Backward, Turn Backward

Disclaimer applies for all future chapters

Title: Backward, Turn Backward
Author: Scribe
Summary: Strife tries to find some solution to the mystery of his parentage.
Rating: Adults Only
Pairings: So far, Cupid/Strife onlly
Characters: Cupid, Strife, Bliss, Aphrodite, Hephaestus, Eris, Ares, Joxer, other minor characters from Xena and HtLJ
Betas:
Author's Notes:
Disclaimer: I did not create, and do not own the rights to, the recognizable media characters that appear in this story. I have no legal or binding agreement with the creators, or owners. I do not seek, and would not accept, profit from this fiction. I have nothing but affection and respect for the creators, and the actors and actresses who portrayed these characters. This story is in no way meant to reflect on the actual lives or life styles of the actors and actresses who portrayed the characters.

Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver

Warnings: Nothing immediately, but later the story will deal with themes of incest.

Backward, Turn Backward
By Scribe

Part One, A Tangled Knot

//The Cave of the Fates, in another time//

Clotho worked her distaff absently. She was always aware of what she was doing, at least peripherally, but long experience allowed her to perform her duty while thinking of other things. Right now she was talking with her oldest sister, Atropos. "Are you certain you have to snip that thread right now, sister? Couldn't you let it run just a bit longer, a few years? She hasn't been married long, and her thread is such a pretty color."

Atropos gave her a severe look, but her voice was kind. "You know very well that I must, dear. I have very, very little leeway in these things, and she's scheduled to die in childbirth. Hera WILL be angry with that, I'm afraid, but it can't be helped. She never HAS been strong, and this is a big, vigorous baby she's having."

Clotho contemplated the brand new, bright blue thread that she had begun to spin only moments before, and smiled. "That he is. Well, he'll be something of a comfort to his father, I suppose."

Lachesis glanced up from her place at the loom. "Aye, and he should live long. This is a fine, strong thread you've sent me, sister."

Atropos reached down and took hold of the fragile, lavender thread that represented the life of the young mother they were discussing. She murmured, "Don't be afraid, dear child. You've done no harm in your life, and you'll be able to watch over your man and child from your place in Elysia." The shining, implacable shears slid around the thread and closed almost gently, severing it. Lachesis wove the end of the thread into the ever-increasing tapestry, while on earth a new father howled in anguish over the body of his wife, and his newborn son took his first breath.

They worked a while longer in silence, for they were not entirely immune to the suffering of mortals--they just couldn't afford to let it affect them much. After awhile, though, Clotho made a small noise of excitement that caused her sisters to look up at her. "What is it?" asked Lachesis. She would be more immediately involved with whatever new life her sister spun out, and she was always interested in the material she worked with.

"Oh, look!" Clotho poked her finger into the thick web of fine threads that spun off from her distaff, leading to the loom. She delved and finally teased out a single thread. It was different from the others, a shining, silvery blue.

Both of the elder sisters sat up alertly, instantly interested. "An immortal," breathed Lachesis.

Atropos went to where Clotho sat on her stool and looked more closely at the strand. "No, sister, not just an immortal--a godly child." She smiled. "New life on Olympus. That should liven things up a bit." The thread twitched suddenly, and Atropos, startled, flinched back. "Lachesis!" she scolded. "I know how eager you must be to work a godling into the pattern, but don't tug on it so! It mustn't join the warp and woof before its proper time."

"But I didn't," the weaver protested. "I'm content to wait."

"There's something different about this one," murmured Clotho. The thread twitched again, and she gasped, looking at Lachesis, who shook her head firmly. Clotho's eyes grew round. "Sisters, this one seems to have a mind of its own."

Atropos grunted. "Nonsense. It will go where it must, when it must, with no nonsense and..." There was a faint hissing sound, and Lachesis cried out, jerking her finger back. She showed it to her eldest sister, showed her the bright red line that had been burned thwhenwhen the thread moved so quickly and violently. As Clotho began to suck her finger, Atropos whispered, "There is something very odd going on here."

