Chapter summary: The Muses have their jobs to do on Earth, and that's that.
Acknowledgements: It's all BelleBiter this time. She talked me through hula hoops, walking the balance bar, and evading the fire breathers.
A/N: I got choked up when I wrote this one.
He runs until he hits the whooshing traffic on Venice Boulevard, with its honking cars and heavy scent of smog and exhaust. Loud, chaotic, ugly, it rivals the turmoil in his heart. He knows he should go home, back to the mountain in the clouds and his peaceful retreat. Yet the thought of leaving Bella now is anathema.
The street eventually turns to join Ocean Front Walk, and all its sidewalk denizens; less chaotic, but no less colorful. Wide, staring eyes follow him as he passes, and he knows he is running faster than he should. It's not quite quick enough to leave his soul print behind, but is fast enough to keep anyone from approaching him.
Fast enough to hide the expression on his face, and the tears he knows he's shedding.
How could this happen to him?
Archaic child and benighted fool in one, he thought he'd had all the answers. That he was enough to take care of what he had to – with no illusions, no attachments, no failings. Over the centuries, it had all seemed so absurdly easy, really. His heart had never needed anything or anyone.
Until now. Until her. This surprisingly talented mortal with her dark, questioning eyes that reach past his placid pallor to touch something deep inside of him.
The cold swoosh of the Pacific Ocean's water rushes and curls against his ankles as he runs across the wet sand, a small tendril of the tidal wave of emotion inside his soul. For the first time he can remember, someone wants more from him than just mental stimulation. More than just his face and his body. And he can't give it to her. If he does, he'll lose her. He'll lose all traces of her memory when his father makes him drink from the river of lost memories.
But she would carry the reminder of him for the rest of her days. In a sea of days upon years, he will be the someone she lost. Or worse.
In his mind's eye, he sees her expression falling, those beautiful and bottomless eyes welling with tears, the tremble of her mouth. The memory of it finally stops him in his tracks, where he turns to face the ocean's wind head-on. It whips his hair back and stings the moisture at the corner of his eyes.
Dear gods! The ache was only building in strength.
He who knew no time had wasted his with her, not realizing or recognizing his growing feelings until it was too late; he'd never had anything to compare them to. And now look where he was. And where she was.
What could he do?
Falling in love with a mortal was forbidden. It was punishable by loss of memory… with the stinging realization beforehand that you were forever losing the future of that love as well. And from what you may have created anew, all the way up to the ancient remains of a god in heaven – doomed never again to remember the promise of finding divinity on earth.
It was an occurrence he witnessed Erato go through at least once a century. The first time he'd seen it happen, it had been devastating to see his favored sister in such a state. Broken, no longer proud and at ease with her place in their world. No longer caring to inspire anyone to do the impossible – she had only cared about the impossible for herself – for Father to let her go, once and forever, altogether.
E had sworn never to fall into the same trap. He never wanted to be so unutterably desperate that his father would need to make him drink from the Lethe.
Now it seemed as if he were standing at its edge.
He didn't want to forget Bella. He wanted what she wanted – to love freely – to share everything he was and knew with her. Without her, the next decades looked bleak.
But the price was too high.
A pair of seagulls circled above his head, their cries shrill and unwittingly stirred up by his emotions. He called to a nearby school of halibut, diverting the gulls, and saying a quick apology to the fish.
His lost memories wouldn't be fair to Bella. He couldn't leave her behind, not when this was all his fault.
Such a thing had never bothered him before. While mortals could be diverting amusements, he had been attracted, both mind and body, to many women throughout the ages. And he'd made love with more than a few, but his deeper feelings had never been engaged.
He fisted his hair. So what was it about this girl? She was no more beautiful than countless others, no more or less accomplished, or intelligent.
Ah, but no. He can't compare her to any of the others, because she was simply her own person.
She was more. There was something about her that called to him. Something in how she met his gaze, setting his pulse into hyper-activity; something in the way she always spoke straight from her heart. Maybe it was the way her smiles came so rarely, so that he knew when she did smile, she meant it.
Whatever it was that was uniquely her, it affected him more than any other mortal ever had.
He wanted to withdraw less often with her, and he kept his gaze turned her way when they were apart. Home – up high in the clouds with its perpetual blue skies, sweet honeyed breezes, and every flower known to man – was less and less appealing without her.
