A couple of years or so in the future.
The call of a Siren invaded Nathan's ears under the guise of a whisper.
It was soft, her summon, born out of the screams of his greatest nightmares and the regrets they kept trapped beneath their auriferous tongues--stained with the blood of the Gods.
It was deceitful, created with the sole purpose of seducing him away from his lingering dreams and buried memories with the illusory promise of Ithaka.
"It's late," his Siren informed him, reminding him of the long hours that had written themselves onto the smooth skin beneath his cloud-tainted eyes and the bended ivory bones of his poorly-treated spine--ever the kind mistress. "Come back to bed."
"Later, I have papers to grade." He murmured in response as he gestured at the stack laid out neatly on his desk, mimicking her tone while repeating the same lie for what seemed to be the millionth time.
The papers in question sat unmarked, playing the part of the perfect excuse even as a thin layer of dust came to embrace them.
In truth, he had not even turned to look at them, preferring to gift his eyes to the four walls that kept him confined in his self imposed cage, in his eternal torment and doom.
It made one wonder, wonder if he had ever dared to step outside of the Inferno; if he had ever travelled across the Purgatory; if he had ever found himself in Paradise or if it had all been a creation of his mind.
The Siren standing by his side, provided proof of his travels but perhaps the angels had seen him for what he truly was--a trespasser--and returned him to his house of flames. Perhaps, that was the reason why his flesh sizzled each and every time he touched her; perhaps it was a reminder of the fact that he was doing something blasphemous.
"Then I will wait for you."
Sirens were patient creatures, content in bidding their time and letting their victims fall into their open arms.
They didn't attack.
They didn't need to.
But she is not a Siren, he reminded himself soundlessly as his lips twitched with grim admiration, she is a muse.
"Gwen, you should be resting."
A shame he didn't know; Muses were not to be denied.
They weren't known for their patience.
"I can't." She informed him. Her refusal awoke disappointment in him judging by the twitch of his jaw but there was nothing inside of her willing to care, not a single bone, not a single blood vessel. "I can't sleep without you."
Nathan watched as her eyes abandoned his wretched form and fell onto the abandoned pile, the tilt of her full lips growing more and more bittersweet after each question she came across. An invading thought confessed the reason behind her expression.
Through these questions, she was seeing the man she'd loved; the man he didn't have the heart to tell her had been lost somewhere in the Aegean sea, a sacrifice to the waves to sate their hunger; the man he'd chosen to drown in order to save himself.
"Doesn't it bother you," she asked, stubbornly keeping her attention on the papers so as not to spare him. "The way people view art as though it was created for them, the way they tear it to pieces and desecrate it when it does not appeal to them?"
His Siren knew which song to sing for her words to be absorbed into his skin.
She knew what to say to drag him into her depthless sea.
"Answer me." She carried no remorse for the way she tormented him, no remorse for how she made him suffer for a single touch as she settled on his desk, the bare heels of her feet tucking themselves between his casually spread legs. "It's only fair. After all, you made me lose my sleep, you can spare a few moments to entertain a midnight thought for me."
A sigh left him.
It was deep, born out of the union of sorrow and misery, the long lost brother of nostalgia.
"Gwen-"
"Answer me."
Another sigh left him, this one deeper, heavier as though tired from dragging its immaterial body from his lungs.
Regardless, he obeyed her, of course he obeyed her.
"The ignorance of mankind has long since stopped troubling me. Let them hide in their arrogance, let them boast and hate what they could never begin to comprehend. Let them stand like sheep in line for hours to look at the Mona Lisa and then complain over the size of the painting, never seeing beyond it, never detecting the light, careful strokes," His palms settled on her knees, his fingers travelling across the sea of her moon-bitten thighs while dripping enough yearning to compete with that possessed by that of salt-dressed Odysseus. "The precision and the craftsmanship," The symplegades of her thighs parted for him, subconsciously accepting the torture, if but for a moment. "The desire and the love, the need."
Gwen's coffee coloured eyes remained on his face throughout the criminally brief monologue, observing the way the harsh lines of his physiongomy deepened, the way his eyes--painful to even behold from all the emotions they elicited--lit up with the first signs of thunder. It stole her breath, the sight of seeing him alive after such a long time, so much so that she never gave much thought to his touch, not even when it abandoned her.
