There was a long pause while Psyche studied him and then averted her eyes. “You are shockingly beautiful,” she said, her voice disapproving. “It is almost painful to look at you.”
“I don’t like it any better than you do,” Eros snapped.
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” Psyche soothed, seeing the hurt in his face. But she found a kind of twisted amusement in his echo of her recoil and could not help adding, “It’s rather a shock when your mouth moves, though. Like a marble mask in action. I almost expect it to crack.”
“You don’t find me attractive?” Eros asked, his voice uncertain, his exquisite features reflecting every emotion—first relief, then indignation, and finally an anxious doubt.
Psyche sighed. “If I close my eyes and listen to your voice, you are my own dear Teras again and I love you with all my heart.” She paused, sighed again, and gazed at him soulfully. “And if I could put your head on a shelf on the wall as an ornament, I would admire it with all my heart—”
“Put my head on a shelf for an ornament?” Eros echoed indignantly.
“Well, what else is so much beauty good for?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said, looking away. “Nothing at all, except to cause pain and more pain. Do you understand now why Teras said it was not good to look upon him? You loved Teras, believing him ugly beyond bearing. I know that. Do you love me? Can you love me?”
Psyche sank down beside him and took his hands in hers. She had been half jesting. In trying to absorb the shock of his beauty, she had forgotten how much her own had hurt her.
“I do not know,” she admitted. “But I have already loved a monster in a black cloud and a very ordinary native man because both were kind and merry of heart and cared for me—I mean for what I am, not for the mask of my face. Will you be kind and caring and laugh with me?”
He looked at her sidelong from under his long lashes and said mournfully, “I care so much I cannot live without you. My kindness and indifference to your appearance you must judge for yourself. But I cannot be merry of heart—not when I know you want to put my head on a shelf.”
Psyche had raised her hand to his cheek in a gesture of comfort. That hand, cupping his face tenderly, had tensed a trifle by the time he stopped speaking, but she did not jerk it away. She used it to lift his head a little, so she could look earnestly into his eyes.
“But I will place your head in the very best position,” she said cajolingly. “And dust it frequently, I promise.”
Upon which they both burst out laughing and Psyche flung herself into his arms, crying, “Ter—At—oh, curse you, Eros. I must learn a new name and my tongue will be tripping and stumbling the whole way home.”
“Beloved, beloved,” he breathed, clutching her tight, “I do not care what name you call me.”
Their lips came together, and it was the same mouth, which wakened the same fire in her. “Need we hurry back?” she murmured after a moment, her lips against his, her eyes closed, feeling with joy the back of his neck, the shape of his shoulders—a shape she knew so well.
For answer, he undid her cloak and dropped it beside the blanket he had cast off when he sat up. Then he began to undo the tie of her tunic. She returned the compliment, opening her eyes to stare at the strong, white column of his neck, closing them again to feel the little V where his collarbones joined. Teras’s collarbones—Eros’s collarbones.
They took off their clothing, slowly at first, savoring their new/old knowledge of one another, and then hurrying when the cold air of early morning nipped at their increasingly naked bodies. Then they huddled together under blanket and cloak on the pallet of brush and grass that Eros had gathered for Psyche the night before, warming each other, soon shivering with joy and eagerness instead of with cold.
Eager as she was, Psyche could not yet bring herself to join their bodies. Although the hungry mouth between her legs gaped and she could feel Eros, hard and hot, against her closed thighs, she could not yet open them and grasp the pleasure she craved. Her heart had to understand what her mind knew, that Teras and Eros were one, or within herself she would always be soiled, a mindless, soulless, thing who needed a man and took the nearest one.
She closed her eyes and stroked Eros’s body, feeling each curve, each muscle, caressing his buttocks and the hot shaft that jumped and quivered with her touch. She opened her eyes and lifted her head as she touched him so that she could see the effect of her caresses mirrored on that perfect countenance. Again and again she looked, then closed her eyes and felt blindly with hands and lips, listened to the voice she knew so well sighing praises and joy, moaning softly with passion. Slowly she melded together what she heard with her ears, felt with her hands, and saw with her eyes, bonding forever the being she knew as Teras with the face of Eros.
