by MJ Lyons
“I’m not here for you, brother. I’m here for him,” he jabbed his sword again beside me. “I’m here to kill the bastard prince and put an end to this cursed endeavour.”
“Then come and get me,” Ji-min’s voice was raw. He began a charge for my brother.
“Ji-min! No!” I called out, scrambling after him.
My brother was smirking madly, his metal demon arm twitching for the fight. The armour was powerful, but Ji-min had given Dae-jung too much time to plan his counter. My brother rolled out of the way and sliced through the armour’s arm with a terrible shriek of metal on metal. Two more pounding steps and the armour stumbled, then turned and ran away into the city, northward. The armour had speed as long as it could keep a straight line, but the Sacred Mountain warriors had agility on their side.
“After the coward!” Dae-jung called out.
“No! As your crown prince I order you to leave him,” I screamed. A couple dozen of the warriors bowed, or at least looked unsure of who to obey, but by that time Dae-jung and six men and women loyal to him took off after the demon-possessed armour.
I scaled a nearby tower with speed and called forth the magic eye of Cheonjiwang. I had to witness what was to come.
Dae-jung and the warriors were gaining as they tore through the ruined city’s streets. What they failed to notice was their path took them near a section of heavily forested greenery. The people whose village they had put to the torch that morning were practiced at keeping concealed until it was time to strike, and they did so. The people of the village took the pursuers by surprise. They threw themselves out of the trees into the warriors paths, out for blood, which they received. My brother cut three of them down, but looked back to see each of his warriors being overwhelmed by a mob, torn apart, a gruesome, shameful end.
My brother continued his pursuit, not even attempting to save a single of those poor fools. I watched as he closed on the damaged suit, which stumbled against a pile of wreckage, trying desperately to climb over. It stopped and turned, facing Dae-jung. My brother closed in, demon arm twitching, sword at his side. I nocked an arrow, Cheonjiwang’s magic eye compensated for wind speed, and distance, and Dae-jung’s movement, then I let the arrow fly just as he swung the sword back to bring it down. I watched him topple, and I knew at that moment Ji-min was looking through the demon-enhanced eyes of the suit, speaking the incantation we had discussed: “Seonnyeo 22a, initiate self-destruct sequence, no time delay.”
My brother would not cheat death this time. His demon arm was the only piece of him left in the wreckage of demon armour.
I returned to my people waiting below and told them my brother was dead, and to either return home, or else follow me and see that which I hoped would make a lasting peace between the two lands. Cowed by my brother’s defeat, or longing to return to their farms and see an end to the bloodshed, they followed, every single man and woman. I led them into the academy grounds, through a sea of cats who had gathered, startled by the explosion that had rocked this section of the city. Inside my people recoiled at the sight of a suit of demon armour, but Ji-min removed the helmet from which he had been issuing magical commands to the second set of armour “remotely,” another perverse power of the demon-armour. My brother had chased little more than an empty metal suit animated by the demon within. I led them through the cat infested halls of the sanctum, a place none would have believed existed had they not seen the impossible designs and queer artifacts with their own two eyes. The spirit greeted each of them politely.
I led them into the inner sanctum, the place Hye-rin called the “in vitro labs,” whatever that meant. Of all the sights any of them would see that day, here was the queerest sight of all. Floating in a specially prepared “warm nutrient tank,” a shrine to the goddess of the waters, floated two oddly shaped sacks, attached with matching cords that fed into them. I explained that in this tank the goddess of the waters was blessing Ji-min and I, our people, with twin boys. Heirs to our thrones.
We were able to save Genya’s life with the tools and expertise of Hye-rin, along with a couple of healers of my people who were marching with the warriors. After a few days recovering the old man explained that he had been sent by the People of the Warlord Lands to bring their rightful prince home.
