Chapter summary: Everyone has a story.
Acknowledgements: BelleBiter is my beta and sounding board; this story wouldn't be what it is without her. lotus11 and SunflowerFran are my lovely pre-readers-slash-cheerleaders. And last, although not least, thank you to 2brown-eyes for my story banner.
A/N: Twenty-three cheers for BelleBiter, who wrote the voice of Zeus. Much of Zeus' character is a nod to several epic poems & odes & texts in Ancient Greek, Latin, Persian, Babylonian and Hebrew.
Awesome beta is awesome.
Being summoned by the king of all the gods was never a good thing; and it meant a good 24 hours of horrendous weather on Earth if any one of them were to drag his feet in responding. No one made Zeus wait – certainly not one of his less-favored children.
With a last lingering glance at Bella's expressive eyes – she was hurt and feeling out of sorts with him, and he hoped by all that was revered that he could make good on his promise to come back – E shot skyward from Earth towards Mount Olympus.
A strong wind buffeted him back and forth, and he found himself dizzied in the midst of a cyclone; it spun him mercilessly until he was dropped just below the white marble dais. There would be no comfort for him this visit. No blue sky, no sunlight, no mother or siblings to greet him.
Just his angry and august king, who sat on his golden throne leaning forward in expectation, silver-white thunderbolt at the ready. And lo, he was a sight almost too bright to gaze upon in his tall glistening robe, glowering with his fiery bright eyes. The wind had not let up, and it lifted his long hair back from his formidable forehead to frame a most austere visage. Zeus was regally imposing under the best of circumstances; when vexed, he was truly the terrible force of nature which made poets wax majestic, mere mortals perish in terror, and luckless lesser gods tremble.
E gathered his nerve and courage, bowed low and long, and greeted his king.
"O Great Ruler of All in the Heavens—"
"Hear me now, Terpsichore, suddenly prone in veneration
Now prostrate in heaven, yet on earth prone to act:
Worrisome habit this, leaping forth before consideration;
It wracks wretched thy mother's heart and wreaks havoc to retract."
And Zeus slammed the thunderbolt against the floor, so that his next words were delivered with a rumble of thunder that shook the very air and dispersed the angry-colored mist around his sandal-clad feet.
"Girded plainly, art thou, to commit blasphemy
Barely hiding thy nature in Art's alchemy?
Unveiling what no muse has right to reveal:
The source of sacred passions is thine to conceal."
E hadn't believed that wanting to kiss a human could be considered such an act, especially when Zeus himself had enjoyed one on more than one occasion. But he bit his tongue and bowed his head, suspecting that Zeus wasn't looking for his response yet.
"I shall grant thee a glimpse into such prophesy:
When a young muse proffers powers public too oft
Diluted by show, this creates heresy -
Displaying divine gifts begs betraying those aloft."
E squirmed internally in anguish. This was worse than what he had been anticipating. It wasn't the impending kiss that Zeus considered blasphemy; it was the exposing of his powers.
Zeus rumbled on.
"Once lowered and revealed, these powers would wane
(Any muse of some sense should dissemble them such);
Yet as I am loathe into Lethe to toss thee again…
Best that thou remember: muses may be reinvented much."
He ought to have known, but it had been centuries since he'd last been called, and he was unprepared; still reeling from what had almost occurred with the human who kept throwing him off balance. Erato herself had a poet's predilection for falling in love hard enough that only Hades' legendary river of forgetfulness could have so cleanly washed away her own muse memories.
Still, he had to count on his mother to keep Zeus from tossing him again into the Lethe. Surely once was enough for any of them.
Unless he had already been twice, or more, its victim. Zeus insinuated as much. But as his mother disliked direct questions, he had no real way of knowing.
"Offer now mindful apologies, with telling traitor tongue past teeth;
We bear witness to what nonsense thou let slip through mind and deed."
Best to be brief, then.
"I can do naught but beg your leniency, Father. I decline an excuse; there be naught."
