Part I

The two gods, mother and son, stood invisible and unnoticed in the crowded village square. They watched the mortals do their daily chores, milling around the gods while remaining unaware of their presence. Eros almost felt sorry for the humans. He would have, if he hadn't forgotten how to feel pity.

Aphrodite smiled and pointed at the fishmonger and the seamstress's daughter. "Those two," she said indulgently. "They're perfect for each other."

Eros remained expressionless, though his tone was skeptical. "They hardly know each other."

"Not now they don't, of course, dear. That's where we come in." She chuckled lightly and twirled a lock of her son's hair. Eros moved a little, but her hand remained on his head. "You know what to do."

"Yes, Mother." He fingered the tip of the arrow in his hands. More arrows were located inside the soft-skin pouch slung over his shoulder; all of them were a hard, metallic gray; all were twisted and bent out of shape. All as uncompromising as the scars on the left side of his face.

Aphrodite turned away, rubbing her chin speculatively as she surveyed the rest of the village. "Another couple and we'll be done for the day. How about. . ." Her finger traveled from one person to another, until finally it met with a rotund figure. A wide grin spread across her face. "Oh, this is good. This is very good."

"What is it?" He was spinning the arrow with his left hand now, gathering momentum, while his right hand slipped into his pouch to grab another arrow. Aphrodite hadn't specified whether the attraction should be one-sided or mutual, so he chose mutual. He was tired of all the complications arising from one-sided relationships. The fishmonger and the seamstress's daughter looked like nice people -- they deserved a little happiness.

"I found our next couple." Aphrodite beamed. "My, it's been such a progressive day."

Eros would have preferred it to be less progressive. In fact, he would have preferred it if neither he nor his mother touched a human soul ever again. He said nothing, however, and began spinning the arrow in his right hand.

He let loose the left arrow, flung it with a force that was almost vicious. The twisted projectile flew through the air, whipping in between people, barely missing their ears and shoulders. They never saw it go past, nor did they -- could they -- see the silver silken thread attached to the end of the arrow. It, as was the arrow, was visible only to immortal eyes.

The arrow zig-zagged to and fro, back and forth, left and right, whirling like a bolt of lightning, until finally it collided against its target and burst into an explosion of sparks. The chaotic interlacing of thread that had been following behind it, resembling the product of a bad weaver, shattered into light as well. The fishmonger was illuminated for a split-second, almost a godly sight.

Once, a long time ago, Eros would have called it beautiful. Now he was no longer sure what beauty was, or if it was worth anything at all. Sometimes he was sure he didn't even care.

He threw the right arrow, his strength and frustration shooting it on its way faster and harder than any bow could. The maze that the arrow followed was not the same as the first one, though it contained no less force or energy. Like the first one, it moved much too fast for its trail to be discerned. The path it chose was complicated and sometimes overlapping, but it reached its destination at last, smashing into the seamstress's daughter and lighting up her body with a golden glow.

Eros stood there, breathing deeply. His job was done. Now all he had to do was set himself back and observe. He, after all, was not allowed to touch any of the ones he'd hit. They were no longer under his jurisdiction, no matter what occurred in the future. They were not his responsibility.

He fisted his hands and turned away. The only thing to do now was focus on the next task. That was always a good distraction.

"Well, Mother?" he asked, reaching for his next arrow. "Who are the others that you want to match?"

Aphrodite smiled and pointed at a rough-bearded, middle-aged man standing beneath a palm tree. Then she pointed at a young girl of fourteen, dressed in virginal white, who was accompanying her mother at the market.

Eros stared at the mortals, then at his mother. "You cannot mean that."

"I surely can, my dear," Aphrodite replied with no small ounce of pride. "The results would be so interesting. I'll enjoy watching the drama unfurl. Better yet --" her eyes gleamed in sudden anticipation, "-- make it one-sided. On her part. Oh, the possibilities!"

Eros would have felt his blood run cold if it hadn't already been chilled in the past by moments like these. "Mother, she is fourteen. He is three decades older than her. Ours is the power of true love, not harmless infatuation. If she falls in love with him, it could devastate her life. Especially if he is cruel and feels nothing for her."

"Now, my son," Aphrodite sang remindingly, "love knows no boundaries."

He gritted his teeth. "Perhaps, but it knows no kindness as well. You cannot go on choosing couples at random, Mother. You cannot pair them arbitrarily with little regard for their happiness. They are not toys placed on this earth just to amuse us gods."

