Touch (Dark Gods: Selfish Myths #1)

19

There’s a star that refuses to shine. It hides in the sky above The Dark Fates, the mystic realm of waterfall cliffs and moonbeams, where The Stars serve a purpose—to create deities. But this particular celestial is stubborn, unwilling to glow and reveal itself.

For millennia, deities have controlled mortal destinies and reigned over humanity’s fragile emotions. All except the most mysterious and coveted emotion in existence. The Fate Court has toiled to create a love deity, but unacquainted with the stirrings of that emotion, they have never succeeded.

In despair, they almost give up until the Guide of Wonder approaches them with an idea. “Love cannot be made on its own,” she says. “It’s a constellation and thus must be conceived by fusing multiple emotions. I believe I know which ones, for the next generation of them have just been born.”

It’s the perfect time. Four Guides—the mentors of Anger, Envy, Sorrow, and Wonder—are tasked to create Love. Anger and envy to fuel passion. Wonder as an intricate blend of happiness, admiration, and awe. Sorrow for heartache and longing. However, believing it to be practical, they dismiss fear as a component.

At nightfall, the Guides convene inside a glass dome that has existed since before humans first invented observatories. On the dais, painted recreations of constellations grace the floor. Above the artwork, an elegant silver funnel called a stargazer —not quite what mortals call a telescope, but close—is poised upright and aiming toward the sky.

The Guides join hands around the base of the stargazer and beseech the sky. Unexpectedly, the hemisphere goes dark. Only one star is left flickering. Once dim, it now winks down at them. Indeed, an obstinate little thing.

With a bloodred flash, it burns out and reappears in the Guide of Wonder’s palm. The other three deities surround her, peeking down at the rare and glimmering seed. Soon enough, The Stars gleam once again and confirm what everyone hopes. And the seed becomes a goddess.

***

Everyone fucks on the night Love is born. From the ancient ones to those in their prime, eventide passes in a tide of moans and climaxes. It’s a fine era to celebrate—to touch and be touched.

In her room, the arched spine of a bow hangs on the wall above Love’s cradle. The braided bars cage her in as a pair of short, black wings flutter from the youth’s back, and she reaches up toward the members of The Fate Court, who’ve come to view her. They regard the needy gesture with amused confusion, as well as intrigue over the plumage, a trait no other deity possesses. None of them thinks to pick Love up, neither to cradle the newborn, nor to caress her cheek. It’s not done among their people, and why would any goddess yearn for such an embrace?

Granted, her behavior isn’t entirely a shock. For she’s a love deity, after all. Yet foreseeing this penchant and watching it come to fruition are diverging experiences. Her people are not accustomed to such a feeble whim and assume she’ll outgrow it.

After they retire, Love blinks at the void above her. Her wings sag, and she whimpers, waiting for someone—anyone—to kiss her head or brush her cheek. She waits and waits.

And she waits.

***

They live in open cottages on stilts over a dark blue pool of water. On the way from their homes, Love sulks while the other archers ignore her. She does not wish to train. She longs to flare her wings and soar, to play and roll down the moonlit hill. Or better yet, to push Envy down the slope, merely to see how fast the god can tumble.

In a misty enclave, their group sits in a semicircle, their short legs dangling off their chairs. They listen to the four Guides declare their crew the most exceptional in The Dark Fates.

Love purses her lips. Envy, Sorrow, and Anger never act exceptional. They only act snobbish, calling Love a misfit and frowning at her wings as if the feathers’ existence makes no sense. At least Wonder is kind, offering secret smiles behind her hair.

Other deities are cordial, yet they do not seek Love out, and they don’t know what to make of the plumage springing from her back. She’s the only emotion they can’t relate to, which makes her a precious oddity.

During the lecture, Love glances sideways at Anger, who swerves his attention from her, his profile shifting from puzzled to irritated. He’d been staring.

After their lessons, Love attempts to make friends with the crew. At the top of the hill, she asks, “Want to race down?”

Wonder brightens at the invitation, but Sorrow grunts and leaves without answering, pulling Wonder along with her. Anger’s mouth twists, emitting mean-spirited pleasure that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, then struts off on long limbs.

Envy turns to Love with a flourish. “What do I get if I race you?”

“My respect,” she declares. “If you’re fortunate.”

“Is that all? I want a kiss.”

Without asking, he lunges. The bud of his puckered mouth descends and pelts her lips. It seems being friendly will get her nowhere.

Love’s wing strikes, thwacking him across the face. Then she sweeps her leg and trips him. It turns out, the god can tumble quite swiftly down the slope.

***

She has come of age and mastered the ability to fly. It had merely taken a few decades and a dozen broken bones. Now her wings span wide and flap with grace through the sky, though she scarcely exercises the plumage. It’s not enjoyable to coast alone, and it’s less diverting when everyone on the ground watches Love with marveling expressions. They’ve accepted the wings as attributes of strength, speed, and beauty. Yet the trait casts her apart, which discomforts Love.

