Dominions

22

22

- 22 -

The pair who rescued Leopold didn’t kill him. Rodin knew he should be thankful for that, but being alive only left him with more problems.

After a fitful sleep‌—‌dreams of water, and long periods of self-recrimination as he ran over the mistakes he’d made‌—‌Rodin rose and exercised. The healthy burn didn’t alleviate his slump, and he knew he was not good company as he prepared Sertio’s breakfast.

“My dear Terrell, should you be up and about?” the artist asked when Rodin put the final plate of food onto the table. “After the accident last night‌…‌well, if I’d heard about it sooner, I would have been up when you came in. I would have cared for you. Such a terrible ordeal‌—‌there’s no way I can ask you to work this morning. It’s only right that I cancel our session. I must contact Miss Paskia’s aunt immediately.”

Rodin raised a hand. “Thank you for your concern, but I’m fine. Any pain is internal,” and wasn’t that the truth? “And maybe quiet contemplation while you sketch will give me time to resolve the myriad of thoughts buzzing around my mind.”

“You’re sure? My work can rest for a day. I can work on other sketches. I can…”

“I’m fine, Sertio. Please, don’t change a thing.” He smiled, and Sertio slowly eased back into his chair.

“Well‌…‌if you insist. But you have only to ask, at any point, and we’ll bring the session to a close.”

“Thank you, but I’m sure I’ll cope.”

Of course he would. He’d failed, but this was only his first attempt. This was a setback, that was all.

He’d be more careful next time. He’d be on the lookout for those protecting Leopold. He wouldn’t let this pampered society lull him into a false sense of security.

If only he had his tools! It was one part of his morning that he missed‌—‌that time when he laid them out, scrutinising each item. He needed to be cleaning his blades, checking the vials for the lance, ensuring the mechanism in that weapon ran smoothly. He needed to be coiling his tripwire, and fine-tuning the security on his pocket-screen.

Instead, he was cleaning rooms and making breakfast for this self-important oaf. What kind of man couldn’t cater for himself? Were his precious muses really so special that he couldn’t lift a pan, or even get his own drinks?

If Sertio went out on the lake‌—‌if there was a dinghy that could take his bulk‌—‌he’d have one of those fully-automated ones, with every safety feature going. He’d potter around on the water, the boat never tilting beyond a few degrees, the sail reducing as soon as the wind picked up. He’d wear a full-body drysuit, helmet included, to keep even the slightest spray off.

At least Leopold took some risks. At least he stretched himself a bit. Not everyone under the glass was mindless and coddled.

Thinking of the Councillor brought last night again to Rodin’s mind. The man and the woman never mentioned their names, even though he was sure they referred to him as ‘Terrell’ a couple of times. In fact, they’d said very little to him, and when the medics turned up, the man immediately told them that ‘Mister Terrell is fine’. As the woman stayed by Leopold’s side, the man turned to Rodin and told him to head home.

He’d walked off before he’d realised how impertinent‌—‌how un-Dome-like‌—‌that was.

“But how is our friend from the Council?” Sertio asked, dragging Rodin from his memories. “Have you contacted Leopold yet?”

“I don’t believe there’s any permanent damage,” Rodin said, thinking back to the short message he’d received an hour previous‌—‌a response to his own message sent the moment he returned to Sertio’s residence. “He’s in his rooms, and has someone caring for him‌—‌he didn’t give her name.” He didn’t add how Leopold apologised for what happened, as if the accident was his own fault. Nor did he mention how Leopold said he looked forward to seeing Terrell when he was ready to receive visitors.

The incident had not turned the man from Rodin. There was still hope.

“That is good to hear.” Sertio placed his empty mug down, and pushed himself away from the table. “I’ll contact him myself, of course. But for the moment, we have a busy day ahead of us. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll head upstairs to prepare.”

“Of course.”

Rodin tidied as Sertio huffed up the staircase, and it was only a few minutes before the buzzer alerted him to the arrival of the lift. Paskia greeted Rodin with a smile, and removed her cape as she stepped into the living space, draping it over the arm of a sofa.

