In the Room of Requirement

[late_born_myth]

Psyche sits beside her husband on the bed, her head leaning against his shoulder and their legs stretched out in front of them and overlapping. The room around them is bright and warm, filled with cushions and white columns and a long low table laden with fruits and wine. There's a bookshelf near the bed, filled with the novels Psyche's been

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[late_born_myth]

"I know better than to finish that kind of thought. Do you remember a certain night in London in 1522? 'It isn't that Henry's any better or worse than his grandfather, as far as chasing after women,'" she quoted her past self. "'I only wonder what would happen if he were to fall genuinely, desperately in love with some young woman who didn't fall into his bed immediately.' And you said, 'It can't hurt to find out. The younger Mistress Boleyn who's just come back from France has a certain something.'' And you wonder why I always say, 'that wasn't a suggestion!'"

Eros was far too good at guessing her meaning, sometimes. As a matter of fact, though she didn't really approve of the thing from Susan Sto Helit's perspective, she did wonder if Jonathan Teatime wouldn't benefit by another gold arrow. She could only condone such a thing, though, she thought, if it were his own choice...and she rather doubted he was going to be approaching her husband with a friendly request. She couldn't help smiling at the Dumbledore/Voldemort comment, though.

She thought, but did not say, that she was glad the term was "venereal disease" rather than "erotic disease." Not that they were really her mother-in-law's fault either (an admission Psyche didn't ever like making about anything). Still.

Which led her to his next comment. "Yes, and that was hardly fair, was it? The people here aren't seeing us primarily as gods, they're relating to us as fellow students. And it's not as if anyone could hunt down your mother. They may, however, be able to hunt down us, since we're incarnate and on the spot. Which is why we shouldn't go out till things have calmed down a bit."

[spiritoferos]

With a laugh, Eros conceded that point to Psyche. It was an old familiar argument between the two of them - Eros cited Psyche as his inspiration, his personal Muse of love and she indignantly refused to take any responsibility for the fallout of his arrows. If he was to be honest with himself, that was because a lot of the time, it honestly wasn't Psyche's fault since really, he ought to know better than to build his actions around her careless remarks, but he liked to pretend that she was involved his work, as if she were his counterpart instead of his mother. Incestuous as their family might be, Eros prefered to avoid even considering the possibility that he might have an Oedipus complex.

Still toying with the lead-tipped arrow, he drew the feathered end of it over Psyche's throat to tickle her, knowing how sensitive her petal-soft skin was there. The light smirk on his lips, brought on by the thought of how she'd squirm, disappeared at her next words though to be replaced with another pout.

One advantage of being a god was that you never needed to worry about acting mature or immature, after all.

"We're still deities. Even if we get disincarnated, we can always incarnate again, and apart from that, there's a no-kill state of affairs meaning they'd need to take us out of the school first and then discarnate us." He argued, adding airily. "And mortals are never fair. You should know that - just think of how your own family treated you."

Even after all the centuries that had passed, Psyche's sisters' behavior was still a sore spot with Eros.

To take his mind off that, he glanced at the mirror. Oh, another applicant. With a wave of his hand, he projected his image there to vote on the woman, then turned his attention back to Psyche, trying not to sulk too much. It wasn't her fault she had asses for sisters, after all. And she'd made up for it anyway, and he loved her still as strongly as he had then.

[late_born_myth]

Psyche shivered pleasurably at the feather's touch, till the other shoe dropped and she remembered which kind of arrow it was. She yelped and jumped backwards off the bed, stumbling a little, and got to her feet with her face flushed. "Don't do that! What do you think would happen if you..?!" She couldn't even bear to finish the sentence.

She didn't want to think about her family. She'd come from a time when the daughter of a king was a commodity to be used for the benefit of the kingdom. It was one of the reasons she had gone, as she thought, to her death when the oracle said it was necessary to save everyone from the anger of the gods. Even though she'd protested at the fuss made over her, which was what angered Aphrodite to begin with. It was her duty, so she went. The way her father never even thought of objecting to her sacrifice (she was only a girl, after all, and though kings and lords travelled great distances to witness her beauty none of them had wanted to draw up treaties for her hand in marriage) was not something she'd questioned at the time, however much it hurt. Her sisters on the other hand...she'd always trusted them, and believed they loved her. She'd loved them.

