((Contains references to addiction and withdrawal.))
________________________
Daylight slipped away, passing into evening, the sun sinking low in the sky. Little by little, the room where Michael had been laid to rest was growing dark, and as day turned to night, his sleep turned restless, feverish. Nightmarish visions filled his head, and without Elena by his side to quell his terror, to wake him from the dreams that haunted his mind, he had no choice but to face them alone. Curled up in a ball, like he'd been the night before, the aspirin did little good now. He was too far gone, the fever raging, his body shaking, every muscle, every joint screaming in pain. He struggled with all his remaining strength, with every ragged breath against the craving that would end his torment, but would only further poison his body and prolong the inevitable. He knew he was facing a life or death struggle, but he'd come too far to give up now. He was determined to be free of his addiction, no matter the cost. It was him or Death now, and only one of them could win.
Voices filtered down from the level above, the inevitable confrontation between Elena and her sister having begun some time before and escalating to the logical conclusion. That was the only reason she wasn't there with him, and though Juno was sitting at the top of the basement steps to keep a close eye on the suffering man, the young Sanagi had been told firmly not to go into the bedroom below under any circumstances. Alone with his waking nightmare, Michael just had to wait, caught up in his own struggles as the time passed by at a snail's pace.
It might have been a few minutes since Elena had left his side or it might have been a few hours. Lost in a sea of agony, time passed slowly, and Michael couldn't be sure of anything. He was no longer sure what was real and what was just a product of an alcohol-depraved mind. Shaking so violently his teeth were chattering, the bedsheets soaked in sweat, he called out for Elena, wondering if she was even real or if she, too, had been a figment of an overactive imagination. She had always come when he'd called before. As hard as he tried to find the strength to call out to her, to summon her to his side, his voice came out in a weak croak that was barely audible even to himself. He thought he heard voices above his head, the sound of an argument, and he groaned as he tried to force his limbs to move, to get out of bed.
Despite his torture, his sense of loneliness, he was not, in fact, alone. As his weakened body struggled to find the strength to kick the covers away and clamber onto his feet, a quiet voice called to him from not so very far away. "Michael. You're going to hurt yourself if you keep doing that."
Some part of his brain registered an unfamiliar voice, but once again, he wasn't sure if it was real or imagined. "El?" he muttered, knowing it wasn't her if she'd ever even been there at all. Where was he" It wasn't his apartment back home in Boston. She'd said he was in some place called Rhy'Din, wherever the hell that was. He needed a drink, craved a drink, would die if he didn't get a drink. Just one. Dear God, please, just one.
"Not quite." A soft breeze blew over him, warm and smelling of roses ....the roses that had grown in his mother's garden. There was a figure in the room; tall, majestic, dark hair and imperious features. She was also transparent, and hovering about a foot from the ground. "Do I look like Elena De Luca to you?"
His head throbbed painfully, like it was about to explode, as he peered into the darkening gloom that surrounded him. He felt a soft breeze, warm and fragrant, stirring a long-forgotten memory of his mother's rose garden so many years before. He turned his head toward the sound of the voice to find he was not alone, the transparent figure of a beautiful, dark-haired woman hovering closeby, and he knew he must be dreaming. "Y-you're not real," he stammered, through chattering teeth.
She gave him the flattest, unfriendliest look he could possibly imagine, and was quite suddenly as solid as he was. There was a thump as she dropped onto the carpet, throwing her hands into the air in exasperation. "Why does everyone say that?" she demanded. "What, just because I make an effort to be a little bit ethereal and otherworldly, obviously I don't exist?" She sighed, frowning at him. "And why are all the good writers a complete mess when I get around to them?"
He furrowed his brows, clearly confused by this latest development. He'd been dreaming about demons and hellfire and death, and she looked like nothing from any nightmare he'd even experienced, just the opposite, in fact. There was only one way to find out who she was and why she was there or at least, why he was imagining her, and that was to ask. He winced, pale-faced, teeth clenched as he struggled to sit, to face the vision that had appeared before him. He scoffed at her words, his face contorted in pain. "Good writers," he echoed. "Did you come here to poke fun at me?"
She sighed, rolling her deep eyes as her hands came to rest on her hips, watching as he forced himself to sit upright. "Zeus, you look like you woke up on the wrong side of Tartarus," she informed him with a distinct lack of sympathy. "What is it with you mortals" Why do you feel the need to destroy yourselves in the name of art' Look at Homer - I swear, the man never took a bath his entire life, but he was a genius with the spoken word." She moved to sit down on the end of the bed in a flounce of gossamer and silk. "Never gave me any credit, either, the old miser."
