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HE IS BATHING IN HER LOVE, warmed by her gentle pecks.
They lay in the cover of night, hearts beating softly to the rhythmic pattering of rain. At this moment, they are connected in every way—bodies and hearts entangled in a sweet, naive sort. Only for a short while has this become their ritual, sneaking through the quiet palace, hand in hand into the garden to look at the stars. Yes, they spend hours staring into that deep abyss of trapped stories, and nothing more. SIMPLY STARGAZING. She calls it stargazing because being with him, she says, feels above this plane. His tender love is something she imagines in her wildest dreams turned reality—to be picked by him, the noble and great son of Zeus.
EUANTHE, the blooming, looks at his chiseled face, shrouded in the pale, blue moonlight, and wonders how she, a lowly servant girl, is worthy of his affections. To be plucked from anonymity and held in his robust arms. She loves him, lives for him. He calls on her when he is in need and she is there, legs spread for him, heart open for his taking.
The young maid thinks that they are lovers—THAT THEY ARE IN LOVE.
She tells the other women that she is blessed by the gods to be his only lady love. When they bite back that they too have shared his bed, that they too are special among commoners, Euanthe believes them to be jealous crones, for when he holds her after they've spent every shred of themselves in sex she feels COSMIC.
"Argus, do you love me as I love you?"
ARGUS FINDS HER EAGERNESS ENDEARING. She cuddles up to him after and for a few moments, he lets her. It feels nice, to be held by her; it is warming to know that she truly loves him and not simply the idea of the son of Zeus. But he did not love her, could not love her. She is meek and fragile, a pretty little thing that was nice to look at and feels wonderful at the touch, but meaningless.
