FicWad

The Seduction of Light

By I.B.Tryster

Warnings: mentions of slash (male/male relationships) and a fictional Creation myth/religion. Remember, key word is /fictional/...

All Characters and Situations copyrighted to me, 2005.

(Ahh, I absolutely adore this story...)



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No one really knows where Ian Sharrik came from. No one had heard of him, and none knows what he looks like, but after his first paintings, The Battle series, came out in galleries, there was hardly anyone who didn't know his name. Supposedly young, only just in his early thirties, Sharrik took everyone by surprise with the intensity of his art. Such raw emotion was expressed in his paint strokes that even people who, for whatever reason, didn't like his art could find very few ill words to say about them. For three years since his Battle series was unveiled, he's kept the most well known galleries in the world vying for whatever new painting he'd created, and he had made quite a few in such a short amount of time.

However, soon after his 14th work was made public, he vanished. For two and a half years, no one heard even a word from Sharrik, and people would have begun wondering if the man had been a figment of their imaginations had his artwork not remained in the few galleries blessed with his creations. Over the years and during his continued silence, the man became a sort of legend and his paintings became so incredibly popular that there was mention of a gallery to be set up exclusively for his works.

But then one night, at a museum in which was held the most of Sharrik's art, a letter was received from the artist himself. He explained that many difficult events had come up recently in his life, and he apologized for his disappearance. He then went on to say that he had made a final piece - the very last, he decided, that he was ever going to make - and that he wanted this museum in particular to host it. He also said that he would make a public appearance, if the museum would so request it, an idea which the gallery curator jumped on and replied that they would be honored too. A date was set and invitations made, and the world buzzed at the news and opportunity to see the near legendary artist for the first time ever, and at the prospect of the very last art piece of Ian Sharrik.

On the day of the double unveiling, there was much pomp and excitement. The most famous artists and art critics showed up, all anxious to see the final artwork, and to finally see the man behind the stunningly emotional pieces which had swept across the world. A hushed whisper fell over the guests who sat in the hall where the event was being held as the museum curator himself stepped up onto the podium before the sea of seats. Behind him stood a large rectangle shape covered in deepest blue velvet cloth. Everyone's eyes had been trailing to it all through the evening, knowing what was under it, and itching to see it with their own eyes. The curator went through the usual pre-showing pleasantries, saying 'thank you's to important contributors for the event and such. It was all quite boreing, until a hush fell as the curator stepped down from the podium to allow Ian Sharrik to step up. A door just beside the podium opened and... no one came through.

Mutters filed the room, ladies whispering to their cliques behind open fans and men scowling at the bad show of form of not arriving on time for your own presentation. The curator, feeling suddenly extremely foolish and nervous, called two museum guards and hurriedly told them to go find Sharrik. Just as the two men disappeared, light footsteps were heard, faint but loud enough for a deathly silence to fill the room as every head and eye stared at the dark doorway, waiting.

A figure appeared on the threshold. The shadowed form was clearly a man, and he stepped elegantly and with confidence up the podium steps, though a slight limp was noticed in his walk. He was not dressed grandly; in fact his clothes might have been considered plain, had they not obviously been made from very well crafted and beautiful fabrics. His high collared and foreign style fitted shirt was made of some silvery dark-blue material, which whispered around a well-shaped torso. It was un-tucked from his straight black pants, and though fitted to his thin frame, fell loosely in liquid folds from his shoulders to waist and down his arms. The straight-legged pants were of a deeper, rougher material that soaked up light instead of reflected it, and his shiny black shoes were also of a foreign make. The man's hair was impossibly straight and hung in loose, almost unkempt but clean layers to his shoulders and over his forehead, although attempts to make the bangs stay back were apparent, giving him a rakish look despite the formal attire. But to the crowd's immense disappointment, his face was hidden. A very simple yet oddly elegant pure white mask covered his entire face, thin blue designs painted around the eye holes, which were dark and nothing could be seen through them.

Though when the man spoke, his voice was in no way muffled by the mouth-less mask. Instead it was deep and clear, a soft spoken manner permeated his tone despite the way it filled the room and its occupants, a charismatic quality causing everyone to hang on to every word.

"Good evening." The artist Ian Sharrik stated, and as the women twittered to each other behind fans at his voice, a smiling tone hinted around his words. "I must apologize for my tardiness, I was unfortunately delayed by my leg causing me slight pain." His speech was cultured and accented with some ancient high-spoken lilt which no one in the room could identify, though it just added to the man's enigmatic air. "I realize that all of you must be anxious to see my last work, and I am just as anxious to show you my final piece. However, I fear that I will have to delay the unveiling just a bit longer, so that i may tell you a story. I sincerely hope that this tale will bring about a clearer understanding of this painting," he gestured to the velvet covered object behind him. "As well as to convey a history and knowledge we have all failed to recognize in this day and age." This last part was said in a quieter voice, but every man and woman in the room shivered with the intensity of his words, and while just as anxious to see the painting as Sharrik had inferred they might be, they now waited on the edge of their seats to hear this story he was about to tell.