"Odd is hardly the word for it," said Lachesis. "I've never seen anything remotely like this in all my life. That new thread just ran through the section I was working on, and now I have a tangled mess. There are so many threads twisted together here I can't tell where one ends and another begins."

Atropos came to lean over her shoulder, examining the spot. Sure enough, instead of the smooth, regular weaving, there was a knotted mass of what could be dozens of threads of all shades. "Can you unwork this?"

Lachesis gave her an alarmed look. "Oh, I don't think so! The fabric is too delicate to withstand more than the most gentle and simple reworking, you know that. I could easily snap threads that weren't meant to be severed, and I have no desire to usurp your position, sister."

Atropos nodded grimly. Ending a life too soon could have serious consequences farther down the line. "Look here." She pointed to the far side of the knot. The new silver-blue thread emerged from the mess in two spots. She muttered to herself. "Now, how in Tartarus...? It couldn't have split, so..." She gently took hold of the thread and ran it between her fingers. After a distance (she couldn't say how long--months, years, centuries?--even Lachesis could not estimate with complete accuracy) the thread looped back. She kept following it... and it disappeared back into the knot. Frowning, she leaned even closer, studying the area just before the tangle. The thread did not re-emerge. "Look here." She showed what she'd found to the others.

They gaped. They'd seen many strange things in their long years of overseeing the fates of both mortals and gods, but had never seen anything like this. Finally Clotho said, "What do we do?"

Lachesis was near tears. "Honestly, I don't know how it happened!"

Atropos patted her shoulder soothingly. "Hush, don't upset yourself. All the threads eventually emerge from the other side unscathed."

"Yes, but," she made a face. "It's so ugly. I'd like to fix it, but I'm afraid I might only make it worse."

"You probably would." When Lachesis gave her a hurt look, Atropos sighed. "That wasn't meant as an insult, dear. I don't think ANYONE could comb that mess out without damaging the very fabric of life." She shrugged. "Leave it. Everything happens for a reason. Who knows that better than we?"

Clotho shook her head. "But if even WE don't know what it means... Suppose someone comes and asks us about it?"

