Work Text:
“Tell me, Muse, of the man of many ways, who was driven
far journeys, after he had sacked Troy’s sacred citadel.
many were they whose cities he saw, whose minds he learned of,
many the pains he suffered in his spirit on the wide sea,
struggling for his own life and the homecoming of his companions.
Even so he could not save his companions, hard though
he strove to; they were destroyed by their own wild recklessness,
fools, who devoured the oxen of Helios, the Sun God,
and he took away the day of their homecoming. From some point
here, goddess, daughter of Zeus, speak, and begin our story.
- Homer, The Odyssey
Harry's sitting in his office, a cup of scalding coffee in his hands when he decides to check his email. He knows the content won't be pleasant because it's probably the same email he's received countless times over the past three and a half months, all from the same person. He, however, doesn't hesitate to open every single one of them; he prides himself in being the slightest bit deluded, and he uses the messages as little… incentives, one could say. Incentives that should make his pulse quicken, adrenaline surge through his body, his hands and fingers twitch and his head fog a little less.
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: First Draft
Dear Mr. Styles,
As you know, the deadline for your book is soon approaching and we have yet to receive even your first draft. The contract provided by Rachirds Publishing, signed by you, firmly states that we must receive the first draft of your upcoming book no later than July 31, which is a month and a half away. I have sent you previous emails urging you about this but I have yet to receive a response. Remember that failure to meet with your end could signify the termination of the contract and a monetary penalty and fine. We are impatient; therefore, it is in your best interests to comply.
Best Regards,
Ben Winston, Chief Editor of Rachirds Publishing
The thing is that, he's tried everything. He's gone to coffeehouses, has tried different creative outlets (he always knew he was bad at drawing, but he'd hoped he could at least draw a single teacup… he couldn't), done freewriting, signed up for yoga and tai-chi classes, became a shut in for a week… hell, he's even tried the glass of water technique; he's tried everything that's suggested by Google to overcome his inescapable writer's block, one he's had ever since he finished his first, and only, book, The Rebirth of a Genre: Greek Mythology and its Writing Components, yet. And so far nothing seems to work.
Now he's onto the sort-of sequel, The Rebirth of a Genre: Epic Poetry, which is supposed to be an informative-slash-expositive book about his favorite olden genre. It's supposed to show a modern twist of the unused genre as well, to spark some newfound interest in the contemporary age. He has all the information he needs; he's done endless research on the subject, met up with writers to get their input, he even went to Greece and visited anything and everything that had to do with Homer or any of his works.
What's the problem, then? He'd ask himself this at times, but the answer was as clear and dark as his coffee: original input. He's supposed to guide people into this "new" writing genre, and the only way to do it is via excerpts and paragraphs he himself has written demonstrating the technique and the genre's properties. For some reason, though, he comes up dry and nothing seems to flow as simply and gracefully as it used to before.
Sometimes Harry sits on his very comfortable desk chair in his office and rereads the email he received that day over and over, contemplating when or where did he start to fall. He wonders why he never realized he'd peaked, but most of all wonders why in hell he ever thought he'd be talented enough to ink two books in two years. These thoughts often lead to him looking at the yellow pages for any job openings while his tears smudge the ink; this time, though, he stops himself before he falls and he decides to finally answer Winston. He takes a sip of his lukewarm coffee, stretches his fingers, and replies.
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: RE: First Draft
Dear Mr. Winston,
The day seems nice enough to go outside. The sun is shining and so far not a single drop of rain has fallen from the ever-clouding sky. Would you be interested in golfing with me?
Sincerely,
Harry Styles
+
When searching on Google for "ways to get motivated" didn't work out, Harry resorts to calling Nick. Since Nick has friends from all over, he's heard of places and people from all over the UK. Maybe he knows of someone or something that can get him motivated.
"Inspiration."
"'Lo?" Nick sounds like a strangled cat, underwater. Maybe this isn't such a good idea. "Haz? Tha'ou?"
"I need inspiration, Nick."
"Mm. The only inspiration you need at - at bloody three in the fucking morning, you condescending piece of ass, is dick. Find dick."
Harry tightens his grip on his phone and modulates his frustrated and desperate groan into a pathetic whine, "How does dick inspire me?"
"Dick inspires you to fucking blow it. G'night, mate."
"But Nick-"
"Yes, Harry?"
There's a short pause, where Harry's biting his lower lip and he's entirely sure Nick's running over assassination plots at this instance. "I need inspiration. For my book. My Greek book. I need inspiration to write my Greek book."
Nick only hums for a while but then stops altogether. If his phone didn't show otherwise, Harry would be worried that Nick's hung up on him. He sings "When I Grow Up" by the Pussycat Dolls softly during the wait, just to entertain himself a bit before Nick speaks up, "The Iliad".
"The Iliad?"
"The Iliad."
"Nick, with all due respect I'm not sure how reading more epic poetry will give me inspiration to write epic poetry. It will probably inspire me to drown in my sorrows, probably, which is not-"
"Shut up, Harry, damn," there are a few ruffles in the background, so Harry assumes Nick's sitting up, "The Iliad is a tiny store in front of McDonald's, and it sells-"
"McDonald's?"
Nick sighs, "McDonald's."
"Which McDonald's? There are so many McDonald's."
"The one where you kissed Taylor."
"Oh."
Nick chuckles. "Anyway, The Iliad sells-"
"Wait, which Taylor?"
Nick starts stammering a bit, "W-What do you mean, which Taylor?"
Harry scoffs, "I've kissed two different Taylors in two different McDonald's."
"Well, the blonde one. Swift, Taylor Swift."
"Oh."
"Know where it is?"
"Yeah, I 'member," Harry chuckles, "She was so pretty."
"That she was, young Harry, that she was," Nick sounds like he's about to implode, so Harry lets him finish, "The Iliad is a store that sells all kinds of Greek things. Maybe you'll find something there."
Harry writes it on his hand so that he remembers in the morning. "Okay, thanks Nick."
"Yeah, yeah."
"Love you."
"Go suck a dick."
Nick hangs up but Harry's smiling on the other end. He looks at his hand and feels the tiniest bit of hope setting in the pit of his stomach. He's got a good feeling about this one.
+
Not even one hour after his call with Nick and Harry's already in The Iliad, a surprisingly 24-hour store. From his flat to the store it's only fifteen minutes, but he stopped at Java Joe's to buy a steaming cup of coffee and got distracted by Cara, an old colleague of his who works there part time while her modeling career takes off. It's weird, actually, because when he told Cara where he was going his old friend said she hadn't ever heard of such store. In fact, she told Harry she went to that McDonald's this morning and there certainly wasn't any store in front of it that she could recall of, just an abandoned building.
