|
|
|
[ Part I ] [ Part IIa ] [ Part IIb ] [ Part IIc ]
Eros sat alone on a wooden bench several feet away from the dance stage. His elbows rested on his knees, his chin on his interlaced fingers, and his narrowed eyes gazed into the darkness that was untouched by fire.
The light seemed to grow brighter and approach in his direction. It took him a second to realize that the glow was actually coming from Apollo. The god was wearing his laurel crown and white toga, as usual. He was also wearing an amused look.
"Brooding as usual, Eros?" he asked, treading over to where Eros sat.
Eros did not answer. Instead, he gestured at the village. "Come to enjoy your tribute?"
Most gods did not visit every temple or tribute paid to them by mortals. Apollo, however, did. It was his way of showing his appreciation for their worship. He paid too much attention to the mortal realm than was required, in Eros's opinion, but he was harmless enough.
Apollo nodded and settled next to Eros, arranging his toga around him. "A delightful celebration, is it not? Such laughter, such music. Such inspiration." He was practically bursting with pride.
"Your joy overwhelms me," Eros replied sarcastically.
Apollo 'tsk'ed him. "You are more hostile than usual, young one. May I inquire as to why that is so?"
"If you had been here earlier to enjoy the ongoings, Apollo, you would have known why."
"As a matter of fact, I was here. Not in the dance area, or you would have seen me then, but behind the village huts. The food served there looked delicious. I almost considered revealing my presence just so I could have a taste of the feast." He smiled. "I arrived just in time to see you jabbing the mortal with your arrow. Not your usual tactic, Eros, is it?"
"I don't understand it!" Eros exploded. "She was impervious to my arrow! That is not possible. She is mortal through and through, is she not? She --" His eyes widened. "She sensed my presence earlier. Perhaps she is part-god --"
"She is mortal," Apollo confirmed. "We would know instantly if she were otherwise. You know that."
Eros shook his head, hunching back in his seat. "I am not sure of anything anymore."
Apollo regarded his fellow immortal with sympathy. "Poor Eros. You doubt yourself."
"Why did she not fall in love?"
"Perhaps she was not meant to. At least, not with the one you chose."
Eros straightened scornfully. "Do not mock me, Apollo. Nor try to convince me of abstract emotions that aid you as god of muses. I know the truth about love."
"And that is. . .?"
"It does not exist."
Apollo eyed his comrade. "Strange words from the god of love himself."
"The god of deceit, more like it." Eros waved a hand dismissively. "I deceive mortals into believing that what they feel for each other is love, when in reality it is mere affection, lust, or just the need to feel accepted by others."
Apollo gazed at Eros solemnly, ignoring his companion's bitter laugh. "There was once a time you believed in what you did, Eros. What changed?"
"I grew up. I learned. I am my mother's son after all."
"You cannot believe that, Eros. I remember your youth and enthusiasm. You were once determined to make even Aphrodite believe in love." Apollo watched him in sorrow. "When did you stop believing?"
Eros whirled around to face Apollo, savagely flinging up a finger to point at his scars. "When I got these, Apollo! That was when I stopped believing. That was when I learned. It is about time you did too." He turned away. "You thrive on the false existence of love because your poets, writers, and musicians need it to survive. But we both know the truth."
"Then tell me how this truth explains gods falling in love. You have naught to do with that, so you cannot claim that you deceived them into caring for each other."
"They are not really in love, Apollo. You know that. Most of them join out of lust, or in order to unite forces to spread their power."
Apollo shook his head. "You may be the god of love, Eros, but I am the god of muses. And I am older. My breadth of wisdom is not inconsequential."
Now Eros eyed Apollo. "Then what is the truth about love, O god?"
Apollo smiled. "That nobody -- not mortal nor god -- can ever truly understand its power or potential."
Eros returned his attention to the dance stage. "Then you, for all your experience and wisdom, Apollo, are a fool."
Apollo merely chuckled. He rose from the bench and brushed at his toga. "I must go make an appearance now. It is the least I could do in thanks for the villagers' loyalty."
