The Forgotten Muse

Seraphineia was born from the tenth night of the union between Mnemosyne and Zeus. A night unspectacular in stark contrast to the rest, due to Seraphineia herself being unspectacular. At the foot of Mount Olympus, she was born defiant: wailing upon arrival, while her sisters remained snug and sound on Earth’s rough terrain, like porcelain dolls swaddled for transit.
The knowledge of her birth was consigned to celestial beings, and them only. Seraphineia, although beloved by Zeus, was a blemish to his prestige.
She was a testament to his dwindling force; something more beloved than she.
The internal struggle that Zeus faced between love and power became more apparent to Seraphineia as her childlike whimsy faded. When it did, Zeus convinced himself his eyesight had become obscured by a rose-tinted vignette and nearly took his eyes out to rid himself of it.
And then plotted on how to rid himself of her, too. However, the years of disregard and the diminishing of Seraphineia were enough for her to leave on her own accord. Once her sisters began descending onto Earth, curating vicarious, divine masterpieces, she started to express her want to inspire and explore humanity too.
Backs were turned, tongues were bit, and heads were shaken, so, Seraphineia began to plot her escape; one that would grant her enough time to travel far enough to stay gone before anyone could notice.

As she noted schedules, Zeus was grappling with his own plan: to hide Seraphineia’s identity forever, she’d reunite with her mother, who presided in the Underworld, aiding the dead. Under the veil of night, he crept to Seraphineia’s faraway chamber and could only take a calming breath before entering. There was no one to pray to for forgiveness. He knew he could not, and would not, grant it to himself. As she lay still in her bed he quickly, before she could ever realise, tried to collapse her neck with the might of his hands.
She was squished like macerated fruit, which then, after the peak of adrenaline, felt more like goose feathers in a silk sack.

As he wrestled with the sheets in a fit of fury (rapidly becoming hysteria), Seraphineia was clambering down the side of the mountain with a hefty torch, disabling her balance. The wind whined through crevices in the stone, like a chorus of lament: a chanting of a requiem. Although her fate would be grim should she fall, Seraphineia knew she would rather be doomed to the Underworld than confined to Olympus.

Zeus was unravelling--hurling his weight around Seraphineia’s chamber to match the violent scene in his mind’s eye. Guilt tightened around his neck like a starved snake, forging a warped vision of savagery that projected onto the bed, and pried his perspective from reality. The pillows, still pure, were sandbags against a flood of gore, and a barrier that alienated him from accepting the cruelty. As he ripped the pillows from the bed, he still couldn’t trust the reality he was facing, and instead, forced the sound of ichor dripping onto the marble floor and squelching underneath his feet.
He was the all-powerful Zeus; he unquestionably knew what to take as certitude and what to discard as a pitiful way to cope--it’d be blasphemous to suggest otherwise.



After a treacherous journey resulting in raw skin on her palms and on her knees, Seraphineia reached Mount Caucasus, where she fell to them once more. Prometheus hung above her, ostracised from society for centuries, with the promise of regeneration--at the expense of desperately needing it. Zeus commanded this torment as retribution; it was the consequence of Prometheus aiding humanity by gifting them fire, using an ember stolen from the hearth of Zeus’ palace.
Seraphineia begged Prometheus to set her free, far from here, citing the strength it took to travel all this way--to him--as a demonstration of her willingness to do anything in exchange for this good deed.
While Prometheus felt sorrow for Seraphineia, relating to her isolation and longing for more, he hesitated to help, fearing his involvement in such a plan.
Prometheus was gifted with foresight and wished to warn her of the dangers that would follow if she went to Earth, but she planted her head to the ground, outstretching her palms. He knew there was nothing to do but comply.
Below him was a Prometheus he could save, so he offered her this wish, but only if she heeded his words of caution.
Her scepticism stunned him upon the side of the mountain; it was an arrogant show of narcissism that he only dreamed of having.
She asked if he wished for her to be chained also: setting her free, only to cage her with fear. Prometheus tiredly shook his head, acknowledging that she must not know anything about man, and now, therefore, must. It was no way to live, but it was the only way to live. After a brief silence, Prometheus dropped his head from the heavy burden, and then informed her, with no uncertainty, that her immortality had been compromised.
All men and women know that their time will come, but most of them don’t know how death will take them, or when, so neither shall she.











Questions arose surrounding Seraphineia’s disappearance. Days dragged on of Zeus’ withdrawal; he retreated from any mention of his daughter. He believed the day of her discovery was nearing because, although he kept away from her chambers, the servants would eventually tidy it up, or be lured by the unpleasant smell of her assassination. Come nightfall, he had terrors--echoic screams and golden splatter against the pure marble pillars…on the reflective flooring…and on the ceiling that withstood and observed it all, stuck in its place, unable to collapse and stop the brutality. While Zeus was conscious, he forcefully imagined her roaming free, with an intact neck that she could turn to look at the beautiful life around her, that she absorbed all saturation from and exuded, like the dawn.