"Satisfied, darling?"
"No, but I suppose we all take what we can in this world."
He didn't like the expression she wore-that lingering hope, that regret--it didn't suit her.
Even more, he didn't deserve it.
And yet, there was nothing he could do to cure it, nothing he could do other than pretend and lie to her in the hopes of her blind love shielding her away from the cracks of his ill-crafted mask.
And so, afraid of his failure, he remained silent and still.
"You know you can't avoid this conversation forever." Gwen almost flinched as he drew away from her, as the silver of his eyes hid beneath a dreadful sky of clouds, as the fragments of his soul hid inside his empty shell of a carcass once more. "It's not good for you, this silence, this martyrdom."
"I'm not being a martyr, Guinevere."
But he was.
It was so easy for him.
After all, Nathaniel Russ had never been one to accept triumph.
The perfectionist in him never did permit him such liberties, such petty emotions. It thought them weak. Triumph was for those who basked in their ignorance, those who bended the knee to arrogance and found no fault in their rotten minds.
He differed from them, he found nothing but faults and worshipped them like a patient devotee even though he knew his Gods to be false.
"Nate, please." The clouds darkened, preparing for a storm that would never be unleashed, a storm that would drown them from within. The clouds darkened and his fingers trailed up her thighs once more. But she pushed them away, all too familiar with his tricks and distractions.
Even when he returned and promised no mercy, she sent him away.
Even when her need began to paint itself a garden on the apex of her trembling thighs, she sent him away.
"It appears we are both denying each other tonight." Nathan murmured, dismissing her as he grasped the pen lying discarded next to her as though meaning to return to the papers. "Go on, then, love. I still have papers to grade."
"I'm certain they can wait for a few more hours."
"No, as a matter of fact, they cannot." The dust made a liar out of him and so did the pen which slipped out of his fingers--so foreign in his hold--and fell onto the desk with a dull thud, too low for the sound to register through the static of their collided gaze. "Go to bed, Gwen. I'll join you once I'm finished. I promise."
A kiss on her knee was all he allowed himself; a moment of weakness before he was forced to withdraw, regardless of what his body and heart commanded him to do.
She remained still, sorrow rolling off of her in waves as she regarded his profile--stone carved and brooding--realising that he would not yield. Not without a fight. "You said that last night, as well. And the night before that. And the night before that. Frankly, my love, I have grown rather tired of your promises."
"I had work to do then, as well."
His attention fell on the ink bleeding on his flesh--a souvenir from the pen, never turning to look at her, not even as he felt heartbreak slipping through the cracks of her lips. He couldn't face her, not right then, not while his demons wept and begged him to release them, unable to bear the torture of having to live inside his mind. "I took too many classes this year and believe me, it was a mistake I certainly do not plan on repeating."
A fingertip slid across his cheekbone, marking the flesh with symbols of old Gods and marks of age-old superstition. It must have burned him, her touch, for he closed his eyes shut and parted his lips even when there were no words left to speak. It must have destroyed him.
"The book has also taken a toll on me."
"You haven't been writing." Gwen stated, calling him out on his lie as her finger travelled towards his hairline. She watched as his carotid pounded, silently pleading with her--much like his demons--for mercy; the mercy of having her hands sink into the thick masses of his hair; the mercy of curing his body from its endless ache; the mercy of allowing him to forget. "You haven't written a single word in months, not since . . ."
He didn't correct her.
There was no sense in lying.
It was true what she'd accused him of, he hadn't written a word in months but that did not mean that words didn't flood his brain, that he couldn't feel them laying thick on his tongue like blood, that his ink stained fingers didn't ache to bring them to life.
Regardless, he stopped himself from such careless actions, having believed that each word brought him closer and closer to his doom, his ultimate transformation into a creature of no soul, a vessel of tales.
No, Nathaniel Russ did not accept triumph.
And so, after the book was finally published after countless of drafts and rewrites, after countless of hours spent in vain and several wars against his publishing house and the editors brought to his door, after gaining the favour of the public opinion and tasting victory as the dithyrambic reviews by the critics echoed in his ears, Nathan refused to celebrate, he refused to create.
He refused to settle.
The first tag of his tresses told the tale of her frustration. But it spoke in few words, remaining laconic, forsaking the long and flowery, comma ladden sentences they both preferred in their work. "You need to talk to me."
