Topic: Be-Muse

Elena · Date: 2015-09-01 13:15 EST

Like most writers, Michael did his best writing very early in the morning or late at night, when the world was quiet and settled down to sleep. It wasn't that he was an insomniac exactly, but sometimes there were so many thoughts running through his head that he just couldn't manage to get his mind to rest. Tonight, however, wasn't one of those nights. He'd gone straight to sleep, his trusty pen and notebook on the table by his side, his beloved wife resting peacefully beside him. The two of them had come a long way from where they'd been a few years ago when he'd first arrived. With each other's help, they'd managed to overcome their addictions, rebuild their lives and careers, and rekindle the love that had once blossomed between them into a thriving marriage.

As the couple slept, an eerie glow filled the room, seeming to emanate from the figure that slowly coalesced into view. She was tall, dark-haired, ethereal in her beauty. She was also transparent, and hovering several inches off the floor. Her hand reached out to touch the author's shoulder, a low voice calling his name. "Michael ....Michael ..."

"Hmm ..." he murmured in his sleep, not consciously aware of anyone else there, but for his wife sleeping peacefully beside him. Whether or not the dark-haired beauty was real or a figment of his imagination was as yet unclear, but the voice, at least, was familiar to him as it tugged at his sleeping brain.

"Michael ..." Whoever or whatever she was, she was determined to have him wake up, and impatient, too. Rolling her eyes at his lack of response, the ethereal shape reached out and smartly flicked his ear. "Michael! Wake up when I'm talking to you!"

The flick of his ear was what did it, grumbling incoherently as he batted a hand away that was only partially substantial and scowled in the dark. "Cut it out, El. I'm trying to sleep," he growled, eyes tightly closed.

"Not Elena, try again, hunky," was the answer that came - not from the bed at his side as he might have expected, but from beside the bed on his other side. "What is it with me" Do creative men intentionally make sure they're out of it before I turn up?"

The fact that the voice speaking to him was definitely not Elena's and coming from the opposite side of the bed startled him awake. "What the hell ..." he muttered, bolting upwards and turning to face their intruder, expecting to find one of her sisters playing a practical joke - most likely Mataya, though in the foggy state of his mind he wasn't quite sure how or why Mataya might show up uninvited in their bedroom in the middle of the night. Okay, so it clearly wasn't Mataya, nor did she look like she belonged to the many denizens of hell.

Alight with some other-worldly illumination, the being who had woken him hovered beside the bed, majestic and mysterious. Her garments suggested an ancient culture long since lost to time; the tangle of her dark hair artfully arranged to make the most of her long, slender neck. She looked down at him with dark eyes and spoke. "Michael Donnelly, you have done well. But it is time you returned to your work. Inspiration is my gift."

"Work?" he echoed, clearly confused and thinking perhaps he was still dreaming. "Wait ..." He furrowed his brows at her in the dark, waggling an accusatory finger at her. "You seem familiar ..." It wasn't every day that a strange ghostly presence appeared in his bedroom, especially one as beautiful as her. "I've seen you before." If he could just put his finger on it ...

She stared at him for a long moment. Then she sighed, and appeared to give up. The glow faded, her body became completely solid, and she dropped down onto the floor with a harrumph. "Honestly, why do I bother?" she muttered to herself, moving to select the pristine copy of Rhy'Din Nights off the bookshelf. She waved it in front of his face. "This is good sh*t. You need to write more."

"No, wait!" he said, worried she'd disappear before he had a chance to find out who she was exactly and why she was there, but it seemed she was not leaving just yet. He glanced over at Elena to make sure she was still sleeping, though it might be a good thing if she woke up and witnessed this herself, as she was never going to believe him in the morning. "That?" Michael chuckled quietly, grabbing the novel out of her hand. "That's drivel. It's nothing more than an elaborate soap opera pretending to be a novel." It wasn't quite that, but it wasn't Shakespeare either. "So, which one are you? I'm figuring you have to be Calliope because I'm not an artist or songwriter."

The muse looked at him with resigned patience, setting down the book to lay her hands on her hips. "Homer called me Calliope, yes," she allowed with a certain amount of amusement. "He had no idea about personal space, either." She eyed Michael with a wry smile. "So you remember me, huh' Interesting, I thought you were completely out of it when we first spoke."

"Homer, huh?" Michael chuckled, forgetting to keep his voice down. "Now that was a masterpiece," he said with an envious sigh. He knew he could never write anything even close to the Iliad or the Odyssey, and yet, he was a best-selling author twice over, and that had to count for something. He frowned worriedly as he looked over at Elena again. "Can she see you?" he asked, wondering what would happen if she woke up to find him talking to someone she might not be able to see. Turning back to her, he furrowed his brows at her statement. "I thought I was hallucinating," he explained, wondering how much she knew about him. "I was ....sick," he said, for lack of a better explanation.

"Shakespeare and Dickens were mine, as well," Calliope offered up, relaxing her stance as he seemed to accept that she was really and truly there. She glanced at the woman sleeping by his side with a faint smile. "If she woke up now, I imagine she'd probably try to brain me with that baseball bat you two keep under the bed. So yes, she'd see me." She chuckled, sitting down comfortably at the end of the bed. "You were suffering withdrawal from an addictive substance. Believe me, I've seen it all before."

"Would you, uh, like a cup of tea or something?" he asked, thinking it might be better if they left the bedroom so that Elena didn't wake up and fulfill the muse's prediction. "Shakespeare," Michael said with another sigh. "If only ..." He followed her with his eyes as she moved from the floor to the bed, frowning when she admitted she knew all about his little addiction. "Yeah, well ....Where were you ten years ago when I really needed a little inspiration' Or was this some kind of lesson I had to learn on my own?"

