when inspiration strikes; an icarus/hectate friendship mythfic.
(AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is another in my series of "mythfics", to borrow the term from my darling etzyofi. In order to fully appreciate these, be sure to look at the casting picspams.)
CAST (IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE):
when inspiration strikes, an icarus/hectate friendship fic, pg
When Icarus meets a very unique member of Athena's family he finds himself modeling for a painting -- and learning some interesting things about what it is to be mortal and immortal. (Written for the lovely zombie_boogie, who requested some I/H friendship fic since they're played by her two favourite people. :D)
“In all seriousness, Icarus, you would make a marvelous model. Would you ever consider posing for me?”
“Would I have to be naked?” Icarus asked, eyes widening slightly. (4,605 words)
He’d (almost) gotten used to the feeling of eyes on the back of his neck. The paparazzi, Zeus, Poseidon. It came with the territory-dating one of the most prominent women in the world automatically threw a guy into the spotlight. And working as a mole, he had to be prepared for constant scrutiny. It wasn’t paranoia if everyone actually was watching you.
This time, though, when he looked up he actually met the eyes that had been studying him. They belonged to a strikingly dark woman dressed in a ruby red dress, her long hair hanging down in curls and twists. One thin eyebrow lifted as she smiled.
He straightened self-consciously in his chair as she walked towards him, the crowd parting before her like the Red Sea.
“Hello,” she said, her voice huskier than he had expected, with an edge of an accent. French, he thought. “You’re my niece’s new young man, aren’t you?”
“Ye-es?” he said hesitantly. “My name is Icarus. I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve ever been introduced?”
“Hectate,” she said simply, extending a hand. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to shake it or kiss it, so he settled for a quick and awkward grip. “You have a lovely profile. Very statuesque features.”
“Thank you?” he said awkwardly.
“I apologize,” she said smoothly, pulling out a chair and slipping into it. The fabric of her dress rustled musically, the long string of black pearls around her neck glinting in the shifting light. “Intruding like this, speaking so forwardly to you. I’m an artist-admiring forms and figures is a hobby of mine. When I see a body that intrigues me creatively, I can’t resist.”
Icarus clasped his hands together on the table before him. “Oh, well, it’s flattering,” he said finally, recollecting his thoughts.
“You are a pilot, yes? Working at Olympus Air?”
“That’s right.”
“Do you like your job?” she asked, setting an elbow on the table and resting her chin on her hand. A passing waiter paused to offer them both ; he refused, she accepted.
“It’s a job,” he said noncommittally. He knew where he stood with Athena-he trusted her with his life-but he had no idea where this mysterious ‘aunt’s’ loyalties lay. “It has its pros and cons.”
“I’m detecting an air of suspicion,” she said thoughtfully, sipping her champagne. “Which is fine. I don’t mean to pry where I am not wanted. Should I ask a question you dislike, feel free to tell me I’m overstepping my boundaries.”
“You said you’re an artist?” he said, diverting the conversation. “What kind of art do you specialize in?”
“All kinds,” she said lightly, an enigmatic smile ghosting across her glossy lips. “When you’ve been around as long as I have, it doesn’t do to limit yourself. But I do prefer oils and acrylics. There’s something infinitely satisfying about turning a blank canvas into a riot of shape and color.”
A sharp click-clack of heels announced the return of Athena. “Hello, Hectate,” she said, laying a soft hand on Icarus’ shoulder. “You don’t often make appearances at these gatherings.”
“The self-imposed exile in my studio had become tiresome,” the artist replied. “Lovely boy you’ve got here, Athena.”
“I think so,” she said, squeezing his shoulder. “You’ve been playing nice, I hope?”
“Have I ever been anything but?” asked Hectate, swishing the dregs of her champagne. “In all seriousness, Icarus, you would make a marvelous model. Would you ever consider posing for me?”
“Would I have to be naked?” Icarus asked, eyes widening slightly.
“Not if it would embarrass you,” she said, eyeing him thoughtfully. “Though I’m sure you’d have nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“Hectate,” Athena said, shooting her a warning look. The other goddess just smiled a feline smile.
“I think I’ll go see what the buffet has to offer,” Icarus said quickly, slipping out of his chair.
Athena took the emptied seat, settling her layered skirts demurely. “What are you up to?” she asked quietly.
“Absolutely nothing,” Hectate said.
“It’s only that you haven’t been this talkative with a non-family member in… years?”
“I’ve had my paramours since the War,” Hectate said. “My little bohemian artistes. I’m not quite the cloistered nun. My circles have simply not always been your circles, Athena.”
“And you’re in search of a new muse?”
“You could say that.”
“Icarus means a great deal to me.”
“Why, Athena. Is that jealousy I hear in your voice? I never knew you to be covetous. Especially not with men.”
Athena leaned forward slightly in her chair. “Hectate. Icarus is a good man. Very sweet and well-intentioned. He’s made me happy. And I only want him to be happy, too.”
“Cherie,” Hectate said quietly. “I have no intention of seducing your golden boy and debauching him. I was sincere: I find him inspiring, but only in an artistic sense. The innocent ones don’t do anything for me. I prefer those a bit more experienced, slightly broken with sharp edges.”
“Do you know what all’s in this delicious marshmallow fluff?” Icarus asked, reappearing with a plate loaded with fruit and desserts. “I can taste mint and lemon, but there’s some sort of fruit chunks in here I can’t identify. It’s really tasty though-have you tried any of this yet?”
“No, I haven’t,” Athena said with a wide smile, taking the spoon from him and sampling the confection.
“I shall leave you two to your evening,” Hectate said, standing to leave. “Apologies for my intrusion. And Icarus, should you be willing to help a muse-less artist, you have an open invitation to my studio at any time. Athena can tell you where it is.”
“Is she really your aunt?” he demanded in an undertone.
“In a way. With my family, it’s hard to delineate. In one light, we’re cousins, in another, nothing at all. It’s okay with me, by the way.”
“What is?”
“If you wanted to model for her.”
“I don’t really see myself as the modeling type.”
