Thank you very much for your interest in my culture, I truly hope you enjoy this story. I am sure that many of you have never heard Quechua. And to answer the question you are probably asking right now, Quechua is the original language spoken in Peru before the Spanish colonization in 1532, and if you have never heard it before, today is your lucky day.

Deep within the mountains of northern Peru, an ancient treasure was hidden, guarded by a spirit that protected its shine and its secret. It was said that no one who reached Uchu Picchu could touch the gold without facing trials that would reveal their heart. Many had tried, but few returned, and those who did told stories of shadows, riddles, and lessons that changed their lives.

A young villager named Túpac, curious and brave, decided to undertake the adventure. With each step toward the mountain, he felt that something was watching him. Upon reaching the entrance of the sanctuary, a deep voice echoed among the stones: (Who are you, human?)

Túpac trembled but answered firmly: (I am Túpac, I have come to know the treasure)
The spirit appeared through the mist, imposing yet serene. Its eyes reflected centuries of wisdom and challenge.
(Not all humans reach here; many try out of greed) said the guardian

Túpac replied (I do not come to steal; I only wish to learn and understand)

The spirit smiled slightly, and the first trial began. Túpac had to cross a narrow path full of traps and riddles. Each step taught him something about his own courage and the importance of humility. He learned that greed could be his worst enemy, and that true valor was not in taking the gold, but in respecting what time and the gods had protected.

In the heart of the sanctuary, surrounded by gold and precious stones, Túpac found an altar where the guardian awaited him.
(I have arrived, may I approach?)
(Yes, come closer) the spirit replied

There, Túpac realized that the treasure was not only material: it was knowledge, teachings, and harmony with the mountain and its secrets. Each gem, each object, told stories of those who had protected ancestral wisdom. The young man understood that respect and learning were the true reward.

When he descended from Uchu Picchu, Túpac carried with him only a memory: a small stone that shone with the light of dawn, a symbol of the lesson learned. He never spoke of gold or riches; he only shared his experience and the guardian’s teaching: true wealth lies in the heart and in respect for the sacred.

From that day, the legend of the guardian of Uchu Picchu and the young villager was told in nearby villages, reminding everyone that greed can blind, but courage, humility, and respect always open the way to true wisdom.

The sea raged with a primal fury, an endless roar that seemed to claim every corner of the horizon. Upon its dark surface stood the figure of David Jones, a man marked by an impossible love, a feeling that had both transformed and condemned him. Every wave that struck the hull of his ship echoed like an empty heartbeat, reminding him that his heart no longer belonged to him. He had given the deepest part of himself to the sea, but in his memory remained Calypso, the goddess of the ocean, whose love and abandonment had made him an eternal prisoner of the waters.

He remembered clearly the first time he saw her, as if every detail had been carved into the wood of his ship. The fog parted over the deck, and from the waves she emerged, her dark hair flowing like threads of water in the mist, her eyes reflecting the depth of unknown abysses. Every movement of hers was hypnotic, a spell that captured not only his body but his entire soul.

“Who dares defy my waters?” her voice rose from the mist, melodious and terrible, like a song and a roar at once.
David stepped forward, feeling fear and determination intertwining within him. “I have not come to defy you,” he said firmly. “I have come to surrender myself to you, if your hands will accept me.”
Calypso watched him in silence, weighing his gaze, his gestures, the weight of his soul. The gods rarely bowed to mortals, rarely felt love for them, but something in David broke her immortal heart. A thread of emotion bound her to him irrevocably.

Months passed together, trapped in a time between storms and fleeting calms. Beneath the moonlight, Calypso embraced him as if each instant could stop eternity. “David,” she whispered, caressing his face hardened by salt and wind, “do you understand what you risk by loving me?”
“I do,” he answered, resting his forehead against her neck. “I would rather live briefly with you than face an eternity empty.”

Every encounter felt like a theft from destiny. Each full moon lit Calypso’s skin, and each dawn carried with it the scent of the sea mingled with her presence. David memorized every gesture, every word, every glance. His love grew in secret, silent yet intense, until the weight of eternity began to press upon them.

The days passed between tempests and calms. David remembered how Calypso looked at him from the waves, how her laughter could break the darkness, and how her voice could calm the ocean’s roar. Every moment with her seemed eternal, though they both knew eternity itself could separate them at any moment.

But the gods, jealous and capricious, could not allow such a love to prosper unpunished. The sentence fell upon him like an unavoidable decree: he must serve the sea forever. The ocean claimed his soul and accepted it with cruelty. Every storm, every wave that battered the ship, was a reminder of the sentence sealed by his love.

