a time or two he could even hear his uncle's voice raised over the din so he was headed in the right direction. It sounded as though the practice area had been either built on the far northern edge of the camp or had been moved there for today, he'd see when he got there. Hopefully Ares would be too busy to notice him, either that or making himself disappear would come in handy again.

"Hey, kid; what're you *doing* here?"

The mortal voice made Strife look up but he didn't stop walking. A man, one of the perimeter guards like those he'd passed a time or two, was jogging after him, armor clanking with his movements.

"You shouldn't be anywhere near here!" he said as he caught up and matched his pace to Strife's.

"My uncle's here," Strife replied in a bored tone.

"What? I didn't think any man was fool enough to bring his children *here*. Stop, okay?" He reached down and put a hand on Strife's shoulder -- and immediately yanked it back. "Ow! You have needles hidden in that vest, kid?"

"Something like that." Strife stopped anyway. Maybe this mortal would have something interesting to tell him, or maybe he could just mess with the guy's mind a little. "So what's your problem, man? Why can't I hang with the 'big boys' here?"

"What?" The man looked down at him in confusion.

"What's wrong with me being here?" Strife rephrased his questions and deliberately over-enunciated it.

Instead of answering, the mortal stared at him. "You're not a normal child, are you?" he finally asked.

Strife giggled. "Way perceptive there, dude." Reaching out quickly, he grabbed the man's hand and held on with godly strength when the mortal tried to pull away. "Now tell me why I shouldn't be here," he said seriously.

Instead the man gasped in pain and tried repeatedly to twist his hand out of Strife's grasp, a complete waste of effort but Strife found that he kind of enjoyed watching him struggle futilely; that expression of pain and burgeoning fear was rather nice to look at.

"Don't let him go, Aethon!"

The shout made Strife look behind him and he saw two men hurrying towards them, coming from somewhere inside the camp. They were dressed differently than the guards he'd seen, their armor was more polished and they wore the green and blue colors that flew over the camp's main entrance. Curious, Strife released his current victim and waited for the new mortals to approach. It was possible that this could turn into a good game.

"Kid! Hey, listen to me!" The mortal next to him, Aethon, hissed at him. Wondering why he bothered to keep his voice low, Strife looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "I don't know *what* you are," the man said, still talking low, "but those are Barates' personal guards and I don't care if Zeus himself is your father--"

"Might be; never asked," Strife commented blithely.

"It doesn't matter; *get out of here*. I'll say you bit me or something, just run and do it *now*!"

Strife frowned. He'd attacked this mortal, deliberately frightened him and yet Aethon was still trying to warn him away from something? Right when he thought they were predictable, mortals still managed to surprise him.

He glanced from Aethon to the fast approaching guards, then back to Aethon who looked at him imploringly. "You told me to haul ass outta here and I'll remember that, 'k? But this looks way more fun than waiting 'round for Unc to quit playing with the soldiers so I'm gonna go with it."

Aethon looked confused again, but then shook his head. "It's too late now; I'm sorry, kid, I really am."

"The name's Strife," Strife confided in the same low tone just before the guards reached them. Aethon looked appropriately stunned which was gratifying for Strife; at least word about who he was had gotten around most of Ares' camps, even if his description apparently hadn't accompanied the gossip.

"C'mon, boy." The larger of the guards, a muscle-bound man who looked like he should still be walking with his knuckles, took hold of Strife's arm.

Instantly Strife pulled in his power signature, not far enough to go invisible, just to make touching him bearable for a mortal.

"Go back to your rounds," the other guard ordered Aethon.

Aethon nodded and immediately obeyed, starting to walk off. He didn't look as upset as he'd seemed just moments earlier. Strife winked at him, realizing that there had to be a reason both for Aethon's sudden mood change and for him not revealing Strife's identity. Aethon didn't respond but Strife could've sworn the mortal was suppressing a smile. Strange, or maybe Aethon just realized Strife could take care of himself. Then the mini-giant who had hold of his arm yanked Strife forward.

"Where're we going?" Strife asked, keeping his tone and expression as innocent as possible. He was used to keeping up with Ares so staying in pace with these mortals was no problem, regardless of how quickly they were walking.

They never answered his question and he didn't bother asking any more. It was obvious they were only interested in carrying out whatever duty they'd been charged with and had no interest in talking to him. As they passed through the camp, Strife was aware of the men who saw them, how some stared, mostly with pity, but most turned away as though they'd prefer not to see him. If he'd been the child he was pretending to be, Strife didn't doubt that he'd be unnerved by it, if not downright frightened. As it was his curiosity was growing and he wanted to see what was waiting for them at the end of this strange path.

It wasn't a long wait. Soon enough they were nearing the semi-permanent structure that served as home for the camp's warlord. The green and blue striped flag flying over the entrance signaled that Barates was in residence. It was a tent, but the tent portion was in the center with small buildings surrounding it on three sides, likely a kitchen, bath and bedroom judging from what Strife had seen in other camps. He was taken into the tent where he was pulled to an abrupt stop.

There were other guards in the tent as well as what looked to be servants, young men dressed in plain clothing, one of whom was clearing a table of food while two others tended to a mortal who could only be Barates. Who else in this place would warrant servants -- or maybe they were slaves. Barates, a relatively large man in both stature and muscle, had a leg propped up on a chair while one of the young men wrapped it; it had to be the broken one Ares had mentioned. Barates' skin was dark as though he spent a lot of time outdoors but he looked comfortable enough sitting there, drinking wine while his men drilled with the God of War outside. There was really nothing outwardly repulsive about the man.

"Bring him here," Barates ordered as he set his goblet down on the map table at his side.

The guard pulled Strife forward until they stood right in front of Barates. Yanked to a stop there, Strife looked at the mortal with a curiosity that wasn't feigned. Flat gray eyes stared back at him appraisingly, a look Strife didn't misinterpret.

"Yes, he'll do," Barates announced, reaching out to run a finger down Strife's cheek.

It wasn't exactly a surprise. With what Ares had said and the way most of the men in this camp reacted, the only other reasonable explanation would've been if Barates roasted kids and ate them as appetizers. That would've surprised Strife -- possibly impressed him too -- but he'd been fairly certain it would be something like this. As interesting as it was that Ares felt enough concern for him to try and keep him away from this, Strife had to wonder why Ares thought he didn't have enough self-control to stop from killing Barates. The world would be better off without a creep like him, the kids of the world anyway, but if Ares needed him then Strife wouldn't do anything.

"Put him in my room," Barates ordered, dropping his hand and picking up his wine again.

Strife let himself be taken out of the tent and into one of the side rooms, a bedroom as he'd thought. He'd just disappear once the guard released him; let the mortal deal with the explanations and his boss' anger. But Strife hadn't counted on what he'd see in the bedroom.

