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To the north, fresh honeycomb drips down the stone marking Freya's shrine. To the south, a sacrificial carcass stains Aphrodite's seashells scarlet. Cupid won't be on the island to tend the patrons for much longer, and placating the goddesses before he sets out on his journey is a vital task. Not for his sake; the dove-god offers no plea for safe travels. He asks only the goddesses' mercy, their watchful eye where he cannot see, to protect that which he has left.

Sindri. Bragi. His grandchildren, as numbered as the stars in the sky! Cupid brings them a bundle of dove feathers and an antler pried off the skull of one of the bucks who did not survive this year's rut. Toys to keep brightening minds and sprouting sharp puppy teeth occupied, lest they wear their mother to the bone pre-emptively. Cupid has aimed to give the family space to bond and settle into their new routines, devoting his efforts to preparing the island for his absence - the first in years - and bringing prey and bundles of herbs to the densite so the new parents want for nothing. Maybe more sleep, but Cupid can't do much about that.

The wings circle overhead, restless, as the dove-god approaches the gnarled tree-den. She has sensed the shift in Cupid, from catatonic grief to a need for action. She is eager to stretch her wings and fly on fresh winds, he thinks. Close enough to the den, now, Cupid sinks to his belly in the drying autumn grass and chuffs a summons.