One night, when the moon barely lit the horizon, fog shrouded the ship and the sailors began to murmur in fear.
“Captain,” one said, “the wind has abandoned us. The sea devours us.”
David lowered his head, feeling the despair that consumed him. “What happens to us,” he said gravely, “is that I have loved too much, and now we all must pay the price.”

He withdrew to his cabin, where a dark chest waited, lit by the flickering flame of a candle. His heart beat strongly, not out of fear of physical pain, but from the torment that tore him apart within. “If the sea claims me… let it take the only thing that still binds me to life,” he whispered, voice broken, eyes brimming with tears.

He took a knife, and with a cry that echoed beyond time itself, he opened his chest. Blood poured across the wood as his heart throbbed in his hand, burning and desperate. “Let the chest keep it, let the sea keep it!” he cried, casting the beating organ into the cursed box.

In that moment, David ceased to be a man. The sea had claimed him. With an empty chest and darkened eyes, he rose as jailer of the depths, both master and prisoner of the Flying Dutchman. Each step upon the deck rang like invisible chains, and every glance at his crew reflected the shadow of the eternity that awaited him.

Through the mist appeared Calypso, her voice trembling like calm waves. “David… I loved you too. But by tearing out your heart, you have torn yourself from me. Now you belong to the sea, and the sea does not return what it claims.”
David reached out his hands to her, desperate. “Take me with you! Let me sink into your arms one last time!”
Calypso shook her head softly, tears gleaming in her immortal eyes. “You are no longer mine. You are the sea’s. And the sea does not return what it claims.”

The water closed the space between them, and her voice was lost in the roar of the storm and the whisper of the waves. From that moment on, David Jones sails eternally, without a heart, without rest, seeking in every wave the echo of the love that condemned him. Every sail raised, every tempest faced, every moon that lights the waters reminds him that his surrender was complete, and that his love, though eternal, separated him from everything human.

Sailors swear that when fog covers the sea and a deep lament cuts through the night, it is not the wind that moans, but David Jones calling for Calypso, waiting for an answer that will never come. His tale is told in every port and every story of the seas: a man who loved too much, who sacrificed until he was hollow, who gave his heart to the waves and became a living legend.

Each night, as the storm breaks the water and the wind sings through the rigging, David’s whispers pierce the darkness. Every wave carries a memory, every foam a reflection of the love that led him to his fate. His hands, empty of a heart, reach for the horizon as if he could still touch Calypso. And though centuries have passed, he remains there, sailing between the fury of the ocean and the calm of the moon, remembering that even in eternity, love can be the cruelest curse.

The sea has claimed everything else, but David keeps alive the essence of that love, and that makes him immortal, not as a man, but as a living legend of the ocean and of the heart he once gave away completely.

The Storm moves like breath over tall grass.
Not rage, but rhythm.
Her hair drifts around her in the hush before rain, a river of shadow and light, wrapping and unwrapping as she moves.
She carries the quiet of a world about to change, her steps a rhythm like dancing in a dream.
She has always been moving.
Even when still, the air waits for her.  
The Avalanche dreams in stone. Turmoil, vast, inevitable.
Beneath him, time changes its breath, and roots shift in their sleep.
He has always been waiting.
Even when he moves, the silence stays.  
She stirs the air with promise, a dance of petals and thunder.
He wakes mountains. And carries forests on his back.  
Where they pass, nothing stays the same.
They do not mean to change the world. But they do.  
She does not crash. She is the storm that gathers.
A wind that knows its own name.
She lifts the scent of earth, shakes loose the tired leaves, moves petals from their sleep.  
Her voice is the sky speaking in color.
Clouds bend around her. Birds hush when she passes.  
She wraps herself around the world, not to claim it, but to remind it she is alive.  
They love her because she belongs nowhere, and so she moves through everywhere, the air that slips between closed doors, the wind brushing every face, bringing a breath of cool relief to those who have forgotten how to breathe.

And when she leaves, the space she touched remembers it was open.
She has always been moving.   He is the weight behind stillness.
Not the fall, but the waiting. A hush so deep it hums. He listens to the cold and becomes it.  
They come to him for shelter, for the dark that holds no threat, for the sense of being buried and finally safe.   He does not chase.  He receives.
They press themselves into him until their outlines blur, until their names sound strange in their own mouths.  

