A month passed. Maybe more.
Lucas no longer marked the days.
The woods here were damp, thick with humidity. The trees stretched high and narrow, their roots like veins pulsing through the earth.
Lucas stopped by a narrow creek, kneeling to refill his canteen.
Then he heard it.
Not the usual rush of water or birdcall. But something smaller.
Fragile.
Crying.
He stood slowly, turning toward the sound.
It came from beyond the moss-covered rocks, somewhere past the tangled brush.
He moved toward it - quietly, carefully.
And found her.
A girl sat curled near the edge of the stream.
She looked up when she heard him, eyes glassy and wide. That's when he realised she wasn't just a girl.
She was a nymph, or more exactly, a Naiad.
A spirit of fresh water rivers.
But her radiance was muted.
The usual glow to her presence had dimmed. Her skin, once meant to shimmer like sunlight through clear streams, looked pale and washed out. Behind her, the water gurgled weakly, its clarity clouded by silt and the oily sheen of runoff. There was a plastic bag snagged in the reeds like a flag of surrender.
Lucas didn't move closer.
Instead, he crouched nearby, letting the silence breathe.
"Are you ok?" he asked softly.
The Naiad shook her head, hair clinging to damp shoulders.
"Just tired"
Lucas waited.
Eventually, she spoke again, words thin and worn.
"I used to stretch further," she murmured, fingers trailing the surface of the stream. "This creek ran wide once. Bright. Full. Fish danced in it. Mortals would dip their feet in summer."
A faint smile ghosted her lips, quickly lost.
"Now the banks dry early. The water carries ash. The mortals dump their poisons and call it progress."
She plucked a shredded leaf from the current and let it fall apart in her hands.
"And the sea?" Lucas asked, though he already suspected the answer.
Her gaze flicked toward him, sharper now.
"He sits on a throne of coral and gold, trident in hand," she said bitterly, "but his gaze never turns inland. The rivers rot. The streams fade. And he does nothing."
She let the last fragments of the leaf slip between her fingers.
"Too busy enjoying his throne he's forgotten his duties."
Lucas's expression didn't change.
"You're his people," he said.
"We're his rivers," she corrected. "But he only watches tides."
A breeze stirred the trees. The creek bubbled over a sunken plastic wrapper.
"No one listens," she whispered.
Lucas crouched lower, fingers brushing the edge of the water.
He didn't offer comfort. Didn't lie.
Instead, he pulled a pouch from his bag and began collecting bits of trash near her roots, quietly, methodically.
She watched, not with gratitude, just tired acknowledgement.
"You're not like most" she said.
Lucas gave a faint smile. "Most days, I just feel tired."
She gave a sad laugh.
Then added, almost as an afterthought, "The land is dying."
Lucas met her eyes.
"...I know."
Lucas walked on.
The Naiad's words echoed in the stillness that followed.
The trees thickened again around him. The underbrush pressed in from both sides, green and unbothered, but Lucas couldn't shake the feeling that even the plants were quieter now. Like they were listening.
He found a fallen log nestled between two trees and sat, resting his pack beside him. For a while, he said nothing. Did nothing.
Just sat there, breathing.
A bird called once in the distance.
The creek was behind him now, its song lost beneath branches and distance, but its truth remained.
He closed his eyes and leaned back against the bark.
The land is dying.
She hadn't said it with rage.
She hadn't even said it with sadness.
She had said it like a fact. A sad truth
And that, more than anything, haunted him.
Not because it was new.
But because no one else seemed to care.
Not the mortals pouring poison into rivers.
Not the gods watching from their thrones.
And Lucas... he didn't know what he could do.
He wasn't a god.
He wasn't strong enough to force others to listen.
But he could remember.
He could learn.
He could see.
He could try.
And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough. One day.
He opened his eyes, lifting his gaze to the canopy above.
He stood.
Shouldered his bag.
And continued his journey.
...
Another town. Another stretch of grey sky.
Lucas wandered its streets with his hood up and eyes down, avoiding the flow of mortal life without withdrawing from it completely. Just enough to observe. Just enough to pass through.
His feet brought him to the edge of a small quiet museum nestled between a row of antique shops.
A weathered banner fluttered over the entrance:"The Faces of Love: An Exhibit on Myth, Devotion, and Desire."
Lucas tilted his head.
He stepped inside.
It smelled faintly of old paper and polished tile. Soft classical music played overhead. The walls were lined with depictions of famous mythological couples: Orpheus and Eurydice; Pygmalion and Galatea.
Love stories.
He moved from display to display until one stopped him.
A sculpture. Rough marble, but elegant in design. A winged figure, bow lowered, head turned downward in contemplation rather than triumph.
The plaque read:
"Eros and the Weight of Devotion."
Depiction of Eros after Psyche's betrayal, moments before his retreat from Olympus.
Lucas stared at it.
A presence stirred.
