Title: Art for Art's sake
Author: Angel
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: not mine, Lucas's. Like you didn't already know.
Pairing: none
Notes: This is a PoV piece from Palpatine's perspective. It is an AU where
Luke didn't leap out of the carbon-freeze chamber quickly enough.
Feedback: this is first draft, so let me know what needs work.
*****
Art for Art's Sake
2001 Angelia Sparrow
*****
Art comes only through suffering. The artist suffers, exerts himself, and
deprives himself in service of his art. In the end, the quality of the art
is only as good as the pain that goes into it.
This is why art is restricted. The masses have enough pain, they need not
be enlightened to it by artists. I limit their art, wisely I think, to
barest propaganda, and treacly common works. It is a dangerous thing for
the legendary Vialla to sing and arouse emotion in the listeners. A woman
painting spirals on her walls is not dangerous. The painting defuses her
energy and pain. Her spirals are seen and praised by her friends, but
arouse no emotion.
Yet, I am an artist. I reflect on this irony as I step into my throne room.
Vader was high art indeed. The glorious mask hides Anakin's sweet face.
The respirator, making each breath he draws pain itself, was a masterstroke.
The fire of the lava still burns in his skin, never to be relieved. He
could, of course, heal himself, were I gone. He is in constant pain, his
only surcease to inflict it on others.
He has begun creating his own artwork as well. Pity he did not bring me the
Princess as he had planned. I was very creative with his discipline for
that error. He did betray the bounty hunter, though. The carbonite
sculpture hangs in his chambers.
At the foot of the dais glows my masterpiece. Gold on gold. The golden
youth encased in a golden sphere of pure Force. In the Force-sphere, he is
stretched to the limits, spread to the four points, his body tense, muscles
taut. The waves of Force caress his skin, creating more pain through nerve
induction. All he knows is suffering.
The pain defines him. It refines him, burning away the dross of idealism,
of thought, leaving behind only the purity of agony. I touch his mind but
briefly. It is beginning to slip from him. He has endured this for so
long: a year since Bespin, when he stumbled into the carbon-freezing
chamber.
There is no stumbling now. He is graceful, arched under the pain. He
reaches for the Force, yet knows it is what torments him, and he burns even
more from the touch of it. Beautiful.
I seat myself carefully. I am not as young as I used to be. I watch young
Skywalker for many minutes, barely able to breathe for his rare perfection.
Once, his blue eyes focus on me, but I do not register within his suffering.
So very beautiful. The tension of his muscles contrasts with the hazy lack
of focus in his eyes. The sheer perfection of his body is displayed from
every angle. Were I twenty years younger, I would circle the sphere,
drinking his torment for each direction. As it is, I savor the view I have.
Outside, I sense my servant's anger approaching. It goads him to greater
effort that I have turned his son into art. One day, he will kill me for
it. Then my greatest art will begin.
It will start small. Skywalker will not long survive out of the Force
sphere. His body has become so acclimated to the pain that he can no longer
live without the steady flow of neurotransmitters. His mind will likewise
shatter, unable to believe he is free.
Vader does not know it, but upon my death, his life-support ends as well.
He could heal himself, but not fast enough to survive. Nor could he escape
the deadly gases that will flood his ventilator the moment my presence is
extinguished.
On every world, in every system, there are those for whom my death will be a
trigger. Like an avalanche, destruction will spread through the galaxy.
Every world will combust, a grand funeral pyre. My art, taken to its
highest form.
I can hear my servant's steps outside the door, and I motion my guards to
allow him in. Who knows? Today may be the day my greatest masterpiece
begins.
*end*
Author: Angel
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: not mine, Lucas's. Like you didn't already know.
Pairing: none
Notes: This is a PoV piece from Palpatine's perspective. It is an AU where
Luke didn't leap out of the carbon-freeze chamber quickly enough.
Feedback: this is first draft, so let me know what needs work.
*****
Art for Art's Sake
2001 Angelia Sparrow
*****
Art comes only through suffering. The artist suffers, exerts himself, and
deprives himself in service of his art. In the end, the quality of the art
is only as good as the pain that goes into it.
This is why art is restricted. The masses have enough pain, they need not
be enlightened to it by artists. I limit their art, wisely I think, to
barest propaganda, and treacly common works. It is a dangerous thing for
the legendary Vialla to sing and arouse emotion in the listeners. A woman
painting spirals on her walls is not dangerous. The painting defuses her
energy and pain. Her spirals are seen and praised by her friends, but
arouse no emotion.
Yet, I am an artist. I reflect on this irony as I step into my throne room.
Vader was high art indeed. The glorious mask hides Anakin's sweet face.
The respirator, making each breath he draws pain itself, was a masterstroke.
The fire of the lava still burns in his skin, never to be relieved. He
could, of course, heal himself, were I gone. He is in constant pain, his
only surcease to inflict it on others.
He has begun creating his own artwork as well. Pity he did not bring me the
Princess as he had planned. I was very creative with his discipline for
that error. He did betray the bounty hunter, though. The carbonite
sculpture hangs in his chambers.
At the foot of the dais glows my masterpiece. Gold on gold. The golden
youth encased in a golden sphere of pure Force. In the Force-sphere, he is
stretched to the limits, spread to the four points, his body tense, muscles
taut. The waves of Force caress his skin, creating more pain through nerve
induction. All he knows is suffering.
The pain defines him. It refines him, burning away the dross of idealism,
of thought, leaving behind only the purity of agony. I touch his mind but
briefly. It is beginning to slip from him. He has endured this for so
long: a year since Bespin, when he stumbled into the carbon-freezing
chamber.
There is no stumbling now. He is graceful, arched under the pain. He
reaches for the Force, yet knows it is what torments him, and he burns even
more from the touch of it. Beautiful.
I seat myself carefully. I am not as young as I used to be. I watch young
Skywalker for many minutes, barely able to breathe for his rare perfection.
Once, his blue eyes focus on me, but I do not register within his suffering.
So very beautiful. The tension of his muscles contrasts with the hazy lack
of focus in his eyes. The sheer perfection of his body is displayed from
every angle. Were I twenty years younger, I would circle the sphere,
drinking his torment for each direction. As it is, I savor the view I have.
Outside, I sense my servant's anger approaching. It goads him to greater
effort that I have turned his son into art. One day, he will kill me for
it. Then my greatest art will begin.
It will start small. Skywalker will not long survive out of the Force
sphere. His body has become so acclimated to the pain that he can no longer
live without the steady flow of neurotransmitters. His mind will likewise
shatter, unable to believe he is free.
Vader does not know it, but upon my death, his life-support ends as well.
He could heal himself, but not fast enough to survive. Nor could he escape
the deadly gases that will flood his ventilator the moment my presence is
extinguished.
On every world, in every system, there are those for whom my death will be a
trigger. Like an avalanche, destruction will spread through the galaxy.
Every world will combust, a grand funeral pyre. My art, taken to its
highest form.
I can hear my servant's steps outside the door, and I motion my guards to
allow him in. Who knows? Today may be the day my greatest masterpiece
begins.
*end*