"Oh, you mean ten years ago when you first got the idea for Boston Nights?" she asked innocently. "And spent the next couple of years perfecting it before daring to send it out to agents and publishers" Gee whizz, I wonder where I was on that night. Can you guess?"

"No, I mean after that ....after it was published, and I was trying to come up with another book. The publishers wanted another book, but ..." He was frowning again. Between the death of his parents, Elena's rejection, and the pressure to produce another best-seller, he'd nearly lost his sanity, turning to booze to soothe his hurts and help him cope. It had been a mistake, but one that he'd learned from.

"I'm a muse, not an angel," she pointed out quietly. "What could I possibly have done for you during that time" You were in no state to accept inspiration without twisting it into revenge or further foolish behavior. If I had even tried, you would probably have used the inspiration I gave you to successfully kill yourself."

"So you waited until I was sick from withdrawal" What makes you think ..." He trailed off, realizing it wasn't her he had to blame for his lack of inspiration but himself. Even if she'd come to him while he was in the throes of addiction, he wouldn't have been well enough to have done anything positive or productive with her inspiration, but once he was determined to recover, that was another story. "You inspired Boston Nights?" he asked, curiously, backtracking a little.

Elena · Date: 2015-09-01 13:17 EST

"Well, technically all I do is open your mind to the possibilities," Calliope explained. "It's up to you what you do with that. In your case, it wakes up your imagination to the point where you have to start writing. You are the one who crafts the story."

"Yeah, well ....I'm out of ideas. You know what the publishers ....what the readers expect from me" They're never satisfied. They always want more. They want something bigger and better than the last book, and I'm not sure I can top it. I shouldn't have to top it. Each book should tell its own story and stand on its own merit." He sighed again as he tried to put his feelings about what he did into words. "There are times when I'm writing that I feel like all I'm doing is ....I don't know how to describe it, but it almost feels like I'm just channeling it or something. Like the characters are really alive and they're telling their story through me."

"Which is what makes you such a good writer," the muse informed him. "Look, who says you have to stick to the same genre" Who says you have to make it bigger and better" There are plenty of writers out there, successful writers, who have stuck to the same formula for years and have a huge fanbase. But yeah, I'm kind of here to tell you to leave the thrillers alone for a while. You've done two, that's what people are expecting from you. Take up fantasy, or humor, for a little while. See what happens."

"My agent and publisher?" he asked, almost as if he was unsure of the answer himself. Had he sold enough books that he could choose what he wanted to write without having to worry about what people expected of him' He wasn't sure. "What would you think if I wrote a book about you?" he asked, tentatively. Not a biography exactly, but maybe something with a fantasy spin.

The expression on her face turned from sardonic amusement to almost excited wonder. "Really' You'd really write about me?" she asked, astonished. "That's never happened before. I mean, sure, they give me credit when they remember ....but no one's really written about me."

"Well, everyone would think it's fiction, of course," he pointed out - at least readers on Earth. People on Rhy'Din might know better, and yet, a story was a story. "They say everyone has a story to tell. What's yours?" he asked, with an almost teasing smile. Every book had to rely on at least a little bit of research, and maybe this conversation was his.

She laughed, wiggling a finger in his direction. "Sneaky, sneaky," she teased, but her entire demeanor had relaxed since he had expressed an actual interest in her, rather than what she could do for him. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything," he replied, though that would obviously take a lot longer than a one-time conversation. His smile widened, as he realized she seemed actually pleased with the idea - it was one she had inspired, after all, just by showing up to help him, especially now that he was conscious enough to comprehend it.

"Then I should leave you with a few names to research," she laughed, "since you are not going to learn all the details of my life in a single night, and you will need your sleep. Where is your notebook?"

He arched a brow, curious what names she was going to give him, already feeling the adrenaline and excitement that came with the birth of a new idea coursing through him. He was doubtful he'd sleep any more tonight, but time would tell. He reached for the pen and notebook he always kept handy on the table at his bedside. "Right here. Shoot."

With a faint smirk, Calliope watched him prepare himself, glancing just once to the woman at his side who simply rolled over and tucked her head underneath the pillow. "My father was Zeus; my mother, Mnemosyne," the muse told him. "I have eight sisters, each born in the same moment I was - Clio, Euterpe, Thalia, Melpomene, Terpsichore, Erato, Polyhymnia, and Urania. And we were called the Muses from the moment of our birth. I did not have a childhood; I came into being as I am now. And I have always loved a good story."

He felt a little like a reporter as he scribbled some notes as best he could in the dark, though this was going to be a novel, not strictly a biography. He'd thought about journalism at one time, but had decided to take his writing in another direction. "Go on," he said, not wanting to lead her in any way, allowing her to tell him what she wanted when she wanted.

"In the world I come from, the gods were real - are real," she told him. "They still walk the earth, but there is little room for them any longer. I came into being because humanity had begun to need me and my sisters - they needed our touch to inspire the great works of creativity they were beginning to build. I have touched many in my long life, but only a few have truly risen to be recognized by the world - Homer, Shakespeare, Dickens. Ovid called me the Chief of all Muses, but what I inspire is epic poetry, the writing of prose that tells a tale that expands beyond the page on which it is written."

"And yet, Dickens is chiefly known for his novels, not his poetry," Michael pointed out. If he had to pick one of Dickens' works that stood out among the others as his finest, he would probably have to pick A Tale of Two Cities, though that was just his personal opinion. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times... Gods, how he'd kill for an opening such as that.