The wind kicked up and howled with a vengeance. Lightning speared the sky.
"Darest thou deem silence whilst denying me obeisance?
Speak that which may make some sense as a pretense of complaisance!"
E raised his head to meet his king's fiery gaze, and led off with, "I am to inspire the hearts of men who would inspire others, but this particular charge required my counsel. As well as a bit more: for her future work is to one day mean a great deal to the hematologist who will discover a cure for one of Earth's most reviled diseases. If only she could but get there," he finishes with a bowed head.
And may it be enough to alleviate his king's displeasure.
"Spirit-stirring reason; yet in past would not perturb thee so…
If memory serves, thy charge is to inspire, equip, and hence to go.
Earthly lingering and longing have now slowed thy pace of dance
Mark well to weigh wise counsel that may free thee from this trance."
He was heartened to hear that his king growled with less angered measure than before.
"Yes, My King."
Finally, the wind lessened into gentle gusts.
"Ah. Depart unscathed as may, young muse."
Was he to be forgiven so easily?
"Yet heed us well: erase this mortal's memories of thy powers with some haste.
Thou mayst seduce her any other way; that is thy choice.
Needs recall the subtlety with which our breaths of inspiration cast:
We are the whisper on the wind, and not its uttered voice."
E felt the beginnings of relief.
As though he could sense it, Zeus leveled him with a gimlet stare. Behind him, lightning flashed. He was not forgiven.
"And then there is thy mother. One whose clemency does not match mine
Holds in her hand our pact: she may have final say over her own.
Remain secure today from me, yet disregard her will and find
Maternal wrath that even Lethe cannot duel or dim at dawn."
Then he slammed the lightning bolt to the floor in emphasis.
"Get thee away, muse. Tend to thy mortal."
E bowed in recognition and compliance.
. . .
"How's things, Dad?"
Every Monday night, I call my dad to see how he's feeling, to let him know I'm thinking of him, and to say I love him. After the weirdness of this weekend, I want a little normality.
"Hey, Bells. Went fishing with Billy yesterday. Got some catfish and a bluegill."
"You gonna broil them?"
Exasperated, he sighs loudly. He dislikes it when I check up on him like this, but he's learned to accept it. He remembers how devastated I was.
"Billy's the fish-fry guy, not me."
"You still walking around the mall?"
"Lost five pounds," he says, and there's pride in his voice.
"I'm so glad, Dad. You know I love you, right?"
I hear him chuckle softly, and melt.
"You tell me every time you call."
"That's my job," I say.
"Thought that was mine."
"It's both of ours."
He's never been one for saying the words out loud; he prefers to show what he feels. And until his heart attack last year, that was how I was, too.
Now, I like to make sure he knows.
Because life is short.
. . .
Sunday awakens slowly, and then all at once on the canal.
I make coffee and head for my studio, doing a double-take once I see the portrait I painted of E; it's almost like I've forgotten the effect of his presence overnight.
His gaze still wakes my body up in uncomfortable ways.
I walk over to where his likeness is propped against the wall, and raise my hand to press against the one I painted of his. For some reason, this stirs a sense of nostalgia, and I have to turn away.
I hurt inside this morning.
So I spend it in my studio, covering a canvas with the uneasy mood in my soul. I'd thrashed awake hard, an ache in my chest, with the prickling sense that I'd lost something precious. Trying to remember what it was made my head hurt. But it was something… something just out of my reach.
Logic tells me these feelings are probably from a dream, but I can't shake what feel like real memories. They catch me unawares at odd moments, overshadowing my every move and thought. They almost make me want to cry.
Why?
My mind has no answer, and it is far from quiet.
It's been a long time since I've had a dream that left such powerful feelings in its wake, especially one I couldn't even remember upon waking. If Alice were here, she would say that the dream is trying to tell me something.
Why can't I remember anything but the colors?