“Nonsense,” Athena said, standing and taking the plate from him, setting it aside on the table before wrapping him in a warm, rose-scented embrace. “You’re a very handsome man. Especially when you blush.”
“I dunno, I think it would just be very uncomfortable.”
“Hectate has a way of making people very comfortable-it’s one of her gifts. And you would be helping her out; gossip has it that she’s been blocked for months, ever since her little affair with James Jean ended.”
“Gosh, when you put it that way, I’d feel like a cad if I didn’t pose for her.”
Athena laughed against his cheek, lips brushing his ear. “Maybe I just want a fancy portrait of you to hang above my fireplace. I can picture it now: you with a crown of laurel on your head, resplendent in a white toga, holding a sword very suggestively…”
*****
Two days later, a slightly nervous Icarus found himself standing outside a heavy oak door, staring down an ornate gold knocker in the shape of a roaring lion. He wondered what he’d find inside-dramatic gold paint and red velvet curtains? A typical artist’s loft, redolent with the fumes of paint and varnish, empty and spacious?
After several minutes of speculation he realized it was ridiculous to just stand in the doorway and wonder, so he finally grasped the knocker and tapped it loudly.
The woman who answered the door was definitely the sultry woman he’d met at the party, but now subdued. Her dark hair had been pulled back into a messy bun, she was dressed in simple black tights and a baggy gray shirt speckled in paint, and her eyes seemed wider without the smoky eye shadow. Without makeup, she looked positively fresh-faced, her nose and cheeks speckled liberally with freckles.
“Good afternoon, Icarus,” she said with a toothy smile. “Please, come in. Can I get you something? Water, tea, wine?”
“Water would be good,” he said, hanging his hat on the ancient coat rack beside the door. The apartment turned out to be a combination of what he had imagined: wide and spacious, sparsely furnished. But the few pieces were obviously antique and expensive, darkly lacquered or varnished. There was a plethora of cultures represented in the art hanging on the walls and among the pieces displayed on the side tables, from Japanese to African.
A large section of the far wall was nothing but floor-to-ceiling windows, and in front of this bay of natural light she had set up a large canvas on a sturdy easel, a paint-splattered stool, and an upholstered wing-backed chair.
“Tell me Icarus: what do you do for fun?” Hectate asked, handing him a cold glass.
“Most of my life is spent in the air,” he replied. “Otherwise I’m with Athena, or playing poker with my Dad. I like old movies. There’s this theater called the Palace a couple blocks over from my place, the kind that used to have gala premieres and fancy velvet curtains. It’s fallen into disrepair over the past few years, but I love it. Every weekend they have themed marathons: noir or Gregory Peck or screwball comedies or Hitchcock. I go to as many of them as I can-they really knew how to make a movie back in the day. …And that sounds sort of pathetic, doesn’t it?”
“Not at all,” she said. “I have a vast appreciation of classic films.”
“I guess I’m just more of a homebody than an adventurer,” he said almost apologetically.
“The world needs all types,” Hectate said, picking up a palette and knife. She started mixing paints with a deft, steady hand. “You can sit down, make yourself comfortable.”
“Is there a certain way you want me to sit?”
“Naturally and at ease. For a first sitting, I avoid anything too scripted or artificial.”
“First sitting?”
“I speak only out of previous experience-there’s no pressure to come back, if I’m too terrifying. Do you have any questions for me?” She glanced at him with a noticeable glitter of amusement in her eyes.
“I have a few, yeah,” he said, settling into the surprisingly comfortable chair. “The first is: why do you have a French accent?”
She laughed, a deep, smoky laugh. “Why do any of us have accents? Because we liked them-some of us grew rather fond of our “adopted” countries. The accents became affectations became habits.”
Icarus glanced around the apartment. “I can guess why you’d be fond of France.”
“Home of the bohemian movement, yes,” she said, adjusting the angle of her canvas. “I have so many fond memories of France. Many terrible ones, too, but that is what life is amongst mortals. Ever bittersweet. Could you turn slightly to the right? Lift your chin a few more inches?”
He complied, the shadows shifting across his face. “Do you like it here? Not at the Lito, specifically, but down here? With the bittersweetness?”
“I do. I miss Olympus at times, of course I do, we all do. I miss its beauty and grandeur and permanence. But to stay there would have been to fade away completely, to lose all of our vitality. This world is flawed and full of death, but it has its beauty as well. Perhaps it’s even more beautiful, for here it is fleeting.” She had begun painting, in long sweeping strokes and short dabs, brilliant blue eyes darting from the canvas to her model. “My art, for instance. It may last for generations, but even now, barely begun, it is doomed to end. In a few hundred years, the paint will have chipped away and the canvas will have rotted. It will be reduced to a ghost of color.”
“That’s a depressing way of looking at life.”
“Yes, I can be quite macabre,” she agreed readily. “Considering the company I prefer to keep, the depressives and manics and damaged psyches, is it any wonder? The artistic soul is one that is permanently fractured, . It is the nature of the beast. To create true beauty, one must be aware of true horror, of true heartbreak. I look back over the years, at my golden boys and girls, and my heart truly aches for them. They lived such brief lives, often tortured or haunted or unappreciated. But today the world knows their names. Van Gogh. Rossetti. Wilde. Plath. Woolf. In a way, their suffering as much as their talent brought them immortality.”
Icarus was silent. How would he respond to such philosophizing? He was a simple man who understood airplanes and little else.
“Ah, I have been overbearing,” she said lightly, stepping back slightly to study her work. “It has been a while since I had a captive audience. If I say too much, do not hesitate to cut me off mid-litany.”
“It’s not-” he started to say quickly, stumbling over his thoughts. “This is all still really new to me. I’m only just coming to terms with the fact that gods and goddesses are real, that the stories I read as a child were all true. It’s a lot to take in, all at once.”
“And we do not make it easy on you, do we?” Hectate asked, wiping her brush clean and selecting a smaller one. “Like small children at a circus, we are loud and pushy. Demanding our ice cream and balloons, knocking you over in our haste, invading your personal space without a thought. I trust Athena has been more considerate.”
