Young Writers Society

brief opening note: if you don't know the original, I'm not sure how much sense this will make.

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The term “drop-dead gorgeous” could very nearly apply to me. My looks—which are not inconsiderable, let’s get real here—have very nearly caused my demise on several occasions. But I digress.

First, let me tell you that being the greatest living beauty in the civilized world is no picnic. It because even less of a picnic when men insist on emphasizing the fact. And finally, to add a thunderstorm, swarm of ants, and driving wind to my little analogy, those same insistent men took it into their heads that I was to be worshiped over Venus. The goddess of beauty had it out for me from the beginning, as far as I’m concerned. The operative word there is “goddess,” which translates loosely as “neurotic, incredibly powerful and power-hungry.” Who didn’t take kindly to the offerings meant for her alter being placed at my feet.

You know how really beautiful girls always seem to be the ones most concerned with their appearance, the ones capable of slightly…nasty things when they think their image is being threatened? Well, take that kind of mindset, and add immortality and Olympian powers.

Like I said, no picnic.

* * *

When your mother is the Venus, the phrase “Momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy” takes on a whole new meaning. So I’m used to going on rather…interesting errands for her. Once, Neptune got on her nerves over some trifle or other, and so she sent me along with my arrows and, well, let’s just say the dolphin population still hasn’t fully forgiven him. So telling me to make some trumped-up mortal fall in love with the most hideous creature I could find was by far not the strangest thing I’ve ever done.

It did turn out to be the most dangerous.

* * *

I have this funny idea that you shouldn’t see the gods when they’re trying to be covert, and when they’re not trying to be covert you can’t help but see them. So you shouldn’t, for instance, catch a glimpse of an inhumanly gorgeous young man wearing nothing but a quarrel of arrows and a pair of wings out of the corner of your eye. I might have imagined that, of course. He certainly wasn’t there when I did a double-take.

* * *

I was that shocked. I mean, no god worth their ambrosia lets the invisibility slip by accident! But take it as a measure of this woman’s beauty that I, the very god of love and unseen master of men’s hearts, forgot myself so completely that for a moment I was visible to mortal eyes. I don’t think she saw me, though. That would not have gone over well at home.

* * *

Things just seemed to go downhill after that. Some people said that Venus put a spell on me that made men not want to marry me, but I attribute the lack of proposals to a much more human cause: intimidation. There’s a huge difference between admiring beauty like mine from a distance and having to live with it day by day, having to see it in the mirror next you to and have it staring you in the face when you’re having a bad day and feeling less than handsome. No man wants that kind of constant comparison.

In the end, my poor father was so desperate that he went to an oracle of Apollo. You’ll remember that my little collection of former-Venus worshipers had not put my family on the best of terms with at least one immortal, and there’s no telling how Olympian politics are going at any given moment. Would Apollo be sympathetic? Or would he be Venus’s ally?

* * *

Of course I told Apollo everything! Who else would I confide in—certainly not my mother. And when he let me know that her father was paying a visit to his oracle, I was ecstatic. Here was a perfect way to make my mother think she was rid of a nuisance and bring my own plans about at the same time. Admittedly, her family wasn’t going to be thrilled with what I had in mind, but the important thing was that Psyche and I would be together. Apollo’s idea was perfect.

You know, when a little girl plans her wedding, there are several things that do not spring into her mind as being very good additions to that happiest of all days. Mourning clothes are a good example. So are ugly, winged serpents more powerful than the gods themselves. Lonely, rocky outcroppings generally do not figure prominently in such fantasies. But, once asked, a god’s advice is never, never ignored. Apollo’s oracle had told my father that I was to be left, as if for dead, for this monster to come and claim as his wife. Ergo the clothes, cliffs, and weeping family members.

The hardest part, at that point, was the fact that they left me there alone. I didn’t beg, though. I didn’t weep, or throw a tantrum, or even ask if there was another way. The fact that they turned their backs and just walked away made the prospect of my scaly husband almost bearable. I should note, however, that my sisters did look back, tears and fear for me evident on their faces, and my gratefulness for that act of kindness was to cost me a great deal indeed.

And so I waited. As the sea breeze whistled and rushed over my lonely perch and the waves rhythmically crashed and retreated below, I might have cried. Just a little. Soon, though, a warm, sweet wind replaced the harsh salty spray of the ocean, and I was barely even surprised when it lifted me up and carried me along as easily and gently as if I were a child. I think I slept, because I woke up in this amazing place, all warm sun and fragrant flowers and musically rushing river. And the mansion.

* * *

I must say, I’m rather proud of the mansion. And the look on her face as she explored it was worth every ounce of effort I put into it. I had invisible spirits conduct her on a tour, and then sing and entertain her while she ate.

