![[Image: cupid-chirpeax.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/wj8G0kHm/cupid-chirpeax.png)
last day of midsummer
He was not woken by the sunshine, dawn's light only slightly warming the silky hairs of his coat. He was not woken by the wings and her cohort of other birds in the trees, warbling their good mornings and hellos to one another from the shelter of the branches. He was not woken by the wind in the grass or by a pleasant dream.
The cherub awoke to a pounding headache, sweet-smelling grass cradling his frame where he lay, flopped in the midst of a meadow. Wildflower blossoms formed a halo around him, swaying in the mild breeze to bend and kiss the dove-god's still, once-sleeping body. His skull was throbbing, his mouth filled with cotton, his mind filtering slowly to him memories of the night before - fevered dancing, drinking, giddy laughter ringing in Cupid's ears, song rising on the perfumed air into the sky. Cupid had been so drunk he'd felt almost weightless, but no amount of the fermented berries could erase from his mind the knowledge that he could never fly again - and that missing from the celebratory voices surrounding him was the chiming laughter of his lost children.
It was the last day of Midsummer, and the Fari had few duties left to attend to, to ensure the pack's diplomatic ties were secured and their strength communicated effectively to their valued allies.
So he'd had little reason not to sip and sup on the feast available until hedonism lulled the beast of his grief into slumber, with the god soon following suit. And now, he knew, he would pay the price. Cupid draped his paw over his eyes with a groan, rolling onto his back in the meadow, the soft grasses beneath his spine a rather cozy mattress, all things considered. A nearby squirrel screeched at an annoying neighbor, driving spikes into Cupid's already oversensitive skull, and he muttered a low, vile series of curses beneath his breath.
