by Lorena
Notes:
Brief rundown of the muses and their equivalent GW characters:
Calliope (Dorothy) -- muse of epic poetry
Clio (Mariemeia) -- muse of history
Erato (Relena) -- muse of love poetry and mimicry
Euterpe (Noin) -- muse of music
Melpomene (Une) -- muse of tragedy
Polyhymnia (Sylvia) -- muse of sacred poetry
Terpsichore (Catherine) -- muse of dance
Thalia (Hilde) -- muse of comedy and idyllic poetry
Urania (Sally) -- muse of astronomy
In Greek mythology, Calliope is the oldest of the nine sisters. In this fic, I'm not going by any of that.
A great war once devastated the land, leaving nothing more than burnt rubble in its wake and only a handful of small towns standing. Rich, golden cities that once soared to the sky with their alabaster towers, staring proudly and disdainfully out into the countryside, were now reduced to crumbling piles of rocks and black smoke.
It was a war that had ultimately turned into a raging confrontation between Ares and Hera. The balance was eventually tipped in favor of the mother, and the detested son was vanquished--but at such a price. No one quite remembered how it all began, but as it was, it involved just about the entire land, and those who survived barely made it day after day, scraping for their provisions and praying desperately to the gods for mercy.
The gods listened, but no one heeded.
Those in the fabled mountain had their own divisions to mend, after all. However, as none of them seemed to be willing to allow the possibility of a concession, unrest continued, and the mist-draped summit of Olympus rumbled with immortal wrath.
The lesser gods knew all too well to keep themselves as far away from the Olympians as they could, and they quietly scattered throughout the land in hopes of finding comfort at least in Nature. Nine sisters, in particular, thought it best to place themselves atop one of the tallest mountains far, far away from Olympus, in hopes of surveying the wreckage of what was once a spectacular and glorious land and to mourn their own losses.
It was, after all, as Relena had always noted, their province to inspire and bestow gifts, to choose the fortunate few who’d represent them in the dark, depressing world of mortals and hopefully allow it some vestige of greatness. And it was Sally’s idea to call her sisters together and to urge them to move on in spite of their grief--to help the wretched, gutted world stumble back to its feet and stagger on.
“We need to heal ourselves,” she declared, watching her sisters as they brooded where they stood or sat, their heads bent, their features hidden from the world with heavy veils or hoods as they lost themselves in their grief. “For humanity’s sake.”
“For humanity’s sake?” Dorothy echoed dryly without lifting her head. Her favorite poet had perished during a surprise attack. “What do we owe them?”
“This is their doing,” Sylvia added quietly, and her other sisters murmured their agreement.
Relena watched her companions and then sighed, shaking her head. “It’s not our place to judge--at least not now,” she replied, and Dorothy looked up to regard her with pale, ageless eyes.
“I think we’re entitled, given this latest joke of a battle. Why should we care? They clearly see each other as nothing more than dispensable cattle to slaughter at will. They care about nothing but their own misguided principles.”
“Come, come!” Sally interrupted when she saw Relena’s face darken. “Hilde! Have you anything for us? A poem to make us laugh? A line or two will help.”
The dark-haired muse shook her head without looking up, pulling her veil even more closely around her head. “No. Give me time, sister. Even a muse needs to be inspired.”
Sally turned to Noin and Catherine, both of whom declined a song and a dance respectively.
“You can’t force us,” Sylvia declared. “You may not have suffered a loss like we have, but you’re still expected to show us some respect in our grief.”
Sally was about to speak when Mariemeia shushed her with a raised hand and a grave nod. She, along with Relena and Sally, were the only ones among the muses who escaped the war with their hearts relatively intact though they did suffer for their sisters’ sake. Sally was the pragmatist, and so the burden often fell on her shoulders when the need for a firm, steadying hand arose. However, current circumstances dictated a softer approach in getting the muses back to work, and it was Relena’s sensitivity and Mariemeia’s caution that the other young women required.
“Sylvia’s right,” the flame-haired muse said, her high, youthful voice offering her sisters some comfort. “I think each of us should bear her loss according to her temper--give us time, Sally, to do what we will.”
“How long?”
“Seven days--we should meet back here on the seventh hour of the seventh day.”
“And if some of us aren’t ready?” Relena prodded, her eyes fixed darkly on Dorothy, who ignored her.
Sally shook her head firmly. “The world needs purging. Mortals need new heroes. Only we can give them what they need without engaging them in battles or petty confrontations to prove themselves. Whether or not we feel ready, we can’t renege on our responsibility. I think it’s as simple as that.”
“I think that’s fair enough,” Catherine spoke up, offering a weary little smile. Noin, standing beside her, nodded her agreement.
“Does anyone have any objections to this?” Relena asked, her eyes sweeping the small group, and they all shook their heads.
All except for one, who stood sequestered from her sisters in the shadows of a nearby grove of trees. She watched the others in cold silence from under a heavy veil, her arms cradling the soiled and battered helmet of a beloved casualty in the battlefield.
The nine sisters wasted no time in scattering themselves after their talk. For her part, Une chose an isolated countryside that seemed to stretch out into infinity. She stood on the crest of a low hill, watching the scene before her with sleepless eyes, her long, brown hair fluttering lightly in the breeze. The silence was deafening, but she sought it--embraced it. She desired nothing more than to listen to stillness and the vague, phantom voices of dead men that were carried by the wind, to be scattered throughout the world as testament of past follies--to be heeded only by those who chose to listen.
One of them, she knew, belonged to her dead lover, whose helm she held protectively against herself. He was perhaps one of the greatest generals who’d ever lived. He fought on Hera’s side, but Aphrodite, ever blind to everything else but her own pleasures (and Ares being the greatest of them), appeared in the battlefield as a boy soldier who curried favor with General Khushrenada and eventually betrayed the man’s trust, rendering him vulnerable to enemy forces, who’d slain him without much trouble.
Yes, Zeus had vowed revenge in Une’s name, but it wasn’t enough. When judged against the loss itself, revenge was never enough, and the Muse mourned, bitterly shutting herself away from her peers, her superiors, and even her sisters. It was largely the efforts of Sally and Relena that had kept her from severing her ties completely from the rest of the immortals, and it took everything the two young women had to coax their sister out of her solitude and spend some time with the others.
She stared at the empty countryside. “A waste,” she spat out. “All this life--all these gifts--and no one’s left to enjoy them. Sometimes I wonder what’s the use of our existence if this all we can look forward to--barren fields left to rot.”
