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Deacon was the Muse of Reading.
Not poetry.
Not music.
Not painting.
Reading.
The quiet act of turning pages and finding pieces of yourself hidden in someone else's words.
Mortals prayed to him before opening beloved novels.
Children unknowingly brushed against his influence when they stayed up past midnight saying, just one more chapter.
He loved stories.
That was the problem.
Stories had taught him that everyone eventually found their person.
A prince found a princess.
A knight found a beloved.
Even monsters found someone willing to understand them.
So when Deacon finally gathered the courage to visit Eros, he carried centuries of hope with him.
"I think," Deacon said carefully, "I'd like a lover."
Eros nearly choked on his wine.
"A lover?"
"Yes."
The god of love stared.
"You could have asked for anything."
"I know."
"And you want romance?"
Deacon nodded.
Eros smiled.
"Very well."
The god reached into a golden bowl filled with glowing threads.
Thousands upon thousands of connections.
Soulmates.
Future spouses.
People destined to collide.
Eros pulled a single thread free.
"There."
Deacon felt warmth bloom in his chest.
Hope.
Anticipation.
Wonder.
"What is he like?"
Eros examined the thread.
His smile faltered.
Then returned.
Slightly strained.
"Oh."
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Eros."
"He's certainly memorable."
That should have been a warning.
Unfortunately, Deacon spent too much time reading romances and not enough time recognizing red flags.
So he followed the thread.
Across oceans.
Across kingdoms.
Across centuries.
Until he found Wave.
The Sea God was beautiful.
Of course he was.
The sea had always been beautiful.
Wave possessed dark hair that moved like deep currents and eyes the color of storms gathering on the horizon.
He smiled and entire beaches seemed brighter.
He laughed and sailors forgot caution.
He looked at Deacon once.
Just once.
And Deacon felt every love story he'd ever read come alive.
Years later he would realize that was the problem.
Wave looked exactly like a story.
Not a person.
A story.
The kind that swept people away.
The kind that left wreckage behind.
At first it felt magical.
Wave brought him pearls stolen from shipwrecks.
Coral crowns.
Songs sung by whales.
Sunsets reflected across endless water.
Deacon filled journals describing every moment.
Every glance.
Every touch.
Every promise.
Then came the storms.
Not the weather.
Wave.
The sea god loved fiercely.
Then disappeared.
Returned.
Left again.
Promised forever.
Forgot by morning.
Wanted devotion but offered uncertainty.
Wanted loyalty but gave none.
When Deacon asked where he'd been, Wave laughed.
When Deacon cried, Wave called him sensitive.
When Deacon begged for honesty, Wave kissed him until he forgot the question.
For a while.
Only for a while.
Because readers eventually notice when the story stops making sense.
One evening Deacon sat alone on a cliff overlooking the ocean.
Wave was gone again.
The sea rolled endlessly beneath him.
Cold.
Indifferent.
Beautiful.
A familiar figure appeared beside him.
Eros.
Deacon didn't look up.
"You gave me the wrong lover."
Eros winced.
"Technically I gave you a lover."
"A terrible one."
"Yes."
"A selfish one."
"Also yes."
"A walking natural disaster."
Eros sighed.
"That one especially."
Silence stretched between them.
Finally Deacon spoke.
"I thought love was supposed to feel different."
Eros looked toward the horizon.
"Love and happiness are not the same thing."
"Stories lied."
"No."
The god smiled sadly.
"Stories just end before the difficult chapters."
Below them, waves crashed against stone.
Deacon watched them.
Watched the sea that belonged to Wave.
A sea that never apologized for being rough.
Never changed.
Never became calm simply because someone loved it.
"What do I do now?" Deacon asked.
Eros thought for a long moment.
Then answered quietly.
"Close the book."
Deacon laughed despite himself.
"That's your advice?"
"You're the Muse of Reading."
Eros stood.
