Dominions

14-1

14

- 14 -

That night, Rodin dreamed of a room.

It was small, little more than a storage space, and it was warm. He sat on a padded bench that ran along one wall, and there was another bench opposite. The girl sitting on it couldn’t keep still. Her legs bounced up and down, and she constantly turned her head. Rodin knew she wanted to speak, but something stopped her. Maybe she couldn’t find the words.

So they were silent, and they were‌…‌waiting. For what, he didn’t know. But the twisting in his gut told him it was nothing good. Every so often he’d look to the door‌—‌or the outline of a door on the wall to his right‌—‌like he expected it to open.

And the heat increased.

He swallowed, his throat dry, and he tried to pull the neck of his shirt from his skin. But the material was rough, and he struggled to raise his hands. The warmth grew, and with it came a sickly stench, like burning meat. The air clouded, and his vision dimmed, like‌…‌like his face was covered. Coarse material pressed against his skin. When he breathed in he could almost taste the stink in the air, the burning now mixed with cloying sweat and acidic urine.

He stood. He didn’t know when he rose from the bench, but now his feet were on concrete, cold except where they encountered a warm puddle. The rough material covered his body, covered his head, and he heard sobbing. He didn’t think it was from the girl. He didn’t think she was here now.

Then a click, and a groan of metal‌—‌a door opening. A rush of warm air, carrying the burning smell, and the sobbing became a wail as he felt himself pushed forward. He heard a scream, sounds of someone being dragged, grunts of exertion.

Then the door slammed shut, and silence fell.

Rodin threw aside the rumpled sheets and sat up, shivering.

He checked the time on his screen. Too early, but he was awake now. He rose and showered, the water icy enough that he tingled all over, and then he dressed.

The aroma of burning seemed to cling to his clothes, but Rodin pushed that from his mind. It was this place, the strangeness of everything. He needed to get back to his proper life‌—‌and for that, he needed to make contact with Leopold. Seeing where the man lived was just the start. He needed an introduction, needed to get close to the Councillor. The ideal time would be at some social event, and for that he needed Sertio to stop moping about.

Rodin shook his head. This wallowing in self-pity was nothing but selfishness. If the man was serious about his art‌—‌just as Rodin was serious about his art, even if that consisted of ending lives‌—‌he’d work at it no matter how uninspired he felt. How many times had Rodin fulfilled a contract while feeling under the weather? How many times had he tracked down a target despite aching wounds? How many jobs had felt hopeless, the odds stacked against him? And yet Rodin always struggled through, refusing to give in.

hisHe needed to work on Sertio, but Rodin had no idea how to do that. Threats wouldn’t work, and he had no experience with friendship, even the faux-version that was rife under the glass.

At least he could keep the place tidy, keep Sertio fed and in comfort. Pamper the overgrown baby, and hope he got off his arse and did some work.

So, with the sun yet to rise, Rodin cleaned the studio. He worked by the blue moonlight, the room bathed in shadows. He worked barefoot, felt smooth splashes of paint and rough drops of clay against his soles. He brushed the floor, tidied brushes and tools. He straightened some of the pictures Sertio had hung around his current work.

Rodin didn’t know what to make of that piece. In the dimness, it looked like a strange creature emerging from a dark, misshapen egg, all spindly, twisted arms, a multitude of limbs that would allow it to scuttle across the wooden floor. It was an abomination, something that should never be. Out of place. It should remain hidden, covered by the shell. The outer casing was safe; what it contained was not fit to be seen in Society.

Rodin felt a kinship with the malformed creature. He ran his hand over the rough surface, surprisingly warm, and it felt fragile. He removed his hand, suddenly concerned that he might damage it.

He shook his head. What did it matter if this lump of clay broke? What was the point of all this art anyway? If people wanted to look at something, wasn’t there scenery? There were the parks, and the lake. There were trees. Even flowers, if they wanted to look in detail. So why make more stuff just to look at?

He thought of the man on the train, that first morning. Thought of the conversation about alterations, thought how not only bodies but also muscle was superficial here. These people turned their bodies into works of art, things to be looked at and admired rather than used.

Rodin finished cleaning the studio and moved back downstairs, into the living area. He scrubbed surfaces until they shone, and polished anything metallic or glass. As the sun rose, the place gleamed, and Rodin’s skin shone too. He felt the layer of perspiration, cool and warm at the same time, a comforting annoyance.

He returned to his suite. His muscles were cooling, but they yearned for more, and Rodin was eager to give them what they wanted.