Maybe Harry should get her glasses for her birthday.
The store from the outside seems meek and humble; it's about six or seven feet wide, the windows are tinted, and the only appealing aspect it has is a glowing sign that says "The Iliad". Harry's reasonable side urges him to take precautions but his sort-of hipster side wins over and he rushes into it, opening the door quickly enough to feel the aroma from the inside smack him silly as he takes a step in.
The inside of the store is nothing like the outside. It’s vivid, colorful, and alluring. Not only that, but it's huge; it has statues and artifacts of the Gods on the right, and on the left there's a huge library, one that seems never-ending. Harry's baffled, to say the least.
"Hello, how can I help yo- oh."
Harry turns around and sees a brunette behind the counter. She's beautiful, unearthly beautiful, and so enchanting that Harry feels an inexplicable draw to her. Her complexion is flawless, her dark skin enticing, and she seems to release this aura of sensuality that's driving Harry crazy. He's standing there like a statue, nostrils flaring due to his rapid intake of breath, and his fists are shaking as she assesses him. Her eyes analyze him with a familiarity he doesn't understand yet somehow welcomes.
"Never expected to see you around here, to be honest," the woman's honey-like voice entrances Harry and, before he knows it, he's walking towards her, "Much less in a meat suit like that. Suits you, though, you look just as delicious."
That has Harry snapping out of his repertoire. "Uh, I'm sorry, do I know you?"
Harry's had his fair share of one night stands. There was a part of his life where they were so constant that Harry had felt emotionally deprived, really, so this woman could have been one of the people he'd slept with. However, it's not like Harry to forget such a beautiful person. Normally, when he sleeps with ethereal people, he tends to capture a mental picture that he keeps just in case, for those are the "unforgettables". So it's impossible, really, for this woman to have been a one night stand; Harry would have definitely remembered her.
Her reaction to his question isn't that of a one night stand, either. If she had remembered him while he threw a question like that, a normal reaction would have been to lash-out. However, her eyes just widen and her hand cups his cheek tenderly. Harry instinctively closes his eyes and lets out a shuddery breath as her thumb caresses the bags under his eyes and the scar he got when he was little on his cheek. She draws it back startlingly, though, but her composure is steady when he opens his eyes. "Oh. I apologize, I thought you were someone else."
"Oh. That's okay."
She smiles. "How can I help you, mister…?”
"Styles, Harry Styles," he extends his arm and shakes her hand, "You see, I'm writing a book about the reintroduction of epic poetry into contemporary literature, and I was wondering if you had anything that could, like, inspire me?"
Her eyes gleam in understanding, though Harry doesn't know what it is, exactly, that she understands. "Of course. Feel free to check out the books in the second aisle, third shelf."
Harry walks over there and not even a second upon reaching his destination, he finds the book. He doesn't know its title, its author, or even what it's about, yet he knows it's that one - the fifth to the right, with a purple spine and Greek letters, sitting between a book with a red spine and another with a blue spine. He picks it up and it feels so light, so familiar in his hand. Harry feels a sense of déja-vu intoxicating his senses yet decides to ignore it. He opens it and, much to his surprise and dismay, it's all in Greek, a language he's yet to master.
"Um, excuse me? Miss?" Harry calls out and walks out the aisle.
"Yes?" She yells from behind the counter.
"Do you by any chance have a copy of this but, like, in English?"
She doesn't even look at the book in hand before responding, "There’s an exact copy of it in English beside it."
Harry knows there isn't, but he checks anyway because there's something in him that's taking decisions for him. He goes to the spot where he found the book and, oddly enough, there it is; an exact copy of the book, purple spine and all, but in English. He finally knows what the book's titled: Muses. Harry's eyes widen and his hands shake as they pick it up. He lightly runs his fingers over the cover and he swears it fucking gleams. For a moment he wonders how muses can help his predicament… well, sure, technically they're invoked by authors to aid them in their writing but there's a very important factoid that revokes any help they could possibly bring: they're fictional.
He sighs softly yet decides to take it anyway, because who knows. Maybe he'll be surprised; the day has been weird enough already for him to warrant any magical thing that could possibly happen.
Harry walks to the counter in hopes of finding the beautiful woman and purchase the book, but all that's left for him is a writing tablet on the surface and a note.
Take both the book and the writing tablet. You'll know what to do.
+
Chapter I: History of the Muses
Chapter II: Nine Muses
Chapter III: Different Types of Invocation
Chapter IΓ: When to Invoke Which Muse
Chapter Γ: Examples of Invocations in Greek Literature
…
Chapter Δ: How to Formally Invoke a Muse
…
Chapter H: Necessary Items for Each Muse
…
Chapter X: Appendix
There are a thousand chapters in this book. Such a small book, such small print. Harry's going to cry, he seriously is.
"I don't have time to read all of it," he mutters under his breath and decides to only check the fourth and tenth chapter. They seemed like the ones that'd be useful.
Chapter IΓ: When to Invoke Which Muse
Every muse has their own role and significance. Depending on the significance of their names, their symbol, and their history, it's fairly easy to decipher which muse should you call for aid.
Urania is the Muse of astronomy. Her name means, "The celestial one." She is normally pictured carrying a large globe and a pair of compasses.
Clio is the Muse of history and her name translates as, "glorious one." She bore a son from a union with King Pierus. Her son's name is Hyacinthus. Clio is given credit for creating the Phoenician alphabet. Her symbol is usually a book or a scroll.
Thalia's name means, "the blossoming one," and she is the Muse of comedy. This explains while she is always carrying the comic mask. She is also seen carrying a shepherd's crook because she likes wandering around meadows and other rural areas.
Terpsichore is the Muse of song and dance. She is often seen dancing and carrying a lyre. Like her sister, Calliope, she is a mother. Her name translates as, "one who delights in dance."
Polyhymnia is the Muse of sacred song. She is known as the serious muse and is generally pictured in a position of meditation and thoughtfulness. Polyhmnia's facial expression of thought is her symbol. Her name means, "Many hymns."
Melpomene is the Muse of tragedy. She either carries or wears a tragic mask. Sometimes she carries a knife or a club. Melpomene's name translates as, "the chanting one."