And so he told it. His voice, still quiet, infused every corner of the room and every mind of each person until they were filled with the images of this impossible story he told. He spoke of long ago, of the creation of all living things. But it was not the living things' story he told; the story was centered on one un-earthly being, the first Angel that the higher gods created, in the image of how the true nature of man should be so that no one would forget. This Angel was pure and just, a light to chase away the dark of each evening, and nothing that was tainted with darkness could even approach the being. For many, many years and a bit, the Angel stood as a reminder of how pureness was designed to be, and while the earth around him grew older, he seemed ageless and never ending. Because of this, and because it seemed that as time grew on there were less and less living things that were truly pure, the Angel became lonely, and this began to darken the Angel's light.

While the Angel had been made to encompass all light and purity, another un-earthly being had been made, this one to show the darkness of living thing's nature, and this was called the Demon. For as long as the Demon had existed, he had been told that the Angel was its opposite, the one thing the Demon could never have. Because of this, the Demon became angry and thought that, "I have so many to keep be company: I am always surrounded by the living things who have lost sight of the light and turned to darkness, and yet the one thing I cannot have, I want the most." And even though he had never seen the Angel, he desperately wanted the being, and tried everything he could to get it. But because the Demon was so dark, and the Angel was of such light, they repelled each other to such an extreme that neither would have known the other existed had they not have heard of the other. And so, the Angel went on being lonely in his pureness, and the Demon went on desiring, surrounded by all except the very thing he wanted.

There soon came a time where there were very little pure and light living things left. The Angel, who had become progressively darker as his never ending life went on, came to a decision that, if the Demon could not come to him, then he would go to the Demon. He had heard of and became entranced with the tales of the dark one, who had so many to keep him company that he had never known the meaning of loneliness. This was astounding to the Angel and attracted him to the darkness, wanting more than anything to no longer be alone. And so he left. He went to the darkest pits of the Earth, where his light was the only thing one could see for miles in any direction. The Demon saw this, saw the light, and went towards it. And because of the taint loneliness had left upon the Angel, they were not repelled. And the light and dark met. They were so utterly consumed by the wonder of the other that they did not notice the Earth shudder as the two who should never meet did just that, and the world screamed as the balances shook. The light Angel heard this, and in terror of what he had done turned to leave, but the dark Demon was so utterly taken with the Angel that he would not let him. He pulled him in, promised to never leave his side, promised that he would never feel loneliness again, if only he would stay. And the Angel was tempted, so tempted to remain forever enclosed in darkness but never again alone, that he allowed himself to be seduced and lingered for eleven days and nights.


Through those days, darkness settled over the world. Even the sun would not shine and the living things despaired. The gods, who had been watching these events take place, mourned the loss of the Angel, whom they believed would never return. They created, then, another heavenly being, but this time there were many. Seeking to correct the single mistake they had overlooked in making the original angel, they made many perfect beings this time, so that none of them should ever feel loneliness. Light shone over the world again on the daybreak of the eleventh night, and a relative peace settled over the world. The gods were now comforted by the fact that, though pure light living creatures may never be seen again except in the newest born babes, they still have the angels, who will bring small peaceful offerings to the living creatures of Earth, in the form of comforts and soothing feelings and advice, though the angles may never be looked upon by living things again.

"As for the original Angel, he remained with the Demon. He never again left the embrace of darkness; his taint of solitude and longing were already irreparable, and the Demon and Angel feed off of each other, taking comfort and ease in the one thing neither of them could have. They remain together to this day, a symbol of balance between the light and dark. I suppose, if you really wanted to, you could call them the gray; the perfect mix of white and black, of pure and corrupt, forever more."

There was a deathly silence in the room as the tale came to a close. Sharrik was silent, having told the tale, but his words still lingered, heavy in the air and filling each persons' mind. Many women had been moved to tears, and the men were sitting still and silent, staring into space as the wonderful and frightening images of the story drifted through their minds.

Ian Sharrik's voice broke through the haze which had settled over the people. They looked again at the young man, a light seeming to encompass his figure, and he said in his lilting and soft tone. "I thank you all sincerely for listening to my tale. But I believe I've lingered long enough. I now, with great pleasure, give you my greatest masterpiece." He raised his hand and pulled off the great velvet cloth covering the piece, and an immense gasp swept across the room. "'The Seduction of Light'... "

On the canvas stood a life sized being; a male, of such impossible purity that he seemed to glow. His serene face was surrounded by a floating halo of purest white hair. From his back there grew a voluminous pair of wings of such a pure shade of white that one could barely see the amazingly detailed individual feathers painted there. The figure was so incredibly lifelike; the angel seemed to be about to leap off the canvas, spread his incredible wings, and fly about the room in graceful arcs, but he simply stood there, relaxed and smiling slightly, his pitch black eyes glittering out from his pale, childlike face. His body and wings took up only about half of the canvas, the rest was filled with such an impenetrable black that it seemed that it was...nothing. The color was nothing, not even a color or a shade, it was simply shadow. But instead of providing a painfully stark contrast to the angel, the nothingness seemed to hold the being, caressing him as though a mother would a child. Tendrils of a lighter shade of darkness swirled around the angel's body; condensing around the edges of his arms and legs and torso, but never touching his face or wings, as though wishing to preserve those two most pure parts of the angel. There were two tendrils of shadow in particular, which came up from behind his shoulders and crossed around them, as though the arms of a lover, holding the angel in a forever embrace.

