The first sensation was one of dizzying imbalance. A gentle sway, a rhythmic creak, and the shocking feel of cool, crisp air against his face.
It wasn't the stifling, metallic scent of a crushed car, nor the sterile quiet of a hospital. It was the earthy tang of horse and dust, carried on a brisk wind. Andreas's eyelids fluttered open, struggling against a lingering fog in his mind.
"Where… where am I? Am I alive?" The words were like a rusty croak, barely audible above the rhythmic thud of hooves.
He blinked. His vision slowly cleared. He was atop something living, something large and brown and surprisingly warm. He shifted, his body protesting with a chorus of aches he couldn't quite place.
His hand moved and he pulled on the rough reins that clutched in his hands. The animal, a sturdy, dappled mare, slowed its gallop and then, with a snort, came to a halt.
As his horse stood still, a blur of motion whizzed past him. Then another, and another. Horses. Riders, male and female, their steeds thundering down what appeared to be a broad, dusty track. Tunics of vibrant blue and crimson, leather jerkins, flowing cloaks – a kaleidoscope of medieval attire flashed by.
"Oh my God! What is this place? Where am I?" Andreas muttered, turning his head, trying to make sense of the chaotic scene.
The last thing he remembered was the fiery agony of the crash, the sharp, crushing pain, the blissful descent into darkness. He was supposed to be dead. Yet here he was, astride a horse, a horse! Amidst what looked like a grand procession or, perhaps, a race.
As he spun atop the horse, he saw the texts again. Right before his eyes.
WELCOME, ANDREAS.
WELCOME TO THE MEDIEVAL GOD SYSTEM. YOUR NEW EXISTENCE BEGINS NOW. YOUR CHARACTER NAME IS EROS.
The translucent screen shimmered into existence before his eyes, superimposed over the vivid, sun-drenched landscape. It was like looking through a pane of glass, but the text was undeniably there, impossibly sharp.
MEMORY INSTALLATION IN PROGRESS…
"What the actual fuck!"
A progress bar appeared below the text, slowly filling.
"I didn't ask for this," Andreas said aloud, though his voice sounded thin, disembodied. He looked around wildly as if expecting to find the source of the voice, but there was only the wind whipping past, the distant shouts of the riders, and the rhythmic panting of his horse. There was no response from the voice.
YOUR ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT, THE BOW OF AFFECTION, AND THE ARROWS OF DESIRE SHALL BE INVISIBLE AND IMPERVIOUS TO THE SIGHT OF MORTALS. THEY ARE TOOLS FOR YOUR SURVIVAL IN THIS REALM. UTILIZE THEM WISELY.
He felt another lurch, a sudden faintness, and then he stumbled. Losing his balance, he toppled from the horse's back, landing with a grunt in the soft, dusty earth. He scrambled to sit up, his eyes fixed on the ethereal screen.
WARNING: DEATH IN THIS REALM IS PERMANENT. YOUR SOUL SHALL BE IRRETRIEVABLY ERADICATED SHOULD YOU PERISH.
The words chilled him to the bone. No second chances. No do-overs. This was already a second chance in another world, or perhaps, the past. This wasn't a game; it was a desperate fight for existence.
His gaze dropped to his waist. There, nestled in a quiver he hadn't noticed before, were a dozen arrows. Some were a dull, earthy grey, others gleamed with a soft, almost ethereal golden hue. Something laid heavy in his back and he reached behind his back.
His fingers brushed against something smooth and heavy. He pulled it forward: a finely crafted bow, dark wood polished to a sheen, its string taut and ready.
THESE ARE THE ARROWS OF LOVE. THE GREY ARROWS, WHEN THEY STRIKE A SOUL, SHALL AWAKEN PURE AFFECTION AND LOYALTY. THE GOLDEN ARROWS SHALL IGNITE UNQUENCHABLE LUST AND DESIRE. UPON IMPACT, ANY MORTAL, SAVE FOR THOSE OF YOUR HOUSEHOLD, SHALL BECOME UTTERLY COMPLIANT TO YOUR SPOKEN COMMAND. UTTER YOUR WISH, AND IT SHALL BE SO. USE THIS POWER TO SECURE YOUR PLACE AND YOUR SURVIVAL IN THIS NEW LIFE.
"What?!"
A strange mix of dread and morbid fascination washed over him. Love? Lust? He, Andreas, a failure in every aspect of his previous life, was now Eros, wielding weapons of raw emotion. It felt… wrong. Unethical. Yet, the warning echoed in his mind: death here is permanent.
MEMORY INITIALIZING: 47%... 68%... 91%... 100% COMPLETE.