Over and over, I drag my brush across the canvas in swirls, in sweeping dips, with an angry dab here and there. I use only colors of violet and white silver. The two shades fill my mind and my vision, until there is nothing else. My arm gets tired, but I can't stop. This maelstrom of movement I'm creating feels exactly right. And though I can't remember the dream that has me in knots, the colors seem to mean something.
I just need them to stop haunting me now.
When I am done with my painting, I'm faced with an indistinct shape of a woman's body. She is uncurling herself from a fetal position where I'd painted her in the chaotic, darkly-colored corner of the canvas – and she's reaching towards the opposite corner where there is a serene sea of incandescent violet.
"It's you," someone whispers against my ear.
Surprised, I turn my head, but no one's here.
I am alone in the room.
And for no reason at all, I start to cry.
. . .
The week passes slowly, yet quickly. Work drags, and I struggle to keep my concentration from slipping. Numbers in a spreadsheet can't captivate me like a paintbrush in the hand does.
It's not until mid-morning on Thursday, when the sun streams through the window and I become aware that I'm suddenly too warm, that I realize I've forgotten to go to work.
When I'm painting, I lose track of the time; it seems to race forward like I'm sent through a time warp. I forget to eat, to sleep, to shower. And I wouldn't spend a minute away from a canvas if nature didn't call. Or if Alice didn't check in on me. She says I'm worse than a child about keeping to a schedule, and it's true.
But I've never painted through my alarm before.
I call work, pretending there's a frog in my throat and a brick on my head.
Afterwards, my body stiff – and feeling both guilty and free – I shower, and then head for the Venice Boardwalk with a few paintings I hope to sell.
I'm pulling my supply cart out from the trunk of my car when a brush of color flashes beside me. Jumping, I turn to see E standing just behind me. The wind is playing with his copper waves, and he looks especially boyish with the sheepish grin he's aiming my way.
"Did you call out sick today, too?" I ask wryly.
After a long pause that I don't really understand, he says, "Vacation day. May I help you?"
"Thanks, but I've got it," I tell him. And I do; I have this routine down pat. Only the essentials come along for the ride to the strip. After I carefully ease the couple of paintings inside my cart, I bang the trunk closed and glance at E.
He's looking at me with an odd look on his face; he seems almost sad. But as soon as he sees me turn, his face morphs into its usual mischievous expression, and there goes my breath and common sense.
Wearing khaki long shorts and a white button-up shirt, he is sexy-casual, perfectly dressed for the weather. If he comes with me, I'm sure to get more interest in my work than usual.
"Are you sorry you've been lying to me yet?" I ask, as we head across the parking lot.
"Puh-Pardon?" he actually stutters.
He's definitely not himself today, I think, as I catch his cheeks flush. I'm so surprised to see that blush that I stumble on the pavement. Good thing I was holding on to the cart.
"I'll take that," he says, and grabs the handle from me. While I gape, he reaches out for my hand.
He wants to hold my hand.
Probably just to keep me from falling, though.
Works for me.
Slowly, I slide my hand into his. Tingly prickles race up my arm and back. Holy cow, if he can do this with just his touch, I'm a goner.
"Which house do you live in?" I demand, and refuse to take another step.
We're not going anywhere until he gives me at least that. And my stomach tightens into a ball of anxiety until I see him give me a small nod.
"The last house at the end of the row," he says softly. "I'll take you there later."
At my slow smile of triumph and gratitude, he flushes again, and returns a killer one that has me blushing back.
"There," I say. "Was that so difficult, Mr. Mystery Guy?"
He's looking at his feet as we walk, so I can't see his expression, but I still get the sense that something is off with him.
"There are definitely more difficult things one has to do in the world," he answers.
"Uh… that's the spirit," I joke, and squeeze his hand. His gaze raises from his feet to our hands, then to my eyes.
"You okay?" I ask.
"I am now," he answers. "I guess I missed you."
I don't know what to say to that. How can he go from not divulging who he really is, or where he lives or works, to this?
"I'm not the one playing games," I remind him.