“She has. She’s been very patient and open with me,” Icarus replied, lips twisting into an unconscious smile. Hectate’s brush darted quickly to catch it.
“And the others? Your boss?”
“Zeus is very intimidating,” Icarus said honestly. “He doesn’t have to do or say anything to make a man feel tiny.”
“Yes, the arrogance of lordship,” Hectate said with a short laugh. “He wears it as a mantle, in lieu of a crown or velvet cape. An invisible force that declares to all, ‘I am mighty, liege of all I survey!’ I have only seen two mortals utterly uncowed by him: Byron and Wilde. Byron would return his hotheaded ravings with a sublimely cool nod. Then sashay off with one of Zeus’ intended lovelies. Wilde would reply with some witticism that went entirely over his head, safe in the assurance of his own intellectual superiority. He was a favorite of Athena’s,” she added, as if in an afterthought. “The pair of them was something to behold. The abject terror of the pseudo-intellectual crowd. I will always remember the day I introduced them, the immediate banter that sprang up between them. Wilde was determined to always have the last word.”
“It’s a wonder she keeps me around,” Icarus said quietly, almost to himself. “If she’s spent time with people like Oscar Wilde. I must seem ridiculously dull and stupid in comparison.”
“Mon cher, there is no need for that,” she said sternly. “Every person is deficient in some way-even we immortals are far from perfect. We have our skills, our gifts. And we have many weaknesses. Were we to focus only on what we lacked, life would lose its flavor. And consider this: the intellectual life is often an exhausting one. Constant discussions, philosophizing, the bandying of witticisms-this can be exciting and entertaining, yes, but also taxing. We all need our distractions, our safe havens, where we can let our guard down and simply be. If I am not mistaken, you are that haven for Athena. A very important duty. And privilege.”
“I’ve been coming to these big family events for almost a year now,” Icarus said, staring at her unapologetically. “How is it I’ve never met you till now? And how do you know so much about us?”
“I am not overly fond of my family,” Hectate said unapologetically. “We are a vain, catty, cruel collection of degenerates. There are moments of grace, exceptions to the rule, but as a whole I could happily say goodbye to the lot tomorrow. I value my privacy, and prefer the company of spirits such as mine. I would rather spend my days alone. In Paris. With a man whose fingers are stained with ink. The Lito is not much of a home to me, if home is-as they say-where your heart is. And as for you, cher, and my brilliant niece, it is simply a matter of seeing beneath the outward shapes and to the soul within. One of my gifts: to appreciate the vitality and hearts of my subjects, to then emulate that in my art.”
She set down her brush, wiping her hands on a rag. “I am rambling again, non?”
Icarus wasn’t sure how to respond. Yes, she said quite a lot. But her voice was so soothing and low, her words framed so beautifully, that he was content to simply sit in her thrall. “I’m not a very good conversationalist,” he said finally. “You’re simply picking up my slack.”
“Tu es tres gentil, Icarus,” she said with an audible degree of fondness, stepping away from her easel. “Do not move just yet. I am almost finished.” He heard the clink of a glass as it was lifted from a cupboard, the running of water. She stepped back into view, holding her glass in one hand, the other unfastening the clip that held up her hair. “You’re a wonderful model,” she said as she ran her fingers through her dark tresses, tugging mercilessly at the kinks and knots. “I’m quite in love with the planes of your nose.”
“I never thought it was anything to write home about,” he said, smiling.
“There is something infinitely pleasing about the way it compliments your mouth. And your profile, ah!” She set down her glass and threw up her hands for emphasis. “Michelangelo would have slapped the Pope to sculpt you.”
He had to laugh at the ridiculousness of that image. She enjoyed watching him laugh, the way his eyes crinkled and his chest shook slightly. Icarus was a man made to laugh and smile, all forthright good humor and decent intentions. So refreshing, being around a man without ulterior motives, a man so very human and devoid of affectations.
She could see what drew Athena to him.
“Thank you again, Icarus, for coming today and humoring this old biddy,” she said, resuming her place at the easel.
“Humoring you wasn’t my intention,” he said. “You seemed very interesting, and Athena said you were a brilliant artist.”
“She gave you the go-ahead to come, you mean,” Hectate said knowingly.
“Yes, she did. But beyond that, I just decided that if I really had inspired you, it would be a pretty dick move to ignore your request.” He flushed slightly. “…Sorry, I didn’t stop to pick my words before I said them.”
“You never need apologize on account of expression with me, cher,” she said with another dark laugh. “I do, truly, appreciate your time. I haven’t been this creatively energized in some weeks.”
“I’m glad to be of service,” he said generously.
“It’s terrible, at times,” she confessed, resuming her work. “The creative impulse. Overwhelming and exhilarating one day, obstinate the next. Do you know what I think the mortal hell actually is? A never-ending desire to create, and the inability to. Like dying of thirst, but it’s beyond the physical, beneath the bone-level. It’s a spiritual thirst that cannot be quenched.”
“Have you ever tried your hand at writing?” he suggested lightly. “Perhaps playwriting? I think you’d be rather good at angst-ridden soliloquies.”
“Oh, yes,” she agreed with a mischievous grin. “Not to brag, but I did help Shakespeare with a few of his trickier scenes.”
“Liar!”
“No, it’s the honest truth! Though I confess that I preferred spending time with Chaucer-he was a much cheekier fellow.” She sighed softly, the light in her eyes fading suddenly. “It’s funny in a way…” she said as if to herself.
“Whatever it is, it doesn’t seem funny, judging by your expression,” Icarus said, brow furrowing in concern.
“It’s just… Shakespeare. Chaucer. They called me their muse. Many have called me that over the centuries. But… What does a muse do when she is at a loss? It’s hardly as if she could inspire herself, you see. So frustrating. So disappointing.”