Eros did not look at him or reply. He just watched Psyche speak with her father and the old man from a distance. It seemed to him that she was growing agitated with the conversation, but he dismissed her worry. The old man would not insult or mistreat her; was in love with her, after all.
Whatever love was.
Psyche's throat was dry. "I beg your pardon, sir? Marriage?"
"Yes." Old Man Oglen looked so pleased with himself that the gold buttons beneath his robe threatened to pop off. "I ask your father, my good and dear friend, for his permission and blessings for your hand in marriage." He turned to Freidn, Psyche's father, who was staring in him in shock. "You will not refuse me, will you, old friend?"
Freidn stammered. "Oglen. . . I. . . this is. . . unexpected. . ."
"But why?" Psyche burst out. This was insane. Old Man Oglen had sometimes smiled at her indulgently, but he had never even hinted of the possibility of marriage before this. It was too. . . too unbelievable, too unimaginable.
Old Man Oglen smiled. "You are beautiful, radiant, and intelligent, my dear. I'm sure you are not unaware of the power you have over the men in this village. Your father has boasted many times of your beauty, and even more on your virtuous nature." His eyes softened in a way that unnerved Psyche. "Who would not want a bride as pure as you?"
Psyche could have screamed. She knew the topic of her virtue would come and bite her in the rear one day. "But sir --"
"I can offer you jewels, wealth, power, comfort. . ." Old Man Oglen reached for her, but she stepped back, too stunned to be polite about it. People were turning to stare at the commotion now. "There may be difference between our years, but I assure you that I am quite capable. . . and well-equipped. . . for all aspects of married life."
Psyche's skin crawled, and she shuddered.
"I can offer you your heart's desires, dear Psyche. There is no other reason for you to refuse me."
"Yes there is, sir Oglen," she shot back. "I do not love you."
"But I love you."
She stared at him, his weathered and leathery face that hadn't even blinked an eye at her words. "And you think that solves everything, sir? You do not even care for what I want?"
"I care, dear Psyche." Old Man Oglen stepped forward and took her hands in his, ignoring her efforts to pull away. "I know I can provide for you better than anyone in this village ever can." He glanced at Freidn. "What say you, old friend? Will you approve of our union?"
Freidn wrung his bony hands helplessly. "I. . . I. . ."
"Father!" Psyche cried.
"The decision will be my daughter's," Freidn said in a rush. "I care for her happiness. I will stand by her decision."
Old Man Oglen turned to Psyche. "And your decision, my love?"
She violently wrenched her hands from his, panting from the effort. "No!" she yelled. "I am not your love, and I will not marry you!"
The collective gasp following her statement made her aware that the entire village was watching them. When she looked back at Old Man Oglen, she saw his face turning red. A vein in his neck bulged with each pulse.
Perhaps I overreacted, she thought. Just a little.
"I see," he said coldly. Psyche felt a wave of foreboding threaten to swallow her. "You would insult me by refusing my proposal."
"I. . . It is nothing personal. . ." Psyche wanted to kick herself. She had just turned down the most wealthy and influential man in the village. How else could he see it but as personal?
Old Man Oglen's eyes were hard now, harder than Psyche had ever seen them before. They looked like they were about to shatter from pure pressure. "You know that you live on my land."
So did most of the other villagers. That was how Old Man Oglen had grown rich and influential -- he was a very calculating landlord.
"Yes, sir," she replied. "Would you use that as a threat against me and my family?"
"Let us not call it a threat, my dear. It is an. . . incentive." He pulled his silk robes together, raising his thick chin. "I shall give you a day to reconsider your decision. If you, despite your intelligent nature, persist in this foolishness. . ." He let her draw her own conclusions.
Psyche drew in her breath sharply. "You would turn my family out of their home? Even my old father, who has been your friend for years?"
"Obviously he has failed in bringing up his daughters properly." Old Man Oglen turned away. The fires lighting up the dance square did nothing to eliminate the chill growing inside Psyche. "I would wish you pleasant dreams, dear Psyche, but I think you will be spending most of the night rethinking the choice you have made."
He walked away from the stage, leaving Psyche staggered and surrounded by staring bystanders. It took a long while before she finally managed to move, and when she did, every eye followed her into the darkness.
|
