An offering to Freya in the north: a hollowed gourd of honey, poured across the stone at the base of the shrine, the pungent scent of boar and fir filling the forest air. An offering to Aphrodite in the south: narcissus flowers piled high on the sand, petals fluttering in the breeze always racing across the beach.

Within Cupid has grown an instinct to care, to nurture, to grow. Yet the island's piling absences have given him a great scarcity in targets for such an impulse. He fills the need instead in servitude to the patrons, leaning into the role of priest without once deigning to interpret his dreams or smoke incense to procure a vision. The dove-god buries his paws into the earth, attends to the holy plants and valuable herbs that flourish across the meadows and groves of the island.

He follows familiar game trails across the terrain with idle ease, sits by the side of the river. It babbles at him as he dips his paws and washes the dirt from under claws and between toes. Ruffled fur is combed with teeth, before a chirp from the wings, always watching, makes Cupid's ears prick. A twitch of his nose, a considering tilt of his head. Blind eyes don't shift to search for the approaching shadow. On the branches of a nearby birch, the wings warbles and preens.

Rhadamanthus