"Then we are obscure. We are vague and mysterious, and we allow them to make what they will of it. After all," said Atropos tartly, going back to her station, and reaching for the thread of a man who was very stupidly about to try to jump a high hedge while he was very drunk, "it won't be the first time, will it?"

~~~~~*****~~~~~*****~~~~~*****~~~~~*****~~~~~*****~~~~~*****~~~~~*****~~~~~

*Backward, turn backward, oh time in your flight,
And make me a child again, just for one night.*

//Olympus, Cupid's Temple//

Cupid came awake slowly. Eyes still closed, he tried to decide what it was that had awakened him. It could have been a couple of things. For one, he was alone. There should have been a long body pressed against him, possibly with a sinewy leg draped over his own. He'd gone to sleep with warm, moist breath blowing against his throat, fanning over the wine red passion bruise that had been sucked there earlier in the evening. He slid his hand across the sheet, questing, but all he found was a damp spot. That made him smile, as he thought, *Strife's birthday present,* but it wasn't what he was looking for.

He opened his eyes and surveyed the empty, rumpled bed, and frowned. This so did not look right. He hadn't awakened alone a single time since before they'd openly declared their commitment last year. Whenever one of them had to get up early they would half-wake the other, sharing soft, sleepy kisses and murmured assurances before they let the world call them away. No, this was wrong. And there was something else nagging at the edge of Cupid's awareness. What was it?

He considered it, forehead wrinkling in concentration, and finally he knew. It was a sound--soft, barely audible at the outer range of his perception, but there.

He quickly discarded the familiar sounds that he'd tuned himself to be alert to. It wasn't an urgent prayer from some lovelorn soul. He put those on hold when he slept--a god had to have SOME time to himself. It wasn't one of his relatives, calling for assistance. No, none of them would be that subtle. It wasn't Bliss, because he had learned to hear the cranky whine or pattering footsteps of a restless godling long ago. No, it was familiar, but not something he heard often. It was... it was...

*Rain,* he realized with surprise. *Why is it raining?* Rain wasn't unknown on Olympus, but it was rare enough to be remarked upon. Generally speaking, it stayed clear and sunny unless someone needed a particular spot watered. Or unless...

Unless some divinity was in a very deep, very dark funk, and either couldn't control their black mood, or didn't care to try, and let it escape to affect the elements.

"Strife?" he said softly, looking around. The room was empty, but the door to the hall was ajar, a faint glimmer of lamplight filtering through the slit. Cupid got up and wrapped his kilt around his waist. Daddy Heph had been a little too drunk to transport himself home tonight, so he and Mom were staying over in the guest room. Mom might hear him moving around and decide to investigate, and Cupid, though he was comfortable with his own body and had attended orgies with Aphrodite (well, they were official functions when you were a Love God), just wasn't too thrilled about taking a chance at his Mom seeing him nude.

Cupid padded to the door and opened it farther, stepping out into the hall. The corridor was barely illuminated by two wall lamps--the torches were snuffed at bedtime--since even divine dwellings weren't immune to fire. He glanced first toward the interior of his dwelling, checking to be sure that the doors to the guest room and Bliss' bedroom were firmly shut, then he looked back to the end of the hall.

The door to the back garden stood wide open, and the damp, cool breeze that flowed through it made the tiny flames on the lamp dance and shudder. The open doorway was nothing more than a square of darker shadow. The sound that had coaxed him from his sleep was still soft, but louder now--a driving hiss, overlaid by the soft pattering of individual drops blowing in to spatter on the marble floor. Cupid took a step toward the door, calling very softly, "Strife?"

There was a stir in the shadows at the door. Cupid squinted fiercely, and could just make out the long, lean silhouette of his husband. The beloved voice floated back to him, "Shh, babe. You'll wake the kiddies--all of them." Cupid smiled in relief, and went down the hall.

As he got closer, he could see his lover more clearly. Strife hadn't bothered with modesty. He wore nothing but his body jewelry and the faint marks of desire that Cupid had so sweetly printed on his body a few hours before. In the dim illumination of the lamps his skin was as pale as sweet cream, his hair dark shadows above his face and at his loins. He was leaning in the doorway, back braced against the jamb, looking out at the rain. Cupid wanted to frown a little at this, then felt foolish that he should be jealous because a natural phenomena had stolen his lover's attention for a moment. "It's raining."