"Very few things are ever fair," she said steadily, looking away. "That's why it's to me to try to be fair myself." She blinked hard and drew a deep breath, then looked back at him. "It may not have ever happened in your family, Eros, but it is possible for a god to die. You do remember Loki? You know he killed one of his own pantheon? Not that I expect he's eager to do that again, as he was pretty severely punished, but it is possible. And some of the people here are very creative in that way."

[spiritoferos]

Ignoring the issue of the arrows, Eros instead listened to Psyche's argument as he swung his feet off the bed as well, sitting up and tilting his head up to look at her. Calm blue eyes watched her with no sign of concern, typical immortal arrogance clear in the way that he arched an eyebrow skeptically at the mention of Loki.

Carelessly, he argued, "Yes, but my dear, those were the Norse. You know what they're like. So shoddy. Not proper gods at all, by our standards. It's all about big-breasted maidens that can hit high notes while riding horses, for them. Proper gods don't get killed."

Flushing a little at the thought of what would happen if Loki ever were to hear of that, since Eros' own brand of mischief could only be made worse by the intervention of the Trickster God, he went on airily, "You worry too much. I love you best and better than myself, but darling, don't be so concerned about us. Or at least about me. I, for one, would like to go out and about again, instead of being locked up. If you want to stay here, that's your choice."

With that, he stood up, twisting his arm around to return the lead arrow to his quiver.

((Since Psyche warned Eros to be careful about the arrows, think she should try to physically stop him from leaving and she gets scratched during the struggle or something? Otherwise, he'd put the arrow away.))

[late_born_myth]

Psyche rolled her eyes at the statement on comparative mythology--Olympians always thought they were the only "proper" gods, even if that wasn't an adjective anyone else would usually apply to their behavior. Her father's kingdom had had a different set of names and idols to be bowed down to, and though her mother and her Greek tutor had taught her to hold the Hellene deities first in her heart, she still found it amusing the way each pantheon tried to do their best to pretend that the others didn't exist or weren't important. It was really surprisingly human of them.

I love you best and better than myself made her blush a little, but when she saw he was preparing to go she let out a desperate little laugh and threw her arms playfully around his neck. "Won't you just--"

She stopped abruptly, and with a kind of puzzled surprise, pulled one arm back towards her chest. For a moment, she stared at the long scratch, from which a thin line of blood was now welling from her wrist almost to her elbow, as though it were some odd keepsake, half-remembered from her childhood, which she had never thought to see again. And then her eyes grew wide, and the color began draining from her face.

"Oh, God," she said, and met his horrified gaze. "Fix it. Fix it now."

[spiritoferos]

Eyes wide with shocked disbelief, Eros instantly reached over his shoulder for his quiver, intending to draw a golden arrow from it. Nothing. It was empty. That arrow had been the last of his stock, with even his emergency arrow having been used. No...

Indifference - that arrow would cause Psyche, his Psyche to be indifferent to him. He couldn't deal with that thought, couldn't face watching her loving gaze turn cold and her pretty smile (there was a special smile she only ever turned on him) disappear. Or worse yet, be turned upon another.

Stumbling back, he promised her desperately with his usual arrogant superiority completely gone, "I will. I'll go to Olympus right now and get Hephaestus to create more arrows. Don't move."

With that, he was gone, wings flapping faster than his heartbeat as he sped to Olympus with panic-born speed.

[late_born_myth]

Psyche's arms were still half-outstretched, so she noticed them in a distant, interested way, shaking before the rest of her body began trembling. "...Don't?" she said aloud, to the open air.

It was a little like being cold, she thought. There was this part of her mind that was able to think; it seemed to be concerning itself with commenting on her symptoms. Was she faint? She couldn't tell...she thought she might be, but it had been so long. Was she going to cry? She didn't think so. Not at the moment. It was all just so...odd. Noticing her arms still held out, she blinked and then wrapped them around herself. That was what you did when you were cold, wasn't it? Or when you were upset? But no, it didn't feel right. She didn't want them...touching her. Hesistantly, she let them fall down to her sides.