Calliope's smile deepened. "Epic poetry is what they called it then," she told him. "That became novels, novellas, short stories, plays, screenplays. The telling of a story through prose. Homer's Iliad and Odyssey, both are epic poetry, but are they poems?"

"No, I suppose not," he admitted, knowing the difference between poetry and epic poetry, but only just learning what forms of writing she inspired exactly. "So, you inspire works of fiction. Stories, for lack of a better word. But you don't inspire everyone, do you? I mean, did you inspire Stephen King to write his first novel" Anne Rice" Nora Roberts?" he asked, namely just a few of the more prolific modern authors.

"I personally visit only a very few," she admitted. "But I send inspiration to everyone. Not everyone uses it, and there are nine of us. Not everyone is inspired to write a story. Terpsichore is especially smug for having inspired the creation of Stomp, and that was years ago."

"Yes, I understand that. I mean, I know each of you inspires a different form of art." He remembered that much from his Classical Mythology classes, but what he really wanted to know was about her personal story. What had her life been like" Had she ever been in love" Did she have any regrets" Was immortality a gift or a burden"

Calliope considered him for a long moment. "Tell you what," she suggested, "you do the research. Look me up, learn what stories they tell about me and my sisters. Then you'll know what questions you want me to answer." She leaned forward, touching her lips to his brow with the flash and tingle of inspiration offered to him. "I should go."

Michael scribbled a few more notes before lowering the pen and paper to his lap with a small frown. "But I'll see you again?" he asked. If he was going to write a novel centering on her life, he was going to have to know more than that. If he was going to ask her more questions, he was obviously going to have to see her again. "I don't know how to thank you," he admitted quietly.

"Of course you'll see me again," the muse promised him. "When you need me, I'll be here. That's how it works." She rose to her feet gracefully. "Be happy in your success," she told him. "That is all the thanks I truly need."

"But what about Elena" What do I tell her" She'll think I'm seeing another woman," he pointed out worriedly, as she rose to her feet, his gaze following her. If he was going to do this, he was going to have to see her again, and he couldn't keep it a secret from Elena forever. He didn't want to keep it a secret, but was this something he should share and would she believe him"

Calliope laughed. "Tell her the truth," she told him in amusement. "She won't always be asleep when you need me to be here. A little warning might prevent her getting hurt trying to protect you." The glow she emanated began to grow in strength once again as she shifted from solid to transparent, rising up from the floor to hover. The effect was spoiled somewhat by the wink she sent in Michael's direction. "Try and get some sleep before you start scribbling."

Elena · Date: 2015-09-01 13:18 EST

"Protect me?" he echoed, arching both brows, unsure what she meant by that. Why would Elena need to protect him from his own muse" He was frowning again, not really feeling like sleep - not now that she'd inspired him to write a new story.

Laughing once again, the muse shook her head. "Good night, Michael. Good luck." As she spoke, she began to fade, the glow around her intensifying before it, too, faded from sight altogether, leaving him alone with his sleeping wife and a mind filled with possibilities.

"Wait!" he called as she faded from view, but it was already too late. She was gone, but she'd promised she'd return. "I know I'm not dreaming," he muttered to himself, as if to convince himself in case he doubted himself later. He looked over at Elena again, knowing he should go back to sleep but too excited to do so. He pulled the pillow from her head and touched a kiss to her cheek before carefully sliding out of bed and quietly padding toward his office.

Perhaps it was just as well Calliope had chosen to visit in the small hours of the morning. At least he'd gotten a few hours of sleep before she had awoke him and set his imagination into overdrive. Even so, Elena still woke to an empty bed a few hours later, the sheets where Michael should have been lying cool and rumpled. Blinking sleep from her eyes, she slipped from the bed herself, padding on bare feet to his office to make sure he was only working and hadn't been kidnapped in the night.

It wasn't particularly odd for her to awaken to find him missing from bed. It wouldn't be the first time inspiration had come upon him in the middle of the night or very early in the morning and he knew better than to wait before jotting it down. It was why he kept a pen and notebook at his bedside and carried it with him wherever he went. You just never knew when a good idea would come to mind, and good ideas rarely kept until later. So, it probably didn't come as any big surprise to find him sitting in front of his computer, a mug of coffee that had already gone cold on the desk beside him, along with his trusty notebook and pen.

She smiled faintly at the sight of him hunched over his keyboard, moving to gently smooth her arms about him from behind. Her lips touched his cheek tenderly. "Morning," she murmured. "Press save and step away from the computer, or you're getting oatmeal. Cold."

Was it morning already, he wondered, tapping away at the keyboard a moment to get his last thought down before he turned his attention to his wife. "Morning to you, too," he told her, turning his cheek into her kiss, a soft smile on his face, even if he was obviously distracted by his work. "I'll just be a minute," he promised.

"Mmhmm." She chuckled next to his ear, knowing his habits as well as he did. "You get five minutes. Then I make you oatmeal instead of bacon." Kissing his cheek once again, she straightened up, stretching out her back as she slipped from the office toward their kitchen.

He scowled at the thought of oatmeal. She knew his feelings about that - as far as Michael was concerned, oatmeal was something he'd eat when he was old and had no teeth left to chew. He sighed as she stepped out of the office, debating between research and breakfast, but as he well knew, Rome wasn't built in a day, and he needed sustenance as much as anyone. He finished off his thought, hit Save, and closed the program, closing his notebook, as well, and sliding it into a drawer of his desk before moving to his feet and taking his cold cup of coffee to the kitchen for a refill.

