Page 55 of Touch

Who is this Selfish Little Myth?

Who is she? A myth that’s not a myth, who resides among a thousand evergreens and within a transparent cage. An archer who can strike this man down, but who cannot kiss him, fuck him, have him. A covetous goddess who creeps upon her target without his permission, because it’s in her nature to be selfish.

A trickster. A traitor.

She removes her coat—his coat—drapes it over a reading chair, and sets the note on top of it. She drifts out the door, making sure not to look at him again.

It takes longer than it should to return to the glass cottage. She cannot sleep, so she has a silent conversation with the translucent walls. By sunrise, she knows.

She is falling in love.

18

Light arcs across the ceiling. It drags her into the past, to a memory of her first bed, the moment when her infant eyes flashed open with life.

Other recollections follow. She thinks back on every facet of the tale, from what she was told to what she remembers. The myth of Eros isn’t the truth.

No. Her story is the truth.

It’s not romantic…

19

There’s a star that refuses to shine. It hides in the sky above The Dark Fates, the mystic realm of waterfall cliffs and moonbeams, where The Stars serve a purpose—to create deities. But this particular celestial is stubborn, unwilling to glow and reveal itself.

For millennia, deities have controlled mortal destinies and reigned over humanity’s fragile emotions. All except the most mysterious and coveted emotion in existence. The Fate Court has toiled to create a love deity, but unacquainted with the stirrings of that emotion, they have never succeeded.

In despair, they almost give up until the Guide of Wonder approaches them with an idea. “Love cannot be made on its own,” she says. “It’s a constellation and thus must be conceived by fusing multiple emotions. I believe I know which ones, for the next generation of them have just been born.”

It’s the perfect time. Four Guides—the mentors of Anger, Envy, Sorrow, and Wonder—are tasked to create Love. Anger and envy to fuel passion. Wonder as an intricate blend of happiness, admiration, and awe. Sorrow for heartache and longing. However, believing it to be practical, they dismiss fear as a component.

At nightfall, the Guides convene inside a glass dome that has existed since before humans first invented observatories. On the dais, painted recreations of constellations grace the floor. Above the artwork, an elegant silver funnel called a stargazer—not quite what mortals call a telescope, but close—is poised upright and aiming toward the sky.

The Guides join hands around the base of the stargazer and beseech the sky. Unexpectedly, the hemisphere goes dark. Only one star is left flickering. Once dim, it now winks down at them. Indeed, an obstinate little thing.

With a bloodred flash, it burns out and reappears in the Guide of Wonder’s palm. The other three deities surround her, peeking down at the rare and glimmering seed. Soon enough, The Stars gleam once again and confirm what everyone hopes. And the seed becomes a goddess.

***

Everyone fucks on the night Love is born. From the ancient ones to those in their prime, eventide passes in a tide of moans and climaxes. It’s a fine era to celebrate—to touch and be touched.

In her room, the arched spine of a bow hangs on the wall above Love’s cradle. The braided bars cage her in as a pair of short, black wings flutter from the youth’s back, and she reaches up toward the members of The Fate Court, who’ve come to view her. They regard the needy gesture with amused confusion, as well as intrigue over the plumage, a trait no other deity possesses. None of them thinks to pick Love up, neither to cradle the newborn, nor to caress her cheek. It’s not done among their people, and why would any goddess yearn for such an embrace?

Granted, her behavior isn’t entirely a shock. For she’s a love deity, after all. Yet foreseeing this penchant and watching it come to fruition are diverging experiences. Her people are not accustomed to such a feeble whim and assume she’ll outgrow it.

After they retire, Love blinks at the void above her. Her wings sag, and she whimpers, waiting for someone—anyone—to kiss her head or brush her cheek. She waits and waits.

And she waits.

***

They live in open cottages on stilts over a dark blue pool of water. On the way from their homes, Love sulks while the other archers ignore her. She does not wish to train. She longs to flare her wings and soar, to play and roll down the moonlit hill. Or better yet, to push Envy down the slope, merely to see how fast the god can tumble.

In a misty enclave, their group sits in a semicircle, their short legs dangling off their chairs. They listen to the four Guides declare their crew the most exceptional in The Dark Fates.

Love purses her lips. Envy, Sorrow, and Anger never act exceptional. They only act snobbish, calling Love a misfit and frowning at her wings as if the feathers’ existence makes no sense. At least Wonder is kind, offering secret smiles behind her hair.

Other deities are cordial, yet they do not seek Love out, and they don’t know what to make of the plumage springing from her back. She’s the only emotion they can’t relate to, which makes her a precious oddity.

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