Lucas turned, facing the man who suddenly appeared beside him.
He wore a dark tailored coat, timeless. His features were sharp, almost too perfect. Eyes like cooled gold, not blazing, but deep, steady. His hair, black like polished obsidian, fell just above his shoulders.
He studied the statue, not Lucas.
"That's not how they usually show me," he said, voice calm, with a softness that didn't quite hide the ancient weight beneath it. "No cherubs. No hearts. Just... me."
Lucas remained quiet.
"You're not surprised," the man added, finally turning to look at him.
"I've seen stranger" Lucas replied.
Eros gave a quiet hum of agreement.
For a while, they stood in silence. Two figures separated by millennia and meaning.
"You're wondering why I'm here," Eros said.
Lucas shrugged. "This place makes sense for a god of love."
"No," Eros corrected gently. "You misunderstand. You're why I'm here."
Lucas blinked, unsure whether to feel honored or worried.
"I sensed you," Eros continued. "Not the way most do. Not your blood or your strength. But your resistance."
Lucas tilted his head.
"My aura," Eros said. "Even when I don't try, mortals... bend. Even some gods. But you," he narrowed his eyes, as if searching for something in Lucas' expression, "you didn't flinch, you weren't even affected."
Lucas said nothing.
Eros turned back to the statue.
"Do you know the story?" he asked. "Of me and Psyche?"
Lucas nodded slowly. "You loved her and sought to save her from your mother but she was later tricked into betraying you, you fled leaving her only returning to once again protect her from your mother's fury. You found her sick and brought her before the Sky hoping he could save her and immortalize her in which he did after seeing your love for her."
Eros gave a short laugh, soft and bitter.
"No. Not for me."
Lucas frowned. "Your mother?"
Eros' expression didn't change.
"They made Psyche a goddess not because of love," he said. "But because Aphrodite was against it. They simply wanted to spite her, the life of a mortal, and my love, was inconsequential to their entertainment"
Lucas studied the statue again.
"Do you still love her?"
Eros closed his eyes. "Every day."
Lucas finally asked, "Why tell me all this?"
Eros looked at him, truly looked.
"You remind me of her" he said.
Lucas blinked. "Psyche?"
Eros didn't answer right away. His eyes, golden and ancient, stayed on Lucas
His gaze then drifted toward the statue of himself, wings half-folded, bow slack at his side.
And then he smiled. Tired, wistful, something unplaceable behind it.
"Love," he said at last, "is the greatest mystery."
Lucas stared at him, unsure how to respond.
But Eros had already turned away, vanishing.
...
Interlude IV - Love is hope (Eros)
A younger Eros stood alone on a lonely hill-top, overlooking a field of blooming flowers. Confused. Distant.
He was speaking aloud, though no one was there to answer.
"I want to feel it. Real love. Not the kind I cast. Not what the gods fear. But the kind that chooses me back."
"A noble wish."
The voice came from behind.
Eros spun, instinctively reaching for his quiver but froze.
The figure before him was... strange.
Not divine. Not mortal. Not anything he could define.
A man stood beneath a crooked olive tree, dressed in a black suit, a crisp white shirt buttoned. An outfit Eros had never seen before.
But it was his mask that rooted Eros in place.
Porcelain. Flawless. Split cleanly down the center.
One half was carved into a face of radiant joy. The other, quiet sorrow.
The contradiction wasn't jarring, it was elegant. Whole.
"Who are you?" Eros asked, his voice quiet, uncertain.
The masked man tilted his head slightly.
"A fool in a broken world," he said. "But today, I am simply a kind traveler."
He took a step closer, the grass curling slightly around his shoes.
"So," he asked, voice quiet but steady, "do you truly desire love? Not domination. Not infatuation. Not the illusion of control. But love - raw, unruly, and free? The kind that can choose you... or leave you broken?"
Eros didn't flinch.
"Love isn't meant to be easy," he said. "It's freedom. And I long to know if I can find my own."
"Then I shall provide you my aide"
Hope flickered in Eros's chest. Bright, but cautious.
"Nothing comes without a price," he said. "What will it cost?"
The man spread his arms.
"Everything. Nothing. That depends on perspective."
Eros frowned. "Why speak in riddles?"
"Because truth is rarely whole," the man replied. "And love is the greatest mystery"
He stepped forward, gently placing a gloved hand over Eros's heart.
"It is pain. It is joy. It is transformation."
Then, the man withdrew.
"I ask only one thing in return," he said. "That when love finds you… you honor it. Live it. Defend it. Let it shape you."
Eros hesitated.
"Why?" he whispered. "Why give me this?"
The masked man turned, already walking toward the eastern horizon.
"Because I plan to change this world," he said. "And you, child of beauty and war, will write one of its first honest stories."
He paused, and looked over his shoulder.
"When you find her… remember me."
Then he vanished into the wind.
And far, far away…
Psyche was born.