"You of all people should know that some stories are worth finishing."
The god began to walk away.
Then paused.
"And some are worth putting back on the shelf."
Deacon sat there long after Eros left.
The ocean remained beautiful.
That had never been the issue.
Some beautiful things were dangerous.
Some beautiful things consumed ships.
Some beautiful things broke hearts.
And no matter how much Deacon loved stories
he finally understood that loving a story was not the same thing as loving the ending.
Deacon had spent centuries misunderstanding himself.
Mortals left offerings at his shrines.
They wrote poems about him.
Painted him.
Dedicated entire libraries to him.
Yet whenever someone called him beautiful, he assumed they meant the books.
Not him.
Never him.
The Muse of Reading was easy to admire from afar.
He knew that much.
Wave certainly admired him.
At least, sometimes.
The Sea God's attention came in tides.
One day Wave would make Deacon feel like the center of the universe.
The next, he would vanish beyond the horizon without explanation.
The inconsistency hurt more than outright cruelty.
Deacon found himself constantly wondering which version of Wave he would meet.
The affectionate one.
Or the distant one.
The uncertainty hollowed him out.
Then came Rose.
A cupid who laughed too loudly and spoke too honestly.
Rose never treated Deacon like a treasure to be won or a muse to be displayed.
Rose treated him like a person.
A person whose opinions mattered.
A person worth listening to.
And then there was Bronze.
A mortal farmer whose hands were rough from work and whose life would be forgotten by history.
Bronze had never read the grand poems written about Deacon.
He wasn't impressed by divinity.
When Deacon nervously asked what he thought of him, Bronze simply shrugged.
"I think you're kind."
No worship.
No grand declarations.
Just kindness.
The answer lingered with Deacon for weeks.
For the first time in centuries, he spent time with people who wanted nothing from him.
Not inspiration.
Not blessings.
Not prestige.
Just his company.
The realization frightened him.
Because it made him notice everything missing from his relationship with Wave.
The secrets grew.
The distance grew.
The guilt grew.
And still Wave noticed nothing.
Perhaps because Wave assumed Deacon would never leave.
Perhaps because gods of storms rarely imagine the shore walking away.
One evening Deacon sat alone in a library.
Thousands of books surrounded him.
Thousands of stories.
For most of his existence he had believed love was something given by fate.
Something assigned by Eros.
Something that happened to you.
Now he wondered if that was wrong.
Maybe love was also a choice.
A choice to stay.
A choice to listen.
A choice to care.
And if that was true, then fate had not failed him.
Wave had.
For the first time, Deacon closed the book on the story he had spent years trying to save.
And began wondering what the next chapter might look like.
Deacon never understood why mortals found him attractive.
He was a muse.
That part made sense.
People admired muses.
People prayed to muses.
People wrote about muses.
But attraction?
That was different.
Whenever he looked into mirrors he saw freckles.
Too many freckles.
A thin frame.
An awkward smile.
A face that looked more suited to hiding behind a stack of books than appearing in a love poem.
Yet mortals disagreed.
Entire romances had been written about him.
Statues had been carved.
Paintings commissioned.
The attention embarrassed him more than anything.
Wave used to laugh whenever Deacon became flustered.
"You know you're beautiful, right?"
"No."
"You're literally a muse."
"That doesn't count."
Wave would roll his eyes.
"It absolutely counts."
But the strange thing was that even when Wave called him beautiful, Deacon never truly believed it.
The words always felt borrowed.
Temporary.
Like compliments Wave handed out as casually as seashells.
Pretty one day.
Forgotten the next.
That was the problem with Wave.
Nothing stayed.
Not moods.
Not promises.
Not affection.
Everything came and went like the tide.
Then Deacon met Rose.
Rose didn't call him beautiful.
Not at first.
Instead Rose asked what he was reading.
It was such a simple question.
Such a small thing.
Yet Deacon talked for nearly an hour.
About heroes.
