Eros blinked once, and the sensation like fire coursing through his veins, an ache so deep it threatened to split him in two. His body felt as if it had been cast into the hearts of hell he had always dismissed as a mere fable—a place he thought existed only in the fevered imaginations of mortals. But now, with every pulse of agony, it was undeniable: it was real. The pain, like the burn of molten metal, suffused his limbs, his chest, his very soul.
He blinked again, slower this time, trying to will himself into focus, but nothing made sense. Eyes. Heavy with the weight of confusion, still burned that didn't feel like vision but rather a desperate attempt to decipher the world through fogged glass. Throat. Parched and raw, it felt as though it had been scraped bare. Tongue. As if caught by a cat, lay motionless and still. His body—an unwilling witness to his own existence—was sluggish, like a machine that had long since run out of power, only barely functioning on some instinctive level.
He felt the coldness beneath him before he truly registered it. The pavement was rough against his skin, the cement far too frigid. He laid there still, in a world that felt like a dream yet far too sharp to be one. Slowly, with every ounce of effort, his eyes finally open. The sky above him was a strange contradiction: a vibrant stretch of blue, endless and free, as if untouched by time or grief, but it was at odds with the chaos inside him. It was beautiful, almost painfully so. It seemed to mock him, the clarity of the heavens in stark contrast to the mess of his thoughts, the turbulence inside his chest.
A flock of birds soared high above, their wings slicing through the air with the same grace and ease that he longed to reclaim. They scattered like fleeting thoughts, caught in the whimsy of the wind, which wrapped around him now. A strange, tender caress against his burning skin. The breeze moved through his hair, tangling it in a mess of disheveled strands, as though it too was trying to untangle the knot inside his head. The situation was oddly familiar, as if the wind were a memory from another life—something from before the storm, before everything had come undone.
For a moment, despite the gnawing ache that clung to his every breath, there was something oddly comforting in the stillness. The world above him, untouched and eternal, remained unchanged. It was as if the sky held some quiet secret that he couldn't quite reach, a promise of peace that was just beyond his grasp.
The ache inside him, though, would not be silenced. He groaned, a low, ragged sound that seemed to echo through the walls. Slowly, with great effort, he pushed himself up, the weight of his own body pressing against him. His muscles screamed in protest, trembling under the strain. The world spun, blurring the edges of his vision, but he fought against it. His chest tightened with each shaky breath, and as he lifted his head to survey his surroundings, it felt as though the ground beneath him was still spinning. Where was he? What had happened? He couldn't remember.
He found himself inside a dome, its walls drenched in hues of grey and black, as if the very air itself was suffocating the light. The atmosphere was thick, heavy with a sense of abandonment, the kind of place where time had long since forgotten its purpose. The silence was deafening, the stillness pressing against him like the weight of a thousand unanswered questions.
With every ounce of remaining strength, the Cupid pushed himself up, his body protesting at every movement. His muscles screamed in pain, a sharp reminder of the battle he could barely remember. His gaze fell to his hands, and the sight nearly made him recoil. There was a grotesque sight of blood, bruises, and dirt. His skin, once smooth, was marred with the grime of the earth, as though he had clawed his way through the very soil beneath him. His nails were caked with what looked like dirt, a mixture of ground soil and something darker—something that made him shudder. He couldn't even recall what he'd been doing, only the aftermath, the weight of it all clinging to him like a second skin.
Sweat dripped down his face, his skin slick and clammy. His hands instinctively ran through his disheveled hair, fingers tangling in the matted strands, only to be met with more of the same—dirt, sweat, and the tang of dried blood crusting near his forehead. The once-familiar sensation of his own touch now felt alien, as if his body had become a stranger to him. A bitter taste rose in the back of his throat as the reality of his condition hit him like a slap.
His heart began to race, a sudden rush of panic flooding his veins, the adrenaline surging through his system like an icy wave. His breath came in sharp gasps, each inhalation shallow and desperate. He glanced frantically left to right, trying to orient himself, but the shadows of the dome seemed to stretch endlessly, mocking his attempts to make sense of it all.
Where the hell am I? The thought screamed through his mind, a single question that rattled his core. His hands gripped the ground beneath him, his fingers digging into solidified soil as if it might offer some kind of explanation. But the only answer that came was the suffocating silence, just until his eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat.
Liminis Velarium. The name echoed in his mind, each syllable like a ghostly whisper. He was here, in that forsaken place, the very one he had feared and avoided. And now, there was no escape.
The arena stretched out before him, its towering walls made of pure, non-destructive cement, a colossal structure that rose to the heavens themselves. The sheer height of the dome felt as if it could swallow the sky, a cold, solid fortress that towered over him in a way that left him feeling insignificant, small—just another speck beneath its oppressive weight. The air was thick with the acrid scent of stone, blood, and something darker, that clung to the very essence of the place. It was as if the walls themselves were alive, watching, judging, waiting for the next soul to be torn apart within their confines.