With a grimace of disgust, she turned away and called out, “Come!”
A few feet away, a small spiral of air lifted itself out of the grass, swirling into a barely visible pillar. Une watched in silence as the pillar of air throbbed and pulsated, carrying an occasional leaf and small organic debris with it as it rose up, its top disappearing into the breeze.
A shape slowly took form within the pillar--dark and shadowy at first before its edges sharpened, and details ripened with the infusion of color throughout its figure.
It didn’t take long for Une’s creation to complete its transformation, and when the muse ordered it to step forward, she was treated to the sight of a young man--a boy at the height of his youth--tall and lean, eyes bright and all-seeing, complexion pale and untouched. He stood before her, his gaze fixed on his creator for a few seconds in curious silence before it was averted in favor of the more overwhelming sight of hills and meadows that rolled gently around him.
Une continued to watch him, studying him, feeling pleased with her creation. Yes, he would do quite nicely.
“Do you know what you are?” she presently asked, startling the boy and forcing his attention back to her.
“No,” he replied quietly.
“You’re my…” Une paused, hesitating, before carrying on. “You’re my muse.” She laughed lightly--dryly.
The boy simply regarded her and waited.
“You’re not human. You’re a spirit I’ve given human form to. You’ll leave this place and wander among mortals--and there you’ll learn what you can about the blacker sides of their nature. That wouldn’t be too difficult to do. Mortals are, by nature, cruel, pernicious animals, and you shouldn’t find it too great a chore reading their hearts. You can smell the filth of their souls before they even appear in the horizon.”
Une paused to catch a breath. “You’ll absorb everything that you see and hear--you’ll be formed by their baser instincts, and you’ll come back to me, the perfect embodiment of tragedy. You don’t have the power of speech though you can converse with the elements, animals, and plants. It’s not your business to establish bonds of any strength with other mortals. Do you understand?”
The boy nodded.
“You won’t remain human, of course. You were never meant to be one. Humans can’t live forever, and it’s not in my power to grant you immortal life. However, I need a--muse--who will remain with me forever--or at least much longer than a measly human can.” She practically spat out those final words as though she were spitting out poison. She slowly walked around him, her eyes running themselves up and down his person as she inspected him critically, nodding on occasion. “Treize couldn’t,” she added, her voice falling to a near whisper, her eyes filling up, but she easily blinked the moistness away.
“I’ve yet to decide what I want your final form to be, but be assured that I won’t make you suffer as one of those weak creatures. You’re to represent me, my work, my curse.” Memories of the dead general continued to threaten to overcome her, but she steeled herself against their influence and stood before the boy, tall and pale and mournful but cold and proud to the very last. She raised a hand and gently touched his cheek with her palm.
“You know nothing but what you need to function in the most basic level--you understand nothing. You’re a shell--an empty slate. On you the world will work its poison, and humanity will plant the seeds of decay. You’ll carry the burden of deprivation, sin, and death with you till you come back to me, enriched by all that you’ve absorbed. And on the seventh hour of the seventh day, you’ll be rewarded with your final form, and you’ll take your place by Une’s side as her consort. Men will know what you are, and they’ll worship you as they worship me--with their tears.”
The boy nodded again.
Une sighed and stepped back, her eyes fixed on him. “You have no name,” she said. “I see no use for it. Go on now.”
The boy turned to follow her pointed finger, and, casting one final glance in her direction, he moved off and hurried down the hill. The tragic muse remained where she stood and watched him go, her figure dwindling with every step the nameless boy took away from her. And when he disappeared in the distance, she stood like every other mortal woman--pale and thin and burdened by her nature, clinging resolutely to the battered and soiled helm she held against her breast as a widow would in reverence to her lost husband.
“She’s making a big mistake,” Relena noted as she and Dorothy watched the goings on unseen, hovering above a nearby hill. “She’s blind to everything else but her own grief.”
“Let her learn on her own.”
“She’s going to hurt the boy.”
Dorothy turned to regard her sister with a vague light of amusement in her eyes. “He’s only a spirit, my dear. That’s all. Simply air that’s given temporary life for her purpose.”
Relena shook her head stubbornly. “Whatever little life he has deserves no worse in our hands. He’s still a mortal even if only for a day or half a day.”
The taller muse sighed and rested a hand on her sister’s arm, squeezing gently, reassuringly. “We can’t interfere. That was our promise.”
The two fell silent and continued to watch before they took themselves away from their sister’s isolation, their essences dissolving into the wind and getting scattered in every direction. On the other hill, Une bowed before the sun before vanishing completely.
The nameless youth wandered far and wide. Being immortal, he needed neither food nor rest to replenish his energy, and he covered a good deal of land in a short amount of time.
He wandered north and reached a lush valley on the first day of his travels, and there he spotted a small group of women laying flowers at the feet of a tall laurel tree. They spoke in hushed and awed tones, and they reverently placed their hands on the tree’s bark as though comforting it.
The boy watched them curiously.
“What are they doing?” he asked the wind.
“Comforting one who used to be like them,” the wind answered quietly.
“What happened?”
“She was punished by the gods for being desired by one of them.”
The boy listened and pondered. He watched the women speak to each other some more as though turning to each other now for comfort before moving off, their heads bowed in apparent grief.
“Will she be turned back to the way she was before?”
“No--unless the gods who brought this on her repent their harshness.”
“Then why do mortals come to her still?”
“They have hopes that someday she’ll be granted mercy--even if her punishment was never once warranted. Then again, mortals have always been silly, whimsical creatures. You’ve no business being with them, young spirit. Go and serve your mistress, and you’ll be rewarded handsomely.”
The boy walked on, taking a western path, and on the second day of his travels, he came across a small group of children standing around a little crystal pond, tossing flowers into the water and watching them float idly on the gently rippling surface.
“What’s happening here?” he asked the lush grass around him.
“The children are comforting one of their own,” the grass replied.
“Was the child punished by the gods?”
“He was the child of a god and a mortal, and a jealous goddess punished the mother by turning her son into a small pond.”
“The children are mourning then.”
“They are. But they visit quite a lot. They hope to see their playfellow returned to them someday, when the goddess repents her harshness. Then again, mortals have always been silly, whimsical creatures. You’ve no business being with them, young spirit. Go on and serve your mistress, and you’ll be rewarded handsomely.”
The boy nodded and moved on.
The third day of his travels came, with him venturing down the southern road, and he came upon an isolated glen--teeming with all sorts of rich plant life and a small bubbling brook that cut through it. And there he spotted a marble statue standing near the trees.