He'd expected chains and whips and restraints of all kinds for Barates' victims, instead it looked like a fairly normal bedroom, if a bit extravagantly decorated for a warlord. What brought Strife to an abrupt halt though wasn't the expensive decor, but the sight of what had to be one of Barates' victims, curled up on the bed, naked and shivering. The guard had to push Strife further into the room.

"Don't bother trying to escape; I'll be right out here," the guard said in a bored tone just before he left, letting the tapestry that doubled as a door fall behind him, closing off the room.

Strife didn't really pay his words much attention; he was too focused on the child in the bed. They could've been brothers; pale skin, although deep bruises and cuts marred it, dark hair and a thin frame reminiscent of Strife's own build. But this boy looked more than thin, he seemed half-starved and when Strife took a step closer, he could see the unhealthy sheen on the boy's skin that spelled out sickness. Then the boy's eyes opened, brown and fever-bright; he stared at Strife uncomprehendingly for long moments. His lips moved, forming words Strife couldn't make out.

"You trying to tell me something?" he asked, walking over to the bed. Bracing his hands on the mattress, Strife leaned forward to try and hear whatever the boy might say. He was surprised when long, thin fingers suddenly closed over his wrist. The grip wasn't tight, barely there at all really, but he didn't pull away. The kid looked so much like him.... If it made him feel better, Strife would let him
hold on.

"You're real." The voice was so soft, so broken a mortal couldn't have understood it.

"Yeah." Strife nodded.

"Th--There's a loose board there." The boy's gaze moved to the side wall and Strife followed his gaze. "I wanted to run but--but my legs won't work now and I'm so tired. You run."

Strife looked back at the boy but his eyes had closed again, his grip going lax. Tired, yeah; the kid was one step away from a meeting with Hades. His breathing was light and far too slow and Strife had seen enough illness in camps to know septicemia when he saw it, blood poisoning as mortals called it. This was long term, terminal now where it might've been treatable before, a neglect that shouldn't have happened.

It wasn't that Strife felt any great affection or attachment for children regardless that he wore the form of one, but there was something about this child...maybe their similarities or the fact that even dying the kid had tried to give him a way out of here, not even thinking of himself. Strife didn't have it in him to be truly selfless, but he could appreciate it in others when they directed it towards him.

"I'll help you run," Strife said, reaching out to touch a lock of hair, damp with sweat that curled against the boy's forehead.

"You're not going anywhere." Barates' voice came from behind them and Strife heard the tapestry material as it was pushed aside. "That one's next to useless now anyway; you wouldn't get far."

Gently pulling the boy's fingers from his wrist, Strife stood to watch as Barates limped into the room. He kept his face expressionless but he was surprised at how much he truly did want to kill this mortal, hurt him in dozens of creative and permanent ways before sending him straight to Tartarus. The need was deep inside him, in a place he hadn't been aware of before, burning there. And maybe Ares had been right to worry.

"Come here, boy," Barates ordered as he dropped into the room's single chair.

Strife obeyed simply because he didn't want the boy on the bed to be in the line of fire. He wanted that kid safe -- and it began to make a little sense. Compassion in its strictest sense wasn't in Strife's nature, but caring for what belonged to him was. That boy looked like him, had reached out to him for help whether or not he realized it, and that put him in Strife's possession however temporarily.

Barates was unlacing his leather vest as he watched Strife approach, revealing a scared chest. Strife wondered how it would look with the hilt of a dagger sticking between the ribs.

"Why'd you do that to him?" Strife asked quietly, stopping just out of Barates' reach.

"He fought me." Barates tossed his vest aside with a grunt. "You fight me, the same thing'll happen to you." He reached out but Strife dodged the grab.

"Don't touch me," he ordered. Strife didn't expect Barates to listen but he was wavering on what exactly to do about that. When Barates laid a hand on him with intent to do harm, Strife had every right to scatter his atoms into the ether. But the fact remained that by being here Strife was disobeying Ares and while he could probably get away with that much, killing Ares' warlord on top of it was sure to bring the sort of punishment down on his head that Strife wasn't prepared to deal with right now. Ares wouldn't cut him any slack on this after warning him off so explicitly. Strife just couldn't let this pass though, not the boy unconscious on the bed or the sudden revulsion that went through him when Barates stretched out and grabbed him by his bare arm.

"Leggo of me." Strife bared his teeth, planting his heels firmly in the dirt floor when the mortal tried to drag him closer. He'd never felt anything like this before, this need to both kill the mortal and get away from him. It wasn't fear but more of a deep disgust at what Barates planned to do with him; the thought of a mortal, *this* mortal, laying hands on him like that made Strife want to hurl.

"I warned you not to fight, boy." Barates yanked hard and he was stronger than Strife had estimated. With his powers suppressed, even by his own doing, Strife didn't have his normal reaction time and he went down on his knees. At nearly the same time Barates pulled the laces of his pants free, revealing his partially hard cock.

"Suck it," Barates ordered with another yank at Strife's arm. "Make it good and maybe I won't beat you for that little rebellious streak you showed."

For a few frozen moments Strife was too furious to know what to do. This...piece of filth dared order him to debase himself like that? Only another god had the right to touch him without his permission, but to force this on him.... Rape happened on Olympus, you only had to look to Hera for proof of that, but not even the most insane of gods would have tried to rape Strife. He may've been a minor god in the pantheon, but even Zeus himself would think twice before courting the God of Mischief as an enemy; eternal life could truly be made to feel miserably endless when accompanied by a wealth of petty annoyances, bad luck and constant "accidents." On some level Strife had always known the power he held and thus had completely dismissed the possibility of that sort of assault, but now, to have a mortal try to abuse him like this...he was both supremely disgusted and deeply furious and his focus abruptly narrowed to making this human garbage pay in the most painful, humiliating manner he could think up.

Strife didn't even recall the fact that Barates had no clue just who or what he was until his anger allowed his powers to slip free and Barates suddenly jerked his hand back with an oath. "You little shit!" He shook his hand hard as though stung by a wasp. "That hurt!"

"Get used to it," Strife growled coming to his feet in one fluid movement. He still hadn't been allowed a weapon of his own, but making one was simplicity itself and without any fancy flashes of light he formed a plain, deadly sharp knife in his hand.

It was in plain sight, as was the fact that it hadn't been there a moment before, but maybe Barates thought he'd had it hidden because the mortal blinked once in surprise, then kicked out at Strife with his good leg. "Guards!" he yelled at the same time.

Strife jumped back from the kick, a clumsy attack compared to some of the things he'd learned to dodge with Phonos and Bia. He could see that Barates was going to try and leave; he probably wanted the guards to deal with Strife, but it wasn't going to happen that way.

