_____

Hercules gazed down upon the cool, golden features of the deceased. He felt vaguely guilty that all Aegyptian statuary looked like the same person to him. Iolaus probably could have discerned something about the dead man’s rank and station from the position of a carved lotus leaf hidden in the stylized decoration. But to Hercules, the man on the sarcophagus looked just like every other big-eyed Aegyptian statue.

“There’s a mummy in there,” Strife breathed in Hercules’ ear. Hercules suppressed a flinch--barely. “Bone dry and withered, smiling a big, toothy, eternal smile.”

Hercules glanced over his shoulder and saw Strife wetting his lips. He wished he hadn’t looked.

Strife meandered away, pausing to caress every jar and urn in his path. “Know what these are?” he asked, all too eager to tell. “Lungs, kidneys, stomach...” he froze at one of the earthenware vessels, cradling it to his chest. He rocked it briefly as if he would suckle it. “Liver,” he declared, heaving it at Hercules’ face.

Hercules lunged to the side and grabbed the missile from the air. “Thought you had an agreement with Anubis.”

“Osiris. And I’ve seen you stop arrows. How hard can it be to catch a potted sponge?” Strife turned away from Hercules, picking up golden spoons, tongs, a comb. He turned them over in his palm and then put them back where they were, hardly looking at them. “All these nifty toys for a rotten mummy. These people honor their dead more than certain Greeks honor their gods.”

“Honor isn’t anyone’s birthright, mortal or divine. It’s got to be earn--“

A flash of movement and something cold and sharp pressed into the hollow of Hercules’ throat. “I’ve been wanting to do this for so long,” Strife said, grinning too wide for Hercules’ taste. “A knife of gold--can you imagine? Such a soft metal, as metals go. The edge will dull after the first cut.”

Hercules swallowed, feeling his Adam’s apple brush the blade. What if the story about Osiris had really been a clever ruse after all, a story to make him let down his guard? His foot came down on Strife’s instep as quickly as he thought it, the massive stone refusing to give even under such a crushing assault. Grit and dust rained from the tight chinks in the ceiling while the sound of the great stomp echoed within the chamber.

A mortal’s foot would have been pulped, but Strife only grunted and twitched. Hercules used the distraction to knock the knife away from his throat. Strife turned even as Hercules batted him away, his arm seeming to roll along Hercules’ punch while his body twisted and tried to find some strategic position with which to attack again.

Hercules fought differently than he would have with a mortal, swiping at eyes and groin. Anything was fair play--numerous tussles at the Academy with Strife had shown him that much.

Hercules gasped as Strife tore out a hank of his hair. Strife backed up and pulled a face, chafing his palms; the handful of hair floated to the ground. Hercules dropped back and cast his eyes around in search of a weapon. The spears were too far away, and he couldn’t bring himself to use the nearby urns, even in self-defense.

Still wiggling his fingers, Strife lunged again, this time in an attempt to tackle. Hercules resisted him, staggering back as he struggled to keep upright. If he could only find his balance, he could slam Strife into the wall. The really solid wall.

But Strife walloped Hercules with a headbutt that echoed louder than the stomp had. The dim room tunneled around Hercules and he began to fall back under Strife’s grappling weight, one arm pushing Strife away, the other groping behind him for anything solid enough to hit Strife with, relic or not.

His hand closed around a fall of brittle fabric, and he clutched it in an attempt to keep himself standing. The cloth held for just a moment, and then exploded in a spectacular rain of dried hemp. Hercules fell beneath Strife, trying yet again to refrain from breathing as the air around him settled. And then Strife was off of him, spitting and spluttering. Hercules couldn’t help but crack an eye open to see Strife covered in rotten linen.

Strife shook his head, raising another cloud of decayed fibers, but then he saw Hercules watching him and drew his fist back for a good, old-fashioned punch in the nose.

And so did another figure directly beside them.

Hercules and Strife both turned, startled by the mirror images the disintegrated linen had revealed. “Good thing there’s only one of you,” Hercules muttered, but Strife ignored the jibe, focusing instead on his own honey-colored reflection.