“Ah, another unhappy mortal punished by the gods,” he said to himself, but when he looked around and saw no one else in the vicinity, he was puzzled. “Why aren’t there people here to comfort him? Has he been abandoned?”
He walked up to the statue and gazed at it critically. The figure was slight of build, but its musculature was clearly showing signs of development. It stood with its head turned up as though it was caught glancing up at the sky when it was transformed. Its expression was that of calm intelligence with a hint of wistful longing, and the mortal boy thought that were the statue alive, he was sure that the figure would be rather striking in appearance.
He slowly stepped back, unable to take his eyes off the marble figure before him. The statue’s legs were encased in rough stone up to the calves, with one leg bent at the knees as though the figure was in the process of walking when it was captured and frozen forever in this state. A long, narrow sheet wound airily around it as a soft scarf would when billowing in the breeze, but for the most part, the figure was naked. A round shield rested against one of its legs, and part of it was also swallowed up in the rough stone that held the statue’s feet.
There was a lack of self-consciousness in the statue’s pose that struck the viewer--a general casualness that spoke of confidence and a deep-seated strength that went beyond what was physical. A closer look at the face only served to confirm that in the mortal boy’s eyes, and he nodded knowingly.
“You angered one of the gods, didn’t you?” he asked, but the statue remained silent. “I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them desired you, and you were punished for being born beautiful.”
The boy felt a slight warmth spread through his face as he spoke, but he felt no shame in what he’d said or of the fact that he was communicating with a marble figure standing in the middle of an unnamed glen. His eyes still fixed on the figure, he decided that the marble boy truly was pleasing to the eyes and added, “You are beautiful.”
Silence once again met his words, but he pressed on. “It’s a bit harsh being caught out here and being exposed to the weather. But--I suppose you wouldn’t feel a thing.”
The clouds shifted above, partially obscuring the sun, before moving again. Soft shadows were thrown on the statue’s face, and the boy thought that he saw it frown.
“It looks like you do,” he remarked, a little surprised. He paused and looked around. The trees that surrounded them seemed too thick, with shrubbery covering up every inch of ground between them.
“There’s no place where I can move you right now,” the boy presently said apologetically. The shadows moved on the statue’s face yet again, and it looked as though a small, sheepish smile curled the corners of its mouth. “I think you’ll have to put up with the weather until someone does find a better place for you.”
The branches of nearby trees swayed lightly in the wind, and the statue seemed to nod as well. The nameless boy studied it for another moment, and his mind settled itself on the two previous occasions involving the laurel tree and the pond, and he was moved.
“I’ll return,” he said, bowing, before turning and running off through the trees, bursting out at the other side to find himself standing in a field that seemed to be choked with wildflowers.
And there he busied himself, falling to his knees as he pulled out brilliant blooms that caught his fancy, gathering what he could fit into two hands. When he couldn’t hold any more, he stumbled to his feet and hurried back to the glen, stopping once to pick up a broken and faded pot that littered the side of a dirt road. Once back in the glen, he filled the pot with water from the brook, and in the old container he placed the wildflowers, offering the collection to the marble statue as he’d seen mortals do for the laurel tree and the pond.
“This will, I hope, comfort you--until the gods repent their harshness and change you back. Mortals may have given up on you, but I won’t. If nothing happens in four days, I’ll ask my mistress if she could appeal on your behalf.”
The statue gazed pensively at the sky. It seemed to hope for the best, too.
The boy continued to watch it, reluctant to part from his new friend, but he knew that he had a task to perform, and time wasn’t on his side. He presently stepped forward and placed a hand on the statue’s in farewell.
“I need to go,” he said regretfully, green eyes clouding a little. “But on my way back to my mistress, I’ll make sure to visit you and see how you’re faring, and maybe I can share some stories with you.”
The statue only stared at the sky, but the boy thought that he saw a tiny, mischievous smile in the shifting shadows, and he smiled as well.
“I’ll come back. In the meantime, I’ll pray for good weather.”
The statue seemed to like the suggestion, and the boy walked on, feeling a little lighter in his heart and warmed by the thought of seeing the statue again. So he continued west until he finally caught sight of human activity after a day on the road. He was amazed that it lay just a short distance from the secluded glen, but it was no matter. Once the seven days were up, it wouldn’t take him long to visit his friend and to see how well the lonely marble figure was doing. The boy frowned a little as he stood on the crest of a low hill, mulling things over. His thoughts kept straying to the statue, and when they did, he felt an unaccountable tugging at his chest. And before he knew it, he began to feel regret at abandoning his friend, exposed and helpless against the elements.
Perhaps it would be a better idea if he were to visit it more often. The boy glanced at the sky and found it bright and swimming in light, airy clouds. The weather seemed fine for now, but it could easily turn bad the next day or the day after. And the thought of the statue standing forlornly in the downpour was enough to steel the boy’s resolve to return--perhaps with something with which to protect it from the elements.
“I need a name to share with him, I think,” he noted. After all, his mistress and her sisters had names. Every plant and every rock and every body of water had a name.
With that, he moved on, and within a few hours, he found himself walking through a little village that bustled with activity. People ran to and fro, many of them chattering eagerly about a much-anticipated wedding. The boy couldn’t speak to any of them, so he contented himself with listening instead, taking in what he could as he searched for what it was with which Une had charged him to find.
The houses, for the most part, were decrepit cottages, with an occasional luxurious structure looming up. The people looked weathered and drawn, the cares of the world and the shock of the war weighing heavily on them. But they carried on regardless, and the boy followed them to the other end of the village, where a flower market was set up.
He walked through the thick cluster of booths, marveling at the offerings every single one had and declining temptation with a grave shaking of the head whenever a merchant would plant him or herself before him, brandishing goods with honeyed words that promised the stars if he were to purchase the items.
He presently came upon a booth that stood under an aged elm. It was piled high with flowers, which were tended by a vivacious young man who smoothly tried to ensnare his customers with sweet words that disguised a sharp wit.
“Who is he?” he asked the venerable old elm under whose branches the booth had been set up.
“No one of any significance,” the tree rumbled gently in reply, and the boy thought he saw the branches dip down a little--almost protectively--to shield the vendor and his offerings. “A mortal with no family, no connections save for one, and no real future but the sale of flowers from his garden.”
The bright-eyed merchant hustled around, calling out and greeting people as they walked by, his grin broad and irrepressible. But no one came, and the boy watched as people walked past the booth, the look of grim determination on their faces showing a deliberate snubbing. Most of them, furthermore, walked in a wide arc past the vendor’s table, as though terrified of catching something if they were to pass too close to it. An occasional scowl would be thrown in the merchant’s way as well, and a child even threw a half-eaten apple at him, and his parents didn’t once lift a finger to stop the assault.