Michael's expression shifted, confusion, bewilderment, the shock of recognition all playing across his pale, handsome features. Feverish as he was, he remembered his Classical Greek, the names not lost on his muddled mind. "Homer," he scoffed again. "Shakespeare was a genius," he argued, furrowing his brows as he watched her take a seat on his - no, Elena's - bed. This was the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen, more beautiful than any woman, even Elena, but in a different sort of way. An exotic way, inhuman, immortal. "Who-" he stammered, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Who are you?"
"Shakespeare had halitosis and an over-inflated ego," his visitor informed him in a dismal tone. "Also ....the man was completely addicted to sex. The only person in four thousand years who not only didn't believe I was real, but tried to seduce me anyway!" She lowered her chin into her hands with another sigh, apparently depressed with life in general. His question made her frown, lifting her head to eye him in vague disbelief. "You haven't worked that one out yet' Homer ....Shakespeare ....the common denominator being ...?" She looked hopeful for a moment before rolling her eyes, shaking her head. "I'm a muse, idiot!"
He arched both brows, realizing a little too late who she was, who she must be, though there were several muses, and he wasn't sure which one this one claimed to be. The insult didn't really faze him. He'd been called worse and had even believed it. A genius, a lunatic, an idiot. That was him. "You may be a bit of undigested beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese," he remarked, quoting Dickens' Scrooge. He supposed if she was who she said she was, she must have inspired that bit of literature, as well.
"And now the drunk is quoting me back to myself. I need a new job." She sighed, eyeing Michael with resigned patience. "You know, at least Charlie knew a good thing when he saw it. Thick as two short planks, bless him, but he never minded me dropping in when he was a little stuck." She leaned back on her hands. "You're not an idiot. You're not going to die. You've got more than one book in you, and if I'm reading you right, it's not just books you've got brewing in there. Do you want inspiration, or do you want to give up now" Your choice."
It was Michael's turn to eye her, a mix of suspicion and incredulity, along with a healthy dose of feverish shock. "A muse," he said doubtfully, tugging the blankets up in an attempt to halt the shaking. "You're a muse. Which muse" And why are you visiting me?" He'd heard what she told him, but that didn't really answer his question. If she wasn't who she said she was, how'd she know so much about him' Unless it was exactly as he suspected, and he was just dreaming her. "If you are who you say you are, then prove it."
"Oh, so now you want proof. Like I haven't heard that one before." The beautiful muse rose from where she had been lounging on the end of the bed, turning to look down at him with mild despair. "There's no way to prove that I exist. You're in such a state right now that you're going to forget all about me when you're cleaned up, and you'll just assume that the inspiration came from something mundane, like that Elena woman."
Daylight slipped away, passing into evening, the sun sinking low in the sky. Little by little, the room where Michael had been laid to rest was growing dark, and as day turned to night, his sleep turned restless, feverish. Nightmarish visions filled his head, and without Elena by his side to quell his terror, to wake him from the dreams that haunted his mind, he had no choice but to face them alone. Curled up in a ball, like he'd been the night before, the aspirin did little good now. He was too far gone, the fever raging, his body shaking, every muscle, every joint screaming in pain. He struggled with all his remaining strength, with every ragged breath against the craving that would end his torment, but would only further poison his body and prolong the inevitable. He knew he was facing a life or death struggle, but he'd come too far to give up now. He was determined to be free of his addiction, no matter the cost. It was him or Death now, and only one of them could win.
Voices filtered down from the level above, the inevitable confrontation between Elena and her sister having begun some time before and escalating to the logical conclusion. That was the only reason she wasn't there with him, and though Juno was sitting at the top of the basement steps to keep a close eye on the suffering man, the young Sanagi had been told firmly not to go into the bedroom below under any circumstances. Alone with his waking nightmare, Michael just had to wait, caught up in his own struggles as the time passed by at a snail's pace.
It might have been a few minutes since Elena had left his side or it might have been a few hours. Lost in a sea of agony, time passed slowly, and Michael couldn't be sure of anything. He was no longer sure what was real and what was just a product of an alcohol-depraved mind. Shaking so violently his teeth were chattering, the bedsheets soaked in sweat, he called out for Elena, wondering if she was even real or if she, too, had been a figment of an overactive imagination. She had always come when he'd called before. As hard as he tried to find the strength to call out to her, to summon her to his side, his voice came out in a weak croak that was barely audible even to himself. He thought he heard voices above his head, the sound of an argument, and he groaned as he tried to force his limbs to move, to get out of bed.
Despite his torture, his sense of loneliness, he was not, in fact, alone. As his weakened body struggled to find the strength to kick the covers away and clamber onto his feet, a quiet voice called to him from not so very far away. "Michael. You're going to hurt yourself if you keep doing that."
Some part of his brain registered an unfamiliar voice, but once again, he wasn't sure if it was real or imagined. "El?" he muttered, knowing it wasn't her if she'd ever even been there at all. Where was he" It wasn't his apartment back home in Boston. She'd said he was in some place called Rhy'Din, wherever the hell that was. He needed a drink, craved a drink, would die if he didn't get a drink. Just one. Dear God, please, just one.
