May 19, 2001
Twisted Arrows: Eros and Psyche
[ Part I ] [ Part IIa ] [ Part IIb ] [ Part IIc ] [ Part IIIa ] [ Part IIIb ]
This was not going well. Not going well at all.
Admittedly, it hadn't been going well since the first time Eros laid eyes on the mortal Psyche, so he was going to blame it all on her. Yes, that worked. He'd do that.
As soon as he called up the nerve to enter her room, of course.
Then again, it wasn't her room.
Eros scrubbed his face in frustration. This would never have happened if the blasted woman hadn't gone to the temple. If she hadn't got into a fight with the old man there, he wouldn't have threatened to rob her family of their home unless she left the village. And if she hadn't chosen to be banished rather than marry the old man, she wouldn't have been walking down that lonely road where the corrupt priests laid in open wait.
And if the corrupt priests hadn't taken it into their heads that since everyone thought Psyche was gone, nobody would miss her if they used her as one of their human sacrifices, Eros wouldn't have been forced to rescue her.
Purely out of a guilty conscience, of course.
And he wouldn't have had to pretend that he was Apollo while doing the rescuing, since no way in Hades's name was he going to reveal that he was Eros, the god whom mortals attached such sweet, sugary-love kind of qualities.
If all that hadn't had happened, he wouldn't be caught in this mess right now.
Blasted woman.
Never mind that if Eros himself hadn't shot the old man with his arrow, the old man wouldn't have had the least bit inkling toward Psyche, and none of this would've happened in the first place. Eros was a god. He deserved to have a mortal sheepgoat.
Although, that mortal sheepgoat was currently cooped up in a locked room acting worse than a hissing wildcat.
Eros sighed and scratched his nape. He hadn't been thinking clearly while rescuing Psyche -- actually, he found it hard to think clearly whenever she was around, period. He hadn't known where to take Psyche after swooping to her rescue, and in a state of very ungodly panic, blinked them both to one of Apollo's faraway chateaus. He'd hastily dumped the mortal inside one of the rooms and locked the door.
Pitiful, Eros. Truly pitiful.
No, 'pathetic' would be a better description.
That's right, beat yourself over a mere mortal. She isn't even worth it. Pull yourself together.
Women were an aggravating species, he thought. Both the mortal and the immortal kind. He fingered his scars contemplatively.
He paced the floor, having taken off his pouch in the great hall earlier. Finally, after drawing a deep breath, he approached the door, unlocked it, and entered.
And only managed to narrowly escape being brained by a chamberpot. It missed his head and shattered on the floor. Fortunately it was an empty chamberpot.
"What in Olympus --!" He whirled around and was promptly smacked in the face with a candlestick. He gave a very undignified yelp and clutched his nose. Stars danced merrily across his vision.
His attacker took the opportunity to race for the door, but he was faster. He lunged and grabbed her ankle, yanking hard. She yelled -- quite ungracefully, too -- as she tripped, but didn't stop struggling. She tried to punch the demons out of him, not to mention use language that no mortal should ever use on a god unless the mortal wanted to spend a very nice eternity in the Underworld.
For a woman who grew up with sisters, she punched hard.
Maybe this was what the fuss over women catfights was all about.
Eros rolled Psyche under him and straddled her, stopping her hips from twisting away. He grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head. She glared at him with eyes that said she'd love nothing better than to stretch him on a rack.
And it occurred to Eros, as he looked down at her, that Psyche was very pretty. Aphrodite had said Psyche was beautiful, but she hadn't mentioned she was pretty.
Psyche used that moment to make a very unelegant remark in reference to his mother, his father, and his whole family tree in general.
"I should've left you with the priests," Eros muttered.
"A better alternative than this, to be sure!" she snapped back.
"And 'this' is. . .?"
"Kidnapping!"
He stared at her. "I rescued you. A little gratitude would be in order."
"You locked me up!"
"Only because I didn't know what to do with you!"
Her eyes flamed and her fists clenched. "I am not an animal that needs something to be 'done' to," she said through gritted teeth.
He glared back, then calmed himself. He didn't have a temper. He didn't raise his voice. He was a silent -- if jaded -- god. He could handle this.
"Your pardon," he said levelly. "I've never rescued anyone before. I'm not familiar with the procedure."
She sniffed.
He waited.
She relented grudgingly. "If you were truly rescuing me. . . well, thank you."
"Good. I mean, you're welcome."
They gazed at each other for a moment. She had lovely eyes, Eros thought.
And just like that he became aware of their current position, his body straddling hers. And his body's reaction wasn't a very polite one for men to give women, either, unless they were husband and wife. It was a little embarrassing, to tell the truth.