“Would you look at this?” Strife whined, brushing fibers from his leathers. “It’ll take me forever to get this stuff out of my hair.”

“You’re a god,” Hercules said, and now it was his turn to roll his eyes.

“Oh, right.” Strife gave an exaggerated blink and the linen dust flew from his hair and clothes, swirling around Hercules in a miniature tornado. “Much better.

_____

After several hours of sharing close quarters with Strife, Hercules eventually gave in to the need to sit down. No more sudden attacks seemed to be forthcoming, other than the occasional lobbed relic. Unfortunately, without something to fight about, time crept very, very slowly.

He tried to imagine Iolaus going on without him, hoping that his imaginings might give Iolaus a little push in the direction of the Crown of Hesiod. Not that Hercules thought he possessed the ability to mentally compel Iolaus; it just wishful thinking.

Strife sprawled on a chest enameled with stylized flowers and birds. “So,” he ventured, one leg hanging over the side and swinging back and forth. “Kill any good monsters lately?”

Not about to be looped into another conversation, Hercules kept his mouth shut except for a tiny, exasperated sigh.

“Look, pal. This is no picnic for me, either,” Strife complained. “If you would’ve just fallen into the Sphinx, Deimos would be playing babysitter and I’d be off wreaking my usual havoc.”

“Sorry to be such a burden.”

“You have no idea.” Strife swung off the enameled chest and approached the massive bronze mirror. It stretched to the high ceiling, a perfect, highly polished sheet of amber metal. Strife stared hard at his reflection, tweaked his hair and drew his eyebrows down in a ludicrous scowl.

Hercules’ eyes went from Strife’s reflection to his own. He was a bloody, filthy mess, and his hair hung in limp strands. Iolaus would probably come up with a comment to make them both laugh, or at least smile a little. But Iolaus was likely somewhere outside the pyramid trying to find a way in, and Hercules was stuck with Strife, instead.

Hercules’ gaze swung back again to Strife’s reflection, only to find him trying another ridiculous pose. Strife was making a muscle, plumping the back of his scrawny arm up with his opposite hand to make it look like he actually had some sort of biceps. His hips were thrust forward and his face was the picture of rapt concentration

Hercules couldn’t help but remark on Strife’s posturing, but when he turned to face Strife, the air in the chamber seemed to shift. Strife wasn’t even facing the mirror. He had a hand resting on his hip and was studying his nails.

Hercules decided against commenting on the last pose. Maybe he was delirious and he’d just imagined it.

Strife’s attention flickered from his nails to Hercules’ eyes. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“I was just thinking, you probably need, like, water or something. Running around the desert all day and such.”

Hercules eyed Strife. Maybe dehydration was making him a little woozy. “All right, what’s the catch?”

Strife flicked his fingers and a small bucket of water appeared. “Honestly, must everything be a challenge for you?” He slunk over to the cat-armed chair and fell into it, petting the armrest between its pointed ears. “If you turn to dust, my ass is toast, ‘kay? So drink up.”

Hercules wasn’t entirely sure he believed that Strife needed to keep him alive. If so, what was that knife incident about earlier? Not that Hercules had suffered any real damage, other than a headache. And the scuffle did pass the time.

The water smelled fine, but Hercules was tempted to leave it just where it was. After all, why should he make himself beholden to Strife? However, dehydration was a real enough danger, he supposed--and considering the thickness of the walls, he wasn’t getting out of the pyramid anytime soon.

Hercules dipped a handful of water from the bucket and tasted it. Clean. Sweet. His thirst sprang to life. Doing his best not to appear gluttonous in front of Strife, Hercules tipped the bucket back carefully and drank his fill.

Although he longed to rinse some of the filth from his arms, Hercules didn’t dare. A single bucket of water was an unexpected and totally unprecedented kindness, coming from Strife. Hercules needed to save whatever was left for later. He couldn’t count on a second bucket.

“There, was that so hard?” said Strife. Hercules lowered the bucket and found him sprawled on his back on the cat-armed chair, tossing a small, bronze phoenix statuette into the air and then catching it, over and over.