"No, really?"

Normally this response would have made Cupid smile or roll his eyes in fond exasperation, but this time... Well, there was just something off about it, too. It sounded forced, or was that disinterested? In either case, it wasn't a tone Cupid was used to having Strife direct at him. "What is it, Strife?"

"I thought we established that it was rain."

"Babe..." Cupid reached to touch his shoulder, and drew in a sharp breath. The skin was cold--glazed with water, and pebbled with gooseflesh. He realized that Strife was shivering, his whole body shaking with a fine tremor. "Damn, you're FREEZING!"

"Yah, it's a little chilly." The voice was distant. "You ought to go back to bed, Goldilocks. You catch a cold and both Ace and Dite will be after my butt."

"YOU'RE the one who feels like he's been rolling in a snow bank. Look, I know you're the God of Mischief, but you shouldn't try to do yourself one--a mischief, I mean."

"I'm okay. I even wore my slippers." There was a squelching sound as he shifted, and Cupid looked down. Sure enough, Strife was wearing the soft, black felt slippers that had been a gift from Joxer, 'because everyone needs at least one pair of comfy shoes--otherwise their sanity suffers'. They were embroidered with a silver spider (Strife's totem), and he'd seemed highly pleased with the gift when he'd unwrapped it at the party. Now the slippers were soggy, the material releasing rivulets of water every time he moved his feet.

For the first time Strife glanced back at him, and Cupid felt his stomach clench at the blank look in those pale blue eyes. He hadn't seen that expression for months, and it frightened him. He'd worked so hard to gain this precious closeness to the man he loved, and he didn't want to lose it.

Keeping his voice calm and non-judgmental, Cupid said, "Babe, I want you to come back to bed with me--now."

Strife looked back out at the rain, which was falling in a continuous sheet now. You couldn't even see the rose bush that was planted five feet from the door. It was as if a gray velvet curtain had been drawn between the temple and the rest of the world. Strife's voice was faint. "In a minute. You go on."

"Strife..."

Strife cut him off, "Sometimes a guy needs some time to himself, Cupe, okay?"

"Fine, I can understand that, and you can have as much time alos yos you need--somewhere dry and warm. You're worrying me here."

Strife snorted softly. "Yah, that's about my speed, isn't it? Worry and bother from day one." Another snort. "Tartarus--I'm a god. Probably from BEFORE day one." Strife shook his head, dark hair plastered down around his surprisingly delicately shaped skull. "Go back to bed, Cupe. I'm not fit company right now."

Cupid took hold of the door with one hand and Strife's arm with the other, and began to tug him away from the exit while he shut the door. "I think you don't need to be alone right now."

He was shocked when his husband jerked his arm free roughly, then tried to shove the door open wider. "Let it go, Cupe!" His voice was low and grating. Cupid wondered how his eyes could be so empty, and still blaze. "Things will be easier if you just leave me alone for awhile."

Cupid raised his voice slightly, hissing, "I don't WANT easier, damn it! I love you, and you don't just go off and leave someone you love alone when they're hurting."

"You don't? Couldn't prove it by me."

There was stark pain, so deep it approached anguish in Strife's voice, and Cupid felt his own heart ache with his lover's hurt. When he spoke again, his voice was soft. "Erin." Strife stiffened. His given name was seldom used--most people referred to him by his title, or godhood. Cupid knew the power of giving something its proper name. He said it again. "Erin, please. Let me help."

The tension suddenly went out of Strife's body, and he nodded with a weariness that tugged at Cupid. Cupid put an arm around his husband's lean waist, pulling him into the warmth generated by his own body as he shut the door. Then he put his other arm around Strife and just held him for a moment. Strife sighed, laying his head on the broad plain of Cupid's chest. After a moment he whispered, "Sorry."

"Let's go get you dry. You were worried about Mom's reaction? Think of what I'd catch from Dad if I let you get a head cold. Remember what happened the last time you had the hiccups. Think of what a sneezing fit could do." There was a weak giggle, and that was better, but it still wasn't enough. Usually a memory like that was enough to have Strife incapacitated by mirth for several minutes.

