Chapter summary: We will never lose each other again… we will never forget to remember.

Acknowledgements: Half of this chapter's credit must go to BelleBiter, because she spent almost as much time as I did on it. Which means this story, this chapter, wouldn't sing nearly so well without her tireless efforts. Thank you so much, B.

A/N: Thank you times 23 to MinaRivera for the fabulous story banner and the animated gif. Also to Rachel Winterhorses, for her research, pre-reading and baseball skillz.

Something is wrong.

There is a musical, rushing-water sound that makes me think of the fountain at the building where I work - an unbroken gurgling, a soothing kind of white noise that must have lulled me right into oblivion.

Shocked, fearing that I've fallen asleep while on my lunch break, I jerk myself up with a gasp… and see that I'm lying on verdant, emerald green grass. It's so lush and thick that I cannot feel the ground, and when I run the top of my hand across the blades, it's the softest sensation of velvet, cool and fragrant, like… lavender? The sweet scent is everywhere - in the grass, carried on the gentle breeze that caresses my face, completely surrounding me - and I close my eyes as I inhale deeply.

For long moments, I lose myself in this pleasure of sound, sight and scent - an unexpected, but strangely welcome balm for my soul. Then, like a second thought that doesn't really concern me, I wonder where I am.

As I shift over onto my hip and look around, I don't know what I'm more surprised about: that I'm barefoot, that I'm here—wherever here is—or that there is now a Niagara-sized waterfall suddenly, spectacularly in my line of sight, just beyond the tips of my bare toes. I don't know how I missed it before, but as its expanse fills my vision and the whooshing becomes a gentle pressure I feel pushing against the soles of my feet, and a roar I feel in my bones... my heart stops… and then races until I'm panting in awed disbelief.

On the sloping hill at my side, pink anthuriums, gold begonias and pale bluebells dance on the wind, bringing their own scents to mix with the lavender in the air. Velvet spokes of purple fountain grass, deep in color at the roots and growing lighter the taller they grow, compete for my attention, and I hardly know where to look.

It's almost as if this place exists simply to beguile each of my senses one-by-one, leaving nothing unexplored or untouched—an encounter that's designed to capture my every attention, one that's bound to forever change me. Surely, dreams must be born here... and prayers answered... the possibilities fathomless.

What is this place?

On shaky arms, I push myself up and walk across the grass towards the waterfall as—whoa, it's a cliff that came from nowhere—and, heart slamming, I stumble backwards hastily.

Once I catch my breath, I cautiously approach the edge again, wary of such sudden danger lurking in the beauty here. Down, down, down the water falls, and I almost shrink back when I see how far above I am from the lake below. It's so far down that I feel as if I am standing on the top of the world… just a lone girl at the precipice of something profoundly magnificent.

But as majestic as the turbulent falls are above, below is a mysteriously still lake - a juxtaposition of unnatural nature - which stretches out farther than I can see. I openly gape at the oddly perfect, symmetrical placement of rust-and-lichen-covered rocks in the lake that the water seems to embrace, the way the light shimmers and teases its way through the falling cascade. Little twinkles of color flash inside the still water and along its border, and I nearly fall off the edge of the cliff when I see why.

White, rose and yellow diamonds of different cuts and shapes are embedded in the soil that surrounds the unusually serene lake. I even see them in the bank of the cliff I'm standing on - almost as if at some point, a frustrated pirate had just poured his treasure trove down the side of the embankment… and then called it a day.

When the breeze, water and sun unite to hit the stones just right, an iridescent mist rises in the air. In the deepest part of the lake, what look like emeralds and sapphires sparkle and dim, giving the water an ever fluctuating, ethereal quality.

This, I see as I turn slowly in place, this place is like someone commissioned Monet to create a three-dimensional reality from one of his garden paintings.

Am I dreaming?

I have to be dreaming.

This isn't real...