Of course, he was very lucky in his wife when it came to meals. By the time he reached the kitchen, she already had a fresh pot of coffee almost ready to go, something baking in the oven, and something else on the stove being watched over with careful eyes. She wouldn't really have made him oatmeal, but Elena did know how to motivate her husband these days. The smell of coffee, eggs, bacon, sausage, and potatoes filled their little kitchen.

He certainly had no complaints when it came to meals - he'd benefited by marrying a wife who loved to cook and who, after much soul searching, had even decided to open her own restaurant and catering service. Food was never a problem in the Donnelly household, which was a good thing, but cooking was definitely not his forte. "Mmm, something smells good, Mrs. Donnelly," he said as he came up behind her and kissed the back of her neck. "Sleep well?"

She smiled, leaning back into him as he kissed her neck. "I did, actually," she nodded, giving the potato, sausage, and cheese mixture in the pan a shake before turning to face him. "How about you? Get any sleep at all before you got all fidgety and had to go and make love to your computer?"

"I could have made love to you, but we already did that earlier," he pointed out, with a teasing grin, though that had never stopped him before. "I got some sleep," he admitted, touching a kiss to her lips before making a move for the coffee.

"Oh, so I'm being rationed down to twice a day now, huh?" she laughed teasingly, nuzzling to him before letting him go and stock up on his caffeine intake. She picked up a wooden spatula to agitate the mix in the pan, bending down to check on the progress of the mysterious whatever that was doing its thing in the oven. "So I guess the day off is being postponed," she commented, knowing him a little too well. "What with the whole ....man not sleep while man typing episode."

He refilled his cup of coffee before turning to face her and take a lean against the counter while she worked on making breakfast. "Not necessarily. I'm just in the initial researching phase right now. What did you have in mind?" he asked, before taking a small sip of his coffee, waiting to see what kind of tempting alternative she'd offer to work.

"Well, I was wondering whether you might like to spend a little time with me," she offered with a faint smile. "No notebook, no phone, just us. We could even hop the portal to Liba for a couple of days, but ....I know what you're like when you're starting up a new idea. I'm gonna lose you to research for at least a month." She flashed him a teasing grin. "Up to you, baby. You're the one who works weird hours."

The frown on his face betrayed torn feelings on the matter. When he was just getting started on a new book, he tended to work on it to the point of obsession, letting few things come between him and his work, but he wasn't in the thick of it yet, and there was only so much he could do before Calliope chose to visit him again. He had promised Elena a vacation once the movie deal had been finalized, but what if his muse chose to visit while they were away on vacation' Did he dare tell her to come back later" "How many days?" he asked, curiously.

"Uh ....three?" It wasn't exactly a vacation, but Elena and Michael were both slight workaholics. Even taking a few days off would likely result in them itching to get back to their respective jobs. "I miss my husband sometimes, you know?" She smiled gently, turning to wrap her arms around him once again. "Set the table, breakfast is almost done."

What could he say to that' He hadn't married her to ignore her, no matter how much he needed to write. He returned her smile, touching a kiss to her lips, tasting vaguely like coffee. "I think I can give you three days," he told her, careful he didn't spill his coffee as she put her arms around him.

"Good." She grinned, nipping his lips gently. Then she untangled herself from him, reaching for the oven mitt as she opened the oven door to pull out a muffin tray that smelled enticing. What came out of the indents was a collection of bacon and egg cups, with the yolks just the way they both liked them, distributed evenly between two plates along with the fried potatoes, sausage, and cheese mixture from the pan.

"Good grief, woman," he said, as he leaned close to breath in the smell of the bacon and egg mixture. "I can feel my arteries clogging already, and I haven't even eaten yet," he teased with a chuckle. He set his cup down to take out plates and stainless to set the table, both of them working together as a team, just as they did at nearly everything.

Elena · Date: 2015-09-01 13:19 EST

"Oh, come on," she laughed as she served up. "You make it sound as though I don't make you eat healthy pretty much every meal of the day. Besides, I fancied this, and I am learning to listen to my body." She snickered, but there was a faint blush on her cheeks as she turned to lay the plates on the table.

"And your body is clearly telling you to clog up your arteries," he teased further, not quite catching any hint of what she meant or embarrassment she might be feeling. "But I'm not complaining! You only live once, and it beats the hell out of oatmeal." He refilled his coffee and got a cup for her, adding those to the place settings, along with napkins and cutlery. He didn't really find her idea of going away for a few days unusual, as they'd been talking about taking a vacation for a while now.

"Maybe my body is telling me to take it easy for a little while and stop stressing over the little things," she suggested mildly, easing down into a seat as he finished up. Okay, so the fried potatoes and sausage was unusual for breakfast, but the bacon and egg cups she was pretty pleased with!

"I feel like we should be drinking mimosas or something ..." Non-alcoholic ones, obviously. There was no question that champagne was off limits from now on, as was anything else that contained alcohol. "What's the occasion?" he asked, wondering if there was an occasion or if she just felt like showering him with an unusually big breakfast.

Elena shrugged as she took up her knife and fork. "I just ....I have some news, and I think maybe we should take a few days to let it sink in together," she told him. That was innocent enough. After all, they'd worked out their balance between working hours and leisure time while on Liba last year, and that could have been a stressful conversation had they not taken their time over it.

"News?" he asked, joining her at the table and picking up his knife and fork to cut into his sausage. "What kind of news?" he prodded, wondering what it was that she knew but he didn't. He had a little news of his own to share, but at least, she already knew he was starting to research a new novel. What kind of news could she have that needed time to sink in" "Is everything okay with your family?" he asked, knowing they could be a powder keg waiting to explode sometimes. Or at least, Theresa could be, anyway. Mataya and Tony and even Rosita had been nothing but supportive lately.