"About what? My inability to finish yet another book? As though that's something new." Even the stain on his fingers appeared to mock him. "I'm merely stressed, I will be better."
Excuses, excuses.
Gwen's shoulders fell, baring her naked flesh as her borrowed shirt slid down her arm, as defeat stained her visage of clay. The war would not be won, not tonight. "Alright." She told him. "Alright. Do whatever you want. Hide yourself in this room if it pleases you and lock me away or throw me beneath the carpet like the rest of your problems. It's what you do best, after all."
"Gwen-"
"No. I'm terribly sorry if I insist, I simply thought that after everything we have been through you would have learned that secrets can only cause harm, that you would have learned to trust me enough to share your demons with me but I guess I was mistaken. Goodnight, Nathaniel."
She stood and turned to leave then, feeling truly helpless for the first time in the months since he'd grown strange.
But before she could take another step, a hand wrapped itself around her wrist, stopping her.
"Fine." The professor murmured, evidently frustrated as he forced himself to reach into the top drawer of his desk which thrived in creative chaos and pulled out a letter hidden at the bottom. "Fine."
He thrust it at her. "Read it, if you insist."
Gwen took the letter in her hand, noting how worn it appeared. The letters had faded at some parts as though someone had attempted to erase them, over and over again, as though the thought of even seeing them was too unbearable. Her dark eyes travelled across each line twice, not quite understanding the context or the letter and how the animosity behind its treatment could ever be excused.
"I don't understand." She stated and dropped the letter on his lap, so distracted that she didn't notice how it fell to his feet. "This does not excuse your behaviour. This does not excuse your sudden desire to distance yourself from me nor does it excuse your petty lies. The book did well. So well, in fact, that they are offering to renegotiate your contract. How does this excuse anything?"
A sigh slithered past Nathan's lips as his fingers curled around his glasses, the air seeking its freedom after being abandoned in his lungs, feeding poison to his blood. He removed them, setting them beside the papers, a slight tremble accompanying his fingers.
"You wouldnt understand."
"No? Forgive me for not being on your intellectual level, professor-truly--but I do not believe that I am too dim witted to comprehend a basic explanation. Unless, of course, you carry a different opinion."
"Goddamit, Gwen! I feel like I am selling you." His hand curled around the edge of the desk until pain bloomed in his brain and his knuckles were left devoid of blood. "It feels like I am exploiting my life for my art and there is no way I can stop it, not this time. It feels like I'm turning into him."
It feels like I am turning into my father.
When he'd been young it had been an honour, how his father would boast over their resemblance, their shared talent. He'd been happy to let himself be paraded before various friends and co-workers, never seeing, never realising what this resemblance might mean, what it could eventually cost him. His mind, his sanity.
His life.
"I wondered if I'd lost you. Some nights I wondered if I should allow myself to lose you, free you. And I spent so much time justifying myself, thinking myself better than them, the writers of your tragedy, but it was all a lie. I was . . . I am nothing better, a mere tyrant with an invisible cage. And if salvation comes at the price of never writing another word, I will gladly abandon everything for you."
Soft, parted lips and pained eyes greeted him as her palm curled around his chin, lifting it, and for once, the truth became a poison.
He took possession her wrist again, dragging it to his lips to abandon all his venom onto her, knowing she would accept it, knowing she would welcome it like a long lost lover even if it came from the most worthless of snakes.
"Stop." She commanded but he could not.
He needed to touch her, needed to feel her breaths grow shallow against his lips, needed to have her steal away his sorrows and all the terrible thoughts that kept him awake and away at night.
Only that could save him.
Only her.
"Stop." Gwen murmured furiously as she attempted to draw herself back instead of allowing her body to succumb; and yet he dragged her closer as though she'd never spoken, as though he'd never heard her. A sharp tug caused her to fall onto his lap. And it was comforting, the proximity. She could pretend that nothing had changed, that the eight winds hadn't shifted.
Subconsciously, she buried her lips on the foothills of his neck and traced the contours of his collarbones, comforting him while concealing the way her eyes filled with tears, the way her heart--that poorly stitched organ--tore open with pain. "Nathan, stop it."
