Pulling Strings

The town of Ilion Gulch sat in the heart of Trojan-controlled Thrace on the rugged, otherworldly landscape of Elysium. A patchwork of wooden buildings, tents, and makeshift huts, it was a town in transition—caught between its past as a small, forgotten outpost and its future as one of the new targets of the Mythril rush. Skies above were an ever-changing canvas of rich hues, a cosmic ballet that seemed to echo the manifold destinies of those who lived below.

To the east, the formidable peaks of the Ida Range loomed like ancient guardians, their slopes laden with the veins of Mythril that had turned this once obscure town into a bustling hive of activity. Miners from all walks of life, Trojan and Knossosi, Delphian and Rhodian, Imperial and Republican, satyr and nymph, mortal and divine, it didn't matter - all descended upon Ilion Gulch with dreams of riches beyond imagination. The clang of pickaxes and the rumble of carts filled the air, a cacophonous symphony of hope and greed.

Yet, not everyone was drawn by the lure of mythical metals. Merchants, gamblers, and entertainers arrived in droves, each offering a different promise. Taverns and inns sprang up like mushrooms after a rain, serving strong brews and tasty dishes to their thirsty and hungry patrons. The sordid and the sublime united in pursuing Elysium's newest frontier.

But there were others—drifters and seekers, guided by motives more opaque. They were the quiet ones who watched from the fringes, eyes trained on horizons yet unseen, waiting for something. For what, no one could reasonably say. And as the three moons of Elysium began to converge in the night sky, heralding an auspicious three-moon night which was said to mean one thing.

Change was coming.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky with hues of orange and crimson, a lone figure strode into Ilion Gulch. The very atmosphere seemed to vibrate with his presence as if acknowledging the potency of the divine. He was handsome, almost too handsome, with perfectly tanned skin and golden blonde hair hanging just above his shoulders. Though at a casual glance, he could be mistaken for a Knossosi traveler, his deep red eyes were windows to his celestial origin.

His leather duster swayed with each confident step, the self-assuredness only a god could exude. Across his back was an unloaded rifle, an invention bestowed upon him by the stepfather who raised him. The weapon was uniquely designed to fire bolts of pure essence. The charged essence canisters inside his satchel crackled with palpable energy tinged with the aura of carnal desire and repulsion. This was not a god of solemn judgment or austere majesty. This was a god of complexities and paradoxes, armed not just with the powers of love but its opposites as well.

Though the town was a buzz of activity, filled with miners and merchants lost in their dreams of avarice, it was as if a hush fell over Ilion Gulch when Eros walked through its dusty streets. Eyes turned, some filled with curiosity, others with latent desire, and a few with an inkling of recognition. No hat adorned his head, giving his hair that wind-tossed look.

Whatever brought Eros to this particular Mythril boomtown was anyone's guess, yet Eros had not merely come to Ilion Gulch to peddle love or lust. The moons' position in the skies above spoke of transitions and turning points, themes deeply interwoven with the fabric of his very being. A god tied not just to the bloom of romance but to the inevitable ebbs and flows that came after, he sensed that the threads of many fates would be pulled taut and perhaps even snapped in the coming days.

In this distant corner of Elysium, away from the prying eyes of Olympus and even further from the Moirae, who never entirely approved of how he wove love into the Tapestry of Fate, Eros felt the twinge of something rarely felt by gods: uncertainty. It tingled on his skin, mixed with the electric charge of his essence canisters, as he made his way toward the center of the town.

Pushing open the swing doors of the tavern without a name - just a sign that read 'Καπηλειό' in chalk on a slate sign with a crudely drawn sketch of a glass of thratch, Eros entered the establishment and felt at home. This saloon was his kind of dive, with Trojano-Thracian decor. Heavy wooden beams supported the ceiling, from which hung ornate, glowing orbs that resembled celestial bodies. Myrtle and laurel wreaths decorated the walls, intermixed with vintage carbine firearms and picks and shovels—tributes to the town's mining roots on the old Argosi frontier.

The atmosphere inside was lively but tinged with tension that Eros could feel prickling the air. Miners covered in the day's grit sat at tables playing cards, their faces worn but hopeful. Merchants haggled with a couple of local roughnecks over the price of mining supplies. A bard, strumming a local hybrid instrument called a lytar, played a sorrowful melody that strangely harmonized with the general euphoria of potential riches.

On the elevated stage at the far end of the room, a trio of dancers swayed and spun, their colorful skirts flowing and giving some patrons a quick peek at their intimates. In manner ways, it was a dance of promise, of tonight's dreams, and he appreciated the naughty artistry.

As he moved toward the bar, several eyes followed him, and it wasn't just because of his arresting appearance. There was an air about him, an indescribable magnetism that even mortals could sense. He responded with warm smiles to the nods of acknowledgment, especially from the women who seemed particularly captivated. A wink here, a charming smile there—yet his steps didn't falter. He was a god on a mission.

Taking a seat at the bar, crafted from what looked like oak with carvings of mythical scenes coated with a resin meant to resemble the look of Nektar, Eros noticed the bartender. A burly man, graying at the temples but with eyes that told of countless stories, eyed him curiously. There was a wisdom in those eyes that went beyond years; it spoke of someone who understood the dichotomies of human life—hope and despair, love and loss.

"Khaire," the bartender greeted, placing a glass before him.

Eros couldn't help but grin. "Khaire," said the god as he leaned against the resin-coated wooden bar. "Could I have a cocktail... with thratch, please?"

"Anything particular in mind?" asked the bartender, raising an eyebrow.

Eros shook his head. "Whatever you recommend."

The bartender looked Eros up and down, sensing something otherworldly about him. But this was a place for patrons of all sorts, celestial or otherwise. "Ah, a man—or should I say, a god—with an adventurous side, eh? Coming right up."

With practiced hands, the bartender reached for a bottle of thratch. He poured a neat amount into a mixing glass, then added a sprinkle of ground firewyrm—a local Thracian herb; it had a sage-like flavor and scent but grew into long, snake-like stalks of red and orange. A twist of moonlit orange peel went in last, and he stirred the concoction with a wand made from yew wood coated in some sort of crystalline sugars. The wand's touch made the mixture glow softly, its colors shifting like a prism. With a flick of the wrist, the bartender elegantly poured the liquid into a cocktail glass that shimmered in the dim light of the saloon.

As the mixologist worked his craft, Eros allowed his attention to drift to the bard in the corner of the saloon. The musician's lytar sang a tune of love and longing, a melody that seemed to touch the essence of the souls in the room. Eros couldn't help but admire the skill; the chords struck a harmonious balance, resonating in a way that seemed almost to tug at the threads of Fate.

The bartender slid the thratch cocktail across the bar toward him, breaking his reverie. "Here you go. Thratch Elixir."

Eros turned back, his deep red eyes twinkling. "Looks divine." Eros took a generous sip of his cocktail, his eyes half-closing in appreciation. "Damn, that's good."

"Thank you," the bartender said with a nod. "It's on the house."

Raising an intrigued eyebrow, Eros inquired, "Why so?"

"I've made it a rule never to take payment from the gods, especially working gods," the bartender explained.

Eros looked at him, puzzled. "Do you recognize me?"

The bartender grinned, his eyes twinkling with reminiscence. "It would be hard not to. I used to wipe down tables in Thebes, at a little watering hole you frequented."

Eros chuckled and scoffed. "Thebes? I haven't been a regular at any bars in Thebes for... Wow, that must've been... Twenty- No! That was thirty years ago," Eros said, genuinely surprised.

"Twenty-seven, to be exact," the bartender corrected with a smile.

Eros sipped his drink thoughtfully, considering the man before him. "I'm sorry for not recognizing you."

The bartender waved his hand dismissively. "Don't worry about it. I've aged considerably, while you look exactly the same. Only now, you seem happier, at least happier than you did toward the end."

Eros drained his glass and set it down with a decisive clink. "I'll have another. And this time, I insist on paying. Like you noticed, I'm in a good mood, and I intend to keep riding this high."

As the bartender accepted the coins and began crafting another of the delightful cocktails, he looked up and met Eros' eyes. "So, what's got a god of love in such high spirits?"

The bartender slid another meticulously crafted cocktail before Eros, the amber liquid of thratch swirling beneath an aromatic sprig of local herbs.

Eros lifted the glass, allowing the scent to waft over him before taking a modest sip, savoring its rich complexity. "Today, I've come to this quaint town for a very specific reason."

The bartender's eyes flickered with a mix of curiosity and caution. "Might I inquire if I know your... target?"

Eros shook his head, a wry smile adorning his lips. "Ah, no mission today. Today is for me."

One of the bartender's grizzled brows ascended heavenward. "Shall I fetch the madam then? See to the prices of the ladies?"

A rich laugh erupted from Eros. His gaze drifted over to the saloon girls loitering by the door to the shadowy backroom. Each held a look of palpable enchantment, their eyes shimmering as they met his gaze—flattered, perhaps enamored, to be observed by a deity. "No, not today. I am indeed searching for someone, but she isn't among those beauties."

The bartender leaned in closer, his interest piqued. "So what sort of person does a god search for in a dusty outpost such as this? Heretics?"

Again, Eros shook his head, swirling the remaining thratch in his glass. "Nothing like that... She's a young gal, likely has seen an oracle within this last week."