About tragedies.
About stories nobody remembered anymore.
Rose listened to every word.
Every single one.
As though Deacon himself was interesting.
Not because he was a muse.
Not because he was divine.
Because he was Deacon.
Later, when Rose finally smiled and said, "You're adorable when you get excited about books," Deacon nearly dropped the novel he was holding.
No one had ever phrased it that way before.
Adorable.
Not beautiful.
Not divine.
Not perfect.
Just... adorable.
The word followed him for days.
Then came Bronze.
A mortal.
Entirely mortal.
No celestial blood.
No divine responsibilities.
Just a farmer who occasionally visited the local shrine.
Bronze treated Deacon with an almost alarming amount of normalcy.
One afternoon Deacon nervously asked him, "Do I seem very godlike?"
Bronze stared.
Then laughed.
"Not really."
Deacon looked horrified.
Bronze quickly added, "I mean that in a good way."
"A good way?"
"You're easy to talk to."
The mortal shrugged.
"You feel real."
Real.
The word struck harder than beautiful ever had.
Because Deacon had spent centuries feeling like an idea.
A symbol.
An inspiration.
Never simply a person.
When he returned home that evening, Wave was nowhere to be found.
Again.
The palace echoed with silence.
Again.
Deacon sat alone by a window overlooking the sea.
Again.
Only this time something felt different.
The loneliness wasn't as sharp.
Because for the first time he had people who saw him outside of Wave's shadow.
People who liked his laugh.
His rambling.
His nervousness.
His endless discussions about books.
People who weren't in love with the Muse of Reading.
People who cared about Deacon.
The realization made his chest ache.
Not with guilt.
Not with fear.
With grief.
Grief for the version of himself who had accepted so little for so long.
Outside, waves crashed against the cliffs.
The sea was beautiful.
It always would be.
But Deacon was beginning to understand something.
Beautiful things weren't always good for you.
And sometimes the people who taught you your worth looked nothing like the person you thought you were destined to love.
The knock never came.
The doors simply burst open.
Deacon startled so badly that the book slipped from his hands.
He had been curled up in a window seat, enjoying one of the few peaceful evenings he'd had in months.
Then Wave arrived like a storm.
Literally.
The curtains whipped violently.
Saltwater sprayed across the marble floor.
The room's candles flickered.
And behind him stood Rose.
No.
Not stood.
Dragged.
Wave had a firm grip on Rose's wrist.
Deacon immediately rose to his feet.
"Wave?"
The Sea God's expression was unreadable.
Far too calm.
That was somehow worse than anger.
"What's going on?"
Wave smiled.
A cold smile.
"Oh, nothing."
He shoved Rose forward.
"Rose just has something to tell you."
Deacon's stomach dropped.
Rose looked miserable.
Not guilty.
Miserable.
"Rose?"
Wave folded his arms.
"Go ahead."
Silence.
Rose swallowed.
Then looked at Deacon.
"We used to be together."
Deacon blinked.
"What?"
"Wave and I."
The words landed like stones.
"We dated."
The room suddenly felt much smaller.
Much quieter.
Wave said nothing.
He simply watched.
Rose continued.
"It ended badly."
A bitter laugh escaped him.
"Really badly."
Deacon looked between them.
At Wave.
At Rose.
At Wave again.
He didn't understand.
Not yet.
"What does this have to do with me?"
Neither answered immediately.
That silence told him everything.
The realization arrived slowly.
Then all at once.
"Oh."
His voice came out small.
Rose's face fell.
"Deacon"
"You knew."
Wave's eyes remained fixed on Rose.
"You both knew."
"Deacon, listen"
"You both knew."
His voice cracked.
The room blurred.
Rose stepped forward.
"It wasn't like that."
"Then tell me what it was."
Rose opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
"I was angry."
The confession was quiet.
Painfully quiet.
"I was angry at him."
Wave rolled his eyes.