“Prince Ji-min was fathered by the late Warlord and his final mistress in secret,” Genya explained to me, as he sipped some stew prepared by my hunters. “The Warlord had made his will known to be released after his death, but the initial power struggle of his warriors prevented that. While his people once believed him a bastard, they know now that Vasiliev Ji-min Valerian is the rightful heir to the throne.”
“Then what happened, Genya? Why are you here?” Ji-min asked, disgusted. “I figured they would all kill each other before letting someone they thought a bastard sit the throne.”
The scholar smiled, rubbing his snow white beard, “The women rose up when one of the generals suggested conscripting boys as young as twelve to train for his war. Our people had seen enough of our young die. They were not going to brook sending children to slaughter with peace promised.”
We planned to send half of my warriors back to my village to explain what had happened. The rest would escort Genya back to the Warlord underground palace when he had the strength to travel again.
“You will spread the word of this miracle,” I commanded them. Ji-min would be crowned and his people would, in time, grow stronger with the magic we had found in the sanctum. My mother would be honour bound and, I hoped, overjoyed to accept my children, as much as the traditionalists would rankle at the use of Ancients’ power.
We let our people stay until the birthing, however, which took place on an early spring day, a warm rain falling on the mountainside, just as the cherry blossoms were starting to bloom. Hye-rin oversaw the procedure, where the tanks were accessed and the children drawn forth by Ji-min and I, the healers and Genya at our side. After removing them, the twins sputtered and began to wail, drawing their first breaths. Both boys were healthy; more than healthy, they were beautiful, perfect. To see life among the destruction of the Ancients proved that our people could grow and learn from the catastrophes of the past. We named our boys Daebyeol and Sobyeol.
Our first night alone with our children, the night after all our people had left the sanctum—for now, they would return later with supplies and to protect the children when it came time for them to join our people—Hye-rin came in to make sure the babies were doing okay, gave us some friendly but unsolicited parenting advice, then departed. Ji-min and I were gazing in their cribs and watched the boys glance about, dazed, before tiring themselves out from the effort and falling to sleep, almost at the same time.
“I’ve been thinking . . . You didn’t seem surprised when your brother called me a bastard prince,” he murmured, smiling down at our children, delivered to us by a miracle.
I shrugged, “Your suit of armour showed me your name and I recognized the namesake, Vasiliev Valerian, the Warlord. I realized then it was his armour, the same set he’d worn to the summit. I . . . asked the demon armour if you were the son of its previous owner, and it told me, ‘the DNA match is conclusive.’”
“I hope our sons grow up as clever as you, my warrior,” he purred, leaning in to kiss me.
I smiled and kissed him again, “I hope they grow up as strong as you, my prince.”
The elders tell of two men who are to come, heroes and uniters, who will bring a lasting peace between our two lands. These men will rise from the realm of the water goddess and will harness the power of the Ancients. I never did believe I was one of them, and now I know why. Those two men were fated to be my heirs.
The Painting of the Empty Bed: An Apocryphal Tale of C. Auguste Dupin
“You too, Hyacinthus, of Amyclae, Phoebus would have placed in heaven, if sad fate had given him time to do so. Still, as it is, you are immortal, and whenever spring drives winter away, and Aries follows watery Pisces, you also rise, and flo
wer in the green turf.”
—Metamorphoses, Book X, Ovid
“Truth is not always in a well. In fact, as regards the more important knowledge, I do believe that she is invariably superficial. The depth lies in the valleys where we seek her, and not upon the mountain-tops where she is found.”
—“The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” Edgar Allan Poe
When my companion returned late that evening in the waning summer of 18--, I told him with no small excitement of the beautiful, naked young man who had walked out of the masterwork painting by M. Favager.
The Chevalier C. Auguste Dupin had a look of dreamy curiosity as he lit a meerschaum pipe and took his customary throne of reflection, an armchair deep within our decaying chambers in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. So well acquainted were we that he needn’t give a gesture; I recognized the abstracted glazing of his eyes as an invitation to continue.