And then that night…well, I am the god of love, after all.

* * *

I asked him once, after all the excitement was over, why he had never allowed me to see him during those first precious months. He gave me a funny look and said, “Would they have been as precious if you had?”

I said, “Of course, you idiot, and then we could have avoided all the pain and fuss.” But that’s gods for you.

Even so, they were incredible. Of course I had no basis for comparison, but sharing a bed with the god of love every night was not exactly a chore, whether I could see him or not. And I’m pretty sure I’d still be there, alone and mortal and relatively happy, if not for, you guessed it, the sisters.

* * *

I still have no idea how she convinced me to let them visit. I have even less notion of how they convinced her that I was some ugly serpent. I mean, it wasn’t like we weren’t familiar with each other’s general shape, and she certainly never mentioned any scaliness, before or after. But when I woke up and saw her standing over me with that lamp and knife, it wasn’t the burning oil that seared me worst (though it certainly didn’t help).

When you have wings, flight is more than second nature. When threatened or hurt, winged beings have one overriding instinct, and I gave in to it. To my eternal regret.

* * *

What kind of idiot, married to the god of love, puts that kind of relationship in jeopardy! Stupid, gullible, faithless FOOL!!! I just sat there, on the edge of the rapidly-dissolving mansion, totally gutted. I barely even noticed that my sisters hadn’t come, like they promised. It wouldn’t have mattered if they did.

I was Cupid’s wife, and I wasn’t going to let a little thing like my own monstrous stupidity separate me from him for long.

* * *

Yes, I went to my mother’s house, like a sniveling little helpless baby. The burn wasn’t that bad, and by the time I’d finished spilling my guts it was certainly the least of my problems.

Venus was furious. She might have struck me down right there and then, but apparently she thought I’d ‘learned my lesson,’ and so she just gave a haughty sniff and flounced out. That first time, I didn’t even hear her turn the key in the lock.

* * *

What did I tell you about Olympian politics? I’d long ago settled in my own mind that Apollo was on Cupid’s side (remember, it was his oracle that brought about all the snake-and-cliff nonsense that led me to my husband), but apparently that allegiance didn’t run so deep as to help me out. Either that, or Cupid himself had turned his friend against me. But either way, none of the gods or goddesses would give me any help, and so I finally decided on a last, desperate course of action.

I would go to see Venus herself. And who knew? Cupid might be there as well.

But he wasn’t, at least, not that I saw. Somehow I’d expected Venus to be angry at my arrival. Worse than that: she was delighted. There were a lot of taunts about how plain I was, loud wonderings about whether or not I was seeking another husband, since I’d nearly killed mine with burning oil. I don’t know who she was making such a show for; it was only the two of us there, in that great marble house full of mirrors and eternally-fresh flowers and silence.

At last she came to the part I had expected, the part where she gave me an impossible task to do “for my own sake.” I’d heard the stories, I knew how gods could be. It wasn’t so much service they wanted as amusement, and I’m perfectly certain that Venus went away and snickered loudly to herself all day after she’d set me my mission. I have to admit, though, that it was one heck of a job.

I would have never credited the goddess of beauty with much agricultural knowledge, but she picked the smallest, the most minute little seeds that I’m sure Ceres must have helped her out. And so I sat there, surrounded by mounds of outstandingly mixed grain, trying to figure out exactly how I was going to get out of this one.

And then the ants showed up. I’ll never know why they decided to help me, but now I come to think on it, I’m sure that ants living in the house of a goddess of beauty must be 1) rather more intelligent than a normal sample of their species and 2) probably not on good terms with that goddess.

I’m not sure what exactly went through Venus’s head when she returned (early) and saw the work so neatly completed. I never knew anger could be so cold. She just about threw the crust of bread at me, but her voice was perfectly calm as she told me I was to have the floor. I’m afraid I can’t give her points for intelligence on this count. The bread may have been just the heel, but the heel of a loaf of bread that a goddess dines on could easily be a three-course meal in and of itself. Also, though the floors were all of unyielding marble and tiled mosaics, there were sufficient rugs and cushions thrown about that I was able to make myself quite comfortable that night.

The next morning…

I mean really. Sheep. It could have been the golden mane of a lion, it could have been the golden scales of a dragon! Those I could handle. It just had to be the fleece of ferocious, litterally man-eating golden sheep. There’s something vaguely embarrassing about being totally terrified of something that goes baaa, even if said wooly animal is surrounded by a little pile of gnawed and very human-looking bones and had blood still smearing its snout.

Little known fact: I ended up next to that helpful river reed not, as romantics will tell you, because I had any delusions about drowning myself, but because its river was the handiest place to throw up in. Don’t laugh. Have you ever been confronted with killer sheep?