The vendor expertly dodged the projectile, which was easily caught and thrown away by another boy who appeared to be working with him and was simply hovering in the shadow of the tree. He walked up to his startled partner and spoke a few quiet words, gently rubbing the latter’s shoulders in a gesture of reassurance and comfort, even idly fingering the long, twisted plait of brown hair that hung down the vendor’s back.
“Who is he?”
“No one of any significance and the cause of the trouble you’ve seen and will see.”
“What did he do?”
“Defied his family and followed his heart,” the tree continued sadly. “Once wealthy, now disowned and disgraced, shunned by kin and friend alike.”
The boy glanced around to watch the people continue to dodge the table. “Is that why mortals are avoiding them?”
“Disobedience is a sin in their eyes, but greater is the sin of throwing oneself into a connection that everyone deems to be an aberration.”
The boy frowned as he watched the pair speak to each other--watched the small, subtle gestures of reciprocated affection and acceptance. A hand momentarily clasping another, a slight smile offered, a vague dimming of the eyes in resignation. He felt an odd twisting in his chest, and realized, instinctively, that easing himself of that strange bout of pain meant that he needed to approach the two outcast lovers and offer them some gesture of friendship.
He also knew, however, that he couldn’t. Not only did he not have any money with which to purchase anything from their booth, he was literally speechless where mortal communication was concerned. Une had shut him out, rendered him completely incapable of forging any connection in the world of men. He was practically invisible to humanity, walking silently among them, a wisp of a boy no one knew and with whom no one could speak. And he still hadn’t discovered a name.
Name…
“May I know their names instead?” he asked, and the elm shifted its branches again as though embracing the two.
“Heero is the disgraced one, and Duo is his undoing. That’s what mortals say of them. Then again, mortals have always been silly, spiteful creatures. You’ve no business being with them, young spirit. Go on and serve your mistress, and you’ll be rewarded handsomely.”
The boy turned away and walked back to the glen, where he felt he could rest and mull things over and perhaps share his adventures thus far with his new friend. The nameless boy sat on the grass and recounted his adventures, sharing everything he’d seen and heard and learned about humanity so far, feeling that odd pang throb in his chest when he spoke of Heero and Duo. He continued to puzzle over it and voiced his thoughts to his silent friend.
“I’m only a spirit,” he said, gingerly rubbing his chest. “I know nothing but what I need to function in the most basic level--I understand nothing. I’m a shell--an empty slate. I’m simply waiting for my mistress to come and reward me for a job well done.”
He glanced up at the statue and gave a small start at the sight of little cracks that originated from a tiny gash on the statue’s left abdomen. Were those cracks there before? He couldn’t even recall. The marble boy seemed so perfect just the previous day. His eyes followed the cracks and watched them branch off into two jagged trails that cut across the statue’s chest and stomach.
“You feel more than I do,” the boy noted, aghast, as he gently ran his fingers over the cracks. “Did I just hurt you with my story?” He looked up at the upturned face. Clouds trailed across the sky, muting the sun and casting soft shadows on the statue’s face. There was melancholy there, yes.
So how did one undo the damage? The boy could think of nothing save for one way, and he declared, “I’ll come back.”
He hurried off through the trees and found himself once again on his knees to gather fresh wildflowers from an obliging field, and when he returned to his haven, he immediately sacrificed the previous offerings to the rippling brook, and the new blooms took their place at the foot of the marble statue.
“There,” he said with quiet satisfaction, admiring the vibrant colors that were now giving life to the broken old pot. “That should help.”
His eyes fell on the statue’s hands, and while he remembered Heero’s gesture of comfort in holding Duo’s hand, he convinced himself not to do the same. Heero and Duo, after all, were lovers. He and the marble statue weren’t, but he felt that the flowers and simple companionship should suffice.
“I can stay for the night--just to make sure that you don’t hurt any more than this.”
The clouds moved, and the marble figure seemed pleased with that idea, and the boy spent the rest of the waning hours of the day listening to the brook and the grass, the trees and the birds. They all spoke of great lands far and away, of heroes whose names would never be forgotten so long as the muses offered their gifts to those destined to keep mortal history gloriously alive. They spoke of the strange and the exotic, of the commonplace and the mundane, and the boy absorbed it all, his mind filling with wonder upon wonder.
He lay at the statue’s feet through the night, listening to the moonlight on the grass.
The following day, he bade his friend farewell.
“I’ll definitely return,” he said with an emphatic nod. “Since you aren’t feeling too well, I can’t just leave you like this. Here.” The boy paused as he pulled his cloak off and wrapped it around the cold, hard shoulders of the figure before him. “This might help.”
The statue seemed to offer him a grateful little smile, and he left the glen, feeling a good deal lighter than before, a curious surge of warmth coursing through his gut. And he returned, without even thinking twice about it, to the small village in hopes of--what? He didn’t even know.
So he mingled with the village folk as before, shadowing them and observing them just as quietly, and he wondered at the endless things he heard and saw: a little boy’s excitement over his first horse ride…a woman bemoaning her husband’s perceived infidelity (which she couldn’t seem to prove)…a servant girl’s bubbly joy at acquiring a second-hand dress from her mistress’s daughter…an old man’s disgruntled comparisons of today’s self-absorbed, rude, and ignorant youth to his generation’s obedient, virtuous ones. The boy wondered at the passion that ebbed and flowed all around him, almost literally drowning him in its potency.
He wondered even more at his tendency to be taken in by whoever happened to be within hearing range. An angry, bitter argument between two sisters would elicit a sharp pang of discomfort in his chest. A sudden burst of laughter from a little girl who skipped smoothly between people as she dodged her mother’s grasp sent a comforting wave of warmth through him. His mind reeled, and several times along the way he had to pause and wait for those people to put more of a distance between them as he quietly tried to sort through the confusing mix of thoughts and emotions that threatened to make his head burst.
He was slowly--slowly--understanding what each of these passionate outbursts meant, and by the time they’d reached the first booths at the flower market, the nameless spirit had learned to stay within a reasonably unobtrusive distance of those people who guaranteed him a pleasurable wave of emotions. And it was perhaps a good thing that these people were much too enmeshed in their own matters that they never took notice of the strange, quiet boy who trailed them, watching them closely with bright green eyes and a faint, bewildered smile.