Hercules turned back toward the more mundane chair where he’d taken up station, his gaze skimming across the surface of the huge mirror as he did so. It stopped at Strife’s reflection. There was something wrong; Strife’s limbs hadn’t been draped over the chair arm at that awkward angle, and his reflection took up much less of the seat. To see him in the mirror, you’d think the chair was almost swallowing him up.

Being careful not to seem too obvious about it, Hercules looked back over his shoulder to compare the real Strife to the reflection. The air shifted again--and this time Hercules was ready for it. Strife’s body once more dominated the chair. Strife snatched the phoenix from the air and then cocked his head. “Paint a picture,” he said. “It’ll last longer.”

_____

It would make sense for the Aegyptians to have some sort of mystical magic at their disposal, Hercules figured. And it would make sense for them to store it somewhere sacred and nearly impregnable, too. But Hercules had no idea what the reflection was supposed to mean.

Hercules pretended to be studying all the carvings and glyphs that adorned every object and surface: bugs, birds, flowers and strange, sideways people. But every now and then, at no particular interval, he peeked at Strife, and then checked Strife’s reflection.

The mirror reflected Strife, and the room. And Hercules, looking battered. Everything normal.

Strife had long ago tossed the bronze phoenix at Hercules’ head and begun rifling through more of the dead man’s possessions. “So what’s this,” he called out, waving a carved, painted rectangle over his head, “a game?”

“How should I know?”

“It is a game,” Strife went on, oblivious to Hercules’ brush-off. “Here are the pieces.” A round, ebony table sailed across the floor, stopping in front of the cat-armed chair. Hercules’ chair followed suit, scuttling across the floor with him in it.

“You want to play a game?” said Hercules, wondering how Strife would manage to turn it against him.

Strife gave Hercules a long-suffering look as the board and all its pieces floated through the air and assembled on the table. “You got anything better to do?”

“We don’t know the rules.”

“I’m a god. I can get the rules.” Strife held his hand over the painted wood board and the mound of semi-precious stones. “There--I have ‘em. So simple even you could play.”

Accepting the water was bad enough; Hercules might have to co-exist with his enemy, but nothing said they had to fraternize. “I don’t play children’s games.”

Game pieces clattered on the floor as the table fell on its side. Strife had Hercules by the throat and was lifting him out of the chair, pulling his face horribly close. “I’m the god here and I said we’re playing the game,” he forced out between clenched teeth. Strife gave Hercules’ chamois vest a twist that constricted his blood flow. “It would amuse me to play a game, half-breed, so pick up the pieces and play.”

Hercules was about to knee Strife between the legs when he caught a glimpse of their reflection. In the mirror, Hercules simply stood before Strife, towering over him, while Strife bawled up at Hercules with his face twisted into a red mask of frustration. Strife looked no older than his boy Klonus had the last time Hercules had seen him on the Other Side. Perpetually ten summer old.

Hercules looked back at Strife’s face and the air shifted so hard it lurched. Strife’s lip was curled and his eyes shone with cold fury. Hercules attempted to swallow, though the constriction of his vest around his throat made a lump stick there just at the base. “I suppose a game or two wouldn’t hurt,” Hercules allowed, and the anger in Strife’s eyes flagged a little. Hercules looked back at the mirror but Strife’s reflection was its proper size again as it dropped Hercules in disgust and crossed its arms over its chest. Hercules looked at the real Strife and found him standing in the same position.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Strife muttered. “Pick up the pieces.”

_____

Hercules’ mind kept gnawing at the meaning of the distorted reflections, and yet he always stopped himself before he carried his hypotheses too far. It felt much more practical to strategize his escape, anyway. He maneuvered his colored stones around Strife’s, but ideas were few and hardly useful. He could try to climb back up to the chute in the ceiling, but Strife would strike him down before he got anywhere near it. And even if Strife were distracted enough to allow Hercules to get to the ceiling, the climb up the long chute would probably take hours, if not days.

Hercules scanned the chamber as best he could for hidden doors or panels, but in the low light the walls all looked the same. He wouldn’t be able to test them without pressing on them--a move that would undoubtedly make any captor suspicious, even one as flighty as Strife.

“You play worse than a retarded five-year-old girl,” Strife complained, conquering a handful of Hercules’ gemstones. “Are you even trying?”