"I'm only obliging to your request, my love. You asked me to explain, over and over you asked and now you refuse to listen?"
"I didn't know what you were going to say." She basked in his warmth, letting her flesh absorb it as he seemed to settle against her, his hands pressing her closer to him, until even their bones lay connected. She could only hope they didn't turn to dust when touched.
It had grown into a terrible habit, his insecurity, his need to assure himself of her existence, his need to tie her to him. He had become the very thing he accused Hades being when feeding Persephone pomegranate seeds in that poem he'd read to her some nights when sleep evaded her, forcing them past her lips even years after her initial encounter with the fruit of the Underworld.
Always afraid that she would forget him.
Always terrified that she would regret him.
Like Persephone, Gwen sought to comfort her dark Lord in his moments of doubt. And so, she lifted her head and cradled his cheeks into the palms of her hands as her forehead fell against his and their eyes collided. It was a comfort, how they held the same spark of lust after all these years, the same love, the same adoration.
"You are not your father." Nathan stared at her in disbelief, his lips twitching sardonically as his invisible crown fell to his neck and started suffocating him. "You are nothing like him and you will not repeat his mistakes."
A lump took residence in her throat. "I admit that when I first saw the manuscript, when I first read it, it hurt me. I felt violated, used. I could hardly stand to breathe."
With each word the heavy brows that adorned his eyes fell lower and lower, concealing his shattered expression as though to protect him from showcasing even a hint of weakness. Of course, that would be too much for his pride, the knowledge that he, too, was human. It would remind him that his kingdom had not been built upon endless Erevos but paper and ink.
"I don't want to listen to this."
"But then you came back, you bared yourself to me and I saw it through your eyes, I recognised the intention behind it. You wished to give me catharsis in the only way you knew, did you not? And you spent two years over those same pages, correcting every syllable that did not appeal to you, that you believed didn't do me and our tale justice, did you not?"
He did not respond, he could not.
"You are nothing like your father." Slowly, her hands slid down his neck, mimicking his beloved belt as they curled around his throat and pressed until his breaths came shallow and sharp, until his flesh grew warm and hard and begged for release. "You are selfish and arrogant and you seem to hold yourself above all others but you are also kind, you are loving to those you consider worthy of your love."
"You didn't know him."
"No, I didn't but I do know that he loved you even if the only way he knew how to show you was to draw you closer to his path and share his world with you because he knew no other language to speak. I also know his love left you scarred and you lived your life thinking that love is meant to hurt and so you tried to stop yourself from loving. And I also know that regardless of your father's influence and your efforts, it is not who you are, no matter how hard you try to convince yourself."
"I have carried this fear in me for so long but now it has manifested into something greater, now it has become real. It will not be long until I find myself lost in the same world he did." He traced her collarbones with his fingers, allowing them to move to the foothills of her throat. He felt her carotid pounding beneath his touch--the only indication that she was even faintly affected by his games. It made him smile. Briefly. "And then, you'll give up on me, as well."
"You must not know me very well if you think that."
"I'd rather not face the possibility, should it ever come to be reality." But his fingers dropped lower and curled around the soft swell of her stomach. "Especially now."
"Is this about the baby?" A knot of worry slithered inside her stomach. "Is that what caused your reaction? Are you worried something will . . ."
"No." He assured as something switched inside him, as a sense of undeserved happiness travelled in his blood. "Of course not, I'm not daft enough to believe that because it happened once, it will happen again. I simply don't want her to grow up resenting me. I want a family, Gwen, not a house of muses."
Despite his melancholic words, a familiar tone had returned to his voice, something small and inconsequential, something that made Gwen smile. "And you think you will have a family if you continue to push me away?"
Greedy fingers slipped underneath the oversized shirt in lieu of a proper reply, seeking her flesh as though seeking refuge against a storm. The garment slid away from her body and fell discarded on the floor, following his silent command. He couldn't bear not to admire her as she had always chosen to present herself to him, naked and shameless with the power of a Minoan Goddess.
Only that would save him.
"I need you." His tongue passed over his lips as he beheld her. The sensation reminded him of sandpaper and head spent lost in the desert. "If I don't have you, I think I'll drown."
