Arrows and Ambrosia

By Alicia K. Anderson

A modern Greek mythology retelling of the Eros and Psyche story originally written in The Golden Ass by Apuleius.

Though the human world has its share of trouble, they haven't suffered an apocalypse. Not like the one the gods have experienced. The problem with immortal beings and eternal stories is that they don't die,

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alicia King Anderson
• Release date: Feb 6, 2025
• ISBN: 9798992536607

Alicia K. Anderson

Alicia K. Anderson has a Ph.D. in Mythological Studies with an emphasis in Depth Psychology.

Book preview

1

What a strange state to find the world in, humans swinging wildly between Eros and myself. Rebellion and nihilism. Art and suicide. It was little wonder that the faces of the people at the bus stop were filled with anxiety and grief. Somewhere, their optimism had been lost in the death of the old gods.

A small dog ran into the narrow road right in front of the bus stop where I sat. The blind curve and roaring engines told me everything I needed to know. I unfurled my black feathered wings and swept the dog across the road before it could be struck by an oncoming bumper. It trembled in my arms, sensing who and what I was, even though I was invisible to it and the humans still sitting on the bench behind me. I scooted it onto the path that led toward safety and food. It shook its coat out as if it could dash my touch from its fur.

The humans had known when it happened. They knew there was an apocalypse. The Mayan calendar ended. The prophets foretold doomsday. But they didn’t realize it wasn’t their world—the world that rested sandwiched between Olympus and Hades—it wasn’t their world that was ending. It was ours. As they would say about their computers, the gods got a hard reset. All the gods.

The only ones among us who can recall the cycles of the lives and deaths of gods are those that have always been here—that will always be here. Me. My siblings. Aphrodite.

Most of them would have to start their stories all over again. If they were wise, they would look at this weird new human world and select new stories. Stories that will keep them alive a bit longer this time. Strangely, even I had new stories to choose from.

I sat back down on the bus stop bench, listening to the people murmuring around me. A butterfly rested on my fingertips. I people-watched, and I waited. Keeping an eye on the sky overhead. Eros would be here soon. We had much to discuss.

The bruised purple sky of Olympus loomed overhead. Eros wondered what color the sky was in the human world below. He swallowed and swallowed again. He clenched his sweaty fists as he paced along the edge of the chasm that rent through Demeter’s orchard. The roots of apple trees stuck out, naked and white, from the tear in the earth at his feet. It would get him there. All the way to the human world below. Probably all the way to Hades if he wanted to go that far. All he had to do was jump.

He flexed his wings, the white feathers fluttering slightly in the breeze.

Would you like some company? A gentle breeze wafted around the black, curly hair of the god of Love and Desire.

Eros swallowed the trembling fear that bubbled up each time he glanced over the edge of the crag. Hi, Zephyr. Are you headed to the human world?

I’ll go if you go, the breeze whispered. We can help keep one another focused.

It wasn’t a bad offer.

Most gods struggled to stay on task when they went to the human world. The human world was where gods were born. And where they died. Eros was safe in Olympus, but he was stuck. He couldn’t step into his story, or choose from among his stories, unless he went to the human world. He couldn’t choose which of those stories he wanted to embody, and which ones he’d ignore unless he went there. But it was dangerous. Because there were so many stories, paintings, sculptures, and works of art about him, he would be dissolved into a hundred or a thousand different versions of himself. He’d have to work hard to fulfill his purpose.

That’s why his mother had forbidden him from going at all.

Instead of taking him with her to Thira, she had simply snatched an arrow from his quiver and left. She was angry about something. Some mortal had offended her. Eros knew in his bones, he knew he was supposed to be there. He was supposed to be the one to fire that arrow. She had chosen to change this story—his story—without talking to him about it. He wasn’t a kid anymore. He was ready.

Indignant and angry, Eros dove from the cliff.

The breeze swirled around him, and they dropped together through the broken soil of the heavens and into the wide blue sky of the world below. Eros grinned at the whoops of joy from the warm wind. He kept his wings pinned back while he plummeted, only unfurling them when he could see the little island shaped like the letter C in the bright blue Mediterranean. He could already feel the disorienting sensation of his stories crowding him.