The bartender shrugged, the lines of his aged face deepening with his gesture. "No oracle around these parts and young ones are as rare as a good thratch harvest. Most of us here are old and crotchety sorts. Hell, even most our whores are seasoned."

Eros' face brightened, relieved. "That makes my search easier, then." He was about to set his sights on someone else in the bar who might be aware of some young folk when a voice, a nearby timbre soaked in recognition and wonder, beckoned him.

"Khaire, Eros."

His deep red eyes flickered, narrowing momentarily as he pinpointed the source of the call, feeling the strings of Fate vibrate as they wove an intricate new pattern. The voice resonated through the din of the saloon, becoming a key to opening and reliving a fond memory. It drew him back through the veils of time and space to another scene, one awash with grandeur and the heavy scent of destiny.

"Khaire, Eros," the voice had said, three millennia past. A voice filled with a measured blend of reverence and weariness was the voice of Clotho, one of the three Moirae who served as the weavers of Fate.

"Khaire, Lady of the Loom," he'd responded, taking in the room he had just entered, one of the most concealed chambers in Mount Olympus' labyrinthine construct known as the Haven.

Gigantic gears and ethereal cogs floated in the room, interlocking in perplexing harmony. The Moirae's Loom stood in the center—a device so intricate it made the clockwork wonders surrounding it seem like mere child's play. An enormous tapestry stretched out from it, its threads a myriad of colors, weaving through the air in intricate patterns and geometries too complex for mortal or even divine minds to fathom fully.
Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos, the three sisters of Fate, stood before the Loom. Their eyes, full of time and knowledge, settled upon Eros.

"Your mother and the Queen have told why you are here. You are fortunate for, unlike many affected by the Tapestry, you know your role," Clotho had said. "You shall serve us, and through us, the Tapestry. You shall be our hand in the mortal realm, molding love to our needs, to better serve the designs of Fate."

Eros had looked at the great Loom, then at the threads that affected the lives of gods and mortals, interwoven in a complex dance that only the Moirae could decipher. The weight of the responsibility settled upon him, as palpable as the golden bow he wielded.

"It is a daunting task," Lachesis had observed, seeming to read his thoughts with as much ease as she read the length of the thread in her hand.

"Daunting, but not impossible," Atropos, the eldest, added, her shears glinting ominously in the dim light. "Nothing is impossible, young Eros, if it is written in the Tapestry."

Written in the Tapestry—those words hung in the air as he took his first assignment. These words echoed through millennia, trials and tribulations, love found, and love lost. They were words that rang with a terrible kind of finality. Eros was now a God of Olympus, yet he, too was still just a thread in the grand design.

Many years went before the mind's eye of Eros' memory. There he was now, walking amidst the labyrinthine streets of the ancient city, a clandestine observer in the tapestry of mortal lives. He had seen empires rise and fall, kings crowned and dethroned, yet the essence of his mission remained unchanged. Love, like a thread, wove itself intricately through the lives of mortals and gods alike. Today, he was in this city, under these cerulean skies, to weave another such thread. A king awaited the affections of a woman whose heart he'd yet to win; Eros' golden arrows would ensure he did.

Setting down his golden bow and quiver against a pillar inscribed with weathered glyphs, Eros reached into a small pouch on the outside of his quiver. From it, he produced a finely crafted scroll sealed with the sigil of the Moirae. As his fingers touched the scroll, preparing to unfurl it and remind himself of the mortal woman's name, a sudden force collided with him.

A woman, her eyes like sapphires and her hair a cascade of night, had bumped into him. The scroll slipped from his fingers, his quiver toppled to the ground, and she tripped over the strap. Instincts faster than mortal perception activated, allowing Eros to catch her before she hit the cobblestone road.

Time seemed to slow as their eyes met. A sensation rushed through him, foreign yet intimate, as if his divine ichor turned to molten gold in his veins. Love, in its most unadulterated form, enveloped him. Eros, the god of love, was in love. The irony was poetic in a way that not even the Fates could have foreseen.

She smiled, a radiant dawn breaking over an endless horizon. Yet as seconds passed, her smile waned, transforming into a look of mild confusion or concern. Eros blinked, the fugue lifting. Swiftly, he helped her regain her footing on the cobblestones.

"I'm so sorry," she stammered.

"No, the fault is mine," he returned, his voice imbued with a warmth even he had never felt before.

"No, really, I should have been watching where I was going," she insisted. It was then that she gasped, her eyes widening. "You're bleeding!"

Eros followed her gaze down to his leg. Ichor, the golden lifeblood of gods, trickled down his calf. The scratch was already knitting itself closed. Panic gripped him as he saw a drop of ichor glistening on the tip of one of his fallen arrows. His ichor began to sizzle, burning through the leather strap of his sandal.

In a quick movement, Eros wiped away the ichor and kicked the arrow subtly back into his quiver. His heart—no, his very essence—was racing in a way it never had before. What had he done? A god, pricked by his own arrow? The implications were unthinkable, unprecedented, and unknown.

He looked up, locking eyes again with the woman whose name he still didn't know. "My name is Eros," he said, not as a god to a mortal but as a soul to its newfound counterpart. An equal.

Her beautiful features were awash with confusion and uncertainty.

"And what is your name, kind lady?" Eros' voice was tinged with a hopeful desperation.

The woman's laughter tingled in Eros' ears, a melodious sound that inexplicably gnawed at him. Her sapphire eyes twinkled as she inquired, "Are you serious?"

"As the tides and the seasons, I am," Eros replied, an earnestness permeating his voice that he couldn't understand.

"Your parents must hate you," she giggled, a playful smile darting across her lips. With a swish of her midnight hair, she turned and began to walk away.

Eros saw she was hastening to join a group of young women, her friends, who waited a few paces away. As she merged with the giggling gaggle, Eros felt an unfamiliar yearning claw at the innermost fibers of his being—a sensation foreign yet hauntingly personal. It was longing, but he could not name it.

Gathering his bow, quiver, and scroll, he quickly hid them in the shadowed recess between a stone building and an overgrown bush. Every sinew of his divine form tensed as he broke into a sprint, eager yet anxious to intercept her once more. He reached for her hand, but she pulled it away as if his touch were molten iron.

"Did I offend you?" Eros found himself asking, the granite foundation of his celestial poise cracking under an inexplicable weight. "I apologize."

"Offend me?" She looked him up and down, a veil of incredulity overlaying her features. "I don't know what you're trying to do, but it's not working. Good day."

She quickly rejoined her waiting friends, who looked on quizzically and slightly disdainfully. Eros felt a sudden rush of determination and moved to intercept her once more.

"Could I at least know your name?" he blurted out, his voice tinged with a sense of urgency he could neither explain nor control.

Before she could answer, one of her friends—a red-haired girl with a sharp, angular face—stepped forward. "If you have any decency, you'll go away," she snapped, casting him a glare as if he were some foul creature crawling from the underbelly of Tartarus.

Eros froze in his tracks, his momentum stolen by the words. A storm began to churn in the theater of his mind, a tempestuous confusion of questions and doubts. What was he doing? Was the spell of his arrows so potent as to leave a god of love so unmoored or was it her unnatural beauty? For the first time, he felt as if he were standing on shifting sands, and every step forward was fraught with the peril of plunging into an abyss.

His thoughts collided and clashed like warring Titans, a whirlwind of emotion and bewilderment that threatened to engulf him whole. For a moment, he stood there, paralyzed, caught in the gravitational pull of his own existential tumult.

And as he stood, lost in the maelstrom within, she walked away, her name still a mystery, yet haunting him like a melody he could not forget. The emotional high he had been riding plummeted, leaving him with questions, the heaviest of which weighed down on his divine essence: what was happening to him?

With divine grace and insight, Eros deduced where the women were heading. By sprinting through back-alleys and clambering over rooftops, he managed to get around them and beat them to their destination, even having enough time to take stock of his appearance in a fountain and adjust his hair.

As the women approached, Eros felt a fluttering anticipation tighten in his chest, a sensation he recognized as strange yet irresistibly compelling. He readjusted the positioning of his quiver and smoothed his robes, preparing to make another attempt.

"Ah, there you are! What are the odds of us meeting again? It seems as though this might be the work of the gods, eh?" he quipped, attempting a tone that mingled jest with reverence, playful enough not to be taken seriously but respectful enough not to offend.

The target of his newfound fascination looked at him, and he could have sworn her eyes sparkled for a fleeting moment, albeit with a touch of bemusement.

"You often linger outside women's bathhouses, do you?" she said, the ghost of a smile threatening to grace her lips.

Looking quickly at the building behind him, Eros dropped his shoulders and sighed. "Oh, feck me..."

Her red-haired friend, less amused and more protective, interrupted sharply, "We're not interested, whoever you are. Let's go, ladies."

They shuffled into the bathhouse, and for a reckless moment, Eros felt the urge to follow them, to hide in some concealed vantage point and drink in the sight of her beauty in its most natural form. But almost as quickly as it appeared, he shook the notion away, disturbed by the impropriety of such thoughts.

He was a god accustomed to peddling the magic of love among mortals. Eros, the grand orchestrator of desires and affections, now found himself a marionette on the strings he'd so often manipulated. The irony was as bitter as it was enlightening.