“I’m trying,” said Hercules, stifling a yawn as he reminded himself to stop mulling over the same two useless plans of escape. His stomach chose that moment to punctuate his assertion with a long, loud rumble.

“Oh, I get it,” said Strife, “low blood sugar, right? No prob’.” He waved a hand and a tray covered with bread, cheese and fruit appeared. “I can get the local variety if you want, but...” he wrinkled his nose. “I figured ‘1001 Ways to Cook Millet’ wasn’t any Greek’s idea of comfort food.”

Hercules’ mouth watered at the sight of the meal, but he couldn’t help but wonder if there was poison, or at least ground glass, in it. “Since when does my comfort interest you?”

“Ooh--touchy, touchy. The fare’s clean, man. Bon appetit.” Strife leapt up from his chair, upsetting the game, and danced away between the gemstones he’d left rolling on the floor. He made a show of inspecting the sarcophagus, and then sighed. “Look, I’m stuck with you for a while, and I can’t dismember you. So how else am I gonna keep from dying of boredom?”

Hercules glimpsed the mirror and wished he hadn’t. Strife’s reflection was now Aeson’s age--miniature leathers and all--and the small face with its oversized eyes was staring at Hercules’ reflection beseechingly.

Hercules took a grape from the tray and popped it into his mouth. He chewed. It tasted like...a grape. His mouth watered at its tartness, and he wondered how long it had been since he’d last eaten. He took a few mouthfuls of bread and cheese. “It’s...good,” he said, unaccustomed to feeling the desire to act civilly toward Strife.

Strife shook his head, smirking, and then pointed a finger at the air beside Hercules’ head. A bedroll appeared there, falling to the floor with a dusty thump. “I picked out a scratchy one for you, just to make sure you don’t get too suspicious of my friendly overtures. As for a chamber pot...” he gestured at the far side of the room, “go ahead and use the dead guy’s. I’m sure he won’t mind.”

Hercules wished Strife hadn’t made that last remark about using the chamber pot, because suddenly he had to. Badly. Of all the things to happen. Hercules wondered how he could possibly ask Strife for a bit of privacy, when it occurred to him that maybe it would at least give him a chance to check a few walls. “Speaking of the chamber pot,” he said carefully, wiping crumbs from his hands. “Would you mind?”

“What?”

“You know--could you let me use it? Alone?”

A grin spread across Strife’s face. “Why, you got something down there I haven’t seen before?”

Hercules forced himself to play along and trade jibes, even though he was worried that Strife might not actually leave him alone, even for a few minutes. “Is that what gods do? Watch people urinate?”

Strife gave an easy shrug. “Hey. It beats watching paint dry. But I’ll turn my back if it’ll make you feel better, okay?”

That might be preferable to Strife actually disappearing, Hercules realized, since he’d probably just pretend to leave and then watch Hercules invisibly. “But you’ll hear it,” Hercules went on, not wanting to seem to give in too easily.

“So sing.”

“Sing.”

“Yeah, you know. Move your lips and sounds come out? Sing a song and I won’t hear you pissing. Not as much, anyway.”

“Oh, never mind.” Hercules made toward the far end of the room, wondering if he’d be able to discern a chamber pot from a reliquary, He hoped that the dust in the bottom of the most likely vessel was only that--dust.

Hercules glanced one more time over his shoulder to make sure Strife’s back was really turned. Strife hugged himself, his pale fingers tapping a complicated rhythm on his sides while he whistled. He was indeed facing the opposite direction. His reflection, however, was about half Strife’s real height--sneaking a peek over its shoulder.

Unnerved by the reflection--and unsure whether Strife saw what it saw--Hercules tested only a few sections of the wall, surreptitiously leaning on them while he did his business. Unfortunately, the walls were quite solid.

Strife’s back was still turned when Hercules finished. His reflection was normal again, as it seemed to be each time Hercules checked it on purpose. “I he-eard you,” Strife chirped.

“Great.”

Strife whirled around, still hugging his ribs. “Are you always so self-conscious? I’ll bet you tinkle in front of Iolaus.”

“Iolaus is my oldest friend.”

