Out of Stone

Disclaimers: I don't own the vamps, Anne Rice does. I make no money off of this.

Spoilers: To QotD

Warnings: Slash

Info: This takes place in some strange time where Christianity and Roman mythology exist together. Don't ask me when. Based on the myth Pygmalion.

Armand made another tiny chip in the stone, then stepped back to stare over his creation. Finished, at last. A flawless statue of Our Lady of Tears. On the verge of weeping, clothed in colorless marble, this was the finest representation of the Virgin Mother weeping for her child as ever produced, rendered as perfectly as such earthly sculptures could hope to attain. She looked as if she could step down from her slightly raised platform and descend to her knees in perfect devotion.

Armand laughed at himself. She? Once again I am giving my statues a personality. Perhaps my neighbors are correct. Perhaps I am spending too much time alone.

Unimpressed by his own skill, Armand tossed his tools back on the wooden table and picked up the candle, now only two inches left of the once eight inches of wax and wick, and still burning down. With only his weak flame to light the darkness, he left the room. He passed the Winged Victory, her angel feathers flung out as she brandished her broadsword in a slender hand, to be sent to the kind in a few days. Saint George conquered his dragon (a particularly difficult piece, as he recalled) to be sent to a French nobleman later on in the week. Under a gigantic veil in the corner lay the Dragon conquering Saint George, commissioned for a particularly insane German who insisted he was an emperor. The two marble dioramas argued and squabbled occasionally in his imagination, but no matter how life-like they were, the dragons never puffed smoke and the knights never said remnants of pagan prayers with the names of the god changed. Even his rendition of Aphrodite, cheered by all who viewed it as the closest likeness of the goddess yet, save that the cold marble could never move and thus attain the grace and hence the true beauty of an immortal Olympian.

The medium in which he worked had been the source of all his misery lately. Armand heaved a sigh and left his studio, closing the heavy door behind him, and walked down the empty corridors to his bedroom. A cold breeze blew over him as he entered, and he winced when he felt it. He quickly shut the door and rushed across the room to close the shutters on the window. The curtains sealed away the rest of the draft, and he knelt by the hearth. Glowing embers flared up a little as he came near, and he put a few more pieces of wood on before setting them alight with his candle. In the sudden burst of light, a tall shadow loomed over him and made him cry out in alarm, backing up a few feet.

When nothing happened, however, he looked back up, then laughed nervously and stood up again. "You startled me again, Daniel. I may need to move to the other corner of the room again."

Daniel did not reply. He never did. His dead marble eyes did not follow his maker as Armand walked around him and to the nightstand. The sculptor set the candle in its brass holder and pushed it safely out of reach of the bed sheets. Armand stared up lovingly at his immobile company.

"I could move you to the window again," he offered, ignoring the fact that Daniel could not answer. "So you could have a pretty view again." He opened the nightstand and pulled out a bracelet that appeared to be woven out of golden thread and embroidered with amethysts. With a silent smile, he took it over to Daniel and put it around the cold stone wrist, clasping it there to join the other pieces of priceless jewelry. There was a necklace of gold and other purple stones, and a violet jade bracelet on the other wrist. He'd taken the time to wrap Daniel in a white sheet, like a Roman demigod, hiding the smooth surface and faint musculature he'd given him. Others would have said that covering up that statue was a crime, but only Armand knew he existed at all.

Armand stepped close, looking up into Daniel's emotionless face. This was his only creation that did not answer his questions in his mind, the only truly silent sculpture. He kissed the outlined lips, always disappointed when he did not get a response. Every night he went to sleep a little more depressed than the next, and now he could no longer create joyful statues, like his past works of Pegasus, the Annunciation, or a cheerful nymph. Even Winged Victory was a stern Pyrrhic victory.

He wiped away a miserable tear and crept into his lonely bed, resting his head on a pillow. Amazing, all the wealth such commissions brought, and yet he did not have what even the most wretched peasant could hope for.

All he had to love was a lifeless block of carved marble with a heart of stone.

In the morning Armand rose, dressed, and once again kissed Daniel's cheek. No response. Why on earth did he ever hope for any? Was he truly this deluded? He shook his head and returned to his studio. With the Virgin finished and no new orders, his hands were idle, giving him too much time to dwell on the statue in his bedroom. He scanned the room impatiently, and his gaze focused on a discarded chunk of walnut he had cut from his Daphne when she began to transform into a tree. Before, he had berated himself for not using laurel, but the walnut was better for carving. And now, he could not bring himself to care about the medium.

He picked up the wood and lay it on the table, and with the proper tool he lopped a large piece off. Taking a small knife, he began to carve away bits and pieces, revealing a goddess within. Within a few hours of painstaking cutting, smoothing and polishing, sublime Aphrodite stood in minutiae on his table, in the dignified pose worthy of a goddess.

A chaste goddess. I do not want to carve an Artemis or Athena, he scolded himself, not caring who won this inner argument, I want to carve Aphrodite, the true immortal of love.

