Title: Altering History (prologue)

Author: Scorpio

Archive: If you wish...

Fandom: Herc/Xena

Pairing: Strife/Joxer (eventually)

Rating: R (see warnings and notes!!!!)

Series: this is not even the 1st chapter, it's the prologue...

Category: AU, DEATH, (eventual underage m/m sex!!!!!), violence

Warning: DEATH!!!! (eventual UNDERAGE sex)

Disclaimer: not mine, no money

Summary: In a last ditch gambit to save his family from destruction, Strife sends himself hurtling backwards through time.

Altering History

By Scorpio

Prologue

Year: 3476, April

Olympus

Strife lay in a crumpled heap of pain amongst the smoldering ruins of his dark uncle's Temple. The air was filled with the stench of melted rock and smoldering bodies. At least the cries of anguish no longer tortured his ears. Instead, a new sound captured his attention, pulling him from the brink of oblivion. It was a laugh. A cruel and arrogant laugh that was filled with unspeakable madness.

Dahok.

The alien God had finally escaped his millennia imprisonment. Armed with new and deadly enemies of fire and hate, he had once again laid siege to Olympus. And this time, Dahok had won.

Wincing at the pain that his actions caused, Strife, God of Mischief, opened his bruised and swollen eyes to peer around at the vast destruction that was his home. Olympus was in utter ruins. All of the Temples were laid waste, and the scent of smoke and death filled his nose.

Reaching out with his waning strength, he searched for a spark of life and energy, anything that would pin-point another of his family. Nothing. He shivered in abject terror at the emptiness that filled him. There *were* no other Gods or Goddesses left. Only he remained.

Desperately, Strife tried to convince himself that he was wrong. He was too weak to feel them, or maybe they had escaped? Something,... *anything*! But soon, those self-deluded hopes were forever dashed.

The haunting and teasing laugh drew nearer and the sound of marble shards crushing beneath booted heals marked a path leading directly to Strife. Suddenly, a pair of black leather shod feet came into view before his face.

"The last of the Olympians,... lying in a pool of his own blood at my feet. I don't think that I've seen anything as beautiful in centuries. I'll remember this moment always."

The voice of his enemy was sweet and smooth, yet there were hidden tones riding underneath that caused the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end.

"Time to die Little One..."

Twisting his neck painfully, Strife looked up into the stunningly beautiful face of Dahok and flinched at the wave of absolute evil that assaulted him. He shivered as an icy tendril of unutterable fear traveled the course of his spine.

The demented God from the other side of Beyond smiled down at him. He wore loose billowing robes that were once a pristine white, but were now stained with dark soot and red blood. In one hand, he held a long gore coated heavy dagger, in the other, he carried a tall metal staff. A staff that held the last remaining piece of the Chronos Stone at it's apex.

The Chronos Stone!

Strife shivered again. This time it was due to the insane plan that coursed through his mind. His vision clouded slightly as he remembered the desperate strategy meeting that had been hastily called in Ares Temple,only one day before. Once it had become painfully apparent that Dahok and his Army of Demons were destined to win the war, Ares had devised a plan. A last gambit.

He had planned to send Athena back in time to alter history, to prevent the war from ever happening in the first place. They had never gotten the chance to do so, because, before Ares could put his plan into action, Dahok had attacked. Now, it was too late. Or was it?

Whimpering a quick prayer to Gaea to protect desperate fools lost in time, Strife gathered the last of his quickly dissipating strength. Jumping to his feet, Strife put every last ounce of energy he had into thrusting his hand forward, not to attack, but to simply touch the glowing green jewel. As soon as his palm felt the warm pulsing stone, Strife transported himself through time and space.

Hurtling through the twisting pulsing void, he lost consciousness.

Ancient Greece

20 some odd miles south of Sparta, Warlord Jentos stronghold

Pain.

Throbbing burning pain.

A sickening wave of nausea rolled over him, causing his insides to churn violently. For a long moment, he was certain that he was going to throw up. He clenched his teeth and rode the wave desperately until it dissipated. Vague relief coursed through him and he floated towards consciousness.

Voices.

Loud and hard, soft and pleading. He tried to pull his thoughts together enough to listen to the speakers. To force some semblance of meaning from the words.

"I *said* for you to *kill* him! Don't defy me child! You *don't* mean that much to me, you know. I have two more just like you."

"... but... but... *Please!* Dad no! I... I..."

Something about that whiny tone struck a chord in Strife's swirlingly chaotic thoughts. Painfully, he focused on the voice. The first voice started speaking and he lost the memory again. It was on the edge of his mind...

"Listen Joxer... This guy *broke into our camp* and then passed out amongst the horses, spooking them all. *Three* pulled their stakes and ran! He's in no condition to repay that loss. *Kill him*! I'm your father, do as I say and *prove* your worth to me. For *once* prove that your mother was right about not letting me drown you at birth!"

Strife twitched at hearing the name Joxer. He *knew* that name! But from where?...Some where in the past, obviously, but *when* in the past. The last thing he remembered was passing out in the void and losing control of the passage of time. How far back did he travel?

Taking as deep a breath as he could without wrenching his broken ribs, Strife slowly peeled open his eyes. Bright sunlight stabbed into his skull like twin daggers and he moaned at the agony.

Suddenly, the sunlight vanished and was replaced by a young male face. Relief that the burning light was gone, Strife slowly focused his eyes on the young man,... no, not a man, not yet. He was still young, maybe 15 or 16 years old. The boy was pale and his eyes shone with fear and concern, yet a deep seated compassion sparkled deep within.

"Joxer. If you make me have one of your brothers kill him, I'll punish you *severely*. Is he worth *that* kind of pain?"

Strife watched the boy flinch at the words and his face went even paler. His hands shook and trembled slightly, but he *still* reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from Strife's forehead. As if that gentle motion had opened up a door, memories flooded into Strife's mind. He remembered this... Joxer and that information clued him in to when in time he had actually traveled. Ancient Greece.

Damn! He'd gone back *way* too far in time. Shit shit shit.

As it was, he knew he was far too injured and sick to do anything about it just yet. He needed to heal and recover his strength. He also had to find the (in this day and age, *lost*) Chronos Stone so that when he *was* ready, he could go forward in time to the correct day.