Something clicked together in Icarus’ head, like missing puzzle pieces he didn’t know he’d been looking for. “I think I see,” he said. “You hide away when you get blocked. Am I right? You cut yourself off from the world and wallow in your frustration. And then the next time you emerge, a decade’s gone by and you’re even more disconnected from your family.”
“I’d hardly be pleasant company in that state,” Hectate said with a defensive lilt.
“I’m clearly not an expert on these matters, so my opinion doesn’t count for much,” Icarus said slowly, thoughtfully. “But the way I see it, dwelling on something unpleasant doesn’t typically make it any better. Sometimes the best way to move past it is to distract yourself, try something new, focus on something completely different for a while. Then you can come back to your problem with fresher eyes and a happier heart.”
Hectate studied him over the edge of the canvas, lips pressed together in contemplation. “…You may have a point there,” she grudgingly admitted finally.
“So next time you hit a creative wall, I’d recommend a healthy dose of dancing and classic films. That’s yet to steer me wrong.”
“Are you offering your exquisite company?”
“I sure am. And Athena’s. And from my experience, Psyche’s very nice, and a great person to talk to if you’re feeling burdened by something. Hephaestus is a nice guy, and Persephone is very sweet-I’m sure she’d be happy to bake you a cake if you’re in need of a sugar high. Your family’s not all bad,” he said. “Maybe you just haven’t spent enough time with them lately?”
“Never thought I’d see the day when a mortal would be defending the Olympians,” Hectate said with a rueful shake of her head. “Very well, cher, I take the point. I’ll experiment with branching out more.”
“I’m sorry-I don’t mean to lecture you,” he said, only semi-apologetic. “It’s just that, well, after my mum died, my Dad hid away from the world for a long time. It was destructive. It set him back years in his work.”
“I remind you of your father?” Hectate said teasingly. “I hope he doesn’t have a beard.”
“My point is that I’ve known Athena for a year, and I didn’t even know you existed. Which is a shame, because you’re very nice, and very interesting, and I would have liked to have met you sooner. And I don’t want to think that you’ve missed out on other great moments and relationships just because you were in an artistic funk.”
“There it is,” she said softly.
“…There’s what?”
“Your heart. The reason why Athena fell in love with you. She has exquisite taste, as always. You have a dreamer’s heart. It’s beautiful.”
His cheeks felt hot, and he cursed his tendency to blush like a schoolboy at the most inopportune times.
“Ah, cher,” Hectate said, as if reading his mind. “You are only more handsome when you blush. Red suits you.”
A handful of minutes later, she dropped her brush into her half-full glass of water and rubbed the smears of paint from her fingers. “A good effort, for a single sitting. That will need to dry thoroughly before I add the next layer.”
“Can I see this masterpiece-in-progress, or is that strictly forbidden until it’s completed?” Icarus asked.
“You may have a glimpse,” she said generously. “As long as you remember that this is a vision yet incomplete.”
Icarus hopped up from his chair, hurrying around the easel eagerly. He stood beside Hectate with crossed arms and a serious expression at the ready, prepared for just about anything, from Picasso-like abstractness to a Pre-Raphaelite’s romantic realism.
Hectate’s style was unique in that there were a dozen recognizable elements unexpectedly combined. It was clearly Icarus, his profile and features mapped out with extremely life-like detail from the crinkles at the corners of his eyes to the freckle by his nose. But the shadows across his cheeks and brow were in a vivid dark purple, which made the pale blue of the eyes even brighter. Around him was a swirling cloud of color, a rainbowed mist that radiated almost halo-like, vague and yet with the hint of purposeful shape and direction. Some of her brushstrokes had been firm and vivid, others sweeping and gentle, and at the edges there were simply dots and splatters. Icarus knew he was far from an expert on art, but looking at the painting he thought, This is what you would get if Monet, Pollock, Waterhouse, Van Gogh, and Mucha all collaborated on the same portrait.
“Thoughts you’d care to share?” Hectate asked.
“I like it,” he said with a nod. “I like the mixture of realism and . It’s more colorful than I had expected.”
“You have a very colorful soul,” she said lightly. “It came through naturally. I think one more sitting, perhaps, and it will be finished.”
“Okay,” he agreed. “I could see my way around another visit. But in return, you have to come to dinner with me and Athena on Saturday. We’re doing Italian, followed by a Fellini double feature at the Palace. Deal?”
“Trying to get me out of my shell of a studio?” she teased.
“A little.”
“Alright, Icarus. I can see my way to being social. Just this once.” She soberly held out her hand for the official shake. “But don’t expect this to be a regular occurrence.”
*****
The picture was finished four days later and presented to a glowing Athena in a tasteful wood frame that complimented the mantle of her fireplace. On Saturday the restaurant proved incredible, the movies as timeless as ever.
And when they noticed that the next weekend’s billing was The Big Sleep followed by To Have and Have Not, Hectate’s eyes positively lit up.
“Humphrey Bogart noir!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands.
Icarus and Athena exchanged knowing glances before he cleared his throat meaningfully.
“Early dinner at Mike’s Café?” he suggested smoothly. “Full costume? I think I’ve got a pin-striped suit and fedora in the closet.”
“You could wear that mink stole Hera still covets,” Athena added.
“…Oh very well, I give in,” Hectate said dramatically, rolling her eyes. “You’ll only pester me all week if I don’t, n’est-ce pas? And I may have a suitable dress packed away.”
“Shall we stop for dessert before calling it a night, ladies?” Icarus said, offering an arm to each.
“I could go for some ,” Hectate suggested. “Only fitting, given the night’s theme.”
“A splendid idea,” Athena agreed, squeezing Icarus’s arm with a smile. “Lead the way, signor.”
The three set off in a row down the sidewalk, the other pedestrians shooting them odd looks as they passed.
“You’re smiling like the cat with the canary,” Hectate told Icarus. “Don’t be so smug just yet, cher. It’s not as if you’ve won anything.”
“Oh, I just can’t help but think of what they’re thinking,” he explained, nodding at a passing, staring man.
“And what is that?” Athena asked.
