1/8/2025, 11:34 PM
![[Image: cupid-chirpeax.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/wj8G0kHm/cupid-chirpeax.png)
TRIGGER WARNING mentions of child loss, depictions of grief, mentions of child sacrifice
He had been in prayer when Tyr called. Head bent, plaintive whispers spilling endless and overlapping from his jaws, he had prayed to every pantheon he knew; he had even dared to call on his mother and father, pleading with them, wherever they were, to hear him and intervene, for their sakes, not his own.
It did not bring back his Watchman. It did not bring back his daughter.
Saga had told him she needed to see the sea - for what, he didn't know, she had not elaborated. He knew something strange was afoot with the Goddess, perhaps the veil between the realms was thinned recently for whatever reason. He had wondered if his quietest daughter housed the soul of Poseidon, briefly, as he felt his paws sink slightly into cool, damp sand. Saga was a mysterious child, much like the ocean itself, although he'd seen little other indication...But Loki had been there, too.
It was some unknown magic, he was sure. But he still didn't know what had happened. When the tears had dried, when his fur was no longer damp from desperate leaps into the waves to find them, when Cupid had finally realized his lover and his child had disappeared into the sea for some unknown reason - or been spirited away, or something, because he had neither seen nor truly heard it happen, he just knew they were there one moment and not there the next, when all hope had exhausted itself - Cupid had finally cursed his body. This mortal form that had given him a new home, a new future, and children to love - it had also forced him into helplessness when faced with losing all he'd gained.
He was furious, frightened, grief-stricken, and he didn't expect the gods to help him, and he didn't want to be indebted to the pantheon he'd come from, but Cupid had prayed all the same; willing for once to humble himself even to that degree, knowing how it would damn him irrevocably if he was ever forced to return 'home', to the world he'd come from.
Tyr's call was the only thing to interrupt the Courtesan from his nonstop whispered pleas. It had become a white noise to his own ears, lilting with the tune of his breath and the tide that lapped at the sand under his paws, freezing cold that he had stopped truly feeling many hours ago.
He was not sure where the other children were. Prayers for protection had been mixed in his fevered mutterings for some time, now, but he knew better than to rely on them. Still, if their father called, he was sure they would gather. They were good kids.
They didn't deserve to be stolen like this, like...bargaining chips, like they were a part of Freya's war...except they were, weren't they?
He'd offered them up as sacrifices once before, before they were fully formed - back when they were just an accidental thought, a gleam in his blinded eyes.
He ought to have been more careful, ought to have been careful what he wished for or provided as fodder to the gods. He ought to have known better. He ought to have protected them. He ought to have never have brought them into this world - but, no, that thought fell flat.
He adored his children, and did not regret their existence...only his own failings.
The dove-god was tired. Exhaustion hung in lurid bags beneath his eyes, in damp and unkempt fur dusted with snow, and the shuffling trudge that brought him to the meeting's place. He could smell one daughter already present, and seated himself beside her with careful steps so he didn't trip over errant paws or tails. If Astrid would allow, the Courtesan would lean a minute bit of his weight toward her, encouraging her to lean on him for reassurance if she so desired.