The sharp crack of a whip yanked his attention back to the here and now abruptly. He looked over just in time to see the end of the braided leather snap in the air only inches from Joxer's left ear. The young man flinched and his face went white as a sheet, but he didn't run or move away. A sorrowing and resigned look settled over his soft features. In an instant, Strife realized that Joxer planned to take a painful and cruel beating from his father in order to save his life. And Joxer didn't even *know* him!

He was stunned by the enormity of it. Blinking, he was suddenly flooded with broken and fragmented memories of the Joxer who he had known in his *own* past. He had been a clumsy and inept warrior, yet his friends and companions were of the highest caliber. Heroes. What did they see in him, he had always wondered. Now he knew. Loyalty, bravery and a fierce heart that instinctively *knew* to protect those weaker than himself.

"Well boy? You gonna kill him... or taste the whip?"

Joxer didn't answer, instead, he braced himself for the first stinging and biting lash. Strife knew he couldn't let this happen. He couldn't let the Jentos thrash Joxer just because he was defending his life. It didn't matter that the Warlord didn't have the ability to actually *kill* Strife, Joxer didn't know that. He *had* to do something.

Focusing and concentrating hard, Strife planted a thought in Joxer's head. The effort left him dizzy and weaker.

"Dad... I..."

The Warlord Jentos lowered his whip.

"Yeah?... You gonna do it?"

"No, but... I mean... This guy is obviously an escaped slave. I mean, someone beat him and he escaped to us right? So I figure, that should make him mine. I found him, so I should keep him."

Strife saw the look of confusion wash over Jentos face as he considered this. Straining his already diminished reserves, Strife extended his mind and tested the thoughts of the mean and battle scarred mortal standing over him and Joxer.

The big man had three sons. The other two, Joxers brothers, had already proven themselves to the Warlord. One, Jace, was a full time solider fighting in battles next to his father. He seemed to excel at arson and rape. Then there was Jett. A cruel and dark individual that liked to cut men's throats while they slept in their bed. Jentos was sure that Jett was destined for greatness.

And then there was Joxer. Actively tormented and teased by his brothers and the Warlords followers, he'd never lost his blood innocence. He was considered a total failure by everyone in the camp. It was obvious that the Warlord was thoroughly confused at *why* Joxer refused to kill him.

Strife flexed the remainder of his waning power and planted a thought in the big cruel mans small mind. He watched as a smirk settled over the scarred features and as visions of Joxer as a wealthy slave trader danced in his head. With Strife's encouragement, Jentos figured that if Joxer didn't have it in him to *kill* a man, it was a good thing that he could buy and sell them on the block. At least he has *some* good qualities...

"Okay Joxer... You want a slave? You got it. But he's *your* responsibility so *you* take care of him. Got it?"

"Yes Dad."

Strife smiled, winked at Joxer and then fainted.

Ancient Greece

20 some odd miles south of Sparta, Warlord Jentos stronghold

Slowly, the hazy fog rolled back and awareness seeped into his mind. Little by little, he cataloged his physical condition and immediate surroundings by touch alone.

His body was healing. That much he was certain of. He could feel the last of the broken bones mending themselves at this very moment. His bruises were fading and his muscles were stiffening up from the combination of extreme abuse that was quickly followed by covalence.

Stretching his mind from his physical body to his powers, he found that he was still pitifully low in reserve power. Most of his Godly strength was being channeled into healing energy. What was more, in the future where he had just come from, he'd had over a billion worshippers supporting and strengthening him. Here in Ancient Greece, he had none. He was a God out of time... Not that there *weren't* worshippers to the God Strife here and now, it's just that their devotion and prayers were all going to his younger, earlier self.

Strife frowned slightly as he considered all the implications of that. He was not only lost in time, he was alone. No worshippers and no family... Oh, he had lots of family during this time period, but he didn't think he could actually *go* to them for help. It's not that they wouldn't *believe* him,... well, Unc would believe him, but it was a paradox. He couldn't risk coming in to contact with his other self.

Mentally, he cursed himself and suppressed the urge to cry in frustration. *Athena* was the one who knew about this stuff. She and Zeus had spent several hundred years studying time travel and the effects it had on the time continuum as well as the individuals involved. Even Uncle Ares had a firm grasp of the basics, but *him*?

Strife would be the first to admit that he knew bupkis about it. He himself had spent more time and energy traveling to alternate dimensions and universes. *That* he knew. Meeting up with your other self in an alternate universe was different. The energy signatures given off by everything was fractionally different. Even a .000001 was enough of a divergence to be safe. But here and now his energy signature was *exactly* that same as his younger self. *That* was what created the paradox. Desperately, he wished he could remember *what* effects that could have...

A slight sound distracted him from his deep and depressing thoughts and reminded him where he was. Once again aware of his physical surroundings, Strife realized that he was lying in a warm and clean bed. It wasn't very big or comfortable, but it was a lot better than the hard rocky ground he'd awoken on last time. Curious to where he'd been moved to, Strife opened his eyes.

The light was dim and it took his eyes a while to adjust. Slowly, the bare stones walls of the small room swam into focus. He was tucked into a small crude bed with a course woolen blanket pulled up over his chest. A rough hewn wooden table and chair set off to one side. A fitfully burning oil lamp flung wildly shifting patches of orange light and deep shadows across the walls and the other occupant of the room.

Silently, Strife watched as a young man, more boy really, placed a bowl of what appeared to be water on the table. When he turned in profile, he saw that it was Joxer, his *owner*. Strife almost smirked at that thought, but then Joxer began to wash up with the water and a bar of soap that he hadn't seen.

The lighting wasn't good, but to Strife's way of thinking, the water turned dark awfully quick. He was just beginning to wonder if Joxer had fallen into a mud puddle when the young man turned and peeled his shirt up off of his body, clearly exposing his back to Strife's line of sight.