It's so quiet here. Too quiet…

During my senior year of college, I took a trip to Niagara Falls, and I remember that its majesty was indescribable, and how its presence hit me square in the stomach, surrounding me from all sides. I've heard the deafening roar of a waterfall that size, actually felt the crash of the water resonate deep inside my body; I've smelled the unique, crisp scent of the rising spray at the bottom from hundreds of feet away. But this unlikely, gem-surrounded lake seems to be absorbing the crash of water. Embracing it. Containing it.

This should be impossible.

But it's not. Obviously, it's not.

Closing my eyes, I tilt my head back under the sun's warmth. This place smells like Grandma Swan's flower garden after a good rain, and feels like the expectant hush between four and five a.m. - just before the world awakens and gets to business.

Above me, the sky is a deep, cobalt blue. Several lightning bolts continuously spear the heavens, dropping six-point stars of red, gold and violet to nest in leafy bushes. Some of them burst into sparks of fire upon contact with one of the gigantic, intricately-carved statues that I suddenly notice…

to…

my…

right.

I'm so startled by their sudden appearance that my foot twists and skids backwards in the grass - and I fall right on my behind.

They weren't here a moment ago.

I would have noticed a milk-white, opaline quartz statue that stood over twenty-feet-tall, let alone two, four, six… twelve of them—and wheredidtheycomefrom?!

Sitting there with my mouth gaping, I watch them glow with a soft light from within, rivaling the gem-filled water for beauty. And then… then, right before my eyes… the flat, emerald expanse of grass behind them begins crawling upwards and shaping itself into a hill.

I'm on my knees when it stops—a subject of genuflection before an unimaginable phenomenon—when a temple with elegant Corinthian columns starts to rise and build itself from the ground up. It appears first like a spirit shadow, gaining density the higher it goes, and the ever-darkening pure white against the emerald grass and cobalt blue sky is vivid, striking.

If I tilt my head just-so, I can see the statues in front of me in perfect placement between each of the columns. As if the statues and the structure are one and the same…

And that can't be just by chance.

I hear whispers on the wind, faint melodious voices speaking in unusual cadences and syllables, words that make no sense to me, yet are oddly familiar and beautiful nonetheless. They are trying to tell me something, and I cock my head to listen…

And that's when it all bursts into an unmistakable realization for me.

The statues are of the twelve Olympians of the Pantheon, although I'm not sure how I know this. It should be strange that I do—is it because I heard the voices? But somehow, it just feels right.

I push myself up to my feet and reverently approach the first statue, which is of a severe-faced Hera—sister and wife to Zeus. The peacock at her side has feathers that stand taller than I do. Hesitantly, I run my hand along the smooth, opalescent curves of its body, marveling as the feather's eyes morph from milky white quartz to sapphires and emeralds.

They are the eyes of Argos, her faithful servant, and they are closely monitoring my every step…

And normally I would be freaked out by the never-restful guardian, but he senses that I am not a threat, and so neither is he.

Ad quem venisti. Gaudeo te inveni huc vestri semita. Tu es vere parem perfectum Terpsichore.

I tilt my head back, blinking up at Hera's stone-carved face in surprise.

It's… her. I am hearing her thoughts in what I think is Latin, and somehow understanding them in English.

She is pleased that I found my way here, and she believes that I am truly a perfect match for Terpsichore.

For E, she tells me.

Next to Hera is a rather serious-eyed Apollo - with his appraising stare and his u-shaped harp, the lyre. His body suggests long lines of active fluidity. As the master choreographer of the routine I saw at the theater weeks ago, he wants to know if I can sing with any more skill than I can dance.

I feel myself flush. The Mentor of the Muses has seen me dance?

Regretful, disappointed, I bow my head to him, because a singing voice is not one of my gifts. The sudden vibration of a mournful, discordant note on his lyre makes me wince, and I move quickly past him - on to majestic Athena, the goddess of wisdom and courage. She is poised in an aggressive stance with her hand on her hip, and her snake - whom she tells me is named Neith - coils around her body almost sensually, both like a lover and like armor. She is skeptical of my painting as a useful skill, but wonders if I might be interested in learning how to aim a bow.

"Volo honorari," I whisper disbelievingly. I would be honored to study the arts of skilled defense under her watchful eye.

