Warnings: Mild Language, only two words
Rating: T
Pygmalion
Once upon a time, there was an artist named Pygmalion. He devoted his life to his work, and eventually, to one piece in particular. It was a sculpture of his vision of his true love, and he created her with the power of his own hands and soul. When she stood completed after many years of hard work, Pygmalion was struck with despair at her beauty. He begged the gods to bring her life, and on the dawning of one magical day, his wish was heard and granted. She loved him as he loved her, and they were happy.
A guttering candle died out on the mantle of the unlit brick fireplace. Its passing went unnoticed; dozens of other candles producing a flickering light that nearly filled the chaotic studio.
Strong ivory fingers tapped the chisel relentlessly into the work-in-progress. Softly the fingertips swept across the defined muscles, curving cool cheeks and full lips of the lithe male figure. With the most delicate touch the artist sought perfection in his work. As he circled the pedestal he kicked aside misshapen fragments of stone on the dusty floor, piles left discarded in puddles of drying azure paint.
Aquamarine eyes were blind to the cacophony of assorted broken grey limbs, the forsaken pieces of his heart that surrounded him. Patiently, diligently, he searched out where the stature needed his attention in rough patches and an edge that was a bit too sharp. He sculpted and shaped, bringing his work to life.
Hours trickled by in the cold of night. Desperate hope gripped the pale artist while the pads of his fingers ran haltingly across the entirety of the statue one last time. Complete, he was finished, maybe this time he had done it.
Silver hair shone softly in the candle light, scintillating against the dull grey feet that cradled his resting head. Now it was time for him to wait for the morning to come, and breathe life in to his work, his life.
His love.
Bloodshot eyes were framed by wan features, drawn tight with excitement. His gaze locked onto the statue poised elegantly on its pedestal as dawn approached. Feverishly, eyes blinking back exhaustion, he clambered to his feet and stumbled back a few steps. The newborn rays shone in the perfectly angled window and lit the sculpture.
((Almost as if he had planned this moment, over and over again))
The artist himself remained cloaked in shadows, his own hair and skin a muted light grey.
((Almost as if he was the one made of stone))
The effigy caught and refracted the beams, dancing with a gold sheen. Blank eyes were transformed into a blazing gaze, and the arms, the legs, the hips, they belonged to a seraphim. Years of pain-staking work was finally bearing fruit.
"Sora…" Riku whispered. The sculpture, or rather, the young man-
((Who was merely slumbering in the stone shell))
-seemed so life-like, as if he would stir at any moment.
"Please!" A hoarse voice croaked out into the chill morning air.
The statue was so real. Sora was so real. Riku had lost-
((Given))
-his soul to this boy, so that he would just move and become…
Alive.
The sun rose higher. It reached its apex. And then in the following hours it set, the room now left in desolate black once more, candles long ago extinguished.
The silver-haired sculptor had not budged an inch all day, instead watching his creation with growing emotion, willing it to move only a little, to just move damn it.
Riku had not moved. Neither had Sora.
"Fuck!" With an anguished cry and a series of growls that seemed more animalistic than man, Riku grabbed viciously for the heavy mallet he knew lay on the table beside him. His fingers scrabbled against the wood until he felt the weight in his hand. He saw red, enraged with himself, with God, with Sora.
((Why? Why had he failed? Why couldn't he have Sora? Why wouldn't he WAKE UP?))
Riku fell upon the proud statue, violently reducing it to a shattered mess of pieces and shards to match its many predecessors. He hit, he slammed, attacked his pain and love with an agonizing rain of crushing blows.
Finally he sunk to the floor and curled amidst the settling dust and crumbling rock he had thought could finally save him. Before falling into a fitful sleep, Riku let out a broken, mournful sound and allowed his tears to run hotly down his face.
He knew, though the knowledge brought him little joy, that after his heart finished breaking-
((Againagainagainagain))
-he knew that he would build once more. His hands and his vision of Sora would fail him… but he would still build once more.
((Againagainagainagain))
Riku knew there was no strength in what he did. The cynical sculptor did not lie to himself in such a futile way. He was very aware that it was highly likely that underneath his cloud of silver hair there hid insanity.
He didn't care.
"Sora…"
"Riku…"
He just knew that Sora was in there somewhere.
((It was almost as if he had lived this moment, over and over and againagainagain))