I laid out the little mystery of the day in short order; M. Favager, an artist of middling age and previously middling talent, had been invited to display his most recent portrait in the private gallery of a patron—a dealer in fine arts who will remain anonymous in this narration for reasons that will become clear. Surprising the intimate circle of the city’s masculine fraternity, Favager’s latest work, which the artist titled “Hyacinth,” was regarded a triumph of the form, the portrait exceeded in technical execution only by its raw beauty. The masterpiece thus displayed in the little private gallery, viewings by invitation only, the general belief was that the patron would purchase the painting and support the artist’s future endeavours. That, until the subject of the portrait disappeared.
“Disappeared?” asked Dupin, a wreath of smoke exaggerating the airy, distant quality of his voice as his mind processed the details.“The central subject of the painting up and left, if the chamberlain of the household can be believed,” I elucidated. “This is the queerest part of all. Early yesterday morning, the man in charge of the household and gallery claims that he saw the young man depicted in the portrait leaving by way of a delivery door.”
As he finished smoking and we prepared to bed for the day—for we kept odd hours during our time together—Dupin admitted that the matter warranted further attention and, being familiar with the patron and his household, we made plans to visit the private gallery the next evening.
As the sun began to sink, we awoke and dressed together, then proceeded from our apartment across the Seine and traversed the Place de la Concorde on our way to dine near Rue de l’Arcade, the pomp of the sprawling square muted, twisted by the shadows of impending night. After a modest meal we found the household of Favager’s patron, and were permitted entry by the chamberlain, with whom we were both familiar, having visited the gallery and household on various occasions.
“Chevalier Dupin, you honour us!” the epicene chamberlain squeaked as he bid us enter. Like many within our circle, the patron’s household was familiar with Dupin’s attentions to the matter of the Rue Morgue murders, as well as that of Mary Roget. “We are simply beside ourselves! M. ——— (the patron, left anonymous in this epistle to protect his identity) is furious, M. Favager is distracted with grief! We have no answers!”
The chamberlain accompanied us to the third landing and into the gallery, which we had both attended on occasion, for the patron often invited artists Dupin and I enjoyed to display their work similar to Favager’s “Hyacinth.”
Now, however, the godling was gone, and in his place the framed canvas depicted a simple bedstead shrouded in darkness. A single, silver sliver of moonlight was the only accent of an otherwise crepuscular painting.
“By God,” I intoned, unable to contain my amazement. I had visited the gallery three days previous to see vaunted Hyacinth for myself, and had not been disappointed. Now the painting sat empty. “It’s just as if he walked out of the frame!”
Dupin approached the painting with a calculating air, bringing his face very close to the canvas, so much so that the chamberlain seemed anxious at my young friend’s proximity. “A crown,” he stated, his eyes on the lower corner of the painting.
I approached and brought my face nearly as close as his. Beneath the bed was what looked like an ornate circlet or crown poking out, though much shrouded by shadow. “Odd,” I murmured, “If I remember correctly, Hyacinth’s leg would have covered that section before he disappeared.”
Dupin broke his gaze and proximity to the painting, proceeding to examine the small gallery, much to the relief of the chamberlain. He peered behind the curtains and considered every corner of the room. “You inspected the painting in its original state. Would you describe it, my friend?”
“I would do it no justice, but I will try my best,” I replied, and took a breath, conjuring up the image in my mind, briefly savouring the hold it had on me, for I, like others, had been greatly affected by Favager’s portrait. “Chiefly, ‘Hyacinth’ depicted a nude young man, a classical beauty, strong and dark of features, although this doesn’t begin to describe the effect the portrait had on its viewers. Hyacinth reclined on the bed partially turned away from the viewer, mostly confined to the left half of the canvas, his legs draped over the side of the bed, his body leaning back almost as if he were held up by the frame itself. His face was half shaded, but peered out from the darkness, partially lit by moonlight, giving prominence to the high, strong cheekbones, the long elegant nose, the thoughtful cast of the brow. And his eyes; silver-green in the light, wanton and contemplative, almost judgemental, with a hint of contempt, like a boy studying his lover as he climbs out of bed and begins to dress. Those eyes, Dupin, they were arresting I can’t even begin to . . .