The ground beneath him was a blend of macabre remnants, the bones of the fallen grinding together with the remains of those who had suffered here before. The soil, tainted with blood, mixed with chunks of hardened cement, creating a surface that seemed almost alive in its cruelty. It was a place where a part of Olympus seemed to pulse with a violent energy, an unsettling thrum beneath his feet that sent shivers through his spine. The ground would boil under the gods' command, a searing heat rising from the depths of the arena, as if Olympus itself had been molded to punish the damned. Each step was a reminder of the suffering that had come before, each crack in the stone a testament to the blood spilled in this cursed place.
This was no mere arena—it was a pit of agony, a place where the gods sent their criminals to face the most brutal of trials. Here, those who had broken the law, those whose sins had been deemed too great to forgive, fought until death. The trials were merciless, gladiatorial bouts where only the strongest survived. If one died, the other was granted a swift, brutal death by beheading. To die quickly was considered a mercy—far kinder than the alternative, the slow, agonizing torture that would stretch on until the body could no longer endure. It was a place where judgment was final, a place where only the gods' will prevailed. The judgement hall of the Underworld.
But this arena wasn't only reserved for such Olympians or morals. It was also where those who dared defy the most powerful gods met their end. The echoes of those who had challenged the gods and fallen, their fates sealed by divine wrath.
As Eros stood there, the panic began to creep up on him. He couldn't understand how he had ended up here. This place—the one he had loathed, the one that had always haunted his thoughts—was where he now found himself. He searched his mind, grasping for any reason, any explanation for why he would be here, but found nothing. Only confusion, only dread, only the unshakable certainty that he had been dragged into this hell for a reason he could not comprehend.
Eros scanned the arena again, his eyes darting nervously across the podium, but the darkness stretched endlessly at the far edges, consuming everything in its path. He couldn't shake the feeling that he wasn't truly alone here. Somewhere, hidden in the shadows, the gods who commanded the trials might be watching. Rhadamanthus, Minos, and Aeacus, with their cold eyes tracking his every move. The thought made his skin crawl, the air thick with silence, as if the very atmosphere was waiting for something terrible to happen.
He recalled the stories his friends had once shared about this place—the stories that had always sounded like a nightmare, something he could never truly imagine. The arena was built with a deliberate, cruel design. When standing at the center of the podium, no matter how hard you tried, you wouldn't see the corners. Its shadows there were thick and suffocating. The arena was made to ensure that the guilty were never at ease, their minds constantly spinning with the question of what lay hidden in the dark. The uncertainty, the tension, was meant to make them tremble, to breed fear with every breath they took. Fear of the unknown. Fear of the gods' judgment. Fear of the crawling horrors that could emerge from the blackness at any moment.
Eros felt the weight of that fear, heavy in his chest. He could almost hear the echo of his own breath in the emptiness, every sound amplified in the cold, vast space. The knowledge that there were entrances—hidden, sacred pathways for the gods to enter and leave at will—only added to the sense of surveillance. He could almost see them, looming in the unseen, their eyes piercing through the darkness, observing every second of the brutal trials that took place here.
His gaze lingered on the few large rectangular windows that dotted the edges of the arena. These windows were not for mere mortals; they were for the gods of great power, for those who held dominion over Olympus. The windows offered a view into the trials, a cold, detached viewing gallery for those who considered themselves above the suffering of the condemned. Visitors of importance would sit there, their faces either emotionless or amused as they watched the sinners fight and die, their eyes drinking in the carnage like spectators at some twisted show. It was a spectacle, a dark amusement for those who felt no empathy, no connection to the suffering they watched unfold before them.
The arena itself was surrounded by rows upon rows of bleacher-like stone seats. They rose high, a cruel reminder of the distance between the gods and those who were forced to fight below. The Olympians sometimes came to watch these trials, those whose hands weren't stained by the blood of their fellow gods. They were free to come and go, to witness the brutality that was inflicted upon those who had sinned against the divine order.
In Olympus, sin came with unbearable consequences. The punishers, those tasked with carrying out the gods' wrath, relished in their role. They didn't just mete out physical pain; they reveled in the psychological degradation of their victims. They stripped the criminals of everything—dignity, hope, and even the faintest semblance of justice. Here, in this place, the guilty were made to feel their sin in the very marrow of their bones. And by the end of it, there was nothing left of them. Nothing but empty shells, broken and hollow, with no purpose beyond the punishment they had received. No matter how they begged, no matter how they fought, it was all the same. There was no escape. No redemption. Only the slow, grinding weight of their own wrongs.