The wind kept sending the water like a wave-storm at his knees.
It might have been his father, sending a warning of reckoning.
Growling, he kicked back, lost his footing, and fell to his knees. Welcoming the cold water, he bent over and dug his fingers into the shifting sand.
Zeus would not be so forgiving a second time, were he to reveal his true nature to Bella again. He would be punished, and Bella would be punished, even though she was blameless. Memory wiping was distressful the first time because it left uneasy feelings; but the second time marked the beginning of nightmares.
Mnemosyne would fight for him, as she had done for Erato before… but in the end, it wouldn't matter. This wasn't merely some father who might uphold the rules for a son; this was his father The Ruler of All the Gods who would command his son and subject. And Zeus' word was law.
He had never given in.
He never would.
His children – no, his Muses – had their job to do on Earth, and that was that.
A desperate cry rose in his throat. Because he was out far enough not to be heard, he let it out.
It was a sound that would have terrified a mortal.
. . .
My eyes are sore and heavy when I enter my studio later that night, as I walk over to the portrait I did of E. Whenever I'm in this room, I am aware of this painting, as if it's alive and watching me. In a sense, it's almost like having E here with me. As if his encouragement and guidance is a living embrace. And I liked the idea of his eyes on me.
But now I'm feeling vulnerable.
The painting is still set up on an easel in the corner, and when I come to a stop in front of it, my face is level with his. His gaze sears into mine. My skin prickles as if he's really standing there, and my heart pounds.
Traitorous heart.
I press my hand against my chest where it hurts, and rub.
Now I can see that I didn't capture the mysterious depth of his eyes at all; Painting E has the guileless, crystalline gaze of someone who couldn't possibly tell a lie. There are no secrets there, just an open invitation of joy. Nowhere do I see the cloudy darkness that I saw today. Those eyes are too perfect, too striking.
Nobody should be this beautiful.
His mouth gently curves, bringing up the dimple in his right cheek, and my chest twinges again. Subtle shadows give even more depth to those ridiculous cheekbones of his, making his jaw appear impossibly strong. I can't look at the painting without thinking about how that jaw would taste against my lips and tongue…
Painting E is so life-like that I keep expecting to see his mouth continue the almost smile.
But he's not real.
Clenching my teeth, I take a breath and turn away. Uncapping tubes of yellow, green, blue, and red, I squeeze a bit from each of them onto a palette. My movements are stiff and hard, and I almost lose my brush more than once as I mix the vibrant colors together into a greyish shade of mud.
The first stroke is going to go straight across his liar's eyes.
And I raise my hand to do just that, but my arm is shaking almost spasmodically. My breaths are coming out in gasps, as if I've just run a race. Beyond the muddied tip of my paint brush, I see those smiling, beautiful eyes of his. The hand he seems to be raising, telling me to stop.
My heart feels like it's caving in on itself.
Shuddering, I jerk my head to the side. I've got my palette in one hand and the brush in another, but my body isn't cooperating with what my brain wants to do.
Or what I thought I wanted to do.
Whatever else he might be, E was like a god come to life for me, radiating beauty from the inside out – my soul sang when I was with him. I willingly embraced the idea of the impossible, because something about him made it easy for me to do. And like nothing else before it, I craved the idea of that promise: that I could be more than who I was just yesterday. That we could be more.
At a loss, I shake my head at him. At the painting. At myself.
Even though it feels as if he's destroying me, I can't do the same to this painting. It's not alive, but somehow, it's him.
And I can't do it.
"Let me go," I cry jaggedly to Painting E. "Please."
I won't let you go.
His voice is in my head, the tone so clear and mellifluous that I gasp, turn, and drop my paint brush.
There's no one in the room but me.
"E?" I whisper.
I'm not sure what I expected to happen, but the answering silence is crushing.
As I turn back to face Painting E again, I feel like I'm losing my mind. Since I watched him run away from me hours ago, I haven't been able to breathe right. My chest feels too heavy, and as if the slightest touch will break me apart.
Setting the palette down, I wrap my arms around my midriff. Squeezing myself in a hug that I wish, oh how I still wish, was coming from him.
Then, for some reason, I notice his upraised hand – the one that's facing palm-out. Like he wants to push against some kind of boundary, to escape from the painting's surface.