A fierce surge of protectiveness welled up inside of him as his dark eyes took in the sight of the myriad bruises and welts that criss-crossed the pale skin. He squinted his eyes and focused his vision and saw how this most recent beating had been overlaid another. Many others. The bruises were in a variety of colors. The fresh ones were still red and slowly deepening to purple. There was also many marks on Joxer's skin that were the blues, greens and yellows that signified time and healing. The swollen welts were caused by a thick leather lash or belt, not the whip that the Warlord Jentos had carried and threatened him with. At least,... the fresh ones. There were older scars and marks that matched the whip he had seen being wielded by Joxer's father.

Boiling anger and the beginnings of a cold hard rage began to surface within him. The protectiveness that he had felt only seconds before magnified itself ten-fold and combined itself with an odd sense of possessiveness. How *dare* they! Joxer was *his*! Joxer had *claimed* Strife as his own, damn it! Granted, Joxer claimed him as a slave and not his God, but still, how *dare* they!

With a start of surprise, Joxer whirled around and dropped the soap. He wore an innocent and startled look across his honest face and Strife was forcibly reminded of a deer caught in a hunter's cross-hairs. Vaguely, Strife realized that he was growling in displeasure and it was that sound that had startled Joxer so. With an effort to calm himself, he stopped snarling. Joxer smiled.

"Hey! You're awake!"

With a cheery heart warming smile and stiff stilted movements that spoke eloquently of pain and injury, Joxer made his way across the small damp room to the side of the bed that Strife was ensconced in. Joxer leaned forward and fussed with the blankets briefly and then petted them smooth.

"So... you feeling better? I'm sorry about the accommodations, but this is all I have to offer. Can I,... um,... get you anything?"

Strife looked up into the ernest and sincere brown eyes above him and opened his mind slightly. The man-child was truly concerned with Strife's well being and to the Mischief Gods complete and total amazement, he held no anger or resentment for the obvious abuse he had recently suffered. It boggled his mind and as such, he answered honestly.

"I'm feeling a lot better and the room is just fine. What I want to know is what in the name of Hades happened to you?"

Joxer shrugged as if unconcerned.

"Oh... that. Well, three of the horses escaped when you spooked them. They could only find two of them. So dad told the guy who's horse was still missing that he had to come to me for an answer since it was my slave that spooked them."

A frown crossed the normally sunny face.

"Jett helped."

Another shrug and Joxer dismissed the subject as closed, but Strife didn't,... couldn't. Opening his mind further, he reached out and gently rested his hand onto his owners hand where it rested on the blanket. Memories and sensations flooded into him in a humiliating and painful rush.

He gasped.

Joxer fidgeted uncomfortably. It was clear through Strife's touch induced telepathy that the young man wanted to help what he mistook as physical distress, but was unsure how to do so. Strife needed some time to assimilate and analyze these acquired memories, so he gave his owner something to do.

"Um... could I get some food? I'm sorta hungry."

Like a spark to kindling, Joxer jumped at the chance to be helpful. With a bright smile and a hasty promise for some food, he rushed out of the room in search of dinner for two.

Strife sank back into the blankets and scowled. This complicated things. He had planned on playing the part of Joxer's new slave until he was well enough to travel. It would only take a few days, so it was no hardship. But now? How could he abandon this child who had defended his very life to this cruel existence? Especially when he knew first hand the pain and agony of living the self same role that Joxer was in?

He had spent several centuries as Discords personal whipping boy and sex-toy until his Uncle Ares had stolen him away from her. Ares was often cruel and he had a mean streak a thousand miles wide, but he was also intelligent and compassionate. Not many people knew that fact, but you can't spend millennia orchestrating wars without being able to understand and *feel* all the negative emotions that war caused. And that included grief, remorse, guilt and defeat. So once he had begun living with Ares, his life had taken a dramatic change for the better.

Now, here he was, faced with the same thing all over again. Only this time it was Joxer. The memories he had pulled from his owners mind told him that he had been considered little more than a whipping boy and camp whore, not only by the Warlords followers, but by his own family as well for several years now. This most recent abuse had consisted of a harsh and ruthless beating with a leather belt by the lost horses owner and a quick cruel rape by his brother Jett. And like Strife had with Discord, Joxer just accepted it as how life was. He didn't fight back or try to stop it. It was just the way things were.

How could Strife leave him to this fate?

Looking deep inside himself, Strife realized he *couldn't*. He wasn't sure just *what* he would do yet, but whatever it was, Joxer was coming with him. Suddenly, the door opened and Joxer arrived with a tray of food and Strife pulled his thoughts back to the present. There was time enough to figure the details out later.

Ancient Greece

20 some odd miles south of Sparta, Warlord Jentos stronghold

All was chaos and confusion. Fear spiking through his churning mind, Strife watched in silent horror as he watched Artemis fall in a crumpled headless heap at Ares feet, leaving the injured WarGod to face Dahok and his remaining Demons alone. He tried desperately to remove the two tons of marble that lay over him, shattering his spine and crushing his legs. Panic set in as the ring of Demons tightened around Ares, surrounding him. He *had* to get out from under the fallen stone faster this time. He *knew* what would happen if he didn't.

Icy dread inched up his spine as he pushed out with his God Powers in a mighty heave, cracking the heavy marble in half and then with another concentrated burst of power, he slid the two halves aside. He expected to feel a dizzy wash and a near swoon come over him, but strangely, it never happened and a rush of hope burned through him that maybe *this* time, the outcome would be different. Focusing his God Power again, he quickly healed his spine and legs as much as he could and then rolled over... just in time to see Dahok once again plunge the Hind's Blood Dagger into his uncle Ares heart.

"NOOOOO!!!"

Strife sat straight up in bed with beads of sweat running down his forehead and tears streaming from his eyes. Oddly gentle hands grappled with him pulling him in tight to a warm chest and soothing murmurs teased his ears. Still in a state of panic, he struggled slightly, but then he realized that the chest he was pressed against was warm and alive. Alive!

In confusion, he glanced up into the compassionate and gentle face of Joxer. Strife hung suspended somewhere between utter relief and heartbreaking grief. He was so glad to be alive and away from the soul chilling battle for Olympus, yet he was so terribly alone. His family were all dead. Only he remained.

In the shock and pain of his injuries, he had been able to push that from his mind, but now, he could hide from that cold hard fact no longer. The distant and clinical aloofness needed to formulate plans of retribution and prevention was sorely ripped from his heart and soul in the aftermath of his nightmare. His very being was shaken and injured to the core.