Euterpe is the Muse of lyric poetry and music. She is generally identified as the cheerful Muse. She is often seen carrying a flute. Euterpe's name means, "Pleasure giver."
Erato is the Muse of love, mainly in a poetic sense. Her symbol is a lyre and a crown of roses. Erato's name means, "Passionate," or, "lovely."
Calliope is said to be the chief of the nine Muses. She is the Muse of epic poetry. Calliope carries around a writing tablet. Calliope is also a mother. Her name means, "Beautiful voice."
It was fairly obvious who Harry needed to invoke for help: Calliope. The name Calliope rings familiarly in his ears and feels graceful on the tip of his tongue, and he doesn't know why; is it possible he read about her while researching epic poetry? He could've considered her presence unimportant and scratched her off.
He goes to the tenth chapter next, and proceeds reading.
Chapter Δ: How to Formally Invoke a Muse
Homer began his two epic poems, The Iliad and The Odyssey, with an invocation to the muse. This was to indicate that the writer was seeking inspiration from a higher source. Since then, Homers example has been followed by almost every epic poem writer. The only epic poem writer registered that didn’t follow this example is Dante.
Harry decides to follow Dante's example because if he's going to motivate others to indulge in a modern twist of an old fable he can't use the old fable itself. Logically, of course, he should at least read Homer's invocation, given that it's said that Calliope was his Muse, but he'll read it for personal aid instead of setting it as an example for his book.
He dips his quill into his ink (he likes to really get in the zone, although he'd die before using leather as paper) and copies off Dante's invocation from the Inferno:
"O Μούσες, O υψηλής ιδιοφυΐα, με ενισχύσεις τώρα!
O μνήμης που χαραγμένο τα πράγματα που είδα, εδώ θα σας αξίζει να πρόδηλη σε όλους!"
(O Muses, O high genius, aid me now!
O memory that engraved the things I saw,
Here shall your worth be manifest to all!)
He reads it aloud once, twice, thrice, and foolishly hopes that something happens. But, of course, nothing does. He decides, then, that he'll use the invocation written on the tablet he took home from The Iliad. He's not really sure if it's from The Iliad, the book, itself but since the written tablet is Calliope's symbol, he hopes it'll be enough to ask for help. To receive inspiration.
He picks up the marble tablet and scrunches his eyes. The text is all in Greek, obviously, so he picks up a Greek-English dictionary and arduously translate the entire script.
"Τραγουδήστε , θεά , η οργή του γιου του Πηλέα « Αχιλλεύς
και την καταστροφή του , η οποία έβαλε πόνους χίλιες φορές από τις,
εκσφενδονίζονται σε πλήθη τους στο σπίτι του Άδη ισχυρή ψυχών
των ηρώων , αλλά έδωσε τα σώματά τους για να είναι η λεπτή γλέντι
σκύλων , όλων των πτηνών , και τη θέληση του Δία επιτεύχθηκε
δεδομένου ότι εκείνη την εποχή , όταν πρώτα στεκόταν εκεί με την κατανομή των συγκρούσεων
Ο γιος Ατρέα « ο άρχοντας των ανδρών και λαμπρή Αχιλλεύς".
He manages to decipher the names Achians, Achilles, Peleus, Hades, Atreus and Zeus first and foremost because they're the easiest. He stays up until eleven in the morning but could only manage to properly translate half of the script. He orders in Java Joe coffee (not really orders in, more like he calls Cara and begs her to bring him a cup of coffee; it doesn't end well, because Cara proceeds to waste half an hour of Harry's time lecturing her about getting proper sleep) and almost chugs it down in one gulp. His fingers are twitching, his eye probably is as well, and his hair is a proper mess. When only the last two lines remain, he opts for taking a long, warm, jasmine-scented bath to calm him down and relieve some of his stress.
He comes back to the office with another homemade scalding cup of coffee that doesn't taste nearly as good as Java Joe's, but Harry hopes it does what his lack of clothes - except for some joggers - doesn't: warm him up.
The clock reads two o'clock, and he manages to finish translating at only six o'clock. He reads it over and over, and he discovers that it is, in fact, the invocation from Homer's The Iliad.
"I could have fucking Googled that," Harry grumbles but what's done is done, and he's wasted enough time. He can't waste any more. So, with a casual comment of "hope this works" and not really knowing what to expect, he reads aloud:
“Sing, goddess, the anger of Peleus’ son Achilleus
and its devastation, which put pains thousand fold upon the Achians,
hurled in their multitudes to the house of Hades strong souls
of heroes, but gave their bodies to be the delicate feasting
of dogs, of all birds, and the will of Zeus was accomplished
since that time when first there stood in division of conflict
Atreus’ son the lord of men and brilliant Achilleus.”
Nothing happens, at first, and Harry doesn't know why he's so surprised. He waits and waits and waits, but he's still as uninspired and useless as he was two minutes ago. Sighing sadly, he closes the books and picks up the writing tablet, fully intending to place it in the corner when a figure standing behind him startles him.
"Hello, I am-"
Harry rudely interrupts the person by blacking out.
+
When Harry wakes up four hours after, it's to gentle touches and a soothing voice singing softly. He slowly opens his eyes, half expecting his neighbor's cat to be there licking his face. It isn't his neighbor's cat.
"Hello!"
"Ah!" Harry jumps away from the touch and slams against the wall, hard. His head already felt like a cabbage, now it's like a cabbage getting chopped asymmetrically. He groans in pain but wills his eyes to open in order to see the assailant. And, to be honest, the assailant is too beautiful to be called "assailant". He's sitting on Harry's bedside, his small hands interlaced with one another on his lap and his ankles are crossed, making the golden sandals on his feet gleam. He's wearing an orange and peach robe, a golden belt tightened around his waist accentuating his hourglass figure. His face is sharp and sweet, his blue eyes and the small golden crown that sits adorably on top of his feathery hair makes him seem ethereal. He is… breathtaking. "Who-Who are you?"
The beautiful boy's countenance falls ever so slightly. "Oh, right, you don't remember," he murmurs. Did he introduce himself before Harry blacked out? "I'm Louis, the Muse of epic poetry. Well, formally Calliope, but I go by Louis. You summoned me?"
"Calliope? I thought Calliope was a goddess."
Louis smiles brightly and Harry's heart starts beating rapidly. What the hell? "Muses can take whichever form is more appropriate for the person they're summoned to. You prefer gods over goddesses," Louis tilts his head slightly. "You do, right?"