Resigned but not defeated, he located a bench that afforded him a view of the bathhouse entrance. Here, he settled to wait, his eyes occasionally lifting to the heavens as if seeking counsel from his other gods. For the first time, he wondered what it might be like to have divine guidance in navigating such unfamiliar territory.

Like fluttering moths drawn to a flame, his thoughts repeatedly circled back to her. What was her name? What was the timbre of her laugh, the depth of her desires, the dreams that populated her nights? As clouds shifted and moved across the sky, Eros found himself adrift in a sea of questions, each unanswered and imbued with a strange sort of gravity he'd never encountered.

And so he waited, his thoughts swirling like a tempest, conflicting and confounding. He understood, on an intellectual level, that the yearning that consumed him resulted from his own arrow's cosmic irony. Yet that insight did nothing to quench his need to know her name, to etch it onto the tablets of his eternal memory.

A soft breeze flowed through his robes and sent ripples over the surface of his skin. Anticipation built within him, tensing every fiber of his celestial being. As she emerged once again, framed by her friends like a gemstone set in precious metals, he found his breath stolen anew.

"Ah, the lovely maidens return from their watery sanctum!" Eros proclaimed as they approached, striving for an air of roguish charm. "Do you feel as refreshed as you look, or does the water here only magnify your pre-existing radiance?"

Her lips twitched into a small, almost secretive smile for a fleeting second. The weight that had settled on his divine heart lifted like magic. Yet before the conversation could unfold further, her friends—those vigilant guardians—interceded once more.

"Seriously, who do you think you are?" snapped the red-haired girl again, her words barbed with disdain. With an air of protectorate indignity, she gripped her friend's wrist and yanked her away, guiding the group away from Eros with a few whispered words.

As they distanced themselves, the dark-haired young woman who had caught his attention as he caught her looked back over her shoulder at him. Was it curiosity he saw flickering in her eyes or mere confusion? He couldn't tell. But that fleeting glance, as elusive as it was, triggered an almost rapturous smile to stretch across his face.

It was both his blessing and his curse to understand the vagaries of love, to steer its courses among mortals and deities alike. But now, snared in its unpredictable web, Eros questioned its very nature and essence. For someone so accustomed to being the master of love's arts, the realization that he had become its thrall, its slave, was as humbling as it was profound.

He settled back on the bench, his eyes tracing the horizon beyond the bathhouse. As he contemplated his next course of action, the sun dipped low, staining the sky with twilight hues. In that dwindling light, his heart teetered on the fulcrum of hope and despair, oscillating between the two with every beat. What bewitchment had befallen him, he did not know. But the resonance of that single, unspoken exchange—the glance, the smile—imbued him with a newfound determination.

The marketplace of the bustling city was a tapestry of colors and scents, where tradesmen and citizens alike convened in a chaotic symphony of commerce. Jars of pungent spices were stacked next to lush textiles, their colors as varied as the shades of the Aegean at dusk. Fishmongers, butchers, and bakers called out, their voices blending into a cacophonous but oddly comforting lullaby that sang the song of civilization. The air was a blend of salt and olives, leather and lavender, a feast for the senses as palpable as the midday sun.

Among this tableau of ordinary life walked the woman, a visage of uncommon beauty that rendered the splendors of the marketplace somewhat mundane in comparison. Her hair was a cascade of dark, luscious waves, restrained only by a single ribbon the color of an autumn sky. Her simple chiton clung to her form, its fabric dyed a warm, inviting shade of ochre, cinched at the waist with a braided cord. Her features were those of an earthly goddess: dark eyes full of depth, a mouth that held the promise of smiles yet to bloom, and skin like burnished olive wood, glowing in the Grecian sunlight.

Her entourage of friends engaged in the ancient art of leisurely scrutiny—examining baubles and trinkets, considering fabrics, and smelling herbs as if time were a river in which they could forever float. Suddenly, the cluster dispersed. The ever-watchful redhead went off to explore a nearby stall brimming with intricately carved amphoras. Left behind were only the captivating woman, a single companion, and an elderly vendor displaying an array of fabrics and garments.

Seeing his opportunity, Eros moved closer under the guise of casual curiosity, pretending to peruse the vendor's offerings. His hands mechanically sifted through woven baskets filled with garments of various fabrics, yet his eyes never strayed from her.

Her gaze met his for a fleeting moment. A glimpse of recognition flashed in her eyes, and her lips began to curl into what could have been a smile, but she quickly averted her gaze.

Embodied with a rush of courage—or perhaps foolishness—Eros gestured toward the fabric she held in her hands. "May I purchase that for you? As a token of my... admiration."

Her friend, not blessed with the shyness that seemed to momentarily occupy her companion, snorted in disbelief. "Do you even know what you're offering to buy?"

Confused, Eros leaned over to glimpse at the fabric she held and the same thing he held in his hands. Then, he realized the stand specialized in intimate garments for women—strophic breastwraps and perizoma loincloths.

"Of course, I'm aware," he tried to say as he frantically dropped the strophic he had been holding. "I happen to be in the market for a new perizoma," he said, sorting through the contents of another basket, hoping to find one for men. "I, uh, lost my last one..." he added, his voice tinged with a bashfulness not often heard from a god.

The woman blinked before her eyes drifted down to his exomis-style robe. Eros felt unease and excitement simultaneously, imagining her picturing him wearing nothing underneath the simple shoulder-hung robe. But before he could see if his excuse landed its mark, the friend whistled sharply, summoning the vigilant redhead from across the way.

With a sigh of regret, Eros read the atmosphere as if it were an ancient script, its message clear and unequivocal. With a chagrined smile and a nod, he took his leave, retreating from the stand as her friends closed ranks around her.

Yet even as he walked away, turning his back on the scene of his mild humiliation, he found he was not defeated. The depth of his newfound emotions might have humbled him, but they also fortified him with an indomitable resolve. If she was the price to pay for his unforeseen mortality of the heart, he considered it a toll most willingly given.

Finally, as dusk began to paint the sky in shades of twilight, she emerged alone from the market, burdened with jugs of wine destined for her family's dinner table. She crossed paths with Eros once again, straying by him as he had resigned himself to leaning against an old, crumbling wall. When she noticed his presence, it was already too late to alter her course. So, with a hesitant smile and a motion of her head, she invited him to her side.

Seizing the moment, Eros stepped forth and took half the jugs from her arms without waiting for her consent. "Allow me," Eros insisted, his voice tinged with a desperation that would have bewildered even Zeus.

She looked up, her eyes locking onto his. For a moment, time stilled, and the world around them seemed to fade away. Eros felt as if he were standing at the edge of creation, waiting for a word, a sign—anything that would pull him back from the abyss of his own inexplicable yearning.

"Who are you?" she finally whispered, her voice imbued with a mingled sense of wonder and apprehension. "Why are you doing this?"

The question hung heavy between them, like the ripest fruit in a celestial orchard, begging to be plucked yet promising sweetness or bitterness unknown.

"Love," he almost uttered, but he caught himself. "I just want to know your name."

"If I give it, will you leave me alone?"

"I'd leave you alone now if you wanted," Eros replied, the sincerity in his voice unmistakable. "But to do so without even a fragment of solace would be a cruelty."

She giggled, clearly finding his melodramatic flair amusing rather than unsettling. "You're strange," she mused. "But not in an entirely bad way."

Eros smiled. "I'll take that... Some of life's greatest things are also the strangest."

She giggled and rolled her eyes. "Is that so?"

"It is," Eros said with a soft smile. "I'd love to show you some of these things, if you'd let me."

As they reached her home, she hesitated. "Well, I fear time is our enemy. As I must see myself in; it's dinner time with my family. But thank you for your help."

"You're welcome," Eros replied, unable to hide his anticipation, as he set the amphora of wine down beside the door.

"You're really determined to have my name, aren't you?"

"People are often determined when they know what they want," Eros answered, his voice steady but his eyes alight with an eager fire.

She sighed deeply as if contemplating the universe's greatest mysteries. Then, leaning forward, she whispered into his ear, "Psyche," and graced his cheek with an unexpected kiss.

Eros's heart soared, and his face beamed with the uninhibited joy of a fool in love.

"I must go. My father would not be pleased to find a strange man loitering near our house," Psyche said as she backed towards the door, picking up a jug.

Eros began to move away but turned back, captivated by an irresistible pull. "May I see you again?" he called out, the words escaping him as if wrenched from his soul.

As Psyche's mother appeared at the door to assist with the jugs, she hesitated, then finally spoke. "Same place, same time tomorrow. But only if you tell me your real name."

"I did tell you!" Eros called back, a mix of amusement and exasperation in his voice.

"Really? Eros? You expect me to believe you're named after the son of Aphrodite? Who do you think you are?" she shot back, an eyebrow arched in playful skepticism.

In truth, Eros was named by Hephaestus. The name was taken from some childhood stories Zeus would recite to the young Hephaestus. The Eros in these stories was one of the horrible children of the sinister mistress of shadows known as Nyx. All of these children were awful creatures built around fear and strife. Eros had embodied how scary love could be, but the ever-romantic Hephaestus never saw love as something to fear and could think of no better name to honor his beautiful wife's purview. Of course, all this happened before Hephaestus learned that Eros was the product of Aphrodite and Ares's ongoing affair. Still, it was the thought that counted.

"I assure you I'm not named after the god. I simply am," he murmured, more to himself than to her.