Rose ignored him.
"I wanted him to hurt."
Deacon felt his chest tighten.
Every word made things worse.
Not better.
Worse.
Rose looked desperate.
"I didn't expect"
"No."
Deacon shook his head.
"No, don't."
"Deacon.."
"I thought..."
His voice failed.
He looked down.
Suddenly unable to meet either of their eyes.
"I thought you liked me."
Rose looked devastated.
"I do."
The answer came instantly.
Without hesitation.
Without doubt.
But Deacon barely heard it.
Because another thought had already taken root.
Wave had claimed to love him.
And hurt him.
Now Rose stood before him admitting that anger toward Wave had been part of why he approached him.
Maybe not all of it.
Maybe not even most of it.
But enough.
Enough that Deacon's heart twisted painfully.
He laughed.
A terrible sound.
Small.
Broken.
"Oh."
Tears slipped down his face before he realized he was crying.
"I understand."
"No, you don't," Rose said desperately.
"You really don't."
Deacon wiped at his eyes.
"I think I do."
Wave shifted awkwardly.
For the first time all evening he looked uncertain.
As if things had gone differently than he intended.
As if he expected anger.
Not heartbreak.
Deacon looked at him.
"Why would you bring him here?"
Wave didn't answer.
That answer hurt too.
Because there wasn't one.
Not a good one.
Not one that could undo the damage.
The room fell silent.
Rose reached toward him.
Deacon stepped back.
Not out of hatred.
Not even out of anger.
Just exhaustion.
Complete exhaustion.
"I'm tired."
"Deacon..."
"I'm tired."
Neither man stopped him as he walked past them.
Neither followed.
Hours later, after darkness settled across the palace, Deacon packed a single bag.
A few books.
A journal.
A change of clothes.
Nothing else.
The Muse of Reading owned countless treasures.
Yet none felt worth carrying.
Before dawn he left.
No dramatic farewell.
No note.
No accusations.
The sea crashed against distant cliffs as he walked away from the palace.
Away from Wave.
Away from Rose.
Away from people who had become tangled in each other's wounds until nobody could tell where the hurt began.
The stars overhead were bright.
Cold.
Endless.
For the first time in centuries, Deacon had no idea where he was going.
It terrified him.
It also felt strangely freeing.
So he kept walking.
And when the sun finally rose, neither Wave nor Rose knew where to find him.
Bronze was asleep when someone knocked on his door.
Once.
Twice.
Then a third time.
Slow.
Hesitant.
As though whoever stood outside wasn't entirely sure they wanted the door opened.
Bronze sat up immediately.
It was well past midnight.
The village was silent.
No one visited this late.
He grabbed a lantern and crossed the room.
When he opened the door, his heart nearly stopped.
"Deacon?"
The muse stood on the doorstep.
Alone.
A travel bag hung from one shoulder.
His eyes were red.
Not from exhaustion.
From crying.
Bronze set the lantern down at once.
"What happened?"
For a moment Deacon didn't answer.
He looked smaller somehow.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Like someone carrying a weight far heavier than their frame could bear.
"Can I come in?"
"Of course."
Bronze stepped aside immediately.
Deacon entered.
The little cottage felt absurdly humble compared to divine palaces.
A wooden table.
A stone fireplace.
A shelf of books Bronze had collected because Deacon once recommended them.
Nothing impressive.
Nothing divine.
Yet Deacon visibly relaxed.
Bronze noticed.
That worried him more.
People only relaxed like that when they'd been tense for far too long.
He poured tea while Deacon sat silently at the table.
The fire crackled softly.
Finally Bronze spoke.
"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."
Deacon stared into his cup.
"Rose betrayed me."
Bronze frowned.
"And Wave?"
A bitter laugh escaped Deacon.
"When doesn't Wave hurt me?"
Silence followed.
Bronze waited.
Eventually Deacon continued.
Words spilling out slowly.