“So that’s what they’re calling it these days.”

Too weary to rise to the bait, Hercules unrolled the bedroll and spread it on the floor. It was indeed rather scratchy, but it would be much better to lie down on than the floor of an ancient tomb. Hercules shuddered as he rolled himself in the thick woolen pad. The glowing sphere overhead dimmed a bit, and the furniture, statues and urns receded in the dimness until Hercules could imagine that they were anything but burial items.

_____

Hercules came to wakefulness slowly. Through his eyelids, he could tell it was still near-dark, and the fingertips that played over his bare shoulder left a delicious, tingly lassitude in their wake. He sighed, smiling as the delicate touch trailed lower, down the bend of his arm, his forearm, the back of his hand.

“Huh. You never look at me like that when you’re awake.”

Hercules’ eyes snapped open. “Strife! What are you doing?”

Sprawled beside Hercules with his chin cupped in his palm, Strife gave no indication that he cared that Hercules had woken. Hercules snatched his hand away and Strife reached for his biceps instead, trailing another tingling caress over Hercules’ bare skin.

“How’d you get so scraped up?”

The abrasions--Strife had healed most of them. “I, uh...I fell.”

“Tch. You were moaning in your sleep over it, y’know. Very distracting.”

“They’re fine now. Thanks.” Strife dragged his fingers higher, tracing a spiral on the curve of Hercules’ shoulder. “Uh, you can stop.”

Strife inched closer and slipped his fingers into the sleeve of Hercules’ vest. “As a matter of fact, you’re pretty distracting in general.”

So. The conversation really was going where Hercules thought it was going. How bizarre. “You don’t want to do this.”

Strife rolled his eyes grandly. “When you’re pounding me and I’m not allowed to fight back, no. But when you’re looking at me with that sleepy, stupid grin....”

It was mostly shock that kept Hercules from resisting. That, and a final look into Strife’s wide eyes, where all Hercules could see was that wrenching, innocent need from Strife’s young reflection.

People can change--wasn’t that what Hercules always insisted? Typhon and Echidna, Hera’s Enforcer, Xena. They all had dark sides, and yet Hercules now called them friends--or even more, in Xena’s case. Xena had been the bloodiest warlord of her age, and if she could find the good within herself, why not Strife?

“It was my idea to visit you at the Academy,” Strife bragged, “not Ares’. And I was the one who found the basilisk egg to give your buddy, the prince.”

“Why are you telling me all this now?”

“Don’t you see a pattern?” Strife’s finger trailed a lazy loop over Hercules’ arm. “You. Me. A lot of history between us.”

More than Hercules would have liked.

“Damn, but you make me so crazy,” Strife went on, his voice growing steadily more breathy. “Just begging to be put in your place.” The last word sighed out as Strife moved horribly close.

Even though it couldn’t have gone any other way with Strife creeping steadily forward, the kiss was still a shock when it landed on Hercules’ mouth. Strife’s lips caressed Hercules as delicately as his fingers had, his tongue darting out to tease just a bit and then retreat. Hercules didn’t kiss back--well, not exactly. But he didn’t stop Strife, either.

By the time Strife pulled back, his breathing had quickened, and Hercules heard his own pulse pounding in his ears. Strife’s fingers dropped to the lacings on Hercules’ vest. “I can make it totally dark in here. If you want.”

Hercules made the mistake of looking Strife right in the eye. The need there staggered him. “No,” Hercules murmured, looking somewhere over Strife’s shoulder, relieved that he couldn’t see the mirror from where they lay. “The light is fine.”

And then the vest fell open, and Strife’s fingers started to explore Hercules’ chest. They traced the hills and valleys, stroked through the chest hair, wandered down Hercules’ sides and back up again. Strife’s touch grew feathery, almost timid, as he made his way to Hercules’ nipple. They both gasped as Strife’s fingers grazed it.

“Lie back,” Strife whispered, and Hercules forced himself to look up at the ceiling rather than meet Strife’s eyes again. Strife peeled Hercules’ vest fully open while he straddled Hercules’ hips. “Don’t worry,” he said, his voice still so low Hercules could barely hear it. “I won’t tell anyone.”