Some grow there, taking root in the quiet.
Others fade, folded into the drift and forgotten.  
He does not mourn. He remembers everything. He feels them all.
And nothing. He has always been waiting.  
When she touched him, the snow did not fall, thunder did not crash.
The sky held its breath.  
Her wind met his silence and curled into it like smoke.
His weight welcomed her, not to contain, but to keep.  
They did not soften. They did not break. They circled, edged, collided, and from the clash came stillness.  
Around them, the world kept tearing.
But between them, green, bloom rising from stone, roots tangling out from ruins.
An oasis of peace, not empty, but full.  
She had always been moving.
He had always been waiting. Now they were both here.  
They were not gentler together. Nor weaker.
Only true.

In the ancient days, when castles rose above misty hills and knights swore loyalty with their lives, there lived a man named Tristan, a loyal warrior, nephew of King Mark of Cornwall. His name was known in all the realms: for his strength in battle, for his nobility, for his silence full of secrets.
Destiny, however, does not listen to past glories.
One day, King Mark decided to take a wife. Not for love, but for alliances. His chosen one was Isolde, princess of Ireland. And it was Tristan who set out to bring her back. A duty of blood, a royal mission. But when Tristan’s eyes first fell upon her, the world trembled.
Isolde the Fair, daughter of the King of Ireland, was not just beautiful: she was contained fire, a sea calm before the storm. There was in her an ancient sadness and a strength that could break armor. That first meeting had no words. Only long glances and a silence that spoke more than a thousand poems.
But love had not yet been born… until it was.
During the return journey, a confusion sealed their fate. A maid, following orders, offered the pair a magical love potion, prepared so that Isolde would fall in love with Mark upon reaching Cornwall. But Tristan and Isolde, thirsty from the journey, drank from the chalice unknowingly.
The spell was immediate. It was not a gentle love, it was not sweet. It was fierce. Irresistible. It pierced them like a lance. From that moment, their will no longer belonged to them. They were bound. To each other. Forever.
Isolde married King Mark, as expected. The feast was grand. Songs filled the halls. But neither the wine nor the festivities could erase the truth that burned beneath their skins. Tristan and Isolde loved each other. And they could not stop.
They lived in secret. In dark rooms, in silent forests, in the hidden corners of the castle where no eyes could reach. Their meetings were stolen moments. They were not lovers by choice. They were lovers by fate. They asked for no forgiveness, but neither did they forgive themselves.
Love, when forbidden, grows like fire.
King Mark, blind at first, began to suspect. The glances that lingered too long. The absences. The silences. And one day, the truth was revealed to him.
Tristan was exiled. Not dead, for the king still loved him like a son. But banished. Isolde stayed in the castle, dressed as queen, but with an empty soul. Tristan left for Brittany, his heart reduced to ashes.
He tried to rebuild his life. He married another woman. Also named Isolde, but never his Isolde. She was Isolde of the White Hands, kind, patient… but distant. In their bed, Tristan spoke the name of another. His body was in Brittany, but his soul had stayed in Cornwall.
Years later, in a battle, Tristan was gravely wounded. Poisoned by a treacherous spear. No doctor could heal him. Only one person could save him: Isolde the Fair. His Isolde. His love.
He sent a trusted friend to fetch her, with a desperate message. He said:
Bring her. Tell her to come. If she agrees and sails toward me, let the ship arrive with white sails. If not… let the sails be black.

And so, Tristan lay, waiting. Every day, every hour, he looked to the horizon. Isolde had received the message. And when she knew he called for her, she did not hesitate. She boarded the ship. The sea roared. But she felt no fear. For love does not fear the abyss.
At Tristan’s house, his wife the one with the White Hands watched. And when the ship finally appeared on the horizon, she looked at the sails. They were white. But hatred, the wound, the unrequited love… made her lie.
She approached Tristan’s bed and said:
The sails… are black.

And Tristan, without another word, closed his eyes. His soul surrendered. He died.
Minutes later, the ship docked. Isolde descended, ran, called to him. But Tristan was no longer there.
She did not scream. She did not cry. She did not plead. She simply lay down beside him. Took his hand. And with a final sigh… she died with him.
They were buried together, on opposite sides of a chapel. But during the night, from Tristan’s grave, a rosebush grew, and from Isolde’s, another. The branches grew and intertwined above the altar, united in an eternal embrace.
They were cut. And they grew again.
They were separated. And they met again.
No one could stop them.
Because some loves do not obey time, nor men, nor death.
Tristan and Isolde were not a mistake. They were a promise. A flame that destiny could not extinguish.
And when the wind blows through the ruins of ancient castles, some swear they can hear two names, whispered by the echo of a love that could not be… and yet, was