"If you're only doing this to soothe my fears and deny the fact that you need help, then let me go right now, I'm not willing to become a mere escape." Gwen whispered the words with great reluctance as he unbuttoned his own shirt and sent it to meet hers, miles upon miles of smooth, hard muscle exposed. Their perfection was only disturbed by the jagged lines he'd once used to turn his body into a work of art few could ever truly appreciate and understand, much like da Vinci's masterpiece. "You can't keep hiding from me, I won't tolerate it. Please."
"No." He vowed as his tongue pounded with the quivering of her pulse. "No. Never again, I promise."
It would be cruel to claim that life began and ended in circles, that perfection could only ever be found in purity when even adoration had become blasphemous.
But there was something holy in the way trust shone in Gwen's eyes among the fragments of pain and lies as he placed her upon the desk with practiced ease; there was something divine in the way her back arched to accommodate the exploration of his fingers; there was something pure in the way the symplegades of her thighs clenched and fought to remain parted, in the way they trembled.
He sought her flesh like worshippers sought sanctuary in the midst of war and she, always kind, rewarded him with trails of kisses and scrapes of her teeth against his carotid, offering a token of her affection and endless hunger.
"I'm sorry." He whispered as he felt her teeth pierce his flesh and steal away his breath. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
"I know."
"I love you."
For many, these words were used in a frivolous manner and far too often to hold any true significance. But from his lips, they tasted like a confession, the product of pure, selfless worship and ungodly servitude.
Always in the form of a whisper.
Always in the form of an echo, built for the temple of her flesh.
"I know."
"I love you but you frighten me."
But it was her eyes that darkened in rapturous fear as he placed his arms on either side of her body, caging her against him with an eagerness only ever possessed by sea-torn Odysseus when her found himself on Ithaka's soil; his Paradise; his home.
Perhaps, it would be appropriate to strip Gwen off the titles of Siren and Muse as his caresses marked her flesh, as her nails created paths on his back for they were too small, for they didn't capture her essence and give her another; Penelope.
Penelope who had waited, Penelope who had loved, Penelope who was deserving of the entire world.
But no, that title didn't fit her either.
"I love you but you just might ruin me."
"You're already ruined, you have nothing to fear from me." His breath fell on her gently curved stomach, harsh and pained with remnants of dread and overwhelming desire. He was suffering. Even as he abandoned kiss after kiss on his home, even as he wordlessly thanked her with zealous fingertips running circles between her thighs, he was suffering.
It wasn't enough.
The word adorning his wrist still burned.
Envy.
For who did he envy more than his own self?
"Tell me you love me." He commanded and pressed deeper against her, feeling liquid desire coat his hand. "Tell me."
"I love you." She whimpered, her nails digging into the flesh of his back, her hips rising frantically to meet him.
"Again."
"I love you."
Again and again he asked, each time more desperate than the last.
It blinded him, her love.
Nevertheless, it was the only thing that allowed him to truly see.
"Forgive me." He begged against her tremulous heart, watching her lungs fill with air only for it to be stolen on the next breath and leave her gasping for more.
"As long as you remember that I am not simply inspiration for your art, there is nothing to forgive." She threaded her fingers through his hair then, dragging his mouth to hers on the line between Hell and Paradise.
His lips twitched unexpectedly as they broke a part and he returned to his original position. His fingers traced her freckled, moon-bitten thighs with smooth, even caresses that reminded her of that first time at the amphitheatre. "Even if I wanted to, I don't think you'd let me forget."
"Of course," Nathan continued as he laid his weary head on the supple flesh of her inner thigh, tasting her uneven breaths on his tongue as his own burned hot against the damp fabric of her lacy underwear. "It would be tyrannical to allow this burden to fall onto your shoulders alone."
Of course, Atlas would never allow such a tragedy.
"And what do you propose?"
"I think it's time I remind myself that art only belongs to the artist."
Surprise!
For those of you who don't follow me on Instagram this might seem just a little bit unexpected, seeing as a year has passed and this isn't even the bonus chapter I'd promised but anyway, I hope it was a pleasant surprise.
There will be more to come but they'll be a bit slow, given the fact that I'm trying to finish TTOD at the moment.
Btw, did I mention that their daughter will get her own book? And her own professor?
Question: What would you like the next bonus chapter to be about?
Ps. If you enjoyed this chapter, don't forget to vote and share your thoughts!
Until next time,
Theodorina.