Powers no longer suppressed, Strife used the strength a god was born with to grab Barates wrist and yank him from the chair, throwing him to the floor. The mortal landed with a surprised and pained grunt but to give him credit, he was battle trained and knew better than to just lie there and wait for the next blow to fall, almost immediately he'd pushed himself up onto his knees and was trying to get to his feet, his broken leg hampered him though and Strife easily reached him first.

"Stay down, you Bacchae-spawned, son of a whore." Strife kicked him in his broken leg, smirking when he felt the almost healed bone re-break.

Barates stifled his scream of pain but he did go down, rolling onto his back as he clutched his leg. The two guards who'd brought Strife here came running in at that moment, followed by two others he'd seen in the tent. They instantly took in the situation, including the fact that Strife was armed, and reacted, drawing their swords.

"Don't even *think* about it," Strife said, bringing up his free hand and forming a ball of blue fire. "I'll turn the lota you into a group pyre 'fore you get another inch; dig?"

Maybe they didn't quite understand his words, but there was no mistaking what creating fire from thin air meant and the sudden fear on the mortals' faces indicated they understood quite well.

"No, plant your feet right there and stay," Strife ordered when the guards started to back away. "This pile of harpy dung just tried to rape a god, now he's gonna pay for that and for everything else he's done, and I want some witnesses; you're elected."

"I didn't know you were a god!" Barates said through pain-clenched teeth, drawing Strife's attention back to him.

"Oh, I guess that makes it totally cool then, huh? *Wrong*!" Strife kicked him again, hitting his left forearm. The crunch of breaking bone was loud in the enclosed space, and this time the mortal did scream although he managed to keep it low, behind clenched teeth. "You get off on torturing kids, dontchya? Well now a 'kid' is gonna torture you, see how you like it on the other sidea things."

Reaching out with his power, he snared Barates' limbs, broken and whole, and forced them outwards. Agony shone clearly on Barates' face as he fought the invisible bonds, trying to draw his arms down -- no doubt hoping to reach a concealed dagger -- but in the end he was helpless against the will of a god and he lay there, spread-eagled on the floor.

Satisfied with the positioning of his victim, Strife placed his feet one on each side of Barates' hips, then dropped down, making sure his knees slammed into the mortal's lower ribs, cracking them. The force of his weight coming down so hard knocked the air from Barates' lungs making it impossible for him to do more than wheeze in pain.

"Don't worry," Strife said casually, flipping the knife a couple times. "I'm gonna give you way more chances to scream your rotten little heart out 'fore I'm done here. Then I'll cut it out for you." He grabbed Barates by the neck, holding his face still. "Let's start with this, huh? Maybe if you'd looked more like the monster you really are, more children woulda run from you and escaped."

"Ares!" Barates gasped out, voice a bit strained due to the pressure on his throat.

"What about him?" Strife asked as he pressed the tip of the knife to the mortal's cheek.

"He needs me!"

That made Strife pause. "Well, fuck," he finally said moments later. Was there anything more annoying than a mortal who was both right and also knew his own worth? Ares had told him he needed Barates, that he didn't want this waste of air dead. Strife didn't dare disobey to that extent; Barates had to live. Live. Yeah. And there was the loophole. He grinned down at the mortal, knowing it was a singularly unpleasant expression.

"Yeah, you're right, Uncle Ares wants you alive to win some wars for him. Butchya know what? He never said nothing to me about needing you pretty or even entirely whole. This is gonna be faster and way less painful than what I really wanna do to you, but I guarantee it's gonna be permanent."

Barates' eyes widened in horror as Strife slashed the knife downwards, but his scream was cut off by Strife's hand tightening on his throat.

"It sucks, but I can't letchya scream now 'cause that might bring Unc running to see what's up," Strife said as he angled the knife for another slash, this time severing the mortal's nose. "You're looking better already." A trickle of power quickly cut off the bleeding and sealed the edges of the wound, leaving the nose cavity plainly visible. "These are gonna be the cleanest amputations you'll ever see, promise you that," he said as he changed his grip on the knife handle and cut downwards, lopping off Barates' right ear. Another small application of power had that healed before more than a few drops of blood had spilled. "No infection, no abscesses, but they're gonna hurt like a bitch for the rest of your life." Strife paused and smirked down at the trembling mortal. "Just wantchya to have something to remember me by." And he cut off the left ear.

After healing that, Strife sat back a bit and considered what to do next. He wasn't close to being satisfied here but there wasn't much he could get away with either, the bastard had to be able to both lead and fight. Still...there were a few options. Leaning forward again, Strife made two quick, long cuts, sealing the wounds as he went. He made a mental note to thank Bia for showing him this particular one; Barates really didn't need lips to speak.

"Well, I think that kinda completes the look," Strife said with a bit of satisfaction. Barates just stared at him in pain-laced horror. "'Course, there's still a couple things I wanna do. This the hand you grabbed me with? Yeah, it is." Strife quickly moved, setting his knee against Barates' throat to stifle any screams as he leaned over to take hold of the mortal's hand. He only cut off the two middle fingers, figuring that even if this was Barates' sword hand, he could still get a good grip with two fingers and a thumb. That left one other thing.

"You got any children?" he asked, releasing the hand after seeing to the wound.

"No," Barates' croaked out, the word slightly breathy from his lack of lips, then his eyes widened further as his pants abruptly vanished. "*No*!" he tried to shout as understanding dawned on him.

"Yeah, I kinda figured you couldn't get it up for a woman, or even a grown man; you're just too fucking sick to act like a real man, so let's make sure you don't ever get confused with one again. Besides, I don't wanna take any chances on you possibly spawning, even if it is a total accident."

There was no way Barates was going to stay quiet for this and Strife wouldn't be able to keep pressure on his throat, so he used a small trace of power, like a tentacle, sinking it into Barates' throat and wrapping it around his vocal chords, squeezing them tight and holding them immobile. Once he was certain Barates wouldn't be making even the slightest sound, Strife turned his attention to the task at hand. Not that Strife got any real enjoyment out of this part.

"Fuck, I'm gonna haf'ta scrub for days after this," he muttered in disgust. He had to touch Barates' testicles in order to cut them off, but it made him want to puke, a sentiment apparently shared by a couple of the guards who he heard throwing up by the door. Or maybe it was simply what he was doing to their leader. When it was done and healed, Strife wiped his hand on Barates' cast; he wanted a scalding hot bath after that but it would have to wait until later.