A torrent of images, names, and sensations flooded his mind. It wasn't like remembering; it was like knowing.
He was Elaraion, the last and least regarded son of the illustrious House of Usher. He was currently engaged in the Race of the Youngest, a ceremonial event meant to showcase the prowess of the burgeoning generation of noble houses.
He was meant to represent his house, though a bitter taste filled his mouth – he was clearly the least capable among them.
Now when he looked around, he saw a familiar landscape. He felt like he was in time. Like he ought to be there. He still remembered Rod, the crash, and the life that he left behind. This was Andreas in Elaraion, with the power of Eros, the Greek god working in both.
Without conscious thought, his body moved. He rose to his feet and swung himself back onto the mare's back. He gripped the reins, suddenly aware of the subtle shifts in the horse's muscles, the rhythm of its breath.
He realized that he knew how to ride. He, Andreas, who had never so much as touched a horse, could now ride with the grace of a seasoned knight.
"Why… why am I here?" he murmured, a flicker of his old self-loathing resurfacing.
He had wished for death. He had embraced the oblivion. Now, here he was, racing again, a pathetic, desperate attempt at survival just like the last thing he did in his past life.
But the new memories, the 'knowing', spurred him on. A strange, insistent urgency propelled him forward. He urged the mare into a gallop, steering her towards the distant finish line, the dust of other riders stinging his eyes.
The finish line, marked by two crumbling stone pillars loomed ahead. He rode hard, he crossed it, not in triumph, but in sheer, desperate completion.
When he alighted, laughter and boos erupted. That was the same person that Andreas was. He saw the line between the existence of Andreas and Elaraion as he looked around.
He saw right there why he was given such power to rewrite his story and get himself a life.
Suddenly, a heavy, cold circlet was placed upon his head. It was a crown of rusted iron, dull and unadorned. Not a victor's laurel, but a symbol of ignominy.
"Shame! A blight upon his house!" A booming voice ripped through the air, followed by a chorus of jeers. "Look upon him, the Wretched Elaraion!"
He turned, the rusted iron cold against his brow. He removed it from his head and looked around. Flanking the finish line, beneath fluttering banners adorned with various sigils, stood ranks of people. These were the houses.
The House of Igor, their banners emblazoned with a silver wolf. The House of Rodan, their sigil a coiled serpent. The House of Usher stood closest, their banner, a stark black raven on a field of grey, hanging limp in the still air. And many other houses that had participated in the race.
His mind was a maelstrom of information. He knew them. The stoic Lord Usher, his father, his face contorted in disgust. The rigid, sneering faces of his half-brothers, born of his father's many unions. And then, the women. So many sisters, half-sisters, cousins. Their names, their alliances, their petty rivalries – all downloaded, all known.
A particularly cruel knowing settled deep in his gut. Elaraion, the most hated in the House of Usher. The only son without pride. His mother, a forgotten concubine, had died giving birth to him, as though even she couldn't bear to witness the disappointment he would become.
This race, the Race of the Youngest, was his singular chance, his last hope to earn a sliver of his father's respect, to gain a place, any place, within the formidable House of Usher. He had lost.
The bitter taste in his mouth intensified. This was the same feeling. The same crushing weight of failure, the same inescapable shame. His old life, his past self, Andreas, was inextricably linked to this new, cursed existence. He wasn't just Elaraion; he was Andreas, too.
Up on the golden dais, overlooking the vast, circular arena, a crier, his voice booming with magical amplification, raised a horn. "Let the next game begin!"
Elaraion looked around the sprawling arena, its earthen floor already churned by countless hooves. Stands rose in concentric circles, packed with a cheering, jeering multitude. At the very top, shimmering with impossible grandeur, was the gilded golden dais. The King. He knew it with an innate certainty.
"Thou hast shame us, boy!" A voice, rough with fury, cut through the din. It was his father, Lord Usher, his eyes burning with incandescent rage. "I see why your mother had died before thy whelping and spared herself this ignominy!"
"Indeed, Father!" a sharp, feminine voice chimed in. "The poor woman could scarcely wait to see what a wretched excuse for a man he would become!"
Elaraion turned. It was Lysandra, the second daughter of his father's third wife. Her lips were curled in a cruel, triumphant smirk.
He knew her, knew her disdain, her petty cruelties. She was practicing incest with her older brother. He simply nodded and walked away from their section, past the jeering crowds, towards the shadowy exits of the arena.
"Andreas, you have a second chance here," he began, talking to himself as he went. Not in a whisper, but in a voice loud that he could hear himself. "Elaraion, you will thrive too."
He looked at the arrows around his waist. Which only he can see.
"Now let's go test these toys."