"It's the kind of news that might take some time to come to grips with," she admitted with another shrug, taking a moment to chew and swallow a mouthful before she went on. "It's not my family, they're all good. Nothing to worry about there, I promise." She wasn't entirely sure she should tell him her news over breakfast; he might lose his appetite.

"Okay," he said, brows furrowing in confusion. "You're not sick, are you?" he asked, worriedly, hoping that wasn't it either. He didn't dare consider anything worse than that, trying hard not to be pessimistic. The glass was usually half empty with him, not half full. He couldn't think what it was she might be trying to get at, and he sensed now was not the time to mention he'd met another woman - er, his muse.

She laughed, rolling her eyes. "No, I'm not sick," she promised him. "Stop trying to guess and eat your breakfast. I know you, even the teeniest bit of excitement and you lose your appetite."

"Just tell me if it's good news or bad news," he replied, needing to know at least that. Things had been going so well lately, it wouldn't have surprised him too much if it was bad news, but he was hoping it wasn't.

"It's not bad news," she assured him. "I'm still working on whether or not it's, you know, yippee good news, but it's not bad news, I promise. We're not getting evicted, nobody died, no one's going bankrupt, nothing like that."

That didn't really make him feel much better, but if he didn't want his breakfast to get cold before he ate it, the rest of his questions were going to have to wait. "Okay, so should we start packing?" he asked, wondering if she still wanted to take this trip she'd mentioned. She seemed to be all over the place this morning, and he wasn't quite sure what was going on with her.

"Well, it is kind of up to you," she pointed out. "I mean, I don't want to force a break on you if you're diving right into something new. You creative types get crabby when that happens, I hear." She flickered a teasing smile in his direction.

Normally her teasing might have gotten a laugh from him, but this morning all she got was a forced smile that was more of a worried frown. "Elena, I've kind of got something to tell you, too," he started, figuring it was better to tell her now before a strange woman appeared in their bedroom one night.

The look on his face was not one that inspired confidence, but she did her best, setting down her knife and fork to give him her full attention. "What kind of something?" she asked softly, trying not to let her imagination get the best of her. In light of what she had to tell him, worst case scenarios were rampant as she watched her husband worriedly.

He studied her a moment as she set down her knife and fork. "Maybe we should wait until after breakfast," he said, as worried as she was, it seemed, that his news would either make her lose her appetite or would at the very least, waste the meal she'd gone to such trouble to make. "Eat your breakfast. It's nothing bad, either."

Elena considered him for a long moment, taking up her knife and fork again, though it was more to please him than because she was hungry still. "We really need to stop talking over meals, don't we?" she snorted with laughter, turning her attention to at least finishing her egg and bacon cups.

"Isn't that what people do?" he asked, wondering what it was they both were so afraid of. As for himself, he was afraid she wouldn't believe him or even worse, think he'd been under the influence of some illicit substance or other. With no proof of his claim, other than another visit, he wasn't sure it was even necessary to tell her, but he'd rather risk her laughing at him than catching him with his muse and thinking he was cheating on her.

"Well, no, not stop talking completely, but ..." Elena chuckled faintly, trying to set aside her concern over whatever it was he had to tell her. He couldn't be leaving her, could he" "We always seem to try and share news over meals, and then we pull out. Maybe I should just tell you and get it over with."

They really were too much alike, and he seemed to sense her concern, more out of instinct than anything else. It would take more than just blurting his news, though, or she might think him mad. Then again, it was Rhy'Din, and anything was possible. "You can go first," he told her, "but I think we should eat first."

"Okay," she conceded, forcibly pushing aside her concern to let herself trust that he wasn't about to make the bottom drop out of her world. "Just ....try not to drop anything if I blurt it out while we're washing the dishes, okay?"

"Okay," he replied, wondering if she had decided to go back to acting or something, but he didn't want to hazard a guess, in case he was wrong. Whatever it was, it seemed she was convinced he'd find her news shocking enough to startle him.

One thing Elena was good at was not giving him any clues he could work from. She could have mentioned her mother, she could have mentioned just why they were eating fried potatoes for breakfast, but she didn't. She didn't give him enough to get worried about, so what was the point of worrying at all" "So what?s the idea that got you out of bed and all researchy before dawn?"

"Just an idea," he said, being nearly as vague as she was. "It's still in the early stages, so I'm not quite sure where I'm going with it yet," he explained further, though that was not much of an explanation. "It's got to do with Ancient Greece," he told her, letting her know that much, which might lead her to believe it was something historical. That assumption probably wouldn't be too far from the truth.

Elena · Date: 2015-09-01 13:20 EST

"Which explains the research," she nodded, smiling as the conversation seemed to wander back onto an even keel. Chewing her last mouthful, she set her cutlery down, reaching for her coffee to savor it over her empty plate. "Narrowed it down yet' Because that's a lot of research if it's just vaguely set around Ancient Greece."

"Yeah," he replied, his attention focused on the last few bites of his breakfast, almost as if he was afraid to meet her gaze. "It's got something to do with the muses," he told her, wondering what she'd think of that.

"Muses?" Elena had to think about that one for a moment; she wasn't what you might call over-educated. "Were they gods or something" Something about poetry and music was their thing. I think." She shrugged, no longer embarrassed by her lack of knowledge around Michael. He almost always educated her in her wrongful assumptions.

"Not exactly. There were sort of in a class of their own. They were daughters of Zeus who were each given dominance over the arts. Mythologically, they were said to inspire artists, musicians, and poets in their artistic endeavors." That was a very basic description of what they were, but it was a start.

