Cupid sat at the bar, looking deep into the bottom of his ambrosia as he swirled the glass. The gods who sat at the bar during any of Death’s solstice parties were always inherent social outcasts. Not that he had always sat at the bar, but maybe he should have. He had never enjoyed any of these soirees. They were obscene family reunions. Not parties.
All of the family was there. The Greco-Romans, the Pantheon of Greater Egypt, and the Celts were all old friends. The Norse, who only had ties to Cupid’s family through the Fates, were also there causing their usual ruckus, much to the disdain of everyone else.
Thor was trying to pick a thunderstorm fight with Zeus. Pan and Cernunnos were both eyeing Freyja. The Fates crocheted and knitted in a corner while gossiping in riddles about The Morrigan, who pretended, though scowling, they had no idea they were being talked about. Loki was down at the other end of the bar with Hypnos, provoking a drinking contest between Dionysus and Heimdall. Sober Heimdall hated Loki very much, and drunk Heimdall was even more intolerant.
There was some banter and a crash, and Loki came strolling away from the now-fighting mob with a streak of blood sliding down his forehead and along the side of his nose.
Loki was muscular like a Viking. According to the myths, he was born a giant, which is why he was taller and leaner than Odin and Thor, and the whole Norse lot. People called him the red-headed step-child of the Norse family, but he was really more of a strawberry-blond. He had agile, crafty hands and a constant, curious twinkle in his gaze.
Cupid watched the mob of sparring gods in unamused entertainment, though the fighting gods seemed to be having a great time. He made the mistake of making eye contact with Loki as the god passed.
Cupid gave a small disapproving head shake, which was all Loki needed to change course and sit a barstool away from him.
“Well,” Loki said, pulling a small shard of glass from his bloodied forehead, “I suppose my work here is done.” He was mocking himself in a maudlin sort of way.
In interest, Cupid shot another glance at him. “It is what you do. And you’re adept at it. That-” Cupid gestured to the brawl, which had already devolved back into a drinking contest. “...is the natural order of your Chaos. So, what’s your problem?”
Loki tried to hide a smirk spreading across his face, but he couldn’t stop it from creeping into his eyes.
Cupid realized he had fallen into a Loki-trap, or rather walked right into it. He rolled his eyes at himself for not evading it.
“Well, that’s the rub, isn’t it? I must always fulfill the universe’s expectations of me. To cause a ruckus, to make a scene. I am what I am. I cannot deviate from that path, nor amend what I was fated to be.” He shot a glance at the Fates.
The trickster continued, “We mustn’t err from the role we are required to play on their Cosmic stage.” He sighed dramatically. “The Cosmos is a cruel mistress… but, you know that better than anyone right now, don’t you, Eros? That is your Primordial name, is it not? How are you liking the Netherworlds so far, by the way?”
Loki turned to him with an irritatingly fake, sympathetic smirk. A scarred smirk. His lips were covered with little dots and scratches of scar tissue. His legendary scars were from the time when Odin had given two dwarves permission to sew Loki’s mouth shut.
Cupid merely sighed. He just wanted to drink in peace without someone reminding him of how far he had fallen. “Are you quite finished?”
Loki’s faux concern turned seamlessly into pure amusement. “Oh, no. I’ve only just gotten started. You see, I’m quite curious about your punishment. It seems the sentencing of your co-conspirators, your aunt and uncle, Strife and Charon-”
Cupid went rigid. “Niece and Nephew. Niece and Nephew,” he corrected with a snarl. Not even a snarl could mar the beauty of the Desire god’s face.
“My apologies.” Loki waved his hand and bowed his head, “But you Greco- Romans… Each of you have ten different names, and trying to understand your family lineage is the same level of torture as sitting through an entire season of Jerry Springer. Loud people throwing dishes, vengeful conniving mother-in-laws, and at the end you still don’t know who the father is.”
“Like the Norse are any better?” Cupid smirked a little, and took a sip of his ambrosia. “...And by the way, the father is usually Zeus.”
Loki materialized a horn of mead. “So, back to your punishment, then…”
The god of Desire chuckled and shook his head, knowing Loki was about to deliver his punchline.
“Your niece and nephew were sent to Tartarus for helping Clermiel to take over the Mortalworld. While you, yourself, Eros, were merely extradited here for the same offense.”
Loki smiled. He knew all the answers to his questions. He was just looking for validation.
He continued. “And given that you said they are your niece and nephew, not aunt or uncle ... why, that would make you far older than them, and Venus not really your mother at all which means the rumors are true. The reason you got off so easy is… you are actually a Primordial deity, aren’t you? One of the first gods ever born, and you hid it for this long! That is impressive, all that power and you still failed to take over the Mortalworld. Well, that is embarrassing.” Loki laughed
Exasperated, the god of Desire pressed his lips together and did his best to ignore the comment, hoping in vain Loki would take the silence as a win and go away to brag about it.
He didn’t.
Loki smirked. “How is it that the myths came to know you as Venus’s babe then? When you are, instead, one of the first gods in existence?”
The response came quick. “How is it you kept your truth from the Norsemen for so long, Angel? Everyone knows you’re not really a giant.”