There's a look of gentle annoyance on his face, but then he shrugs his shoulders and smiles.
It's enough.
For now.
June in Los Angeles is usually gray and gloomy, but today the sun is shining. Maybe he brought it with him. Suddenly my expectations for the day seem more promising.
People in shorts and flip-flops are patrolling the strip. Some are dressed really scantily – like the shirtless guy flashing his butt crack above his low slung board shorts. I imagine he might be an exhibitionist of some kind, or maybe he's working his way up to it.
And then some are overly dressed – like the blond lady under an umbrella, wearing a blue jean jacket. She might have poor blood circulation, or is maybe fighting skin cancer.
Everyone has a story.
Personally, I like the guy under a Dr. Seuss hat. He has bright blue dreads and enough makeup on for a clown. I think of all of the trouble he must have taken to look that way. Maybe he was easily ignored once, and has determined that he never will be again.
He's also roller skating down the boardwalk and eyeing E like he'd love to have a sidekick.
"It's quite colorful here," E says, and waves at Dr. Seuss.
"That's Los Angeles for you," I say. "An overflowing melting pot where anything goes. And usually does."
He's already getting his share of attention. Anyone who passes us does a double-take when they get a look at him.
Me? They don't even see me.
But that's what the paintings are for.
"I'd like you to meet my friend, Alice," I tell him as we reach an empty spot on the strip where I want to place my easels.
He takes the first one from me, then unfolds it with a snap. His sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, and I watch the play of muscles under his skin, and I want to touch him.
I shake my head when I realize I'm just standing there fingering the edge of my tank top. Darn, I can't keep my eyes off of him, either.
"Alice," he says, and bends to grab the second easel from the cart. "She's your best friend, right?"
"That's right. She's also a talent scout," I say, and set up the French box easel with the side shelf that I use when I work outdoors. It has a place for my pencils and brushes.
"Alice has been looking for you," I continue. "Ever since we saw you perform at The Greek."
At that, he looks startled. "Looking for me?"
"She's a talent scout and you, my friend, have talent. She'd like to find all nine of you and sign you up with Eclipse Promotions."
He raises a hand to the back of his neck. "Oh. Well, that was a one-time-only performance."
"Not if Alice can convince you otherwise," I say.
Straightening, he gives me a beautifully stern look. "She can't," he says firmly. "It was only by pure luck that all nine of us could come together like that. They're gone now. Scattered."
"Scattered?" I echo.
"Scattered throughout the world," he says. "We live everywhere. London, Brussels, South America, even Albania."
"Wow," I say. "And you all got together in Los Angeles just to do a one-night-only performance?"
He shrug-nods.
"Why? If you all live so far and wide, why would you get together for just a day?"
"Because we could," he says with a smile, and pokes my side.
I'm ticklish, so I flinch away with a yelp.
Alice is not going to be happy about their scattered lives, but I imagine she's going to move heaven and earth to do whatever she can to get them all back together.
He takes one of the canvases from the cart, propping it on the easel and then goes still. It's another abstract – the one of the blue and gray female who's curled in on herself, with her back showing. I've titled it Marikita, because she reminds me of a story I once read about a pixie.
"This is utterly heartbreaking," he says. "It makes me feel as if she hasn't anyone in the world."
I shrug. Yeah, that was what I felt when I painted it over a year ago.
But then he sees the one I did this past Sunday, the one of the girl who might be reaching for the stars. This one, I call Chloe, because she is blooming.
"Now this is gorgeous in every sense of the word, Bella. I can actually sense the movement from dark to light. It's so optimistic."
And the look he gives me shoots a lightning bolt through my body.
How does he do that?
The third painting, the one of the woman's face that's half behind a crystal water vase, seems to take him aback. It's the one I did a few weeks ago; the one that resembles my mom, and the two faces I knew of her. I call her Janus, for the beginning and the end of conflict.
"A mini-masterpiece," he murmurs. "The subtleties of clarity versus distortion? And using a naturally beautiful woman to show it. Very clever."