Harry's cheeks brighten and he starts coughing. "I, uh. Well- the thing is, I don’t- I mean, guys are-"
"You don't have to explain yourself to me. I already know."
"You do?"
Louis looks a bit alarmed at Harry's confused and slightly panicked state. "I'm a deity. I know everything."
"Ah," Harry murmurs. His eyes never leave Louis's lips while he talks, moves, breathes, or does anything, basically.
"For example, I know how physically attracted you are to me right now."
Harry flushes even more at Louis's bluntness. "I, well- you're quite beautiful, but I-"
Louis stands up and nears Harry. Harry's heart beat quickens with each step, his hands yearn to reach out and hold the Muse by his hips, and his body's burning with desire. Louis stops when he's too near Harry, when his face is mere inches away and his eyes are staring straight into Harry's. Harry can barely breathe. "Would you like to do something about it?"
Harry exhales harshly and licks his dry lips. "Didn't - I, you're so- I mean. I didn't, um, call you? For that?"
Louis blinks twice and straightens up. "Are you saying that we will not be doing anything about it?"
"I didn't say that, I mean, maybe something can happen, in the near future or-"
"Do you know why there are so many demigods, Harry?" Louis interrupts him, looking out the window. Harry has a sudden urge to hold him and kiss him silly. Louis doesn't wait for him to answer, just looks at him and continues, "It's because we gods and goddesses can't contain ourselves very much."
Harry's eyes widen at the statement and his breath falters once more when Louis looks at him. It's raining outside, and all Harry wants to do is jump out the window and cool off. "You're beautiful," he says.
Louis slowly smiles at him, softly. It feels like a private smile, one reserved only for him though Harry knows how stupid that sounds. "It's nice hearing you say that," Louis says and kisses Harry's cheek. His kiss burns and soothes him at once, and Harry feels like he's in another world.
They sit in silence for a few moments just staring at one another, Harry with slight apprehension and Louis with overwhelming melancholy. Harry wants to drown in Louis's sorrows. Before he can, though, he interrupts the silence with a yawn; it's 10:54pm.
"Well, Lou, can I call you Lou?" Harry stands up and stretches his arms. "Anyway, um, it's late? And I haven't slept in over a day, so I'll just… go to sleep. That alright?"
Louis grins and nods. "Of course it is. You don't need my permission to sleep."
Harry chuckles at the cheeky comment and smiles back. "Would you like for me to take the sofa, so that you can sleep on the bed?"
Louis's eyes widen as he shakes his head. "Oh, don't worry, I don't sleep."
"Oh, guess I should've expected that," Harry scratches the back of his head. "Is there anything you'd like to do?"
"I'd like to sing to you while you sleep," Louis flails around for a moment and looks so damn adorable Harry thinks he's actually going into cardiac arrest. "That may sound a bit weird but, y'know, being a Muse and all-"
"It's fine, really," Harry laughs and looks at him sheepishly. "That'd be great."
Louis only smiles at him in response and follows him to the bedroom. It should feel weird, it is weird, but somehow Harry doesn't mind. For some reason Harry feels… graced. Graced to have a Muse come to his aid, a lovely Muse, and help him out. Graced to have said Muse sing him to sleep. Most of all, though, he feels graced that he's got an inexplicable connection with this lovely Muse, the one who waited until his chest evened out before whispering into the dark room "please, call me Lou."
-
There was blood dripping from his hands and a heavy half spear was sheathed valiantly from one of them. His body was aching, his head throbbing, and the bones of the fallen soldiers adorned the dirty ground. Screams of glory and defeat pierced through his ears and his chest, though heaving, filled with pride. A fiery, burning feeling of rage and ire took over his being, and he was yearning murder. His mouth pleaded for the taste of blood. The crunching sounds of the bones fell deaf to his ears as he stepped on them, mercilessly; they didn't pray for him. There was a woman in front of him who bore a short spear and a shield, and she was standing defensively awaiting his arrival.
"You think you can get away with supporting the Trojans in this war?" Her voice boomed, he felt a headache forming just from that. She was fully armored and intimidating.
"Ah, lovely to see you here," his voice matched hers but it sounded sick, gruesome, bare. "Thought they'd be worshipping you for nothing."
"I, unlike you, stand with my soldiers," she, like him, towered over the fighting warriors, who ran between their feet.
"I'd do anything for my Calliope," his voice was gruff, unintelligible, and barely recognizable. He spat blood on the floor before pointing his half spear at her. "Get out of my way, or your bones will blend in with those of your petty soldiers."
"Not a chance," she grunted. "Do you really think you can defeat me?"
His hands started shaking uncontrollably and his thirst for blood only grew. He had an insatiable appetite for murder and loss, his system urged him to kill. His instincts kicked in and he bore his teeth at her threateningly. "I will if I have to."
The woman had the audacity to laugh, her cackling overpowering the pained cries of the falling soldiers. The sky turned red, blood red, and the air was musk. It was a definite sign of the upcoming battle. "You never have defeated me, what makes you think you will this time?"
"Because," he rounded up to her, heavy footsteps like short earthquakes. He brought his half spear to his mouth and licked the dripping blood as incentive. "This time I have something to fight for."
"The Greeks will win!" Her arrogance irked him. "And your precious Calliope will fall."
As she spoke those words his ire grew overwhelmingly and he charged instinctively at her, half spear elegantly drawn to combat her own weapons. He screamed in rage as he neared her, dust contaminating the air like poison in his veins, and his eyes were dead set on the target. Just when he was at a reasonable distance he threw his half spear and it landed on her breast, making her step back and slightly recoil in pain. Her pained cry was like thunder, like a thousand raging bulls, and he was close to relish in his victory; however, he was stopped by a large rock falling out of nowhere and landing upon him, making him unconscious.
+
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: First Draft
Dear Mr. Styles,
Thank you for replying to my message the other day. Needless to say, it was a relief to hear back from you. However, given the unrelated response, we would like to know if the message had been received in its totality.
This message carries out new, updated and vital information concerning the due date of your first draft. Given that there is another upcoming Greek Literature book about to be released, we need to make sure yours is out before the other. That way, we can ensure most profit. Therefore, we have modified your contract a bit and decided that your first draft must be received in no more than two weeks. We urge you to meet the deadline, or else it could mean the cancellation of your contract and monetary penalties and fines.
Best Regards,
Ben Winston, Chief Editor of Rachirds Publishing
"Oh, what's that?" Louis's glancing at the computer screen from behind Harry, where he assures he'll inspire best.
