Chapter Text
POV Eros
He had appeared above Delphi. Not far enough from the city to lose sight of its streets, yet not close enough for Apollo to mistake him for an unexpected guest.
This time, it was not because he felt bored, nor to carelessly loose his arrows as he usually did.
This time was different—far too different.
One moment he had been in his mother’s garden, choosing which flowers would best suit the Queen of the Heavens, and the next he had felt something pulling at him; not in a threatening way, simply inviting him to surrender to it.
Unconsciously, he had grasped whatever it was that called to him, and this time, he was the one who pulled back, drawing it closer.
That was what led Eros to Delphi.
He gazed at the city beneath him in confusion, trying to understand why he would be there.
He knew Apollo had not called for him, for there was no reason whatsoever for him to request his presence. He and Apollo did not get along, though he would not say they shared any sort of familial affection either. The most accurate word to describe their relationship was courteous toward one another… Well, “courteous” was also far too strong a word.
The point was that whatever had called him, it was not Apollo.
There was nothing interesting or important enough to draw the attention of a god; everything was mundanely ordinary. Apollo’s rays bathed the city in a way humans often found comforting. Some mortals had already begun their day; very few were only just waking.
Then he saw him, only for the briefest fragment of a second.
A beautiful man—far too beautiful to be mortal.
“Mine.” His lips had been quicker than his mind, but the feeling did not last long, for the next second he noticed his vision being inexplicably obstructed.
The man’s entire figure had been veiled by an almost translucent mist that did absolutely nothing to hide his beauty.
The man’s entire figure had been veiled by an almost translucent mist that did absolutely nothing to hide his beauty.
He tilted his head in curiosity.
No matter how much he strained his eyes, he could no longer see the beauty he had perceived during the brief instant his gaze had fallen upon the man.
In its place stood the appearance of a rather average young man, at least by his standards.
He tilted his head again, curious, trying to see what was no longer there.
Dark copper hair, sun-bronzed skin belonging to someone who spent every day beneath the sun, the same clothes worn thin by days of travel… but no longer those unnaturally attractive features for a mortal.
Eros wanted to see more, not only because of the desire beginning to stir within him, barely ignoring the pressure that had begun to build.
Only then did he notice them.
Seated at the end of the temple’s stairs were three figures invisible to mortal eyes, but he was not mortal; he knew perfectly well what he was seeing.
In the hands of the one he recognized as Atropos, by her elderly appearance, she held a thread.
A divine one.
Something primal within him told him it was his.
Atropos tightened the thread beneath her nails, perfectly synchronized with a pain he had hoped never to feel again.
Memories of a pain older than this new self came crashing into him: the disturbingly vivid memory of his flesh being parted by a sickle without hesitation; suffering swift and precise in its purpose, yet no less terrifying for it.
Ichor sliding across both his skin and that of his murderer, while he felt how that sickle had nearly destroyed him beyond all possibility of return.
The same pain he had felt when everything became nothing, only to later return with another name, new siblings, and a figure he could truly call mother.
Only this time, he feared he would not be fortunate enough to survive it again.
He was afraid.
“May your power be used to bind the threads,” three voices commanded in unison, only for their owners to vanish immediately afterward.
Only then did he feel his existence released from suffering the same fate once more.
And then he felt it.
He felt himself being drawn toward his power, compressed within his arrows, undeniably so; he felt his fingers burn painfully and the pressure around his essence tighten in a way that could only be called temptation.
The temptation to draw an arrow and simply fire so that his power could take effect—but he restrained himself.
He was neither foolish nor blind enough to deny the undeniable.
The Moirai.
A mortal capable of hiding himself well enough from the sight of a god.
And that threat to his existence… again.
He had a task now, and something important enough for the Moirai themselves to summon his true consciousness.
An amused smile spread across his youthful mask.
His gaze searched for the man he had lost sight of and quickly found him at the stall of a withered human woman.
The initial desire had transformed into a euphoric rush of emotions; the strongest among them was anticipation.
