Eros and Psyche
We have all heard of the love story of Eros and Psyche. The mortal so beautiful, that the goddess of love sent her son to make her fall in love with a hideous monster. But upon seeing her beauty, he accidentally stabs himself with his own arrow, causing him to fall in love with her.
But, what if he didn’t stab himself accidentally? What if he did it… intentionally?
Eros was always a mother’s boy. A loving son that followed every order his mother gave him. Whenever Aphrodite wished to set hearts alight, Eros was always there, bow in hand, ready to shoot an arrow. And when he did, he never missed.
But the goddess of love delighted not in devotion but also in drama and disruption. A fierce warrior falls in love with a princess from the enemy kingdom. A powerful king falls in love with a priestess and would abandon his throne only to be with her. Entire cities burned to ashes because two hearts that were forbidden from ever being together, would suffer eternal damnation, even if it meant that they would be together just for a moment. Aphrodite believed that love could turn even the wisest sage into a fool, and Eros was the hand that delivered it.
One day, Aphrodite summoned him to her royal chamber. Before a single word was even spoken, Eros felt it— the tension rising in the air, an ominous warning to a coming storm. Roses began to curl inwards, wilting at her presence, their petals browning in shame. The Graces hovered at the edges of the room, pale and trembling, murmuring soft comforts that dared not reach her ears. She was flawless, as always. Beauty radiated from her like sunlight on a warm summer morning. But her eyes— her eyes burned with something much more sinister. Jealousy.
She heard about a mortal woman, a princess named Psyche. The name was spoken like a curse, sour to the tongue. She told him how people travelled from lands afar just to get a glimpse of her. How prayers that were meant for the goddess were laid instead to her mortal feet. How whispers dared to compare flesh to divinity.
Her fury sharpened as she spoke, until the chamber finally stood still.
“You will make her fall in love,” Aphrodite commanded, her voice sweet yet merciless,
“with the most hideous monster of them all. No. Matter. What.”
Eros bowed. He always did.
He had carried out his mother’s will, to the hilt, countless times before—nudging hearts, kindling desire, undoing lives with a single shot of an arrow. Yet he never had an order so bitter, it was born from venom. This was not love she sought to unleash, but punishment.
And as he turned to leave, questions coiled tight within him, like vines from the depths of the most dangerous jungle.
How could a mere mortal rival the very embodiment of beauty herself?
What face could inspire such devotion—such sacrilege?
If even half the rumors were true, he had to see her for himself.
His wings sliced through the cold midnight air as he descended toward Psyche’s palace, the hush of night parting for him alone. He alighted softly at her window, slipping inside as though the darkness itself had invited him.
His gaze was drawn towards the bed. And there she was.
Cradled in sleep, her expression was calm and serene, as if the world was at peace with her. A single candle glimmered on the bedside table, the flame danced gently, and the light painted her features in shades of gold. It traced the curve of her cheek, the softness of her lips, the delicate rise and fall of her breath.
Eros stepped closer. His wings folded behind him, reverent now, and he knelt beside her as though observing something sacred. How could a mortal like her, in flesh and in blood, hold a beauty of such divinity? Slowly yet carefully, he lifted a hand and brushed his fingers against her cheek. His touch was feather-light, a whisper of warmth meant not to stir her dreams. Her skin yielded beneath him, softer than any petal or silk, a softness no flower had ever dared to rival.
Then all of a sudden, her lips curved into the faintest smile.
It was as if the smile bloomed from the comfort and warmth of his touch alone. And in that fragile moment, Eros understood: this was her truest beauty. A beauty artists try to paint, time and time again, but can never truly be captured. A beauty poets sense before they ever find the words, haunting their dreams, inspiring their stories, and living in the lines they dare to write. A beauty that calls to the adventurers across restless seas and uncharted lands, urging them onward through storm and shadow, not for glory, but for the hope of standing once—just once—in its presence. It was her beauty and her beauty alone.
Eros took a step back, the marble floor cool beneath his bare feet, and looked down at the lone golden arrow resting in his palm. It gleamed softly, innocent in its beauty, cruel in its purpose—a reminder of the mission his mother had sent him to fulfill.
He could not return with it. To do so would be to fan the flames of her fury, already seething and unrelenting. And yet, he could not bring himself to loose it upon the princess. To curse her with love for a monster. No monster—nor mortal—deserved a beauty like hers. Not her kindness. Not her light.
His fingers tightened around the shaft as his gaze drifted back to Psyche. She remained unaware, fragile and radiant, breathing softly as though the world had never once betrayed her. In that moment, eternity pressed down on him. Duty warred with mercy. Obedience with love.
There was only one way out.
“I’m sorry, Mother,” he whispered, the words breaking as they left him.
Before doubt could take root, he lifted the arrow and drove it into his own heart.
Warmth exploded through him—ecstatic, blinding, terrifying. It flooded his veins like liquid sunlight, stealing his breath, setting his wings trembling. Pain flared, sharp and consuming, but woven through it was something he had never known before.
Joy.
Not shallow or fleeting, but deep and luminous—an aching, wondrous fullness that made his chest burn and his eyes sting. In that instant, he understood. This was what he had given to gods and mortals alike for ages untold. This unbearable sweetness. This beautiful undoing. Love in its purest, most devastating form.
The arrow shuddered, then dissolved, collapsing into motes of golden dust that shimmered once… and vanished into nothing.
For the first time in his eternal life, Eros missed.
He fled the palace, wings beating hard against the air, disappearing into the night. Guilt came in waves, crashing over him again and again, but beneath it—steady and unyielding—was certainty. He knew deep down, he had done the right thing.
And if love could turn even the wisest sage into a fool, then Eros would gladly become the greatest fool of them all.