Marius

Marius

         Long silvery white hair swishes around him as both of us face each other. Every inch of him gives off the fact that he’s nobility. Why he’d choose a peasant waif like me to guide is beyond me, but I’m grateful for it.
         Part of me thinks he pissed off one of the creator gods, and I’m his punishment. If that’s the case he won’t tell me.
         I stumble, tripping over a stone in the courtyard of my mind. Falling back, I roll back to my feet in time to parry away his saber with the dainty little foil I’m using. Personally I hate Fencing, but it’s his turn to play, so we’re fencing, beats trying to write Erotica, like his lover insists I try.
         “Your form’s getting better.”
         I smile, what else is there to say when you’re dealing with a prince, although he’s one that stepped away from the throne in order to be of more use to his country. I know all about him, his childhood, and his sister. I even know that his first dog was a pure bred named Bahamut.
         He backs up, allowing me a few moments of reprieve. I stand after a few moments, pulling my own long hair back into it’s tight bun, pinning it with hair sticks that have little dangle dragons on it.
         He gives a small laugh, almost musical in nature. Another thing I like about him. Marius’ taste in music, is close to mine, along with 80’s rock, he’s into some operas, and Native American drums. I’m Christine to his Phantom so to speak. We’re happy to think of each other as such. For a while each night, I’m unable to break free of his power. Words flow like notes across the paper.
         Blue eyes watch my every move, either to praise me when I’ve done something right, or to scold me when I’m wrong. I feel like I’m back in school, but I don’t have a problem with it.
         Now he’s trying to teach me proper grammar. It’s clear that he’s European with how he speaks. My American slang, a mix of Valley girl, Southern hick and well, okay, very American, must be grating on his nerves. It’s clear that the public schooling I’ve had didn’t care much about Grammar. They loved Science and Math, two subjects I hated the most.
         Marius is clicking his tongue, tsking me once again for not paying attention as he tries to correct some wording. I need to get up and stretch, but we’re in the middle of a scene. I can’t stop now. Not when I’m so close to being done with the piece.
         Glancing back up at him I take in every little detail of his finely tailored suit, (the only time I’ve seen him in jeans is when two of my other muses get him into them) his pale skin, not deathly pale, the soft creamy pale that some white guys get. I’ve seen pictures of him as a kid, and know that his skin doesn’t tan well. I don’t press the issue of having only a night owl muse.
         Scene changes again, not of my will either. I hate it when he does that. Just when I’m starting to go into a good daydream, we’re back to sparing. This time he actually wants to practice unarmed combat. Both of us are dressed in traditional Gi. Mine’s purple, Chinese style with dark green trim, this time my red, black hair is pulled up with sticks that dangle tigers. The style I use, is like me, a mix of everything, some people would call it street fighting, but it’s more disciplined than just brawling.
         He’s just wearing dark blue Hakama; it looks like he’s in a skirt, though I know for a fact it’s actually a pair of pants. I have a pair of my own some times. Even though he’s European, the Japanese pants look good on his thin lean body. He’s finely muscled, the kind of muscle you get from hard work, not hard workouts. It’s a natural look. His hair’s pulled back in a high ponytail. Even then, it falls to the small of his back.
         I feel a little jealous, after all, he looks better in long hair than I do. Mine currently is cut at an angle; the left side’s longer than the right with the back shorter than the rest of it. I really need to trim it, but it’s at the decent length that can be twisted up into a bun easier.
         He motions for me to come to him, slipping his hands in the defensive mode. I shake my head, moving around him carefully, keeping my guard up. A feint to the left doesn’t phase him. Both of us have done this over the last few years. I’ve finished the story he wanted; yet still he hangs on, mostly to guide me through life. Part of me calls him our guardian angel. With out him a few years ago, when my first fiancee beat me up in a childish rage. Though... Part of me wonders if he’s the reason ‘we’ didn’t work out.
         Muses can be such jealous creatures. Since a lot of what I write draws from my experiences, maybe he got me into that mess to teach me a lesson about life. Maybe I’m thinking too much on it.
         I dodge his sweep, jumping back landing in a low crouch. He had gotten my attention again. No more day dreaming... I got it. The match goes on, both of us making comments as we dance around the dojo that’s in my mind.
         The paper before me in real life starts to fill with all the anger and frustration I have. It forms into a space battle, with the heroes out numbered.
         “You have to go now.”
         I blink, looking at the file. Saving it I get up glancing at the clock. Yet another night where I see dawn, lucky me, you know a girl can get sick of sunrises. No sleep for the wicked I guess. I have to get up and get things done. A resume to print off and applications to fill out, breakfast to scrounge up, this morning it’s bagels and cream cheese.
         Smiling I think back on my silver haired muse. My little warrior is leaning against the wall in the ‘bishie closet’ in my mind, humming along to the song on the radio. I chuckle at his sense of humor. We say our good byes for the evening with Bono singing ‘Mysterious Ways’. I make another pot of coffee while popping a few headache pills. Play time’s over, a little makeup will hide the shadows. Time to get a real job, much to my dismay.