Of course, conversing with a reed wasn’t exactly an every-day occurrence for me either, but after the ants, I felt I had some precedent. Truth to tell, the little thing had to repeat itself several times before its advice got through. I’d passed the thicket it mentioned on my headlong rush to vomit in running water, but now that the reed mentioned it I went back for a closer look. I would almost have preferred the sheep. If thorns could have been classified as weapons of mass destruction, these would have qualified: as long as my hand and as thick as an arrow, they seemed to tell the whole world “Don’t even think about it.”

I glanced back at the reed. If a piece of vegetation could shrug, that’s what it did. So I waited. The weather was fine, and the reed was good conversation. True, I’d never thought to spend a pleasant day conversing with a plant and biding my time until deadly sheep caught and left some of their golden wool on murderous thorns. As it was, I got my hands pretty badly scratched up, but the look on Venus’s face when I presented that armful of soft gold to her was oh so worth it. “You never did this by yourself,” she snarled. I showed her my thorn-scarred hands and ripped peplos, and she seemed to take some comfort in them at least. “A pity you didn’t stick your face in it,” she muttered to herself as she tossed the lump of golden wool carelessly onto a couch.

I just managed not to give a biting retort. She began to stride off down one of the grand and empty corridors, her fine sandals clicking on the marble. I watched her go for a few moments before I suddenly realized she meant for me to follow, and caught up. I’d never really seen much of the goddess’s house, and I now realized where Cupid got his inspiration for our own mansion. Still, it was all rather tasteless. I mean a single mosaic made of emeralds and rubies and diamonds and so on is fine and awe-inspiring, but when every single one of them glimmers with precious stones, well, the ‘precious’ rather goes out of it.

At last we reached a wing of the house where all the walls were carved with scenes to Venus’s praise and gold and silver statues of her flanked every doorway. Talk about tacky. She led me out onto a grand balcony that overlooked…

I cursed under my breath. She grinned at me, very coldly. “I see you know what this is,” she said, gesturing to the rushing black waters that dove and fell and charged over the sharpest, slipperiest rocks I’d ever seen.

“The Styx,” I whispered.

She only grinned wider, and it was strange to see how such a normally pleasant expression so distorted her normally beautiful face. She cast around the balcony for a moment and at last grabbed a large stone flask that had been gracing some column or other, and thrust it into my hands. I nearly toppled over with the weight of the thing. “Fill it,” she commanded, and then swept off, probably to laugh maliciously to herself in a corner.

I just barely managed to set the stupid thing on the waist-high balcony, and then sat next to it, dangling my legs out over empty space and the River of Death far below. I shouldn’t have to tell you, it smelled horrible. “Okay,” I said, resting an elbow on the flask, “whatever unusual help is going to appear this time, I’m ready and waiting.”

It was an eagle. And then, after the magnificent bird had attempted to lift the flask on its own, it was two eagles, both of which glared rather balefully at me as they flapped off with the awkward thing between them. “Blame Venus!” I called after them as they carefully maneuvered the open mouth of the container to catch the ebony liquid.

* * *

I woke up feeling groggy, unsure of my surroundings. For a moment I thought I was at home with Psyche, and so I turned over in bed to give her one last kiss before the light came and I had to leave. She wasn’t there. And this wasn’t home.

It all came back to me in a rush and I looked down at my shoulder, at where the oil had seared my skin. It was perfectly smooth and healed now, no doubt thanks to my mother. Shaking my head, still trying to clear it, I rose and stretched my wings in a whole-body yawn. Venus had put me in my old room, and now, after having had my own house, it seemed ridiculously tiny. There was only the one window, very high in the wall (bad for flying out of; I’d tried it many times as a child), and the light that spilled through it was rosy, either with sunrise or sunset I couldn’t tell.

Either way, I had slept long enough. I strode over to the door and pulled at the handle. It didn’t budge.

* * *

You would have thought she’d have gotten the hint by now. Nothing she could do to me, no ridiculous, impossible task she could set me would make me leave or end in failure. Still, I suppose even gods need to have a balancing of qualities: Venus’s beauty hadn’t left much room for brains. But this time it was no joke. This time, it was the Underworld.

* * *

Things echo in a house made of marble. And the son of a goddess often has very good hearing when it comes to things that goddess says. And so I heard the task she set my wife—yes, she was still my wife—and I heard Psyche accept it. I banged against the door, wrenched at the handle, yelled at the top of my lungs. All for nothing. All gods damn my mother.

“Apollo!” I roared. I knew my friend couldn’t come or rescue me, not here in my mother’s very stronghold, but if he heard, perhaps he could help Psyche. “Venus has sent her to Proserpine, Apollo; get her a guide!”

* * *

“A cake,” I said, regarding the old man with disbelief. This was too much.