“Psyche,” he pleaded, brokenly, “let me—”
“Yes,” she whispered, at last drawing him into her, “my Teras, my Eros, my beloved.”
He gasped as his shaft was sheathed, stiffened, and cried out in protest when she gave him no time to master the violent thrill of pleasure that pulsed through him as he was swallowed by that moist and hungry mouth. He tried to hold her still, but she writhed against him, desiring only to bring immediate fruition to the agony of pleasure for which she had waited too long. He cried out again, despairing, as the convulsions of his climax wrenched him, but she did not hear, did not care. She was singing her own bursting joy.
Without a word exchanged, both slept, plunging into the depths so far and so fully that when they woke hours later they were still entwined—and stiff and sore with lying so still for so long. There was a lot of laughter as they disentangled themselves, washed, and ate. Later they made love again, playfully, leisurely, and with the rich satisfaction of those who know well what will give the greatest pleasure to the other. Psyche had only to close her eyes for memory to instruct her on how to bring Eros to a peak of pleasure, calm him again, and build his passion still higher. And that second loving confirmed her acceptance of him as the body and the mind that she had long known and loved without seeing.
Unfortunately, when her eyes were open, Psyche still felt a sense of shock whenever she saw Eros’s face, and she could not always completely control her expression. The widened eyes, parted lips, and sharply indrawn breath were particularly apparent in the quiet camp when Eros returned from hunting in the late afternoon with a brace of birds at his belt. The sun had been full on his face when he stepped into the clearing, and Psyche looked up at the sound of moving brush. Her gasp was so loud, he heard it across the campsite.
“If you really cannot bear my face,” he said, “I could be Atomos again—or wear a veil.”
Psyche laughed. “Oh, no. I will become accustomed soon enough. It would have been the same, you know, if you had been a monster, all warts and with a single eye and snaggle teeth. I would have been startled each time I saw you for a few days, and then I would not have noticed.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I think I prefer you as you are.”
To her surprise, he did not laugh but looked troubled. “You know what beauty is worth,” he said slowly, “and you know I know. You will not be jealous of me.”
Psyche cocked her head. “No more than you will be of me,” she said tartly. “I hope you did not believe that I would go meekly back to the lodge and remain a prisoner there forever. I understand that you have no home of your own, Eros, and that you cannot impose a common native on Aphrodite—”
“No. Psyche—”
She overrode his voice. “I understand, I say. I will be content to stay at the shop, out of her way, and you can visit me when Aphrodite is willing. I acknowledge her power and her right to being first with you, but I will no longer endure the isolation in which I have lived to pacify her.”
“Psyche, Psyche, do not blame Aphrodite for my own foolishness, my own greediness.” Eros knelt beside her, put one hand on her shoulder and lifted her face with the other. “She is my friend, my benefactor.
You do not know how long we have been together—and still she is not first with me. She cannot bring meaning or desire to my life. Only you, my soul, can do that. But fair is fair. It is not her fault that I kept you in the lodge.”
“Nothing is ever Aphrodite’s fault,” Psyche said flatly.
Eros laughed. “Oh, yes it is. She is the most mischievous little devil and loves to create trouble and then leave me to sort it out for her. But she did not turn the lodge into your prison, I did.”
“Are you telling me you could have brought me to Olympus when you took me from the altar?”
“No, I first took you to the lodge and wore the black cloud because of my promise to Aphrodite to punish you for refusing to worship her and because I did not want you to see me as Eros. You cannot blame Aphrodite for that, nor for her judgment against you and your father. I explained long ago the need of the great mages for the offerings of their worshippers. If the priests and priestesses are defied, the sacrifices would soon stop.”
“Yes, I understand that. I think it unfair, but I agree also it is better than having the great mages living among us and bedeviling us far worse.”
