Chapter Text
If you had told me 2,000 years ago that I would be demoted down to the level of match maker from my lofty position as the goddess of love, beauty, fertility, magic, and war… I wouldn't have believed you. I am Freya, daughter of Njoror and sister of Freyr. I have half the warriors slain in battle at my table to feast in my afterlife.
Or at least, I did.
Back when I had a following. Back when people knew who I was. Back when I was powerful.
The belief in the old way grows less each year, and my power dwindles along the same path.
Which means, here, in the year of 2025 (which, to be clear, is NOT our year, but we must adapt apparently to the current belief structure. And no, don’t repeat that, I'm on thin ice with my boss as it is.) As I was saying, in the year of 2025 Anno Domini, a reference to yet another deity who came after me and has surpassed my power, I am expected to follow around chosen couples, and facilitate their meeting.
Like a damn cupid. Or at least like the pop culture reference to cupid. Actual Cupid is a bit of a dick, because every time you buy one of those saccharine Valentine’s Day cards with a picture of him, it gives him more power. He’s amassed so much power from cheesy mattress ads and chalk-tasting candy heart bags that he's become the fucking head of the “love” department. Him.
Where was I?
Right. In the year of 2025, follow around couples, yadda yadda yadda.
Look. I’m powerful. I can do this match-making shit in my sleep. They say existence is either about pushing boundaries, or figuring out where you can just be lazy, and with my current job its about 38% moderately easy work, and 62% watching Netflix reviews on YouTube. It’s boring as fuck, but at least I have time to catch up on Love Island. Which, by the way, I do not take credit for. It's too messy. Classic Cupid.
Today’s assignment should have been simple.
I open the dossier to the two unsuspecting targets. The manila folder opens with two metal prongs on the top holding in the stack of papers about each subject.
On the left:
Name: Nicholas Nelson
Age: 32
Profession: Year 6 Teacher at Truham Primary
Personality Notes:
- Dog lover
- Rugby lad
- Certified bisexual disaster
On the right:
Name: Charles Spring
Age: 31
Profession: Business Manager at Truham Primary
Personality Notes:
- Drummer
- Crushes on anyone who is nice to him
- Gay panic on legs
Scrawled across the bottom in red ink is a note from intake: ”Both already mad about each other, neither will make a move. Should be easy – assign to a beginner.”
I seeth. A beginner? Me? Sure, there haven’t been a lot of newcomers in the “god or goddess of love” department lately (unless you count Beyonce, but we’ll save that conversation for another time), but surely I’m not considered a beginner.
3,350 years old. That’s how old I am. Cupid’s fucking running the joint, and is only 2,700 years old, thank you very much. I can hear the notes of the “Cupid Shuffle” playing on repeat in the breakroom so I step over and slam my office door closed.
At least I haven’t been relegated to a cubicle yet.
Back to the dossier: Apparently both of these two spend half their time in meetings with each other, working together, and imagining each other in various compromising positions that have nothing to do with their work positions. If you know what I mean.
Well, the note was right about one thing. This should be easy peasy. All I have to do is lock them in a room together, or make them sit next to each other at a conference. Knock it out, and then catch up on the latest Love Island drop.
Piece of cake.
🍃✨❤️
Nick sighs heavily and sets his mobile aside on the dining room table in his modest flat. He’s meant to be marking these maths tests but his brain refuses to cooperate and he’s not sure how much time he just wasted, again, on this silly little phone game. Its name, All in Hole, makes him giggle or snort every time it flashes on the screen but the gameplay has proven pretty addictive recently. He just has to move this little void around the field like he used to maneuver across the rugby pitch, making it swallow all manner of objects. It’s extremely satisfying every time he finishes a level with time to spare and it floods his brain with dopamine.
It’s not his fault his transporter cells then remove it so quickly from his receptor cells, cutting that satisfaction and all resulting motivation off at the knees!
He rubs his hand over his face and stares resolutely at the stack of papers, his set of coloured pens and his sheets of assorted stickers. He just needs to gamify it. What if he gets another level of Hole, he smirks to himself, for every five scores documented? He nods, sips his tea and picks up his favourite purple highlighter.
There’s a small voice inside his head, where it is always loud, saying five rounds of fun after every page would be a better ratio. He grits his teeth and ignores it.