Hercules closed his eyes, the words stinging him more than the raw look in Strife’s eyes. But then a warm, slick mouth was on his nipple, and Hercules’ back arched up off the scratchy bedroll, his hips taking Strife with them as they rose and then settled back down

Somehow, Strife managed to work his fingers between them, tugging at the lacings to Hercules’ trousers. I should stop him, Hercules thought, before it goes too far. And Strife’s hand slid lower, cupping Hercules’ cock while his teeth pressed gently around Hercules’ taut nipple.

Hercules wove his fingers through Strife’s hair, thinking how he’d dragged Strife across Kora’s bar a time or two by that hair. And how he’d never, ever have imagined it this way: with Strife’s hand down his pants, Strife’s thumb rubbing that spot between his balls, sucking and tonguing his nipple, the other hand reaching up to explore Hercules’ lips with feather-light touches.

“Strife.”

Strife bit at Hercules’ nipple in response, and Hercules’ hips bucked even higher off the bedroll. Maybe it was for the best. Hercules had no idea what he’d meant to say.

Strife’s lower hand eased back up to stroke Hercules’ cock some more. “Mmn, yeah,” he mumbled into Hercules’ chest. “I make you hard.”

Hercules felt his cheeks burn. “Maybe we shouldn’t....”

“Oh come on.” Strife dragged his wicked, wet tongue across Hercules’ chest and set to nibbling his other nipple, pinching the first with the hand that had been caressing his lips a moment before. “Live a little.” Strife’s grip on Hercules’ cock grew sure, and he started pumping it, slow and even.

“But it’s not just about...arousal.”

The hand on his cock clenched harder and a shiver pounded up Hercules’ spine. Strife left off the nipple to crawl up Hercules’ chest and press his mouth into Hercules’ ear. “Who said that it was?” he asked. His tongue followed, sending another course of shivers back down.

“What are you saying?”

Strife laughed, a tiny breath that gave Hercules goosebumps. “Try obsession.”

Hercules petted Strife’s hair awkwardly. “That’s not the best reason, either.”

“So...what?” Strife raised his head, his voice still soft but growing just a bit louder. And his eyes hovered right where Hercules couldn’t avoid them. “I’m not good enough for you?”

“It’s not that,” Hercules assured him, all the while thinking that it might actually be the reason--and feeling horrible shame for it.

Strife’s leathers disappeared. “Whatever it is--I don’t care.” He pulled on Hercules’ cock some more, his rhythm quickening. “Can’t you...can’t you leave it out there--just for a little while?”

Even in the dim light, Strife’s eyes burned with hunger. Hercules squeezed his eyelids shut against it. But once he couldn’t see, the hands on his body and the mouth now playing at his throat seemed twice as intense. Hercules breeches were opened wide. Bare knees squeezed at Hercules’ hips and the hand on his cock grew slick with oil. His mind floundered for a good enough reason to stop what was going to happen while his body quivered with anticipation.

And then--the moment. The fleshy resistance that was the difference between having been in someone, and not. One of Strife’s hands clutched at Hercules’ chest while the other held his cock up. And not knowing suddenly became worse than knowing, and Hercules opened his eyes just as that final barrier gave way.

_____

If it had been awkward trying to talk to Strife while they made love, it seemed ten times worse afterward. He’d never thought of Strife as being vulnerable, and the very idea was enough to send Hercules’ mind wandering down paths of the past. What had he said to Strife over the course of so many years, and what had Strife made of it? It seemed better not to thicken the plot with any further words.

Strife had come with a long, breathy gasp, his semen anointing Hercules’ chest. Hercules soon followed, his hands clutching Strife’s narrow shoulders. They held that position for a long moment, staring, breathing. Until finally the silence itself grew too much, and Strife swung off Hercules’ hips, his leathers reappearing.

And so they sat, Strife against the wall, gazing off into the distance, and Hercules half-facing Strife, gnawing the inside of his cheek while he stared up at the ceiling. “You know,” Hercules said, his voice awkward and stale in the silence of the tomb. “If I’ve ever said anything to you, or done something that....” Hercules sighed. He glanced at Strife, who was now staring at him. “It’s just...I’m sorry. If I’ve ever...hurt you.”