The crew still ridicules her, and every other Dark God is torn between appreciation and resentment at her novelty, but their Guides are a routine comfort. From them, she learns about the definition of love, its unending string of rules and complexities overwhelming her.

According to the Guides, the nature of love involves an abundance of touching. Sometimes the touch is fierce and lustful, as with deities. Other times the touch is delicate, which is a mortal inclination.

The Guides train her to understand flirtation and attraction. The art of human self-consciousness and the antidote of flattery. Gestures and innuendos. Deities arrive to demonstrate how desire affects the body—unbridled, extravagant—and a great part of her wants to feel such abandon. Hands groping breasts, cocks rising and folds glistening, hips pistoning between splayed thighs, wild groans and cries, locked hips and rapid tempos.

Yet the sex ultimately seems hollow and meaningless. She craves a different sort of mating, to fuck in a different way, although she’s unsure how.

Love receives her answer when the Guides escort her to the mortal realm. There, she observes countless embraces the likes of which she never has. Knuckles brushing hair from a lover’s forehead, palms cupping jaws with tenderness, and thumbs wiping away tears. Touches that give, not just take.

The power to make humans touch that way shall be hers. These people belong to Love. By stoking their passions, she can take part in the bliss.

From then on, she’s spellbound.

***

It’s a lovely morning, the air fragrant with dew. Love stares into the distance and imitates a certain type of touch, curling her finger into the cove of her overturned palm, leisurely and reverent.

A whistle makes her jump. Envy shakes his head at Love, as though she’s being absurd. Anger taps his bow against his thigh and glares at her as if every second she exists stokes his temper. Sorrow and Wonder huddle off to the side, but they also see what she’s doing.

Wonder’s expression is emphatic. Who knows why?

Love’s wings tense. Humiliated but unwilling to show it, she juts out her chin.

Time for archery training on the hill. Wonder spends most of it talking rather than shooting. Envy is too busy comparing himself to the others to focus. Sorrow’s motivation sinks with each target she misses. Anger thinks cursing and growling at the arrows shall make them do what he wants.

Usually, Love has the truest aim. However, she’s not concentrating today.

In an exquisitely condescending tone, Envy deems her too soft to be a goddess. He volunteers to touch her “lovingly” and pokes her ass with his arrow plume.

Love drops her weapon and launches toward Envy. Anger catches her arms and restrains Love while the wings flap and her fingers claw at the air, struggling to reach the ego spreading across Envy’s face.

“Let me at him!” she seethes.

The libertine god balances his bow across his shoulders and loops his arms over the ends, using the position to puff out his chest. “Love, I’d be honored to let you at me .”

“Compose yourself,” Anger commands, his breath pushing into her ear.

This is hardly a shocking reprimand. Deities often tease and flirt with each other in this ribald manner, with neither party taking offense.

Even more incompatible with her culture, Love’s responding with equal venom to Envy’s jibe about her preoccupation with affectionate touches. Gods and goddesses hardly care about being cared about. At least, in that way. Yet something is missing from how Dark Gods regard mating.

Worse, being the Goddess of Love comes with sexual responsibilities. She must know the emotion inside and out, experience it in every way. That means she must one day consummate with a deity of her choosing.

Love vows not to. Not unless it happens in the manner she desires.

The Guides took pains to create her. Whether there’s another stubborn star in the sky remains to be seen. The point is, Love cannot be replaced easily. She’s their gem, her wicked antics often excused, from threatening to scratch the Goddess of Happiness with an arrow, to throwing a fit or a punch, to fixating on human touch.

Nevertheless, her instructors won’t be pleased to hear about Love’s plan to remain abstinent, nor will The Court. Law dictates they cannot force her into a bed, though they shall certainly discipline her until she gives in.

Love is willing to take that chance. She hopes it’s worth the price.

Anger lets her go. “Stop acting like a human,” he snaps.

***

In the mortal world, the Guides introduce them to human landscapes. Cities and villages and deserts and jungles.

One of these places is a village caked in snow, where a blizzard rages. Surrounded by flurries, Anger’s pupils dilate. He clenches his bow while the four archers pretend not to notice his distress.

Love approaches him later in The Dark Fates. He’s hunched over and sulking inside a shimmering mineral cave, where a grotto ripples and foliage grows within the shadows. This would be a glorious opportunity to mock him. Too bad she’s in no mood for a skirmish.

Anger bows his head. “Leave me.”

Love does nothing of the sort. “Why were you scared?”

“Fuck off. It’s my business.”

“Storms cannot kill us.”

“Yet the tempest looked angry.” He grunts at the ground, dark hair falling around his countenance, fingers gripping his knees. “A means of rage I cannot control.”

There are many things they won’t be able to control when they’re dispatched. It’s impossible to predict. She fears and longs for that.

Love lowers herself beside him. “It was brave of you to stay. I would have run.

“No,” he grits out in a low timbre. “You would not have.”

That’s possibly a compliment.

“I had to remain. Retreating would have embarrassed us all.” He rubs the back of his neck. “What happens to one of us, happens to all of us.”