Like water escaping a cracked dam.
He explained enough.
Not every detail.
Just enough.
Enough for Bronze to understand why Deacon looked so exhausted.
When he finished, the cottage fell quiet.
Bronze stared at the table.
Then shook his head.
"That's awful."
The simplicity of the response startled Deacon.
"That's it?"
Bronze blinked.
"What else am I supposed to say?"
"I don't know."
Deacon laughed weakly.
"I guess I'm used to people making everything complicated."
Bronze leaned back in his chair.
"Seems pretty simple to me."
Deacon looked up.
Bronze met his gaze.
"If somebody hurts you, that's bad."
"If somebody lies to you, that's bad."
"If somebody makes you cry more often than they make you smile, that's bad."
The mortal shrugged.
"I don't think being a god changes any of that."
Deacon stared.
Then looked away quickly.
His eyes burned again.
Not with heartbreak this time.
Something else.
Relief.
No prophecy.
No destiny.
No divine wisdom.
Just a man stating obvious truths.
Somehow that felt revolutionary.
After a long silence, Deacon whispered,
"I think I should choose you."
Bronze nearly dropped his tea.
"What?"
Deacon straightened.
More determined now.
"You're kind."
Bronze stared.
"Deacon."
"You don't play games."
"Deacon."
"You don't disappear for weeks."
"Deacon."
"You don't manipulate people."
"Deacon."
The muse finally stopped talking.
Bronze rubbed his face.
Then sighed.
"That's not a reason to choose somebody."
Deacon froze.
The answer wasn't what he expected.
Bronze continued gently.
"You shouldn't pick me because Wave hurt you."
The room became very quiet.
"You shouldn't pick me because Rose disappointed you."
Deacon looked down.
Bronze's voice softened further.
"And you definitely shouldn't pick me because I'm the safest option."
The words hurt.
Not because they were cruel.
Because they were true.
Bronze reached across the table.
Not to claim Deacon.
Not to possess him.
Simply to take his hand.
"You should choose me because you want me."
Deacon swallowed.
Bronze smiled faintly.
"And if one day that's your answer, I'll be very happy to hear it."
The fire crackled between them.
Outside, dawn was still hours away.
For the first time that night, Deacon felt something loosen inside his chest.
Not because someone had promised to save him.
Not because someone had declared eternal love.
But because someone cared enough not to take advantage of his pain.
Bronze squeezed his hand.
"You can stay here tonight."
Deacon looked around the tiny cottage.
The worn furniture.
The patched curtains.
The stack of books by the fireplace.
It wasn't a palace.
It wasn't a temple.
It wasn't grand.
Yet it felt safer than any place he'd been in a very long time.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Bronze smiled.
"Get some sleep, Muse."
And for the first time in months, Deacon thought he just might.
Deacon had imagined mortal life would be more exciting.
Stories certainly made it sound exciting.
Heroes slew dragons.
Farmers discovered hidden treasure.
Ordinary men turned out to be lost kings.
Bronze spent most of his days pulling weeds.
Deacon watched from the edge of a field.
Bronze wiped sweat from his forehead.
Moved three feet.
Pulled another weed.
Moved three feet.
Pulled another weed.
The Muse of Reading stared.
For nearly ten minutes.
Finally he asked,
"Is this really what farming is?"
Bronze laughed.
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know."
Deacon gestured vaguely.
"More drama."
"The cabbages disagree."
Deacon smiled despite himself.
The truth was he enjoyed these quiet days.
Not because they were exciting.
Because they weren't.
No gods arguing.
No prophecies.
No divine politics.
No wondering whether Wave would be loving today or cruel tomorrow.
Just fields.
Sunlight.
And Bronze.
The simplicity felt strange.
Almost sacred.
Still, guilt lingered.
Bronze worked hard.
Very hard.
And Deacon couldn't help feeling useless.
One afternoon he sat beneath a tree while Bronze repaired a fence.