Strife said nothing, looking back over at the wall with an enigmatic smile on his lips.

Hercules wondered if that was all there was to say, then. He supposed it wasn’t in Strife’s nature to apologize in kind. It seemed like that was just the way gods were. And he guessed he wouldn’t be likely to extract any kind of promise from Strife, either. But things just felt so unfinished that Hercules couldn’t help but fish for a little more of a response.

“How do you feel?”

“Shh...” Strife raised an eyebrow and held a finger to his grinning lips. His eyes flickered over to the mirror.

Hercules tried to stop himself from looking--who knew what he might see? But the reflection was only that, a gilded image of a man and a god sitting on a dusty stone floor. He started to turn back to Strife, to try again to discern what was going on in the god’s mind, when the image wavered a bit.

Hercules strained to see what the mirror was distorting now. But he looked like himself, and Strife looked like Strife. The mirror wavered again, and again, and Hercules heard the sound of metal striking stone.

“They’re coming for you,” Strife said.

Hercules winced. He’d spent all his time wanting to escape, and now when he wanted nothing more than a few more words of truth from Strife, his time had run out.

The banging and scraping grew steadily louder, until the mirror started to bow. “Herc?” came Iolaus’ voice, muffled but still recognizable. “Herc, can you hear me?”

“Well?” Strife said. “Aren’t you gonna answer him?”

Hercules rose into a crouch, turning to face Strife squarely. “Tell me something,” he said.

Strife leaned his head back into the wall and continued smirking at Hercules, eyes hooded.

“When you looked at me in the mirror,” Hercules went on, “what did you see?”

Strife’s smile faded as the pounding on the other side of the mirror grew louder. “Nothing.”

“Herrrrc!”

Hercules gripped Strife’s arm. “Can’t you give me at least that much? What did you see?”

Strife’s fingers folded over Hercules’s fist, gently prying his hand open. Strife leaned forward and pressed his cheek to Hercules’. “Don’t,” he said.

“Tell me.”

Strife sighed, his breath tickling Hercules’ neck. “I saw a man,” he said, his voice so low Hercules strained to hear it over the pounding and shouting of the rescue party, “who drags three dead kids with him everywhere he goes.”

Hercules sat back on his heels, stunned.

“Happy now?” Strife eased out from between Hercules and the wall, stood, and brushed the dust of Pharaohs off his leathers.

Hercules rose and turned toward Strife, but now it was Strife who backed away. “Uh-uh,” Strife said. “Not another word.” He glanced toward the mirror that was now scored nearly to puncturing by the blows from the other side. “Whatever you saw in there--I don’t wanna know.”

Hercules stood. He couldn’t seem to figure out what to do with his hands, so he crossed his arms.

Strife eased himself against Hercules’ side and pressed his lips into Hercules’ hair. “Your oldest friend’s almost here,” he whispered. “I’d better take my goodbye kiss.”

But instead of kissing Hercules properly, Strife slid his wet tongue once over Hercules’ ear as the chamber went black. His presence vanished.

With the absence of light, the clamor of tools on bronze throbbed in Hercules’ ears. The shouts, scrapes and pounding all built upon each other, louder and louder, until finally the surface of the mirror broke and a beam of lamplight knifed through the jagged hole.

“Hercules?”

Hercules hesitated. The chamber where he’d seen deep inside Strife and found a part he couldn’t hate seemed too private to share. He even felt a pang of loss as the mirror became nothing more than a sheet of battered metal.

“Hercules, are you all right?” But that voice held nothing but concern. No nuance of sarcasm, no ulterior motives. Just...his oldest friend, coming to take him home.

“Iolaus!” Hercules pressed his face into the hole, his eyes watering from the glare of the lanterns.

Iolaus stood among a crew of swarthy Aegyptian laborers, all of them covered in sweat and dust. “It’s good to see you, buddy,” Iolaus said, dropping a pickaxe so he could thrust his hand through the opening and clasp forearms with Hercules.

Hercules sighed, cherishing the familiar solidity of Iolaus’ grasp. “It’s good to be seen.”

end