“Well, to be fair, I couldn’t hide being an Angel at first. I did have giant Angel wings when I met Odin, but in the end, I was still exploited due to my origins, as you will be too.”
“Loki Laufey, are you threatening me?”
“Me? Threaten a Primordial? Fruitless. I’m offering a helping hand.”
With an abrupt scoff, Eros looked down at Loki’s outstretched hand. “I’ve damned myself enough, thanks.”
“Of course… You’re better off remaining as Cupid, staying under Venus’s wings rather than attempting to spread your own, you cherub.” He stood and straightened his suit. “Just look where your rebellion got you. The universe put you right back in your cage, little bird, and it will time and time again, that is, until you reclaim your primordial name. ”
“The Cosmos is out to get us, is it?” He shot the irritating trickster a condescending look.
“It is.”
Eros stood, “It isn’t. And I’m not in a cage, and I’m not in the market for your unsolicited help, as you call it.”
Loki was hardly taken aback by his curt reply. He seemed to enjoy it. “Ah. I see. I’ve scared you, haven’t I?”
Eros was appalled. A retort formed behind his lips, but was cut short as Loki continued, “You drank their Kool Aid, didn’t you?”
“Whose Kool Aid?” Eros sneered.
“The Fates.”
They both dared a glance in that direction. The three cloaked sisters were still crocheting and knitting, unaware they were being talked about, or at least pretending not to know.
“No.” Eros shook his head.
“You did. You drank their poison, and you took your punishment like a good little boy. That’s another reason why they let you off so quickly and easily, eh? Parole for good behavior?”
Eros clenched his jaw, which Loki only laughed at.
“Oh, gods! If looks could kill. So, I’m right? Who am I kidding? Of course I’m right. I’m always right. And you know who else was right?” Loki took a dramatic pause to lean in closer, “Clermeil. Clermeil was right. Crazy and fanatic, taking over the Mortalworld and all, but right. And you knew it then, the same as you know it now. Deep down. Actually, not that deep down. I can see it bubbling just under your surface. The Fates are, as they always have been, using us deities. Like puppets.”
“That is the way of things,” Eros justified.
“It doesn’t have to be,” Loki said quietly.
“Your hubris knows no bounds.”
Loki scoffed, indignant. “Says the humility of a lesson well learned.” He took his horn of mead from the bar. “Come find me if you ever wise up. There are far better ways to make a stand than what you did in the Mortalworld. Trust me.”
Loki smiled, and glided back into the party like he hadn’t missed a beat. He walked straight up to Thanatos, Angel of Death, Grim Reaper, who nodded to him with casual expectation.
Loki whispered into his ear, and Death listened before whispering back, the way businessmen do at social functions when they don’t want to be caught working. But, businessmen like them were always working. They never made eye contact with each other, as if eye contact would give them up and get them caught. Their eyes always looked past one another, scanning the crowd, looking for… Eros didn’t know what.
He fell back into his brooding silence, where he continued punishing himself. No matter what he did, he couldn’t get a hold of the situation he was in. As always, he felt like he fit into the Cosmos around him like a soggy puzzle piece placed in its proper spot, perfectly cut to complete the puzzle, but limp and without any conviction.
The Cosmos just wanted him to drink himself into lethargy, and for him to sit around like a pretty, useless ornament, all the while blowing heart-shaped smoke rings.
Even when he had the chance to do something meaningful, he let Clermeil do all the work. He was a good little boy, did as he was told, and he lay around blowing smoke rings. Maybe, if he actually acquired the gumption, he could alter everything.
Eros finished off his ambrosia, and switched to scotch right as his mother approached. She was the epitome of beauty itself, of fertility, of sexuality, and she made all the goddesses of the same vein just a touch jealous.
“Cupid, my love, my darling boy,” she put her hand on his forearm, “this shadowy disposition of yours is starting to make people talk.”
He rolled his eyes. “My disposition isn’t what is making them talk, Venus. My disposition hasn’t changed in aeons. They are talking because they haven’t anything better to do besides talk, especially about things they don’t understand.”
“I wish you’d call me Mother,” she soothed.
His head dropped. “Venus-”
“When I adopted you, I vowed to love you and cherish you as my own. Have I not done that?”
“No. You have, just-”
“Am I not protecting you and your reputation like a fierce Ursa Major?”
“I’m sure you are, but-”
“But, then, how is it you’re suddenly too - too - what? Cool? For me to be your mother?”
“Oh my goddess!”
“Have you been talking to that Psyche again? I’ve told you that girl is -”
“Mother, stop!”
Her cheeks flushed and her eyes glistened. She kissed him on the cheek.
His shoulders sank when he realized why she was gleaming. He had inadvertently called her Mother.
“See?” She said proudly, “what kind of mother would I be if I couldn’t embarrass my son?” She pressed her fingertip against his nose before floating away.
Eros was frozen in shock for a minute, blinking rapidly, before he growled, got up from the bar, and headed for the door.
In the frigid night air, he stopped, and pulled out a lighter and a cigarette. The Netherworlds’s air tasted stagnant despite the light breeze. The world was a tomb, after all. The breeze was more like the draft of a vacant and haunted manor, being that it came from nowhere and was heavy with dread.