“They’re thinking I’m a lucky bastard, with two of the most gorgeous women ever on either arm,” he said with a laugh. “And I sure am. This, ladies, is la dolche vita.”
CAST (IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE):
when inspiration strikes, an icarus/hectate friendship fic, pg
When Icarus meets a very unique member of Athena's family he finds himself modeling for a painting -- and learning some interesting things about what it is to be mortal and immortal. (Written for the lovely zombie_boogie, who requested some I/H friendship fic since they're played by her two favourite people. :D)
“In all seriousness, Icarus, you would make a marvelous model. Would you ever consider posing for me?”
“Would I have to be naked?” Icarus asked, eyes widening slightly. (4,605 words)
He’d (almost) gotten used to the feeling of eyes on the back of his neck. The paparazzi, Zeus, Poseidon. It came with the territory-dating one of the most prominent women in the world automatically threw a guy into the spotlight. And working as a mole, he had to be prepared for constant scrutiny. It wasn’t paranoia if everyone actually was watching you.
This time, though, when he looked up he actually met the eyes that had been studying him. They belonged to a strikingly dark woman dressed in a ruby red dress, her long hair hanging down in curls and twists. One thin eyebrow lifted as she smiled.
He straightened self-consciously in his chair as she walked towards him, the crowd parting before her like the Red Sea.
“Hello,” she said, her voice huskier than he had expected, with an edge of an accent. French, he thought. “You’re my niece’s new young man, aren’t you?”
“Ye-es?” he said hesitantly. “My name is Icarus. I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve ever been introduced?”
“Hectate,” she said simply, extending a hand. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to shake it or kiss it, so he settled for a quick and awkward grip. “You have a lovely profile. Very statuesque features.”
“Thank you?” he said awkwardly.
“I apologize,” she said smoothly, pulling out a chair and slipping into it. The fabric of her dress rustled musically, the long string of black pearls around her neck glinting in the shifting light. “Intruding like this, speaking so forwardly to you. I’m an artist-admiring forms and figures is a hobby of mine. When I see a body that intrigues me creatively, I can’t resist.”
Icarus clasped his hands together on the table before him. “Oh, well, it’s flattering,” he said finally, recollecting his thoughts.
“You are a pilot, yes? Working at Olympus Air?”
“That’s right.”
“Do you like your job?” she asked, setting an elbow on the table and resting her chin on her hand. A passing waiter paused to offer them both ; he refused, she accepted.
“It’s a job,” he said noncommittally. He knew where he stood with Athena-he trusted her with his life-but he had no idea where this mysterious ‘aunt’s’ loyalties lay. “It has its pros and cons.”
“I’m detecting an air of suspicion,” she said thoughtfully, sipping her champagne. “Which is fine. I don’t mean to pry where I am not wanted. Should I ask a question you dislike, feel free to tell me I’m overstepping my boundaries.”
“You said you’re an artist?” he said, diverting the conversation. “What kind of art do you specialize in?”
“All kinds,” she said lightly, an enigmatic smile ghosting across her glossy lips. “When you’ve been around as long as I have, it doesn’t do to limit yourself. But I do prefer oils and acrylics. There’s something infinitely satisfying about turning a blank canvas into a riot of shape and color.”
A sharp click-clack of heels announced the return of Athena. “Hello, Hectate,” she said, laying a soft hand on Icarus’ shoulder. “You don’t often make appearances at these gatherings.”
“The self-imposed exile in my studio had become tiresome,” the artist replied. “Lovely boy you’ve got here, Athena.”
“I think so,” she said, squeezing his shoulder. “You’ve been playing nice, I hope?”
“Have I ever been anything but?” asked Hectate, swishing the dregs of her champagne. “In all seriousness, Icarus, you would make a marvelous model. Would you ever consider posing for me?”
“Would I have to be naked?” Icarus asked, eyes widening slightly.
“Not if it would embarrass you,” she said, eyeing him thoughtfully. “Though I’m sure you’d have nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“Hectate,” Athena said, shooting her a warning look. The other goddess just smiled a feline smile.
“I think I’ll go see what the buffet has to offer,” Icarus said quickly, slipping out of his chair.
Athena took the emptied seat, settling her layered skirts demurely. “What are you up to?” she asked quietly.
“Absolutely nothing,” Hectate said.
“It’s only that you haven’t been this talkative with a non-family member in… years?”
“I’ve had my paramours since the War,” Hectate said. “My little bohemian artistes. I’m not quite the cloistered nun. My circles have simply not always been your circles, Athena.”
“And you’re in search of a new muse?”
“You could say that.”
“Icarus means a great deal to me.”
“Why, Athena. Is that jealousy I hear in your voice? I never knew you to be covetous. Especially not with men.”
Athena leaned forward slightly in her chair. “Hectate. Icarus is a good man. Very sweet and well-intentioned. He’s made me happy. And I only want him to be happy, too.”
“Cherie,” Hectate said quietly. “I have no intention of seducing your golden boy and debauching him. I was sincere: I find him inspiring, but only in an artistic sense. The innocent ones don’t do anything for me. I prefer those a bit more experienced, slightly broken with sharp edges.”
“Do you know what all’s in this delicious marshmallow fluff?” Icarus asked, reappearing with a plate loaded with fruit and desserts. “I can taste mint and lemon, but there’s some sort of fruit chunks in here I can’t identify. It’s really tasty though-have you tried any of this yet?”
“No, I haven’t,” Athena said with a wide smile, taking the spoon from him and sampling the confection.
“I shall leave you two to your evening,” Hectate said, standing to leave. “Apologies for my intrusion. And Icarus, should you be willing to help a muse-less artist, you have an open invitation to my studio at any time. Athena can tell you where it is.”
“Is she really your aunt?” he demanded in an undertone.
“In a way. With my family, it’s hard to delineate. In one light, we’re cousins, in another, nothing at all. It’s okay with me, by the way.”
“What is?”
“If you wanted to model for her.”
“I don’t really see myself as the modeling type.”