They moved down the hallway, and Cupid urged Strife off into a room, lighting the lamps on the walls with a thought. The room was tiled in a deep, soothing blue, the walls lined with shelves that were loaded with thick towels, bottles, jars and dishes of all kinds filled with soaps, bath crystals, and oils. In the center of the room was a large, communal sunken bath. Near the wall was an individual bath. It was actually a single large scallop shell, deep enough for an adult to bathe comfortably, and fitted on a base to hold it steady. It had been a gift from Poseidon when Cupid had gained his majority. The interior was deliciously smooth, and the back sloped gently, so that it was easy to lie back and relax. It was here that Cupid led Strife.

Strife looked up, disinterestedly, but when he saw where they were, he gave Cupid a questioning look. "Thought you were putting me to bed."

"Soon, but I don't want you taking a chill. I think you need a good, hot bath." Cupid opened the taps over the shell, testing the water till it was not quite hot enough to sting. "Get in."

"Orders, orders," muttered Strife, but he obediently climbed into the bath, settling himself comfortably. "Glad you started that water first. I hate putting my bare but on cold surfaces."

"We'll have plenty of time to talk. You just be quiet and relax now."

"Bossy."

"You knew it when you married me. Hey, I order around people's love lives--I come by it naturally." Cupid studied the array of jars and dishes, then selected a small glass bottle, uncorked it, and dribbled a little of the contents under the gushing water. A spicy scent filled the air immediately, and the water took on a glistening sheen.

Strife sniffed appreciatively. "Mm, sandalwood." Cupid was pouring in a few drops of a pinkish liquid. "Ah, Cupe, not roses, please! Dite will want to hug me to death tomorrow." Cupid only smiled at him as he put the bottle away, and a sharp, pleasant smell reached Strife. He squinted, sniffing as he tried to identify it. "Why am I thinking of Hestia, and cookies?" His eyes rounded as he looked back at Cupid. "CINNAMON?"

"It's a warming essence."

Strife sniffed again, considering, then relaxed a bit more, even smiling faintly. "'s nice."

The water was lapping up around his armpits now, and Cupid turned off the taps. Strife paddled his hands idly in the water, watching the shimmering gold and pink patterns made by the film of bath oils. He never thought to use them himself, but Cupid was always coaxing him to. He kept telling Strife that he had beautiful skin, and he should pamper it. Strife still wasn't familiar with the concept of being pampered, though Cupid was trying his best to remedy that.

Cupid took down a small bowl filled with a thick, creamy paste and a hand cloth, then he put a towel down on the floor beside the shell, and knelt on it. "Lift your foot up." Strife obeyed. Cupid dipped up some of the soft soap and slathered it on Strife's foot, then dipped the cloth in the water and began to work the paste into a lather. Strife lay quietly, bracing his feet on the foot of the bath as Cupid worked his way down first one leg, then the other. Then he sat up and extended each arm in turn for the same treatment.

Strife let his mind drift as Cupid continued his gentle ministrations. It was nice. He hadn't had a lot of loving care in his life, and he found it strange and wonderful. He was grateful for the gift of this beautiful man's love, and he pushed the things that had been troubling him as far away as he could, trying to concentrate on the warmth, physical and emotional, that was enveloping him, pushing back the cold and dark in his soul.

Cupid finished rinsing Strife's arms, letting a final handful of water trickle down over the now slightly flushed skin. *Thank Gaia, the trembling has stopped. I don't think he'll be sick.* Strife had closed his eyes, and Cupid searched that beloved face. *He looks so tired, and sad. He was happy earlier, wasn't he? What could have brought this on?*

Cupid laid aside the damp cloth, dipped more paste into one broad palm, and began to work his hands together. In a moment they were coated in a thick, fragrant lather. He reached out and lightly encircled Strife's neck, his thumbs stroking over the Mischief God's throat. Strife did not tense, only turning his head slightly, eyes still closed, and Cupid realized what a mark of trust this was. Strife had spent most of his life paranoid, the very image of distrust--and usually with good reason. There were very few people he'd allow to touch him in such a potentially dangerous way without becoming tensed for action. Bliss was one, Joxer was another. Cupid was the third, and the trust hadn't ALWAYS been there--it had been earned. Cupid cherished it.

