WHO: Melpomene and Apollo WHEN: Friday evening WHERE: Melpomene's WHAT: A rainy evening WARNINGS: None
Melpomene could hear Apollo singing through the open bathroom door, his voice drawing closer and further away as he moved around her apartment. It was a comfort, and she was grateful. His presence gave her a chance to shower, as slowly as she needed to, and his voice kept her from getting too lost in the patterns of blood in the water swirling down the drain. She still got a little lost. She was no prophetess, but if she could read the future, blood would be her medium, and she would be able to read into the red eddies on the shower floor and know who she was supposed to be now.
The shower offered no clues, and Melpomene pressed her hand against her face and breathed unsteadily for a couple of moments, stepping carefully out of the shower before the hollow feeling overcame her altogether. She dried the long wound where they’d sliced open her middle and pulled on a soft pair of underwear, wrapping herself in a robe before leaving the bathroom behind. Apollo was out in the living room, shirt open and Telos against his bare chest. “He’s asleep,” he said, spotting her. “You should rest, too.”
Melpomene shook her head, her hair soaking through the shoulders of the robe. “He’ll need to eat in a few minutes,” she said, crossing the room, holding out her arms.
“So rest for a few minutes,” Apollo insisted, looking down at her pale and tired face, the heavy, wounded way she carried herself. “If you’re not going to let me heal you, at least try and heal yourself.”
“Give him to me,” Melpomene said, ignoring him, ignoring this argument. “I need him.” The hollow feeling only started to let up when she held him against her. He’d been inside her for so long that waking up after surgery with only one heart beating in her body made her feel like she’d been attacked, invaded. Her body an empty village, razed and pillaged. She curled her arms back around her son and sat tentatively in her armchair, pulling her robe open so he could lie against her skin, closing it again over him so she could keep him warm. She pressed her mouth lightly on the top of his head, closing her eyes. It was the closest she could get to feeling whole again.
Outside, a spring rain was falling heavily on the windows.
Apollo put a glass of water beside her, fetched a towel, and started carefully drying her hair. He was gentle, and part of her suspected that she was healing a little faster than was natural, just in his presence. She’d been firm with him though. As soon as the hospital had let her out of care, he’d offered to mend the long scar up her belly, but she’d angrily pushed his hands away. “No,” she’d said. “No… you make things too easy. It’s not supposed to be easy. I birthed him in blood and pain, let me wear it.”
He’d been gently frustrated. “I just want to make your life more comfortable.”
“Life is not meant to be comfortable,” she’d growled. “Who do I become if you smooth every rough edge, if you lift every burden? These scars are mine.”
He may have pushed back a little harder, but Calliope had been there to keep the peace. Apollo had wondered, though wisely not out loud, how much Melpomene was keeping her wounds fresh to let the physical pain distract her from the emotional pain of Alan leaving all over again. He’d been there, in the moments after Alan left. He’d seen what state Melpomene had been in.
So he hadn’t healed her scar, but she hadn’t said anything about holding back infection or anything along those lines. She was so stubborn sometimes he thought she’d will an infection on herself out of some misguided belief that such a thing was inevitable. Well, not while he was around. Apollo squeezed the water out of her hair and stroked his hand over her head, massaging her temples. There wasn’t a lot he could do about the exhausted misery slowly seeping through her, but he could make sure she was healthy enough that she’d survive it.
He’d get her back, eventually. Apollo had a not-so quiet confidence about this. He dropped a kiss and a blessing onto the top of her head, and started singing another song for her. Her eyes weren't on him though, as his voice filling the room; her eyes were on the grey eyes of Ares' son as he woke in her arms, hungry and demanding.