And so, Strife God of Mischief, sole surviving Olympian of the final battle for Olympus did the only thing he *could* do. He turned around, buried his face in his owners shoulder and cried out his grief and pain. His whole body shuddered with the force of his sobs and tears streamed unchecked down his grief ravaged face. Anger, denial, grief and guilt all vied for dominance in his soul, twisting around and around until he thought that he'd go mad. And through it all, Joxer's gentle and merciful arms encircled him and held him tight.

Ancient Greece

20 some odd miles south of Sparta, Warlord Jentos stronghold

Strife looked around the Warlord Jentos compound as he followed behind Joxer. It was much as he had expected. There were lots of warriors, all armed and armored. A few of them sparked vague memories in him, so he figured that they must have risen to greatness in Ares service the "first time around", as he was beginning to think of his own past during this time period. Oddly enough, none of these great and upcoming warriors stirred the embers of memory for him as strongly as the abused whipping boy Joxer. It was almost hilarious that the one person here who would least attract his Uncles attention at this point in time, had become one of the more widely known mortals to the Gods of Olympus,... even if it was just through virtue of his famous and infamous friends.

Strifes appreciation for and contemplation of the absurd and the sublime ironies of life were brought up short when Joxer stopped abruptly in front of his father's blacksmith. The strong heat from the forge washed over him, causing beads of sweat to break out across his forehead and a sinking feeling in his stomach. It became worse when Joxer turned to look at him with an expression of sorrow and compassion etched into his normally cheery features.

"I'm... I'm *so* sorry about this. I... I tried to talk father out of it, but he insisted. He said that if I was going to have a... a slave, then I had to learn how to deal with my... property."

Strife felt a moment of confusion. What could Joxer be sorry about? What did the Warlord Jentos order him to do? Then he glanced over to the big burly blacksmith... and swallowed hard. The large man held a hinged iron collar in his meaty hands. Jentos meant to have a slaves collar welded around his neck!

For a long moment Strife ran several possibilities through his mind. One, he could blast the blacksmith to dust. But that would leave what little reserve power he had managed to build up to become depleted. At that point, he'd be in danger... and so would Joxer. Especially if Ares or Hephestus showed up to see *why* he had done such a thing. Two, he could transport himself away. But once again, Joxer would pay the price. He wasn't strong enough yet to take them both, and he didn't want to leave Joxer to Jentos anger. He *couldn't* bring himself to do that. Not to the young man who had held him last night while he had cried out his grief. So that left...

"Its okay Jox..."

Taking a deep breath, Strife stepped towards the big blacksmith and held his chin up high, exposing his neck for the collar. Through sheer will alone, he didn't flinch as the cold iron was snapped into place. He had to keep reminding himself that it was not Hephestus forged, and therefore, he could remove it anytime he wanted.

Once the collar had been snapped into place, the blacksmith guided him over to his anvil. Once over there, Strife found himself being arranged to the big blacksmith's satisfaction. The blacksmith moved away for a moment and Strife heard some vague sounds of movement and metal against metal. Then a loud hiss of glowing hot metal in cool water. Suddenly, a searing pain against the back of his neck was followed by a quick double thump and a sharp tug. It took everything he had *not* to blast the big fool to ashes.

Strife found himself released and then Joxer was leaning over him, trying to steady his shaking limbs with his thin arms.

"Shhh... It's over. It's all over now. Shhh..."

Strife flinched when a cool thick gel-like liquid was spread over the tender and burnt skin at the back of his neck. His thrust his head around to glare at the offence and only saw a teary eyed Joxer smoothing a white ointment into his skin.

"Uh... this should help take the sting out. I'm... I'm *so* sorry. I..."

Strife was about to tell Joxer that he knew that it wasn't his fault and that everything would eventually work out, but the blacksmith's amused snort interrupted him before he could even begin. Strife glared at the burly man, but he didn't notice. He was too busy smirking in disgusted amusement at Joxer. He consoled himself with bloody visions of this man's painful and slow death.

"So... Joxer. What's it's name? It's needs a name tag for it's collar."

Joxer flinched and Strife could feel his anger and resent through his touch telepathy. He was startled and pleased to note that Joxer was upset because of the treatment Strife had suffered at this rude man's hands. Joxer was starting to develop a protective streak a mile wide for him and it was a refreshing and pleasant change from the sensations he *had* been experiencing lately. He felt himself begin to smirk.

"Mischief. They call me Mischief."

The blacksmith snorted with amused derision and turned to his work bench. Strife and Joxer watched silently as the big man took up some delicate engraving tools and carefully began to tap out crude Grecian symbols on a small square flat piece of steel. Once he finished, the blacksmith picked up the name tag and blew on it to dust off the tiny slivers of metal. Turning, he walked back over and hung the tag on an S loop. He used a pair of pliers to pinch closed one side of the S loop so that the tag wouldn't fall off. Then he twisted the other end of the S loop onto Strife's collar. Another deft twist of the pliers and the other end was pinched closed.

With a sad sigh, Strife looked down to see his "tag" hanging against his chest between his collarbones. He reached out and turned it slightly so that he could see what had been engraved onto it's surface. There, in big bold Grecian letters was his name... or rather, his title.

MISCHIEF

Ancient Greece
20 some odd miles south of Sparta, Warlord Jentos stronghold

With a flex of the small amount of his powers that he'd managed to build back up over the last couple of days, Strife slid out from under the covers of the bed he still shared with his owner. It was delicate work, as Joxer was a notoriously light sleeper. Strife muffled a quiet snort of derision and disgust. Not that he blamed the young mortal. Who wouldn't end up waking from a deep sleep at every little sound after spending years of being randomly assaulted during the night time hours by your family and said families retainers?

Strife squashed down another flare of anger and resentment aimed at the Warlord Jentos. There would be plenty of time for reparations later. Right now he had a mission to do.

His original plan had been to wait out here until he was sufficiently strong enough to make good his escape with Joxer in tow. It had sounded like a good idea, unfortunately, things never seemed to work out with good luck on his side. It was to the point where he almost regretted all of the pranks he had played on his Aunt Fortune. Almost,... but not quite.