"That, my lovely Muse, is a step closer to suicide." Harry closes his laptop, not even bothering to respond to Winston.
"Surely you're kidding, right?"
Harry looks at him and smiles lopsidedly. "Yeah. Their constant modification and pressure is driving me to the brink of depression, though."
"Oh, Harry," Louis sounds like he's cutting himself off. "Let me help you in any way I can."
Harry smiles at him and takes out his quill and paper. "Okay, so how does this work?"
"Easy," Louis sits down on one of the desk's corners and looks effortlessly beautiful, his robe falling gracefully onto the floor. "I'll sing, you'll write."
"That's it?"
"Mhm," Louis grabs the writing tablet on the desk's surface and runs his fingers lightly over it, just like Harry had done the day before. "Shall we get started?"
Harry's dubious to say the least, but he did appear out of nowhere. So. "Inspire me."
Louis's cheeks redden and he starts to sing. His voice… it's unlike any Harry's ever heard. It's fine, light, high, and so damn entrancing. It's ethereal, much like Louis himself, and suddenly the words he needs to write just… come to him. He knows what he's going to write, he's got it all planned out in his head, so he quickly inks his quill and starts jotting down whatever comes to mind (he'll edit it later). His hands are moving on their own accord and it's like Harry's in a trance; he doesn’t seem to have much control over the words getting printed yet somehow he knows they're the right ones, the ones he wants to write even though he doesn't know which ones they are. It just seems fitting and right, so Harry doesn't question it.
He keeps on writing and writing for two hours straight, and just when he's about to start his thirtieth page Louis stops singing. And just like that it's as if his writer's block has returned, and he has no idea what the fuck he's writing, or what comes after he's just written.
"Fuck!" He groans, distressed. "Lou, why'd you stop?"
"I'm tired," Louis responds, a pout gracing his thin lips. "I need to rest my voice."
"Right, sorry," Harry sheepishly stands up. "Want a glass of water?"
"That'd be great."
Harry smiles and gets him some water. The lovely Muse drinks it all in one gulp and lets out a refreshed sigh. "Thank you."
"No problem," Harry sits down. "I know you need to rest your voice, but can you talk? For a bit?"
"Of course. What would you like to talk about?"
"You, mostly," Harry blushes at how blunt that seems but quickly sorts it out. "I mean, there isn't much written about you, you know…"
"It's only logical that there isn't," Louis sighs, his voice turning melancholic, "I'm just a Muse."
"You're not just anything."
Harry doesn't know what compels him to say that, but he's glad he did because the smile that adorns Louis's lips is too beautiful to be shielded. "My name means 'beautiful voice'."
"I can see why, your voice is extremely beautiful."
"I am also the goddess of eloquence," Louis continued, "I bestow gifts upon kings and queens."
"That makes you rather important, then, doesn't it?" Harry smiled at him. "You should be prayed to."
Louis bites his lip and scoffs softly. "The only thing I've done worth praying for, is be the mediator of a dispute between Aphrodite and Persephone."
"What were they arguing about?"
"Well, you know how gods and goddesses are," Louis looks at him, fingers still running over his tablet. "We want precious things. To them, Adonis was precious. They both fell in love with him and wanted him for themselves. Zeus had me be the judge of what should happen. Therefore, I judged it was only fair that he spent half the time with Aphrodite and half the time with Persephone."
"Aphrodite didn't like that," Louis's gaze lowers and a small tear trickles down his cheek. Harry gasps, he actually gasps, and he's angry with himself for making Louis talk about something that saddened him. Louis doesn't deserve to be sad; he deserves to be loved, pampered, and protected. It should be illegal for him to be sad. "Lou, you don't have to-"
"She, uh, out of vengeance for my 'unjust' decision, she stirred trouble among the Maenads. They then murdered Orpheus," Louis's voice cracked slightly. "Orpheus was my son."
Harry stands up immediately and embraces Louis in a warm, loving hug. "Oh, darling," Harry soothes softly. Louis's crying silently, gently, like he's already dealt with the grief but it still pains him. Harry threads his fingers sweetly through his hair, careful of the crown, and he feels Louis breathing heavily. "Did you avenge him?"
"Not exactly," Louis chuckles bitterly. "I can't exactly off such a powerful goddess. But, uh, when she was out hunting with Adonis a wild boar suddenly appeared and devoured him right in front of her, murdering what was precious to her."
"I've read that somewhere, I think," Harry adds, scrunching his nose, trying to remember. "The wild boar… that was Ares, right? He turned into a boar and killed Adonis in a jealous rage because he was spending too much time with his lover, Aphrodite?"
Louis chuckles wetly and wipes a fallen tear. "It was sent by him out of rage, yes, but not over a jealous one. Much less over Aphrodite."
"Didn't he-?"
"Ares was my lover."
"So he did it for you?" Harry's eyes widen at the twist because, well, he's never heard of that before. Every Greek myth and tale concerning Ares and/or Aphrodite is sure to include their riveting love tale, and how obsessed they were with each other. Of course, it's known that they had multiple other lovers but none was "worth mentioning", apparently. Yet Louis… if Ares killed Aphrodite's "object of affection" to avenge Calliope, then that must mean… "Why aren't you more publicly recognized as Ares's lover?"
Louis looks up at the roof and smiles. "That's a story for tomorrow," he shifts closer to Harry, his thighs clashing harmlessly against Harry's upper arm. Well, it seems harmless but Harry's melting. "How did you sleep?"
Harry doesn't point out that they've been awake for over six hours yet now Louis decides to ask him. "Good, mostly. Weird dream, though."
"Maybe you should pray to Morpheus for better dreams," Louis giggles, and Harry's going to die. "What did you dream of?"
As Harry describes to Louis what he remembers of his dream, Louis's eyes just get bigger and bigger at each passing moment until he's certain he's shaking ever so slightly. "Lou," Harry reaches out, "You okay?"
When his hand touches Louis's wrist the Muse jumps back instinctively. Harry takes his hand back with a frown, his desk chair edged against the wall in order to face Louis. "Louis?"
Louis looks up at him like a deer in headlights, and although Harry really shouldn't be thinking about how fucking cute he looks, he is. "So that's how," he mumbles to himself and glances at Harry. "Haz, pray to Mnemosyne every night."
He called him Haz. Haz. "Mnemosyne? Goddess of memory?"
