Okay, here's something rare. A book based Phoebus fic!
I wrote this while listening to the Alice Cooper song, "Every Woman Has A Name." Yes, I used the song title, for the story title.
As always, constructive criticism is welcome, but flames are not.
He lay awake, next to her; some nameless, faceless woman of the night. Sure, he knew her name, she had told it to him, last night in his drunken stupor. His head was throbbing too much for him to care. As he sat up, her hand slid down his chest, and into his lap. She was still asleep. He moved, slowly, putting his hoisers and tunic on. He did not wish to wake her, whatever her name was.
The events of the previous evening had been wine filled, blurred, limbs tangled in delight. But, the events of this morning were sobering, teeth gritting pain.
He heard her groan, and watched as she stirred, still asleep. For the first time he caught a clear glimpse of her face. Her hair was dark and tangled, her eyes were brown and large, her lips were stained burgundy from the wine. She was pretty, but in the light of day she seemed to be of average beauty. By the moonlight, she had been some nymph, some goddess, some muse, which had roused him! By the light of day, she was just another harlot, riddled with disease, some servant who would do his bidding, so long as he paid. She was no different from any other girl he had been with.
His thoughts rushed from the girl in the bed, to the girl who would be standing on the balcony, waiting for him later that day. She too had somehow become lumped in with those he had "loved" before. She too had become some girl to pass the time. At one time she had been his worshipper, she had once smiled at his arrival, she had once blushed at the very thought of he and her together. But, now, he no longer noticed her attitude toward him.
He was not an impatient man, he just wanted instant satisfaction. He did not think himself just some nameless, faceless customer to these ladies. He thought himself a god; an almighty god, who could pick and choose what the girl looked like, what he called her, what her attitude toward him should be. And, yet, being a god was no longer fun. The idea had lost its luster, just as she had lost hers, just as he had lost his.
For a brief moment, he thought to wake the sleeping girl to ask her what her name was. For a brief moment, he saw a person, curled up in the sheets. But, as he knelt down, to wake her, he realized that once she told him her name, he would know something about her; and knowing anything real about her, would be far too intimate for him. He felt, that once he knew her name, he would be obligated to talk to her, obligated to find out where she came from.
With that, he rose, dropping a few coins on the nightstand and leaving.
He decided that it was best not to know her name, not to care, after all, he was already obligated to know one girl's name.