"Right, well, that's about all I can get away with doing to you, physically at least," he said as he took a good look at the sweating mortal, making sure to plant his knees against Barates' cracked ribs again. "Problem is, eunuchs -- and that's whatchya are now -- can still get it up, that means that you're still a danger to kids. I got a solution to that though." Gathering his power, Strife vanished the knife, grabbed Barates' head between his hands and focused.

"I never cursed anyone before, but seeing as how I'm the God of Mischief, I'm thinking it's gonna come naturally. See, here's how things're gonna work for the rest of your life -- and it's gonna be a *long* life, I'll see to that: anytime you so much as look at a kid and start getting ideas, you're gonna feel everything all of your victims felt. Every bit of disgust, pain, humiliation and despair they all felt, you're gonna experience it. You're never gonna be able to do that to another kid, hear me?" As he spoke, Strife could feel his power doing...something, almost weaving his words into some tangible form, and when he finished, it dropped onto Barates, into him, and Strife could almost see it. It'd worked, he knew it instinctively.

"Now we're done," he said quietly, releasing both his physical and mental holds on Barates. He quickly stood up, stepping away from the mortal just in case Barates tried to attack, but Barates just continued to lie there, agony clear in his expression, overlaid by stunned disbelief. It didn't matter, the first time he tried to go after a kid, he'd learn that the curse was real enough.

"It's over?"

The soft, barely audible voice instantly snapped Strife's attention away from the worthless pile of flesh on the ground to the sick boy, whose eyes were open. He was looking at Strife with something akin to awe...and hope. Anger quickly shoved to the side, Strife moved over to the bed and sat on its edge. Drawing in his power so as not to hurt the kid, he reached out to brush the boy's hair away from his face.

"Yeah, kid; that thing over there ain't gonna come near you again, 'k?"

The boy's skin was burning hot and yet he shivered as though chilled. It seemed to Strife that he'd worsened in just the short amount of time since they'd last talked. Well, it wasn't like he hadn't known the kid was dying, he'd just thought there was more time than the now-gray tinged skin indicated. That was good though, wasn't it? No more suffering and all that. Hades was nice to kids, especially the ones who had a hard life; this one would probably spend eternity playing with others in Elysium with no memory of all of this. So why was it bothering him? Strife couldn't figure that out.

"How old are you?" he asked, continuing to stroke the boy's forehead.

"Nine," was the soft answer.

Nine? Strife would've placed him at seven; he was just so small and thin. His breathing was turning shallower now and Strife could see the pulse at his throat gradually slowing.

"You're a god." The boy's eyes were fluttering shut but his words were still understandable.

"Yeah, I'm a god." Strife couldn't have dredged up a smile now if he'd tried. He didn't know why but this...this was wrong. This boy shouldn't have had to endure all this and then just die. Elysium didn't make up for a missed life.

"...prayed, sometimes...no answer. D--Didn't think I'd get one. When I'm better, can I--can I worship you?"

And Strife felt like he'd been hit with one of Hephaestus' hammers. It was almost a physical blow, making him gasp in shock as a wave of *something* passed through him and then he felt it, a connection, tenuous but there, between him and the boy. He reached out towards it with his mind, touching it, and suddenly he was swamped with everything the boy felt, pain, cold and heat, a sense of unreality as the world slipped further away, but also hope, stronger now and centered around the god that continued to stroke his forehead.

"You already are worshiping me," Strife whispered, almost in awe of what he felt from the boy. It struck him then, what this connection meant, what it would allow him to do. This was his worshiper, *his*, and he'd known from the moment he saw the boy that this was how things were meant to be. He hadn't lied before when he'd told the boy he'd help him, Strife had just been instinctively waiting for the boy to take the final step, and now that he had....

Strife moved further up onto the bed and gently taking hold of the boy's thin shoulders, pulled him close so that the mortal's head rested in his lap. He placed one hand flat on the boy's forehead and the other on his chest, over where his heart strained to keep beating. The two most important organs in the human body, heart and brain, and as Strife sent out tentacles of power into the boy's body, he could feel that both areas were in danger of shutting down.

It wasn't an easy fight; Strife wasn't made to heal, his talents lay in destruction and by going against that he had to fight himself as well as the infection invading the boy's tissues. It would've been so easy to just give the infection a little push, to make it that much more virulent so that it killed in seconds, giving the boy peace, but instead Strife forced it back. He'd never had anyone teach him about the human immune system or how it fought bacterial invasion, but it was an easy process to learn through experience, to *feel* it striving to rid the boy of the infection, and once he understood, Strife simply duplicated it with his power, overwhelming the bacteria, killing it and tracing it back to its origin. As caught up as he was in this micro battle, Strife could still be coldly angry in a corner of his consciousness when he found the source of the infection. The tears were large and the rape had likely been brutal with no effort made to tend to the boy afterwards, he'd probably been left to bleed out and when he hadn't infection had set in. Strife healed it, those and other, older, half-healed tears, making sure not even the slightest scar would be left. He already knew there was nothing he could do for the memories -- messing with a mortal's mind on that level was a sure way to drive them insane -- but at least there would be no physical reminders.

A search of the boy's body, his power flowing over skin, moving through muscle and bone down to the atoms themselves, showed that there was nothing left to heal; he'd done all he could. Strife was careful when he drew his power back in; he wasn't sure if the boy could feel what he did or not but he wouldn't just yank back in case it might cause pain. It took time, removing every trace of his power from the boy's tissues, and even then he realized that a trace of his power signature would always remain, detectable by any god that chose to look. It could possibly put the boy in danger but Strife hadn't been prepared to accept the alternative.

The instant his power was fully retracted, settled inside him once again, Strife felt an abrupt and nearly crushing weariness spread through him. He slumped on the bed, barely remaining sitting up. Opening his eyes -- only just then realizing that he'd closed them at some point -- he focused on Barates still lying on the floor. It was almost an effort to keep his eyes trained on one spot and Strife was distracted by the shine of sweat on his own skin. It'd cost him most of his power reserves to accomplish what he had, and there was one place where he could lay the blame for the necessity.

"If I didn't think it'd make me sick, I'd rape you just so you could see how it feels for all your victims." Strife said, surprised at how tired and wavering his own voice sounded.

"No."

The voice itself drew his attention as much as the beseeching tone. The boy's eyes were open, free now of that fever brightness that had lit them before. He was looking at Strife with such open pleading that Strife could almost taste it through their connection.

"Don't be a monster like him," the boy begged. And Strife instantly recognized the plea for what it was; the boy wasn't worried about Strife putting himself down on Barates' level, he was simply imploring Strife, his rescuer, not to turn out to be as much of a monster as Barates' was.

"Yeah, you're right." Strife nodded, but not for the reasons the boy would think. Strife had no problems with using any method of torture, the more the merrier, but this was his first worshiper and he wouldn't drive the boy away. Fear was fine from most mortals but not this one; he wanted this mortal to worship him willingly, not out of terror. "I won't do nothing more, 'k?"

