"You gonna kill her? What the Hell for?"
"Nah, there's no need. She'll die on her own."
"You have a strange way of falling out of love."
"Don't I, though?"
The wink seems flippant, but it's hiding a sadness even he can't fully comprehend.
Aoede's voice is silent. Unable to sing, she instead writes her concerns on a tablet. It is a depressing lyric, one that springs her mother into action.
How dare this fool try to forget her daughter. Especially after having used her so. A Muse scorned might be something mortals can survive. Her mother is another matter entirely. She is Mnemosyne. This will be too easy.
"What are you writing?"
"A story about a falling star."
"Can I see it?"
His friend reads the genesis of the tale, surprised at the description of the woman.
"I thought you were letting her go."
"What? What do you mean?" He grabs his story from his friend and scans the words quickly, coming to the character of the woman. It is her. Described to her finest points. In spite of his intent.
Aoede goes about her business, unaware of her own influence in the world of men. Her mother smiles at her, wondering how such a beautiful creature can think she walks about unnoticed. There's a touch of melancholy to the thought, but also an enormous sense of pride. Aoede is not one to settle, even for a fickle poet who once wrote volumes of his lust for her. And, Mnemosyne almost giggles, will again. And forever.
"I need to get over her. But I can't. Why the fuck can't I?"
"Muses are rather tricky like that. Should've kept your intentions private."
"How could I? She's beautiful."
"Shouldn't have told her mother, at least."
He needs to write, but is afraid to. Memories, ideas, and impressions of her will threaten to permeate every single letter he puts to paper. Regardless, he writes.
Aoede asks her mother what Mnemosyne is laughing at. With a twinkle in her eye, Mnemosyne convinces her daughter that it's unimportant, though both know that's a lie.
Every word written by this fool gives Mnemosyne another perspective with which to interpret her daughter. Another color. Another shadow. It is quite wonderful to know there are those out there who might love Aoede as much as her mother does. Even if they are scarred by that love.
He can't forget her. She's everywhere. In heroes, villains, lovers, nobles, peasants, soldiers, slaves. Try as he might, the Muse never fails to find herself in his pages.
His friend was right. He should not have told her mother. For she is Mnemosyne. The Titaness. The mother of the Muses. Memory personified. Any who scorn her shall always remember. And always regret.