"There are things," Louis walks up to him and immediately places his hands on Harry's face. His fingers lightly trace his jawline, his cheekbones, and they stop in the middle of his forehead. "Messed up things, in your memory. You should pray to Mnemosyne to clear everything up, fix everything."
Harry's breath hitches when Louis looks at him in the eye. They're so… familiar, like Harry's spent all eternity staring into them. Well, he may have not done so but he's certainly willing. "How do you know?"
"That dream you had? Not normal."
"Alright," Harry agrees easily. He places his hands on Louis's and brings them down from his face. "Are you hungry? Wanna eat?"
"I'd love to go to agora, haven't walked amongst mortals in a while…"
Harry hates to break him out of his wistful repertoire, but,. "No, love, I'm ordering in."
"Ordering in?" Louis's scandalized, absolutely scandalized.
"Yeah," Harry tries to smooth out the cricks he didn't realize he had in his neck until now with a hard press but it only hurts him even more. "'M too lazy to go out and, like, buy food."
Louis keeps staring at him, befuddled. He places his right hand on Harry's neck, right where he was pressing it. The thin, fine hairs there stand up, as if a cold chill passed through, and Louis softly traces the area. Harry shudders and tilts his head upward, willing Louis to follow. And Louis does; his gaze settles unto Harry and he leans down, painstakingly slow, making Harry grow more anxious with every second that passes until his nose is right against Harry's. "Harry?"
"Hmm?"
"Are we going to do something about it now?"
Harry's eyes widen. "I-"
"Because my name may not be Euterpe, but I can certainly give you a lot of pleasure."
Harry squeaks. "I-"
"However," Louis falls back too quickly for Harry to properly register. Now Louis's standing on the door frame, hip cocked sinfully as his small hands grasp the frames. The robe now seems like a body suit, exhibiting Louis's curves and form, and the golden crown tilted ever so slightly makes Harry want to get down on his knees and praise him, worship him, wreck him. "…so, I don't think it'd be a good idea."
"What?"
Louis looks incredulously at him. "Were you not listening to me?"
"I- what?"
He giggles, his voice sparkling like delicious wine in a clear glass. "Typical," he stays there like that, and Harry's worried he won't hold back. "I just don't want to mess with anything that could happen. So how about we work on that story of yours, hm?"
"Alright," Harry swivels his chair back into its original position and straightens himself. Before he starts, though, he needs to say it. "Lou?"
"Yeah?"
"You've got a spell on me."
Louis just stares at him, beautifully, a fond expression taking over his countenance. "Apparently so."
With that, Louis starts singing and Harry starts writing. With that, Harry forgets all about the food he was going to order in; he didn't feel hungry before, strangely enough, and he certainly isn't hungry now… well, at least not for food. Harry forgets all about the crick he had on his neck, one that he doesn't feel at all now. Harry forgets all about Louis's original purpose, really, because he seems to make an even more impacting addition and alteration in his life other than get him out of a rut. Harry forgets why Louis's supposed to be here because it suddenly feels like he's always been here, only that Harry never noticed him before.
+
The atmosphere was gloomy, thick, and unbearable for the most part. There was a perpetual stench of rot that encompassed the area, making it hard to breathe, but that wasn't important, not at the moment. On the right there was the beautiful, foresting image of the Elysian Fields; bright, floundering, and beautiful, probably tended by Persephone and much like Calliope. On the left, though, there was the Acheron river and, of course, Tartarus. The stairway there impeded visitors from actually seeing what was going on, but he's gone there enough to know what he might find; bodies walking around headless, discord apple trees sprouting nauseatingly from the spoiled ground, souls reviving their deaths over and over again. If he's lucky, he might have seen Tantalus, maybe even Sisyphus there carrying boulders or drowning in what's more than likely a hybrid between quicksand and mud.
As he crossed the spoilt, deceased land he could see the bones and souls staring at him, all shouting and running up and down with the news of his arrival; that is, including the judges.
"What are you doing here?" Aeacus questioned, getting down from his chair quickly and meeting up with his relentless feet. He looked at him carefully and saw the writing tablet in his hand. "Calliope? What's Calliope doing here?"
"Aren't you supposed to be guarding the Asphodel Meadow?" The writing tablet fell off his hands and transformed into the beautiful Calliope, who fearfully laced his arm around his own all the while Aeacus just looked. "And I'm here to see what punishment falls on him."
"Don't worry about the Asphodel Meadow, I put Rhadamanthus in charge while Thanatos looks over Tartarus." During their journey, they never stopped walking straight ahead, regardless of what was in front of them; they stepped on some souls that were on their way to the Elysian Fields and almost crashed into Cerberus. "This is getting ridiculous!" Aeacus exclaimed and put his hand on his shoulders, trying to push him back but ended up being pushed forward himself. "Please, stop walking for a moment and explain what the fuck is going on!"
"I can't stop," he muttered angrily. "I've been sent here on direct orders from Simon, I literally cannot stop."
"Zeus?" Aeacus looked around, careful not to let anyone hear. "Why, what happened?"
"I-"
"Well, well, well, look what the tide washed in," Hades’ booming voice deterred all motion from the Underworld. The three of them stopped instantly and looked up in reverence. Hades was standing on top of a rudimentary, destroyed, decayed building constituted mostly by bones, skulls and remains. Next to him was Persephone, smiling softly at them while he rested his head on Hades’ chest.
"I don't know who else you're expecting, but I wasn't dragged in by Poseidon."
"You most certainly weren't," Hades chuckled and jumped down, walking towards him almost predatorily. It made Calliope hide behind him, not wanting to see the God of the Underworld. "No, you were brought by the big daddy upstairs, hm?"
"C'mon, Zayn, let's not beat around the bush," he exclaimed and looked at Hades in the eye. "Just give me whatever feeble punishment Zeus told you to give me."
"Have you not noticed how much Simon loves to compromise other gods' lives to fit his personal agenda?" Persephone chuckled and approached them as well. He flicked his wrist to order Aeacus to leave and extended his arm towards the couple. "Niall here, ordered by Zeus to stay here because this idiot here was feeling lonely. Trust me, it won't be feeble."
"But y-you ended up happy, right?" Calliope questioned and all three of them looked at him. "You're… satisfied?"
Persephone looked up at Hades, who smiled at him, and nodded. "Yeah, I did," Niall then shifted his gaze to Louis. "You, however, you most likely won't."
"What is that supposed to mean?" He growled and hid Louis behind him, protective.
