You don't know who I am.
That's ok. Many people don't. However, if I mentioned my brother, you might start to figure it out.
His name is Romance.
Nothing?
How about Love?
Still no?
Oh, this one, you must know him as Desire.
No, not like-- no, I'm not Dream-- no, you clearly don't know that name either.
No, we're moving on. I'll try an older name. A mask he wore once.
Cupid.
Ah, there it is. Now you know who I'm talking about.
Yes, my brother, my kin, is the great god Cupid. Bringer of Love, of Romance, of Want, although never forget that he is also a bringer of Disgust, of Loathing, of Repulsion.
I am his counterpart. If he is the dawn, then I am the dusk. He is guns drawn at high noon, while I am the crossroads at midnight.
Understand, though, that I do not deal in petty emotions, those basal influences that act just as quickly upon apes as they do upon you. I am a purveyor of superior drives. Mine are nuanced, and fine. They are that which motivates you to reach ever higher. Cupid may be the fountainhead of lust that drove men to swear oaths and sail a thousand ships to Troy, but I am what birthed the union rage that gave you weekends and a forty hour work-week.
I am-- no I'm not bureaucracy.
I am a contradiction said for the sake of contradiction. I am the straw that breaks the camel's back. I am a flight of wax wings towards the sun. I am Hubris, and I am not to be fucked with.
Today, you might notice that I've-- Oh, I didn't tell you, did I? I apologize.
I shall correct my mistake.
Imagine a school. It is an old school, and a wealthy school, with resplendent towers and hallowed halls for learning and for fancies. Around it are walls of stone and forest and ideas. Paths wind through trees and gardens, never allowing those who traverse those paths to spy out the barriers that keep some out, and some in. There are other schools like it, but they are lesser schools, incomparable to this one.
The students here are garbed in uniform, each one particular to the grade. As seniors, they wear green. All wear button-up shirts, a tie, and a jacket. The boys wear pants. The girls wear subtle green plaid skirts. Both wear tall socks and hard shoes, though they are more... accentuated on the girls than on the boys.
The majority of the students who wear these uniforms do not trifle with the working class, nor do they understand it. So far as they are concerned, unless you are a peer, you are little more than scenery, a stagehand dressed in black, a new puppeteer taking over a long-established character. Servants were extensions of the house, not people with lives of their own, certainly not people to speak to or confide in. They are the future kings and queens of the world, and they know it in their bones.
Sometimes others come to the school, those whose minds and artistry shine like the sun, or those whose fate is bound to the school by blood and contract, but they are rare things. A flicker of those few are seen and recognized as the gems that they are, but more often they are platinum ingots in the hands of a Spanish Conquistador who lusts only for gold.
Now, imagine a classroom. Its students are the lords and ladies of this school, eldest of the student body, and are fully ready to go out and take possession of a world they feel is rightfully theirs. The-- yes, they're seniors, 18 to 19 years old, the lot of them, well done, you've got it. No, wait, those three are 17, but they are not the subject of my ire and so we shall leave them in peace.
Anyway. In this classroom is the queen of this school. She is regal, she is graceful, she is wealthy, and she knows it. Her uniform, while superficially identical to the others, has been designed and tailored to suit her, to draw beauty to her, more than she has already been gifted. At 18, she already has more power in her fingertips than most CEOs can ever hope to dream of having and she has yet to even begin to reach the apex of her potential. She is to most other students what most other students are to the groundskeepers.
Some of her peers-- no, not peers, never peers-- some of her fellow classmates are drawn to her like moths to a flame because they hope to ride in her wake to greatness. She knows this, and does not care. She will keep only the prettiest of baubles, and discard the rest.
Others are repulsed by her, and hope that they can outwit her, outmaneuver her, outdo her. They hate her, sometimes for good, sometimes for envy, but always with good reason. She knows this, she sees it in their eyes, and on their faces, but cares not. After all, what does the hawk care for the opinion of the sparrow?
A few, though, our dear platinum ingots, hope to pass by unseen so that they can transform the world into something better than it is. Once they might have succeeded. Those here and now, though, will fail, because if they are in her school, and they are of use to her, well. They will be hers. Those who would not be of use to her, or, worse, those who might one day dream of standing against her, will be broken, and melted into slag.
She is, in short, a world-class bitch, a poison, and a blight. She is oceanic microplastic, a pretty package filled with explosive glitter that's been sent to an at-long-last-clean house that is home to three young children, two tired parents, and a dog.
And she is the target of my ire today.
Before I begin, you might be wondering why one of the more... fickle... divinities has not already struck her down, if she is as bad as all that.
Simply put, she is beyond them.
You would think that our queen would be subject to Venus, who is also called Beauty, and Passion, and is famously short tempered with those who dare compare themselves to her. You would not be wrong to wonder, for there is no part of our queen that is not perfection itself.