He couldn’t find Duo’s booth that day, and he wondered if the vendor had decided to pack up and move off to a more accepting town to ply his wares. A new booth was set up where his used to be, and a bubbly old woman bustled to and fro, her table swarming with customers who all demanded her attention.
“Where did they go?” he asked the old elm, and the tree sighed, shaking its branches ever so lightly so that a small shower of leaves floated down to coat the grass below.
“I can’t tell you, young spirit,” it replied sadly. “Perhaps it’s better for you to move on to more promising things--remember your mistress’s charge.”
The boy nodded and walked on, feeling a pang of disappointment in his chest. He was hoping to observe the outcast lovers and somehow learn from them some more even though he wasn’t quite sure why he felt the compulsion to do so.
He wove his way through the crowd, once again trailing those who radiated more pleasurable sensations of joy and excitement and avoiding those who filled the morning air with heated exchanges and black looks thrown around at will.
Somewhere in the eastern end of the market, he spotted another couple who seemed--or, rather, felt--out of place. It was a boy and a girl, which, of course, should be an acceptable match in mortals’ eyes compared to Heero and Duo’s union, but the quiet spirit noted (again with some puzzlement) how people seemed to ignore the couple in spite of their occasional greeting to those whom they perhaps knew.
People simply walked past them or glanced at them icily before turning away without so much as a nod or a word of acknowledgement.
“Who are those two?” he asked the apple tree against which a small booth stood, where the couple decided to stop and inspect the flowers being offered there.
The tree bent its branches down as though to shield the pair. “No one of any significance,” it replied quietly. “Foreigners with no claim to wealth or power.”
“Why do you protect them?”
“Why shouldn’t I? Mortals care nothing for them. They don’t belong here, after all, but I’m a child of Nature, and so are they. They’re my kin, and to them I owe my allegiance.”
The boy watched the foreign couple scour the table critically for what they needed, picking up and showing an occasional flower to each other and speaking in a language both musical and unknown to him. The vendor, for her part, simply waited patiently, smiling and nodding her encouragement.
“Not everyone shuns them,” the boy said with a touch of triumph in his voice. “The girl vendor doesn’t.”
“Perhaps because others shun her as well--she’s new and unused to the ways of the market. Mortals care nothing for her if she doesn’t have a name to boast of like the long-established vendors in this market. That’s what they say. Then again, mortals have always been silly, blind creatures. You’ve no business being with them, young spirit. Go on and serve your mistress, and you’ll be rewarded handsomely.”
Name…
“What are the names of the other two?” the boy asked. Perhaps there was a name that he could use here.
“Wufei and Meiran just late of the eastern end of the world--husband and wife, strangers to each other and to fellow mortals.”
The boy plucked up enough courage to edge closer to the pair as they continued to inspect the young vendor’s blooms. They seemed to have their minds bent on globe thistles in a mind-boggling array of colors, most of which were strange variations of basic flower colors. There were many as well that were tipped with gold, which gave the flowers a rich, majestic luster that entranced the boy, and he couldn’t help but gape.
“You’ve done a marvelous job with these flowers,” Wufei remarked, holding up a small bundle of brilliant orange ones, turning them over as he gazed at them critically. “Wonderful colors here.”
“Thank you, sir,” the vendor stammered awkwardly, her hands twisting and tugging at her apron. She looked as though she’d just turned fourteen. She was clearly very new to this and had not yet established a method of enticing customers to purchasing her offerings. “My parents showed me the best way to raise them, and I try hard.”
“And how much do you charge for these?” Meiran asked in a quiet, firm voice that mirrored her companion’s.
“Half a crown for a dozen, mistress.”
“Half a crown for a dozen seems cheap--too cheap for flowers like these.”
The girl flushed, and the apron twisting increased in intensity. “But--it didn’t take a lot for us to raise them.”
Meiran smiled and shook her head sympathetically as she handed over a dozen of the flowers to the flustered young vendor. “You’ll go bankrupt at this rate, miss. Standard pricing’s half a crown for half a dozen, so that’s what I’ll pay you. I owe you one crown then.”
The girl gratefully accepted the terms and happily bundled up her customers’ purchase while the boy turned and walked away, deep in thought and still without a name. Somehow he couldn’t find it in himself to borrow someone else’s--it didn’t feel right, and he also realized that he was entitled to a name of his own, not something he’d secretly stolen simply because it sounded good to his ears.
He even fought against a faint, insistent voice in his mind that cautioned, “You know nothing but what you need to function in the most basic level--you understand nothing. You’re a shell--an empty slate. On you the world will work its poison, and humanity will plant the seeds of decay. You’ll carry the burden of deprivation, sin, and death with you till you go back to her, enriched by all that you’ve absorbed. And on the seventh hour of the seventh day, you’ll be rewarded with your final form, and you’ll take your place by your mistress’s side as her consort. Men will know what you are, and they’ll worship you as they worship her--with their tears.”
He returned to the glen later that afternoon after a wearisome trek back, and sitting at the statue’s feet, he once again recounted his adventures so far.
“I still don’t have a name to share with you,” he noted with a drooping of his shoulders. “But I know that I’m learning a good deal just in that flower market. I realize that I’m expected to venture farther out into the world, but I feel that everything I need to know is right there in that market. I’m only hoping that my mistress wouldn’t mind my decision.”
“A nameless spirit has no will of its own save for its creator’s,” the quiet voice continued to prod in his mind, and he shook it off with a small, annoyed grunt. “Its choices aren’t its own. Go and serve your mistress, and you’ll be rewarded handsomely.”
The boy forced his attention on the damaged figure before him, and his eyes widened. The cracks seemed to have grown. He traced the splintered surface of the stone with his fingers for some time before he realized that there were cracks elsewhere that he’d never noticed before. There was a jagged gash on the statue’s face--one that began at the base of the neck near the right shoulder and then stretched up and out, crawling up the right side of the face, forking out near the right eye, with one trail cutting through the forehead and the other tearing a crooked diagonal line across the nose.
The boy was dismayed at the sight as he tried to find other cracks anywhere else. Fortunately for him, he found none, but he still couldn’t help but feel that the next day might provide him with more surprises, and before he’d realize what was happening, the marble boy would simply crumble to useless chunks of stone at his feet.
“I need help,” he said, turning to the trees around him, but they all remained silent though they bent their ancient heads in sympathy, their branches almost drooping to the grassy floor.
“I’ll help,” a small voice twittered, and he found a blue bird sunning itself atop a nearby shrub, and the boy gratefully accepted the offer. “I’ll go seek the goddess Athene. I’m sure she’ll have it in her power to help.”