“Nonsense,” Athena said, standing and taking the plate from him, setting it aside on the table before wrapping him in a warm, rose-scented embrace. “You’re a very handsome man. Especially when you blush.”
“I dunno, I think it would just be very uncomfortable.”
“Hectate has a way of making people very comfortable-it’s one of her gifts. And you would be helping her out; gossip has it that she’s been blocked for months, ever since her little affair with James Jean ended.”
“Gosh, when you put it that way, I’d feel like a cad if I didn’t pose for her.”
Athena laughed against his cheek, lips brushing his ear. “Maybe I just want a fancy portrait of you to hang above my fireplace. I can picture it now: you with a crown of laurel on your head, resplendent in a white toga, holding a sword very suggestively…”
*****
Two days later, a slightly nervous Icarus found himself standing outside a heavy oak door, staring down an ornate gold knocker in the shape of a roaring lion. He wondered what he’d find inside-dramatic gold paint and red velvet curtains? A typical artist’s loft, redolent with the fumes of paint and varnish, empty and spacious?
After several minutes of speculation he realized it was ridiculous to just stand in the doorway and wonder, so he finally grasped the knocker and tapped it loudly.
The woman who answered the door was definitely the sultry woman he’d met at the party, but now subdued. Her dark hair had been pulled back into a messy bun, she was dressed in simple black tights and a baggy gray shirt speckled in paint, and her eyes seemed wider without the smoky eye shadow. Without makeup, she looked positively fresh-faced, her nose and cheeks speckled liberally with freckles.
“Good afternoon, Icarus,” she said with a toothy smile. “Please, come in. Can I get you something? Water, tea, wine?”
“Water would be good,” he said, hanging his hat on the ancient coat rack beside the door. The apartment turned out to be a combination of what he had imagined: wide and spacious, sparsely furnished. But the few pieces were obviously antique and expensive, darkly lacquered or varnished. There was a plethora of cultures represented in the art hanging on the walls and among the pieces displayed on the side tables, from Japanese to African.
A large section of the far wall was nothing but floor-to-ceiling windows, and in front of this bay of natural light she had set up a large canvas on a sturdy easel, a paint-splattered stool, and an upholstered wing-backed chair.
“Tell me Icarus: what do you do for fun?” Hectate asked, handing him a cold glass.
“Most of my life is spent in the air,” he replied. “Otherwise I’m with Athena, or playing poker with my Dad. I like old movies. There’s this theater called the Palace a couple blocks over from my place, the kind that used to have gala premieres and fancy velvet curtains. It’s fallen into disrepair over the past few years, but I love it. Every weekend they have themed marathons: noir or Gregory Peck or screwball comedies or Hitchcock. I go to as many of them as I can-they really knew how to make a movie back in the day. …And that sounds sort of pathetic, doesn’t it?”
“Not at all,” she said. “I have a vast appreciation of classic films.”
“I guess I’m just more of a homebody than an adventurer,” he said almost apologetically.
“The world needs all types,” Hectate said, picking up a palette and knife. She started mixing paints with a deft, steady hand. “You can sit down, make yourself comfortable.”
“Is there a certain way you want me to sit?”
“Naturally and at ease. For a first sitting, I avoid anything too scripted or artificial.”
“First sitting?”
“I speak only out of previous experience-there’s no pressure to come back, if I’m too terrifying. Do you have any questions for me?” She glanced at him with a noticeable glitter of amusement in her eyes.
“I have a few, yeah,” he said, settling into the surprisingly comfortable chair. “The first is: why do you have a French accent?”
She laughed, a deep, smoky laugh. “Why do any of us have accents? Because we liked them-some of us grew rather fond of our “adopted” countries. The accents became affectations became habits.”
Icarus glanced around the apartment. “I can guess why you’d be fond of France.”
“Home of the bohemian movement, yes,” she said, adjusting the angle of her canvas. “I have so many fond memories of France. Many terrible ones, too, but that is what life is amongst mortals. Ever bittersweet. Could you turn slightly to the right? Lift your chin a few more inches?”
He complied, the shadows shifting across his face. “Do you like it here? Not at the Lito, specifically, but down here? With the bittersweetness?”
“I do. I miss Olympus at times, of course I do, we all do. I miss its beauty and grandeur and permanence. But to stay there would have been to fade away completely, to lose all of our vitality. This world is flawed and full of death, but it has its beauty as well. Perhaps it’s even more beautiful, for here it is fleeting.” She had begun painting, in long sweeping strokes and short dabs, brilliant blue eyes darting from the canvas to her model. “My art, for instance. It may last for generations, but even now, barely begun, it is doomed to end. In a few hundred years, the paint will have chipped away and the canvas will have rotted. It will be reduced to a ghost of color.”
“That’s a depressing way of looking at life.”
“Yes, I can be quite macabre,” she agreed readily. “Considering the company I prefer to keep, the depressives and manics and damaged psyches, is it any wonder? The artistic soul is one that is permanently fractured, . It is the nature of the beast. To create true beauty, one must be aware of true horror, of true heartbreak. I look back over the years, at my golden boys and girls, and my heart truly aches for them. They lived such brief lives, often tortured or haunted or unappreciated. But today the world knows their names. Van Gogh. Rossetti. Wilde. Plath. Woolf. In a way, their suffering as much as their talent brought them immortality.”
Icarus was silent. How would he respond to such philosophizing? He was a simple man who understood airplanes and little else.
“Ah, I have been overbearing,” she said lightly, stepping back slightly to study her work. “It has been a while since I had a captive audience. If I say too much, do not hesitate to cut me off mid-litany.”
“It’s not-” he started to say quickly, stumbling over his thoughts. “This is all still really new to me. I’m only just coming to terms with the fact that gods and goddesses are real, that the stories I read as a child were all true. It’s a lot to take in, all at once.”
“And we do not make it easy on you, do we?” Hectate asked, wiping her brush clean and selecting a smaller one. “Like small children at a circus, we are loud and pushy. Demanding our ice cream and balloons, knocking you over in our haste, invading your personal space without a thought. I trust Athena has been more considerate.”