"Oh, wow, I didn't know that." Her face lit up with the smile he'd known on TV from a young age, a smile that had once been enjoyed by thousands but now belonged entirely to him. "So it hits kinda close to home, right' Like one of them came and, I don't know, sprinkled fairy dust on you, and now you wanna write about them."

"Something like that, yeah," he admitted, as she came pretty close to guessing what it was that had happened. He lifted his gaze, wondering if he should just spit it out and tell her. "Would you believe me if I told you something like that happened?" he asked, tentatively, idly toying with his fork.

"Honey, this is Rhy'Din," she reminded him gently. "Anything can happen here. I mean, my sister adopted a little girl who went into a cocoon and came out a grown up; my lawyer is married to a woman who has a fairy for a daughter!" She laughed, rising to collect their plates and head for the sink. "Are you telling me that something like that happened?"

"What if I was?" he asked, answering her question with a question again, as he rose to his feet to help her clear the table. She was right - there were a lot weirder things in Rhy'Din that a visit from a muse, so why was he so afraid to tell her about it"

"Well ....who, what, where, why, and when would be a good start," his wife pointed out. The De Luca family as a whole had taken very well to Rhy'Din; though Brooklyn would always be their home, Rhy'Din had opened its arms to them, and they had settled there very well. Elena was no different, as open to the various differences as anyone. "Wait, this isn't some kind of vampire thing, is it?"

"Vampire thing?" he echoed, brows arching upwards. "No," he chuckled. "Why would you think that?" he asked with a smirk. If that's what she thought, then maybe a visit to a muse wouldn't be so bad.

"Well ....you're obviously reluctant to talk about it, and that means whatever's happened was either invasive or personal, and ..." She turned to him, her hands covered with soap suds as she gestured wildly. "If someone has hurt you, I will bash their brains out, I swear."

"I'm not reluctant to talk about it," he argued, a little defensively. "I just ....don't want you to think I'm crazy. That's all." He picked up a towel to help her dry dishes, just as he did after every meal. He'd been just about to tell her when she'd brought up vampires, for some reason. He sighed as he took up the first of the washed dishes and wiped it dry. "I'm fine, El. It's not vampires or anything else like that. I just ..." He shrugged his shoulders, still unsure if she'd believe him. "I think I had a visit from one of them last night. Muses, I mean," he added quickly, before she got any other crazy ideas in her head.

"How?" she asked, one brow raised as she turned back to the washing up. "Like, in a dream, or did someone actually break into our home while we were sleeping?" Evidently Calliope had been right about Elena being of a mind to hit first and ask questions later.

"I'm not sure I'd call it breaking in, exactly," he replied. From what he was saying, it didn't sound like it had been a dream either. "She just sort of appeared. She said it was time I start writing again," he explained further. "She said her name was Calliope and she had inspired Homer and Shakespeare and Dickens."

"Riiight." To her credit, Elena didn't laugh. She wasn't entirely sure how she was supposed to take the news that apparently a strange woman had been in her bedroom while she was sleeping and had enticed Elena's husband out of bed in the process. "Do you believe her?"

Michael frowned at her response to his news, his heart sinking. "You don't believe me," he said, wishing now that he'd never told her. Though he'd wanted to be honest with her, he wondered if it would have been better to leave well enough alone. He grabbed another dish from the drainer, turning his attention to the chore in front of him.

She sighed softly. "Mischa, it's not that I don't believe you," she tried to explain. "It's more that ....a strange woman was in our home, in our bedroom, while I was sleeping, and no one woke me up. She got you to get out of bed and leave me there, and you didn't wake me up to tell me you were going to work or whatever. It scares me because ....what if she hadn't been what she said she was" What if the whole purpose was to separate us so we'd be easier prey?" She sighed again, pulling the plug to drain the sink. "And now you're pissed because you think I don't believe you."

"It's not the first time I saw her," he admitted quietly, more hurt than angry. He understood her concerns, but didn't think she had much reason to worry. Why would a woman appear in their room and tell him she was there to inspire him if she wasn't telling the truth' Maybe he was being naive, but he thought if she had meant either of them harm, he'd have sensed some kind of danger.

"So tell me about her." She was trying to understand, trying not to be hurt or upset by what was an invasion of their home that had apparently happened more than once and kept a secret from her. "I trust you, Michael, of course I do. But I don't understand."

"El, the first time it happened, I thought she was a figment of an alcohol-deprived mind. I was feverish, going through withdrawal. I didn't think much of it. Come to think of it," he continued, a troubled frown on his face. "I wonder how much of what I wrote was her and how much was me." Though it seemed she could only inspire whatever talent he already possessed.

"So ....the first time you met her was when you were in a vulnerable state of mind," his wife said carefully, wiping her hands dry as she turned to face him. "You need to start at the beginning here. What is a muse, anyway' What do they do?"

"She gave me the idea for Rhy'Din Nights, or inspired it in me, or something," he tried to explain. "El ..." he started, a plate held in one hand and a towel in the other, though he was doing nothing with either of them. "Do you think I'm a good writer" Not based on how many books I sell, but based on the words I write, the story I create. I'm not just some hack who got lucky, am I?" The expression on his face was so serious, so anxious, it was clear he needed her to believe in him, not only as a husband and a man and a companion, but as a talented author, worthy of the credit he was being given.