"Fine. Until then, Eros!" With a giggle, she turned and entered her home, leaving Eros standing outside—alone but immeasurably less so than he had ever been, a god humbled and enthralled by the very force he had wielded yet never fully understood.

Love.

As Eros took his first steps away from Psyche's home, a thrum of electric warmth buzzed through his veins, each pulse accompanied by a beat of his newly vulnerable heart. The air felt charged with a presence.

"Beneath a waterfall of midnight locks, eyes like twin galaxies draw me toward an undiscovered universe," he murmured, a smile flickering across his face as if he were tasting the sweetest of nectars. "Psyche," he said, her name rolling off his tongue like a sacred incantation.

He moved through the narrow, cobblestone streets of the city, and as he passed the wine shop where he had first caught sight of her, he paused. "Ah, the very spot where she held the amphora of wine as if it were a vessel of divine secrets," he thought, captivated by the mundane act that had seemed so extraordinarily poetic to him. "Psyche," he whispered, as though her name could sanctify even the most earthly of spaces.

Through the marketplace, he wandered as dusk cast its shadowy veil and vendors began to shut down their stalls. The smell of spices in the air felt like a distant second to the aroma that seemed to cling to his memory—her scent. "Her voice, a medley of twilight and dawn, inviting yet elusive... Psyche," he repeated, each utterance anchoring his rapidly spiraling emotions.

When he passed the bathhouse, a forbidden thought flickered through his mind, a wish to glimpse the hidden constellations that lay beneath her garments. With a shake of his head, he cast aside the inappropriate yearning. "Psyche," he exhaled, feeling the syllables render him both powerless and invincible.

Finally, he reached the tucked-away corner where he had stashed his divine instruments—his bow and quiver. He picked them up with a sigh, suddenly weighed down by the gravity of his divine obligations. "Time to return to work," he thought, a tinge of reluctance coloring his resolve.

Unfurling the scroll that held his mission details, his eyes scanned the lines with a practiced ease—until they landed on the target's name.
"Psyche."

His heart plummeted from its heavenly height, crashing into an abyss of dread and disbelief. The ink on the parchment seemed to mock him, each letter a twist of cosmic irony. His hands trembled, the scroll nearly slipping from his grip.

"Psyche," he whispered, her name now a beautiful curse, a splendid agony. A god of love, ensnared by the one emotion he had wielded yet never felt, staring at the name of his newfound desire—and his next target.

The parchment was unusually heavy in Eros' hands as though weighed down by the gravity of the inscribed words. The elegant handwriting of the Moirae, the Fates themselves, danced across the scroll:

*"Khaire, Eros.*
You are summoned to the city of Cichyrus, under the rule of King Menelaus. Your mission, as determined by the spinning of the threads of life, is of utmost importance. The maiden known as Psyche has caught the attention of the King. It is the will of the gods and the design of Fate that she shall fall in love with him. Your expertise is required to tip the balance and ensure that this love blossoms. Be swift and precise, as is your custom.
Moirae"

Eros read and reread the words, each repetition drilling a deeper hole into the pit of his stomach. It felt as though he were swallowing shards of glass, each more painful than the last.

He opened his quiver and removed an arrow, unlike the golden ones that carried the sweet pangs of love. This arrow was of obsidian, a dark as the new moon night, meant to instill hatred and aversion. For a moment, he hesitated, knowing that a prick from this arrow would cure him of his newfound affliction, would make him despise Psyche and carry out his mission without a second thought.

But as he looked at the black arrow, he felt a nauseating revulsion. To direct such an emotion, even upon himself, toward Psyche seemed a betrayal beyond measure. With a sudden, explosive motion, he notched the obsidian arrow and fired it into the wilderness, quickly doing the same with every other arrow of its kind in his quiver.

Hurling his quiver into the bushes, he looked at his bow—the instrument of his duty and now his torment—with eyes ablaze. With a final, contemptuous look, he threw it after the quiver.

Storming off, Eros felt like a man—or a god—divided. Love and duty, the very core of his being, were at war within him, each demanding a loyalty he wasn't sure he could give. And for the first time in his immortal life, Eros felt the agonizing weight of choice, a burden usually reserved for mere mortals. The Fates had spun a complicated thread this time, and he was entangled in it, utterly and irrevocably.

In his fit of emotional turmoil, Eros found himself wandering the narrow, labyrinthine streets of Cichyrus. He was familiar with this place, having visited on more than one occasion for work or leisure. Soon, his feet carried him to the entrance of a well-known establishment—a brothel disguised as a tavern, a place that offered companionship to lonely souls.

Eros felt a pang of guilt as he pushed open the wooden door and stepped inside. The warm, inviting interior, filled with laughter, music, and the scent of wine and perfumes, struck him as both welcoming and alienating. He approached the madam, a middle-aged woman with a practiced smile and keen eyes, who greeted him with a nod.

"Room and company?" she asked, cutting to the chase as she appraised him.

Eros nodded and placed a handful of coins on the counter. She gestured for a servant to lead him to a room upstairs. But as he made his way through the plush corridor, framed by velvet drapes and adorned with flickering oil lamps, his thoughts returned to Psyche. Her face, her laughter, and her curious eyes filled his mind, leaving no room for anyone else.

Pausing before the door to his room, he felt a weight settle upon him—a feeling of betrayal that tightened around his chest. He couldn't go through with it. Every step he had taken into this place now felt like a betrayal, a step away from the magnetic pull Psyche had exerted on him.

Turning back abruptly, he descended the stairs and returned to the madam. "I've made a mistake," he said curtly. "I must go."

"But what about your money?" she asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"Keep it," Eros muttered, his eyes not meeting hers as he rushed out into the night.

Finding himself alone on the streets, Eros looked up and saw the silhouette of a stable against the moonlit sky. He climbed onto the rooftop, settling himself in a hidden corner from which he could see the heavens clearly. His thoughts, still stormy and conflicted, were oddly comforted by the serenity of the moon as it sailed through the ocean of stars.

For hours, he lay there, his gaze alternating between the celestial tapestry above and the quiet city below, where mortals slept, oblivious to the cosmic dilemmas of gods. And even though he was a creature of eternal wakefulness, Eros felt an unusual heaviness pull his eyelids shut.
Surrendering to this mortal-like weakness, he drifted into sleep, his last conscious thought a whispered name that blended with the night air, carried by the wind like a sacred vow.

"Psyche."

In the sanctuary of his dreams, Eros found himself united with Psyche, though the realm they inhabited was one far removed from the mundane plane of mortals. She bore wings of iridescent light, as delicate and luminescent as those of a butterfly. He, in turn, was adorned with feathers of ethereal whiteness, the kind that only doves, those universal harbingers of love, could boast.

They took to the skies, their laughter echoing through the vaults of heaven or perhaps some celestial facsimile. With wings spread wide, they explored this dreamscape as if they were the very winds that carried them—free, unrestrained, and blissfully entangled in the giddy joy of each other's company. The sheer ecstasy of the experience surpassed even the finest drops of Nektar Eros had ever tasted; it was a rapture that defied the limits of godly senses.

Suddenly, gravity—or what passed for it in this dream world—gave way, and they plummeted into a cloud, thick and fluffy like a tuft of spun sugar. Amid the haze, they rolled and wrestled; their laughter turned into gasps and sighs of pleasure. Psyche pressed her lips against his, and Eros eagerly reciprocated. With a swift movement, he pinned her wrists above her head, and with great tenderness, he traced the contours of her arms—forearm to elbow to bicep—with his fingertips. He reached for the ornate butterfly-like clasp of her robe, ready to deepen the intimacy of their dream-locked embrace, but just as his fingers touched the clasp, a voice called out.

"What are you doing?"

Eros jolted. Disoriented and yearning for the dream he had just left, he lost his balance on the rooftop of the stable where he had sought a bed for the night. Down he slid, tumbling unceremoniously into a puddle of manure generously provided by the livestock who had earlier occupied the adjoining pens.

Grimacing as he pulled himself from the mire, Eros cast his eyes about, trying to locate the source of the voice that he presumed had shattered his dreamscape. His heart, still reverberating from the passionate resonance of his dream, now sunk into a pit of incredulous disbelief. Who dared awaken him? His gaze followed the sound of subdued laughter, and his eyes found the culprit as the sun began to spread its golden light over the landscape.

High on the stable roof, a figure chuckled softly, his attire shimmering like the nebulous boundary between wakefulness and sleep. It was Hypnos, the God of Sleep, Eros' own cousin. Drowsily but with evident satisfaction, Hypnos waved down to him before descending from his perch.

Like Eros, Hypnos had a name taken from the stories of Nyx. In those old tales, Hypnos was a slumbering tormentor that haunted the space of nightmares. It seemed a fitting name for a child who was said to have always slept. The origins of their names had always been a bond between the two cousins, who rarely saw one another in their current roles.

The world around him was as sharp as that previous dream was soft. From heavenly intimacy with Psyche to the stinging slap of reality—and all within the span of a heartbeat. There was much to ponder, and as Hypnos touched down beside him with a grace devoid of the god's usual oddly clumsy gait, Eros knew his night was far from over. He was still dreaming.

Eros spluttered and coughed as he climbed out of the pen, his face flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and annoyance. He glared up at the tall and lanky Hypnos, who was stifling a yawn even as he chuckled at Eros's predicament.

