I've decided to start writing in smaller parts now so as to enable more frequent updates (thank you for the feedback, guys!). I don't know when the next update will be, though. That's 'cause I won't be around my computer for the next three weeks -- why? Because I'm going to Norway! Wohoo!

Heh. I've been announcing that all over the place. I'm sure I'm driving people sick with it. ;)

Anyway, it depends on whether I'll be able to use a computer to write and upload while I'm over there. I may be able to do so; then again, maybe not. We'll see how it goes. Feedback is still gleefully appreciated, though! ;D

Sidenote: The pic on the right changes everytime you refresh your browser. Isn't that cool? The script is courtesy of Cameron Gregory. Hooray for him!

[ Part I ] [ Part IIa ] [ Part IIb ]

The mortal was indeed beautiful. Eros wouldn't be surprised if she was as vain as his mother had said.

He watched Psyche make her way across the dance stage, traveling from the darker corners of the night to where the fires illuminated the villagers. Her profile was briefly gilded in gold -- her hair honey-brown, her chin stubborn.

He couldn't see her eyes from where he was standing. He stepped closer for a look, standing two feet away from her. Her eyes were a soft, pale blue, just like her dress.

She turned suddenly, as if startled by his presence. For an instant she met his eyes.

But that's impossible, he thought. Humans can't see me unless I will it so.

He saw her eyes continue to wander, clouding slightly in confusion as she seemed to search the crowd. Experimentally Eros waved his hand in front of her body, hovering an inch away from contact.

He heard her gasp. Psyche crossed her arms in front of her chest, her eyes going wide as if in dismay at this sudden intimacy.

Eros felt his cheeks color. Which was a ridiculous reaction, he rebuked himself. He was a god, by Olympus. Gods were very liberal in their affections. He was used to this kind of thing. He had even done this kind of thing, back before the scars.

By Atlas, it wasn't as if he'd actually touched her.

He glared at her, as if in blame for the heat radiating from his cheeks.

Still troubled, Psyche continued across the dance stage. Eros saw a tumble of black and pink grab her arm, then realized that the young girl chattering to Psyche was the same one he'd seen earlier in the day. The black was her hair, now tied half-up in a way that made her seem older than fourteen. The pink was her dress, not the virginal white he'd seen her wear in the market.

He wondered if Aphrodite would discover his abandoned mission, of the girl and the bearded man. Possibly she would be too engrossed in her revenge on Psyche that she wouldn't remember.

Well, if Psyche had to pay the price for the young girl's freedom, so be it.

The two were speaking in hushed tones. Eros moved closer to hear. That was the good thing about being in invisible mode; he could eavesdrop all he want and not be caught.

"Pleeeeaaaaase. . .?" the girl was coaxing, tugging lightly on Psyche's arm.

Psyche sighed. "All right, Amelia, I will distract Father for a while. I was going to see him anyway. But do not stay outside with Anand for too long."

"I won't." Amelia threw her hands around Psyche's neck in glee. "Thank you, Psyche! You're my favorite sister."

"That's what you tell every sister you ask a favor from," Psyche smiled, then urged Amelia off with a quick flutter of her hand.

Amelia grinned and melted into the crowd. Eros's eyes followed her, and he stepped back and floated a few inches above the ground. He saw Amelia duck behind a tree, holding hands with the boy who had tugged her pigtails at the market. Both of them glanced at each other shyly as they faded into the shadows.

Funny how fast they grow up, he thought, and was surprised by the wistfulness in his tone. He frowned and turned away.

Psyche reached her father, who was talking to another old man. Eros saw her smile widely at her father, and in a sudden flash of insight, knew why so many men sought her attentions. That smile could cause a country to go to war.

Apparently, her father's friend thought so too. He was looking at Psyche with interest. He wasn't as thin or as frail as her father; age might have gotten hold of him, but that didn't mean it was at the cost of his power. His silk robes indicated that he was an influential member in the community.