.
He could have burst into laughter when he felt the presence of the city’s patron god appear outside the main temple, while the sun hung halfway across the sky.
The moment Apollo appeared beneath a mortal disguise and saw him, he felt that same pull he associated with his arrows return once more.
He had not known the Moirai could be so unbelievably entertaining with immortals.
His feathers bristled as his mind worked faster than Hermes himself, considering every possibility while discarding others just as quickly.
He took two golden arrows, trembling with such euphoria that it was surprising they did not slip from between his fingers.
He watched both men walk toward one another, though instead of meeting face to face, they would merely pass side by side.
That alone made him tremble with anticipation.
He aimed and drew his bow.
He saw the man hesitate mid-step, only to continue on his way after a little girl—who had somehow joined him walking in the same direction—said something Eros could not care less about.
They were so close.
He calculated the exact instant Apollo’s gaze and the man’s would meet.
Only then did he laugh; he let out a cackle so sharp that even his form flickered.
He felt his power coil around them both, one bond stronger and more direct than the other. Each possessed their own forms of love and passion, the very things that made them perfect for one another.
These arrows had been loosed to produce their usual effect: to be slow or as swift as fire consuming paper, all depending on how the recipients chose to act. Though those arrows were nothing compared to the one he had wanted to shoot at Apollo many springs ago, and not with particularly kind intentions.
Two beings destined to be together, not merely by the will of the gods of love, but by fate itself.
Still smiling, he watched as both Apollo and the man continued on their separate paths.
It did not matter; his power was already within them, and it was only a matter of time before it revealed its effects once they had the chance to speak to one another.
His siblings and his mother would be euphoric once he told them, though the news could wait until after his visit to Queen Hera.
And in the next moment, he found himself back in the garden.
Pov Hímero
He looked at Eros suspiciously while his shameless older brother played with his arrows between his fingers. Every so often, he would glance up at him only to laugh at some joke Himeros was clearly not aware of (though it would not be the last time).
The two of them had moved to the gardens of Olympus while their mother held a conversation inside with their hostess.
“What are you planning?” he asked without hesitation.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Eros replied far too quickly, without even looking up from his arrows.
Far too suspicious for Himeros’ liking, especially combined with how excited Eros had been acting since that morning.
The last time Himeros had seen Eros behave like this was when he had nearly buried a golden arrow into Apollo for mocking the way he handled a bow. It would not have sounded so bad if only that arrow had been ordinary. Instead, it had been crafted for the purpose of driving Apollo into madness with love for a nymph who would have received a lead arrow.
The situation had escalated to the point that, ever since then, neither Eros nor Apollo had been able to tolerate more than a “polite greeting” from one another. It was a positive outcome compared to the possibility of the King having to intervene.
The only good thing was that the revenge had failed to reach completion thanks to the swift intervention of their magnificent mother—once again proving herself incredible. He did not even want to imagine Zeus’ fury over Apollo’s broken heart with such intentions behind it.
Himeros would have loved to pry something from Eros’ thoughts, but he knew it would be useless. Perhaps once their mother was available, he would mention Eros’ behavior to her. Not because he was gossiping; he simply did not want Eros to do something so foolish that even Mother could no longer save him from it.
A call made him shudder slightly. Not a mortal prayer, nor the summons of a god; he simply felt something coil itself around his core and tug gently.
Apparently, his shiver caught his brother’s attention, because Eros looked at him with intense eyes.
“Eros, something is happening,” he commented, somewhat confused. Whatever he was feeling carried no sense of threat; it was simply unfamiliar.
In his confusion, he almost failed to notice Eros’ expression stretch into a grin from ear to ear, his teeth showing before strange sounds that were unmistakably laughter escaped him.
“Well, well! Seems they’re the fast kind. Straight to the interesting part!” he exclaimed with delight before throwing himself backward and beginning to roll around as his laughter started to sound almost chilling.
Himeros was about to tell him that his behavior was beginning to concern him, but his world darkened in an instant.