Cupid's Defence

Chapter 2

ii.

The first time Harry had seen Sheila Lyvoninsky, it was through the clouds.

That was how it worked. He'd be sat there, or here, or anywhere, and he'd feel a jolt within him, a skip in heartbeat that could only mean one thing: somewhere, there were two people, destined to be, that were not yet together. And the next thing he knew, he'd be flying there, with his bow and arrow in hand.

When he found her, she was on a balcony.

It was new year's day, fresh in the morning of 1994, and the air was cold, almost so it whipped across your skin. Harry flew to the balcony opposite, hidden in the dark, and watched the humans celebrate. The apartment she was in was packed: packed full of socialites and business people, all ringing in the new year. Fireworks hung in the sky; the best temporary decoration. Of all the nights of human happiness, Harry liked this one best.

Sheila was sad, however. She was a Harbell, then, not a Lyvoninsky, and young. She stood there, on the balcony, a glass in her hand, braids drifting in the wind. There was no sign of the steely resentment that resided in her features now. Instead, she was calm, peaceful, and hopelessly lonely.

Then! An interlude!

A man appeared from the double doors. He was Tim Lyvoninsky, a plump man, with kind eyes and a jittery soul. Harry felt the pull between them instantly, and mindlessly fired the first arrow.

It hit Tim in the chest, and for a moment, he paused, as if something was slightly awry. Harry held his breath, before leaning forward on the balcony, and firing the second. It hit Sheila, and she too looked around, suddenly awakened. The moment she did, they found each other, and began talking almost immediately.

Harry was pleased, about to leave: his work was done. But as he began to fly away, a firework exploded closer to him than he would like, and his full figure was illuminated by the flare of it. He was ready to swoop away, unbothered and unharmed, but they had seen.

They had seen him.

It was Sheila that he saw first: staring at him, her mouth slightly awry. Tim followed in turn, but there was no hostile reaction from either of them: they, for the moment, seemed extremely besotted. Waving, they followed Harry's silhouette across the sky until it was no longer visible, and, that, it seemed, was that.

-

"So they saw some bloke in the sky and thought-- hey, that's got to be Cupid?" Louis asked, frowning.

"I assumed," Harry played with his hands, still nervous, "That they put the pieces together. That they had probably figured out what I had done to them."

"But they didn't care, at the time. They didn't say anything."

"No," Harry looked down, "They did not. But now, they do."

"Now they want out, and they're angry," Louis guessed, and Harry nodded. "Any contact with them after that?"

"No," Harry sighed. "It would be immoral for me to make it, if they hate me as they say they do."

"Well-- nobody hates anyone here," Louis attempted to lighten the mood, "I mean, Sheila had an angry tv interview, but you never know? Tim might have a different story."

There was a silence, in which Harry looked at him in a way that told Louis that it probably wasn't likely. Louis cleared his throat, eager to have a second opinion on it, and opened the car door.

"It's probably best if you stay in the car for a few minutes," he advised, hanging around, "I'm not entirely sure how long it'll take me to explain this."