"Mischa, how can you doubt your skill?" she asked him, horrified that he seemed to have reset to zero because she hadn't reacted to his news in the most positive light. "It isn't the number of books you sell that makes you popular, that's just a numerical measurement of how many people enjoy reading what you write. Baby, if you weren't a good writer, you wouldn't be bestseller; you wouldn't have had two movies made based on your stories, your characters. You've seen how beaten up my copy of Boston Nights is - do you really think I would have read it so many times if it wasn't good?"

Elena · Date: 2015-09-01 13:20 EST

It wasn't her reaction that had caused him to doubt his own talent, but the idea that the books he'd written - or least, one of them - had only become possible because of magical inspiration, rather than his own talent. What he failed to understand was that Calliope hadn't written the book for him; all she had done was inspire him to write was was already inside him. "Fifty Shades of Grey sold more copies than Boston Nights, El," he couldn't help but point out. "Doesn't make it a masterpiece."

"And overly hyped porn will always sell too many copies," she pointed out, rolling her eyes at his stubbornness. "Dude, comparing yourself to a frustrated woman who managed to offend an entire global community and romanticize abusive relationships is stupid. What are you going to do' Are you going to sulk and never write another word just because you don't get the same attention that a book written for the sole purpose of being controversial did" And everyone agrees, it's a badly written book!"

He couldn't help but chuckle despite himself at her earnestly honest opinion of what he personally believed to be pulp pornography. No, his books weren't for the weak of heart either, but comparing his novel to that was like comparing a Playboy magazine to Hustler or worse. "Try not to hold back, Elena," he teased, a little of the tension relieved by his laughter and her impassioned opinions.

She rolled her eyes at him, sighing as one hand came to rest on her hip. "What it comes down to is that you are one of the best writers I have ever read, and I know it doesn't seem like it, but I've read a lot," she informed him. "There is a lot of downtime on a TV show or a movie set, and I used to read. I'd read your first book long before I auditioned for the movie; I'm on my third read through of your second book. Not because you're my husband, not because there's a movie being made out of it, but because I genuinely enjoy it! Why is that so hard to believe?"

"It's not," he replied, setting the plate and the towel down so that he could wrap his arms around her in an attempt to calm and soothe her ruffled feathers. "I would have told you about her the first time but I just thought I'd dreamed her."

Wrapped up in his arms, Elena could feel her agitation fading away. Michael wasn't worried; he wasn't afraid. This muse woman had visited him twice, and all she'd done was opened his mind to the ideas that he loved to scribble down on paper and get published. That wasn't so bad. "Will she be coming back?" she asked him quietly. "If you're writing about her, you'll need her to, won't you?"

"I think so," he replied. "I mean, she said she would." How else was he going to get the rest of her story' "It's not going to be a biography exactly, but she must have a few good stories to tell. I want it to read like a novel. No one will believe it's real, anyway." He frowned a little as he searched her face for any sight of anger or hurt. "Not jealous, are you? I don't love her, El. Hell, I hardly know her. You're the only woman I've ever loved."

Looking into his eyes, Elena managed a half shrug. "It's not that," she promised him. "I'm just a bit hormonal at the moment, and ....well, you know what I'm like. I'm not good with surprises. I'll settle down, I promise."

"When are you not hormonal?" he asked with a chuckle, not thinking much of her remark. She was female, after all. He expected her to be moody to a certain degree, though he couldn't blame hormones for his own moodiness. He gave her a warm smile, hugging her close and touching a soft kiss to her lips. "So, what was it you wanted to tell me?" he asked, feeling better now that he'd told her about his little secret.

She breathed in slowly, leaning into him as he kissed her. At least he was calm, although she had a feeling that wasn't going to last long. Looking up into his eyes, Elena smiled gently, knowing there was no way to soften the shock of what she was about to say. "Mischa ....I'm pregnant."

He was calm, at least for the moment, smiling into her kiss, relieved she wasn't angry with him. That is, until she shared her own news. For a moment, he thought he'd misheard her. She couldn't have said what he thought she'd said, had she" "What?" he asked, a clearly shocked look on his face.

Well, that wasn't exactly encouraging, but it was better than an immediate panic attack. She drew her hands gently over his back, needing him to take this in without freaking out too much. He wasn't the only one who would be dealing with the shock here. "I'm pregnant."

"But ....how?" he asked, shaking his head as that didn't come out right. "Never mind, I know how." The how was obvious. What he didn't know was when. "How long have you known" When are you due" Have you been to the doctor" Are you feeling all right?" he asked, in a sudden rush of questions. "Maybe you should sit down," he told her, tugging her back toward the chairs.

The first question out of his mouth was enough to make her mouth drop open, but she did laugh, even if it was just a sound on the gust of breath that left her as he babbled on. Tugged toward the chairs, she bit her lip. "I saw the doctor yesterday," she told him. "You know, I told you my therapist recommended that I get checked out because of my mood swings" She didn't think they had anything to do with my anxiety or anything. And, uh ....well, it turns out I'm pregnant. The doctor thinks about four weeks along, so I'm due around the beginning of May next year."

"I thought you were taking something," he said, as he led her to a chair and waited for her to sit before taking a seat himself and pulling his chair up close. He reached for her hand, taking it between his own, unsure quite how to react to her news. "So, May ....Okay ....Are we having a boy or a girl or is it too soon to tell" Have you told anyone else? Does your mom know yet' Oh my God, El....A baby' We're gonna have a baby?"

"Uh, they-they took me off my meds," she admitted, still a little shell-shocked by the whole idea herself. Sat down with Michael holding her hands, she let him ramble on for a while before the sheer wall of questions needed to stop. "Baby ....come on, please," she pleaded. "Slow down. No, I haven't told anyone else. Yes, we're gonna have a baby. And, no, I-I don't think we can tell if it's a boy or a girl yet."

