💘 You Can't Hurry Love
...much to Eros' consternation. (L&W 12)
Previously on 6 LITTLE SEEDS:
…And then there was that other thing Eros had not told his mother.
He’d discovered something more alarming than the stress-shedding of his feathers and her hair: A crack in one of the foundational pillars of the Temple of Love.
Aphrodite’s head shook against the Descrying Bowl. “These are ancient feuds, son. Quarrels that are older than Zeus and his siblings—older than the Titans even. They’re aeons in the making, and now they’re all stirred up again and—” She flung herself back up, her face haggard and too pale. “Oh, my boy! What have we done?”
For the first time in his many millennia of existence, Love Primordial had no answer.
~From: An Itch To Scratch
—Start at the beginning
—Mature Content Warnings for this series
—Cast of Characters - in case you get overwhelmed with remembering
Also. Nobody calls Persephone by her true name. They call her KORE, “the Maiden,” and it’s pronounced like “ko-ray” or “kora” not like “core of the planet.” KLYMENOS is one of Haides’ gazillion epitaphs. It means “illustrious” (or depending on who’s grumbling it, “notorious.”)
EROS, GOD OF LOVE, FLIGHTY BALL OF NERVES
☁️💘☁️
The Lord of the Underworld booted away another hunk of rock. His gaze shifted right, then left as he took in what had once been an ornate masterpiece of architecture. The smoke intensified off his armored shoulders. Hunching into his breastplate, he growled out a sigh.
Then he blinked, restoring his throne room to its former grandeur. Last, he blew out the bit of his cloak that was still on fire.
“There.” Eros fluttered a dismissive hand to hide its quaking. Perched over the Descrying Bowl, belly-down on a puffy, white cloud, he tossed off a few beams of a smile. “See? All better.”
“Better?” Aphrodite’s claw-like fingers framed her ornate coif of curls and pearls as though she wished she could dig in all ten nails and scratch. “When my head is itching worse than your father’s warmongery mitts after a decade of peace? How can you—?”
She glanced up.
Upon finding Eros lurking overhead with his chin on his overlapped hands and his toes weaving criss-crosses in the air, she huffed steam through her nostrils. “Oh, Eros. Stop looking so smug and calm. Disaster is about to erupt beneath our feet. I feel it in my ichor’s very pulse. Are you so out of touch with your own divine calling that you can’t sense it?”
Eros put his nose in the air. “I most certainly am not out of touch with my divine calling. Of course I feel it. But I feel something else more. That thrumming YES that started me down this path to begin with. I know it doesn’t make any sense, but it’s only growing stronger, in spite of all…” He flicked a few fingers in the direction of the Spying Bowl. “That.”
His mother fired off a doomy-gloomy scowl, so he rolled onto his back with his head cradled in his wings, praying to every primordial force in the Cosmos that he knew what he was talking about. Alas. Since he no longer ranked among them, he’d lost that omnipresent, omniscient vantage point from which he had once created all his masterpieces. “Of course there will be disaster. We’re messing about with the eldest Olympians while using Titans and primordials to forward our plots. A little disaster can’t be helped.” He forced his aura into a cheery shine. “But it’ll all be worth it in the end. I promise you.”
“Oh, you and all your promises. Just like your father. Ares keeps promising that he’s not trying to thwart any of our schemes right now, but I can smell the sharp tang of his scent all over this—” Alarm struck her face. Her gaze rolled over Eros like crashing surf. “You haven’t asked the God of War for help, have you?”
“What? Of course not! You think I want Father’s thick fingers and tromping feet to muck up the greatest notch on my quiver? He’d be as likely to demolish our efforts as to help.”
Aphrodite plucked a spray of lavender, inhaling its fragrance like it would save her from drowning. “Oh, I wish I could march over there and wrangle that big brute into submission by his throat. Why did I ever loan your grandfather my armor for his blasted war against the Titans?”
“Um…probably because Great-Grandpapa Kronos had already melted down your weapons, then ate your wings, along with your power to inspire armies. Well, except for…you know…” The God of Love made a flourishing gesture from her sea-hued eyes to her pearlescent toenails. “The obvious.”
“Yes. Son. Thank you,” she growled. Her ever-rotating spiral of potions and jars gave a cyclonic twist in the air as she whirled back to face Eros. “Zeus never gave that armor back, you know.”
The God of Love nodded. “Isn’t it part of Father’s armor now?”
“It is.”
“Well, can’t you just ask him for it? He can’t deny you anything.”
“Oh-ho! He certainly can and he does. Continually.” She drew up with a slick Ares-like grin and rumbled in a voice that was scarily War God-ish, “‘Don’t fret your pearls off, my sweet.’”
Eros winced at hearing that dismissive statement from the mouth of its recipient. How often had he said that to her himself? Many, many times. Although his primordial essence would have been able to automatically register every instance throughout the centuries, now he had to scan through the contents of his immortal skull, so it took an annoying two seconds to come up with the number.