“And the body, oh Dupin, lustrous in the moonlight, as if cast in marble. At once voluptuous and supple, yet of musculature wholly masculine. The detailing on the youth’s breast and the ribs, the slight stretching, an invitation to reach out and run one’s fingers along, it was exquisite. The torso tapered to a slim but nevertheless strong waist—a herculean waist. His sex, anticipated by a tantalizing, light smattering of pubes, was partially obscured by his left leg, but gave the impression of barely concealed arousal, his right hand resting on his thigh as if in a light touch. Yes, far from minimizing the sex, as is the artistic tradition, the artist presented the youth in all his erotic potential. The stretch and twist of his naked body . . . Hyacinth was communing with the moonlight, but as a lover; a tender brush of his lusty breast, the way the light ran over his lithe, bare waist, the way it nuzzled the soft hair before, finally, at last caressing the lengthening phallus, drawing out the manhood.”
I had to stop and clear my throat, so moved was I by my own reveries of the portrait. I noticed the chamberlain, too, busied himself with the galleries drapes, making sure he was faced away from us. This was the power of “Hyacinth,” I had seen the way it affected the men who had viewed the painting. They had made use of the patron’s facilities to indulge in discussion and other social liaisons, the household put to their disposal, as it had been before in other artistic gatherings. After viewing “Hyacinth,” I had perhaps made use of one of the house’s levées, joining a visiting African diplomat and his young French companion from the Passage des Panoramas, who I learned were both enthusiastic connoisseurs of fine art, eager to share in their passions.
Dupin, despite being a young gentleman of healthy appetites, merely gave a small smile at my excited state, although I noticed a telltale tightening of his trousers. Being of an honest, scientific, abstracted mind, he was not in the least bit embarrassed by his state, but proceeded in his investigation.
“All this in a painting,” he drawled. “You say it was as if he leaned on the left side of the frame. Then, was his right hand visible?”
“Not to my recollection,” I replied. “Much of his body not illuminated in the sliver of moonlight was cast in the darkness, making the visible all the more astounding.”
“My companion has spoken much of th
e essence of the portrait, but less of the dimensions of the subject.” He now addressed the chamberlain and asked the man to recount his visitation by the subject of the portrait two mornings previous, and provide a more scientific description of the youth he encountered.
The chamberlain had arrived earlier in the morning than usual to arrange some financial documents before the patron’s business began for the day. As he turned into the delivery alley just off the Rue de l’Arcade a handsome young man in a large brown coat and a grey hat pulled low over his face passed him. The chamberlain thought nothing of it, the alley connected to a number of households with servants and labourers coming and going at all hours, but he experienced a needling of recognition. He approached the door, key in hand, but realized it was already slightly ajar. Only he and the patron himself had copies, so what then but that it had been broken into or, thought the chamberlain, opened from within. That is when the recognition hit him full force and he dashed back to the Rue de l’Arcade and called for someone to stop the interloper.
The very same young man, already rounding the corner southward, turned for the briefest of moments, a look of shock or horror on his face. By the time the chamberlain had reached the corner the young man was gone, but the servant was wholly convinced of one thing: he had seen the beautiful young man, Hyacinth of Favager’s painting.
Dupin pressed the man for particulars, and the chamberlain, an observant sort, did not disappoint. A youth of perhaps eighteen or twenty years, but no more; below average height, and of his body it was difficult to say, swathed in the coat as he was. Dark ringlets of hair were pushed up under the hat, but the chamberlain recognized the same features, an angular, rectangular cast to his face, hard, high cheekbones, a long nose, a dark brow, heavily-lidded eyes. The chamberlain spoke at length about the boy’s lips, so prettily formed were they, like a statue of David or Ganymede. Exquisite curvature, perfection in form.