"Who took you off your meds?" he asked, curiously, though it didn't seem to matter much. Though he might seem agitated, he wasn't upset, just surprised. Shocked, really. They'd only discussed the idea of starting a family once, briefly, both of them deciding they weren't ready yet, but a lot had happened since then. They'd grown up a lot since then, and they'd grown up together. "I'm okay," he said, only in part to reassure her. "Let's think. We're gonna have a baby. What do we do first?"

"The doctor did, yesterday," she told him, better able to talk about her own medication than the embryo in the room. Taking a deep breath as he seemed to calm down, she made the effort to do the same. "Well, I ....I have an appointment with a specialist baby doctor, whatever they're called, next week. Apparently they'll weigh me and do bloodwork, and examine me, and give me a load of stuff we'll have to read. I have to go to the market today and get some folic acid, whatever that is, and-and the doctor recommended that we don't tell anyone until I'm in the second trimester, and that's about eight weeks away?" She paused, lifting her eyes to his as her hands tightened on his fingers. "Will you come with me" To the doctor, I mean?"

"Eight weeks?" he echoed. That seemed like forever. How were they going to keep the news from her mother and sisters til then" Mama Rosita was bound to find out as soon as she laid her eyes on her daughter. Mothers were psychic like that, or so he thought. If she didn't find out first, it would be Mataya. "You don't think I'll get in the way?" he asked, regarding the doctor, knowing about as much about having a baby as she did.

"I don't care if you do, I don't wanna go on my own," she protested, the words coming without needing to be thought over. "Mischa, I'm scared. I mean, I'm happy, but I'm really scared, too. I'm a big enough screw up without screwing up someone else who doesn't even have a brain yet!"

Elena · Date: 2015-09-01 13:21 EST

"Baby, don't worry. Of course, I'll go with you. We're in this together, right?" he said, that soft, if slightly nervous, smile on his face again. He lifted her hand to his lips for a kiss. "I love you. We're gonna have a baby," he said, the smile softening, chuckling a little as he looked around at their surroundings. "Maybe it's time we start thinking about buying a house."

More than a little lost in the whole situation - though she was quite proud of herself for keeping it together until now - Elena inched to the edge of her seat, laying her forehead gently against his as they sat together. "Ti amo, caro," she murmured to him, the Italian her mother had taught her coming easily even now. "You're really not mad at me for messing up my birth control?"

"Ti amo, Elena," he replied, his forehead coming to rest gently against hers. He let go of her hand for a moment so that he could brush a strand of blond hair away from her face, his fingers trailed gently against her cheek, a soft smile on his face. "Why would I be mad" We're gonna have a baby."

"You really think we can do this?" she asked him softly, needing the reassurance from him before anyone else stepped up to give it to them both. "We can have a baby and not, you know, use it for a basketball or anything like that?"

He laughed at her question. Maybe a few years ago, he might have answered differently, but things had changed - they had changed. They had overcome their addictions, straightened out their lives, gotten married. They had careers and an apartment. They paid their bills on time. They had regular lives like everyone else. And now, they were having a baby. "If other people can do it, why can't we?"

The breath she let out was shaky but relieved, glad that he, at least, thought they'd be able to manage it. She wasn't so sure about herself, but at the same time, she couldn't help being just a little delighted at the thought of having a child. Having Michael's child. "So I guess, uh ....if you're not too busy ....we should kinda make a start on house hunting, huh?"

He couldn't help but smirk, a little amused by her reaction to all this. "After we get back from Liba," he said, taking her hands in his once again. "You wanted to go there for a few days, right?" he asked, remembering the mention of it before they'd been distracted by breakfast and talk of muses and babies.

"If I'm honest, I just wanna spend time with you," she admitted almost shyly. "You and me, no family to call at stupid times during the day, no cafe calling with emergencies I don't have to go to anyway." Drawing one hand from his grasp, she curled her hand against his cheek as she nuzzled to him. "I don't mind if we don't go anywhere. I just want a few days with you."

"Okay, well ....that's easily done," he replied, rubbing a thumb against the back of her hand, that soft smile on his face again. "We'll pretend not to be here. No answering the phone or the door. No work, no muse, no writing. Just you and me and Junior for a few days."

"I love you, Michael." Surging forward, she curled her arms around his neck, as close as she could get as she breathed him in. "I wish I knew who dropped you in my bed so I could thank them. You're the best part of me. I'm glad you gave me a second chance."

"Baby, I love you more than words can say," he told her quietly as she moved closer. "I used to wonder that, too, but what?s it matter? The only thing that matters is that we're together. And we're going to be a family." He felt tears welling in his eyes suddenly, as the full impact of her news hit him, stunned him to the core of his being. "We're gonna have a baby," he told her, with tears in his eyes and his voice. It was more than he'd ever hoped for.

A family of their own. As Elena hugged her husband tightly, those words reverberated around her head. Of course she had her own family, the sprawling growth that was the De Lucas; Michael had grandparents he hadn't spoken to in years. But this, now ....the unnamed embryo inside her made them a family of their own. Small, yes, but hardly lacking in the love they shared. She smiled against his neck. If he thought they could do it, then she wouldn't argue. And maybe next time his muse came to visit, she'd do it in daylight. Elena wanted to meet a woman who brazenly woke married men and enticed them from their beds in the middle of the night, regardless of what it was she actually did with them. They might be on Rhy'Din, but there were rules, you know.

((Looks like Rosita's happy clan is just getting bigger and bigger! Many thanks to Michael's player for letting me drop that on him!))