I hope it sells.
I want it gone.
His green eyes are studying me. Looking long and deep into my own, and then dropping to my mouth.
My breathing speeds.
"You have her mouth," he says slowly. "The lady in the painting."
I suck my upper lip in my mouth, as if I could hide it from him, and watch his eyes flare in response.
"Your mother," he murmurs. "She's your mother."
He says that like he knows it to be true, but how can he? Mom had blond hair and blue eyes. I look nothing like her.
"She's no one," I tell him.
But I can tell as I turn away to greet my first visitor that he doesn't believe me. I'm not exactly lying to hide anything, though. I'm just not ready to open that can of worms.
"You're the cartoon lady," the little girl in front of me says. She's the big-nosed Pippi Longstocking lookalike from a few weeks ago. Behind her, a woman wearing a bandanna around her head comes racing up.
I swallow a sigh of frustration. I remember Pippi; her mother all but threw a tantrum when she saw the representation I drew of her.
I couldn't help it – it was a caricature drawing. And Pippi has a distinctive nose.
"Emily, you can't keep running ahead like this. I can't keep up with you! Sorry!" the panting woman says to me with a smile, as she raises a hand to scratch under the bandanna. "She's restless today."
"I want a new picture," Pippi says, and puts her hands on her hips. "This time with a good nose."
E bends down to her height. "You already have a good nose. What was wrong with the other one?"
Pippi blinks at him, as does the lady under the bandanna.
And… me, too.
"Mom said it made me look like Pinocchio."
"Well, if the nose fits," Bandanna Lady mumbles, then flashes a grin when Pippi turns to look at her.
"You have a perfect nose," E tells her. "It's long and thin with teardrop nostrils. I wish my nose looked like yours."
Pippi giggles. She's as taken with him as any female, even though he's lying through his teeth about her rather aquiline-shaped nose.
I smile at Bandanna Lady. "Would you like to—"
"Oh no, no. We have to get going. Her momma is waiting for us to pick up lunch, isn't that right, Em?"
Pippi nods. She's still trading smiles with E. She seems almost transfixed by him.
"I'll see you soon, Emily," he says, and stands. Her eyes follow him all the way up, until her neck is craning.
He'll see her soon?
Even as the girl is led away by Bandanna Lady, her face is still turned back towards E.
I look at him askance. "You'll see her soon? You lied to a little girl?"
He's all bashful smiles. "They have to come back this way to leave, right?"
Shaking my head, I prepare my easel for a drawing, and point to the fold-up chair in the cart.
"Sit in it," I tell him. "I'm going to sketch you now."
He places the chair sideways, and then casually poses as The Thinker. I see a couple of people looking at him as they pass, wondering what he's doing, but he's taking the pose seriously. He makes me want to swoon.
E as a caricature drawing is still a thing of beauty. I emphasize his hair, eyebrows and jawline, trying to sketch him in bas relief, but he's still gorgeous. While I'm doing this, a handful of people gather to watch, and to study my paintings.
"How much for the painting of this one?" someone asks.
It's the blue and gray painting of Marikita.
"How much would you pay for it?" I counter. I've had some luck getting more money than I might have, by asking for an opinion about what a person thinks it's worth.
The possible interested buyer is a shrewd-looking, dark haired lady, probably in her forties. She's wearing a blue silk shirt with a pair of Bermuda shorts, and her mouth is pursed in thought.
She'll offer fifty, tops.
"That's my sister, Calliope," E says of the painting. He straightens from his pose to smile at her. "But we just call her Callie. She lives in Athens, Greece, and writes poetry."
I watch the woman's mouth slacken. It's amazing to see the effect he can have on a woman when she's not me.
"Painting is silent poetry, and poetry is painting that speaks," E quotes. "Although she didn't write that," he adds. "Plutarch did."
He curls back into his pose.
The woman closes her mouth, then turns back to the painting.
"Five hundred," she says.
And I almost swallow my tongue.