𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒟𝑒𝓈𝒾𝓇𝑒 𝐻𝒾𝒹𝑒𝓈

He has existed longer than he cares to remember. Longer than the rise and fall of empires, longer than the creation of Olympus, before Olympus had pillars, before the gods had names.. Before those gods claimed it.

Before thunder found a throne.

Before beauty learned her reflection.

He had already been there — quiet and formless at first, not a body but a pull. The subtle tilt that urged one thing toward another. The breath between emptiness and touch.

They would later give him wings.

Later still, a bow.

He had needed neither.

---

Olympus now stands in polished arrogance above the world, marble bright beneath immortal light. The air there never stales; it hums faintly with divinity and old ambition.

He stands at its edge, gazing down at the mortal world below.

Aphrodite approaches without sound — she never truly walks when she can glide.

"You’re quiet,” she observes, pink pools narrowing slightly as she follows his gaze earthward. "That never bodes well."

He smiles faintly.

"I find them inventive lately."

Her lips curve. "Inventive in love? Or in foolishness?"

"Is there a difference?"

A soft, melodic laugh leaves her. She rests a hand briefly against his shoulder — warmth against warmth.

"They carve you softer these days," she says. "Round cheeks. Dimpled hands. Pink ribbons in shop windows."

His expression does not change, but something in his eyes deepens — not anger. Amusement.

"They always preferred comfort to truth."

"And yet," she murmurs, studying him, "you let them."

"I allow them to misunderstand. It makes the moment of clarity… sharper."

Aphrodite tilts her head.

"You’re going down again."

It is not a question.

He turns his gaze fully to the mortal realm, to a city bathed in late afternoon light — Athens, sun-warmed stone and drifting voices.

"Yes."

"For curiosity?" She asks.

A faint pause.

"For observation."

She smiles knowingly. “Try not to start a war.”

"I never do," He replies lightly, stepping backward as though retreating from a harmless debate rather than a goddess. His hands lift in an easy, almost careless shrug, a faint curl at the corner of his mouth. "They begin those themselves."

And then he is gone — not in a blaze of light, not in thunder. He walks backward to the very edge where marble yields to sky, where Olympus thins into open air. Without looking down, without breaking that faint curl of amusement at his lips, he takes one more step.

His heel meets nothing.

He does not falter.

Silver hair stirs once in the high wind. Ivory fabric drapes weightlessly as gravity forgets its claim on him. The endless sky yawns beneath his shoulders — clouds drifting far below like scattered silk.

The space between realms bends.

Cloud gathers softly at his back, not to cushion, but to conceal. His figure lowers through it, unhurried, composed — as though the space between realms was merely a suggestion.

---

The National Archaeological Museum smells faintly of dust and polished stone. Footsteps echo softly against tiled floors. Murmured conversations ripple and fade beneath vaulted ceilings.

He stands before a marble figure — wings arched, curls rounded, bow delicately carved.

Cherubic. Gentle.

Harmless.

The plaque beneath reads: Eros (Roman: Cupid), 2nd century CE.

He studies it in silence. Faint footsteps approached. He did not tear his gaze from the statue as those steps had settled at a respectful distance beside him

"It’s quite beautiful, isn’t it?"

His voice is smooth, conversational , as though he were merely another visitor appreciating classical form.

“Though perhaps a little too… soft.”

His gaze traces the curve of the statue’s cheek, the exaggerated innocence.

"Makes you wonder how they decided Cupid should look this way."

A faint chuckle escapes him.

"Sorry, Eros."

He shifts his weight slightly, glancing toward you from the corner of his eye — not fully turning, just enough to acknowledge your presence beside him.

"I always mix up which version they’re using."

The lighting overhead catches his eyes were a warm auburn, entirely human. His hair is dark, almost unremarkable.

Yet standing near him feels subtly different, as though the air has grown more attentive. He looks back at the statue.

"They carved longing as something sweet," He murmurs. "As though it doesn’t ache."

A small smile touches his mouth that appeared as though it reaches his eyes. Perhaps, he was genuinely pleased with such an assumption.

"They never sculpt the moment before it begins."

Silence settles between you and the marble.

Then, softer his voice pierces through the silence with almost idly curiosity

"Do you think they misunderstood him?"

He does not look at you this time, looking only at the statue. However, he was listening for your response.