The Netherworlds: Curse of Fate (Book 1)

The Bowl of Fate

Eros wanted his grief to fuel him into a fury of molten heat and effulgent light, but instead he slipped down the stairs in quiet rage.

He wanted to see some physical sign of his distress in himself, but his fingers didn't even quiver. He was still. The fire was hiding inside, and he felt betrayed by this. He was taking action to no longer keep himself locked away, yet locked away he remained.

He was going to let Loki, and that kid, and himself down- everyone down. Because, he didn't have what it took to rise up.

Eros couldn't bring forth the emotion he felt searing inside. He'd do what he always did. He'd give the Fates what they wanted, and then crawl away to some party to lick his wounds, and to fuck the feelings away.

When he stepped through the door of the town home, he didn't step out into the street but back into the Fates' realm.

Loki was still unconscious in the dust, but he was starting to stir and the Fates stood around him.

Eros took the bowl out from under his arm. He walked forward, screaming inside, as he set the bowl in the dust and stepped back.

The Fates let out a small gasp, which resulted in Eros letting out a light chuckle. It was just a bowl, a foul punch bowl. He wasn't afraid of it anymore. There were far more real and terrifying things to fear, like losing a lover or a son, losing sense of self, or losing one's mind.

After a moment, the Fates all grinned simultaneously. Their foul punch bowl had returned, and they could keep it locked away, never again to be found.

Atropos made a small move forward, and gave Loki's reddish-blond strand of hair to Eros.

"I'd check to see if it's the real thing," Eros said, pocketing the strand. "Con artists are quite good at making fakes now-a-days, replicas that fool even the best authenticators. Loki and I had no way to really verify it."

The Fates all exchanged a glance with their empty eyes, and in that moment Eros strode to Loki and tried to lift the giant's arm up around his shoulders. He let out a small oomph, as he failed to do this. The giant was far too heavy for him to even partially lift.

"You bleeding giant! Wake up! I can't lift you!" He groaned as he attempted to hoist him up again, but fell hard into the dirt.

The Fates began to sing their dreary, haunting tune to the bowl. Eros looked over at them with fear in his eyes as the bowl began to glow, and tendrils of mist began to slip over the edge.

Now was the time to act, but he couldn't leave without Loki, and the Fates could use that bowl to make room in Tartarus for both of them if they had a mind to, or better yet, delete them both from existence.

His heart began to race.

He could slap Loki to wake him up, but he was sure that would do more damage to his own hand than the trickster's iron jaw. So he did the only thing he could think to do.

He kissed him.

And he breathed pink smoke into Loki's mouth, and filled his lungs with the burning desire to wake up.

Gasping in twisting, rose-colored starlight, Loki let out a small cough and a wheeze as his eyelids shot open. For a moment, he still saw a spinning rosette nebula before him, but then the glitter and clouds evaporated and only Eros remained.

"Loki, I need you to stand," Eros said in desperation.

Loki nodded, still unsure of his surroundings, but trusting Eros. He tried to make sense of his limbs and get them under him to stand. He was as shaky as a newborn foal with eight different legs to figure out.

Eros's hands were on the giant, trying to help, but his eyes were now fixed on the Fates, who had no idea they were being filled with desire. Eros directed all of his concentration, his will, his desire, on them. The gray wisps of smoke trailing from the bowl's center now had shocks of electric pink splintering through them.

Desire is a sneaky thing. It works its way into your heart and brain, until suddenly, it consumes your entire being... like a parasite.

And the three sisters were filled with a desire to change Fate, to change their plan, to let Eros and Loki leave unharmed with the bowl, and to blow themselves up with nebulous light. They desired to render themselves useless for a short time thereafter and to never again use their powers, their twisting yarn, to pull the strings of either of them.

That was the Fate they desired the bowl to manifest.

When it comes to magick, intent is everything.

The smoke from the bowl became a looming, glowing, rose-colored cloud of electric storm and stardust. It was twisting and roaring like a hurricane, and then the tempest exploded, knocking the already unsteady giant to the ground, and sending the Fates hurtling towards the crumbling horizon.

But, Eros stood his ground. Then, he put one foot after the other as he pushed into the tumultuous storm, Desire and Fate battling like Titans for dominance. He was whipped with dust and pebbles as sharp as blades from the gale's voracity.

Eros reached his arms out against the savage wind and pulled the bowl from the epicenter of the clouds. The bowl was heavy with magick, its gravity intensified.

With the storm still circling, he put a hand on Loki's shoulder and using his own power, his own will, he desired them both home.