"Eros, my dear cousin, you've outdone yourself," Hypnos remarked, each movement unhurried, as if in a perpetual drowsiness state. "It's not every day that a god of love lands himself in a pile of... well, that sort of mess."

"It's shit, cousin... I'll have you know, I was enjoying my fecking dream. What are you doing here?" Eros demanded, scraping muck off his dreamed garments with as much dignity as he could muster.

"I was drawn by the intensity of your dream," Hypnos replied. "Dreams from gods are usually so... bland. But yours? It was like a flare in the cosmic weave. Only mortals usually dream so vividly—they have the spark that makes dreams a spectacle. Gods are typically too composed, too complete. Your dream was different. It intrigued me."

Eros sighed and began walking towards a nearby river, his feet making a soft, squelching sound with each step. Hypnos, ever unhurried, trailed behind him. "As much as I appreciate your fascination with my subconscious," Eros said, "you didn't need to pull me into this... even crueler mockery of an already vicious reality."

"I didn't change your dream, cousin. Your mind did that labor. You're the one who threw yourself in some shit..."

Eros raised an eyebrow. "No, you-"

Hypnos flashed a lazy smile. "I might've been watching the action for a bit before making my presence known... but once I saw the dream collapsing, I called out to you. I hoped to help you stabilize, but your consciousness quickly conjured this new circumstances for you. Perhaps your mind is trying to tell you something."

Eros scoffed. "Why would I dream about dunking myself in shit?" Eros asked, shaking his head as he flung the filth from his body.

"Well, don't take this the wrong way, but I think you might be facing an existential crisis," Hypnos mused, yawning again.

As Eros reached the riverbank, he plunged into the water without hesitation. The cold rush of the liquid cleansed his face and mind, offering a brief respite from the maelstrom of thoughts that had plagued him. Resurfacing, he began to relate his ordeal to Hypnos: his mission from the Moirae, his accidental infatuation with Psyche, and his overall dilemma.

"So you're expected to make this Psyche fall in love with a king," Hypnos summarized, "but instead, you've fallen for her?"

"Yes, that's about the crux of it," Eros said, visibly refreshed, finally stepping out of the river.

"Interesting," Hypnos said, eyes half-closed but visibly intrigued. "What will you do? Will you follow the Moirae's command, or let love guide your path instead?"

"I wish I knew," Eros sighed, wringing out his garments. "Every fiber of my being is torn between duty and desire."

"Well, my advice?" Hypnos stretched and yawned again. "Go back to sleep. Dream a little. Sometimes, the unconscious mind solves puzzles that the conscious mind can't."

Eros looked at his cousin, considering his words. In dreams, he might find the clarity that eluded him in his waking hours. With a resigned nod, he thanked Hypnos. "Maybe I will," Eros said. "Any chance you know what time, it is, cousin?"

Hypnos nodded. "It's late morning. You must be sleeping in."

"Long night to go with the long story," Eros sighed. "I guess I don't have time to sleep on it. I must settle this matter with Psyche. I can't allow my responsibilities to become casualties of my desires, however intoxicating they might be."

Hypnos shrugged, unfazed. "Then, may your aim be as true in love as it is in your duties. Though it's clear, dear cousin, that you could stand to improve at both."

As Hypnos disappeared, becoming one with the tendrils of morning mist that wafted across the river, Eros couldn't help but feel the gravity of the choices that lay before him.

For the first time, the God of Love understood the complexity of the emotion he had so cavalierly manipulated for eons. And it left him humbled, vulnerable, but also strangely invigorated. With renewed resolve, he woke up and was quick to make his way back to the city proper, careful to avoid the muck of the stalls below him.

His heart pounding like the frenetic rhythm of a panpipe, Eros approached where he had first encountered Psyche. She was already there, pacing with restless energy like a vision summoned by his deepest desires. He attempted to form words when their eyes met, but she preemptively silenced him.

"Don't say anything," she commanded, her voice tinged with agitation. "I couldn't sleep last night. Your face, your voice, they haunted my dreams."

Eros stood, awash in a blend of guilt and wonder, but remained silent.

"Well?" she asked.

Eros blinked and let his eyes drift side-to-side as his gaze followed her pacing.

"Say something, please," she finally urged.

"I thought you said to—"

Psyche furrowed her brow as she glared at him.

Eros smiled as a nervous breath escaped his lips. "I dreamed of you too," he confessed softly.

"That's precisely what I didn't want to hear," she retorted, resuming her pacing.

"For what it's worth, I enjoyed the dream," he added, his voice a whisper.

"Now, I really don't want to hear that," she snapped.

But Eros' thoughts insisted the beauty of what he could remember of the dream was beyond ordinary words. "Well, for what's it's worth, I think you look beautiful with butterfly wings."

"I told you, I don't want to—" she began, then froze as that detail snagged her attention. "Wait, butterfly wings? Those were in your dream, too?"

Eros nodded before recounting his dream—their luminous wings, the celestial dance, the ethereal intimacy. However, he didn't bother mentioning his dive into the dung heap.

"I think I had the same dream," Psyche admitted, her eyes wide with disbelief.

"That doesn't make sense," Eros muttered, though a silent thought niggled at the back of his mind: could Hypnos have entangled their dreams? He was unsure he believed his cousin's professing he had little to do with the dream. Eros was not too close with Hypnos, so it was difficult for him to assess the other god's motives.

"It must be a sign from the gods," she mused.

"Or perhaps the accident of a clumsy god," he replied cautiously.

"What do you mean by that?" she prodded.

"I can't lie to you, Psyche. But, please, don't insist that I explain further," Eros replied, the weight of his dilemma settling upon him like a mantle of lead.

"You're the strangest man I've ever met," she sighed, visibly unsettled. "You know that?"

The challenge of the question was too much for him to bear against her. "I'm not a man, Psyche," Eros blurted, abandoning his reservations altogether. "I'm a god."

She rolled her eyes. "You tried that line already. It's charming but probably blasphemous and—"

Ignoring her, Eros walked over to the nearby bushes. He retrieved his abandoned bow and a golden arrow, still stained with a droplet of his divine ichor, and returned to face her.

"This... this makes no sense. Those are the instruments of Eros!" she stammered. She reached out to touch the arrow, but he pulled it back, cautioning her to be careful.

"These are mine," he confirmed, his eyes meeting hers. "This ichor stain—do you remember how you tripped over my quiver yesterday? How I cut my leg?"

Recognition dawned in her eyes, broadening into incredulous understanding. "Wait, so are Eros? For real? Does that mean... Wait... you mean... the first person you saw was—"

"You," he replied, his voice soft but clear.

For a moment, she stared at him, her eyes reflecting a myriad of swirling emotions: disbelief, wonder, and then, finally, a kind of joy tinged with madness. Psyche burst into giggles, her laughter imbued with the frenetic energy of a newfound revelation.

"Your arrows work on you?" she asked, still giggling. "Oh, wow, that's an oversight, isn't it?"

Eros sighed at this strange, surreal experience of being openly mocked by the mortal he would do anything for.

Taking deep, steadying breaths to temper her laughter, Psyche looked at Eros with a new intensity. "Wait... Are you saying you love me?" she asked, her voice quivering between seriousness and disbelief.

"I don't think I do," Eros confessed, a hint of perplexity touching his words. "I absolutely do... Though, love is a newfound experience for me, but I recognize its symptoms."

"How can love be new for the god of love?" Psyche queried, her eyebrows raised in bewilderment.

Eros shook his head. "I'm not the God of Love in the way you might think. That title belongs to my mother, Aphrodite. I'm the god of certain aspects of the greater whole. Physical love, intimacy, sexual desire. But, still, manipulating the essence of these things to affect others is different than experiencing them firsthand."

"Is there a cure for this?" Psyche inquired, her voice tinged with a mixture of concern and curiosity.

"Yes," he nodded. "I could prick myself with an obsidian arrow. It would negate the effects of the golden one."

Without another word, Psyche darted toward the bushes where he had retrieved his bow earlier. Eros moved to stop her, but she had already picked up the quiver and rifled through it. "There are no obsidian arrows here," she said, her tone tinged with suspicion. "Isn't it convenient that you're out of them?"

"I shot them all away," Eros admitted, "because I didn't want to be tempted to use one before I had a chance to talk to you."

"But why? Why would a god be concerned about what a mere mortal thinks?" Psyche questioned, her eyes searching his for an answer.

"Because I love you," Eros said, his voice tinged with a vulnerability he'd never known. "This kind of love may be new for me, but it's real."

Psyche let out a long sigh, myriad emotions playing across her face. "Then show me where these arrows are," she finally said, "and we'll fetch one together."

Eros pointed in the direction where he had shot the obsidian arrows. Together, they set out on a journey that, for the first time in either of their lives, felt imbued with an importance neither could fully understand but neither could deny.

As they tread on a path strewn with leaves and framed by towering trees, the air thick with the earthy aroma of the forest, Eros turned to Psyche. His eyes, usually so confident, were tinted with vulnerability. "I know little about you, Psyche. Tell me, what interests you? What fills your days when you're not unknowingly captivating gods?"

Psyche glanced at him, a wry smile gracing her lips. "Well, unknowingly captivating gods is a new entry to the list, for sure," she said before a long pause as she navigated the wilderness with some effort, unprepared for a hike that day. "I like stories," she finally confessed. "There's something about the way a bard's spoken words can dance in my head, the stories they tell, the worlds they build, that's always fascinated me."