Here is what has happened, she thought. He scratched you with one of those damned arrows...no, it was an accident, and you were at least as much to blame, because you were the one who put your arms around...who put yourself in range of the arrow's tip. He might have done it, through carelessness, but you knew better. Why did she always have to be the smart one? Anyway, it was an accident. You've been cut by one of the arrows that cause indifference: that's why you're feeling cold and there seems to be a...numbness? Yes, it was quite a lot like having a limb fall asleep, really, only it wasn't an arm or a leg. It was...well, anyway, it was spreading. It wasn't real. It felt real. What did real feel like? It wouldn't last. He'll come back with new arrows he just left her. Just dashed off and left her when obviously she wasn't all right and he'll use one of the gold-tipped would he even ask her permission? and you'll feel just the way you did. Did she want to feel that way again?

It occured to her that she ought to sit down. That was one of those things you did when you weren't feeling like yourself, wasn't it? As she turned, she caught a fleeting glimpse of her reflection in one of the mirrors. Her face was very white, and her wings were...they weren't their usual color. Psyche of the white arms...the most beautiful mortal born, she thought. What had beauty ever meant to her? She didn't let her glance linger.

Resting her head in her hands, as she sat carefully on the floor not on the bed, she wasn't going near that bed, she wondered why she was shaking. Was something happening to her physically? Was she losing her immortality? No, that couldn't be undone, could it? She'd been made a goddess by the will of all the Olympian gods, she'd been transformed, it wasn't dependant on her love. Yes, and she did love him, didn't she? She'd been his wife for twenty-six hundred years, she'd hardly had a thought for herself in all that time. Why would that be if she didn't love him? Even if she couldn't understand why. No, she did love him; it was there in her mind, nothing made sense if she didn't love him. Her memory told her he was everything in the world that made her happy--how could she chose to do anything but love him? He was Love.

And that was rather a worrying thought in itself, wasn't it.

[late_born_myth]

No. He hadn't forced her to love him. If anything, the opposite--his falling in love with her had been an accident, when he cut himself on the arrow he was about to use on her, to make her fall in love with...gods didn't even know what...a monster. Make her fall in love with a monster, Aphrodite had told him, as punishment for the way other mortals had worshipped Psyche's beauty. And he'd been bending over while she was sleeping, to stab her with the arrow, and she woke up suddenly and opened her eyes, and in startlement he accidently cut himself. He'd never used the arrow on her at all. He'd told her when she was lying bruised and broken on the marble courtyard floor, when she'd fallen out of the window trying to follow him, he flapped around above her and shouted down at her like a petulant child he'd wanted her to love him on her own, for himself, without seeing him as a god and worshipping him. He'd never forced her to love him.

Would she even know if he had? The scratch on her arm was almost gone, now, only a faint pinkish line. (Well, that answered the question of whether she was still a goddess, didn't it. She wasn't going to die. She was nearly certain she would know if she were going to die) He could have used those arrows a thousand times on her a day, and she would never have known. She'd sometimes woken from sleep and seen him scratch himself deliberately while gazing at her. What are you doing? she'd asked the first time. Making sure, he said.

What is happening now, she thought, is that your mind is trying to come up with explanations for why you suddenly don't love him. You've seen it happen in others more times than you can count: the heart has its reasons that reason knows not, but people will try to make sense of their feelings, and that's what you're doing now. It was an accident; you've been badly hurt. It's temporary. Even if it doesn't feel temporary. You'll be okay. You were okay before, when you had only your poor broken mortal body but she'd had the certainty that she loved him, then. You'll be okay again. Just...stop thinking about it for a little while. Maybe you should go someplace else? She definitely didn't want to stay here, in this room. Find someone to talk to? Talk? About what, exactly, Psyche? As a distraction?

He'd told her not to move, of course. But who gave a fuck about what he told her to do?