"I wish I could help more."
Bronze looked up.
"You are helping."
"How?"
"You handed me nails."
"I handed you three nails."
"Very good nails."
Deacon rolled his eyes.
Bronze grinned.
But the smile faded when he noticed Deacon wasn't laughing.
The mortal set down his hammer.
"What is it?"
Deacon hesitated.
Then admitted,
"I wish I could bless your farm."
Bronze blinked.
"What?"
"I'm serious."
Deacon stared out at the fields.
"If I were a god of harvests, I could make the crops grow."
His gaze lowered.
"If I were a river god, I could bring water."
A sigh escaped him.
"If I were a god of architecture, I could build you a better house."
The words grew quieter.
"Wave could probably help more than I can."
Silence.
Bronze stared at him.
Then laughed.
Actually laughed.
Deacon looked offended.
"I'm being serious."
"I know."
"Then why are you laughing?"
Bronze walked over and sat beside him.
"Because that's ridiculous."
Deacon frowned.
"It isn't."
"It is."
Bronze pointed toward the cottage.
"Who fixed my roof last week?"
"You told me how."
"Who organized my books?"
Deacon opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Bronze continued.
"Who taught half the village children to read better?"
Deacon looked away.
"That doesn't count."
"Why not?"
"Because it isn't divine."
Bronze shook his head.
"You're the Muse of Reading."
"Exactly."
"And you've spent your entire life undervaluing what that means."
Deacon stared.
Bronze leaned back against the tree.
"You know what happened after you started visiting?"
Deacon shook his head.
"People read more."
The muse blinked.
"The baker started reading stories to his daughter."
"The blacksmith borrowed books."
"Old Mrs. Linden learned her letters."
Bronze smiled.
"My neighbors talk about poems now."
Deacon was quiet.
Very quiet.
Because he hadn't noticed.
He had been too busy comparing himself to other gods.
To Wave's storms.
To harvest miracles.
To divine wonders.
Meanwhile he had overlooked his own gifts.
Bronze nudged his shoulder.
"You keep looking at what other gods can do."
The mortal gestured toward the village.
"But you're already changing things."
Deacon followed his gaze.
A little girl sat beneath a tree with a book in her lap.
Two boys argued over a story.
An old man carefully sounded out words from a page.
Small things.
Ordinary things.
Yet Deacon felt something warm settle in his chest.
Not pride.
Something gentler.
Contentment.
Bronze smiled.
"Besides."
"What?"
"If Wave came near my crops, he'd probably flood them."
Deacon laughed so hard he nearly fell off the tree stump.
And for the first time in a very long while, he stopped wishing he were a different god.
The first time Bronze compared Deacon's freckles to stars, Deacon laughed.
The second time, he blushed.
By the tenth time, he had learned to hide his smile behind a book.
"You know," Bronze said one evening, "if someone mapped those freckles, sailors could probably navigate by them."
"That is not how freckles work."
"I'm just saying."
Bronze leaned over and kissed his forehead.
"They're nice."
Deacon's cheeks warmed.
For centuries people had praised his divinity.
His wisdom.
His beauty.
Yet somehow a farmer admiring his freckles felt more meaningful.
Perhaps because Bronze wasn't trying to impress him.
The compliment simply existed.
Like sunlight.
Like birdsong.
Like something honest.
Life settled into a comfortable rhythm.
Until one afternoon when a stranger appeared at the edge of the field.
Bronze noticed him first.
The figure stood among the wheat, golden wings folded behind his back.
A cupid.
Rose.
Deacon froze.
Immediately.
The warmth drained from his face.
Bronze looked between them.
"You know him?"
"Yes."
Rose's expression tightened.
"Deacon."
The Muse of Reading shut his book.
"No."
"Please."
"No."
Rose took a step forward.
Bronze instinctively moved closer to Deacon.
Not aggressively.
Just protectively.