The boy nodded and smiled at him, a shadow of what was probably a usually bright, cheerful expression, then it faded to a confused frown. "I feel...not sick anymore," he said. In short, jerky movements, the boy sat up, seemingly amazed when his legs moved with him. Just a few moments before the fever consuming his body had made such movements nearly impossible for him so this probably seemed like some sort of miracle, a view confirmed by his next words. "You healed me?" He looked at Strife with wide-eyed awe.

"Uh-huh, but I was only able to do it 'cause you let me. You're worshiping me," Strife clarified, "makes you mine now and I can do stuff like heal you, I guess. Kinda new to me." He shrugged and grinned at the boy.

"Oh." The boy didn't look like he really understood but he tried to smile back anyway and that attempt was more successful than the first. "Um, can I, uh, go home now?"

"Yeah, sure." The request surprised Strife but he supposed it shouldn't have. After all this the kid probably just wanted to be back somewhere he felt safe. "Wanna see your family, huh?"

The boy shrugged, dropping his eyes. "Some of them," he said quietly.

Strife didn't like that at all. There was nothing in the boy's manner that indicated "home" was a desirable place to be other than the fact that it was away from here. He immediately decided that he'd be looking into this personally. "How 'bout some clothes, huh?"

That seemed to brighten the boy up a bit and he nodded.

"Whatchya wanna wear?" Personally Strife had always worn the same outfit, pants and vest, and most gods in his House did the same with their clothing. Who cared about fashion?

"Um...." The boy took on a far-away look and for a moment Strife thought he'd simply retreated into his own mind, not surprising given what he'd been through, but then the kid seemed to almost snap back to the present, and he smiled. "Brown. Pants, shirt, boots," he announced almost triumphantly.

"Sure." Strife grinned at the pronouncement and waved his hand. "That good?"

The boy looked down at the clothing he was suddenly wearing and actually seemed to study it. "Almost," he finally said. "But, uh, can there be laces right here?" He pointed to the front of the plain shirt.

"Yeah, why not?" Strife fixed it with another wave, amused at the mortal's concern over something so small and the courage he displayed in asking it of a god. "Better?"

The boy nodded, smiling wider.

"Cool, so, um, where's home?"

And the smile abruptly disappeared. "Athens." This time his answer was even quieter than before and Strife forced himself not to ask what was wrong. The way the boy was drawing in on himself when answering questions like that and Strife doubted he'd get any answers without scaring them out of the kid and that would be completely counterproductive.

"Can I see?" he asked instead.

"Huh?" That got him a confused look.

"I need a location so think of your home and I'll see it too." He placed his hands on the sides of the boy's head, smiling slightly when the mortal didn't even flinch.

"Okay," the boy whispered, closing his eyes and taking on a look of pure concentration.

Strife could've told him he didn't need to think *that* hard, but it did give the kid something else to worry about instead of whatever had made him so withdrawn before.

The memory was easy to tap into, floating right on the surface of the boy's thoughts in vivid detail. A large house on a populated street, obviously a well-to-do family judging from both the size of the place and its good state of upkeep -- and the warriors? It was a frozen scene, like a snapshot in time and likely from the last time the boy had seen the place so Strife could examine every detail and yeah, those were fighting men, mercenaries from the looks of their mismatched armor. So the kid's father was in that game, was he? Why was his son here then and not learning the trade?

"Got it," Strife said, releasing the boy with another smile. "Good job." The boy smiled back and it was much more cheerful now. "Now I just got one more thing to take care of here and we'll go." He started to get off the bed but small hands grabbed hold of his arm, fingers digging into his skin.

"Don't leave me, *please*!" The boy suddenly looked close to panicking, tears forming in his eyes and his thin frame trembling.

"Wasn't gonna; was just gonna have a talk with those idiots," Strife explained, inclining his head towards the guards still standing in the doorway.

"Please don't leave," the boy repeated and Strife realized that explanations wouldn't do any good. Fear wasn't always rational, especially in children and there was nothing he could say to reassure the kid.

"Okay, all right;" he gave in, "c'mere." Strife opened his arms and bare seconds later the boy was clinging to him, arms and legs locked around him, face tucked against his shoulder.

He slid off the bed, noting darkly that even if he hadn't been a god he wouldn't have had any trouble carrying the boy, he was light, far too light. "You're eating first thing when I getchya home," he ordered, easily supporting the mortal's weight with one arm wrapped his waist.

"I have to ask father if he wants me to," was the muffled reply.

The kid's dad didn't let him eat? Strife decided that when he got there, that particular mortal household had better be suffering from either extreme poverty -- which wasn't likely given what he'd seen -- or a severe food shortage, and he knew Athens wasn't going through a famine right then.

"You, morons!" Strife snapped at the guards. All four watched him with a mixture of wariness and fear, which he found gratifying, at least one still looked sick from the earlier torture display. "Take that sack of shit outta here," he pointed at Barates who still lay on the floor, moaning in pain now. "I want the lota you to let everyone know exactly *why* he's looking like a living skull now, dig? Spread the word so he doesn't get any ideas about playing the 'innocent victim' here."

The mortals nodded quickly and started to move towards Barates.

"Not you." Strife shook his head when they all stopped. "No, I mean *you*, the imbecile with the seriously short lifespan who dragged me in here, the resta you can haul his pathetic ass outta here." He waved them in Barates' direction.

The mortal Strife had indicated, fear making him look like he belonged even further down the evolutionary ladder than usual, stood frozen a few steps from the doorway, staring at Strife in apprehension while his comrades went to retrieve their leader.

"I gotta job for you," Strife announced. "See, Uncle Ares is gonna wonder where I am when he's done playing out there. You're gonna tell him what happened here and if he gets pissed off 'bout it -- and he will -- then tell him I said he knows where he can stick it. Now I gotta go take care of something and if he doesn't like me being gone, tell him he can kiss my ass." Strife smirked as the mortal turned an unhealthy shade of white.

"H--He'll kill me if I say that!" the man protested, his voice rising to a distinctly girlish pitch.

"Yeah, he will," Strife agreed, then turned his expression abruptly serious. "But what d'you think *I'll* do to you if you don't tell him *exactly* what I said?"

The mortal swallowed hard, closing his eyes as an expression of resignation moved over his face. He nodded in agreement.

"Good, now get outta my sight."

The man waited for a few moments, until the other guards had carried Barates from the room, then he followed behind, shoulders slumped, his entire posture screaming defeat. Strife enjoyed the show.

"I wish I was like you."