Her hair is auburn, flicked with natural highlights of red and blonde, radiant with a hint of bounce, not a wit of falsity to it. Her face would bring even the greatest of sculptors to tears, for there is not a marble or canvas that could capture even the contours of its perfection, nevermind the subtle fullness of her lips or the glistening beauty of her eyes, or indeed any other aspect of it. Her body's curves are fulsome and rich, though not profusely so, for she is still taut and lean. Her breasts are bountiful, her calves a delight.
Yes, you would not be wrong to wonder.
But in truth it is this same perfection that protects our queen, our-- Yes, our Aphrodite, for that is as fine a name as any, and far better suited to her than the one she is called by. Yes, this perfection protects our Aphrodite, for neither she nor anyone else would ever blaspheme it by wondering if it is divine. It is divine, or, to voice a thought that does near to blasphemy, as close to divinity as any human could ever dare to reach.
You might also wonder, if she is so beauteous, why would she not be subject to Cupid? Is her heart too stoney to allow the piercing of any arrow he might fire? Perhaps romance and other passions of that sort are nonexistent to her, as is the case with some others? But then, you might then wonder, if he cannot pierce her heart, why not pierce the heart of another, an admirer, or several admirers, and bring chaos to her in that way?
In short, he cannot. She is, as I said, perfection, but as her perfection is that of gods and divinities, there is no being, certainly no person at this school, who would dare consider courting her. She is not one for whom others fight to court. She is one who chooses a champion.
She is so far above these petty masses in that way that there are none who even dare to lust after her, for to lust after her would be to think of her as obtainable, and that is not a thing that is to be done, not without her blessing, and that blessing she has yet to give. So Cupid does not waste an arrow on her or on anyone around her, for it would do no good.
As for anyone else... Well, you know how gods and divinities can be.
So, the truly delightful task of humbling this arrogant young woman falls to me.
They are indeed jealous.
But-- yes, I did mention that there were other people here, didn't I? And it would be rude to ignore them, even if our Aphrodite thinks that to be a perfectly fine thing to do.
I could muse on each of them in turn, but in truth there are but three others here who matter in regards to her humbling.
First, we look to a young woman, also 18, whom I shall call Psyche.
Brilliant academically, artistically, and musically, our dear Psyche should be the greatest joy of any teacher. She is also lovely, and lithe, and fit, her body just as fine a tool as her mind. In any other place, in any other time, even another time here, she would be the crown jewel of the student body. She would be grace, and kindness, and wonder. She would have no enemies, nor would anyone fight for the right to court her, but it would be a calm stillness born of affection and pride, not of worship.
Here, though, in this time, in this place, she is not the crown jewel, nor would she ever dream of being such a thing. She-- no, she would not dream of it elsewhere or elsewhen either-- because there is a difference between humility and despair. I should know. I have caused both.
Why despair? Why, for the simplest reason in the world.
Because of our Aphrodite.
Our Aphrodite does not suffer challenge anymore than her namesake does, and our Psyche knows this. She has seen it, watched once-friends be crushed beneath Aphrodite's heel, or the heels of her lackeys, and come out lesser for it, or as nothing at all. Sometimes for true arrogance on their part, yes, but more often for the smallest of things; slights, both real and imagined.
Our Psyche has survived through these destructions in the way that only gems and platinum ingots can: by hiding, waiting, watching, and learning. She has learned smallness, and timidity, she has learned to hide herself, her feelings, her hopes, her dreams, her desires. There is no heart in her for Cupid to hit because she has hidden it away from the world.
It infuriates me.
Our Psyche should be brash and bold. She should be free to feel love and loss, victory and despair. She should be dancing in the wind on the edge of a cliff, not hiding from the world in the basement of a house on the prairie. She should, well, there is a great swath of things that she should be doing but cannot for one reason and one reason alone: our Aphrodite.
Now, until recently, our Aphrodite had been content to let our Psyche sink into wretched timidity, but our Aphrodite had noticed something. A certain young man-- Eros? Oh, why not, for that matches the role we have cast his love into-- our Eros had drawn the interest of our Psyche.
Almost all that our Psyche was, our Eros, 19, and oldest in the senior class, was not. He was not gifted in mind, and he was bumbling, and foolhardy in the most wonderfully terrible ways, but he was handsome, and he was kind, and he meant well, and he was aware of his shortcomings. He came from relatively new wealth, but if he went to a Waffle House he'd still be able to have a positive and meaningful conversation with the fry cook. He was quite the catch, or would be, though none of that is not what drew the eye of our Aphrodite to him.
No, what he had done was no more and no less than to take notice of our Psyche, despite her great efforts to remain a wallflower. He could see in her the same potential that I see, and he felt the same way about it as I do. Though he knew not the source of that which kept her from blooming, he knew that he wanted nothing more than to watch her bloom. It was not love that he felt, I will not call it love, I refuse to call it love, but there was room for love, a space for it, if given time and hope and opportunity.
Oh, piss off. Just because I am not the god of it does not mean that I cannot still enjoy a good romance as much as anyone, although my interests do tend towards the length and dance of courtship, rather than the ebb and flow of tidal passions.