 As the sun rose on New York City, Seraphineia was isolated in a swarm of people. She was being swept away as the crowd, like a hive mind, marched in a crazed formation, in a cloud of smoke, and the smell of black coffee. With no destination in mind, she kept up with them, trying to stay in the middle of the huddle, to protect herself from the bitter cold. And nobody batted an eye at her long, flowing fabric in copper, white and cobalt teal, contrary to their formalwear. They were so engrossed with a device, that she was trying to lean over and look at--a phone. As she powerwalked, she bent her neck to peek at what was emitting light and what could be so interesting to distract them from the architecture around them. The phone was yanked to the man’s side and his shoulder barged forward as he glared down at her. Her eyes widened and she halted, letting the crowd move on without her, pushing past as if they’d been mercilessly inconvenienced.
She continued but began to slow and mope the more she was turned away from fancy buildings or ignored when trying to make friends.

Seraphineia was hungry and beginning to feel like this was a mistake. She compared herself to her sisters, placing her value far beneath theirs as the sky darkened. The city, though, stayed as bright as it did at noon, and Seraphineia was the only one who had slowed down--she stuck out, doing herself no favours by sitting and watching time pass by.
She got onto her feet and raised her hands, praying to Zeus that this message finds him, that she’s in good health and is never too far from him that she’d ever be unable to reach him, hoping that it would bring him some comfort (it sent him into a frenzied episode). Seraphineia wanted to make Zeus proud, if she went home already, he’d have nothing to say and would do nothing but stare at her, wishing she was more.

She trudged along; no longer feeling the ache in her feet and toes, as they became numb from exposure to the cold. Inundated with oversaturation of city noise, she was learning how to block it out, but then, faintly in the distance, there was a rhythmic, but loud and brash noise so peculiar and new that it waved through her ears and flooded the part of her brain that encouraged curiosity. She followed the music as if she could see the waves dancing before her and it led her to a grunge, dingy venue with people spilling out onto the street and on the roof, talking eye-to-eye and sharing cigarettes. Where was this connection and generosity earlier, and how were they talking through such loud music? She walked inside, getting her feet trampled, and then looked towards the stage at the band, as if they were a pair of thermal boots and a jacket, any jacket would do.

They knew chords, but the way they were arranged, Seraphineia wasn’t impressed. They were the perfect candidates for her to turn them into musical sensations, beloved by more than just these people in this venue, jumping around and shoving, or upstairs, not listening at all. There were three members: two guys and, the most competent, a girl. The backbone, the drummer; without her, the rhythm would turn into an accident in a cymbal closet.
At the end of the show, when everyone was leaving and the band was packing up their instruments, Seraphineia took a deep breath before walking to the barrier, reminding herself of how her sisters act--they exude confidence and act as if everything they say is gospel. She introduced herself, holding out her hand, meeting them one by one, keeping her hand extended for the drummer to walk over and shake it. The lead singer, Nicholas, asked if she enjoyed the show, wrapping up his microphone cable. She just told the truth: that she’d never heard anything like it. She didn’t say she thought it was good, but she was sincere, which got his attention. Lucia had come back from carrying equipment to the van and noticed Seraphineia’s clothes, asking if she had come from the theatre. Apparently, yes, she was in a production earlier and her heels were hurting, so she opted to go barefoot. The band, although untalented in Seraphineia’s eyes, were kind—seeing her innocence and through her lies--and immediately took her under their wing. Lucia even asked if she wanted to borrow some spare clothes she kept in the van.

After changing, she was asked by Benny, the bassist, to join their post-show ritual, grabbing a pizza.
It was made up; it was obvious that she was hungry. It was the first kindness that was shown since she arrived, and now, learning about humans directly, proving Zeus wrong wasn’t at the forefront of her mind.
The band were as interested in her as she was in them, even though, to her, their species was completely alien. Seraphineia asked and learnt more about the music scene in Brooklyn and garage rock as a genre. She connected to the community, feeling guilty for judging, now knowing that the DIY scene was full of people who just loved doing it. That same passion led her here.  
She reflected deeply, taking into consideration that she was still incredibly naïve, and knew that even though she struggled immensely until meeting these three talents, this life was something she wanted to pursue. Olympus has no place for her, and it’s only right that she goes back and tells this to Zeus directly, whether he grants her his blessing or not. Money or no money, food, or no food—she will return. Once she gets over those obstacles, being here will be the most rewarding accolade she’ll ever receive.

 
When she returned, she made her way back up the mountain with newfound confidence. She didn’t feel the need to impress Zeus with what she had learnt or be like the famed Muses, she found community and people on her wavelength--untapped relationships. It was the dead of night when she stepped through the entryway to the palace, where she observed the thinnest layer of dust attempting to settle on the dining table.

Zeus removed the servants; qualities that demonstrated illness wouldn’t be seen. But he spiralled further, now even hearing Seraphineia’s voice--she could reach him--he was haunted.
He entered the hallway and saw her in foreign garb--a malicious smile deforming her face. He believed this was an illusion, once he saw three of her, dizzy from fear. She was here to taunt him. She began to run down the hall, giggling maniacally. Reliving the harm was the last thing he wanted, but the reign of terror had to end. If he struck her down now, he believed she would never come back.
A lightning bolt, before she could ever realise impaled her chest, ripping the life from her eyes and her future. She didn’t dissipate, not even once she hit the floor, where she lay, unnoticed, until the next morning.