Ares, the God of War, stands tall and proud next to her, embellished shield at his side. My heart races at his stony gaze, which seems to be a long, slow assessment of my person. He believes that with the proper training, I might become a worthy killer, purely due to the advantage of my vulnerable appearance.

Oh, but I could never. It was devastating enough just to witness my mother's death, knowing I wasn't enough to keep her from wanting to die. In a sense, it made me feel as if I somehow contributed to her death.

And… am I wrong to think that - like a supplicant at the gates of heaven - I am right now being judged and sized up and interviewed to determine my worthiness for entrance?

I'm shaking my head, moving swiftly away from Ares, when I hear the sound of metal clanking against metal. It's an airborne owl who screeches as it flies past me, its eyes fierce and unblinking as they meet mine.

Perseus' pet, Hestia tells me, and he's harmless.

I'm still backing away from the statues, unbelieving of what I am seeing and feeling and hearing, when I abruptly fall backwards, again, over the bristly hide and sturdy bulk-back of a wild boar with angry red eyes. It growls at me menacingly until something unseen draws its attention, and its head cocks in reaction. Then it turns and runs right off the cliff, effortlessly leaping across hundreds of feet over the body of still water, straight into the waterfall… where it disappears without a trace.

He's to be a part of tonight's dinner fare, Hestia says with an apologetic tone. And apparently Dionysus called for the pig before you showed up—

A deep rumble begins shaking the ground, and I stay splayed where I am, as my attention is drawn to the largest statue solidly situated in the middle of the Olympians. The stone cracks along the scepter he holds, a jagged line that begins at the tip where it touches the ground, quickly widening as it approaches the thick, jewel-encrusted heft.

Before I can understand what's happening, the scepter is breaking free of its stone casing, dust and debris cracking, crumbling, crashing down around me as I scramble on outspread hands and feet out of striking range. For long moments, I can't see or breathe through the powder carried in the air, and I cough spasmodically.

"You dare to appear here, mortal?"

The double-timbre voice is fearsome and resonant, striking at me from the inside out, leaving me dazed and trembling. In the heavy, dangerous silence that follows, I slowly uncurl my arms from over my head to see that the scepter is raised above me menacingly.

Glowering down at me is the most beautifully wrathful face I have ever seen, scrambling my wits and stealing my breath. His how dare you eyes glow like liquid silver-blue mercury under thick, slanting brows, and his mouth is drawn into a severe scowl. With his long, flowing white hair and robe, he is a blazing presence from head to toe, a sight almost too bright for me to gaze upon.

Holy everlasting God, it is Zeus.

Deus omnes deos, my thoughts whisper.

And E's angry, possessive father.

I sense angered impatience at Zeus' behavior from the now-silent Olympians, but know that they will not… cannot... help me now, and the lack of their assistance and camaraderie stings. Was I mistaken in the thought that I was beginning to belong somehow?

Fear and anxiety make my tongue thick; my life may actually depend on it, but there is no way I can possibly speak, even if my throat wasn't dry and scratchy. I don't know why I'm here, but I'm terrified, and wondering if he's going to obliterate me from his landscape.

E, please help me.

Almost immediately, the sky goes dark as another disturbance from the heavens seems to send the sun behind roiling clouds, casting whatever world this is to gray as a pinpoint of auburn-tinged light shoots straight toward us. The closer it comes, the more I tighten and curl into myself, until I'm just a ball of fear. I don't think I've ever been so scared in my life.

"The Mother of All Fate greets you, God of the Titans and Lord of Justice."

As daunting as the first voice was, the second, which is decidedly female, is even more formidable with its tone of silk shot through with steel. It snaps the attention of the fearsome Zeus away from me at once.

He is nonplussed by the female entity, who seems to carry an aura of golden fire within her being. If Zeus was hard to look upon, she is impossible: I see only the silhouette of a female, and I can't help but curl back into my fetal pose. But I move in such a way that I can keep them both in my sights, peeking up at them through the gaps of my badly-quivering fingers.