"May I at least be enlightened with my agenda here in this colosseum?" The words stumbled out of his cracked throat. He had to force the sentence through clenched teeth, his breath coming in shallow gasps, his chest aching with each attempt. Despite the physical pain, he tried to maintain his composure, pushing his voice to sound steady, almost calm. But the tremor beneath the surface was noticeable, a flicker of fear, of uncertainty that gnawed at him from the inside. His voice betrayed him, the fear leaking through the cracks, no matter how hard he tried to mask it. He couldn't make sense of it. His mind was still muddled, grasping for clarity, but it felt like trying to catch smoke with his bare hands. Why was he here? What had brought him to this cursed place?
The last thing he clearly remembered was the chaos, the mess he'd caused—he had ruined one of Apollo's latest masterpiece as revenge to how the god's fingers slipped by accident; as to what he has in defense, and shattered Eros' favorite arrow, the one that glowed more pink than gold, replicating the fade of sunsets. Apollo has always mocked Cupid's aim, claiming he can shoot arrows better. He could still picture Apollo's frown, the way the god's frustration had bled into his every brushstroke.
All his last memories were hazy flashes—moments of laughter, a playful word with friends, the easy banter, the carefree joy of the gods. Nothing about those fleeting, lighthearted memories pointed to this place. The arena. This Judgement hall. It felt like a cruel joke, a nightmare. How had a simple friendly fight—brought him here? His heart pounded in his chest, but there was a cold emptiness in the pit of his stomach, he was sure something else had happened right after his hangout with Apollo.
The wind began to howl, a sudden, ominous gust that tore through the colosseum, carrying with the weight of something approaching—something powerful and terrifying. The air thickened, crackling with a presence that drew closer, the ground almost vibrating with each footfall. And then, from the darkened edges of the arena, a figure emerged, her steps silent but commanding, as if the world bent to her will.
"I see thou hast awakened, my child," the voice floated toward him, gentle and laden with authority. The winds seemed to rush in time with the words, as if nature itself bowed before the speaker.
Aphrodite stepped into the light, the Goddess of Beauty—like her title, she indeed houses the traits to be of that god. Aphrodite's beauty is beyond mortal comprehension, radiant and mesmerizing. Her golden hair flows in soft waves, glowing as if kissed by the sun. Her skin, flawless and pale, seems to shimmer with an ethereal glow, smooth as marble. Her features are delicate yet defined, with high cheekbones and eyes the color of a calm sea, shifting between blue and green with a gaze that is both soothing and intense. Her lips, full and soft, curve into a smile that promises both comfort and temptation. Her body moves with graceful fluidity, every step effortless, her curves perfectly balanced. A subtle fragrance of blooming flowers and salt air surrounds her, adding to the intoxicating aura she carries.
Aphrodite doesn't just embody beauty—she radiates it, drawing everyone in with an irresistible and comforting magnetism. She smiled cheekily at Eros, whose spirit had been crushed by confusion and defeat. "I understand this may bring confusion, my child, but fear not. Thou shalt not be cast into the depths of Tartarus."
He didn't know if the words she spoke should've brought him some sort of relief as it only did quite the opposite. Instead, he was filled with many more questions. If he wasn't destined for Tartarus, then why was he here, wounded, in this desolate place? Why did he feel as though he was slowly fading from the world? And why, in the face of his clear distress, did his mother seem so eerily calm, as if the chaos consuming him was nothing more than a passing inconvenience?
"You have returned from war." As if Venus could hear his thoughts, she continued, her words carried a strange certainty, as if she knew something he did not. "The marks of war cling to you still—bruises upon your flesh, blood staining your skin—you should take pride in our long-awaited triumph, a victory hard-won." A soft, almost playful chuckle escaped her lips, but it felt disconnected, too light for the weight of the moment.
Eros stared at her, the edges of disbelief hardening his features. "What war?" he demanded, his voice sharp, irritation lacing every word. "Since when have I been drafted into such a thing?" Aphrodite bit her lip, a faint, thoughtful expression flickering across her face. She tapped a finger to her chin as though considering the right answer. "War against the Achaeans?" she offered, almost asking, as if he knew where he came from.
Eros' face contorted with frustration, the anger building in his chest. "Mother!" he shouted, his voice cracking with the weight of his doubt. "That was centuries ago!"
Aphrodite's smile faltered, and she let out a long, exasperated sigh, the playful glint fading from her eyes. She straightened, the air around her shifting, replaced by something more serious. "Enough of this pretense," she said, her voice now steady and firm. She took a step closer, lowering herself to crouch beside him, her eyes locking with his. For the first time, there was no playfulness in her gaze, only the deep, quiet understanding of a mother who had seen too much.
