Persuasion

August 17, 2003

I was originally going to work this into a longer narrative, until I remembered two things:

1) Flashbacks suck

2) I'd actually be responsible for writing that narrative

This takes place sometime after the events in the episode 'The Skeptic'

The temple of War was dark, with deliberate effort. Torches flickered over the pitted and pockmarked pieces of armor culled from the funeral pyres of favored warriors now long dead and bloodied battle-axes hung on perilously tiny pegs, forever frozen in mid-swing. Looming in the center of it all a massive and ostentatious stone throne stood eternal guard, evil-eyed gargoyles peering out in all direction in silent warning to those who might harbor ideas of overthrow. At its feet, indeed nearly dwarfed by it, despite his inherent lankiness, there sleepily reclined a leather-clad god who lurked behind the breakup of every shaky marriage or uneven friendship. He lounged and he languished like a neglected housewife fresh out of gossip and running dangerously low on bonbons.

Casually sprawled on his side, with his relaxed limbs jutting at spiky angles and the pronounced curvature of his spine, he brought to mind a favored hunting dog-- ever eager to please the master in every fawning way. His half-closed eyes flickered with mild disinterest when he heard the heavy doors of the chamber pushed open and the dim echoing of boots on stone and... Were those bells?

His chest heaved like a worn set of blacksmith‘s bellows; a forced, lingering sigh of a sound pushed forth. "If I’ve told you frigid little priestesses once I’ve told you a hundred times: Offerings go on the altar *outside*. Not in here. Not in the grove. Not by the hairs of my chinny chin chin. Is that so taxing on your puny, fanatical brains?"

It was a feminine voice that answered him, slightly lyrical but mostly mocking. "I’ve been accused of being a lot of things in my lifetime but fanatical was never one of them. Colorblind? Yes. Impudent? Sure. But fanatical? Not even in the bottom ten."

He tilted his head back and mustered the muted enthusiasm to acknowledge the existence of someone other than himself. Even in the half-darkness, filtered through the upside-down eyes of a rather apathetic deity, the invisibly glimmering aura of godhood flickered a silent warning.

"Oh," he said flatly. "In case your keen eye hasn’t noticed Ares isn’t here right now so if you’d like to leave a message with the butch zealot at the door..." He waved a dismissive hand, indicating he couldn’t be burdened with such trivialities. "And if you’re here about the jester job," he said, and at this remark snidely pointed toward the raggedy red and green pastiche that passed for clothing, "that position has already been filled."

"Obviously," came the blithe reply. "But I’m not here to see Ares. I’m looking for his half-mad, mop top, feta-for-brains nephew, Strife."

If she had been aiming for a reaction then she’d hit her target dead center. He rolled abruptly over; kicking his legs out underneath him and arching his shoulders forward so he wasn’t so much sitting as coiled to strike. Meatless and moral less made for a double-edged combination and his eyes stared through her like icy, unpleasant needles. "Listen here, Foxy Locks, someone in your outfit isn’t exactly qualified to be making accusations of not being all there."

"I take it you’re him."

"Good call ultra bright." Strife jerked his head harshly toward her hair. "What, did you lose a bet?"

A subdued smile tugged almost imperceptibly at her lips, her teeth emerging only to nip it back under control. "Funny you should mention that. I happen to be here at the behest of another deity."

The tension is Strife’s frame left him as quickly as if it were a broken lyre string and he flopped unconcernedly back against the bottom of Ares’ throne. His eyes wandered appraisingly down the goddess’ body as he clicked his tongue loudly and repeatedly against the roof of his mouth. "And here I was thinking Unc forgot all about my birthday. You’re a bit shorter in the leg department than I’d like but I see he knew about my fondness for the feisty ones.

"All right then," he said, reaching out for her waist. "Let’s you and I make squelchy music together."

She caught his hand, squeezing the tips of his fingers tightly between hers before flinging them away with a sprightly jingle from her sleeves. "I’m here about Fatuus you thickheaded hormone machine."

"Oh," he responded haughtily, rubbing at the pads of his fingers to make the unpleasant tingling go away. He wasn’t sure what he found more distasteful: being refused by a goddess with her own musical accompaniment or the mention of the God of Unwelcome Prophecy. "How is my tubby little compatriot?"

"Short one sworn companion."

"So-- what?-- he sent a bounty hunter over to enforce the unenforceable? Sorry, sweet cakes I don’t take orders from harlequins." A cracked fingernail was torn off with neat, white teeth and spit onto the floor by her feet. Her nose wrinkled at the insult but she managed to keep her composure. Strife admired that. Almost.

"I’m his cousin. And I don’t take ‘No’s’ from glorified lapdogs. I came because he’s family and I don’t like seeing him trod on."

"Then he shouldn’t be such an inviting doormat."

Her eyes darkened and her voice took on an edge that had definitely been absent before. "I also came because I have something you want. Desperately."

A lazy, lustful look came over the god’s face and his tongue impulsively slid over and around the thumb of his offended hand. "Now you’re speaking my language." He reached forward again and again was rebuffed with a slap.

"Entertainment," she said sharply. "You come with me and fill your end of the deal and I can guarantee you it will be anything but dull."

Air shot contemptuously out of one nostril. "I’m sure you’ll forgive me if I have my doubts...whatever you are."

"Mirth."

Strife’s attitude noticeably deflated with the realization of what her title implied. "Right. Well. I’d prefer something more *physical* for my time but that’ll do for an appetizer." He creakily got to his feet, finding some bland motivation in being able to alleviate his boredom. But that attitude just had to go. Stepping forward, he dug two fingers into the flesh beneath her chin and firmly raised it, noting some of the open contempt etched on her features fade under the steady pressure and filing the technique away for future reference. "Come on then little Miss Mirth." He smiled his most predatory smile. "Show me a good time."