#5: enter muse

I would never be fated to become a phantasm of paradise. It's a hard thing to reconcile once you realize its truth, but I knew this for years before Penelope, years, and therein lies the paradox of Jessica—she freed me, thereby ensuring my doom.

Jessica of the Lilacs. How often I've dreamt of becoming her Atlas Knight. How clearly I remember her hair—a deep red, like blood. Her hair was fire in the winds.

Few men have the fortune of meeting a Muse in their time here on Earth, and in my sixteenth year, my death was thus put into motion.

I could not look her in the eyes. The Philosopher instructed us to stare deeply at the person beside us—to look deeply and discover them. I looked. She watched me from an angle, ruby lips upturned in amusement, until I could not stand it—I observed the sandals on my feet.

Such beauty in this world is rare. Such beauty is surprising.

I could still feel her eyes on me. They were blue. But it was the soft kind of blue, the kind with the promise of secrets—the kind you never really turn away from.

Sometimes, I'd play my shepherd's pipes for the Philosopher and my fellow disciples. It was a trivial hobby—we all had our pleasures. But Jessica took to my songwriting in a way more intense than any other, and when she asked for a private audience, I played for her. I played every song I knew, reciting parts of epics between each tune, and when I exhausted it all, I did the only thing I could—I wrote more. I composed new stanzas, and told her they were ancient.

Behind her smile, I knew she never believed me. But what did she say that delighted and surprised me so? "More, Eurymachus," she said. "Give me more."

—Eurymachus, February 18, 2003