“Here already?” boomed the artist from above. “Wonderful, wonderful! Please, come on up.”

Paskia turned to Rodin. “He seems very lively today.”

“I think he’s pleased with how the work’s progressing. Although I’m sure he’d add something about ‘the touch of the muses’.” Rodin grinned, but Paskia was slow to respond. Was his attempt at humour out of place? Had he transgressed some social rule?

He raised a hand, waving Paskia up the stairs. As he followed, he reminded himself to concentrate. Distractions weren’t good.

Sertio was already at his easel, a few paces from a wooden stool. On the cloths surrounding this he’d hung the previous day’s sketches.

Paskia walked along them slowly, scrutinising each one. “Do I really look like this? When I look in a glass, that’s not how I see myself.”

“Oh, of course not, my dear. If I required an exact image I would simply use a screen to take a still. But when I sketch, I use what is before me as a starting point, and I draw out details that call to me. See how this scar wraps itself around Terrell’s upper arm? I’m sure you noticed no such band on the man himself‌—‌but there is a small scar, and it felt right to develop this.”

Paskia nodded. “So the small scar has become a constricting band. He’s trapped by his past.”

Sertio clapped loudly. “Yes, yes! Of course, I see far more than that, but in a nutshell, your assessment is a fair approximation. But to work! Disrobe, disrobe, then to the stool.”

When their clothes were neatly stacked, Sertio had Rodin sit on the stool, a foot up on a stays. Paskia straddled his knee, one of her arms draped over Rodin’s shoulder, her hand reaching up so that her fingers spread around the back of his head. Her other hand Sertio positioned on Rodin’s shoulder, but he told her to form a claw. Her nails pushed down on his skin, pale where the pressure had diverted the blood-flow.

Sertio then placed Rodin’s hands, one wrapped round her waist, the other flat on her shoulder blade. He told Rodin to apply pressure, as if he were trying to push Paskia away. And, he said, they should stare hard at each other.

Sertio’s pencil scraped across the paper, and Rodin forced his gaze into Paskia’s eyes, ignoring all else, avoiding the thin line of her lips and the way her hair fell over her ear, the one with the scar behind it.

The phrase she had spoken, ‘trapped by the past’, rose in his mind, and he wondered if she were speaking of him or of herself. He was certain that she’d had problems with Authority, and had undergone Correction. He couldn’t help wondering what she’d done.

Her nails bit into his flesh. The hand behind his head was both caressing and controlling, pulling him in for either an embrace or an assault. Her shoulder pushed up into his hand, and he increased the pressure of his hold, unsure if he was holding her down or forcing her away. And his other hand, round her waist‌—‌should the pressure there be gentle and tender, or hard? Was he pulling her close or wanting to turn her away?

Her eyes were bright, but that was because of the sheen of moisture coating them. A droplet formed, growing in size before it broke free, rolling slowly down her cheek, round the crease in her nose and on to her lips. Behind it lay a streak, already drying.

Had he done that? Was the tear it shed in anger or happiness, pain or joy? Or was it nothing more than a physical effect of staring for too long at one spot?

No more tears followed, and Rodin chose to ignore it. He focused on his body, working to keep the pose, concentrating on each muscle. Yet he couldn’t ignore the heat where Paskia’s flesh touched his own.

He had been close to others, of course. He had held women in his arms, had moved with their bodies. Some were strangers, and others were‌…‌not friends, but acquaintances. He had no need for relationships‌—‌attachments of any kind would be a hindrance in his line of work‌—‌but there was pleasure in these moments of snatched intimacy. At least, there was most of the time. Occasionally, these couplings were pure l**t, the need to scratch an itch. Sometimes, even during the act itself, animosity grew, and the physical release coincided with anger and disgust.

But this was different. Although the pose was forced, and the situation as fake as anything under the glass, there was an intensity that was hard to ignore. There were sensations of both attraction and revulsion, as if he honestly needed to both grab Paskia tight while also pushing her away.