Eros, God of Love, Lord of Tenderness, Doting Cherubic Son had told his mother “not to fret her pearls off” 4,761 times over the past eight hundred years since she’d given him fleshly birth. So…about every other month.
He did not wish to amplify that number by figuring in all his other variants of eye-rolling dismissal. No one could doubt that his sire loved his mother more any other goddess in Creation, but such inherited utterances were not terribly loving, so…
So Eros would have to watch that from now on.
Still in her Ares-mockery, she balled fists on her hips and planted her feet wide apart with her pelvis thrust forward. Her drape rearranged itself around her body, taking on a scaly veneer that glinted like iron instead of starlight. In her best Glorious Hero voice, she bragged, “‘You have no need of armor or weapons anymore. Not with me around. I shall protect you.’” She ended a double-bounce of her breasts, which would have made Eros roll out of his cloud in laughter, if not for the waves of ire roiling in her aura.
With an exasperated huff, she raked a clawed hand along the circumference of the spinning potions, forcing them back into their slow rotation. Her scales melted back into a droopy hip wrap as she muttered, “It’s no use anyway. That armor no longer fits me. I’m…” She glanced down her sleek, curvaceous figure. “Not the size I once was. Everything of mine that Kronos swallowed he either kept or passed to his own progeny through his spurting spear. And the heavens, the seas, and the storm-belching pit all know who got that.”
Eros cringed with his lips sewn shut. He did know who had inherited it.
Kronos’ three-year pursuit of his wife and his youngest daughter—the ferocious Hera—had enraged every goddess he encountered. In answer, the Titan King had forbidden the females of his realm to engage in warfare, and gulped down every one of their accoutrements he could get his greedy meathooks on. Although Aphrodite had managed to hide that one last set of armor, her once-potent battle prowess had passed through Kronos’ seed to the next children he’d sired.
The Thunderer. The Sea King. The Tormentor of Tartaros.
The very Olympian gods who now ruled from Above to Below.
Eros fluffed up his wings to better support his head as he laid back and closed his eyes. “He’s not wrong, you know.”
She whirled on him. “Kronos?”
“No!” Unwilling to utter the dread name aloud, Eros jerked a thumb at the Descrying Bowl. “He’s the King of Shades. Ruler of the whole reeking Underworld. Thanks to his sires, he no longer needs maternal permission to marry Kore.”
“I know! This is precisely the issue.”
“No, it’s our advantage. We should at least get something out of it.”
“Son, no. No, this is not the way. To send our darling Blossomtime down there amidst all this turbulence? Amidst such ages-old hatred with Ares’ breath befouling the breeze? I hate to admit defeat, you know that. But just this once, I hope your arrows fail.”
Eros’ brows shot up, and his gaze stabbed at her, dark with offense. “My arrows never fail. Love is stronger than hate.”
“Oh, my idealistic cherub. The strongest hatred is often born from the seeds of love.”
“Don’t forget, I shot Blossomtime and the Tormentor with Fated Love, not mere lust. The Fates always send exactly what we need.”
Aphrodite’s lips flattened into a lovely line of worry. “And don’t you forget, their gifts are as double-edged as your father’s sword.” She shuffled back to the bowl to continue her vigil over the Underworld’s lord. “I think we should just let this whole thing be.”
Eros’ cloud went as dark as his expression. He would NOT let this go. Not after putting in so many centuries of work, and not when there was so much potential for widespread impact riding on one little matchmaking scheme.
If that stupid wall between Above and Below wasn’t in the way. Along with Grandpapa Zeus’ stupid rules about it.
As Klymenos slunk over to his once-again-glittering throne and thumped down upon it, he looked so lost and out of place, a glowering lump of rock and rage, decked in shadow and fumes as he awaited the return of Hermes on his cushioned eyesore. The sight made Eros long to give the big, lonely grouch a hug. One of the Tormentor’s heels ratta-tapped the dais. When he noticed that a crack in the granite floor had not fully mended, his eyelids tightened at it.
It whisked into polished order.
If only Eros’ own niggling issue could be remedied so easily. He should have been able to. But then again, his wing carriage should have never been capable of itching. So far, nobody had noticed the difference between the natural glow of his feathers and his glued-on, ramshackle facade. Every time the Tormentor of Tartaros huffed fury through his nose, the itching intensified into downright burning.
All Eros wanted was to grab an arrow and jab.
All right, fine. He also wanted to zing over to Grandpapa’s temple and peep, because that was one of the few places his mother’s Descrying Bowl could not penetrate.
Hermes had to have delivered the Lord of the Underworld’s message to Zeus by now. No doubt the Tormentor knew that. He also had to know that, with every second that passed without response, the likelihood increased that there wouldn’t be one. Again.
Eros’ lips mashed up. Unacceptable.