"Look, man, I'm sorry," Zayn actually did look apologetic, but that didn't help their case at all. "I'm just following orders.
"What do you-?"
"For your sins and treason you, Slayer, are punished to drink from the river that flows around the cave of Hypnos and through the Underworld, by her hand." At that, a beautiful green-skinned woman emerges and, fuck, they both knew what that meant. He took in a shallow breath while Calliope choked a sob, his knees giving out as he falls to the dead, moist floor.
"And, since this is a punishment for both of you and not only The Slayer," Zayn licked his lips and looked at Louis sadly. "Your story will be rewritten. The fables and the myths of the mortals will no longer be of your story with Calliope, but instead of your story with… Aphrodite."
"Aphrodite?!" He yelled as Louis fell forward, bawling like mad at the pain, the anguish, the humiliation. "I have nothing with Aphrodite!"
"We know," Persephone said softly. "But you will now. At least in the written word."
"What the actual fuck, Zayn?!" He bellowed as the green-skinned women approached him. "When King Sisyphus held you captive I was the one who went to your aid! I was the one who rescued the great Hades! And you're casting out a punishment as cruel as this?!"
"I- I can't do anything about it," Zayn responded. "I'm sorry."
The green-skinned woman was right next to him, now, and cupped in her hands was murky water from the river. "Drink," her raspy voice commanded. Instead he turned around and fell to the floor alongside Calliope. He brought his tear-stricken face to his own and quieted his cries, casting away his tears with his thumbs. "Love, don't cry."
"You won't remember us," Calliope exclaimed, his voice broken, "You won't remember me."
"But you will," he murmured, "You will remember us, and you will remember me."
"What does that matter?" Louis dry-heaved but he responded by taking away the dirt that remained on the side of his face.
"It matters because you'll make me remember."
"How?"
"Somehow, you'll find a way," the green-skinned woman forced him upon his feet and he made Louis stand up with him. He then kissed Calliope sweetly, gently, pouring his feelings into the gesture while Calliope cried. "Your kiss is unmissable. Impossible to forget, impossible to resist." One last kiss, and he murmured against his lips "remember me".
With those words, he turned around and, taking a deep breath, he conceded. The green-skinned woman poured the water in her hands into his mouth, down his throat, and all he could feel was immeasurable pain. His body was burning, his insides were twisting and crushing, and he could no longer breathe.
Harry wakes up suddenly, out of breath and sweating. He has chills running up and down his body uncontrollably, he feels his chest tightening up and impeding him from properly breathing and he remembers when he suffered from seizures when he was a kid. He had horrible nightmares, brooding ones, and he woke up sweating and trembling and his mother would place a cold pack on his forehead. He'd cry and lose total control, but his mother was always there to console him.
It's been a long time since he's had a seizure, and his mother is long gone by now, but the hands that are pressed to his cheeks radiate warmth and soothe Harry's nerves.
"Louis?" Harry questions and opens his eyes, tremulous. His hands reach up and land on top of Louis's, his eyes opened scandalously.
"I'm here," Louis murmurs and although Louis's only been here for three days now, Harry doesn't know how he ever lived without him. Harry doesn't quite remember life without him, because every time he thinks of something, he thinks of Louis being there with him even though it's impossible. "Was it a bad dream? What did you dream?"
Harry retells him and he feels Louis's heartbeat quickens with every passing second. Louis doesn't stop looking at him, staring at him, and with how his curiosity seems to lessen with every detail he counts it's like he already knows what he's going to say. Harry gets a quick flashback to the day before, to Louis's reaction to him telling him yesterday's dream, and asks, "What’s going on, Lou?"
"Would you like an ambrosia, Harry?" Louis stutters and runs towards a window Harry had no idea was ever there, opening it and letting a dove fly in and drop a stem of grapevines. Before Harry could register that a fucking dove flew in from a previously inexistent window Louis's offering him a crystalline cup he magically made appear by a flick of wrist, and it's filled with the grapevines. "It'll help settle your nerves."
"Thank you, Louis, but," Harry takes the cup and places it on the bedside table. He takes Louis's hands and urges him to sit down beside him, "I want to know what's going on."
"I can't."
Harry looks at Louis's fallen face and cups his cheeks warmly. "Hey, hey, you can tell me everything, alright?"
"No, I can't, Harry," Louis pleads, looking at him desperately. "I can't, I don't know what will happen and I-, I can't lose you, I just can't." He sounds so sincere, so defeated.
"You won't," Harry's assurance is more like a promise and they both know it; Harry just doesn't know what or why he's promising, exactly. "Tell me."
Louis bites his lip and then turns slightly in order to look directly at Harry. His deep, blue, crystalline eyes are staring directly at him and, he's not going to lie, Harry feels a bit intimidated. And aroused. Very aroused. "Harry, what you saw in your dream was the personification of Ameles potamos."
"Ameles what?" Harry furrows his eyebrows and scrunches his nose, "What's-"
"Ameles potamos is the river of unmindfulness," Louis licks his lips nervously and lets out a quick breath. "So its personification would be-"
"Lethe," as Harry says her name he feels his chest tightening painfully, a pain so gut-wrenching he actually doubles over in the midst of coughing, his head spinning hard enough for him to see blurry.
"Harry! Harry!" Louis is immediately on him, panicked and anxious, his hands running smoothly over his back to try and alleviate some of the pain. When his hands gently touch the side of his face Harry can see that they're trembling and so, so cold. "Harry, Haz, talk to me, talk."
Harry keeps coughing like he has something stuck in his throat, but there's nothing there. The more he tries to breathe the more pain he feels, and the dizziness only multiplies tenfold. "Who's the Slayer?"
"Harry, I don't think-"
"Who's the fucking Slayer, Louis?" Harry screams and the tightening only worsens, giving him nausea.
"It's Ares! It's Ares, love, it's Ares," Louis repeats over and over again. He forces Harry to look at him, his eyes so unbelievably blue. When Harry looks up his pain intensifies it and he feels himself fall into the blue abyss, into the crystalline of his eyes, and he then finds himself trapped in his mind and transported.
Harry emerged his head from the water to take a deep breath. He could feel the water nymph pull at his leg but he shook it softly, too tired to even speak. "Damn, these nymphs are crazy."
"You could say they're a bit of nymphomaniacs, huh."
Harry laughed loudly at that and shook his hair. "Good word play," he looked up and saw the most beautiful being he's ever had the opportunity to know, floating mindlessly in the air. "Wow."