Unfortunately there wasn't much a mortal farmer could do against a god.
Everyone knew it.
Including Bronze.
Rose's gaze softened slightly at the sight.
"I didn't come to hurt either of you."
"That's comforting," Deacon said. "You already managed that."
The words landed harder than a slap.
Rose visibly flinched.
Good.
Part of Deacon wanted him to.
For weeks he had replayed that night in his head.
The humiliation.
The heartbreak.
The feeling that he had been turned into a weapon against someone else.
Rose looked down.
"I deserve that."
Silence stretched.
Wind moved through the wheat.
Finally Rose spoke again.
"Wave hurt me."
Deacon laughed bitterly.
"You're not exactly telling me something new."
"No."
Rose nodded.
"I'm not."
His voice was unusually quiet.
"He hurt me badly."
Something in his expression made Deacon hesitate.
Not because he forgave him.
Because he suddenly realized Rose looked exhausted.
The kind of exhaustion that came from carrying pain too long.
Rose continued.
"I loved him."
The admission sounded miserable.
"I hated him too."
Bronze folded his arms but remained silent.
Rose looked toward the horizon.
"Do you know what's pathetic?"
Neither answered.
Rose laughed without humor.
"He could hurt me and I'd still find reasons to stay."
The smile vanished.
"He could break my heart and I'd still miss him."
His hands trembled.
"I kept telling myself the next version of him would be better."
Deacon knew that feeling.
Far too well.
Rose swallowed.
"And when you married him..."
His voice cracked.
"I panicked."
The confession hung in the air.
"I thought if I couldn't save myself from him, maybe I could save you."
Deacon stared.
Rose shook his head immediately.
"Not because I didn't care about you."
"Then why?"
"Because I was angry."
Rose's eyes filled with regret.
"Because part of me wanted him to suffer."
There it was.
The ugly truth.
Not the whole truth.
But part of it.
Rose looked directly at Deacon.
"For that, I'm sorry."
The wind carried the silence between them.
"I cared about you."
The words were steady now.
"I still do."
Deacon looked away.
That almost made it worse.
Because he believed him.
Not entirely.
Not enough to trust him.
But enough to know the situation had never been simple.
Rose hadn't been a villain.
Just wounded.
The same way Deacon had been wounded.
The same way Wave seemed to leave wounds everywhere he went.
Bronze finally spoke.
"A person can care about someone and still hurt them."
Rose nodded immediately.
"Yes."
Bronze's voice remained calm.
"And being hurt yourself doesn't erase that."
Rose lowered his head.
"I know."
No excuses.
No arguments.
Just acceptance.
For a long moment nobody spoke.
Then Deacon sighed.
"I don't know if I forgive you."
Rose nodded.
"That's fair."
"I don't know if I trust you."
Another nod.
"Also fair."
The cupid managed a small smile.
"I wasn't really expecting either."
That earned the faintest hint of a smile from Deacon.
Only the faintest.
Rose looked relieved just to see it.
The sun was beginning to set.
Gold spilled across the fields.
Finally Rose stepped backward.
"I said what I came to say."
Deacon watched him.
"Rose."
The cupid paused.
"I'm glad you told me the truth."
Rose's eyes widened slightly.
Not forgiveness.
Not reconciliation.
But something.
A beginning.
The first honest thing between them in a very long time.
Rose smiled sadly.
Then spread his wings and vanished into the evening sky.
Silence returned to the farm.
Bronze waited until the god was gone before speaking.
"So."
Deacon groaned.
"So?"
Bronze wrapped an arm around his shoulders.
"You attract a concerning number of emotionally complicated immortals."
Despite everything, Deacon laughed.
And for a few moments, standing among the wheat fields with the mortal who compared his freckles to stars, the world felt a little less heavy.
Deacon knew no one would write about Bronze.
He was just a man.
He wasn’t a God.
Yet to Deacon....
He was everything to share a life with.