Psyche's cheeks grew pink and there was a flash of vulnerability in her eyes. She was aware of him, too. Then she tilted her chin up at him in defiance.
"The rescuing procedure includes letting me up," she said.
She was brave, he had to give her that. Even though she knew he was bigger than her and she was slightly afraid of what he could -- and might -- do, she acted like he had no choice but to obey her.
Eros watched her face for a moment before rising to his feet and helping her up.
She brushed at her dress. "Thank you. Who are you?"
He frowned. "Apollo. Didn't you hear me announce myself at the road with the priests?"
"Yes, but I thought it was a ruse. You don't look like Apollo."
He didn't know whether to feel relieved or insulted. "No? Have you ever seen Apollo?"
"Well, no, I'm not sure he exists. But --" she said, raising a finger before he could object to that first sentence, "-- even if I did think he was real, I would've thought he'd, uh, wear something considerably more than a loincloth."
Eros looked down at himself, then cursed under his breath. If she saw him blushing, he'd kill her. Gods did not blush.
It wasn't as if the loincloth was very revealing, he defended mentally. It covered the important bits well enough. And his job wasn't dangerous, so he didn't need armor. Plus he was a loner, so it didn't matter how he dressed since he rarely attended social functions.
There wasn't anything wrong with how he dressed. The nerve of her. There were many goddesses who appreciated the fact that he wore a loincloth.
Had been many goddesses.
His scowl must've been ferocious because she blinked at him and looked a little nervous. Good. Let her worry.
"If you must know," he said with exaggerated patience, "Apollo does exist, and yes, he wears something more. He wears a toga."
"So you're not Apollo?"
"No."
She nodded confirmingly. "I didn't think so."
He glared.
"No offense," she said hastily. "It's just that I didn't think you'd be in charge of muses. You're likely to inspire something other than happy thoughts in the artists' minds."
"Why?" he snarled. "Because of my face?"
He advanced toward her. Psyche stumbled back and blinked again, her eyes wide. "N-no," she stammered. "Of c-course n-not."
"Of course not? Of c-course n-not?" he mocked, stalking closer, she backing away. His hands fisted, his muscles corded until the veins showed. "Don't lie, mortal. Let's hear you say it. I don't inspire happy thoughts. Anyone with my scars can never make anybody happy, isn't that right, mortal?"
"That's not true!" Psyche banged against the open door behind her. Real fear came to her eyes now. She whirled around and took off, running down the great hall.
"Blast it, wait!" Eros raced after her. Guilt pricked his mind, and even his usual self-excuses weren't enough to brush it off. "By Hades, woman, wait!"
She was fast, for a human. Luckily he was a god.
He seized her wrist and pinned her to the wall, this time her hands on either sides of her head. He seemed to be finding himself in this position a lot, lately. This time, however, instead of being defiant, her eyes were frantic. She truly thought he meant her harm.
For the first time in a long time, shame burned. He'd never lost control like that before. He rested his head beside hers, on the wall, breathing heavily.
She had to know that he would never hurt her. He didn't know why it was suddenly so important to him that she did, but it was.
He breathed deep before speaking quietly. She trembled slightly at the sound, and he tried not to let that deter him.
"Most of them don't have happy thoughts anyway," he mumbled. "They'd prefer to complain about being in the depths of tragedy."
A brief silence.
She licked her lips. "Wh-what?"
"Artists. Happy thoughts. Inspiration. They prefer being martyrs."
"Oh."
He didn't look up. "I've never hit a woman in my life."
"There's always a first time."
He lifted his head and narrowed his eyes at her. She met his gaze. At least her spunk was returning. That was a good sign.
"I may not have the best record with women," he enunciated clearly, "but I have never physically hurt them. Even when they gave me this."
There was no mistaking what 'this' meant. Her eyes traveled to his scars.
"Who did it?" she asked softly.
Eros didn't like to talk about it. He didn't like to think about it. But he didn't want to ruin this moment, these beginning strands of. . . trust?
"Aello," he answered. "One of the Harpies. I broke her sister's heart."
Her mouth formed an O but no sound came out. It seemed neither of them knew what to say.
Then she swallowed. "I never meant that you couldn't inspire people," she said. "I only meant that. . . just. . ."
He waited. When she didn't continue, he prodded on, "Meant what?"
"That you'd inspire people in a different way." She thinned her lips and looked away.
Eros frowned. Then when he saw the way she blushed furiously, not meeting his eyes, he realized what she meant. He instantly released her and rubbed at the back of his neck, self-conscious. And a little pleased, too, but he tried not to show it.
She rubbed her wrists, then smacked him in the chest. In his bare chest. He yelped.
"Jerk," she said without heat. "You just had to make me tell you."
For the first time in a long while, Eros couldn't help but smile.
Part IV twisting its way towards you
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