He smiled absently and nodded. “Well-baked, of course, and quite sugary for the best effect.”

I glanced around the crumbling tower. I’d been wandering down the road, wondering what abnormal help would appear this time, when I’d spied it and come in. And found this guy. “So, just for the purposes of conjecture, if I wanted to take an army and storm the gates of, let’s call it Hell, all I would need would be a penny for the ferryman and a cake for the three-headed dog?”

Again, he nodded, seemingly oblivious to the implications of his oh-so-helpful advice. I shook my head. Cupid, I thought. Cupid, Cupid, Cupid, I’m here for my husband, no other reason.

* * *

I did not stop banging on the door. Gods, even ones of love, have very good stamina. I could have kept it up for several weeks, but apparently Venus couldn’t. Finally I heard her voice on the other side of the door, “What is it? You should be resting.” She sounded bored.

“Let me out,” I said, in as dangerous a voice as I could muster.

“You’re not fully healed yet, my son, I don’t want you exerting yourself until you are.”

“You don’t call constant banging against this door exertion?” I demanded.

She yawned. I mean she yawned! “I’d call it better than chasing that little mortal whore of yours.”

That did it.

* * *

I had, for some reason, expected huge black pits full of eternal fire and the screams of the dead. That must have been before Proserpine put her foot down on such bachelor affectations. Pluto didn’t even seem to have put up much of a fight. Now the Underworld could best be characterized by a sort of perpetual dimness somewhere near the high ceiling that refused to be banished, and wall torches that seemed to give a little extra effort as I walked by. Some of them even managed a bit of blue spark around the center, as if to say, “See, see! You’re still in Hades, even if there are cheerful tapestries!”

Don’t even ask me about those tapestries.

Proserpine herself was suitably hellish, though, but with style. Long, silky crimson hair pulled back into a severe plait than hung over one shoulder and contrasted sharply with her form-hugging, midnight-black gown. Bright, piercing eyes that seemed to see right through me. A figure and face Venus had to work hours in the morning to achieve. All the essential ingredients for the whole “Lady of the Dead” gig.

I told her my purpose, as respectfully as I could manage while the screams of the damned echoed in my ears. She put one finger to her cheek and regarded me. “So,” she said, her voice rippling with unearthly power. Now that’s what a goddess is supposed to be like. “Venus is so worn out from nursing her son, whom you wounded, that she has sent you, said assailant, with a box into which I am to put some of my beauty.”

“That’s about it,” I said.

Proserpine’s sharp eyes looked me up and down once more, as if wondering how much space I would take up in her little domain. Then she stood, the folds of her gown rustling like the sighs of the dead, and nodded.

* * *

The shards of glass bit into my skin and wings as I finally slammed through the window. The full brightness of day hit me like a physical blow after my long confinement, but the wind whistled through my feathers and there was good sky below me. I did a few barrel-rolls, just to loosen up, and then began my search. It didn’t take long to find her, and of course she had succumbed to the same temptation Pandora had. What is it about women that makes them have to know what’s in the box? Luckily I got to her in time, and as I gathered her small, human body up in my arms I cursed myself for ever hiding anything from her.

* * *

I woke up…in the air. The box—now firmly closed against the trap within—was still in my arms, and, what was better, I was in Cupid’s. By any ten gods you care to name, he was ten times more beautiful by daylight than lamplight. I reached up, wrapping my arms around his neck, and pulled myself against him in a very long kiss.

It was only much later that either of us realized I’d dropped the box.

* * *

I was a little loath to send Psyche back to my mother without me, but I had business on Olympus that couldn’t wait. Jupiter made a big show of being ignorant of the whole affair—including my own imprisonment—and I made a big show of letting him pretend. “Just give her the ambrosia,” I said, when he was finally done. “Venus can’t object to an immortal for a daughter-in-law, and between ourselves, I’d rather not spend eternity without her.”

Jupiter gave me a huge wink. “So I understand, my boy. Well, well, you know you’ve given me a lot of trouble over the years, Cupid, and I really have no reason to indulge you now. But I am such a softie when it comes to beautiful girls in distress—” (Aren’t you just, I thought) “—and I see no reason for such a lovely young lady to join us here. I’ll call the gods together at once.”

* * *

Cupid was full of advice: don’t let Jupiter trick me with some animal guise or other, watch out for Mars’s temper, hunting with Diana was not the wisest choice for someone without experience in the sport, and on and on until I had to remind him I wasn’t totally ignorant. I’d read the stories, heard the tales. I’d even been in one of them.

But as Jupiter handed me the chalice full of the ambrosia that would make me immortal, I glanced over at Venus, standing on the outskirts of the gathering and looking very miffed. Grinning, I saluted her with the vessel, and drank.