But as Zeus grudgingly lowers his scepter, I experience an unexpected sense of benevolence and security…

From her. From Ananke, The Mother of All Fate.

Is she here because of me?

Like a rush of warm emotion, her voice fills my mind.

Ecce ego con te nunc, puella perditis. Ecce ego vobiscum sum omnibus iam.

Lo, I am here for you, Girl of the Lost. I am with you all the time.

She is here, for me; and suddenly, she is everything, everywhere. I don't understand it, don't even begin to comprehend why she would be here for me, but everything tight inside and out unfurls like ribbon, leaving me weak with relief.

And as she bids me to stand, I suddenly comprehend that I am not to cower in front of - nor bow too low in abject supplication - to Zeus.

I can't not rise, even when I wish to stay hidden and small as possible against the ground; the compulsion to stand is impossible to ignore. As I slowly do so, I seem to draw from her power… my feelings of fear and insecurity being chipped away, bit by painful bit… until I am body, heart and soul secure in the magnitude of her power, certainty and devotion. For the first time I can remember or even imagine, I feel... as if nothing and no one is going to harm me.

The thrilling rush of relief, joy and gratitude at that has me quivering from the inside out, and I am on the verge of crying through tears. I clench my jaw, pressing my tongue against the roof of my mouth to hold them back.

I am dying of thirst; if only—

And suddenly, my mouth is no longer parched, and I can swallow freely.

"Hear me, Ruler of Sky and Thunder, for the Mother of All Fate decrees this daughter's destiny as her own. She, who is fully aware of all that has transpired; she, who would inspire the minds of mortal populations with her creations; she, who is worthy of redemption when weighed upon the scales of those losses and merits."

Zeus seems to straighten more and more as each word is spoken, until he is almost as stiff as the scepter at his side, while the Mother Goddess is all persuasive movement and argument: expansive in her logic, without seeming to implore based solely upon connection or sentiment.

"As there are seven colors around our largest moon of Titan, seven planets of the ancients, and seven heavens above, so shall there be only seven complete cycles of day and shade's night for my Girl of the Lost. Finem doloris in posterum magis speranda, Domine."

There is more hope to be found at the end of grief.

I feel such immediacy of relief at her words that my knees buckle and send me to the ground again.

And this time, I do sob; I bury my face in my hands and let go. The sudden alleviation of the gaping hurt... the awful memories that come without measure... the doubts and fear of it happening again that tore through me like a knife... just suddenly gone?

It's too much, it's too much.

A fierce, angry wind whips my hair across my face, and has me raising teary eyes to see that while Zeus may have lowered his scepter in deference, he is far from giving up. All around us, thunder rumbles. Heavy, dark clouds are rising behind him, and I see them roiling and unfurling, then coiling again, as they advance on us like a snake after prey.

"She, a mere mortal of Earth, may be taken and sent at will;
He, my made Muse, is my son - and hence subject to mine.
As has ever been, his fate is his father's to determine and distill
However oft this mortal tempt the Fates re-spin her Moirai line.
She is not to ensnare or dictate, as womanly whim sees fit;
He is not meant to fall prey to earthly passion, but to inspire it."

The Mother Goddess lets her fiery colors wane, until she appears before Zeus as a woman… a woman with a cause. Her robe is as white as his, trimmed in gold and topaz stones that match the shades of her hair. Although her head bends slightly and her voice softens as she speaks, I know she is not giving in an inch. The ramrod-straight way she holds herself, her fluid, subtly progressive steps forward—how they languidly eat the space as she moves—her very demeanor suggests a restrained, deadly and patient lioness.

I wipe at my wet face hastily; I must be strong, too.

"Ah," she chides, "would you really curse him so?"

Zeus slams the scepter he holds against the ground sharply, and the now gray emerald grass seems to roll under my feet.

"Above all others, you alone have power to intervene and interfere;
Mother of All Fate: what is thy reasoning for this now? As needs be here?"

The space between them crackles with blue electricity, and raises the hair on the back of my neck. It's the charged, expectant air just before lightning strikes.