The main problem with his original plan was that without the normal resources available to Olympians, his recovery was being slowed down dramatically. He didn't have a base of worshippers and supporters, so that also hampered his ability to rejuvenate. A slow recovery time was not the most pleasant way to spend a month or two, but it wouldn't have been *that* bad. He had been willing to make do.

Unfortunately, the situation here with Joxer and his father was intolerable. It had been a week since he'd arrived here and five of those days, he'd been well enough to be up and around helping Joxer perform his chores. He had watched, feeling helpless and useless as his owner and... *friend* had been systematically abused.

Oh, when Strife was actually *with* him, it was different. He had *some* small reserve of power and he used it sparingly, but in much needed situations. He turned the erections of would be rapists into blinding migraines and the heavy fisted soldiers spoiling for fights often found themselves sprawled on their armored backs after slipping in horse or dog dung that hadn't been there moments before.

He also used more mundane and decidedly mortal means to wreak havoc on Jentos stronghold. For instance, after spending one particular afternoon as an errand boy and "gofer", Strife had sat back and watched as everyone began to discover their money pouches missing. He took great satisfaction in everyone's shocked anger when those same money pouches where found hidden beneath some rags in the blacksmiths forge. And the fight afterwards *had* been spectacular.

However, as much fun as those incidents of mischief and retribution had been, it was no longer enough. He needed an ally and a source to get items that he no longer had access to. And as much as he liked Joxer, he couldn't provide what he needed. It was time to take a great risk in the hopes of gaining an even greater reward.

Reaching out to control his severely limited powers, Strife transported himself out of Joxer's darkened bedroom. With a muted flash of dim light and a low level crackle of energy, Strife rematerialized in another dark stone room. Gasping for breath, he dropped to his knees. Every limb trembled and his heart pounded in his chest. Partly in fear and partly from the extreme exertion. Raising his head, Strife looked around at the Warlord Jentos private chapel. The Temple of Ares, God of War.

Wearily pushing himself to his feet, Strife stumble the few remaining steps to the blood stained Alter. Unsteadily, Strife reached out and placed his hand on the flat rough hewn surface. He could feel the echoes of his dread Uncle's power embedded in the very stones. He licked suddenly dry lips and shoved down his instant surge of fear.

"Uncle... I need you. Come alone. Please..."

The tremors running through his shaky legs intensified and he collapsed back to the floor. Vicious waves of nausea rolled over him. The transportation spell followed so closely by a summoning spell had used up all of the reserve energy he had so painstakingly built up. He was weak as a new born kitten and just as vulnerable. If Ares wanted him dead, there was not a single thing he could do to prevent it.

In a rush of swirling energy that came from nowhere and everywhere, all the light and heat in the dank Temple was inexorably pulled towards the dark Throne before the Alter. A burst of intense light and a shimmering displacement of air was followed by the stench of burning ozone. Sparks of fractured light assaulted his tired eyes and an almost overwhelming sense of presence filled the room. Tingles raced down his spine as raw nerve endings were bathed in the soothing aura of God Power.

Moaning at the mixture of exhaustion and relief, Strife looked up to gaze into his dark Uncle's fathomless eyes. As he watched shock and concern meld into anger and barely contained violence, he marveled at how bittersweet it was to gaze upon the lush and deadly beauty that was Ares. With two long strides, his Uncle crossed the room and knelt down on one knee to gather him in his thickly muscled arms. Instantly, soothing healing energy began to pour into his body and his soul. The energy that thrummed into him was directly from the War God's essence and it tasted like fresh blood and smelt of glowing hot metal. Tears of gratitude filled his eyes, but he refused to let them fall.

"Who did this to you! Who dared to damage my property!"

Strife blinked in confusion for a second until he remembered. At this point in time, his younger self *did* belong to Ares in a very real sense. When Discord had proven to be such a horrid excuse for a parent, Zeus had turned all rights and responsibilities of Guardianship over to his Uncle Ares. It wasn't until his 500th year that he had won his true adulthood and his freedom. Ares laid him out on the Alter to inspect for internal damage and the flow of the energy began to shift as he found subtle things that Strife had considered to inconsequential to bother with. Gathering his thoughts, he tried to answer.

"Dahok... It was Dahok."

Ares graced him with a blank look.

"Who?"

"An enemy you haven't met yet. An alien God from another dimension who will one day declare War against Olympus."

With a hiss of unutterable rage ares began to draw away. Strife could almost hear the echoes of plans and ideas forming within his beloved Uncle's devious mind.

"Wait!"

Desperate to make his Uncle understand the true nature of what lay before him, he reached out with both arms to grasp Ares head, one palm against each temple.

"You don't understand yet. I've come backwards through time from the future to try and put your last battle plans into play. I have to show you what I saw, teach you what I learned. Please?!"

Dark eyes stared into his with a sword sharp gaze that he was powerless to break. He knew that his Uncle was searching his soul for deception and lies. Finally satisfied with what he had found, Ares nodded once. Strife was almost lost in the sensations flooding his mind when the War god's abruptly dropped his mental shields and opened his thoughts to him. Those hauntingly beautiful dark eyes changed. No longer merely organs used to see out at the world, they became orbs of swirling power and energy. Strife could see the echoes of every battle and every war ever fought clash violently within his dark Uncle's turbulent soul. Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, the Mischief God dropped his own mental shields and merged his mind to that of Ares.

Ancient Greece
20 some odd miles south of Sparta, Warlord Jentos stronghold

Visions and knowledge and the sense of many centuries rolling past in a ponderous wave flowed out of him into Ares. At first, it was a jumbled rush of chaotic images and impressions until Strife clamped down his rampaging emotions and focused his thoughts into a narrow beam. Then, his memories of certain events pulsed along the mental link in rapid fire succession.

Xena's betrayal.

Dahok and Gabrielle and Hope.

Callisto.

His own rebirth from the Underworld.

Dahok's escape from Hell.

The second battle for Olympus and Dahok's defeat.

Dahok's imprisonment and the his escape from the Void.

Ares time travel plan to defeat Dahok by changing the past.

The third and final battle for Olympus.

Ares own death.