The boy watched the small bird spread its wings and fly off, riding the winds and disappearing into the distant horizon. He felt some comfort, yes, but not enough to ease his mind completely. He continued to hold vigil over his friend, waiting through the twilight and then the evening hours as the sun bade him farewell, and the moon rose to keep him company. And once again, he laid his head on the ground as he rested by the statue’s feet, listening to the moonlight whisper its secrets on the grass beneath him.
The following morning found him replenishing the wildflowers in the broken pot for his friend. The wind had turned cold, and he stood before the statue, shivering, as he appraised the floral offering with some satisfaction. The cracks on the statue hadn’t grown in the night, thankfully enough, so he felt a little more comfortable leaving the lonely stone figure alone for another day.
“I won’t be long,” he promised as he turned and walked off, leaving his cloak still comfortably wrapped around the statue’s shoulders and braving the chill weather by crossing his arms stiffly across his chest. He could live with the momentary discomfort, he’d decided.
He was making his way back to the little village and its flower market, wondering what surprises lay in store for him this time around. But he never reached his destination.
Along the way, he encountered a large group of people lining the main road, chattering excitedly among themselves. Men, women, and children alike congregated there, with several standing a little off from the main crowd, either lounging on the nearby slopes of low hills or sitting under, standing by, or hanging from the old trees that peppered the landscape. The air was abuzz with five hundred lively voices raised in a vibrant clamor rich with conversation and laughter.
The boy stared at them for a second or two in wonder. The people were obviously waiting for something with some degree of importance, judging from the way many of them seemed to have dressed up in their finest. Someone of some significance was about to pass their way, and they were showing their respect by appearing en masse to salute this person. Or maybe even people.
The nameless spirit glanced around, scanning the crowd, and he noticed Duo and Heero standing a little apart from the crowd, quiet but no less anxious as they anticipated this important arrival. No one, of course, stood by them or anywhere within ten feet of them, but they didn’t seem to mind--perhaps they were simply used to their ostracism.
Several feet away stood Wufei and Meiran, also ignored by the crowd though in less passionate terms. The people avoided or ignored them, but none really kept his or her distance from the couple. They simply ceased to exist in the eyes of the villagers, who walked around them without once offering a single sign of acknowledgement.
The boy decided to stay on that particular side of the road as well, and he trudged up the slope and planted himself by a lonely tree, from whose vantage point he could see everything that was happening.
After waiting for a few minutes, a loud cheer suddenly rose among the crowd, and people began to push their way to the front.
“What’s happening?” the boy asked the bluebells that swayed languorously in the stiff breeze.
“A wedding,” the little flowers cried. “The new heir is now to be joined with his bride, who was first meant for another.”
The spirit’s eyes shifted toward Heero, who was silently watching a small caravan of richly-dressed men and women ride slowly by, waving happily and proudly at the people.
“Heero’s bride?” he asked.
“Yes. His brother’s now the groom and the sole heir to his father’s fortune.”
There was a melancholy in Heero’s air that was easily discernible, but it was also tempered by a comfortable acceptance of his chosen lot in life. The way he stood close to his lover, the way his thin figure seemed to lean almost instinctively against Duo as though for reassurance and support, the way the fierce blue of his eyes had softened of their own accord and not because of the shadows cast by the overhang of tousled hair against his forehead.
He’d followed his heart as the old elm had said, and he had no regrets.
The brightly-colored caravan had reached their point on the road when it suddenly stopped, and a loud, angry voice rose above the din, effectively silencing the crowd.
“Get away from here! Get away!”
A gray-haired man leapt off one of the lead horses, and he plowed through the crowd, shouting as he went and waving his fist in the air. Everyone was thrown into a confusion as people parted to make way for him, who, judging from his dress, must be the groom’s father. People who remained in the caravan called frantically out to him, begging him to return, but he paid them no heed, his mind now bent on a single goal of reaching his disgraced son.
“You don’t belong here! You’re an abomination!” he cried, still waving his fists in the air. “Get out! You’re desecrating a sacred ceremony!”
The boy held his breath as he felt his chest tighten and the surge of anxiety escalate to unbearable levels. He watched, stunned, as Heero’s father barreled through the crowd, encouraging a handful of people to pick up the pace and run alongside him, shouting at the young man and his lover--hurling accusations, insults, and threats while the rest of the crowd stood and watched in horrified silence.
The same horror was reflected in a brief flash in Duo’s eyes as he quickly grabbed hold of his partner’s hand, urging the latter with a fierce whisper. He turned on his heels and ran up the hill, half-dragging Heero with him while their pursuers doubled their pace.
“What’s happening?” the boy choked as he grabbed hold of his chest, wincing at the pain that continued to bombard him in wave after relentless wave of agonized throbbing.
“It’s the nature of mortals to be hostile and unforgiving toward what they don’t understand,” the bluebells sighed, drooping. “They’ve always been such silly, ignorant creatures. You’ve no business being with them, young spirit, but I’m afraid that I’m too late. You’ll be rewarded by your mistress soon.”
The boy could only watch dizzily as he struggled for breath, his eyes fixed on the two lovers as they tried to escape their pursuers. The hill’s slope sharpened in angle, however, near the top, impeding their progress to a near crawl, but they fought hard, running and stumbling and helping each other up. Behind them the small crowd of angry men continued their pursuit and was closing the distance between them rather quickly.
“The gods help them,” the boy wheezed.
Duo and Heero were about ten feet away from the crest of the hill when the two suddenly collapsed and transformed before everyone’s eyes. When he fell, Heero stretched his arm out to reach for Duo, and his arm melted into a wing of snow. The transformation was quick and absolute, and where the two wretched lovers lay, two white birds now spread their wings with loud, jubilant cries, and they lifted themselves off the ground and soared up high, beyond the reach of mortals.
As they flew up, a pale, golden-haired girl appeared on the crest of the hill, calmly watching them glide off in a triumphant flurry of white feathers. The cries among the people generated by that transformation didn’t change to one of surprise at the girl’s sudden presence, which meant that only the nameless boy was the one who could see her.
She was dressed as his mistress was dressed--in a drape of soft fabric of white that seemed to shimmer in the sun. Her hair, hanging down her back, was held in place by two thin, delicate braids that wrapped around her head from her temples and were embellished with tiny white flowers woven through the twists, and against her breast she held a gold lyre. She was the picture of grave serenity in a sea of confusion around her as people cried out, many falling to their knees as realization slowly dawned on them.