"Not quite." A soft breeze blew over him, warm and smelling of roses ....the roses that had grown in his mother's garden. There was a figure in the room; tall, majestic, dark hair and imperious features. She was also transparent, and hovering about a foot from the ground. "Do I look like Elena De Luca to you?"
His head throbbed painfully, like it was about to explode, as he peered into the darkening gloom that surrounded him. He felt a soft breeze, warm and fragrant, stirring a long-forgotten memory of his mother's rose garden so many years before. He turned his head toward the sound of the voice to find he was not alone, the transparent figure of a beautiful, dark-haired woman hovering closeby, and he knew he must be dreaming. "Y-you're not real," he stammered, through chattering teeth.
She gave him the flattest, unfriendliest look he could possibly imagine, and was quite suddenly as solid as he was. There was a thump as she dropped onto the carpet, throwing her hands into the air in exasperation. "Why does everyone say that?" she demanded. "What, just because I make an effort to be a little bit ethereal and otherworldly, obviously I don't exist?" She sighed, frowning at him. "And why are all the good writers a complete mess when I get around to them?"
He furrowed his brows, clearly confused by this latest development. He'd been dreaming about demons and hellfire and death, and she looked like nothing from any nightmare he'd even experienced, just the opposite, in fact. There was only one way to find out who she was and why she was there or at least, why he was imagining her, and that was to ask. He winced, pale-faced, teeth clenched as he struggled to sit, to face the vision that had appeared before him. He scoffed at her words, his face contorted in pain. "Good writers," he echoed. "Did you come here to poke fun at me?"
She sighed, rolling her deep eyes as her hands came to rest on her hips, watching as he forced himself to sit upright. "Zeus, you look like you woke up on the wrong side of Tartarus," she informed him with a distinct lack of sympathy. "What is it with you mortals" Why do you feel the need to destroy yourselves in the name of art' Look at Homer - I swear, the man never took a bath his entire life, but he was a genius with the spoken word." She moved to sit down on the end of the bed in a flounce of gossamer and silk. "Never gave me any credit, either, the old miser."
Michael's expression shifted, confusion, bewilderment, the shock of recognition all playing across his pale, handsome features. Feverish as he was, he remembered his Classical Greek, the names not lost on his muddled mind. "Homer," he scoffed again. "Shakespeare was a genius," he argued, furrowing his brows as he watched her take a seat on his - no, Elena's - bed. This was the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen, more beautiful than any woman, even Elena, but in a different sort of way. An exotic way, inhuman, immortal. "Who-" he stammered, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Who are you?"
"Shakespeare had halitosis and an over-inflated ego," his visitor informed him in a dismal tone. "Also ....the man was completely addicted to sex. The only person in four thousand years who not only didn't believe I was real, but tried to seduce me anyway!" She lowered her chin into her hands with another sigh, apparently depressed with life in general. His question made her frown, lifting her head to eye him in vague disbelief. "You haven't worked that one out yet' Homer ....Shakespeare ....the common denominator being ...?" She looked hopeful for a moment before rolling her eyes, shaking her head. "I'm a muse, idiot!"
He arched both brows, realizing a little too late who she was, who she must be, though there were several muses, and he wasn't sure which one this one claimed to be. The insult didn't really faze him. He'd been called worse and had even believed it. A genius, a lunatic, an idiot. That was him. "You may be a bit of undigested beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese," he remarked, quoting Dickens' Scrooge. He supposed if she was who she said she was, she must have inspired that bit of literature, as well.
"And now the drunk is quoting me back to myself. I need a new job." She sighed, eyeing Michael with resigned patience. "You know, at least Charlie knew a good thing when he saw it. Thick as two short planks, bless him, but he never minded me dropping in when he was a little stuck." She leaned back on her hands. "You're not an idiot. You're not going to die. You've got more than one book in you, and if I'm reading you right, it's not just books you've got brewing in there. Do you want inspiration, or do you want to give up now" Your choice."
It was Michael's turn to eye her, a mix of suspicion and incredulity, along with a healthy dose of feverish shock. "A muse," he said doubtfully, tugging the blankets up in an attempt to halt the shaking. "You're a muse. Which muse" And why are you visiting me?" He'd heard what she told him, but that didn't really answer his question. If she wasn't who she said she was, how'd she know so much about him' Unless it was exactly as he suspected, and he was just dreaming her. "If you are who you say you are, then prove it."
"Oh, so now you want proof. Like I haven't heard that one before." The beautiful muse rose from where she had been lounging on the end of the bed, turning to look down at him with mild despair. "There's no way to prove that I exist. You're in such a state right now that you're going to forget all about me when you're cleaned up, and you'll just assume that the inspiration came from something mundane, like that Elena woman."