For two hours, wearing not a stitch of clothing, he punished his body. Every muscle, every tendon he pushed to its limit. The constant ache did nothing to stop him. Pain was only in the mind, the simple chemistry of firing neurons. His lungs burned, so he held his breath as he completed another set of push-ups, feeling the lactic acid build-up, feeling his muscles scream through lack of oxygen. But they were still capable of more, so he switched to pull-ups, using the lintel over the door to the bedroom. He held his legs straight in front of him, stomach clenched tight, relishing the heat. Another two, another one, then hold, arms at right angles. Feel the blood, breathing now, feel his lungs, his heart, the pulse beating in his temple. Feel his body, working hard. Working as it should.

As he lowered himself slowly to the floor, Rodin knew he was not alone He turned to the door, to the shape that had appeared in his peripheral vision.

Sertio stood there, a robe covering his body. One hand was held to his chest, palm open. The other was lower, by his waist. On his face was a look of excitement, along with something else Rodin could not make out. Maybe disgust, or discomfort.

As the artist looked up to Rodin’s face, the expression changed to shock, and red rose in his cheeks. “Oh,” he gasped, the hand at his waist rising to his face. “I do apologise. I am most sorry. Please excuse me.” And he waddled from the door, as fast as he could.

Rodin crossed the room to close the door, recalling quite vividly that he had closed it before exercising. He’d considered opening a closed door to be poor manners in the Dome, but maybe the rules were different when staying in someone else’s property.

He’d need to do something about that, though. Maybe work on the hinges, give the door a squeak. Something to alert him when Sertio again entered Rodin’s suite. He didn’t want to be caught doing anything untoward.

And only then did he remember that he was n***d.

Rodin, showered and dressed, prepared Sertio’s breakfast, and when the artist’s door opened he heated up the man’s drink. He avoided Sertio’s eyes, unsure how embarrassed his employer would be.

But Sertio smiled‌—‌no, he beamed. He wore his stained smock, and he practically floated over to the table, falling into a chair. He slammed a pad of paper onto the table, and instantly produced a pencil from a pocket and started to scribble away.

Rodin brought the breakfast tray over and grabbed a surreptitious look. A figure, clearly, with arm crooked, the muscles well-defined.

Sertio looked up. He breathed fast, and his expression was filled with child-like excitement.

“Ah, my dear, dear Terrell. This is most wonderful.” His brow furrowed, as if he wasn’t quite sure where he was. “I must apologise for my earlier intrusion, but in a way it was most fortuitous. The mystic forces, you see‌—‌they drew me to your door. That’s the only explanation.”

Only then did Sertio appear to notice the pencil and the pad, along with the breakfast spread. He put the pencil down and pushed the pad to one side almost reverently. “But I’m babbling. I’m ignoring this feast‌—‌and after what you’ve done for me, that just won’t do! No, indeed, my friend. I cannot turn away from such gifts! And so I’ll eat, and I’ll prepare my words. Then‌—‌and I must say I’m almost giddy with anticipation!‌—‌then I’ll tell you of the divine flash‌—‌hah! Such an appropriate word!‌—‌that has rekindled my enthusiasm.”

He attacked the food, shovelling a slice of watermelon into his mouth, washing it down with milky coffee and then covering slices of bread with thick fatty butter, sliced meat and cheese. The plates on the table soon held nothing but crumbs and pips, and his mug was empty. Rodin offered to refill it, but Sertio waved a hand dismissively.

“As if I need anything else to warm the fire that burns within! No, I’m sated. Every day, you surpass yourself.” He looked around. “And this place is so clean! All this, and you’ve given me just what I wanted. Oh, I can’t wait to tell Daventree about this. I don’t know where that man found you, but‌…‌but I’m getting ahead of myself. It’s you I should be explaining this to. You, the kindling, the spark that has reignited the raging inferno that boils inside this large frame!”

youHe patted his stomach, staining his clothing with his greasy fingers.

“But sit, please. Sit down.” He pushed the pad across the table. “Tell me, what do you make of this?”

Rodin looked at the drawing, in more detail this time. For a quick sketch, he was amazed at the sensation of static energy. The arm was tense, like it was ready to burst into action, and veins pushed prominently against the skin. But the skin wasn’t smooth‌—‌there was a marking, like a scar, that ran across the bicep.

“That’s me?” Rodin said.

Sertio’s grin widened. “Oh, it’s gratifying to hear you say that, my friend. So gratifying. But let me take a moment, and I’ll explain what I want you to do this morning.” He raised a hand, pointing to the ceiling. “That monstrosity in my studio, that lump of lifeless clay‌—‌oh, to think I believed that could be something! I want it gone. No, don’t frown so. I know what I’m saying. Gone, removed, taken elsewhere and disposed of. I never want to see that worthless abortion again. Oh, you can file the images around it‌—‌I may have some use for them later, or possibly Daventree will know of a buyer who would be interested in such ephemera. One of his gifts is in making people part with their money for scraps I no longer desire. But the malformed lump in the midst of those images‌—‌please cast that from my sight, the sooner the better.