And so many kinds of love! Hours went by, and he forgot to return to Daniel at the end of the day. He remained in his studio carving throughout the night and into the next day, two new figures by the first. Jealous love she was, a cruel glint in her eye with one hand on her hip as the other hung in expectant patience, waiting for the violent action she could never perform, frozen in wood. Erotic love stood beside that, the loose dress slipping from one shoulder and her hands pushing her long hair back, one leg raised slightly on her toes. A masterpiece of balance.

He started to work on the next one, Persevering love, with Aphrodite's arms hugged around herself as she stood straight despite the wind blowing her stiff dress and motionless hair. And then came True love, with all of the above types somehow put together with courage and skill and insane inspiration, her hair partially blinding her. Armand kept working, not knowing that he was praying.

Armand only stopped when he noticed that the candle he had lit a few hours ago, as the second night crept up, was now flickering and guttering. The wax was coming around the stick in a spiral, and he frowned. Symbol of the winding sheet, never a good omen. He put away his tools and respectfully lined up the statues, placing them in a spot clear of wood shavings. Then he took his dying candle and started for his room.

Once the door was securely closed, however, a soft breeze stirred through the studio, even though there were no windows or drafts between the stones in the walls. A tall figure gracefully strode across the floor, leaving no marks on the marble dust and walnut bits. Slim fingers wrapped around a wooden figure and examined it, exquisite golden eyes taking in the fine workmanship. Erotic love was gently laughed at, bringing a smile to the small mouth, and Jealous love was given a knowing nod. She glanced at Sublime love and was immediately reminded of Artemis, but she still smiled. Very few people knew of her sister's tryst with the sleeping Endymion, and knew that the goddess of chastity had broken her own vows. An amusing thought, this little token roused. She knocked it unceremoniously over behind Jealous love. Chaste love had its place, but not in such a sublime form. Chaste love should look just a tiny bit frustrated. And then she saw the last statue.

Persevering love reminded her of a few of her devotees, but it especially brought her attention to the sculptor. Poor thing, working so hard and so alone...and she really liked these little wooden dolls...his prayers manifested. She smiled and disappeared as she had come. The veil over the Dragon rippled, and the giant lizard readjusted itself over the knight's crumpled armor.

Meanwhile, Armand had again lit the fire and shut the window. He put the lump of candle left on the corner, the wax might be good for some molds, and took out another candle. In its light, Daniel almost seemed to move to look at him.

"I'm sorry," Armand whispered. "I did not mean to stay out so long, and leave you alone like that. I started carving those images, though, and I could not stop. Oh, yes, I found a use for that lump of walnut I told you about before. There are now four goddess where there was only a dead piece of a tree before." He stood up and cross to Daniel, putting his arms about the unnaturally firm waist.

"I wish you would metamorphose into a living lover, where you were once only dead stone before." With another tear trickling down his cheek, he reached up and kissed Daniel.

And then something strange happened.

Daniel's stone began to warm up. He started to soften. The lips became soft and moist, responding to his kiss with such zeal Armand was certain he was completely insane now. Stone arms transformed even as they moved down to embrace the smaller sculptor, encircling Armand as tightly as possible without hurting him. Armand put one hand on Daniel's face, feeling the soft hair and warm body. He relished the heartbeat he caught within the newly born chest.

"Daniel?" he asked wonderingly. "Is it really you?"

"In the flesh," was the whispered response. The living once-statue took a step for the first time, joining Armand in bed. The sculptor gazed on his Daniel, marveling at the smooth skin as it rose and fell with every breath. He caught Daniel's hands and examined them, the long, slender fingers and thin wrists still wearing the violet jewelry.

Daniel smiled coyly and pulled Armand closer, but he fumbled clumsily with the clothing. He'd never dressed or undressed before. Understanding what his lover wanted, Armand helped show him how to remove clothing and unclasp bracelets. He leaned over Daniel and showed him all the different forms of kissing, but Daniel still had the strength of a statue, and he was the one to show Armand exactly how to hold and restrain a lover while still avoiding domination.

"This is the first night in years that I have not been alone," Armand confessed in a hushed whisper.

"I know," Daniel said, giving him a comforting kiss. "Somehow I know. But not anymore. You have me." And he turned his head a bit and blew out the candle.

In the morning, when the shock was beginning to settle and Armand had dressed Daniel once again, Armand took him around his home, showing him all the splendid rooms which now also belonged to him. When they came to the studio, however, the four statues were still there, but a slip of paper lay alongside them. While Daniel admired Our Lady of Tears, Armand scooped up the paper and read the delicate writing on one side.

Armand smiled as he understood, then slipped his hand into Daniel's. "I'm taking you to the market," he said softly. "I promise you will like it."

"Why are we going?" Daniel asked, his innocent eyes full of awe at this new world.

"I must buy a large block of walnut."

The End