Strife looked down and found the boy had turned his head slightly and was looking at him with that adoring expression Strife was growing to like. "What, a god?"

"Uh-uh." The kid shook his head slightly. "I just wanna be tough, then people wouldn't pick on me."

"My family picks on me anyway." Strife shrugged the shoulder he wasn't supporting the boy with. "'Course I make them pay too."

"You're old, aren't you?"

Strife couldn't respond to that straight away, he actually had to think about it. He hadn't bothered much with marking the passage of time, he'd only been concerned with surviving and learning what was necessary and now that he'd accomplished both, he was surprised to realize just how much time had actually gone by.

"'Bout three hundred, I think" he finally said. "It's pretty young for a god though."

"Oh." The boy frowned for a moment. "Young like me?" he asked.

It wasn't a good comparison as Strife had never been 'young' at all, so he wasn't quite sure what to say, but then he felt the boy shrug against him.

"It doesn't matter," the kid said with a small smile.

"Whatever works for you. Look, close your eyes, 'k? I dunno how mortals take traveling like this but it might help."

The boy nodded and closed his eyes. "What's your name?"

Strife had been ready to take them to Athens but he paused, feeling just a little foolish. Of course a mortal should know the name of his god. "I'm Strife;" he answered, then as an afterthought, "what's yours?"

"Joxer."

"Good name," Strife decided, then focused the imaged of the house in his mind and transported them there.

^^^^^^^^^^^^

It was a fair sized-place, Strife decided, even when he wasn't looking at it through the memory of a little boy. The courtyard was presently filled with horses and servants attending them, leading them off to the stables, indicating that there was something taking place inside the house, some sort of meeting or feast or something. They'd see once they got in there. Once Joxer quit throwing up.

"You done yet?" Strife asked, glancing over to where Joxer was bent over an unused horse trough. The kid really hadn't taken well to traveling through godly channels but there was nothing Strife could do for him; the mortal's body was readjusting to being stretched to its base atoms then abruptly becoming corporeal again and the illness would just have to run its course.

A couple minutes later Joxer finally stumbled back over to him, his legs wobbling visibly and face still pale, although not the greenish color it had been when they'd arrived. At least the kid had been nice enough not to upchuck all over Strife; he hadn't quite made it to the horse trough the first time though and he'd hit himself with it. Wrinkling his nose at the sight and smell, Strife waved him clean with a touch of his power.

Joxer grinned at him, the expression a bit sickly, and held his arms out. Strife picked him up again without comment.

"Sorry;" Joxer said against Strife's shoulder, "I won't do it again."

"Hey, if you gotta then you gotta; nothing you can do about it sometimes."

"Father says it's my fault when I get sick." Joxer stifled a yawn with against Strife's vest. "He says if I waste food like that then I don't get to eat."

"You get sick a lot?" Strife asked, keeping his tone free of the anger boiling just beneath the surface.

"I get scared," Joxer replied with a small shrug.

Scared in his own home, huh? Strife knew it happened; his own family was far from ideal and some mortal families had it just as bad and that had never bothered him, still didn't for the most part. It was just this one family, this one boy who belonged to him and therefore deserved his protection.

"I'll take care of it," Strife promised, then began walking across the courtyard towards the front door.

The door itself stood open, probably to afford a breeze to the inhabitants inside. The day was warm and inside it would likely be stifling, a suspicion confirmed when they first entered.

"Where do I take you?" Strife asked, not wanting to stand there and bake as the afternoon sun shown through the doorway. He could easily have cooled the entire house down if he felt like it but it wasn't something that could be maintained in the mortal realm and he'd have to feed energy into it constantly and he'd just used up far too much power to contemplate something like that. Despite the slow rebuilding of his power stores due to Joxer's worship, he wasn't going to waste what he had left on something that futile, regardless of how nice it might feel temporarily.

"Go right," Joxer said, "then straight and left and right and left."

Sounded simple enough. Strife followed the instructions, taking a left from the doorway and following the corridor. There were a few windows along the wall but not enough to let a decent breeze through. Strife did approve of the decoration, tapestries depicting Ares' historical battles and the occasional weapon hung up on display. The first time the corridor branched off, a minute or so later, Strife took the left and found himself in a smaller, corridor. Without windows this one was more dimly lit but an effort had been made by someone to keep it somewhat bright with frequent lit wall sconces; the tasteful decoration was the same here although a bit more interspersed.

"Isn't anyone home?" Strife muttered as he walked, wondering why he'd just been able to stroll in without being challenged.

"Father's having one of his meetings," Joxer supplied the answer as though it explained everything.

"So, what, all your servants gotta attend or something?"

"They'll all be in the kitchen or--or maybe serving Father's men, I dunno."

"So where am I taking you, huh?" Strife asked as he turned right into a much darker corridor, sparsely lit and with no decoration; he could see the next left coming up.

"My room," Joxer answered just as Strife turned -- and found himself facing a barred door.

"You always have a lock on your door?"

"Uh-huh."

"Sounds to me like you should have one on the *inside*, not out here," Strife commented, flipping the bar up and pushing the heavy wooden door inwards.

He hadn't taken more than two steps inside before he was stopped by a strange sight; two identical versions of Joxer from the faces right down to the clothes, complete with the laces on the front of their shirts. They sat on the floor, staring at him and almost immediately after the first surprise, Strife could see the differences. Not in their form, but in their behavior. One of the boys was watching him with wide-eyed apprehension but the other's eyes had narrowed and he looked ready to move at any moment, not to run but to attack. That one bore watching.

"Joxer?" The other one spoke first, breaking the tense silence. His voice, identical to Joxer's, wavered with fear and hope.

"Jace?" Joxer raised his head from Strife's shoulder and half-turned to look at the other boys. When he caught sight of them, he suddenly pushed away from Strife, dropping to the floor when Strife released him and running towards the two that were quite obviously his brothers.

"Joxer, it's you!" Jace cried out, wrapping Joxer in a tight hug. "Look, Jett, he's back!"

"I see," the other boy, Jett said, although his gaze never left Strife. "C'mere, Jox." He held out an arm in his brother's direction but his body remained tensed, ready for a fight. Strife was really starting to approve of this kid.

Joxer threw himself at Jett and Strife could see the tears running down Joxer's cheeks as he hugged his brother. Jett never once looked away from Strife but he hugged his brother back and kissed the top of his head.

"We were so worried, Joxer!" Jace said, tugging his brother out of Jett's grip. "Maybe you'll think it's silly but we kinda thought you were, you know, dying." His voice dropped on the last note so it was mostly a whisper.

"It's not silly," Joxer said quietly. "I almost did." He looked at Strife then, that adoring, worshipful look returning.