Aphrodite looked innocently surprised. "But my dear Eros, what else are mortals good for?"

She turned away, the edges of her dress fluttering behind her. "Move it along, dear," she called airily, waving back. "I'm going off now. Some of the goddesses are having a party this afternoon, and I want to catch up on the latest news."

She faded in a wink, leaving Eros alone in the crowded village. He looked at the arrow in his hand -- plain and ornate in its appearance, demented in its entirety. It was exactly the way he felt.

He glanced up at the bearded man, who was scratching his stomach and spitting on the streets. He looked at the young girl, whose eyes were wide and innocent with an eagerness to learn.

Eros lifted the arrow. Damn it all anyway, he thought savagely. Why should I care what happens to them? It has no bearing on me in any case.

Still the arrow trembled in his hand, and he watched the girl get teased by a boy her age. She yelled at him and threatened to box his ears. The boy laughed and tugged at her pigtails again, seeming to take pleasure in her reaction. Her mother hushed her and told her to remain still.

The girl did not realize that the boy was only trying to attract her attention. She had not grown into her womanhood yet. Eros glanced at the bearded man again, and saw him fondle an indignant tavern girl.

The arrow descended until it dangled from Eros's hand. He felt so tired.

In silence he dropped the arrow back into his pouch and turned away. Aphrodite would be furious at being deprived the pleasure of watching the melodramatic saga, but he would withstand her anger this once.

Besides, there would always be other victims.

"Go away, Leto," Psyche said, frowning in irritation as she continued to turn the crank of the well. "I told you a hundred times, I am not interested."

The bard -- or rather, wannabe bard -- whined in protest. "I would make you very happy, Psyche."

"Thank you, but no. Truly, I am content."

"Yes, but I can make you happy."

Psyche sighed. She supposed it wasn't Leto's fault that he could be a niggling pain in the neck. At least he was good at heart, unlike the more conceited and sexist of her admirers. Still, like them, he couldn't seem to get the message that she just - was - not - interested.

She straightened from the well and smiled at him. "I'm thankful for the offer, Leto, and if the time ever comes that I should need to take you up on your offer --" she crossed her fingers behind her back, "-- I will."

Leto looked appeased by that statement. In his feathered cap, tight stockings, and the lute hanging from his hand, he resembled more of a jester than a bard. He insisted that he was taking proper music lessons; Psyche was sometimes tempted to ask from whom.

She started turning the crank again, grunting with the effort. Getting water from the well each day was not her favorite chore. She was certain she would have bulging arm muscles by the time she was thirty-five years old. That was probably the reason why her sisters always gave her that chore. They certainly didn't want to tan their fair skin or blister their delicate hands by cranking the well underneath the sun.

Psyche took a moment to remind herself to think happy thoughts.

Leto watched her with an adoring look on his face. She resisted the urge to bite off his nose.

"I've composed another ode to you, Psyche," he said. "This time to your ears." He looked pleased with himself.

Psyche groaned and gave the crank one last shove. A wooden bucket brimming with water popped into sight. "My ears are of no interest to anyone, Leto. They aren't pierced or adorned with jewelry as others are."

"Exactly! They are kept untouched and unscathed in their purity, just as you are pure and true."

Psyche tried not to scream in frustration. Ever since her father had started spouting boasts about the purity of his daughters -- of her purity, in particular -- it seemed to be a neverending theme in this village. For the last two weeks she had been admired, envied, and hated for this so-called virtue. Some tavern boors even took it as a challenge to see who could taint her chastity. It took two big bottles clonking them on the heads to make them change their minds. Unfortunately, this only meant that they'd altered their tactic from assault to seduction. Some of them were really bad at it, too.

"I've been singing that ode to anyone who would listen, and they all agreed that it is very good," he said. "Would you like to hear it?"

His eagerness almost made Psyche smile; he was like a puppy willing to please. If circumstances were different, she would have adopted him as the little brother she never had.

"No thanks, Leto. Perhaps some other time. I have to go home now." She hefted the handle of the bucket in one hand and grabbed another full bucket with the other.

Leto followed after her. "Will you be at the village dance tonight?"

She thought about her sisters and how they had been primping all day long in preparation for the event. She herself had no interest in the dance, and would rather spend the night working on her drawings. She wanted to master charcoals before she graduated to paints. Her father had said it was important for her to go to the dance, however, so she supposed she should please him.

"Yes, I will," she said. "I'll see you there, Leto." Bidding him goodbye, Psyche made her way home.