Eros looked indignant. “Aphrodite is the least exigent, demands the least from her worshippers, but you must admit that you and your father went too far.”
“I am not quarreling with Aphrodite’s right, I tell you. Aphrodite’s quarrel with my father is settled. He is the most devout of her worshippers, and all of Iolkas bows down to the priestess of her temple. This has nothing to do with me. No one in Iolkas will know that I am no longer the prisoner of a monster. I will never return there—”
“You do not still long for your home, Psyche?”
“I never did long for it, only to rid myself of the guilt of hearing in my mind my mother and sisters wail for me. They do so no longer, and I certainly do not wail for them. However, I would like very much to have friends. I have been told all the folk of Olympus are beautiful. I will live at the shop, or if that is impossible, find another place. Perhaps in Olympus I will be ordinary enough—”
Eros laughed heartily. “No, love. I am afraid you will set on edge the teeth of any woman who cares about beauty—and who except you and Aphrodite do not? They will not permit their men to visit you and will not come themselves out of envy. So you will have to swallow your stiff native pride and come to live with me in Aphrodite’s house. There you will be quite ordinary.”
“That is not very funny,” Psyche said. “If you think you can force me to stay only in the lodge by insisting I live in Olympus in the one place I am sure I am not welcome—”
“Why should you think you would not be welcome in Aphrodite’s house? I assure you she will not be jealous of your beauty.”
“Of course not. She is far more beautiful than I. You jackass! She is jealous of you.”
“Of me?” Eros shook his head, his mouth turned down as if he tasted or smelted something foul. “No. Aphrodite does not desire me, nor do I desire her. We are old friends only. I swear to you, she does not care whom I take into my bed.”
“I daresay she does not,” Psyche replied, sighing. “But there is more between us than coupling, Eros. When you were Teras, we worked together and laughed together. I expect the same of Eros, and I do not think Aphrodite will welcome a rival for your attention living in her home.”
He took Psyche into his arms. “You will not be rivals,” he murmured, holding her against him. “You will be friends. Aphrodite is lonely too. She has me, but I am a man and there are many things I do not understand. You are a woman and can give her much that I cannot.”
Chapter 23
Psyche did not contest Eros’s statement that Aphrodite would be her friend, although she did not believe it. However, on the slow journey back to Olympus—neither was in any hurry to interrupt the idyll in which they were living—her confidence in her hold on Eros grew. And as Psyche became more secure, more certain of the depth of his need for her, which seemed, strangely, even greater than Teras’s need had been, her concern about Aphrodite diminished.
After a week of sharing the Olympian’s house, that concern increased again—not because Psyche feared that Aphrodite could affect her relationship with Eros, but because she saw that he had spoken the truth. Although her life was full of lovers, Aphrodite was lonely. Psyche tried once or twice to extend a friendly gesture but was rebuffed. Strangely, Aphrodite’s withdrawal seemed not one of hatred or contempt. Had she been native rather than Olympian, Psyche would have judged Aphrodite’s emotion to be fear.
First Psyche resolved to let well enough alone. Aphrodite did not seem to seek to make trouble for her, nor was she ever discourteous when they met by accident, even when Eros was not present. And Psyche was busy with her own concerns: her shop, her small spells to enhance her lotions and potions—oddly, her well never seemed empty or aching now—her duties as householder of the lodge to which Eros took her by translocation whenever she wished to be there, and, contrary to what Eros had told her, many new acquaintances. None could be called friends, but having Eros, Psyche did not seek that. They were interesting people to whom she could speak and who regarded her—for the most part—with either casual approval or indifference.
Thus Psyche did her best to ignore the problem of Aphrodite, avoiding her when she could and leaving it to Eros to apportion his time between them. She never felt jealous or neglected, but she knew Eros was disappointed by the coldness between her and Aphrodite, and one day when she came upon Aphrodite sitting alone by the fountain in the room painted as a garden, on an impulse, instead of turning away, she went boldly up to her.
“Lady,” she said, “why will you not allow me to be your friend? For Eros’s sake, cannot you look upon me kindly? I hope you are not jealous of me. I am not jealous of you.”