I only have a few stories here, the breeze said. Hold on to me. The breeze nudged his wings toward a city, toward a specific building. Slowly, gently, they dropped him in front of a building with only the words SEX SHOP and OPEN illuminated in the window. Shaking his head to fight off disorientation, Eros walked into the shop. As soon as he breathed in the strangely sweet air of the shop, surrounded as he was by lingerie and dildos, his thoughts cleared.

He had done it!

Not only had he made it to the world below, he’d made it to a place of his power. A place where he could think clearly and focus on his own desires. He checked the quiver and bow over his shoulder before he folded his wings down his back. Looking around the shop with curiosity, Eros chose to become visible to the humans.

Oh! I didn’t hear the bell! Can I help you? A pretty young woman with a silver ring in her eyebrow and a white face mask asked. She spoke Greek, but it was a different kind of language than the one he’d grown up with on Olympus. Eros was glad he understood her.

Just browsing, he said, and he smiled at the woman. He wondered if he needed to wear a mask. She sighed a little bit, tilting her head to the side as she watched him. Eros wasn’t sure whether it was because she was seeing a god for the first time, or if that was just her demeanor. He walked through the aisles of false genitalia and allowed himself to tilt his vision into the godspace. His stories rushed around him, crowding his vision for attention. It was confusing, even in his place of power. He would eventually need to ask Thanatos about some of them where he appeared. Or his mother.

But what he knew right now was that he needed to meet her, and that she was right outside the shop.

2

The map was useless. Alma looked at the rumpled paper in her hand and back at the curving streets of Thira around her. Even this early in the morning, even this early in the season, the town inhaled around the tourists ready to get an early start. The bus ride that took her straight up the cliffs of the caldera from the port had been nauseating, but Alma was fairly certain she’d gotten off on the right stop. The office for the employment agency should be here, somewhere.

She hitched her bag over her shoulder again and gasped out a puff of air as it slammed into her back. It was heavy. It should be; it contained all of her belongings for a five-month trip to the island for work. With a grunt, she tucked a thumb under the strap to ease the pressure off her shoulder and headed back to the bus stop to reread the directions. Again.

In addition to the grimace caused by her heavy bag, Alma kept her head high and wore a slight, habitual frown. It was a habit from years in Attica. Looking approachable was generally a bad idea unless she was at work. A bright red sign gleamed in English over her head: SEX SHOP. Beyond that, there were no cute cafés or friendly kiosks for her to ask directions. Alma idly wondered how many tourists would miss seeing this side of the town of Thira, since it was farther away from the striking views of the caldera.

A young man erupted from the sex shop door and careened out into the street, his backpack flying behind him. He slammed into Alma, nearly knocking her off the sidewalk and into traffic. She cried out. Her bag swung into the road, carrying her with its weight. Before she fell into the street, he caught her. First by the hand—he wrenched her arm toward him. Then she crashed against him bodily, her forward momentum stopped by his chest. His arms flickered around her waist to catch her, but he released her and stepped away as soon as she was stable.

"Sygnomi!" he apologized, speaking oddly accented Greek. The young man had curly black hair that swallowed the gray morning light. Alma was breathless from her near fall, but her breath didn’t rush back into her lungs as she looked into his dark eyes. His red T-shirt and jeans should have been an ordinary outfit, but on him, they looked dashing.

"Sygnomi," she excused herself in return, knowing she was staring. He smiled at her, and the dimples in his cheeks made the sun split the clouds. Alma saw a small white butterfly—or a moth or something—playing behind the man’s head. She was distracted by him. By the fluttering white wings. By her heartbeat.

We are both in a hurry, the man said, still smiling, still dimpling. He sounded sleepy, like he was only half-awake. There was something off about him. He was blurry, somehow, even though he stood right beside her.

Alma nodded. Her mouth was dry. Gazing into his eyes was like losing herself in a whirlpool of emotions. She forced herself, reluctantly, to break eye contact. She noticed a small red dot on his cheek. You’re bleeding. Did I hurt you?

He startled and touched his cheek. He frowned at the blood on his fingertip. It must have been something in my bag⁠—

It’s just a scratch,