"I ask you this: How many lifetimes must she live to lose the one she loves before it is enough? Is my daughter so unworthy of the Muse of Dance?"

"You claim a new daughter?!" Zeus booms, and the Mother Goddess advances on him. She is half a head shorter than he is, but her stance of easy confidence is such that I do not fear for her.

Instead, I fear for him. Zeus seems to be posturing in front of her rather than really trying to intimidate her.

"Allow her to prove her worth, as Psyche did for Eros. She who was first a mortal, searching the world for her lost love when he was taken from her. And at his mother's command to perform such impossible tasks, to prove her love or fail, Psyche did succeed. And she was reunited with her lost love.

"Surely you could not demand any more for your son? Will you not show him leniency this time? He has loved and lost the same; I would ask that you not let it become his blameless curse, for no sins have been committed beyond those indulgences which you yourself sought amongst mortals."

Zeus lets loose a thunderbolt that cracks open the ground between where he and the Mother Goddess stand. Gasping, I flinch back.

"As his father is cursed, so should he be!"

"We can remember," she says, in her iron-wrapped-velvet dulcet tone. "We are not forever lost to each other; not if we can stand here like this. Not if we can right that wrong for our children."

He bristles at her tone, and a funnel cloud starts descending from the sky.

But then: "There must be some equality," she persuades, her voice gentle as a kiss. For long, long moments, they do nothing but stare into each other's eyes.

The darkness at his back slowly lightens, and the ground's gaping slash somehow knits itself back together… bringing them closer to each other again.

"And so I see how: I have, at the least, won your attention now," he says.

"I can but wish you had not sought these measures; to toy with this mortal's life is beneath you. And for Terpsichore, I beseech you for a different ending."

"You know well what I desire," he growls.

"If that is what your will requires," she counters.

And the wind kicks up again, sending the edges of their robes fluttering wantonly - and then settling familiarly - against each other's.

He takes a step nearer to her, now looming over her; protectively - or threateningly - I can't tell which. Bending close, he wraps a hand around one of her wrists, tugging her closer. "I do not take sacrificial lambs to bed."

"Then take a lioness instead," she says, and presses herself against him.

The charge I sense between them is stunning.

I drop my eyes to my feet in embarrassment. Have they forgotten I am here? Seeing this?

But just before they disappear together, the Mother Goddess turns and addresses me directly.

"Seven days, Girl of the Lost, ere you rise to Olympus and fulfill your destiny beside Terpsichore. So it is now to be written, and so it shall now be yours to fulfill."

My destiny?

I take an unsteady breath as they both face me, and the twin focus of their stares makes me stagger back on my feet. His expression is still stern, glowing, his eyes like silver ice. Ohhh, he doesn't like me, but he likes her more than he doesn't like me…

It's the first time I've seen her face head-on, and she is fiercely beautiful, all sharp gold and white contrasts. Such pale skin, such dark eyebrows, such a full, wide mouth. Her eyes are cat-like, the pupils a horizontal slit... making her seem sleepy, content. Her expression is open, inviting, not at all full of the outrage I would have imagined at his kind of bargain.

And it's then when I suddenly realize: they love each other. That they probably have since the beginning of time… and it hasn't waned. And if she loves him… if she loves him like this, and always has... he must be so much more than the relentless ruthless ruler I have seen until now.

Which means, hopefully, that there may be a chance for a future with E, after all.

Her golden head inclines my way, just before she steps into Zeus' waiting arms, and they slowly fade away while gazing into each other's faces.

Decide your purpose as Muse. Make me proud, Daughter.

. . .

I feel a faint tickle of lavender-scented breeze across my face, and my eyes blink open to see a string of pinkish party lights suspended over my head. Beyond that are the sea foam walls of my childhood bedroom. The sun is slanting in from the window, and dust motes dance in the sharp-edged rays that paint the carpet.

I am wide-awake, my body strong and rested as it hasn't been in a long time. I can breathe without the air getting trapped in my throat, and the gaping hole in my stomach—that awful sense of dread caused by the knowledge that I was probably going to lose E again—is just gone. I feel as if everything so wrong is finally being put to right.