Night cloaked the camp in a veil of darkness and silence, broken only by the creaking of timber and the distant howl of the wind through the trees. Inside his tent, the knight sat beside a candle that struggled against the shadows, its trembling light reflected on the worn surface of a journal. His fingers, still stained with the grime of the day, held the quill with a tremble that came not from fear of war, but from the weight of what he was about to write. He knew he might not return. These words could be the legacy he left to the world and most of all, to her, the woman who had stolen his heart. “If this journal finds its way to your hands, know that I was a man marked not only by the sword, but by a love deeper than I ever imagined possible. I was both warrior and lover and in battle, only she remained unshaken in my mind.

Her face appeared in his memory with the clarity of a sunlit day: her shy smile, her eyes full of hope, the scent of freshly baked bread that always greeted him when he came home. All of her was his refuge amid the chaos. He took a deep breath and continued writing, while outside, the cold began to creep through the cracks in the tent. “This war that drags me forward is merciless, but nothing more cruel than the distance that keeps us apart. If I had to choose between victory and your embrace, I’d choose your embrace without hesitation. And yet, I raise my sword because I know I fight for you, for the promise of a future we might still share.

Ink flowed across paper as his thoughts wandered to happier days, before the war. He remembered the day he met her, beneath the soft sun of spring, when time itself seemed to pause. “We promised that even if the world crumbled around us, the war would never break what bound us together. I swore I would return, even if I had to crawl back, and that promise is now my strongest shield.” He paused, as if he could hear her voice calling to him across the distance. “Night falls, and I feel the cold of solitude, but your memory wraps around me warmer than any cloak. If these words are the last thing I leave behind, let them pierce through the darkness and find your heart.” He carefully placed the journal away and closed his eyes. He pictured her standing by the window, eyes on the horizon, waiting for news that might never come. The thought ached but also gave him strength. “Though steel and fire may decide my fate, your name will be etched in every heartbeat. Let this war bear witness to our love, even if the world denies it.

Dawn arrived with the thunder of war drums and the cry of horns. The camp stirred with desperate energy, men fastening their armor, horses snorting and stomping, the air thick with the scent of steel and coming blood. The warrior, his journal pressed tightly against his chest, joined his comrades. The sky above was a blanket of gray, heavy as the destiny awaiting them all. “Each step toward the field is a heartbeat closer to the end or to the return. My heart pounds to the rhythm of the battle that looms, and though I know death may claim me at any moment, I do not fear for myself, but for everything I leave behind.

When the first swords clashed, the world became a storm of steel, blood, and cries. He fought with the fury of one who carries more than orders; he carried love, and a longing to return to it. Not victory but an embrace, a final breath shared. And then, amidst the chaos, a shadow came. A blow sharp and precise brought him to the ground. The world blurred. “If these are my final words, let them be a song for the life that never was. I loved you beyond war, beyond death. You will forever be my light.

Lying in the dirt, blood mixing with soil, he reached for the journal with trembling hands. He could write no more, but from within the pages he pulled a dry, crumpled petal, one he had saved since the spring they met. He placed it between the final pages. Hours later, when the battle had ended and the bodies were collected, a soldier found the journal. The ink was smudged, stained by earth and blood but still legible. “If I return, it will be to find you and never let you go again. If I do not, let these words be my arms, holding you in an eternal embrace. I loved you beyond war, beyond death.

They say she received the journal months later. No one knows what the wind whispered to her as she read it. Only this: from that day on, with the first light of every morning, she would leave a single petal on the nameless grave, as if the warrior had, at last, kept his promise to return. And thus, the love born in war transcended time and death, reminding us that even in the darkest moments, the heart never forgets the one it loves

Shadow was born in silence, among the smell of rust and garbage in an old alley. His mother, a skinny stray cat, gave birth to him and three siblings under a metal staircase where barely any light reached. But soon the rains came, and with them, fate turned cruel: hunger forced his mother to go farther and farther in search of food, until one day she simply never returned. Days went by. One by one, his siblings disappeared. One got lost, another didn’t wake up on a cold morning. The third was taken by a human hand that smelled of alcohol and loneliness. Shadow, the smallest one, was left alone. His black fur made him invisible at night, and cursed to those who saw him by day. He learned to move through the shadows, to dodge feet and wheels, to endure indifference and what hurt even more: the hope that slipped away every time he approached someone and was rejected. He meowed beneath windows, curled up in closed doorways, watched the warmth through the glass without understanding why that world behind it wasn’t meant for him. But he kept going. Even though his ribs showed like blades under his skin.  Even though the rain soaked him to the bone. Even though he didn’t know what a name was. Shadow moved forward. Because somehow, something inside him whispered that there was a place where someone would be waiting for him. 