The Love God worked his hands down, spreading the soap over skin that was only slightly less pale than the foam. Strife purred quietly as the strong fingers sought out a few stubborn knots of tension, easing them away. Then Cupid slid his hands down to the smooth plain of Strife's chest, and he began swirling circles in the soap. Strife felt Cupid smooth a thick film across his chest, then sketch what felt like two curving, vertical arches in it. He peeked down and was confronted by an upside down view of a heart, its point resting between his nipples. He glanced up at his grinning husband, and chuckled. "I guess I'm lucky you didn't write our initials in it." Cupid's hand started back toward the heart, finger extended to continue the sketch, but Strife's hand flashed up and caught his wrist. "No, you don't. I don't want to be a walking cliché, lover."

Cupid's other hand came up and settled gently against Strife's cheek. "I can't help it if you bring out the romantic in me."

Strife kissed the hand he was holding, then released it. Cupid dipped up water, dripping it over Strife's chest and slowly erasing the soapy declaration of love. Strife sighed, stretching. "All done? Bedtime?"

"Soon." Cupid was coating his hands with soap again. Strife watched curiously as he worked up another lather. The water was now milky with the soap, and his body was a mere shadow underneath it. Strife let his head drop back as Cupid's big hands settled on his chest again, this time pressing down firmly over his nipples, and beginning to rub in small circles. "Soon."

Cupid's fingers found the tiny silver bars that pierced Strife's nipples. He loved taking those into his mouth, sucking and nibbling gently till the always semi-erect nipples rose in stiff, needy peaks. Now he contented himself with soft pinches and tugs till Strife was murmuring wordlessly, his pupils dilating with desire.

Cupid leaned in and kissed the eagerly parted lips, slipping his tongue in and relishing the taste that was so uniquely Strife. Dripping arms came up around his neck, pulling him closer, as long, slim fingers (so deft at lovemaking, so frighteningly graceful with a dagger), carded through his hair. His left hand went to cradle the back of Strife's neck, holding him firm as the kiss deepened, intensified. He let his right hand slide down Strife's heaving belly, into the wet thatch of curls at his groin, and he found the thick, rising column of Strife's prick. Cupid smiled into the kiss, feeling just a little proud that he could bring such a quick, emphatic response from his mate.

He stroked his husband's rigid cock firmly, his touch sure, but unhurried. Strife began to push up into his grip, a whimper building in the back of his throat, and Cupid obligingly speeded up his caresses. He tangled his hand in Strife's hair and sucked his lovers tongue into his mouth, biting it lightly as he pumped more and more strongly. Finally Strife tensed, grunting, and Cupid felt the hot splash on his hand that signaled his mate's release. He gave another milking squeeze, then gentled his touch to a slow petting, pulling back a fraction to lean his forehead against Strife's as the younger god panted, regaining his breath.

Finally, without another word, Cupid finished rinsing Strife, went to the wall, and returned with a huge towel. He helped Strife to step out of the bath and enveloped the more slender man in the cloth, rubbing him gently till he was dry. He wrapped him in a dry towel and started to lead him out.

Strife hesitated near the door, looking down at a small, dark, squelchy pile with a groan of dismay. "Joxie's slippers. Oh, man."

"They'll dry. Don't worry about that now," said Cupid firmly, leading him out into the hall. He pushed Strife back till he was leaning against the wall and whispered. "Just a second. I'll be right back." Strife watched as Cupid went quickly to the door at the end of the hall and peeked out. When he came back his tone was relieved. "Rain's stopped."

In their room, Cupid mentally stripped the bed and covered it in fresh linen before he unwrapped Strife and urged him under the covers. After shutting the door, he joined Strife, and was pleased when Strife moved into his arms without prompting.

Cupid spent a few quiet moments finger combing his lover's dark hair up into its familiar spikes. Finally he said, "Are you ready to tell me what that was all about?"

"Not right now."

Cupid sighed. "Strife..."

"Tomorrow, Cupe, okay? I need to think a little to put it into words." He tipped his head, looking up, and Cupid felt another twinge at the look of confusion and sadness in Strife's eyes. "Don't you understand? I'm only half-sure of it myself."

Cupid considered this. He knew that there was a lot of pain in Strife's past life, and he was sure that was where the origin of his bouts of melancholia lay. He also knew that the longer something remained hidden, the more it festered, and the harder it was to root out. Baring what was troubling him wouldn't be easy for Strife, and Cupid thought he was brave even to try. He nodded, pulling Strife's head under his chin and wrapping him a little tighter in his arms. "Tomorrow."