Because that was not a dream. The idea of mortal me in the midst of all that godlike perfection is not fading from my mind; instead, the images and feelings are only sharpening. Becoming more real with every passing minute.

And I don't have to turn my head, or sweep my hand through the sheets to know that my Muse is not here. My body and heart ache at his absence, but I know that he was called away, because my awakening is something I have to realize, and come to terms with, on my own.

Make me proud, Daughter.

Mount Olympus is real.

And even Zeus capitulates to the power of love.

The most powerful weapon on earth is the soul on fire…

E is mine.

And I am his.

All past seven lives inside of me sigh and settle, the harsh, red memories somehow digging less into my heart. It still hurts, but I can breathe better now because we will never lose each again. We will no longer be compelled to forget to remember.

My heart racing, I sit up in bed to hug myself in exhilaration.

Today is the first day of always.

The first day of seven.

The last days of reality to my unreality.

I have no idea how to be a Muse, or what may have possessed the Mother Goddess to think I could become one. But she has inspired what she set out to get, and in such a timeless way…

I lose myself to thoughts of what they're doing at this very minute, and flush, because I feel disrespectful thinking about such a thing. But still, I realize with shock and humor, when it comes to sex, a male God is really not much different from a mortal man.

Moving to the dresser where my laptop is, I'm startled at the reflection of a girl with a tangled mess of hair on her head, and I pause. Mirror, mirror, on the wall: who's the most confused of all?

Retreating back to my bed, I pull my laptop across my knees. I don't know much about Muses, really, other than that they help to inspire people. And I'm just… me. An accountant who paints on the side.

How on earth am I going to inspire anyone?

Hopefully, Google can help.

. . .

Saying goodbye to Dad without it seeming like it's the last time I'll ever be able to say the words, to hug him, is surreal and bittersweet. At the back of my mind is my long-awaited destiny, and while it colors my every thought and action now, my heart aches for the loss he'll feel when I'm gone.

How am I going to be gone?

Will I just disappear?

I can barely talk past the lump in my throat, but I force the words out. "I'm going to send you one of those perpetual motion toys," I say against the fabric of his chest. "Every swinger should have one."

He chuckles. "Smart-alek."

Don't cry, don't cry.

"I love you, Dad."

"Love you, too, kiddo," he says with a last squeeze before he lets me go.

As I pass through the gate, I look back and wave at him.

He's all blurry.

. . .

United Flight 1007 to LAX is packed. My seatmate, a lady with Little Orphan Annie curls and a Kindle she isn't reading, won't keep quiet.

"He has a marijuana garden, not a real job," she huffs about her son, before we've even taken off. "And he thinks he can take care of a family? Hah!"

She plucks at the seatbelt across her lap and squirms. "God, I hate being confined, don't you?"

I turn my face to the window to smile, but what I really want to do is ask her to be quiet. Doesn't she know I need to think?

"The air on these planes always dries my mouth out something horrible. I'm always so thirsty by the time we land. Metal coffins of recycled air is what they are," she grumbles.

I wish we were landing right now.

Or that I could just disappear from here and reappear at home.

That power is going to come in handy.

"Where did you say you were from again?" she asks, while the airplane attendant demonstrates how our seats are also flotation devices.

I give in with a sigh. "I didn't, but I'm from—"

And then her chin suddenly kerplunks down on her chest, and I stare at her disbelievingly. I've heard of narcolepsy before, but I've never witnessed it.

I put her to sleep.

It's E's gentle, mellifluous voice.

In my mind.

She was annoying you. And me.

Startled, I try to stand up from my seat and fall back with a huff, because I'm already seat-belted in.

"Where are you?" I whisper.

You don't need to whisper. I can hear your thoughts.

You CAN?

Now I'm shifting in my seat, because the thought of that is damned uncomfortable. His world is still unknown to me; he can do things I haven't even dreamed of. And some of those things are blazingly terrifying.

You can read my thoughts?!

Only when we are linked like this.

Linked? Linked like what?

When our minds are both open to each other. I was thinking of you, and you must have been thinking of me.