“She has. She’s been very patient and open with me,” Icarus replied, lips twisting into an unconscious smile. Hectate’s brush darted quickly to catch it.
“And the others? Your boss?”
“Zeus is very intimidating,” Icarus said honestly. “He doesn’t have to do or say anything to make a man feel tiny.”
“Yes, the arrogance of lordship,” Hectate said with a short laugh. “He wears it as a mantle, in lieu of a crown or velvet cape. An invisible force that declares to all, ‘I am mighty, liege of all I survey!’ I have only seen two mortals utterly uncowed by him: Byron and Wilde. Byron would return his hotheaded ravings with a sublimely cool nod. Then sashay off with one of Zeus’ intended lovelies. Wilde would reply with some witticism that went entirely over his head, safe in the assurance of his own intellectual superiority. He was a favorite of Athena’s,” she added, as if in an afterthought. “The pair of them was something to behold. The abject terror of the pseudo-intellectual crowd. I will always remember the day I introduced them, the immediate banter that sprang up between them. Wilde was determined to always have the last word.”
“It’s a wonder she keeps me around,” Icarus said quietly, almost to himself. “If she’s spent time with people like Oscar Wilde. I must seem ridiculously dull and stupid in comparison.”
“Mon cher, there is no need for that,” she said sternly. “Every person is deficient in some way-even we immortals are far from perfect. We have our skills, our gifts. And we have many weaknesses. Were we to focus only on what we lacked, life would lose its flavor. And consider this: the intellectual life is often an exhausting one. Constant discussions, philosophizing, the bandying of witticisms-this can be exciting and entertaining, yes, but also taxing. We all need our distractions, our safe havens, where we can let our guard down and simply be. If I am not mistaken, you are that haven for Athena. A very important duty. And privilege.”
“I’ve been coming to these big family events for almost a year now,” Icarus said, staring at her unapologetically. “How is it I’ve never met you till now? And how do you know so much about us?”
“I am not overly fond of my family,” Hectate said unapologetically. “We are a vain, catty, cruel collection of degenerates. There are moments of grace, exceptions to the rule, but as a whole I could happily say goodbye to the lot tomorrow. I value my privacy, and prefer the company of spirits such as mine. I would rather spend my days alone. In Paris. With a man whose fingers are stained with ink. The Lito is not much of a home to me, if home is-as they say-where your heart is. And as for you, cher, and my brilliant niece, it is simply a matter of seeing beneath the outward shapes and to the soul within. One of my gifts: to appreciate the vitality and hearts of my subjects, to then emulate that in my art.”
She set down her brush, wiping her hands on a rag. “I am rambling again, non?”
Icarus wasn’t sure how to respond. Yes, she said quite a lot. But her voice was so soothing and low, her words framed so beautifully, that he was content to simply sit in her thrall. “I’m not a very good conversationalist,” he said finally. “You’re simply picking up my slack.”
“Tu es tres gentil, Icarus,” she said with an audible degree of fondness, stepping away from her easel. “Do not move just yet. I am almost finished.” He heard the clink of a glass as it was lifted from a cupboard, the running of water. She stepped back into view, holding her glass in one hand, the other unfastening the clip that held up her hair. “You’re a wonderful model,” she said as she ran her fingers through her dark tresses, tugging mercilessly at the kinks and knots. “I’m quite in love with the planes of your nose.”
“I never thought it was anything to write home about,” he said, smiling.
“There is something infinitely pleasing about the way it compliments your mouth. And your profile, ah!” She set down her glass and threw up her hands for emphasis. “Michelangelo would have slapped the Pope to sculpt you.”
He had to laugh at the ridiculousness of that image. She enjoyed watching him laugh, the way his eyes crinkled and his chest shook slightly. Icarus was a man made to laugh and smile, all forthright good humor and decent intentions. So refreshing, being around a man without ulterior motives, a man so very human and devoid of affectations.
She could see what drew Athena to him.
“Thank you again, Icarus, for coming today and humoring this old biddy,” she said, resuming her place at the easel.
“Humoring you wasn’t my intention,” he said. “You seemed very interesting, and Athena said you were a brilliant artist.”
“She gave you the go-ahead to come, you mean,” Hectate said knowingly.
“Yes, she did. But beyond that, I just decided that if I really had inspired you, it would be a pretty dick move to ignore your request.” He flushed slightly. “…Sorry, I didn’t stop to pick my words before I said them.”
“You never need apologize on account of expression with me, cher,” she said with another dark laugh. “I do, truly, appreciate your time. I haven’t been this creatively energized in some weeks.”
“I’m glad to be of service,” he said generously.
“It’s terrible, at times,” she confessed, resuming her work. “The creative impulse. Overwhelming and exhilarating one day, obstinate the next. Do you know what I think the mortal hell actually is? A never-ending desire to create, and the inability to. Like dying of thirst, but it’s beyond the physical, beneath the bone-level. It’s a spiritual thirst that cannot be quenched.”
“Have you ever tried your hand at writing?” he suggested lightly. “Perhaps playwriting? I think you’d be rather good at angst-ridden soliloquies.”
“Oh, yes,” she agreed with a mischievous grin. “Not to brag, but I did help Shakespeare with a few of his trickier scenes.”
“Liar!”
“No, it’s the honest truth! Though I confess that I preferred spending time with Chaucer-he was a much cheekier fellow.” She sighed softly, the light in her eyes fading suddenly. “It’s funny in a way…” she said as if to herself.
“Whatever it is, it doesn’t seem funny, judging by your expression,” Icarus said, brow furrowing in concern.
“It’s just… Shakespeare. Chaucer. They called me their muse. Many have called me that over the centuries. But… What does a muse do when she is at a loss? It’s hardly as if she could inspire herself, you see. So frustrating. So disappointing.”
Something clicked together in Icarus’ head, like missing puzzle pieces he didn’t know he’d been looking for. “I think I see,” he said. “You hide away when you get blocked. Am I right? You cut yourself off from the world and wallow in your frustration. And then the next time you emerge, a decade’s gone by and you’re even more disconnected from your family.”