Love’s hand steals out to… what? Pat his shoulder? Offer the kind of touch he won’t appreciate?

Out of nowhere, Anger swerves toward her, as if attuned to her motions. At his magnetic gaze, she changes her mind and yanks her arm back.

The god’s pupils flicker with something detrimental, susceptible, and on the brink of collapse. He pins her with unblinking eyes and draws out, “You need to stop that.”

But if his warning has taken on a guttural edge, referring to more than just her gesture, Love doesn’t acknowledge it.

***

He’s right. Love must stop. Now she learns why.

The Court makes everyone watch what Envy does to Wonder. The horrific sound of torture fills Love’s ears. She opens her mouth.

Wonder screams. Her wails reach a chaotic decibel and seize Love’s heart. The sight of the goddess’s head thrown back as Envy lashes her makes Love’s eyes water.

Wonder has been disloyal. She tried to run away from The Dark Fates, to abandon her people. It’s a traitorous act, something having to do with a mortal.

Punishment of this nature is an uncommon event. All deities-in-training have been instructed to witness Wonder’s introduction to pain. Love has been ordered to sharpen the blade and hand it to Envy. Instead of shackles, Sorrow restrains Wonder’s left arm and gawks at Wonder’s bloody knuckles. Anger secures Wonder’s right arm and stares blankly ahead, his expression militant.

His earlier words slice through Love’s mind.

What happens to one of us, happens to all of us.

Crew members are responsible for each other’s punishment. In private, Love had caught the haggard look in Envy’s eyes, though he’s concealing it in public now. No deity is bred to cower.

Before his hand comes down on Wonder again, her arms shake. “Please,” she begs, her face as shriveled as a dying flower. “Sto—”

“Stop!” Love hurls herself toward the goddess, shielding her from another blow. “Stop!”

The members of The Court regard Love with tapered eyes and ominous expressions. Anger gets to Love before any of their shamed Guides can. He seizes her by the shoulders and hauls her kicking and screaming from the scene, loose feathers scattering from her wings. The last thing she sees is Wonder’s wrist twitching in her direction, attempting to reach out for her.

The Court orders Love stripped and locked in a pitch-black room with no tastes or sounds or smells. The days blur together. She curls her plumage inward, using the panels to shield her nudity.

Amid the haze, Anger’s hand slips beneath the door crack, illuminated in a sudden gray sheen. Love is insulted. It’s not lecturing words or empty pity that she wants. What she wants is a fucking blanket to cover herself.

“I’m naked,” she warns him.

Anger pauses, his wrist suffusing with color. “Why the eternal fuck do I bother?” he vents.

The god’s hand disappears. She cackles at how easy it is to harass him.

Then those cackles turn into sobs. Love realizes a fact she’d been too delirious and impulsive to register a second ago—the kind of touch she longs for. Anger had just offered it to her.

She thrusts her fingers under the door, grasping only air, then scratching the ground, making contact with nothing, wishing he would come back.

***

Silence at archery practice.

Envy lacks his usual swagger.

Sorrow studies the grass more than her target.

Anger looses one arrow after the other, not sparing Love another glance.

Wonder winces as she polishes her longbow with a cloth, her hands too bruised to do it right.

***

Time to go. The others have already left. It’s Love’s turn now.

The Court has agreed. If remnants of her radical nature exist, solitude and matchmaking will stifle it. A few centuries of that, and she will be desperate for a deity to fuck her.

Love wants and doesn’t want to leave. She will miss her Guides and safe haven in The Dark Fates. She shouldn’t miss her crew, since they’ve gone back to mocking her whims—well, except Wonder—but belonging to others is better than being alone.

“Remember,” Wonder’s Guide instructs. “Humans are sacred so long as they can’t see deities. It’s unheard of, but don’t let your guard down. Eyes open, always.”

Anger’s Guide adds, “Your weapon is a part of you. Your power, your breath. As you have magic, it has magic.”

Sorrow’s Guide presents Love with a black dress. Envy’s Guide thinks it should be shorter.

***

She likes it in the mortal world. However, the years alone eventually alter Love’s perspective on benevolence and lower her tolerance for monotony. Soon enough, the selfishness of her kind rubs off on her. From then on, she finds naughty ways to occupy her time and complete her tasks, matching humans while also toying with their courtships, their actions, and their desires. So long as she does her job efficiently, the end justifies the means.

Millions of hearts shatter from the strikes of her arrows. However, it’s still not enough. Because of her wings and taste for touching, Love is less of a deity than all others. And in all ways, she shall never be human.

Over time and due to her invisibility, she becomes less concerned about her nudity beneath the dress. Yet that isn’t the only transformation. After taking one final flight—above one world and below another—Love retracts her plumage. The panels sink under her flesh, where they remain dormant for more years than she cares to count.

Every night, she hugs herself to sleep as if the embrace is her little secret. It’s not just an affectionate touch she craves. She yearns to be matched.

Love wants love. From the way it looks, it must be heavenly.