Eros could not help but think of Hephaestus telling him stories. Though, Eros had spent enough time traveling and hearing the tales of storytellers in countless inns and courts, those old tales told at his bedside by Hephaestus always were his favorite.

She paused as if momentarily lost in thought before continuing. "I also enjoy spending time outdoors, not just confined to my father's palace. The smell of blooming jasmine in spring, the way dew sparkles in the morning sun, and the comforting embrace of nature—it all feels like freedom to me."

Eros nodded. He also enjoyed the outdoors. If the weather permitted it, he would sleep every night under the sky. In truth, Eros only resorted to using inns or brothels for a sense of companionship. After all these years, he was still never comfortable being alone.

Her eyes met his, full of warmth but probing as if trying to gauge his reaction. "And you? Aside from disrupting mortal lives with your arrows, what interests the God of Intimacy?"

Eros chuckled softly as he looked at her, his eyes momentarily veering from the path ahead. "Interests? I can't say I have many of those. Most of my time is spent serving as an agent of the Moirae."

"The Moirae? You mean the Fates?" Psyche's eyes widened in curiosity, her mind parsing the weight of his words.

"Yes," he said, nodding solemnly. "In their service, I'm a member of the Ichnaea."

"Trackers?" Psyche asked, translating the word less formally.

Eros nodded. "Think of us as Trackers of Destiny, if you will. I go where they tell me, do as they command. From Thrace to Libya, from Athens to Egypt, my work has taken me all over the Aegean and beyond."

"So many places," she mused, "That's a lot of traveling. Even for a god."

He laughed, a light, airy sound that momentarily made her forget the gravity of his words. "That list? That's just from the last year."

Her eyes widened again, this time in disbelief. "That doesn't leave much time for... well, for anything. No social life, no hobbies, and ironically, no room for love." She looked at him thoughtfully. "Do you ever get lonely?"

Leaning against a gnarled tree, Eros sighed deeply. "Yes," he admitted, locking eyes with her. "Though, I've never lacked for company among people; the world is full of brothels and mortals more than willing to share their bed with a god like me... at least, until yesterday."

"That sounds incredibly sad," she said softly, her voice tinged with sympathy.

"Why would that be sad?" Eros seemed genuinely puzzled by her comment.

Psyche hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "Because physical closeness isn't the same as emotional intimacy. You might be surrounded by people, but if you can't share your thoughts, fears, or joys with them, you're essentially alone."

At that moment, as he looked at Psyche, something clicked within Eros. Her words, simple yet imbued with a truth he hadn't previously contemplated, struck a chord. Maybe he'd been lonely all this time and just hadn't realized it until now, until her. And the thought that struck him the hardest was how his own life, dedicated to sowing the seeds of love and desire, had been so devoid of these very sentiments.

Psyche sighed softly as the pair walked through the forest, the leaves crunching underfoot and the sun dappled through the canopy above them. "Don't worry, we'll find that arrow and fix you. Then you can go back to doing what you're best at," she assured Eros.

His eyes caught sight of a glint of black amongst the foliage, an obsidian arrow buried in the trunk of a tree. The very arrow that could sever the enchantment. It was within arm's reach, hidden behind branches dense with leaves that Psyche had just walked past, unaware of its existence. He hesitated, biting his lower lip. As his hand inched toward the arrow, his heart wrestled with his mind. The prospect of replacing this newfound, mysterious love for Psyche with disdain, possibly even hatred, tormented him. It was a solution, but was it the one he really wanted? His hand retracted, leaving the arrow untouched.

Breaking the silence, Psyche turned to him, curiosity dancing in her eyes. "So what is your mother like?"

"To be honest," Eros began cautiously, carefully choosing his words, "my mother is not easy to describe in simple terms. She's a force of nature, a blend of incredible beauty and unstoppable will. She can be both the kindest and the cruelest, often in the same breath. While she's my mother, she's also Aphrodite, and that's a role that often takes precedence over maternal instincts."

Psyche listened intently, her eyes softening as he spoke. "I can relate to that, actually," she said, her voice tinged with vulnerability. "My father is much the same way, minus the godly attributes, of course."

"In what way?" Eros asked, intrigued by her sudden openness.

"He's a merchant, a successful one. He's always been good to my mother, my sisters, and me—spoils us, really. But I've seen another side to him, one he doesn't show us, usually. He can be... harsh, even ruthless with others," Psyche hesitated, searching for the right words. "It's unnerving to think the man I love so dearly can have this other aspect, this hidden darkness. And sometimes, he can be overly assertive with what he thinks is best for us, even if it means disregarding our feelings or wishes."

As she spoke, Eros felt a growing knot of apprehension in his stomach. He sensed the unsaid words hanging heavily between them, words that carried shadows of discomfort, perhaps even pain. Though part of him didn't want to delve deeper into what seemed like a painful subject for Psyche, he felt a compelling need to understand her more thoroughly.

"Are you trying to say something, Psyche?" he finally asked, his voice gentle yet tinged with a sense of urgency.

There was no immediate answer. Psyche eyed Eros for a moment, then sighed before she continued onward. Eros followed, curious to hear what might be on her mind.

Eros and Psyche found a momentary sanctuary from the world's prying eyes in a secluded glade framed by the whispering trees and a gentle stream that ran its eternal course. Though Eros was a god, the place felt hallowed in a way that even Olympus' Haven rarely did—a space where mortal sorrows and divine burdens could coalesce into something profoundly shared.

It was here, her eyes fixed on the dappled sunlight that filtered through the canopy of leaves above that Psyche broke the silence. "My father is trying to marry me off to the king," she said, her voice tinged with a bitterness that caught Eros off-guard.

His eyes, habitually so full of mirth and mischief, sobered instantly. "You don't seem happy about this. Wouldn't most mortal women love to be queen. What's the matter?"

"Are you aware of what happened to the last queen?" she countered, lifting her gaze to meet his.

Eros shook his head. "I can't say that I am."

"Rumors say she ended her own life," Psyche continued, her eyes clouded with a sadness tinged with anger.

"Why would she do such a thing?"

"Because the king is a monster," Psyche spat, the words erupting from her like hot embers. "He relishes the killing of prisoners, delights in the torment of his courtiers. The palace is less a home than a den of suffering and despair."

Eros felt the words like a physical blow, astonishment creeping into his face. "I had no idea," he said softly.

Psyche shot him a look that was an amalgam of incredulity and disappointment. "How could a god not know? Do you gods even care what happens in the realms you purportedly oversee?"

Eros winced. "It's not that simple. I'm always moving, always on the road. Mortal fates change like the winds; it's hard for many immortals to keep track of every cruelty or kindness that occurs. If it's any consolation, I'm sure the likes of Zeus or Hera know more about your king than I do..."

For a long moment, Psyche was silent, her eyes cast down, seemingly engrossed in the pebbles at her feet. Eros, grappling with an unfamiliar sense of helplessness, fumbled for something—anything—to say.

"You would make a good queen, you know," he ventured, his voice colored with a nervousness that belied his divine nature.

Psyche looked up sharply, her eyes narrowed. "A good queen? To a tyrant? Are you not hearing me, Eros? This isn't some heroic myth. This is my life we're talking about."

Eros felt the weight of her words, heavier than any arrow he'd ever loosed. "I heard you, Psyche. But I also know you. If anyone has the inner strength to transform a realm, it's you. Still, it should be your choice, not a destiny thrust upon you."

"And what if my choice leads to more suffering? What if I fail?" Her voice was thick with emotion, the raw fear in her eyes cutting him more profound than any blade.

"Then you'll have failed nobly, trying to do what's right," Eros answered gently, stepping closer to her. "I'm not saying you should marry him... If I am being honest, I would rather you choose another."

"Choose?" Psyche asked with a scoff. "Choice isn't a factor when you're from a family like mine. At least not my choice..."

Eros, touched by her vulnerability, kissed her hand gently. "If you'll allow me, I would like to give you a choice."

"What choice would you give me?" Psyche asked, eyebrow raised, one hand reaching across her to grip the bicep of her other arm.

He clenched his jaw, the words stuck in his throat as he saw a glint of light hitting an obsidian surface nearby. Still, he ignored that for the time being. "Psyche, I—"

She gasped suddenly, smacking her forehead with an open palm as if awakening from a dream. "Gods, what am I doing? Arguing with a deity? Forgive me, Eros, I overstepped."

Eros shook his head, the weight of regret sinking deep. "No, Psyche, you're right. You deserve a choice."

She looked puzzled as if doubting his sincerity. "You don't have to say that."

"But I do," Eros said, pausing as he carefully chose his following words before choosing silence instead. Instead of words, he gestured ahead to the mossy log, where he spotted the glint of a dark, obsidian arrow embedded.

Her eyes followed his pointing finger, and then she gasped, recognizing the weapon for what it was—a reversal of unspoken hopes, an undoing of whatever strange love had blossomed between them.

The air between them thickened with unsaid words and burgeoning realization. The tangled future stretched before them in a series of complicated knots. The moment hung suspended as if the world had taken a collective breath. Psyche's fingers reached for the shaft of the obsidian arrow, the dark gossamer shimmering ominously. Her eyes looked back to Eros', and a universe of emotions swirled between them in that infinitesimal moment.

