The Supreme Artist by belegur

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Chapter 3

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...

 

 

“I am so happy you have changed your mind.” my brother says, leaning behind my shoulder to see what I'm writing. “What is that? I know that it is mathematics, but...”

 

“Fractal geometry.” I say.

 

“That is lovely.”

 

“Yes, it is.”

 

“I will then leave you alone to work.”

 

 ...

 

 

The Halls of Mandos are of the shape of a cube, and are immense. Their walls are one hundred fifty meters thick and two kilometers high. This makes the free space of one thousand seven hundred meters of length and width, that is two million eight hundred ninety thousand square meters of free space.

 

In my captivity I had been amusing myself with the numbers that surrounded me and their relations.

 

As they were dragging me to my prison, through my blindfold I had an immediate impression of the numbers that marked the grim outline of the edifice. And they have remained my obsession throughout the whole time of my incarceration.

 

I wanted to have something I despised constantly before my eyes so not to falter in my conviction.

 

What do numbers tell us? They are an empty shell, a husk that our words cannot make alive. Cannot set aflame. What did numbers tell you about the horror of Mandos that is yet just a pale shadow of the austerity of our Father's face?

 

The Artist had managed to position numbers in such a way that they not only reflect but encapture light, so that it seems that it's their own light, and not a light stolen – a fitting deception for a being who usurps the name of The Flame.

 

 

...

 

 

“So, teaching?” says my brother.

 

“Yes.” I say.

 

“You will have the time? I know how busy you already are with all your creative work.”

 

I smile. “The only thing to which I would give even more time is teaching them. You said once that when I saw them I would see the crowning glory of our Father's Creation and that I would change my mind about some things. That even I would be mellowed by them. And you were right. They are beautiful. You did right to stop me and bring me here as soon as Orome came back to sing to you their songs. I didn't have time to harm them, and I am grateful for that. I would have regretted it.”

 

My brother looks at me with true gentleness.

 

“They are our Father's greatest work.” I say “If I had harmed them, I know that you wouldn't have forgiven me. You did your best to beat me fast so you could still forgive me when you finally faced me.”

 

My brother now seems saddened but the gentleness towards me remains. Yes, he is now thinking of his own shortcomings.

 

“They wouldn't let me, but I would still forgive you. A law without mercy is unfair. And I understood it, in a way. But one cannot disagree so violently, as you disagreed, when he is surrounded with fragile things.”

 

“Yes, this is a Room of Glass.” but then a joke comes to me “A Room of Crystal.” I say and smile.

 

...

 

It is easy for me to talk about the things I have built myself because all those things are now destroyed.

 

To talk about the things that exist around me becomes painful soon, because in them I see unpunished arrogance. My arrogance was punished, so I can talk with ease about the things I made and are now no more.

 

The Siege lasted 200 hundred years. Even when defeat was certain, I kept ordering my creatures to attack so that my kin could destroy as many of them as possible. The creatures I made hideous on purpose not to offend my Father – I could not leave them if I was now keen on humbling others of my kind in their glorious abode.

 

My brother was the first to come in – a young king pale as lightning. He usurps the white of light and the blue of the sky. He is an arrogant one.

 

At that time I already abandoned all vain pursuits. As the master of Udun, I was a dark king – humble and contrite.

 

...

 

As I make my way to the cathedra, there is still a commotion in the hall. Listeners from the previous lecture are still in the room. Some of them are sitting – they will stay here. Some of them are leaving. Among those who are leaving I spot the Artist – raising from his seat, taking with him his coat.

 

He doesn't spare me even a glance. Is it just a trick of light that his face still remains in shadow? Yes, without Them, he seems insignificant.

 

He is a dreamer and will soon be insane.

 

This would be my first lecture. As many other vile things that I have done this too will discipline my spirit.

 

...

 

If it ever happens to be that I meet a creature whose blasphemy is so great that it resembles supreme beauty, I would say to that person never to write a word, a number, or draw a line again – this is what I promised myself.

 

It isn't hard for me to encourage mediocrity, as I happen to encourage so often as the mentor of my students, but not so long ago, a brilliant person came to see me and had shown me some staggering mathematical ideas – an application of the laws of crystals on written texts. Such blasphemous beauty in the concept as well as in the mechanics! It touched me so it made me uncomfortable.

 

I wish I could have said to him, with all compassion, not to write a word again – but an even greater blasphemer was free and working. I was stern in my commendation, but I couldn't do much more. I could not have warned him of the perilous path that he took. Hopefully this one will sort himself out in the ranks of mediocrity on his own.

 

...

 

“In the Great Journey we had such weapons. But they were crude.”

 

“What did you have in mind, exactly?”

 

“Not only iron, but steel. You know such secrets.”

 

“I do.”

 

...

 

Sixty years have passed since mercy was shown to me, as they now say and write. Ten since the crafting of the Jewels. Ten since I began to teach the ignorant how to be blasphemous. It is the 1460^th year of The Trees.

 

The Trees. It might be fitting for me to describe them now, but I won't. For their beauty is too great - their description would bother me afterwards. I will describe them in detail and will give justice to their beauty with my words only when I am about to destroy them.

 

...

 

“His presence is overwhelming. I would be vary of such a man. His eyes and his voice are burning with conviction of his own righteousness. His zeal is that of a fanatic.”

 

This is what they now say of The Artist. I never fail in my predictions about a creative mind.

 

...

 

My brother must now be wo-ho-ho-ing. The Artist has drawn his sword against his half-brother. The Conclave has decided I am to blame – the beauty of The Artist's sword must have said so.

 

Has he not learned many things from me, even though his face always remained in shadow as I taught him? That shadow must be attached to his being, as his eyes lack the luster he gives to his works.

 

Why not to play to his arrogance, even though he sipped knowledge from my hand? Let's pay him a visit.

 

...

 

His Eyes! His Eyes!