You, Orual, Queen of Glome, have been quick to cast judgment upon us the gods. But we have watched you, and know your heart better than you imagine. You claim your love for Psyche was no less than ours, but do not claim it greater. You ask us what right we have to take from you what is yours with no appeal to your own quality. Do you honestly believe you could provide a life for Psyche we gods could not have; simply on your love alone.

Though you do not want to admit it, it has crossed your mind how you cannot even provide for those remaining in your grip, blinded by jealousy as you are. In the presence of the dying Bardia, your loyal servant who loved you till his meaningless end, you sat in bitter regret for another you lost long ago, casting curses upwards, yet neglecting to nurture those in front of you.

You know as well as we that your love for Psyche is simply a mirror to look upon your greed, proud as it has made you. But know that the face of greed you wear, like all greed, wears a mask. It must be known in your heart that your love did not care for your beloved sister. You could not stand losing her to the point of driving her into exile. You forced her to commit the crime by means of manipulation. If your love were so true, why then did you not thrust the blade into her heart yourself? Surely then she would always be yours and not have to suffer as she did the consequences of her crime. No, we know your heart, for your jealousy is not something new to the universe. Like all jealousy, it takes and takes until all is destroyed. In your madness upon the mountain top all those years ago, the hope still remained that Psyche would be yours as you sat in the stillness of the night, waiting for her to light the lamp. Tending your self-inflicted wounds.

Indeed, though you say there is not enough room in the world for us gods and yourself, it is not what you mean. You would be truer to yourself to selfishly claim that there is no room in this world for any who oppose you.

You pretend that Ialim and Istra committed a crime by falling in love. Certainly though, it was you who committed the crime of holding onto love. And how can man rise to the level of gods when his head swims in pettiness. There is no lesson for man in your story of Psyche and as it would be a waist to not pass down lessons to man, the tale from Essur serves better. It is better to teach the world to love unselfishly than to allow love to drive it to hate the gods, to no avail.

The only punishment fit for your greed is to torture it to the point of numbness. Whenever you close your eyes to sleep, you will see Psyche, as real as if she were right in front of you. But know that as you reach out to embrace her, she will slip away, like water through your fingers. To your despair you shall always look upon, but never possess her.