The forest seemed quiet as Psyche grasped the arrow, her knuckles white with tension. Eros watched her, his immortal heart pounding in his chest as if it were confined by mortal sinew and bone. With a determined tug, she tried to pull the arrow free from the stubborn embrace of the tree. He stepped forward to help, but she waved him off, before she freed the shaft with a look of triumphant effort. Eros found himself marveling at her, this delicate yet resilient mortal who had become the axis around which his world now turned.

"A simple scratch, you say?" Her voice was unwavering as she kept her back to Eros, her eyes inspecting the arrow intently.

"A scratch is all it takes," he confirmed, his voice an amalgamation of yearning and despair. He, too, was looking away, searching the treeline around them for some other solution to this problem.

Psyche weighed the arrow in her hand. Her eyes darted to the god before her and then back to the arrow. She seemed to be calculating something—perhaps the weight of their love against the burden of her potential life as queen. "Is a poke sufficient?" Psyche finally broke the silence, looking from the dark, gossamer arrowhead to Eros, her voice laced with both curiosity and a tinge of dread.

"That also would work," Eros answered, staring intently at the cursed artifact.

She hesitated, searching his eyes for some sign. "Would you like to do it yourself?"

"I don't think I could bear it," he admitted, a chill running through him. "Besides, I've already failed once, haven't I?"

"Must I press hard?" Psyche looked at him with a mixture of sympathy and steel. "I don't think I could do it if it might hurt you..."

"The arrowhead will vanish in a puff of smoke the instant it inflicts more than a superficial wound," Eros explained. "It will heal almost instantaneously. Gossamer is a capricious material."

"Capricious, like the gods," she muttered, biting her lip. "What will happen when I cut you?" Her eyes were serious, probing.

"I will despise you," he answered bluntly, his voice tinged with an unspoken sorrow. "But don't worry. I will flee the moment I am cut, so you will never have to see me again. I promise you that much..."

Psyche's hand wavered as she held the arrow. "Can a lighter scratch just remove the effects of the golden arrow?"

Eros shook his head, his eyes never leaving hers. "The magic is absolute. A direct hit or a grazing shot, it doesn't matter. You'll either have to live with me loving you or hating you."

Their eyes met, and at that moment, their souls seemed to clash in a silent battle of wills and wishes. The air thickened as if the forest itself awaited her decision. Finally, she took a deep breath, steeling herself for a plunge into some unknown abyss.

"So, it's either love or hate, then. No middle ground?"

Eros nodded, the weight of centuries seeming to bear on him at that moment. "No middle ground."

Both god and mortal held their breath, waiting for Psyche to make her choice. The air between them hung thick as if laden with the import of decisions not yet made—a solemn stillness that swallowed even the forest's whispers. Psyche's eyes searched Eros's, lips parted as if about to speak but locked in indecision.

"No other way?" she asked, stalling further. "Is there no other way to free you from this—curse?" Her voice was a murmur, laced with the frayed edges of desperation.

Eros winced, as though the word itself had the power to wound. "I would not call it a curse."

She shook her head, eyes narrowing. "Answer my question, Eros. Spare me your lovesick quibbles."

For a moment, he looked as if standing on the edge of an abyss, staring into an eternity of uncertainties. "The only remedy for the enchantment of the golden or the black arrow would be your death," he finally said, his voice tinged with a sadness that bordered on defeat.

And as their eyes met again, there was no battle, no clash of wills or wishes, only an understanding as profound as it was simple.

"The magic is absolute until your death," Eros felt the need to add. "Unless I am cut by that arrow, I will love you until the moment you die. I will be unable to stop that."

Psyche sucked on her lower lip. She was perfection incarnate to Eros in that moment.

"If you hadn't been scratched," Psyche began, "would you have ever looked twice at me?"

Eros was still determining how to answer that. He tried to use his influence as a god to resist the effects of the arrow that had scratched him so he might have an objective view, but despite flooding his mind with essence, Eros was still overwhelmed by an undying love for Psyche, one he could not overlook. He chose to answer honestly. "I... I like to think so, but I can't say. You're beautiful. Far more beautiful than others I have shared myself with, but... there's also something else about you. Something... I cannot define it. Maybe that is the arrow, but I feel it's not. I feel the arrow just... allowed me to see what I might otherwise be blind to."

Psyche listened intently to this, nodding to signal her understanding of his confession. Her lips parted, and she let out a strained breath as she decided. Her sigh then was a tragic sound, filled with lifetimes of resigned sorrow. "If that's the choice, then let me live loved by a sweet god rather than suffer as a mortal queen loathed by the god of love himself and married to a wicked man."

Eros's eyes widened, the surprise more jarring because of his usually inscrutable demeanor. "Psyche, you can't—"

Before the god could react, her hands moved with astonishing speed. The arrow snapped cleanly over her knee, disintegrating into a plume of black smoke dotted with fleeting purple motes, each winking out of existence like dreams cut short. The atmosphere seemed to shudder as if her actions stunned even the gods into silence.

"Psyche, you don't understand—"

"I understand perfectly," she interjected, her face awash with a complex tapestry of emotion—courage, determination, and a tinge of sadness. "I refuse to let you unlove me as easily as pricking you with an arrow. I'd rather fight for a complicated love than step willingly into a life where I'm despised, either by a husband or a god."

Eros felt something inside him shift, as if a chamber within his immortal heart had just opened, filling with a new, unknown substance. It was love, yes, but also something more—awe, perhaps, or maybe respect. He looked at Psyche, her chest rising and falling in the aftermath of her defiant act, and realized that she had just shattered the dichotomy that had chained him.

There was no choosing between love and duty now. The choice had been made, not by the whim of an arrow or the scheme of a mother, but by the will of a mortal woman who refused to be defined by either.

Eros found himself genuinely, irrevocably, and terrifyingly in love for the first time. Their connection was now electric, a merging of two souls across the realms of the divine and mortal. Eros closed the distance in a heartbeat, pressing his lips against Psyche's in a rush of sensations that defied language. Her lips were soft and warm, like the first ray of sunshine after a long winter, and she kissed him back with an ardor that set his divine essence aflame.

With a graceful motion that hinted at both urgency and desire, she pushed him back against the rugged bark of a tree. Their lips did not part; their souls did not waver. His mind flashed to the visions he'd seen in his dreams—dreams where they were both winged beings of myth and legend, soaring in the tapestry of skies stitched with golden suns and silvery moons. He felt that ethereal sensation of flight, of rising above and beyond the material world.

"Oh, Psyche," he murmured, almost with a sigh, as though her name carried the weight of a thousand unspoken poems.

And she replied, voice tinged with an emotion so raw it was almost sacred, "Oh, Eros."

That utterance, her voice imbuing his name with a tenderness he had never heard before, was a jolt—a rip in the fabric of time and space. And then he was there, seated on a wooden stool in a saloon filled with the buzz of idle chatter and the clinking of glasses.

Eros turned, reflexively, toward the source of the voice that had called his name. The shift was jarring, a rupture in the continuum that made the boundaries between reality and dream, past and present, divine and mortal, blur into a disorienting haze. He grappled with the juxtapositions for a moment, his mind racing to stitch the fragments into a coherent frame. Then it hit him.

There they were. Their dresses matched, and low-cut tops and frilly skirts were raised in front, as was all the rage in Knossos and the Northern Nations. Clotho in green, Lachesis in orange, and Atropos in purple. The Fates had come to Thrace.

"Khaire," said Clotho, speaking first.

"Khaire," said Lachesis and Atropos in unison afterward.

The air grew thick with an otherworldly stillness as Eros' eyes met those of the Moirae. They stood at the saloon's entrance, their straightforward, brightly colored dresses seeming out of place, as though they were fragments of another reality stitched into the mundane tapestry of Trojan-controlled Thrace. Eros stumbled over his words, caught between the pull of their presence and the incompatibility of the setting.

Eros gulped and blinked. He was silent for a moment, caught off-guard by the appearance of the Fates before him. "Khaire," he finally said with a dry mouth. "Wha—What brings the Fates to a place like this? Would you like a drink?" he asked, motioning to the bartender.

Clotho, her fingers delicately holding the handle of her closed, green parasol, motioned with her head. "Come with us, Eros. We have much to discuss."

Eros rose, his instincts overruling his skepticism. He followed them, walking through wide, dirt streets, each step echoing with a gravity that pulled at the edges of his awareness. The Fates spoke in turns, their words woven together in a continuous stream, each picking up where the other left off as though they were three voices of a single, multifaceted mind.

"The weave of destiny grows complicated, Eros," began Clotho, her tone resembling a diplomat's grace. "Threads intertwine in ways they should not. Knots form. The loom creaks."

Lachesis interrupted, her eyes hidden behind red and orange sunglasses, making her look as if scrutinizing a distant horizon. "You are a part of this complication, Eros. The loves you create, the hearts you bind and break, have a wider impact. You are not a mere orchestrator of mortal and divine dalliances. You know this, of course, but reminder is due."

As they approached a weathered carriage at the edge of town, Atropos spoke. Her voice was like the grinding of stone against stone, each word a portent. She wore a black hat with a dark veil that gave her the aspect of an eternal mourner, her hands hidden within the folds of her purple dress, likely concealing her adamant shears from view. "Choices made in love and passion reverberate through the tapestry of Fate, cutting threads, creating new ones, setting events into motion that are beyond even our ability to foresee. This is your doing."

