Part 3

He paused only long enough to whip the disheveled mop of fine white hair from his eyes, droplets of sweat glistening as they flung through the air. His body was coated with dust and sweat, and an insane look blazed in his bloodshot eyes. He'd carved straight through the night, knowing now that his vision was real; that such beauty was not only possible, but existent. His fingers bled from innumerable hasty cuts and hammerings and the sharp edges of stone; yet it was this same sense of urgency which was giving form to what was to be the pinnacle of his achievements.

He'd only the form so far, having worked the night whittling down the stone to the proper pose. Regal and proud, yet sleek and sensuous stood its outline, silhouetted against the coming dawn; seeming as if to glow amongst the shadows of the studio. Just like his muse, it was the contradiction inherent in her which brought out her beauty. He stood back, panting, his sleek abdominals contracting with each breath, contemplating his work. 'Is this what it is then?' he thought, 'True beauty lies... in being both, yet neither...' His early work had crackled with energy and motion, life... yet it lacked the cold, hard clarity of death. And as his skill grew, and he became jaded with his 'failures,' his statues took on the crisp detail that had been lacking, but paid for it in their stiff, angular bearing.

But now he knew, knew what he'd never understood before... true beauty, both as concept and form, lay in the blending of opposites. Life, death. Young, old. Light, dark. Good, evil. Male, female. His muse, that perfect creature which had passed him by in the alleyway seemingly a lifetime ago, was all of these things, and none of them. Her beauty was terrible to behold, in the perfect features of body and face, and in her carriage as she'd stalked down the street. He could think of no better word to describe her beauty, nothing else which summed up the awe he'd felt in her presence. Terrible. Terrible in that the rest of the world fell away before the memory of it. Terrible in that nothing could ever hope to compare with it. Terrible as having the veils of 'reality' stripped away to gaze directly upon the face of God. It was devastating. And it obliterated the world he had known before. He needed to see her again.

He stood in the shadows across from the inn, and watched as the sun died, drowning in a pool of its own blood to the West. Here, on the outskirts of the city, it was quite a spectacular sight. He realized immediately the clash which brought about such beauty: the 'death' of a symbol of life. Losing interest, he shifted and bit off another small chunk of the ginseng root, welcoming the burst of energy it afforded. He'd been there shortly after dawn, having left his work sit with the coming of the light, as he'd always done. A few well placed coins had lead him here, across from where she slept. The innkeeper had been reluctant to talk, yet the heft of the pouch Iblis had tossed on his counter loosed his tongue somewhat. From where Iblis stood, he could see her window, the heavy drapes pulled tightly shut inside. He would wait here until she emerged; few would bother, or even notice him here, on the outskirts of Britain. He didn't know what he would do when he saw her again; he could not think that far ahead. All he could think was that he needed to see her again.