Aphrodite had instructed Eros to choose an ugly man. Old didn't necessarily mean ugly. But what was ugly, anyway? Wasn't that, like beauty, in the eyes of the beholder?

He resisted bringing a hand up to feel his scars.

The old man looked well enough. He was rich and educated; he would treat Psyche well. Eros took out an arrow from his pouch, feeling the cool metal slide against his skin. Its sharp, bent corners would have made it hard for anyone else to grip it properly, but Eros was an expert in his trade. He was his trade.

He spun the arrow in his hand, watching the threesome speak. He did not go near them. When it came to doing his duty, he preferred to do it from a distance. It helped him maintain a certain level of detachment from his targets.

He flung the arrow, never taking his gaze off the old man. Like the others, it did not make a straight beeline towards its prey but instead slammed against fire-holders, tables, pitchers, even people. It ricocheted in and out, the silken thread at its end glowing yellow with intensity until finally, finally, after spinning a convoluted web across the stage, it crashed against the old man and exploded into light.

The thread shattered to sparkles of dust. At that moment, the old man laughed at something Psyche said. His eyes held more expression now, lingering longer at her face before quickly glancing up and down her frame.

Her turn.

Eros was already whirling another arrow in his hand, never looking away from Psyche. The world around him vanished, and all he saw -- focused on -- was her. She smiled pleasantly at the old man, and even more fondly at her father, whom she briefly wrapped her arms around.

Her father moved his mouth, as if asking a question, and started to glance around the dance stage. Psyche swiftly recaught his attention and blocked his view. Covering up for her sister, no doubt. Eros watched her in this moment for one last time before letting loose the arrow.

It flopped to the ground with a clunk.

He stared at it, dumbfounded.

He picked it up, studied in with a perplexed frown, before spinning it again. Perhaps there hadn't been enough momentum. He whirled it in his hands with great force before flinging it in Psyche's direction again.

It thumped dully against the ground.

This was not good.

He had never had a defective arrow in his pouch before. He had never considered the possibility. He was a god, by Olympus. Things like this didn't happen to gods.

He chose another arrow, scowling this time. The projectile was curved like a helix, different than the previous sharp-cornered one. Its effect would be the same. He spun it again, waiting until it was almost glowing white with heat, before letting it loose.

It crashed against the floor, heavy and useless. Clumsy and awkward.

This. Was. Very. Not. Good.

How was it even possible? One defective arrow was already almost an impossibility. Now two? That never happened. It couldn't happen. It went against all the rules and laws and beliefs. It went against faith.

Eros stalked over to the fallen arrows and snatched them up, his expression dark and thunderous on his bronzed face. Fine. We'll do it the short-hand way, leaving out the complications of love.

He stormed towards Psyche, still invisible, and tapped her with one of the arrows. Nothing happened. He tapped her with the end of the other arrow. Still nothing. He even tried poking her with it, even though that went against his beliefs of not physically hurting women, but he needn't have worried. The arrow broke in two.

The arrow, forged and twisted in the violent, endless heat of bloodshed pain, had broken in two.

Eros stared at it, then at Psyche, who still smiled and laughed, not knowing what had happened in his immortal realm. Her expression was amiable and unaffected. He wished he could share her composure.

Slowly he stooped to pick up the broken pieces from the floor. The hem of her long dress briefly fluttered against his hand, and for a moment there he thought he could feel the cloth.

But that, too, was impossible. He was supposed to be invisible and unfelt. He wasn't supposed to be able to sense anything mortal in his current form.

Clutching both the broken pieces and the other unbroken arrow in his hand, the grip so hard his knuckles were white, he turned and slowly walked away. This didn't make sense. None of this made sense.

For the second time in his life, Eros felt his faith and beliefs being pulled out from under him. But this time, instead of them fading away into jaded bitterness, they were wrenched away viciously and leaving him flailing for support that wasn't there. This time, he was confused, bewildered, and lost.

This was not good.