"You fought for Troy, alongside its greatest warriors—Aeneas, Helenus, Antheus, and even Hector's own son, Astyanax." Aphrodite said, her voice rich. "The neighboring nations, the Thracians and Scythians, sought to claim Troy, driven by their hunger for expansion. With the effect of the fall of Troy, we were left with few soldiers to defend what remained. It was then I called upon you to join the war." She smirked.
"After all, the Trojan war ignited because of you." Eros' eyes widened in shock. His mind scrambled for some sort of understanding. He attempted to stand but failed miserably, only managing to hold to a kneel. "There would never have been a war between the Trojans and the Greeks if you hadn't promised Paris the hand of Helen," Eros sparked.
"I had no choice but to ensure Paris fell for her, to fulfill your desires." Her gaze sharpened, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Oh? But you willingly agreed to partake in the war, did you not?" Eros' breath caught in his throat as he processed her words. Aphrodite's eyes gleamed with an almost knowing amusement. "Ah, I see now. Your memory has faded, but you were once resolute in your determination to lead this war,"
She rose, standing tall with an air of authority, one hand resting on her hip while the other lifted, delicately inspecting her nails. Her gaze never left him, her movements fluid and graceful, as if she were untouched by the chaos surrounding them. "The war was brutal, and its toll on you is evident. A concussion may well explain your current state of confusion," she mused with a flick of her fingers. "Do not fret, my child. There is purpose in your being here. Afterward, I shall escort you to Asclepius to tend to your wounds." Then, growing serious, her gaze was piercing. She stepped closer, her voice low, more somber. "Forget not your loss of memory, my son. Once the dust of this war settles, I shall illuminate the reason for your presence here."
Aphrodite exhaled a weary sigh, "You are here for a mission," she declared, pausing for a moment before continuing. "I shall linger no further—your fate is sealed. You are to be exiled to Earth. Not to Athens, nor to the lands of old, but to the Earth of the future, the world of mortals in an era far beyond our own."
With a graceful turn, she began to circle Eros, her presence commanding, yet unhurried. "Humans have grown disillusioned with love. They cast it aside as though it were a mere folly, something trivial and fleeting. Their hearts, once vessels of passion and devotion, now grow negligent, lost in their ceaseless pursuit of the material. And you—above all—should understand the ruin that follows when love withers from existence."
Eros' frown deepened, his frustration stirring within him. He cut her off, his voice laced with indignation. "Why was this mission announced so abruptly? Mother, you—of all beings—should understand the contempt we Olympians hold for mortals!" His voice stern, a reminder of the long-standing disdain the gods harbored for humankind. Men, with their transient lives and fickle desires, thrived on greed, their hearts masked by deception. Among all the dangers that plagued their world, none were more fearsome than humanity itself.
Aphrodite halted, squinting her eyes, brows furrowed. She crossed her arms with her posture poised and steady. "As the reigned god of love, shouldn't you prove yourself deserving of such a title?" Her voice was smooth, though it carried a challenge that could not be ignored. "There are no arrows left to shoot for the sake of leisure. You will not sit idle, reveling in the amusement of careless pairings. This time, you shall earn your place." She took a step closer, her eyes narrowing. "You are to unite 365 couples before this mission's end."
Eros' breath hitched, his chest tightening. "What?" His voice barely found strength before she continued.
"All within 1,096 Earth days," Aphrodite stated, her chin held high, her expression devoid of mercy.
"Mother—" Eros began, desperation creeping into his tone, but she silenced him with a mere raise of her hand.
"If your days run their course and you have failed," her voice grew colder, heavier, "then you shall be stripped of your divinity. No longer will you bear the title of Cupid. No longer will you hold dominion over love. And you shall be cast into the depths of Tartarus."
Eros felt his world tilt, his body stiffening as the weight of her words crashed down upon him like an unrelenting tide. If there was anything to shake a god to his very core, it was this. His mouth hung open, but no words came.
"You will be accompanied by the Queen of Hearts, for she, too, has been tasked with a mission by Zeus himself."
Eros recoiled at the mention of her, his stomach twisting into knots. For all immortal beings she could offer to him for company, she chose his mortal enemy. A thousand questions clawed at his mind, but the goddess before him showed no intention of answering them.
Before he could utter another protest, the ground beneath him trembled violently, a deafening rumble filling the space like the prelude to a great calamity. The air thickened, the very floor beneath him turning molten, a searing heat licking at his skin. His body lurched as his feet began to sink, the colosseum swallowing him whole, its burning grip reaching higher, tightening, dragging him downward into oblivion.
His mother's final words blurred away along with his vision like fading light.
"Do not fail me."