MEGAN HELD ONTO THE branch as it detached itself, as if the tree were giving it willingly. She drifted slowly down until her feet touched the ground. Her wings resumed their dormant state, hugging her back, pleased the object being searched for had been found. She held it loosely, testing the balance and shape. The branch was slightly curved, even along its length, slightly roughened.

She blew at it softly. As her breath passed over the bark, it grew lighter. Megan continued to blow and the bark became a wispy dust, almost dissolving and lifting off to disperse on the breeze she was creating. Small bumps broke the surface like pimples on the face of a chocolate-loving teen, much as Megan had been when younger before her hormones settled and her skin fought back. She extended her index finger and ran it over the imperfections. They receded into the wood, quickly smoothing it out. Within moments the branch was clean and unspoilt.

She held it up in front of her, a vertical, slightly bowed staff. She touched the tip and, when she pulled her finger away, a thin thread, like a spider's web, was attached to it from the end of the branch. She snapped her fingers, trying to break the thread, but couldn't let go. She wiped it against the other end of the rod and it transferred from her to it, stretching from top to bottom in a barely visible line.

She gasped, her mouth dropping. A bow. Wings.

She dropped the bow and drew back, stepping onto the lower feathers and falling. She landed in a heap, the weapon a few feet away. Except it wasn't simply a weapon. It was much more.

But that was madness.

Megan regained her footing, turned and ran. Any control of her wings was forgotten. The bow was left behind. Her feet were her only friend now. Unfortunately, her hunt had taken her deeper into the forest than she'd expected. Her sense of direction had always been abysmal and the darting about had spun her around too many times. She no longer knew which direction she was moving in. She didn't know where Claudia's cabin was. On she ran, her breath burning and her legs weakening but she couldn't stop. She had to separate herself from the insanity.

She tried to duck, but was running too fast. It was there before she could react. Too thick. Too low. As she ducked, head and wood collided. Megan's feet went forward while the rest of her went back. Her head hit a rock as she landed and there was a burst of stars, then nothing.

No, not nothing. Movement in the darkness. Shadows shifting. A light. Distant at first but moving closer. The night becomes day in an instant, illuminating the world. Megan looks around. She sees the trees, but they're moving away—or she's moving away from them. Darkness again. She can hear her own breathing. She is afraid and can feel the beat of her overanxious heart in her chest. Something is missing. The wings. Megan is... normal.

She spins around, reaching for the wings, hoping she's mistaken, but she's not. She is herself once more. She hears a sound and turns. She can see a figure. It is indistinct, as if seen through tired, sleep-deprived eyes. She walks forward towards it. Proximity does nothing to sharpen the image, but she can now see something new. It throbs. Beats. Pumps.

Megan can see into the person. She can see their heart. She tries to reach out and touch it but another figure steps in the way. They, too, have a heart that is visible. When the two meet, both muscles beat harder and faster. An aura surrounds each of them, tendrils of energy merging to intertwine. Becoming one.

She lifts her hand. It's no longer empty. She is holding the bow she crafted herself. She pulls it back and finds an arrow already loaded. Released, the arrow shoots forward, piercing the first heart and passing through to impale the second before disappearing.

The rhythm has altered. The auras are one. The hearts beat as a singular entity.

Megan opened her eyes and groaned, holding her head. She was flat on her back, the wings still attached and cushioning her fall. Her forehead throbbed in admonishment for her headlong rush. Sitting up slowly, the headache making sure she felt nauseous for being so reckless, she looked around. She didn't recognise the area, but she wouldn't. This was her first visit to the cabin and she had yet to venture into the forest. Besides, one tree looked much like another. They were all bark, branches and boring.

She moved her hand to stand up when her fingers touched something hard. Her hand wrapped around it automatically. She didn't need to see it to know what it was. The bow should have been back where she'd run from. She had left it there. It hadn't stayed. It was here, with her.

Like the feather, the bow felt right in her hands. As if it belonged.

Lifting it, Megan pulled back on the string. It was a normal thing to do with a bow. Everyone tried, their inner Robin Hood leaping to the surface. As the string stretched, a shimmering appeared. A blur of air between her hands became more substantial and quickly solidified. An arrow. Thin, with a black head and fletching. Surprised, she released the string and the arrow shot forth. There was a squeal from between the trees and Megan ran over to find the source of the sound.

A pair of squirrels had been sitting beside the trunk of a tall elm. She could see the arrow had hit one and punctured its body to stab the other. She gasped, horrified, but the squirrels seemed fine. As she looked, the arrow disappeared. The animals began circling each other before chasing through the undergrowth.

Megan looked down. Next to her foot was the bow. She looked back to where she'd lain and left it. There was nothing there. Bending, she picked it up. Her hand tingled, almost as if it were sighing at the contact. Slowly, she repeated her actions. Lift. Pull. The air thickened and coalesced into an arrow. Release.

A squeal. The run over. Shrews. A pair. Mating.

Megan's hands dropped to her side. Her wings flushed outwards, opening to their full reach, joyful at her realisation. She didn't share their jubilation.

What did she know of love? How could she be some sort of Cupid or Eros? She was an example of all that was wrong with love. She lived in its shadow. Its darkness. Whilst those in love's glow could bask in the effects and have life-long companions, Megan took the Reaper's scythe to the hearts of her loved ones and cut them in two. She then cast the halves to Cerberus to dine on, giving herself to the hellhound's third head so it wasn't left out.

And why had she been chosen? How? Was it because of her incapacity to see love's good side? To see the error of her ways and stop the destruction she caused? Or was she the butt of a universally bad joke? The real Cupid was tired of shooting arrows and wanted to kick back, lounging in front of the television. Binge watch a series or two. Have a pyjama day. Stare at a smudge on the wall with a bottle of wine for company.

Well, no. She wouldn't do it.

Why should she? Cupid or Eros or Fate—or a coven of all three, huddled Stygian-like around a steaming cauldron, arguing whose turn it was for their one shared eye or single tooth—had never been kind to her. She had been ignored. Forgotten about. Made to feel as if she mattered not.

Well, much of that had been her own fault, but she had never known how to avoid the pitfalls and constantly seemed to make sure she fell into them. She could blame her mother, and did, but Megan was Megan. Only she controlled her life.

Until now.