One of my arms uncurls and, slowly, I raise my hand to press my palm against his. Because I created him true-to-size, I move my fingers to fit against each one of his. Under my touch, the canvas grows warm.
The feeling of his palm against mine is suddenly intense, the sight of our hands pressed together bringing an eerie sense of déjà vu. Of him, of me. Of the idea that our hands caressed each other. The sensation fills my entire body like a bolt of lightning, the power of it making me stagger back from the painting, making me gasp in surprise.
When was this?
I'm suddenly fighting tears over this lovely, tender moment that I can't even remember. It makes me draw my hand back and slap at the painting in frustration.
What has he done to me?
The easel topples back, then it and the painting slide down the wall to the floor.
And so do I.
. . .
At work the next day, I sit in my office chair and stare unblinking at a spreadsheet of numbers. They won't stop blurring together. I'm supposed to be going over the data for April, but I keep getting sidetracked by the sound of the copy machine, the clicking of my keyboard, by someone clearing their throat.
By the ache in my chest.
Because I didn't feel like listening to music this morning, the silence is deafening. It's kind of driving me crazy, so I change my mind and bring up the music app on my phone. But I only end up knocking it and my phone over the side of my desk to the floor with a crash.
When I take my hands away from my face, I see Angela peering around the corner of my cube.
"Bella? Are you all right?"
She's my supervisor, and she is all business, all the time.
It sobers me up fast, and I straighten in my chair with a jerk.
"Sorry, I turned around too fast and knocked my phone off the desk."
Over the top of her eyeglasses, she raises one of her eyebrows at me. "And you're fighting tears because… ?"
I suddenly remember how she likes to eat people who giggle, lie, or mess up for breakfast – only to spit them out at lunchtime.
"I, er, hit my funny bone," I say and rub at it energetically.
She looks sardonic, then dismissive. "Well, for your sake, I sure hope your funny bone stays where it's supposed to."
I shrug, then awkwardly flap my arms for good measure. "I'm a klutz. You know this." And I bend down to retrieve my phone and the dock.
She doesn't move while I place the dock back on the desk where it belongs, and I'm uncomfortably aware of her stare. It's difficult to act matter-of-fact and business-like when it feels like my insides have crumbled, but somehow, I manage to do it.
I'm straightening the photo frames on my desk when Angela speaks again.
"Your work is exemplary, Bella. And I can tell you need a break. You're past due for vacation, so I think you should take a week. Effective tomorrow, as long as you get me those numbers for April."
I gape at her.
She glares at me in response. "When my best employee lies to me face-to-face, it's time for a change of scenery. You obviously need one."
Her face softens only for an instant before she turns to leave.
"Numbers first."
By twelve thirty-five, I'm walking through the outside breezeway to my car. As I approach the gap that overlooks the fountain, my steps slow. Dwindle. Stop.
As is mostly the case in Los Angeles, the day is sunny and pleasantly warm. On the fourth floor courtyard overlooking the fountains, I feel a gentle breeze kiss my face when I peek over the edge of the wall. Below, the fountains arch up in a spray of red water, fall sharply, and then arch up into blue as the lights below change. I'm staring at the design of the concrete, listening in a dream-like state to the soothing sound of the water hitting the pavement, when I suddenly notice that the water has turned violet.
Which doesn't make sense. The Pacific Design Center's colors are blue, green and red.
I gasp and lean across the edge of the wall, somehow knowing that the violet color means E is close. It's his color.
But my mind is flying in all directions at once and seeing nothing, or maybe seeing something that isn't there at all, just because I want to see it so badly.
Below, on the steps surrounding the fountain, people sit, chatting and eating lunch. On the far right, at the beginning of the promenade with its trim bushes, is where I sat the day E found me.
"A dollar for your thoughts," he'd said.
My eyes close tightly, then open and picture the scene – me and him – as we must have looked to someone standing up here at the time.
Me: wide-eyed and painfully in awe at the unbelievably beautiful man at my side. Him: suave and smiling, an unexpected meteorite come to earth.
I look for such a couple now.
Surely they exist; we can't be the only two?
But I don't find anyone.
Not even close.
Which is as it should be.
Because the two of us don't exist.
And violet is an ugly color.
It is an ugly color that breaks my heart.