With a cry of anguish and rage at that final shared vision, Ares savagely broke the mental link between their minds. Strife felt the awesome power and anger that was his dark Uncle wrench away from his awareness. His mind floundered helplessly for a moment, the exertions and strain finally overwhelming him. He collapsed into unconsciousness on the blood stained Alter.

~O~

Warm tingling energy enveloped him. Pleasure and relief coursed through his tired limbs as he slowly rose through the layers of sleep. A deep enchanting voice caressed his ears and he smiled at the much longed for sound. Vaguely, recognition began to set in and he pushed the last vestiges of sleep away from him and awoke.

Indulging in a bone popping tension relieving stretch, Strife opened his eyes to find that he was still laid out across the Alter of War and that the War God was sitting on his dark Throne staring at him, lost in deep thought. Enjoying the dark beauty and familiar presence of his favorite relative, the one he failed to save from the evil and alien god, Strife sat up and smiled. Ares waved his hand in a graceful arc and a small feast appeared on the Alter next to him. Strife glanced down to see what his Uncle had gifted him with. And gasped.

With a mumbled, but heartfelt "Thanks Unc.", Strife set into his Godly meal. Delicate flaky pastry with the jelly-like Ambrosia used as the filling sat on a gilded plated next to a goblet of wine. From the sent and taste of the wine, it had been fermented from the juice of the Golden Apples of Immortality. Each delicious bite and each quenching sip filled him with God Power and vitality. He could feel the strength returning to his limbs and his soul. Even the flagging exhaustion and depression he had been suffering was lifted from him. Ares refilled that plate and goblet three times before Strife felt sated. Finally, that dark and honeyed voice pulled him from his divine feast and set his thoughts in motion once more.

"What is it that you planned to do?"

Strife considered this carefully. He had tried to focus on the major events during his link to Ares. There were certain things the War God *needed* to know and he hadn't been sure of how long he could have withstood the mental link. However, over the course of his time here with Joxer, Strife had been thinking of where to start on his campaign to alter the past. And that had led him to considering the secondary events. The events that were big in their own way,... but were important only because they acted to set up everyone to be in the perfect position to fall at Dahok's hands.

"Well... first off, I plan to stop Xena from leaving your service. It was..."

He never got any further. Ares jumped up from his Throne in anger, his aura a palpable wave of rage and hurt betrayal.

"What!!!! Xena is my Champion. She'd *never* leave my service!"

"She did. And she *will* if we don't stop her. Look... I know how and why it happened the first time, so it can be avoided now,... *this* time around. In about two years, you will plan to send Xena after Hercules. She'll try to get at him through that annoying blonde Iolaus. That plan won't work, so don't do it. Instead, Hercules will poison Xena's mind against you. Then, she'll find a small child and claim him. Your army, or hers, as she tends to think of it, will turn on her for it. *That* is the catalyst that breaks her away from your service. She stays away because she meets a Bard who then acts as her conscious and advisor. The Bard will keep her from returning to you."

Ares glared at him. Most of the family and almost all mortals would have trembled in fear at that dark and deadly expression. While Strife was willing to admit that it sent a shiver down his own spine, he also knew his Uncle well enough to be able to read the underlying thoughts and emotions. Anger. Betrayal. Curiosity. And finally... belief.

"Why is Xena staying in my service... important to your... plan?"

"Several reasons. One,... if my plans don't work out right and you still have to face Dahok, it'll be easier if Xena and you work together instead of at odds with one another. In *my* past, you tried to warn her about him and she ignored you.

Two,... the Bard that she will meet if I don't alter the past,... that Bard is Gabrielle. The same Gabrielle from the vision I sent you. The mother of the Demoness Hope.

Third,... the mad Goddess Callisto, the one from my visions, the one that... killed me? Well, at this point in time she's still a mortal. She needs to be killed before she can get her hands on the Apples of Immortality and then the Ambrosia.

However,... while I don't have *proof*, Iolaus *supposedly* went on a trip through time with Callisto to the past. She *wanted* him to kill her as a child so that she wouldn't have to suffer living her life. In doing so, she created an alternate future. One in which Xena conquers the known world. In *that* future, Xena has possession of the Chronos Stone. I *need* that stone!"

He watched as Ares absorbed all that he had said and shivered. This was it. The bottom line. It was all up to his Uncle now. If he decided to turn away or attack, his plans would fail and he would be stuck without allies until he could find the Stone of Chronos on his own. If Ares decided to help, then... everything would be a lot easier. Knowing that it was a silly superstition, but unable to stop himself anyway, Strife crossed his fingers.

"What did you need from *me*?"

Strife shrugged as causally as he could manage.

"Help in manipulating the present to prevent *my* past from repeating itself. The only thing *I* truly care about is that things are not in a position to allow Dahok any leverage against Us. If things turn out to *your* benefit from pursuing my memories of how things *had* been, more's the better. There are certain people that can not be allowed to live and there are others who need watched and guided with a firm hand. I need access to Ambrosia and Apple Wine on occasion and I need to *absolutely* stay away from my younger self. If the me of the here and now comes anywhere *near* the me from the future, it will create a paradox. So you *have* to keep me away from myself... even if nothing else."

Ares nodded. A thoughtful expression crossed his handsome face.

"I don't think I'll tell anyone about you yet. I want to get some things sorted in my mind before I do. I'll eventually have to tell Zeus though. He will need to know,... about you and this... Dahok. However,... you shouldn't stay here. Both yourself and Discord enjoy visiting Jentos too much. It's almost too easy to get the man to attack anyone or anything. I think he'd stage an assault on winter if you asked him the right way."

Strife giggled. He couldn't help it. His opinion of Jentos was at it's all time low and he could easily picture the stupid and ignorant man matching off into battle to stop the coming of winter.

"Yeah. I wanted to get away from here anyway. Jentos is on my *very* last nerve as it is. I think I'll leave him a going away present. That and I plan to steal his youngest son, Joxer."

Ares raised an eyebrow at that and a confused look crossed his charming and seductive features.

"Wouldn't it be better to steal one or two of his warriors?"

Strife smirked.