There was a mark on her waist, a raised ridge of an old scar no longer than a finger-nail. It was nothing like the dead tissue that ran over his own flesh, but it was strange that it existed at all. Like the mark behind her ear, it could have easily been removed.

He held her tight, her trembling vibrating through his body. Where she pressed down on his leg he felt the blood flow restricting, the tingling sensation that hovered in the background, running to his foot. She was light, but her weight still bore down.

Sertio completed about four sketches of this pose, moving the easel to realise different views. He then had his models strike a second pose, this time on the mattress. Paskia was curled up tight, a foetal ball, and Rodin wrapped himself around her. Sertio wanted to see muscles at work, so he told Rodin to hold her tight. One of Paskia’s legs trailed outside the ball, as if trying to escape. Rodin was not sure if he was supposed to be protecting her or holding her fast.

There was an urgency in the sound of Sertio’s pencil now, mirroring the throbbing from Paskia’s heart. Her whole body shook, and she wriggled as if trying to escape. Rodin kept his arms locked round her, keeping her still.

Or was he holding her against her will?

Rodin heard paper fall six times, and then Sertio declared that it was time for a break. Rodin rolled over, and Paskia jumped to her feet, grabbed her clothes and then ran, still n***d, from the studio.

Sertio sighed, and said they could all do with a drink. Rodin changed while the artist tidied his tools.

When they reached the living area, Paskia was changed. She stood by the table, fastening the strap of a sandal.

“I’m so sorry, my dear,” Sertio said, opening his arms wide. “Those poses were clearly too much. Please believe me when I say I meant no discomfort. I’m mortified that I didn’t notice your pain earlier. If there is any way I can make things better, you only have to name it.”

Paskia shook her head, looking to the floor. When she spoke, her words had a feel of a planned speech. “It’s not your fault, Sertio. There was no way you could know how those poses would awake such‌…‌such painful memories. I apologise for bringing the session to a close.”

“So kind, although you have nothing to apologise for.” The artist tilted his head to one side. “But maybe there is a silver lining to all this. In your pose there was an intensity that was almost poetic, and if I can capture even a fraction of its force, it will greatly enhance this piece. It will be a testament to both you and Terrell as much as to my artistry.”

Rodin wasn’t sure if Sertio believed this, or if the words were his way of calming Paskia.

“So we’re finished for today?”

“I believe I have everything I need, and I have no desire to put you through more suffering, my dear.”

She shot a look at Rodin, too quick for him to catch any meaning. “You don’t need me anymore?”

Sertio smiled. “Not for modelling, but if you are willing, I’d love to invite you back, to see how the piece is developing. I would find your feedback most enlightening, I’m sure.”

“That‌…‌yes, I’d like that.”

She glanced at Rodin again, and he felt like he should say something. “Would you care for a drink before you go?” It seemed like a polite thing to ask, but as the words came out they felt weak, and Rodin wished he could take them back.

She smiled, though‌—‌and with her eyes still damp from her tears, they sparkled. “Thanks for the offer, but I’d better be going.”

And she left. The screen on the wall showed the lift door close after her, and Rodin heard the soft rumble as it took her away.

The room seemed empty, and far too quiet.

“Art can be a confusing mistress, Terrell,” Sertio said after a while. “Struggle produces wonderment, and the darkest depths transform into soaring heights. I believe, despite everything, that this morning was a great success.” He turned. “But how are you feeling, my friend? With this, and your scare last night…”

Rodin shook his head. “I’m fine.” And he realised that he hadn’t thought about Leopold once since Paskia walked in.

“Good. It would mortify me to imagine I’d placed a barrier to either our working relationship or our friendship‌—‌because I do see you as much a friend as an assistant. I hope Paskia feels she has friends here, too.” He turned to Rodin, a smile on his face. “I believe we will see the lovely Paskia again. Even if we didn’t desire her company, she would seek out ours‌—‌or at least, the company of one of us.”

He smiled and left the room. Rodin headed for his rooms and a shower, his mind awash with thoughts.