“And then, I would like a new workspace prepared. Hang fresh cloth, prepare an easel with clean sketch-paper, place my charcoals at hand. Why, you may ask?” Sertio didn’t wait for a response. “Because today I start a new project. And you, my most sculpted friend, are the inspiration.”

Sertio clapped his hands together, rested his elbows on the table as he leaned forward. “For too long, my sleep has been troubled by my sickening lack of inspiration, so it is no wonder that I woke early this morning. Maybe I don’t wake so much as move from a kind of half-sleep into something resembling consciousness. But instead of tossing and turning, and allowing my failure to take root within my sleep-deprived body, I rose. I paced my rooms, and then ventured further afield. There were sounds of exertion coming from behind your door. Oh, they were not loud‌—‌please don’t take this as a complaint. In fact, it was only my close proximity to your door that allowed me to catch any sound from within. But the noises intrigued me, and so‌—‌even though this is a liberty I should not have taken, and I humbly beg of you to accept my apologies‌—‌I gently opened the door, and beheld a most wondrous moving tableau!

“There, before my very eyes, was such a specimen as I have never seen before, an Adonis pushing himself to the limit. Muscles strained, and veins stood rigid as blood pumped through them, so finely delineated that the whole body was as an anatomical study. I stood, transfixed, and I knew that this was no artificial creation. This was not the work of surgeons and butchers, but this was a body developed over hours and days and months and years, a body finely honed through dedication and exertion. This was the epitome of the human body as a machine, working in harmony with itself.

“And yet it was not what many would consider perfect. As my eyes feasted, they were drawn to the scarring that ran across the skin. Initially, I will admit, I felt great discomfort, but I remained in silent study. The body moved, but the scars, those lines of dead flesh, remained immobile, as if taunting the living flesh that pulsed around them. And I felt the desire to examine each one in detail, to trace their paths with my fingers, to rub gently where the paleness met the glistening flesh, to taste their roughness with my tongue. I wanted…”

Sertio stopped suddenly, shaking his head. “I apologise. Sometimes I become‌…‌what is the word? Consumed, maybe. I meant no disrespect.”

“None taken,” Rodin said, although he had felt some discomfort. No, not discomfort. Disquiet, maybe.

No, not discomfort. Disquiet, maybe.Sertio sighed, then continued, his manner calmer now. “Such a sight had a profound impact on me, and it was then that the muses settled. Those lines of scar-tissue‌—‌they were not the imperfections they first presented themselves as. We strive for perfection by ironing out the wrinkles, and removing the stains, but we miss the deep truth‌—‌that those wrinkles and stains are part of life. And this runs deeper still. As we progress through life, we are scarred emotionally‌—‌lost loves, unrequited friendships, and so on. We strive to smooth over our pain, but maybe this is an error. Is it not better to use these hurts as lessons, use them to grow? We are the sum of all our past, and to deny otherwise is to leave us incomplete.”

Sertio’s eyes shone with moisture, and he swallowed loudly. Rodin wondered if the artist had spoken to Daventree, so closely did his words follow those Rodin had said in the agent’s office.

“And this is what my new work‌—‌dare I say my new masterpiece?‌—‌will focus on. This piece will show the perfection of flaws, and will highlight the beauty of struggle. It will demonstrate all those contradictions that make us truly human. And for all this I have you to thank, my most wonderful assistant.”

Sertio spread his arms wide, and Rodin wondered if he expected his assistant to rush into them. But Rodin simply nodded, smiled, and said, “It does my heart good to know I’ve helped you overcome your slump.” Not great words, but nothing else came to mind.

“Oh, you’ve done far more than that, my friend. And yet, there is one other task I would ask of you. This project is but a seed of an idea now, and to ensure it grows strong I need to nurture it. I need to let it bloom, and then I need to chisel away to reach the kernel of the idea. I need to‌…‌but I’m taking in riddles once more. I apologise. It’s so hard to describe the creative process in mere words. No, what I require is more sketching. I need to draw, and in doing so uncover the likeness that I must sculpt. And for that, I require a model. My friend, will you be the vessel through which the muses may commune with me?”

Rodin told himself this was what he needed for his contract, that a happier Sertio would lead him to Leopold. But there was another feeling, a warmth deep within, and he surprised himself with the speed at which he responded. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Sertio.”