"Nah... I'm going to do for Joxer what you did for me when you took me from Discord. I mean... let's face it. I was a quivering mass of broken spirit and helplessness when you managed to save me from her. I couldn't do *anything* right. Now look how I turned out. Joxer needs to be saved as well. Who knows what he could become if given the chance?"

Ares looked skeptical and about to argue the point. Strife threw out his trump card.

"Besides, he was one of the ones who fought in the original war against Dahok. The way history worked out originally, he became good friends with Xena, Gabrielle, Hercules and Iolaus. *They* saw something in him, so it must be there. I figure that if I nurture that something while he's still young enough to influence,... I might be able to bring it to the surface. And *this* time... he'll be on *our* side and not divided from us."

Ares scowled again, but Strife could see that he was convinced.

"Fine. Whatever. What did you want to do first?"

"Well... I want to go somewhere safe and quiet for a year or so. Someplace that I can do massive research on time-travel and on Dahok. The more we know *now* the easier it will be to fight him in the end. That'll also give me time to train Joxer the *right* way to hold a sword. Once we're both ready... I figured that we'd volunteer as warriors in Xena's army. That'd put me in a proper position to help you make sure that the right people were safely dead and it would also give me access to the Chronos Stone once it falls into Xena's hands."

Ares considered it and nodded.

"Fine. That'll work for now. I'll think it through more thoroughly later. If I need to change anything I'll let you know. As for where you can go, I acquired a small farm two or three seasons ago when one of my warriors widow passed on to Hades. You and Joxer can hole up there while you study time travel."

Ares waved his hand in another of those graceful arcs and a wave of information flooded into his mind about the farm and it's surrounding area.

"Take your pet mortal and go there. I'll go to the Temple of the Scribes on Olympus and get you the scrolls on time travel and send them there."

Gratitude washed over him in an overwhelming wave and he jumped up from his seat on Ares Alter and rushed over to hug the dark and deadly God of War. Ares indulged him for a quick moment and then pried himself loose. He glared at Strife with an expression that was supposed to be a warning not to manhandle him, but Strife knew that Ares adored his personal worship over that of any other. In a flash of shattered light and with the stench of burning ozone Ares was gone.

Whistling a happy tune and feeling God Power and energy thrumming through his veins and pulsing in time to his heart, Strife sauntered off in search of his "owner" Joxer. That thought reminded him of the slave collar around his neck. He considered blasting it into dust, but then changed his mind. He would keep it. It would serve as a constant reminder of his mission to stop Dahok from enslaving the world. Testing out his reformed Power, Strife touched the cold iron of the collar and changed it into the purest platinum. Then, brushing a fingertip along the steel name tag, he changed it to polished gold and his engraved title, MISCHIEF, melded into a clearer and more delicate script and then became embedded with glittering diamond chips. He grinned at the effect and stepped out into the courtyard to find that the night had passed and that it was currently mid-day. Now... to find Joxer.

Ancient Greece
20 some odd miles south of Sparta, Warlord Jentos stronghold

Plans and ideas danced around his head in a swirling pattern with the sense of relief and power that he had despaired ever feeling again. The warm sunny day seemed to be cheering him on and for the first time since word of Dahok's escape from the void reached his ears, Strife felt certain that things were going to be okay. He knew himself well enough to realize that he was not normally an optimistic person, that was usually left to his favorite cousin and sometimes lover Cupid. With a silly giggle, Strife just accepted that he was having a "blonde moment" and figured that he should just go with it.

As he wandered across the courtyard of the Stronghold, Strife noticed that only the servants seemed to be busy with chores and activities. Usually even the warriors and foot soldiers had tasks and assignments to complete. Well... except during meal breaks. The sudden sounds of mirth and laughter coming from the west wall confirmed it. Everyone gathered there for lunch and fun for an hour or so before returning to finish any things left undone before weapons practice sessions were called to order.

Strife turned the corner around the calvary troops barracks and headed in the direction of the loud noise. He started to walk past the stables when an idea hit him. Glancing around to make sure that no one was watching, he ducked inside and wandered along the stalls. The horses all had battle experience and were well trained and excellently cared for. They were treated to a better existence than any of the house servants ever would.

After several minutes of thought, Strife made his decision. Turning to look at the wall where all the tack and gear were kept, he found the appropriate supplies. He concentrated and flexed his Power. Energy surged up around him and with the "pop" of displaced air, two horses suddenly found themselves adorned in full battle gear. They shied slightly, upset by the unexpected appearance of their tack. Strife walked to them and fed them carrots while rubbing their noses and clucking soothing sounds at them.

"Shhh... It's all right my lovely ladies. I'm just getting you girls ready ta move ta your new home. That's all. Strife'll take of ya. You'll see."

Once the horses were calm again, Strife wandered over to the storage area and began to sort through the things kept there. Occasionally he would find something that caught his interest and he would touch it just before it disappeared. A grooming brush, a couple of horse blankets, two feed buckets, a bag of oats, and a long rope lead all vanished with his touch. Finally finished, he turned and walked back to the horses.

"Well girls, are ya ready ta go ta your new home? I hope so. But don't worry, me and Jox'll be there soon enough wit'cha."

Strife reached out and touched a hand to the first horse. He concentrated on the image of the abandoned farm his Uncle had given to him. He could visualize it in his mind, the weed choked garden beside a collapsing wood and stone cottage. A field full of rotting cabbages beyond the dilapidated house. With a flex of his power, the battle mare disappeared from the stable and in his vision, the field now contained a horse in full gear wandering around, foraging for wild grains.

With a bit of a weary slump to his shoulders, Strife took a deep breath before moving to the next horse he had chosen. Moving inanimate objects around the globe was one thing, but moving living creatures was quite another. It took a lot out of him to keep them alive during the journey without the benefit of taking them there personally. Wiping his suddenly sweaty brow with his hand, Strife reached out to touch the remaining horse while he once more fixed the image in his mind. He flexed his power again and the second horse shimmered out of the stables.

Strife leaned against the wall of the horse stall catching his breath and letting his heart rate drop back down when a sudden peal of harsh laughter caught his attention. It was followed swiftly by a series of jeers and shouts. Turning his attention to the noise, Strife realized that the target of that derisive laughter was none other than his Joxer.