?

.

!

We've done this already. When we made love.

I cough. Fan myself.

I… I thought that was my imagination.

No. That was us, together, communicating as one.

You can HEAR my THOUGHTS.

His silence screams at me.

That's not fair, I tell him.

It happened when I fell in love with you, and you with me.

And I am all squishy-mush inside, because this mind-meld thing we have going on seems so intimate. It feels as if he is caressing my mind…

Will this change when I become a Muse?

Will you be able to keep me out, you mean? No.

I get the distinct impression that he's hurt at my question, and my stomach takes a dive as the plane takes off.

He's hurt that I would want to keep my thoughts secret from him.

.

.

.

You cannot hide from me, Bella, he says. I told you that before.

I thought you were just angry when you said that, I tell him, and my internal voice sounds like a wail. But you can hide from ME? Because—

No—

For hundreds of years, you did.

The thought is fleeting and still reed-thin in tone, but leaves a scar across both of our minds… and my face crumbles at the mushroom explosion of his pain and mine.

I would never—

I didn't mean—

—have left you had I but known!

—to say that! To think that!

I feel his hastily-retracted anguish, and I'm sure he senses the way I squash my own into the corner of my mind, trying to stomp it into oblivion.

The I nevers slowly, slowly recede, as the I need yous, I love yous and the I'm never going to let you go nows fill my mind, heart and soul. I am quivering on the inside in relief and longing for him… full-up with his love, and craving the feel of his chest over mine, as I sit strapped in that airline seat.

I will NEVER hide from you, Bella.

I let it sink into my bones; it's a welcome balm against my flayed senses, but not good enough to override my horror at the idea of him reading my thoughts, or how easily I can unwittingly hurt him. Obviously, this ability can be a curse, too.

Your secrets, your darkness, your anger and fear… they will never be a curse to me. I swallow them whole. Give them all to me, for I crave every facet of who you are.

The truth, the sensation of the feeling behind his words, washes through my soul, and now I'm trembling on the outside, too.

He is making love to my mind.

.

.

.

"Would you like some peanuts?"

Again, the seatbelt keeps me from leaping out of my chair.

"Sorry," the airline attendant whispers to me, thinking that my seatmate is sleeping. "But would you like something to drink?"

"Oh. No, thank you," I say on a gasp.

"Do you think she wants anything?" he whispers, and points at still-oblivious Orphan Annie.

"I, um, don't think you would have enough time to fill all of her wants," I answer.

He looks startled, his mouth curling up, before his face resumes the polite, decorous behavior of an airline attendant pushing soft drinks and party peanuts.

"Well, let me know if you do need something, hun." And then he turns to the other side of the aisle.

That wasn't very charitable, E chides gently, and I blush mildly in shame… then go hot at our complete body-heart-soul attachment.

Hush. My servitude doesn't start for another seven days.

.

.

.

E? Why seven days? Why not two? Or eight?

I am not sure. But we lost each other seven times, so perhaps each life we lost to be together is a day you've earned to say your goodbyes.

His voice is hollow, desolate as he speaks the words, and I close my eyes tightly as my pain echoes his.

Never again, Bella.

Never again.

I never have to lose you again.

It's my heart's mantra.

And then I wrap my arms around myself tightly, because I can't quite think of losing Dad, or Alice, either.

So instead of trying to face that unreality, I turn to another… and try to imagine what life might be like as a Muse myself. What my purpose should be.

You already know who you want to be, Bella.

I do?

Don't you?

My heart is suddenly pounding in excited fear.

How do you know what kind of Muse I want to be?

Because I know you.

The tone of his voice is especially mellifluous now, and it curls around inside me in the best, most wicked kind of way.

Believe in yourself like I do, Bella. You won't make a mistake… I am here to be with you, and I will help by guiding you.

I shatter oh-so-gently.

Every double-timbre syllable he sends into my mind embraces my heart, surrounds my senses, permeating me to the bone. He's close, so close, my name in his every word, as he brokenly whispers a final promise.

I will always be your Muse, my love.