Time has no mercy for those who walk alone. Shadow was battered by the seasons: the heat left him parched during scorching summers, and winter bit with freezing nights where the ground trembled from the cold. He slept on wet cardboard, hidden behind car wheels or under benches in empty parks. Once, a stray dog chased him into a ditch. Another time, a bicycle hit him and left him limping for days. But what hurt most weren’t the blows. It was the rejection. What broke the soul was approaching someone with eyes full of need, only to be met with a slammed door, a shout, or the quick glance of someone who chose not to see. One night, Shadow stopped in front of a house where the window showed a bright scene: a little girl laughing, playing with a stuffed animal that had cat ears. The warmth of that world seemed so close… and yet, so impossible. The little cat approached, placed his paws on the glass, and meowed with hope. The door opened. For a moment, he thought that maybe, just maybe… But a man came out with a broom. “Get out!” he shouted. The blow didn’t hit him, but it struck his soul. Shadow ran away, thinner, more tired, more alone. And then the river came. 

That week, it rained without pause. The drains overflowed, and the alleys turned into muddy rivers. Shadow reached a wooden bridge. On the other side, a house with warm lights seemed to call to him. It was as if hope was right there, just a few steps away, only separated by the rising water and the wind that roared like a beast. Some neighbors saw him. He was barely a black bundle, crouched among branches, trembling. A woman said she saw him try to cross, that he took one step, then another, and vanished into the rain. No one saw him again. There was no body. No confirmation. Only silence. And sometimes, silence hurts more than truth. For weeks, it seemed that Shadow’s story had ended. That the wind and the cold had won. That not everyone finds a home. That some simply disappear, like shadows at nightfall.

Time passed. Flowers returned in spring. Children played in the parks, trees turned green again, and rooftops stopped crying. And then, in a house at the end of a quiet street, someone noticed something new at the window. A small black cat was watching the world from the other side of the glass. His eyes were golden, his fur shone like velvet. He looked like he belonged there, as if he had always been part of the home. But his gaze was different: it wasn’t the look of a pampered cat from birth. It was the look of a survivor. A child opened the door and called him. “Shadow!” he said. The cat ran to him, purring like a soft thunder. He rubbed against his legs, climbed into his arms. And there he stayed, his head resting on the boy’s chest, as if he had found the heartbeat he had searched for through the storms. Hanging from his neck was a small collar with the name Shadow on it. And so, what the world thought was lost… had simply found its place. Sometimes, those who walk alone in the dark don’t disappear. They’re just searching for themselves. They’re just waiting for someone, someday, to truly see them.

English:
A vow born in battle, a love stronger than death. The Rose and the Sword leads you through sacrifice, loyalty, and fate. An unforgettable, epic, and tragic tale.

Español:
Una promesa forjada en batalla, un amor más fuerte que la muerte. “La Rosa y la Espada” te llevará al corazón del sacrificio, la lealtad y el destino. Una historia inolvidable, épica y trágica.

ESPAÑOL:
Una historia ancestral de amor, engaño y dolor, nacida en las montañas del Perú. Dioses y humanos se entrelazan en una leyenda que atraviesa el tiempo y el silencio. Esta es una de esas historias que te rompen y te transforman. Una que merece ser contada.

ENGLISH:
An ancestral tale of love, deception, and sorrow, born in the mountains of Peru. Gods and mortals entwine in a legend that transcends time and silence. This is one of those stories that break you—and transform you. A tale that deserves to be told.

Español:
Ella era humana. Él, un dios del amor oculto entre sombras.
Lo que comenzó como un destino impuesto se transformó en una pasión capaz de desafiar al mismo Olimpo.
"Eros y Psique" es una historia de deseo, coraje y redención… donde el amor no se rinde ni ante lo imposible.

English:
She was mortal. He, a hidden god of love veiled in secrecy.
What began as a fated encounter became a passion powerful enough to challenge Olympus itself.
"Eros and Psyche" is a tale of longing, courage, and redemption—where love refuses to surrender, no matter the cost.

Español: Él gobierna la oscuridad. Ella florece en la luz. Un encuentro inesperado cambiará el destino de ambos… para siempre.

English: He rules the darkness. She blooms in the light. An unexpected encounter will change their fate… forever.