Aphrodite smiled, but her blue eyes were sad, lending for a moment an odd look of maturity to her almost childlike face. “No, I am not jealous. Eros is a better friend to me now than he has ever been. He is awake, alive. He not only listens to me but hears, and you have not turned him into a pious prude. He truly enjoys our little games—”
“Then why do you close me out? I am very ready to love you. Can you not love me?”
“I dare not,” Aphrodite replied. “Before Eros touched my heart, no one could hurt me. Now what hurts him hurts me. I cannot allow you to wound me too. It is enough that Eros is my only friend, and you will kill him.”
“Kill him?” Psyche echoed and then asked, “How?” her voice cracking in the sudden dryness of her mouth and throat. “He is sure of me now, happy. I know he is. Do you foresee some change in me—”
“Of course I do. You are native.” Psyche took a step forward, her eyes blazing with fury. “That does not make me foul or bestial—”
“No, of course it does not,” Aphrodite said, her eyes steady on Psyche’s. “It makes you short-lived. You have heard me wish you were an Olympian and you have been angry, thinking I believed you lesser, but it was not that. The years of an Olympian are very long. I am ten times your age and still little more than a girl, and I will live, oh, I do not know how much longer. Eros is much older than I.” She shifted her gaze and stared blankly into nothing for a moment, then sighed. “But when you die, he will die too.”
“No!” Psyche exclaimed. “Why should he? He will cling all the closer to you. We both know that I will grow old. We have talked about it. Eros swears he will love me just as much when I am old and ugly.” Her voice trembled; she was not as sure of that as she should have been. “He is perfectly cheerful about it,” she assured Aphrodite.
“Of course he is perfectly cheerful,” Aphrodite snarled. “He intends to stick a knife in his throat the moment your spirit flies, so he can go with you to the Mother.”
“Stick a knife in his throat?” Psyche echoed faintly. “No. No. Why should he do such a thing? He has you. There will be other women—”
“There will be no other woman. Eros has gone that route many times and found i
t led nowhere he wanted to be. He is old, I tell you. He came with Kronos from our homeland before ever I was born. In all those years, he never found a lover who would live with him in peace—only you. He is tired of living… But I am not, and when he dies I will be alone…all alone, as I was before I took him in. Do you still wonder why I do not love you?”
Psyche stared down at her, half horrified, half pleased about what she had said, and thoroughly exasperated too. “But Aphrodite, what do you want me to do? I will gladly beg Eros or even command him not to harm himself if I should die, but I doubt he will obey. Be reasonable, do. I cannot help dying, I do not want to die…”
“You do not need to die,” Aphrodite said softly. “All you need is courage. In the underworld is a shrine of the Mother of which Persephone is priestess. On my word, Persephone will take you there. If the Mother chooses, you can have an Olympian’s length of life. She has granted that to others, to Hecate and to Heracles and to Semele—”
“And if She does not choose?”
“You will die, there at the altar. It has befallen others who were rejected.” Aphrodite shrugged. “That is why I have not spoken of this before.”
Psyche stood looking at the goddess. Was this some last, desperate effort of Aphrodite’s to be rid of her? No, for it could accomplish nothing, except to tear Eros from her sooner. Now that she thought about it, Psyche realized what Aphrodite had said about Eros’s plan to die with her must be the truth. He had said again and again that she was his soul and he could not be parted from her. Nor did she relish the long, slow decline to her own death. For all she had said about the uselessness of beauty, Psyche thought ruefully, she was not so indifferent to growing old and ugly as she should be.
She could wait. She had many years before she needed to worry about any decline. Even as the thought came to her, Psyche knew she could not. The Gifts of the Mother, no matter how perilous, must be taken when and as offered; they were not subject to bargain or compromise. And Psyche grew surer by the moment that she had not come into the chamber of her own will and that, likely, Aphrodite had not spoken of her own will. The Olympian looked strange—older—and she was uncharacteristically still and silent.
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