“I’d hardly be pleasant company in that state,” Hectate said with a defensive lilt.
“I’m clearly not an expert on these matters, so my opinion doesn’t count for much,” Icarus said slowly, thoughtfully. “But the way I see it, dwelling on something unpleasant doesn’t typically make it any better. Sometimes the best way to move past it is to distract yourself, try something new, focus on something completely different for a while. Then you can come back to your problem with fresher eyes and a happier heart.”
Hectate studied him over the edge of the canvas, lips pressed together in contemplation. “…You may have a point there,” she grudgingly admitted finally.
“So next time you hit a creative wall, I’d recommend a healthy dose of dancing and classic films. That’s yet to steer me wrong.”
“Are you offering your exquisite company?”
“I sure am. And Athena’s. And from my experience, Psyche’s very nice, and a great person to talk to if you’re feeling burdened by something. Hephaestus is a nice guy, and Persephone is very sweet-I’m sure she’d be happy to bake you a cake if you’re in need of a sugar high. Your family’s not all bad,” he said. “Maybe you just haven’t spent enough time with them lately?”
“Never thought I’d see the day when a mortal would be defending the Olympians,” Hectate said with a rueful shake of her head. “Very well, cher, I take the point. I’ll experiment with branching out more.”
“I’m sorry-I don’t mean to lecture you,” he said, only semi-apologetic. “It’s just that, well, after my mum died, my Dad hid away from the world for a long time. It was destructive. It set him back years in his work.”
“I remind you of your father?” Hectate said teasingly. “I hope he doesn’t have a beard.”
“My point is that I’ve known Athena for a year, and I didn’t even know you existed. Which is a shame, because you’re very nice, and very interesting, and I would have liked to have met you sooner. And I don’t want to think that you’ve missed out on other great moments and relationships just because you were in an artistic funk.”
“There it is,” she said softly.
“…There’s what?”
“Your heart. The reason why Athena fell in love with you. She has exquisite taste, as always. You have a dreamer’s heart. It’s beautiful.”
His cheeks felt hot, and he cursed his tendency to blush like a schoolboy at the most inopportune times.
“Ah, cher,” Hectate said, as if reading his mind. “You are only more handsome when you blush. Red suits you.”
A handful of minutes later, she dropped her brush into her half-full glass of water and rubbed the smears of paint from her fingers. “A good effort, for a single sitting. That will need to dry thoroughly before I add the next layer.”
“Can I see this masterpiece-in-progress, or is that strictly forbidden until it’s completed?” Icarus asked.
“You may have a glimpse,” she said generously. “As long as you remember that this is a vision yet incomplete.”
Icarus hopped up from his chair, hurrying around the easel eagerly. He stood beside Hectate with crossed arms and a serious expression at the ready, prepared for just about anything, from Picasso-like abstractness to a Pre-Raphaelite’s romantic realism.
Hectate’s style was unique in that there were a dozen recognizable elements unexpectedly combined. It was clearly Icarus, his profile and features mapped out with extremely life-like detail from the crinkles at the corners of his eyes to the freckle by his nose. But the shadows across his cheeks and brow were in a vivid dark purple, which made the pale blue of the eyes even brighter. Around him was a swirling cloud of color, a rainbowed mist that radiated almost halo-like, vague and yet with the hint of purposeful shape and direction. Some of her brushstrokes had been firm and vivid, others sweeping and gentle, and at the edges there were simply dots and splatters. Icarus knew he was far from an expert on art, but looking at the painting he thought, This is what you would get if Monet, Pollock, Waterhouse, Van Gogh, and Mucha all collaborated on the same portrait.
“Thoughts you’d care to share?” Hectate asked.
“I like it,” he said with a nod. “I like the mixture of realism and . It’s more colorful than I had expected.”
“You have a very colorful soul,” she said lightly. “It came through naturally. I think one more sitting, perhaps, and it will be finished.”
“Okay,” he agreed. “I could see my way around another visit. But in return, you have to come to dinner with me and Athena on Saturday. We’re doing Italian, followed by a Fellini double feature at the Palace. Deal?”
“Trying to get me out of my shell of a studio?” she teased.
“A little.”
“Alright, Icarus. I can see my way to being social. Just this once.” She soberly held out her hand for the official shake. “But don’t expect this to be a regular occurrence.”
*****
The picture was finished four days later and presented to a glowing Athena in a tasteful wood frame that complimented the mantle of her fireplace. On Saturday the restaurant proved incredible, the movies as timeless as ever.
And when they noticed that the next weekend’s billing was The Big Sleep followed by To Have and Have Not, Hectate’s eyes positively lit up.
“Humphrey Bogart noir!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands.
Icarus and Athena exchanged knowing glances before he cleared his throat meaningfully.
“Early dinner at Mike’s Café?” he suggested smoothly. “Full costume? I think I’ve got a pin-striped suit and fedora in the closet.”
“You could wear that mink stole Hera still covets,” Athena added.
“…Oh very well, I give in,” Hectate said dramatically, rolling her eyes. “You’ll only pester me all week if I don’t, n’est-ce pas? And I may have a suitable dress packed away.”
“Shall we stop for dessert before calling it a night, ladies?” Icarus said, offering an arm to each.
“I could go for some ,” Hectate suggested. “Only fitting, given the night’s theme.”
“A splendid idea,” Athena agreed, squeezing Icarus’s arm with a smile. “Lead the way, signor.”
The three set off in a row down the sidewalk, the other pedestrians shooting them odd looks as they passed.
“You’re smiling like the cat with the canary,” Hectate told Icarus. “Don’t be so smug just yet, cher. It’s not as if you’ve won anything.”
“Oh, I just can’t help but think of what they’re thinking,” he explained, nodding at a passing, staring man.
“And what is that?” Athena asked.
“They’re thinking I’m a lucky bastard, with two of the most gorgeous women ever on either arm,” he said with a laugh. “And I sure am. This, ladies, is la dolche vita.”