"We knew it too!" Jace agreed. "I mean, I just kept crying 'cause I could almost feel you hurting and Jett was going crazy--er," he glanced at Jett apologetically but Jett, eyes still focused on Strife, just shrugged one shoulder, dismissing the comment, so Jace went on, "and you know how Father gets when we say things about *knowing* and he locked us in here days ago. It's okay now though, right Jett? You're home!" Jace hugged Joxer again, "Thank the gods you're all right!"

"You're welcome." Strife kicked the door shut with his boot heel. Jett's eyes narrowed further and Jace stared at him in confusion, Joxer just smiled.

"So, how long since that bast--your father gotchya anything to eat?" he asked casually.

"We get water twice a day," Jace replied with a shrug.

"Yeah. Well, let's do something 'bout that." Strife's first impulse was to give them plates full of food, as much as they could eat in one sitting, but then he remembered something from one of Ares' seemingly endless lectures. He didn't know how the subject had come up or even why Ares had felt it necessary to instruct him on it, but Strife did recall hearing that feeding mortals too much after they hadn't eaten in a while made them sick. He wouldn't have Joxer sick after spending all that energy in healing him, so Strife just waggled his fingers and called up three small bowls of chicken broth complete with spoons.

"Eat up," he managed to say before slumping back against the door and letting himself slide down until he too sat on the floor. He'd been tired since healing Joxer, but he'd also been dealing with it pretty well. This last little expenditure of power had been too much though and he was down to his last bits of power in his reserves. He'd left himself vulnerable and he'd have to fix it, regardless of the cost. He didn't dare be this weak in the mortal realm.

Jace was staring from the bowls back to Strife, an expression of awe on his face similar to the one Joxer had worn the first time he saw Strife use his powers. Jett simply blinked, but Strife had the impression that for him that was an expression of deep surprise. Joxer however, he didn't even look at the food; he scrambled to his feet and ran the few steps it took to get to Strife, dropping down on his knees beside him.

"Are you okay?" He sounded and looked so anxious that Strife couldn't help grinning.

"Yeah, I'm just totally wiped," he assured Joxer, except Joxer didn't look reassured. "I'm tired," Strife rephrased and understanding lit across Joxer's face.

"Oh, I get it." He nodded.

"I'm still young and I guess I'm not used to using this much power," Strife said with a shrug. He reached out and placed a hand on Joxer's shoulder, relishing even the small amount of energy he received from physical contact with a worshiper. "You almost got an early meeting with my Uncle Hades; took more than I thought it would."

"Is Hades nice?"

It wasn't a question you'd expect from a mortal and Strife raised an eyebrow in mild surprise. "He's good with kids, if that's whatchya mean, but you don't gotta worry 'bout that now. You won't be seeing him for decades, 'k? Now go get something to eat 'fore it gets cold." He dropped his hand.

Joxer nodded, smiling at him before going to sit back beside Jace. Neither Jace or Jett had eaten a thing and Joxer frowned at them as he picked up a spoonful of broth. "It's okay," he promised before eating it.

"What god are you?" Jett asked, his voice as inflectionless as it had been before.

Strife smirked at him, although he didn't doubt that his expression revealed his tiredness. "Strife, God of Mischief."

Jett looked at him a moment longer before nodding once, and finally taking his gaze from Strife, he began to eat.

Seeing that his brothers were eating, Jace was quick to join them and the three ate in total silence, something Strife was almost certain wasn't normal for nine year olds. He wondered if they were beaten for making any noise while eating with their family. He'd find out later. He'd delayed too long already in fixing his power stores. There were plenty of general bad vibes in this house, he'd felt them the instant he and Joxer had appeared here, and that would help him some, but he'd need more than that, and not only would it get him in trouble if someone on Olympus noticed, it would probably hurt, but he didn't have another choice.

Tapping into the last of his power reserves, Strife pictured the ambrosia-wine Bacchus was famous for making. Strife knew exactly where Bacchus kept it even if the wine god thought he'd hidden it well -- not many secrets were safe from Strife, even if he was stuck in the mortal realm -- and stealing a bit of it wasn't hard to do, in theory anyway. The problem was that he was already so tired and further use of power pushed it into the realm of psychic pain. By the time a large goblet of wine appeared in his hand, Strife was wincing at the near-blinding headache throbbing just behind his eyes.

He quickly drank the wine, almost gulping it in his need for the ambrosia and the energy it provided. One goblet full was hardly enough though, it dulled down the headache and made him feel less like dropping off to sleep and never waking up, but he needed far more. In fact he had to refill the goblet four times before he started feeling more like his normal self, each time it irritated the persistent headache but with each drink he also lessened that ache until it finally disappeared.

"Thank the Fates," he muttered, slumping back against the door. He wasn't in danger of being helpless anymore but he still refilled the goblet one last time, wanting as much energy as he could get. Bacchus was sure to notice the drop in the level of wine in that particular casket and eventually Strife would probably get the blame -- he hadn't exactly been subtle here -- but it was worth it to keep from being as weak as a mortal.

"Even Father doesn't drink that fast." It was a whispered comment from Jace directed at his brothers, but Strife heard just fine and giggled slightly, startling both Jace and Joxer, Jett just raised an eyebrow.

"It's ambrosia wine," Strife explained. "Instant energy for a god."

Joxer nodded in understanding and went back to eating; Jace looked nervous but he too went back to his broth. Jett, however, had all of his attention on Strife.

"Ambrosia?" Jett's voice was quiet, almost completely without inflection and Strife was instantly on guard.

"It's not for you," Strife said, his tone conveying a warning. Quickly draining the goblet, he vanished it and did a quick check to make sure not a drop of the wine had spilled. He didn't trust Jett in the slightest -- and he was *really* starting to take a liking to the kid.

Jett's glance flicked over to his brothers. "I know," he replied calmly before turning his attention back to his food.

Strife understood then; Jett wouldn't take ambrosia even if it was dropped into his hands, free and clear, not unless his brothers did too. Interesting. Joxer worshiped him, Strife could feel him praying occasionally even now and he enjoyed that, but it was Jett who was starting to hold a strange fascination for him. They needed to have a talk sometime soon.

Still considering the strange boy, Strife was taken by surprise when a new prayer hit him, one from a different yet similar source. His eyes immediately went to Jace. The boy was mostly looking at his nearly empty bowl, but he kept glancing up at Strife from beneath his eyelashes. Strife nodded to him in acknowledgment.

"See, told you," Joxer whispered, nudging Jace with his elbow.

That made Strife smirk. Joxer was trying to convert his brother; how sweet. And it was nice, getting energy from two sources of worship even as small as it was. He didn't know if Jace would continue -- he had no doubts about Joxer there -- but maybe he could do a bit of 'converting' himself.