“The gods! The gods!” they cried, pointing at the two birds flying away.
“The gods are with them!”
Heero’s father paused in his tracks during this miraculous event, his mouth hanging wide open, his eyes bulging out of his head. He and his companions simply stood rooted to the spot as they watched the gods cast their protective nets over the fleeing lovers.
The mysterious girl turned her attention to the people who swarmed before her, her eyes darkening in sadness but certainly not judgment. And when she raised them, she stared straight at the boy, the gravity of her features shattered by the onset of a small, cryptic smile as she nodded at him before she faded into the winds, her figure disappearing and dispersing itself in every direction.
The boy spotted Wufei and Meiran in the confusion, and the two were standing off in the distance, their faces registering the same shock and terror that he felt as they stared, wide-eyed, at the hill. They remained unmolested by the mob (the latter being much too preoccupied by the fantastic events that had just transpired, after all), but there were two young women standing close to them--behind them--one on each side, leaning close and whispering in their ears.
The boy didn’t know if the couple heard what was being spoken, but he was certain that the effects were being felt at least. The two strange women were likely immortals--a tall golden-haired woman with oddly-shaped eyebrows standing by Wufei, whispering with the same cryptic smile offered to him by the first girl. A thin gold crown encircled her head, and in her arms lay nestled a writing tablet. The other girl was younger-looking--flame-haired and pale-eyed, the swift darting of her gaze from one point to another indicative of youth at its peak as she whispered in Meiran’s ear. She held a golden scroll, which glittered in the sun, protectively against her. [1]
The couple continued to stand mesmerized, completely oblivious to the two immortals who were likely bestowing their gifts on them. And after a few seconds of this, the strange young women stopped and moved away gently, their eyes fixed on the objects of their attention. What earnest gravity that was there before slowly dissipated before a light of hope that seemed to glow from their very core. The two exchanged satisfied looks before turning to lock gazes with the boy, nodding their salutation and then disappearing as well.
The nameless spirit staggered back against the tree as he struggled to catch a breath.
He wasn’t even aware that he was back in his beloved little glen until he realized that he was standing before the marble statue, gazing at it sorrowfully. His chest ached. The sharp pain that assailed him throughout Duo and Heero’s ordeal had now receded to an insistent dull throbbing that kept his hands pressed against his heart, gingerly rubbing with his palms.
“The gods won’t come for you, will they?” he whispered.
“Is this where you’ve been hiding?”
The boy turned around and found Une standing in the middle of the glen, glancing around in vague curiosity. She looked back at him, her eyes pale but registering a light of anticipation.
“It’s time,” she said. “I’ve come to take you back with me.”
“Will you help him?”
“Who?”
The boy pointed at the marble figure, which was still wearing his cloak. Une’s brows furrowed as she gazed at the thing.
“It’s a statue,” she noted flatly.
“He’s hurt. Will you help him? The gods won’t.”
Une stared at the statue in mute amazement for a brief moment, her features registering an attempt at understanding. Then she locked gazes with her protégé. “It’s nothing but a pile of stone carved to look like a boy no one knows. Judging from the way the feet aren’t even done, I can safely say that the sculptor must have abandoned his work--given up on it.”
The boy shook his head. “He feels something. He’s hurt.”
“He is an it my dear, and nothing more. Just an insignificant piece of stone with no life and no future save to spend its time standing in this glen.”
“But I feel something, and I’m not mortal.”
Une’s face brightened a little. “You’ve felt it all then,” she murmured, a small smile breaking out. “Everything--every black thought, every destructive tendency, every ounce of despair that the human heart can contain. You’ve felt it all--you’ve achieved perfection--just as I hoped. Come now. The hour is almost here. I need to take you back.”
The boy shook his head stubbornly. “I want to stay here--with him.”
The muse raised an eyebrow. “That’s for me to decide.”
“I have a choice. I can make my own decision.”
“Oh? And what makes you think that?”
Une slowly walked up to the boy, circling him, inspecting him critically. Her eyes had grown hard, her complexion losing even more of its color as she attempted to read what was happening to her creation.
The boy watched her calmly though he felt a vaguely giddy sense of defiance. “I know I can.”
Une stopped before him. Her eyes darted from him to the statue standing behind him and then back. “Are you telling me that you’re in love with this useless piece of marble?” she asked incredulously.
The nameless youth was mystified. He didn’t know--couldn’t even articulate to himself what it was that kept him from abandoning his friend. “I want to stay with him,” he simply replied.
The muse flushed deeply. “How could this happen? You have no heart.”
“I want to stay with him.”
“You’re a shell--an empty slate.”
The dull, painful throbbing continued to hammer against the boy’s chest. He rubbed his heart gingerly. “I feel something.”
Une stepped back, flabbergasted. But the muse held on--just as stubbornly as her protégé was holding on to his desires--in spite of the truth that was relentlessly making itself known before her.
“You’re only a spirit. You have no heart,” she whispered fiercely.
“I feel something--right here!” The boy pressed his hand against his chest insistently.
Une fell silent as she watched the boy stand before her, looking pale, bewildered, frightened, and lost.
What have you done? a quiet, familiar voice asked, the words carried to her by the winds.
“Treize.” Une swallowed, shivering at the sound. But the voice had gone, and the wind blew quietly around them. A tiny surge of suppressed rage tore through Une as she glared at the boy before her.
“You have no heart, you ridiculous creature! Do you want me to prove it?”
The boy turned around and stumbled back to the marble statue without another word to his mistress.
“Very well then--I promised to give you your final form on the seventh day. I’ll let you reward yourself instead. If you do have a heart as you keep insisting, whatever form you’ll take will be dictated by its contents.”
Une watched the boy, feeling a little buoyed by confidence. Certain that what the boy was feeling was nothing more than a reflection of all that he’d learned and absorbed from the world of mortals, she expected nothing to happen and so severed her link to him and watched him flounder on his own.
“What will you look like, I wonder?” she half-whispered, a little smile of derision curling her lip.
The boy suddenly stumbled with a cry and fell to the ground with a dull thud. His legs had ceased to function. He looked around for a moment in stunned amazement, his body struggling to move muscles that seemed to have locked themselves. And when his eyes rested on the marble figure standing just a few feet away, he gathered all his strength and dragged himself across the grass, his legs trailing uselessly behind him.
Sweat broke out on his brow, but he persisted, and he was soon at the base of the statue, reaching out to grab hold of something for sufficient purchase. Thin fingers clawing desperately for crevices or small ledges on which to grab hold, he strained mightily and pulled himself up, clinging to the statue as he felt the locking down of joints and muscles move its way up his body.
