The Supreme Artist by belegur

Chapter 4

...

 The Trees are most lovely.

They are perhaps the sweetest creation of my kin. They hold something of the novelty we all encountered while looking at the colour green for the first time. But even though they are living things (and that's where from the thought of green came to me) they themselves are not green at all – even their bark is translucent and, almost imperceptibly, pulsates light.

Their highest branches cannot be seen when one stands directly beneath them. They cast their cold white light in the cold regions of the Earth's atmosphere. I know very well that those parts of The Trees cannot be distinguished one from another. Shapes merge in that kind of light.

What I am trying to say is that The Trees are not trees at all. They have the shape of living trees, but the function of very mild stars. However, they are beautiful to look at, if one's eyes can stand that kind of brightness.

My eyes can stand it, because they themselves are very bright. In the days of my service to The Children, I have made myself easy on their eyes – I have purposefully dulled my brightness. But if one was to peel of my irises and sclera they would be met with blinding light. In that brightness that merges shapes my sclera and irises become indistinguishable. I was the template for The Trees.

And now I raise my spear. It is made of black metal – not steel, not iron – it's a metal unknown to this world, that came here in the majesty of an meteor, long ago. I had analyzed the substances that came with it – it was a fragment of another living world. And I thought to myself: “That world is now destroyed – blown away into space in a thousand little pieces. This what is left is a cautionary tale for the prideful.” And I have forged myself from this unknown substance a weapon for myself to be a penance to the prideful world.

I pierce the bark of the first Tree with ease and the glowing matrix spills. No water from a living tree would spill like that or be as thick. My feet are soaked in the substance – glowing - but then the pool of light starts to pale and finally, the light is extinguished. My companion is unsatisfied because this light fades so quickly – she is a child and loves light in a childlike manner. Once it is out, she loses interest and turns to me her many-eyed face and produces a hissing sound – a parody of mournful scolding.

I pierce the other Tree. She again drinks her fill. She drinks it to the bitter dregs. The light is slowly fading – not only on the ground, but in the sky as well. The sight is beautiful to behold and humbling.

...

 I have peeled of my eye mask when I had finally found her in the ravine.

For two years I had been searching for her. I brought with me a few jewels, the craft of lesser masters than The Artist. They needed light from the outside, these imperfect works, to light their spirit. They were passive, as were their creators - the only beauty in them was that beauty which one brings with himself while looking at them. How they have blazed in my hands! They captured the brightness of my eyes perfectly – and by this she was scared. But then she sucumbed to temptation and ate them all from my hand.

In silence I have fed her portions of jewels all the way to Valinor.

From my hand she ate them, half-crazed and with an odd appearance of sentience – when I waved my hand in the direction of the great light she seemed to understand for a moment, but then all appearance of artistic appreciation faded in her many eyes and she rushed towards her food.

 ...

.They all have fled. The residents. Only he stood defiant in the doorstep.

The sword curled and he dropped it, burned. Now he was frozen in place, looking up at me. I held up my mace and it landed on his head. He fell on his knees – his eyes didn't appear to see anymore, and he didn't let out a cry or a scream. I hit him one more time on the side of the head. That the head could be so distorted by a few hits, no one in this land knew.

He was in the other room when I came to talk with The Artist. Listening. Later, as I hurried across the lawn, I heard him yelling at his son. He was afraid of me.

Her hairy body brushes past me, and I hurry to the house. I tear the iron chamber open with my hands – in a crystal box they were, crystal within crystal – yet only for the box one could tell that it was crystal – the light that melts the boundaries of things!

 ...

Even my kin admitts that there is no difference between us and The Children except in the order of power, that is, our ability to make our imaginations real.

Our way of thinking is not very different from theirs, it is perhaps not different at all – but all our thoughts can transform into Action – that is the difference. The Children don't have that ability, therefore, they are liable to be lost in dreams.

The greater the power, the greater the temptation, I would say. Salvation for The Children is in this way secure – their inability to act is sanctly. I have purposefully lost myself to dreams so I could do no wrong in my actions - I Who Am Most Powerful.

 ...

 He is dead, The Artist.

So strong was his conviction that he was the spark of The Flame Imperishable that the flesh took over this mantra and repeated it in the moment of his death. I am told his body self-incinerated. Or have his sons burned his body and spread the fanciful tale? Either way, I am told that nothing remains of him but dust.

If he was brought to me alive, I would have hewn off both his hands so he could never do anything again with them. But I would let him live.

In pain he would turn back to look at the Light, and that's where, a long way from home and stripped of his talent, he would learn what Light is and what It wants.