He fixed a mild expression on his face to hide the nasty sneer and angry glare that wanted to break free and clamped down a tight hold on his suddenly vicious thoughts. Once composed, he turned back to the door and walked into the northwest courtyard again. Turning towards the west wall once more, Strife continued his interrupted journey to find his owner. Turning a last corner, he found the boy... and gritted his teeth against the sudden urge to blast some warrior's into atoms.

Apparently, Joxer had stumbled across a group of his father's warriors in the midst of a dagger throwing contest. They had propped a large flat piece of wood up against the stone wall of the stronghold and one of them had drawn a crude outline of a human body. Then, they had marked specific areas of the "person" as extra points spots. These spots were at the forehead, the throat, the heart and the two hands. There were many deep gouges in the wood to mark the places that certain warriors had hit. Many were very accurate, some were not so good. But, unsurprisingly, Joxer was the worst of the lot.

With the laughter beginning to die down, and the rude and rough warriors finally tiring of pushing the young man-child back and forth between them, they started to call out that Joxer deserved "one more chance to prove his manhood". A long bladed dagger was pressed into his hand and then he was turned around jarringly until he faced the wooden target. Strife could tell just by looking at him that the dagger would never stick into the wood board. Joxer was holding it all wrong and not one of those goons felt the need to point out his error to the boy.

"Hold Jox. Wait a minute there."

All eyes turned to him and a few of the warriors shot him some evil narrow eyed looks. He choose to ignore them in favor of his owner. Walking over with a cocky swagger he just couldn't hide, Strife plucked the dagger from Joxers nerveless fingers. The young teen flashed him a sweet guileless smile and his heart melted a bit as he returned it briefly.

"Mischief. Be careful, you don't want to make these guys mad at you. Um,... they can be mean, if you now what I mean."

Strife was touched at the warning. Joxer was still trying to protect him, but this time, it was his turn to protect the mortal he had claimed as his own.

"Shhh. It's okay."

Strife looked down at the crude dagger in his hands and frowned at it. It seemed familiar, but he couldn't place it.

"Jox... where did you get this thing?"

Jox shrugged and looked at the dull metal blade.

"From Jett. He said it was the only blade that I was worthy of. Why?"

Strife closed his eyes and counted down from ten in the Russian language to give himself time to back away from the impulse to blast someone to dust. Finally, he opened his eyes and looked directly into Joxers open and honest face.

"Why?... Well, for starters, the blade is dull and because of the type of metal it was forged in, it will never hold an edge for long. It's balance is completely off and the handle is horribly inferior. It's only fit to use to spear meat off a plate with, not for any kind of battle situation. Trust me, I spent enough time with my two Uncles to know a good blade from a bad one. One Uncle is... a warrior and the other is a master blacksmith. And *this* blade is less than worthless."

Strife reached down the back of his neck and into his shirt for the blade that he always kept sheathed there. It was the only weapon that he had managed to take with him through the twisting paths of time. He pulled it free from it's confinement once again and held it up to the light. Hephestus had forged it for him on his 500th birthday as a gift to celebrate his Godly adulthood. It was beautiful. A solid piece of shimmering and highly polished metal with a keen razor sharp double edged blade. His name and title were engraved along the hilt in the delicate script of the Olympian language and it was Strife's pride and joy. He turned and held it out to Joxer.

"Here... try mine."

Joxer reached out and took the blade with an admiring expression on his face.

"Mischief... it's... it's beautiful."

"Yes. It is."

Joxer tested it's weight in his hands and grinned with happiness. He hefted it and turned to face the wooden board again. Strife just couldn't stand there and watch him misuse his precious blade however, so he walked up behind the teenager and reached around him to stay his hand before he could toss it.

"Wait Jox. You're holding it all wrong. What,... didn't no one never show you right?"

At Joxer's embarrassed whispered "no" Strife turned his gaze on the warriors gathered around them, going from mild indulgence to angered cruelty in a heartbeat. He heard a few of them whispering about him. They were uncertain what to make of a slave that suddenly could and would stand up to a group of armed warriors. Some were amused by his display of loyalty to the person they considered least worthy of such devotion. Tramping down on his destructive impulses, Strife turned his attention back to the teen before him.

"Don't worry about it. I'll show ya. Here, Hold it like this."

Strife took the blade and demonstrated the correct hold and then passed the blade back to his mortal when the man-child nodded. He quickly and gently fiddled with the placement of Jox's fingers until he was satisfied. As he placed each finger he spoke to Joxer low in his ear, explaining and encouraging. Once Joxer was holding the blade correctly, he began to work on the throwing motion itself. He gently moved Joxer's body into the proper stance and then he positioned his arm how he wanted it. The entire time he spoke in a soft voice, explaining the reasons for each placement and how it would effect the overall goal.

Through it all, Joxer listened intently, a rapt look of fascination on his face. Once Joxer was in the correct starting position. Strife took his raised arm through the exact motion it would need to aim and throw the blade. He gently spoke about force and angle and trajectory. He answered each question with a serious and in depth answer. He showed Jox the movements and the angles that his elbow and wrist needed to be in when the blade was released. Finally, Joxer was ready.

"Okay Jox. Remember what I showed ya and give it a try."

Strife stepped back a couple feet to give his mortal room. Jentos warriors and soldiers watched on. Some of them were just as fascinated with Strife's teaching and his methods, some were simply certain that Joxer would fail again. For his part, Strife vowed that he would not interfere with the throw itself. He wanted to see if Joxer really was unteachable as his father said, or if he just needed patience and encouragement, which was Strife's own theory.

Holding his breath in without even realizing it, Strife watched as Joxer drew back his arm exactly as he had been shown. A slight pause and then Joxer's arm swung forward in a swift fluid motion. Once released, the shinning blade of Mischief flew through the air with a soft whistling sound followed swiftly by a loud solid "thunk" as it sank deeply into the wooden target directly between the eyes of the human outline.

Jentos warriors all fell silent in shock as every ones eyes strained towards the still quivering blade embedded in the practice wood. Joxers breathless whisper of disbelief made it's way to every ear, "By the Gods... I *did* it..." Strife, God of Mischief, smirked.

~ scorpio71@earthlink.net

~ http://thesleepydragon.com/nesting/scorpio.html