The Muse's Punishment

         Ruth put her pen to the creamy paper and sighed. She withdrew the pen and closed her notebook; there were no stories today. She got up, stretched, and began pacing around her small apartment. She knew she needed a story, but simply could not think of anything. Normally the stories flowed all the time, she had spun fantastic tales of days long forgotten and woven intricate sagas of times yet to come. But today was different; her fantasy worlds had disappeared, leaving her without a tale to tell. With growing fear in her heart she watched the seconds count down to midnight. Several times she picked up her pen and notebook only to replace them on her desk, the page always blank. As the last bell tolled midnight at the distant church, a quick, firm rap sounded on Ruth’s door. With shaking legs and shallow breath she opened the door for her nightly visitor. She always had to stifle a small scream of fear as his huge frame filled the door.
         “Might I come in?” he asked in his voice as soft as wind through the autumnal leaves.
         “Of course,” Ruth could hear the fear in her own voice. As she stepped back he swept in the room, bringing with him the faint smell of burnt leaves and fresh dirt. As always he settled himself in a dark corner so that all Ruth could make out was cool gray eyes and moonlight paled skin. Ruth sat herself across from him in an overstuffed seat, wishing it would swallow her. She twisted her hands nervously, resisting the urge to chew on her thumb. His silence was frightening, but she couldn’t bear the thought of his breaking the silence. After long minutes the terrifying words came.
         “Tell me a story.” She took a long breath hoping that an idea, any idea would come to her. Nothing came to her rescue.
         “I have no story to tell tonight.”

         As he rose to his massive height she flinched and shrank back into her seat. His rage knew no bounds. The only thing he had ever required of her was her stories. Only one a night, until her debt was paid. And here she was, pathetically trying to escape her sentence. He advanced towards her and pulled her diminutive frame out of her chair. He shook her, sending brown waves of hair flying, trying to get her to look at him. Finally her chocolate brown eyes lifted to meet his, as she looked on his unobstructed face for the first time her eyes widened in fear and tears began to pour down her cheeks. He tossed her away from him in disgust.
         “You know your punishment.”

          Tears burned in her eyes as she crumpled before his feet. She prayed that her death would be quick. Only now was she realizing who her visitor truly was. The cold gray eyes, the smooth skin, the Grecian build, how many times had she described him in her fairy tales? How many times had he come to her rescue? Her muse. She tried to gather the pieces of her life but all she knew was that every night she had to tell him a story or face death. “Why?” she gasped.
         He paused in mid-strike and considered the pathetic form of the woman. “Did you say something, human?” He sneered as she suddenly sat up straight before him and stared at him.
         “You’re my muse. I don’t know how I know, but you are my muse. But if you’re my muse why do I have to tell you the stories? What have I done that could possibly deserve death if I don’t inspire the inspired?”
          “You broke the gods’ rules. For that you must serve your sentence or die.” He moved to strike her again, but she scooted out of his range.
         “I have a story to tell. I just remembered it.” Calmly, coolly, she began to tell her tale as he stood over her seething in anger.

         A young struggling writer was trying to finish her first manuscript. But she could not get past the first page. She cried out in desperation for help. “If there be any muses left, let them come to me now.” She fell asleep at her desk with the unfinished manuscript before her. But her call had not gone unheeded.
         That night as she slept a muse of old came to her and filled her dreams with fresh ideas. The next morning she awoke and wrote with a passion she had never experienced. Every night the muse came to her and every day she wrote of the things he whispered in her dreams. Soon her books became bestsellers around the world. As her success grew her muse came to spend his days by her side, as well as his nights.
         Her dreams soon became less filled with the ideas from the muse and more with the muse himself. Her heroes copied his mannerisms, and his looks. The young woman found herself wanting to sleep more and more because in her dreams she could speak with him. She yearned to feel his touch. But always in the dream they would maintain a distance, always talking and never touching. One night he finally reached out to her. Every night for a week the dream repeated itself. Then one night, in the midst of the dream, she became fully awake. At the foot of her bed sat the muse she knew so well in her dreams. She was frightened, but knew that she was no longer dreaming. He stretched his hand towards her, as he had in the dream. All she had to do was reach out to him and they would finally touch. She stretched her hand towards his and as their fingertips connected she felt the warm glow of love suffuse throughout her whole body. Without breaking contact they moved together and their lips met in a tender kiss. At that moment the gods passed judgment on the couple. “Do not dare to love a muse,” echoed around the woman. She had a moment of bewilderment as her muse wrapped his arms around her and whispered, “I’m sorry.” Abruptly he disappeared and she was left alone.
         The woman blinked and could remember nothing of her past. She went to her desk and wrote a story. That night a mystery visitor came to her door and demanded a story. She related the one she had written earlier. And so the years passed. The woman knew nothing but story telling until one night she ran out of stories. Her visitor threatened her with death and as she cowered from him she recognized his face. She recognized the face of her muse and remembered all that had transpired. She finally knew that her fate was to bring inspiration to her muse or face death at the hands of her true love. Thus was the punishment the gods placed on mortals who presumed to love an immortal.

         Ruth finished her tale and turned toward the muse, “You never told me your name.” He slowly lowered his hand and considered Ruth. He was shocked to hear his history in this woman’s tale. Suddenly he remembered the love they had shared not too long ago. He knew once he revealed his name his immortality would desert him, and the only muse left would be their love for each other. He shuddered as he remembered the confinement of the past years, unable to declare or even recognize his love. He lifted Ruth from the floor and embraced her.
         “Call me Nicias.”