Trios: Beginning

I was a young maiden goddess, newly minted and out on my own for the first time when Pan saw me. He was the god of nature, and under normal circumstances, we would have met walking around Olympus. But the nature of my duty set us apart. I worked through the night, watching over the world while everyone else slept, and I rested during the day. The only time I had the freedom to explore was on the nights of the full moon, when I was hidden from the world. One night a month didn’t leave much time for adventure.

Pan became smitten with me. He loved the way his domain looked bathed in my light—the soft glow of dew on leaves, the way it nourished the flora and fauna, and the ethereal stillness that accompanied my presence.

But there was no way for us to meet.

For months, he conspired and planned, searching for a way to draw me to him. Then, on one fateful night, he succeeded.

Being the god of nature, Pan could create anything he imagined. He conjured a flower—bright white, never seen before—designed to glow in the moonlight. A large patch of them caught my attention, reflecting my light like the ocean’s surface on a still night. I had to see them up close.

As a young goddess, I had yet to learn how to separate myself from my power. So when I descended to the earth, the moon followed, plunging the world into darkness and creating the first lunar eclipse. Oh, how I caught hell from my father for that—but it was well worth it.

In the center of the luminous field stood Pan, his lower body covered in a blazing white sheepskin.

I was embarrassed to be so close to a male. The only ones I had ever known were my father, my uncles, and my brothers. Though I had observed others from above, I had never been near them. And this male—Pan—was the most striking I had ever seen. His skin was deeply bronzed, the mark of days spent under the sun. His body was carved with muscle and veined from constant toil. His large ram’s horns gleamed in my light, pulling his hair back to reveal pointed ears. A human might have found his form strange, but in the realm of the gods, there were far odder sights.

Bashful, I turned my attention to the flowers surrounding us. I reached out and brushed my fingers over a petal. “What are these?”

“Moon lilies,” he whispered. “I made them for you.”

Surprised, I met his gaze. His eyes—beautiful, captivating—held me spellbound. But it was the look of pure awe and devotion that drew me in. I felt pulled to him, like he was the only thing in existence. He was so handsome he was almost ethereal. His scent—moss, grass, and wild things—was intoxicating. And when he touched me, it sent a current through my skin, a sensation I would later describe as electricity, though we had no word for it then. It was magic.

That night, beneath the open sky and surrounded by the flowers he had created for me, we made love. Later, we fucked—hard and fast. But that first time was different. He treated me as if I were made of the finest porcelain, as though I might shatter if he held me too tightly.

I had never been in love before. Never thought about it. I was young, barely a century old.

But Pan awakened something in me. He taught me how to master my power, to leave the moon in the sky when I visited him at night. He pulled me from my solitude and showed me love like I had never known.

For centuries, we were inseparable. But no children came from our union. It was odd, but it didn’t matter. We were happy, and the world was changing.

Pan’s role expanded beyond the wilds. As humans encroached upon nature, he took to caring for their livestock, particularly shepherds. That was how we found Endymion.

He was a human shepherd who had earned Hera’s wrath and been cursed to sleep for one hundred years. Pan found him after his sheep, distressed and bleating, sought him out. They had wandered to Pan, worried for their master. He had been asleep for ten years when we found him.

He was beautiful. Where Pan was raw masculinity, Endymion was delicate, ethereal. Though human, his beauty must have been a gift from Aphrodite herself.

Pan and I fell for him instantly. The same pull we had felt toward each other surged between the three of us.

We needed him to wake. We needed him to be ours. So, through Hypnos, the god of sleep, we sought Morpheus, the god of dreams. We visited Endymion in his slumber, and when he saw us, it was like the first time I had seen Pan—sparks, fire, an undeniable connection. It was instant, and we knew we could never be apart.

Through a deal with Hera, we altered his curse. He would sleep for a minimum of one year at a time, and while awake, he would be mortal but tireless, as we gods did not require sleep for weeks, months, even years. But when his one hundred years of rest ended, he would die.

It was the best deal we could get, so we took it.

That first night together—I will never forget it. It was beyond anything I had ever imagined. So many times, I have revisited that memory in my solitude, long after my mates were gone.

The centuries that followed were bliss. Together, we had many daughters—fifty in total. Each inherited a fraction of my domain, governing moon cycles every four years to mark the Olympiad. Yet they were different. Some bore Pan’s essence, others Endymion’s.

Then I bore twins, and something new was born.

One was a satyr, Crotus, who later accompanied the Muses, lending his joy to their song. The other—he was unlike anything we had ever seen. A werewolf. The first of his kind. A son we named Lycaon.

As he grew, we saw that he needed a mate. We wanted him to know the love we had. So, through our magic, Pan and I transformed two she-wolves into werewolves and wove the matebond into them. The joy in our son’s eyes when we introduced him to Mingan, the gray wolf, and Tala, the red wolf, mirrored what we had felt with each other. They, too, thrived and gave us many grandchildren.

And so, we created more. Packs spread across the world, establishing a society governed by the matebond. Some were pairs, some were trios like us. Each inherited divine gifts, unlocked at their twenty-first name day.

But as their numbers grew, so did their hunger for power.

We did not notice at first. We were consumed with our own loss. Endymion’s last cycle had ended. He was dying. And with his passing, Pan, too, began to fade. The wilds were vanishing, and sorrow weakened him. Within hours of Endymion’s last breath, Pan followed, his form dissipating into nothing.

I was alone.

I do not know how long I stayed in that cave, grieving. But when I emerged, everything had changed.

The wolves had turned on each other. In one generation, they had hunted and slaughtered every trio. The utopia we had built was gone.

Rage consumed me. They had destroyed what we created, so I cursed them. Their crops failed, their pups died, their ventures crumbled. For generations, I watched them suffer.

Until Crotus came to me, pleading on behalf of his father and brother. He reminded me that those responsible were long dead, rotting in Hades’ realm. My daughters begged me to let go of my grief.

They were right.

And so, I began again. I sought to restore what was lost. To bring the trios back.