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[ Part I ] [ Part IIa ] [ Part IIb ] [ Part IIc ] [ Part IIIa ]
Mornings had always been Psyche's favorite time of the day. She would wake up early, then complete her chores quickly and discreetly so that she would have plenty of time afterwards to concentrate on her art. The peace and quiet helped her concentrate, as well as the morning air that was thick with dewy fog.
This morning was different.
She sat at the kitchen window, her elbows perched up on the sill so that her palms cradled her cheeks, and sighed. "Glum" couldn't even begin to describe how she felt. How could it? Her family was losing their home, all because of her.
Even now she wavered, wondering if she had been wrong to refuse Old Man Oglen. "But how can you be wrong if you follow your heart?" she asked aloud.
Behind her, at the kitchen table, Therenas sliced a loaf of bread vehemently. "Following your heart is all right for dreams. Reality's another matter."
Psyche turned. "So what are you saying? That I should marry Old Man Oglen even though I don't love him?"
"You don't know what love is," Therenas sneered. "You've never been in love."
"Whereas you've played with men's hearts since the day you developed breasts," Psyche shot back.
They heard a sound and both turned to see Amelia standing by the doorway. Her eyes were in tears. "Stop it," she cried. "Stop it, just stop!"
"Amelia --" Psyche rose from the window, but Amelia had already whirled around and raced out of the room.
Therenas glanced at Psyche -- almost in triumph, Psyche thought resentfully.
"You see?" asked Therenas, waving her knife. "The whole family suffers because of your stubbornness."
"Therenas." Menena stepped into the kitchen, frowning. She guided Amelia in front of her, but the younger girl didn't meet Psyche or Therenas's eyes. Even in the mornings, Menena looked like a princess, her hair swept up and her gown flowing at her ankles. "You're not helping. Griping does no good."
"You can talk," Therenas retorted. "You will marry Gerome soon. You're not the one losing a home."
Menena's brows snapped together, and when she spoke her voice was cool. "This is my family too. Don't say that I don't care."
Therenas resumed slicing the bread, only this time it seemed more like hacking them.
It was times like these that Psyche wistfully envied Menena. Her oldest sister was always so composed, so regal. Psyche, on the other hand, couldn't control her reactions with as much grace. Their current situation was proof enough of that. For all the songs and odes that praised her, Psyche knew she was far from perfect.
Their father entered the kitchen just then. Freidn, always old and thin, looked even more frail now. His hands shook as Psyche helped seat him at the table, and a surge of guilt made her cheeks color.
Menena moved to get the plates, and when she set them on the table, Therenas placed the slices of bread on top of them.
The family sat down for breakfast in silence; the tension was so thick that Psyche moved with excruciating care so as to not make any sound. So this is what it feels like to walk on eggshells.
Freidn broke the silence with a cough. "Our home. . ."
"I don't see why we should suffer when it is Psyche who refused Old Man Oglen," Therenas burst out.
"Therenas!" Menena chastened.
"Why don't you marry him, if you feel so strongly about it?" Psyche retorted.
"I'm not the one whose skirts he want to get under," Therenas replied.
Psyche nearly slapped her, but her father spoke then. "Psyche," he said haltingly, "perhaps. . . perhaps you might reconsider. . ."
Psyche couldn't believe it. "Father! You said you would stand by my decision, whatever it was."
Freidn didn't meet her eyes. "I hadn't realized at what cost, daughter."
Psyche stared at him, dumbfounded.
When Therenas spoke, her tone was without spite or malice. It was uncharacteristically quiet. "Father is old, Psyche," she said. "Would you put him out of his home just for the sake of pride and dreams?"
Psyche glanced at Menena; the latter couldn't seem to find any objections. Amelia just stared at her plate miserably.
With a sinking feeling, Psyche knew that they were right. It would've been nice to dream that they could somehow overcome this obstacle, but one had to be practical in life. And Psyche was nothing if not practical.
She finished her breakfast and rose from the table. "I will see Old Man Oglen."
Everybody's heads jerked up, bearing mixed expressions. "You mean. . ." they began in unison.
"We will talk," she answered. "Perhaps there's a way we can come to some sort of agreement."
Therenas stared at her bread dolefully. "I hope so. I would hate to be cast out of my own home."
You're not the only one, Psyche thought, heading for the door with weary trepidation.
Eros found Apollo at the latter's favorite thinking spot, seated on a tree stump shaded by the leaves of an overhanging laurel tree. The god of muses didn't look particularly happy.
"I still don't understand it," Eros said without introduction. "I used those same arrows on two mortals today, and they worked. Yet Psyche is impervious to them. I tell you, if mortals begin developing an immunity to my arrows, the entire human race is doomed. Mark my words."
Apollo didn't acknowledge the remark. Instead, he removed his crown of laurels and stared at them in his hands. "Have you ever felt regret over being worshipped, Eros?"
Eros snorted. "Obviously you have not seen the mortal-made statues of little boys carrying heart-shaped arrows and relieving themselves in fountains. They're not something I'm particularly proud of."
Apollo's expression didn't flicker. Eros furrowed his brows. Such gloom was uncharacteristic of the god of muses.
"What's the matter?" Eros asked.
Apollo continued to gaze at his laurels. "Sacrifice."
Ah, so that was it. Eros had heard of Apollo's aversion to human sacrifices made in his honor. Not that they were many; mortals were more inclined to spill blood for Ares or Poseidon. The god of muses wasn't exactly a role that brought vicious images to mind. On the other hand, Apollo was also the god of light, and for some reason, there were people who slit throats in hopes of his favor.
Apollo had tried many times to convey his disapproval concerning such actions, and sometimes the humans got the message. Other times, however, they brushed it off as being just a vague dream. Mortals could be extremely dense without trying.
"Which village is it?" Eros asked.
"Monterau. The one we were in last night." Apollo sighed and replaced the crown on his head. "Full of aspiring artists, that place. Also has a. . . progressive temple." He waved his fingers absently in gesture. "Or so the priests say. I've tried to tell them several times that I have no craving for flesh, but. . ."
Eros glanced up intently. "Monterau? The same village Psyche resides in?"
Apollo nodded. Calculations ran briefly through Eros's mind before he straightened and looked down at Apollo.
"Let me go there," he said. "Perhaps I can do something about it. About the sacrifice."
Apollo's eyes began to focus and he glanced up, skeptical. "You? What could you do?"
"I don't know. Distract them with a few arrows or something." Eros began striding away. "Maybe start a war over love. Wouldn't be the first time that happened. Ares would be grateful."
Apollo frowned, but before he could say anything Eros was already gone.
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