"You dedicated yourself to a god yet?" He knew Jace hadn't, none of the three had before meeting him otherwise he would've seen it on them, it got them on the right subject though. "Why not?" he asked when Jace shook his head.

"Um, Father wants us dedicated to Ares."

"That right? Well, if that's what turns your crank. Don't see it though."

"Huh?"

"Look, here's a professional opinion: none of you are gonna be warriors." Even Jett reacted to that statement, blinking twice. Jace and Joxer just looked shocked. "I'm not saying you can't pray to Ares, you don't haf'ta be one of his guys to send a prayer or two in his direction, but it's not the way you're gonna turn out."

"How do you know?" Jace whispered.

Strife thought about that. How to explain it so they understood? He could read it on them, it was like an extra sense and he'd known it from the moment he'd met each of them; none of them had that hard edge to their presence that all warriors and warriors-to be held. It wasn't at all a physical thing, not in the way a mortal would understand it, but it was tangible to Strife. Finally he had to settle for a lackluster explanation. "It's a god thing; I can see it on you."

"We have to worship you then?" That calm tone Jett maintained would've been unnerving to most mortals, especially coming from a child, but Strife just continued to be fascinated by it, by Jett's whole mannerism.

"Nah." He wasn't going to lie, that was no way to get loyal worshipers. "Uncle Ares' worshipers are the only ones I know real well, so all I can say is none of you are gonna go that direction. Can't tell you who you're gonna end up with, not even sure if it'll be me. Well, 'cept for you," he looked at Joxer, his smirk widening, "you're mine."

"Can you hear me if I pray?" Jett asked and now there was something in his tone, a hardness that hadn't been there before.

"Words, you mean? Only if you really want me to, I guess. Can't hear what your brothers were saying but I get the general meaning."

//Then listen to *this*,// Jett's thoughts were just as clear and loud as his voice. //I'm glad Joxer's safe and thanks for saving him, but he's *mine*. They both are.//

So *that's* what Jett's problem was, this was a territorial thing. Strife understood that just fine; he knew where Jett was coming from, but they'd have to sort it out later. "We're gonna talk, you and me," Strife promised. Jett held his gaze for a moment before nodding, and turning his attention back to the remains of his broth.

The boys were all finished a few minutes later, having finished nearly every drop of the broth -- literally in Joxer's case as he'd actually licked the bowl before Jace's snort of amusement had made him drop it, blushing in embarrassment. They were all looking a little tired now, even Jett although you had to look close to see the way his eyelids drooped, just a little. Joxer and Jace were more open about it, yawning and blinking sleepily.

"Where's your Pop?" Strife asked as he pushed himself to his feet, vanishing the empty bowls and spoons with a slight wave of his hand.

"Huh?" Joxer spoke for all three of them who looked at him blankly.

"Your old man, dad, pa, father, you know?"

"Oh! Um, he'll be in the dining hall. It in the center of the house. I can show you!" He started to get up but Strife waved him back down, shaking his head.

"Nah, get some sleep -- if you can." He looked in distaste at the bundles of old blankets on the floor that served as beds. He could've redecorated the room for them, given them nice beds, some decent furniture and all, but he wanted their father to do that as he should've done to begin with.

"Are you coming back?"

The apprehension and fear in Joxer's tone stopped Strife as he opened the door. He looked at the boy for a moment, studying the way Joxer watching him pleadingly and yet made no move to leave his brothers' sides. "When you need me, yeah," Strife decided. After he got through with "Father of the Year," Joxer would be safe enough here and he'd have his brothers who obviously loved him -- even if it was a strange sort of love in Jett's case -- so he'd be fine. Becoming too involved in a mortal's life, especially at this young age, wasn't a good thing -- they'd get too dependent or arrogant that a god paid them so much attention -- but Strife wouldn't abandon him if Joxer really needed something; he owed his worshiper -- worshipers? he wondered, glancing at Jace -- personal attention.

Joxer smiled at him in response and Strife gave him a wink before leaving. As he closed the door behind him, he used a touch of power to switch the bolt from the outside of the door to the inside.

The center of the house, huh? He didn't figure it would be too hard to find, especially for a god. He simply reached out with his power and pinpointed the place where he sensed the most mortal minds. Fixing that in his own mind, he set off back down the corridor, turning back into the brighter lit one moments later. From there it was a matter of trial and error and he found the kitchen before the dining hall. There were a fair amount of mortals bustling about in the kitchen, men and women and all servants or slaves from the looks of them and none paid any attention to what would seem to them a mortal boy standing by one of the doors. That was good as it gave him the opportunity to watch where they took the trays of food and drink, and he simply followed those mortals.

It quickly became apparent to Strife upon entering the dining hall that this was indeed some sort of military meeting, or at least a get-together of military people. He recognized a few faces out of the dozen or so leather-clad, heavily armed men sprawled around the table, drinking, eating and talking boisterously. Glaukos and Eryx on the left side of the table were very minor warlords whose training camps he'd visited briefly a year or two back, Stachys, opposite them, was in a slightly higher class, but not by much. The three of them, and most of the others Strife surmised, were the type of small-time warlord Ares used when he was fairly certain his side was going to take heavy losses and he needed warm bodies to take the damage. Expendable, basically.

Strife smirked in sudden amusement, realizing that despite all the boredom and endless lectures, he'd actually learned some of what Ares had tried to teach him. Maybe he couldn't recognize every warlord or recite their history, but he was more than passing familiar with the lot of them and he certainly knew how a training camp was supposed to be run, or a battle planned. Somehow he *had* learned. He wondered if that's what Ares had been hoping for, some sort of osmotic learning or something; whatever, it'd worked.

Amusement aside, he had business to take care of. He'd neglected to ask Joxer their father's name and it could be any of these men; he'd have to get someone's attention and ask. The men were wrapped up enough in their conversations that they didn't notice him walk further into the room, or perhaps it was more that they were a little too drunk to notice much else. He hoped that wasn't the case, sobering up a bunch of mortals wasn't on his list of fun ways to waste his power.

He approached one of the warlords he'd recognized on first sight, a large man by the name of Lasos whose bulk was due more to fat than muscle, most likely brought about by too much love of rich food, like what he was stuffing his face with now. Even in a child's body Strife was more than tall enough to clear the table, so he rested an arm on the hard wood, leaning against it as he stood beside the mortal, waiting to be noticed and watching with mild disgust as the man continuously ate and drank, some dribbling down his chin to the stained leathers he wore. Finally the mortal's squinty little eyes focused on Strife and he frowned.

"What're you doing here, kid?" he asked with a full mouth, causing more half-chewed food to fall.

"Trying not to hurl," Strife said, not bothering to hide his contempt.

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