An utterly stunned silence followed the unveiling, and for seconds, minutes, nothing was said. All of a sudden a commotion went up, people jumped from their seats, applauding, shouting, weeping at the emotion and at the immense feelings evoked by the painting. And in all this the man called Ian Sharrik was able to disappear, slipping into the familiar dark shadows about the room and walking swiftly through the door he had entered through, his limp disappearing just as he did. The only one who saw him leave was the museum curator, who quickly walked after the man.

Through the door, the man cast about for the artist, and saw a trail of darkest blue disappearing around a corner.

"Wait!" he called out, running after the artist. He rounded the corner...and nothing was there. The curator paused, before turning swiftly at the voice from behind him. "Are you looking for me?"

There stood Sharrik, his mask still in place, but a smiling air about him as the two men observed each other in the silence. The curator adjusted his suit coat nervously, though why he should be nervous was beyond him. Since his museum held the most of Sharrik's art pieces, he and the artist had exchanged many letters and were sort of 'pen pals', in the loosest sense of the word. Still, he reminded himself that this was Ian Sharrik, the mysterious but seeming very kind artist, so he stood straighter and asked in a sincerely kind and curious tone. "Were you leaving? Again? So soon?"

The man nodded. "Yes. I have spent enough time here as it is here. It is time for me to leave."

"I see..." the curator paused. "I understand; you should feel no reason to stay. But if I may ask; why the mask? I had thought that, by making a live appearance, you had intended to meet your admirers face to face..."

A light laugh sounded from the young man and the curator smiled. "Indeed, I had intended to show myself, but I suppose I caught a little stage fright and 'chickened out' as some would say." The two men shared a chuckle.

The artist sobered quickly though, and the curator became silent, waiting to hear what he had to say. "I wish to be completely honest with you. You were the first to see my art, and now will be the last one to see me, and there is still more I need to speak of."

The curator was confused. It was true that he had been the very first to ever see Sharrik's art; for some inexplicable reason the man had sent his Battle series to his museum first, and had requested them and several of his other paintings to be shown there spacifically. While still young and only just taking over the museum handlings from his father, the curator had seen immediately the exquisiteness of the paintings, and had ever since accepted whatever Sharrik had sent his way without any hesitation. And because of the strong respect he had of the paintings and their creator, he now listened to Ian Sharrik's final words before he apparently planned to disappear again.

"The initial reason why I came in person tonight was because I had a story that must be told. I made a promise, many years ago, to a very important person that I would tell my story. I promised myself, then, that when I told my story, I would leave everything behind and truly come to belong to the one I love." As Sharrik spoke, an immense understanding came over the curator and his eyes widened. Another smile hovered on the artists next words. "I see you understand, at least all that you should know. There is one more thing. I have written a Will saying that I wish to have all my paintings put under your name and stored in you galleries. They are yours to do with what you will, I no longer own them; they now belong to you. But I have one request."

"Anything..." the curator said in an awed tone.

"Do not sell my last work. I wish for it to stay here, in this gallery. Do not move it from its home; this building. Do this, and I will truly be eternally grateful..."

The curator took a deep breath. "I swear, neither I nor any of my family to come, will ever move your art, any of it, and especially your last piece."

The Angel tilted his head to the side and a smile seemed to blossom over the mask as a dark-tinted light surrounded his form. Shadowy arms came out from the light to wrap around his form, his clothes and mask seemed to dissolve into dark sparks, and for a moment the curator saw a childlike face encompassed with a halo of white, and two pitch black eyes staring at him which spoke of unimaginable feelings and purity, and then the two beings disappeared, with the words "Thank you..." lingering heavy in the air.

And to his word, neither the curator nor any of his children or grandchildren or great-grandchildren ever moved or sold Ian Sharrik's paintings. To this day they remain in that gallery, for people of all ages to come and see and cry over the immense feelings portrayed, to marvel how such raw emotion could exist within a paint and canvas creation, and wonder how the mysterious artist's last piece, 'The Seduction of Light', could possibly convey such an intense feeling of completion, of wholeness, of a perfect balance.

And they will continue to wonder, because only the many curators of the museum know that the now famous story of the Angel and the Demon is true, and that only by an un-earthly beings' hand could such works of art exist.



End



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Rants:

I don't have much to say about this, just that I beg of you to not e-mail me or anything going on about the angels and demons thing, or the gods, or the slash pairing. Need I remind you that this is strictly a FICTIONAL world and FICTIONAL religion/creation myth!!! This is supposed to be taken seriously, but not that seriously! Geeze.

So yeah, the myths and stories in here were all cooked up by me, don't steal them.

Please review and tell me what you think! No critical comments, though; this is an older story and my writing style has improved since then, or so I like to think. Grammar and spelling notifications are great, though.