Eros stopped, a tremor of existential dread rippling through him. For gods were not often the subject of cosmic admonitions. He met the eye of each Fate in turn: Clotho's serene gaze, Lachesis' veiled scrutiny, Atropos' inscrutable judgment.

"You speak in riddles," Eros finally said, struggling to balance his divine pride against the ineffable authority of the Fates. After thousands of years, he still struggled to understand the Fates' nature, and yet he was still the god that understood them best.

The trinity paused, looking at each other in a momentary, silent consultation that seemed to stretch for an eon. Then they turned to face him, each countenance reflecting a different facet of the same enigmatic intention.

"That, Eros," Clotho said softly as she folded her parasol, "is what we must discuss next."

And with a gesture, she invited him into the carriage.

The carriage responded to Eros' weight. As he got comfortable on the bench at the front of the vehicle, Eros realized he had not noticed whether there was a coachman or not, yet the moment he was comfortable and the Fates had taken their seats at the rear, facing Eros, the coach immediately began to move. Not long into its driven course, did the nature of the carriage's path draw Eros' attention. The vehicle was following a meandering loop, circling the town. A tension hung in the air, sharp enough to slice through divine flesh.

"We apologize for the deceit," Clotho began, twirling her green parasol even though it remained closed. "Your restive state lately was obvious even to us. You would not have come here, not without the promise of seeing Psyche."

Eros' eyes blazed. "Wait, are you saying that— Is Psyche not here?! You have no right—"

"Temper, Eros," Atropos cut in, her tone like a sharpened blade. "Or shall I cut Psyche's thread and send her to Tartarus?"

His fury cooled to icy caution. "You wouldn't dare."

"Wouldn't we?" Atropos responded, her eyes an enigma behind her black veil.

Eros sank back, folding his arms over his chest, shoulder blades twitching uncomfortably. "Fine. What do you want from me?"

Again, the Fates looked at one another, holding another of their silent, enigmatic conferences. The air in the carriage grew dense as if reality were folding in on itself, making room for some new, unwoven thread of destiny.

"We have a final mission for you," Lachesis announced, peering through her antiquated sunglasses as if reading some cosmic script.

Eros sneered. "A 'final mission'? I've heard that before. I've done dozens of final missions for you three."

"It's different this time," Clotho insisted.

"Why are we just circling the town?" Eros demanded, unable to contain his suspicion.

The Fates exchanged another glance. "Privacy," Lachesis stated flatly. "Even here, we must take precautions against prying eyes and ears. Even divine ones."

Eros looked around, a realization dawning on him. "Mythril," he muttered.

"Yes," Atropos said. "Mythril interferes with magical scrying. Even Zeus would find it difficult to eavesdrop here. We chose this place deliberately."

Eros sighed, the weight of the implication settling over him like a shroud. A conversation so dangerous that not even the King of Olympus should hear it. He felt like he was teetering on the edge of a precipice, ready to plummet into an abyss.

"All right," he finally conceded, his voice edged with reluctant curiosity. "What is this 'final mission'?"

The Moirae, those three eternal sisters who weave the threads of destiny, held a silence so taut it seemed to stretch the very fabric of existence. Finally, Clotho broke it, leaning forward, her eyes boring into the core of Eros with an intensity that felt like she could read the secrets inscribed upon his soul.

"We have a new plan for Psyche," she said, the words crisp and clear like the morning dew.

Eros felt like a bolt had pierced him. "We had a deal. Psyche was to be left alone. I didn't work my arse off for you the last thirty years to be told to feck off."

"The weave of destiny is ever-changing," Clotho replied, almost serene. "As if the terms of our agreement."

"The hell it is," Eros glared at Clotho.

"It's a change for the better," Lachesis chimed in, her voice distant, as if she were watching some other part of the vast tapestry of reality unfold.

Eros frowned. "Better for whom?"

"Both of you," said Atropos, her gaze severe and probing.

"Better for us, too," said Lachesis, unflinchingly honest.

"Better for Psyche," said Clotho, smiling as she knew that would be what Eros would most benefit from hearing.

The god's skepticism rose like a protective wall. "Prove it."

Clotho considered him momentarily, then said, "When this carriage ride ends, we will reveal Psyche's true location to you. It's not far from here. You may go to her, whether you accept our final mission or not."

Eros eyed them warily. "Why would I even consider your mission if you'll give me what I want anyway?"

"Because," said Lachesis, her eyes lifting to meet his, "the mission involves Psyche."

Eros arched an eyebrow. "Explain."

"We want to exalt her," Atropos announced, each syllable falling like a hammer.

For a moment, Eros thought he had misheard. The word "exaltation" rippled through his mind, triggering long-dormant memories. The act of elevating mortals to divine status was an ancient rite, lost—or so it was said—since the Titans were imprisoned. As far as he knew, his mother, Aphrodite, was the last being to have undergone exaltation. Even then, it may have been a simplified, rushed endeavor that cost the woman once called Dione her mortal memories, stripping her of her previous life.

"You're serious?" Eros finally managed to say.

Three heads nodded. It was chilling and comforting in equal measure.

"Another deception?" Eros queried, his trust still hanging by a thread.

"We've known the process of exaltation for some time," Clotho said. "But the circumstances were never right. Until now."

The audacity of their claim collided with the ferocity of his longing. Could it be? Was there a chance for him and Psyche to be together and ascend together? To bend Fate and stand shoulder-to-shoulder as immortals? It seemed like a tantalizing reverie, a dream too splendid to touch. But here he was, teetering between hope and skepticism on the precipice of a life-altering decision.

His eyes flitted to the carriage window, where he saw a stretch of barren desert—the vast and endless wilderness, a land untamed and full of secrets. In that desolate panorama, Eros saw the mirror of his own isolation and yearning. Could he pass up an opportunity to fill that void, to rewrite not just his destiny but Psyche's as well?

Turning back to the Fates, the air dense with anticipation and dread, Eros found the words rising from deep within him, "Very well, what must I do?"

The sisters exchanged glances one last time. A new thread was about to be woven into the tapestry of existence, one that could change the destiny of gods and mortals alike. And it all hinged on the next words to be spoken.

Three days of walking under the scorching sun and a train ride that seemed to go on forever had stretched Eros' understanding of the phrase 'not far from here' to its breaking point. But the long journey also provided him time—a luxury in its own right—to grapple with the choices that lay before him.

He could disembark from this old, rattling train, find Psyche based on the straightforward address the Moirae had given him, and whisk her away to some remote cabin or a secluded island. There, they could live in blissful isolation, away from the meddling eyes of gods and Fates alike, if they kept to their word, which was never a certainty with them. The notion was tempting: a peaceful life where the world and its complexities ceased to exist. He even flirted with the idea of forsaking Nektar and Ambrosia—the food of gods—to age and eventually die, to eternally entwine his Fate with Psyche's in the great unknown that followed mortal death. The thought had a romantic allure, a poetic symmetry that tugged at his heart.

Yet, another path beckoned—immortality for Psyche, eternity together free from the whims and fancies of those who'd manipulated their lives from the shadows. If the Fates could be believed, this option stood before him like a golden road, shimmering with the promise of eternal love and freedom. No more reincarnations, no more hide and seek through time and space, no being forced to do the Fates' dirty work. Just endless days, filled with love and joy, both untangled from the Moirae's eternal Loom. It was a compelling vision that could mean a happily ever after so absolute it defied time.

But here lay the crux of his dilemma. Choosing a simple, mortal life with Psyche would throw a wrench into the plans the Fates had so carefully orchestrated. The balance of godly power, the stability of Olympus, the very weave of destiny could be jeopardized. And yet, could he really trust the Fates? They who had led him through countless ordeals, who had separated him from Psyche time and time again.

The train hissed and grumbled, pulling him out of his reverie as it slowed, announcing its arrival at the next station. Eros looked out the window; they were there. The moment of choice was rapidly approaching, each second ticking by like the snip of Atropos' shears. He picked up the leather rifle case he'd brought, feeling its weight as though it contained the sum total of his anxieties and hopes.

As he stepped off the train, his eyes scanning the crowd, his mind weighed the options one last time. Each path was fraught with its own set of wonders and perils, but each also promised a form of happiness and resolution.

With a deep, steady breathing, Eros set forth, knowing that whichever choice he made, it would be guided by love. And sometimes, just sometimes, love could rewrite even the most immutable laws of Fate.

In that liminal space between what was, what is, and what could be, Eros—or whoever he was stepping off that train—realized something. Love, in all its multifaceted complexity, was the one constant across all variables, the one thing that remained unchangeably powerful, irrespective of form or circumstance. As the reality of the train station solidified around him, a question formed in his mind: If given a choice, would he risk the upheaval of worlds, the unraveling of destinies, for another chance to choose love? The answer came to him as clearly as the whistle of a train.

Yes. Always, yes.

Eros' mind reeled once more, grappling with the enormity of the task. But the seed was planted; the thread was set. There was no turning back now. Fate had made its claim, and it was up to him to fulfill it or defy it.

After all, the Loom of Fate awaited no one.

## Characters

### Gods

* Eros
* Hypnos

### Fates

* Clotho
* Lachesis
* Atropos