They giggled and smiled. "I'm Calliope, though you can call me Louis."
"I'm-"
"I know who you are, of course," Louis cut him off. "And I gotta say, I'm not impressed."
"Not impressed?" At that Harry got out of the water and looked directly at him. "What the fuck do you mean?"
"I mean, every time you fight, especially with your sister, you always lose. That's humiliating."
"Am I detecting a hint of sexism from the god who can turn into a goddess and vice-versa?"
"Her being a girl isn't what makes it humiliating," Louis corrected disdainfully. "It's her being your sibling that does."
"Fuck you."
"You wish."
Harry tried to contain his laugh at that, he really did, but he wasn't successful. Louis accompanied him and chuckled softly, adorably, and it drove Harry crazy. "Didn't know Muses could contain that much spite."
"What can I say?" Louis lowered himself onto the ground and walked towards Harry. Now, their height difference was much more obvious, Louis's beauty was much more obvious, and Harry felt like he's drowning again. "You… inspire me."
"Inspire you?"
"Yes," Louis smiled sweetly and with a sly look at Harry's bulge, he added "just like I inspired you, huh." Harry had the audacity to blush and look embarrassed but Louis only laughed. "Would you like to do something about it?
For the first time in his life, Harry's actually nervous. "I-I, uh, that wasn't what I-"
Louis blinked twice and straightened up. "Are you saying that we will not be doing anything about it?"
"I didn't say that, I mean, maybe later?" Harry asked. "Right now I'd quite like to take you out. On a date."
"Proper mundane, don't you think?"
Harry smiled. "Proper romantic, I think."
Louis tilted his head and nodded. "Alright, big boy," he locked his arm around Harry's, and then looked at him and winked. "Show me what you got."
The memory fades, then, and another one resurfaces.
Harry was already halfway done with putting on his armor when Louis woke up. Harry froze as Louis rubbed his eyes with tiny fists and looked around, his eyes and nose scrunching up as he assessed Harry. "Haz?" His voice was rough from sleep and Harry otherwise would've kissed him, but he didn't have time now. "Haz, what are you-?"
His question's cut off when he realized that Harry has on his fucking armor and, fuck. "No, no, no," he tried to straighten up but only hissed in pain.
Harry ran to him quickly. "Lou, babe, are you okay?" He was going to place his hands on him but Louis slapped them away in a fit of rage.
"Don't fucking touch me right now!" Louis exclaimed. One look at Harry's truly worried state made him sigh, though, and he calmed down a bit. "I'm fine, I'm just sore from last night."
Harry smiled at that and laughed softly. "Gave it to you good, huh."
Louis, however, just looked at him sadly. "Where are you going?"
At that Harry sighed and continued putting on his armor, taking his time now. "There's a Trojan war occurring right now and I've been summoned."
"Just because you've been summoned doesn't mean you have to go."
"It's the Greeks versus the Trojans," Harry continued and finished getting ready, his half-spear was in his hand as he replied. "All of the gods and goddesses are rooting for the Greeks. I need to be there for the Trojans. For you."
"Is she there?"
When Harry only nodded, Louis sighed. "Oh, Harry," Louis stood up slowly and approached Harry. If Harry didn't know him better he'd say he was seducing him with his naked body, but Harry knew that when it came to serious things like these Louis didn't joke around. "Thank you, love, but it's not necessary for you to go."
"But they need me!"
"I need you!" Louis exclaimed, "I need you here Haz, with me. Please don't leave me."
He looked so fucking heartbroken that it hurt Harry, it physically hurt Harry to do so… but he had to. "I'm sorry, Lou. The war's calling me."
He took two steps forward when Louis stopped him with the worst thing possible, probably. "Goodbye, Ares."
The thing is, they never do this. When they're together, when they're intimate and just themselves, they never call the other by their formal name. It's their way of rejecting their titles and functions and just focus on being together, on being themselves. On the outside their relationship wasn't exactly approved of, so they had to act all formal and strict, but here… here they forgot all about that, and threw caution out the window. So when he called him that, it hurt him, it deeply wounded him because it was Louis's way of rejecting their status to themselves.
Harry took a deep breath and looked at Louis, broken. Just as he was about to leave, Louis spoke up once more. "Harry!" The God of War turned around quickly, hopefully, and felt the heavy feeling being lifted from his heart as Louis smiled. "Be sure to come back home."
It ends, though, it all ends before he can regress enough to fully rationalize what's going on, what happened, who's who. Although the pain from before is virtually gone now, he feels like his spirit is no longer attached to his body; he's lightheaded, confused, and there's a sinking realization that he doesn't belong. The last words he hears are itched into his cranium, painstakingly so, and the grainy, raspy voice makes him lightheaded. You can't remember.
"You can," Louis interrupts suddenly, and Harry's broken out of his repertoire. He cups his wet cheeks, wipes away the tears with his thumbs, and presses a kiss onto his lips. "Remember."
"I," Harry's burning all over, his body feels heavier and he's lightheaded. "Who am I?"
"Remember," Louis captures his lips again and again, his warmth and familiarity prompting Harry to close his eyes.
"Who are you?" Harry lets himself fall onto the mattress, Louis's touches and kisses making him lax.
"Remember."
It's bruising now, his kiss. It feels like it's gnawing off his lips, his skin, his identity, and he's giving him a new one. Louis's touches bring back memories, memories of him bleeding, burning, killing, and dying. Bruising, Louis's bruising him. He's imprinting in him an old, new life, and Harry can barely breathe. His teeth bite into Harry's bottom lip and he responds by licking into his mouth. "Louis."
Louis whines and smiles against his lips. His hands burn through his clothes, burn through his metal, and Harry's senses are intoxicated by him. Dreams are no longer dreams, but rather his life is the dream now. He's floating into a senseless reality, one that belongs to him, one that perhaps belongs to Louis, too. Harry's immobile while Louis burns everything, soothes anything that hurts, and touches him even more. His hands let the pen fall, let the ink smudge his palms so that it becomes a part of him, because it is him. It’s him and Louis, it's Louis and him, it's Calliope and… Suddenly, there's nothing more than Louis's lips bruising his own.
Remember me.
"Here rise to life again, dead poetry!
Let it, O holy Muses, for I am yours,
And here Calliope, strike a higher key,
Accompanying my song with that sweet air
which made the wretched Magpies feel a blow
that turned all hope of pardon to despair."
- Dante, Purgatorio, Canto I,l.7 to 12