This entire Kore-and-Klymenos plan now hinged upon Zeus’ willingness to permit the Earth to crack open once again, thus allowing the King of the Dead to arise into the Upper Realms and…
Well, seeing as how Demeter had reacted so violently to the notion of seeing her only child process down the Shadow Staircase in wedding attire, the chthonic groom’s only option would be to enact that time-honored tradition: bride-snatching.
Eros had never counted on Demeter being a willing party to this marriage. Neither had Aphrodite. The Goddess of Love had crafted the perfect lure to get Kore away from Demeter’s vigilant watch the next time they ventured outside the Protected Grove, but there was only one way the Tormentor of Tartaros would be capable of getting his hands on the girl.
For that, Zeus had to say yes.
If he didn’t, Eros had no idea how to pull this off. When Gaia had learned that Kore's parents weren't behind this match, Earth Primordial had steadfastly refused to open without Zeus’ permission. She wouldn’t even do it for the sake of Fated Love. Then again, Earth Her Very Self had never believed in “such nonsense.”
Knowing how her first mate, Ouranos, had treated her, the God of Love couldn’t blame her. Even in his primordial state, Eros had been unable to convince that gargantuan slab of sky to stop ravaging and abusing Gaia and the children they had made. Eros didn’t like to admit how badly he had botched his first attempt at matchmaking. Thankfully, Gaia had never held it against him.
That didn’t mean she had been amenable when he had begged her to open so that Klymenos could snatch Kore.
I retired from the petty squabbles of gods and mortals ages ago, Gaia had hummed. I am wearied and have no further interest in battling the oppression of the Sky Lords. I exist in my domain. Ouranos exists in his. This new Sky King and I have reached an accord. Zeus mostly ignores me. When he does not, he at least comes to me garbed in the likeness of alliance. Occasionally, even deference. I will not alter that for the sake of another male’s quest to possess and ravish. No. Obtain Olympian sanction for your schemes, Eros, or find another way.
So the God of Love’s fists clenched. Today, he did not enjoy possessing hands to accomplish such a gesture of exasperation. Hands were far too paltry when one simply needed to woo without resistance. Primordials were always hopeless cases—even more hopeless than sworn virgins, and it was a well known fact that no power in the Universe could woo them if they did not wish to be wooed.
But piddly Olympian hearts against Love Primordial? This would have been godling’s play, were he in his full splendor.
Curse this fleshly cage and its insufferable itching!
Aphrodite had gone back to the Spying Bowl. Now she watched Demeter hunch amidst the wreckage of the loom she had demolished. She looked as grumpy as the Tormentor.
Eros turned his back on his mother, along with the ever-growing debacles in that bowl. Clenching his teeth, he hissed out silent sigh after sigh, scrambling to achieve calming breaths. The heat mustered up by his effort practically evaporated his lounging cloud.
Because he could practically hear that crack in the Temple of Love’s support pillar spiderwebbing and deepening with every grain of sand that fell inside Kronos’ hourglass.
In echo, the base of his most aggravating feather was enflamed and screaming, but he didn’t dare so much as glance in its direction, much less scratch. The last thing he needed was to have a plume fall out in front of his mother. No doubt it would render her bald to know that he, too, had been adversely affected by all this conflict and hate.
“Well, I’m away,” Eros tweeted, bouncing out of the cloud. He landed on his feet and whisked the remnants of his puffy cushion back out the window, then battened down his wings as tightly as he could make them so he wouldn't loosen any telltale signs of his own raggedness by flapping. He masked his choice to walk by feigning a sudden need for mischief. Scuffing his feet through the lavender carpet, he kicked up a purple cloud. With one glance over his shoulder, he giggled.
Aphrodite barely noticed. She waved a hand at him, distracted by switching back and forth between Enraged Mother and Fuming Tormentor.
Eros skipped out the door, pirouetted down the corridors, and pranced into his own temple so he could deal with that blasted feather. He could not afford any distraction for his next task.
Manipulating Grandpapa was as easy as pulling thread off a spool. But only if Zeus was in the correct mood, and only if Eros possessed his entire arsenal of mirth, mischief, and merrymaking. Such shenanigans required wings, so the millisecond he was alone, he grabbed Incessant Torment from his quiver and gouged its lead tip into the base of his wingspan, scratching, digging, and groaning over every vexatious itch.
Cursed crows, his scratching loosed three more feathers, not just one.
After painting them with sunlight, he whipped up another batch of glowy glue, jammed them back in, and hunkered down on his preening pedestal with his wings outstretched to let them set. He would have to test them with his ro-bustiest flighty activities prior to facing down his grandfather. But for now, all he could do was sit.
And pout.
And plot.
Only one question: had the Lord of the Underworld made another polite request for Kore’s hand? Or had he demanded at the point of an ultimatum?
That detail would determine Eros’ next course of action.
Up Next: Zeus attempts to decipher exactly what Haides is saying with THAT INFERNAL SILVER TONGUE.
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