Work Text:
The sun hung low in the dim hours of late afternoon and, with all the ease and leisure of a timeless being, cast its shapeless form across the room, bathing the space in hues of amber light. In that room—where shadow and light danced upon walls worn by age and crudely bandaged with unsatisfactorily displayed paintings—sat Julian Martel, the painter. Smooth canvases leaned against the peeling walls around him, some with outlines of ideas half-sketched in messy ink, but most stood blank, as if the artist had nothing to produce and simply sat waiting for a moment of divine inspiration—an inspiration that he, along with the blank canvases, knew would never come.
The room held a strong, almost unforgiving smell of fresh oil paints and aging wood, and the rich scent of turpentine clung to the air as if it had been there long before the painter made his claim on the dim space. Above all this, as if placed there to observe the painter and his hidden scene, stood a grand window. Its aged glass was pale and cracked, allowing warped patterns of golden light to settle upon the floor in a jagged and distorted array of color. And there, beneath the watchful eye of the window, sat the muse—reclining lazily in a worn velvet armchair, surrounded by a border of warm golden light, a mock halo of divine beauty.
“Paint me well,” the muse said, in that familiar way that made Julian question their positions in his studio.
“You’ve called me here for the fourth time, but this will only be your first portrait. I hope you’ve collected enough memory of me—all those times your eyes moved but your brush did not—to capture my likeness well.”
In truth, the painter had not called for Lucian when he first appeared in the studio; he had only wished for a subject, someone new to paint, someone to reignite his passion for art. And then, as if he’d heard those sorrowful, solitary cries through the walls, Lucian had appeared, sitting opposite the painter, just as he did now.
“You’re thinking again,” Lucian said impatiently, almost as if he’d expected Julian’s hands to move just as he had silently urged, with a cool smile that released sly, halting remarks.
“You always think too much. That’s your problem.”
“I’m considering the light,” the painter said at last, his voice barely rivaling the quiet stillness around him. The floorboards creaked a little, seeming to sympathize with Julian’s torment. He spoke again, more urgent this time. “The light, Lucian. It has to be right.”
“The light is fine, Julian. Stop stalling. I swear, it’s as if you’re waiting for something to happen, for something to guide you—as if the sun itself will come down from the heavens and gently coax your delicate hand into submission.”
“I do not need coaxing, Lucian. I need light—”
“But I am here, Julian—your muse. I am your light.”
“Light?” the painter said, almost as if he’d forgotten his previous statement.
“No, I didn’t ask for you. Not the first time, anyway.”
“No, you didn’t ask. You begged,” Lucian corrected without missing a beat. With a seraphic smile, the god-like man leaned deeper into the chair, his halo shifting with him. “You may not have asked,” he continued, “but you needed me. You still do.”
Silence filled the room again, thick and oppressive, broken only by the ticking of a clock somewhere in the distance. Julian shifted uncomfortably in his equally displeasing seat. It was true. He had needed something—or someone. The emptiness of the studio had weighed on him for too long, and when Lucian appeared, it was as if a part of his soul had finally returned. Yet now, with him sitting there, Julian found himself paralyzed.
“You know,” Lucian said, his voice like honey now, smooth and dripping with amusement, “if you keep waiting, your light will fade. And then what will you have?”