He felt his feet freeze on the ground and small appendages sprout from them and bury themselves in the soil, digging deeply and branching off in several different directions under the surface.
“I have the right to stay,” he coughed, grimacing as he continued to pull himself upright. “It’s my choice…”
“Stop this!” Une cried out from somewhere behind him. “What are you doing?” The boy felt the pull of her power as she fought to re-establish her control over him, but her efforts were thwarted, and the boy felt invisible fingers attempt to wrap themselves around him and then relinquish their hold, sliding off before struggling to take him again.
“I’m not a shell…”
“What are you doing to yourself?” Une demanded, her voice rising to near hysterical levels.
Small green branches sprouted all over the boy’s body, but he ignored them, his eyes firmly fixed on the marble statue’s face as he clawed his way up. Dark green, glossy leaves appeared in thick clusters on these branches, pushing their way out as though eager to touch the sunlight.
“I can feel…”
Une had fallen into a helpless silence at this point as she stood watching, dumbfounded, her mind reaching and failing to take her protégé back.
He’d managed to pull himself to a near-standing position, leaning heavily against the marble figure on which he continued to cling tightly. Thick canes broke out of his body, shooting languidly up, with more young green branches and leaves appearing throughout. Slowly, steadily, he transformed according to, as Une had declared, the contents of his heart.
Heart…
Une’s tall, proud figure drooped, and she wept where she stood.
Thorns--long, sharp, tapering gracefully to a red point--broke out of the branches and the canes. The boy felt an odd warmth infuse him as he transformed--life--a different kind--one that seemed to promise calm and silence. The dull pain that had tormented his system for some time was easily washed off with every new cluster of leaves, with every thorn, with every new branch that broke out of his body and pushed its way out into the breeze.
His eyes dimmed as he felt his arms stiffen around the statue’s shoulders, solidifying into young wood and fresh stems. He turned his face and pressed his mouth against the cold, hard cheek from which he sought comfort.
“I don’t have a name to give you,” he whispered before his tongue was stilled, and, pressing his face against the marble neck, the final moment of transformation came. Where his head used to be, long, graceful branches appeared, wrapping themselves around the statue’s shoulder and groping steadily up the back of the marble boy’s head as though gently cradling it in lush, green fingers.
Flower buds of a deep, red hue sprouted in clusters all over the plant, filling the air with a strange new fragrance that Une had never before experienced.
The glen was silent save for the stifled sobbing of the muse of tragedy as she stood and watched the heart of the nameless spirit make itself known to her--rooted by its independence, armored in thorns by its pain, lush in its hope, and vibrant in its passion. It was only the young woman in the secluded little sanctuary now, the marble statue protectively embraced by a vine-like flowering shrub that soothed her shaken spirits with the fragrance that emanated from the soon-to-be-woken buds of brilliant red.
“It’s time, sister,” a quiet voice spoke, and she turned to find Sally, Relena, and Mariemeia standing behind her, grave and sympathetic. “The world can’t wait for us.”
“What about him?” Une asked brokenly.
“Leave him,” Relena replied. “Sometimes the best course is to let things be.”
Une regarded her sisters for a moment in silence, her heart doing its utmost struggling against what really was the best course for her to take. But the fragrance that filled the glen was potent, and she felt her spirits slowly succumb to its soothing power.
She nodded presently, drawing the back of her hand against her eyes as she stepped forward and was gladly received by her sisters. And as they vanished to take their rightful place in the realm of immortals, Une turned to cast one final glance at the silent lovers in the glen.
“Sleep well, children,” she whispered. “After seven years--on the seventh hour of the seventh day of the seventh month--I promise you…”
Her voice trailed off into silence, and calm once again fell on the glen.
No one had ever laid eyes on Duo and Heero again though rumors had spread that travelers to distant corners of the world claimed to have seen the lovers living quietly and contentedly in the west somewhere. But when pressed, no one could accurately pinpoint the couple’s exact location, and everyone was convinced that the lovers were--and would always be--protected by the gods.
Wufei and Meiran seemed to be compelled to remain where they were, but whatever ostracism they’d endured before had tapered off to a shaky brand of acceptance. The couple, after all, proved themselves to be remarkable intellectuals and were courted by the new king of the region to be his counselors. But they declined politely, with Meiran offering to be the king’s scribe instead, faithfully recording events both great and small and assigning them a permanent place in the kingdom’s annals. Wufei was a talented poet and had entertained (and continued to entertain) the court with his creations, which tended to touch on epic accounts of the land’s history though he’d also given life to smaller, more insignificant tales of mortal struggles.
He was credited for committing in ink the story of Duo and Heero, which, as time went, turned to legend, and people recounted the tale without truly knowing which points were real or not.
Perhaps the most mystifying tale that had ever come out of Wufei’s pen was a curious romance between a flower and a marble statue. The poet claimed to have received the story in his sleep, and people pressed him on to finish the tale, but he resisted them to their chagrin.
“Are the gods kind to them?” they’d ask.
“Will they be given another chance?”
“What will happen in seven years? Why won’t you write about it?”
Wufei would shrug, looking faintly bewildered. “The muses guide my pen,” he simply replied. “The seven years aren’t up yet. I’ll write what happens when the time comes.”
People would leave him, muttering under their breaths, but he paid them no heed and threw himself into his work. The inspiration would come. Of that he knew too well. And as he worked, he’d smile at the anticipation he’d always feel--when he’d look forward to the next moment when he and Meiran, goaded on by the gentle voice of a sorrowful muse who’d visit the couple on the seventh hour of every seventh day, would leave the world behind them to gather wildflowers to use as offerings to a vine-covered statue that stood in the protective enclosure, waiting for the seventh year to arrive. [2]
[1] The muses have their own symbols, and what are noted here are those associated with Erato, Calliope, and Clio.
[2] The significance of the number seven is that of perfection. There’s a very long explanation for this, so I thought I’d just share the link instead:
http://www.math.siu.edu/kocik/seven.htm
In terms of the fic, seven would be the time when the muses would have purged themselves of their grief and be ready for “work.” It would be the time when Trowa would have absorbed all that Une needed him to absorb from the world. It would also be the time when the rose and the statue would have achieved completion and so be transformed into mortal lovers by the gods. For the last bit, I felt that having seven used repeatedly (seventh hour, seventh day, seventh month, seventh year) would ground home the idea of perfection. ^_^