“Maybe it’s the constant, looming fear of getting poisoned by Blake?”Celeste joked, as they began opening a can of tomatoes.“I’d be scared of that, too.”
“Allright,” Blake huffed.But again, he wasn’t really offended: Marin was laughing.
He glanced at Blake, giving his bicep a comforting pat.“I think your cooking is fine.The porridge you helped make today was delicious.”
“Yeah, underyourtutelage,” Blake sighed.“Come on, let’s go sit.I wanted to keep looking through this diary.”
As they settled down on the old, beat-up sleeper couch, Blake opened the drive where Celeste had uploaded the pages.He was amazed at what he read: over the course of thirty years, Eric Brilhart had traveled the majority of the Eurasian continent in search of pygmalions.If he had been able to find them before they were reawakened, he would often either purchase or steal them, shipping them back to Switzerland—to a place he referred to as his “Reverie”.If not, he would detail the stories of the pygmalions and the people who woke them.It appeared that his entries were so sparse due to the rarity of the phenomena—most were incredibly short, detailing the name, the form the pygmalion took, and where they had been found.Despite the depravity lurking beneath Eric’s words, he held an honest reverence for each of the pygmalions that he found and displayed genuine distress every time he could not save one.
After skimming the contents, Blake resumed reading where Celeste had left off: there were only two more entries left in the journal.As he read the opening lines, his heart sank in his chest, leaving a hot-cold acidic burn behind.
January 16, 1826
I have reason to question my earlier hypothesis about the quality of a person’s character being the third condition to keep the pugmalion alive.I have, as of late, witnessed the sad case of Elio Bianchi and Aelius.
Following a lead regarding a talking mosaic at an Italian archeological dig, I was led to the Baths of Caracalla in Rome.Unfortunately, before I was able to take Aelius away to the safety of my Reverie, he had already been reawakened by Mr.Elio Bianchi, the son of the head archeologist, Mr.Giacomo Bianchi?.Aelius had taken the form of a naiad.
(?Mr.Bianchi suspects that Aelius was created around the year 217 A.D.due to his recollection of the death of Emperor Septimus Severus.)
Thankfully, the day I met Mr.Elio Bianchi, Aelius was only on the second day of his reawakening and I was able to inform them of the requirements.As typical of the four day period, it took another day or so for Aelius’ memories of his previous life to return.As such, he was able to recall his place of death (beneath a cypress tree on the Via Appia) and dying wish (to worship at the pantheon).
Upon his arrival below the cypress where he was slain, Mr.Aelius asked both myself and the elder Mr.Bianchi to depart, wishing for a moment alone with Mr.Elio.Once we conceded to Mr.Aelius’ request, I peered over my shoulder to see Aelius and Elio embrace and bestow one another with many kisses.The elder Mr.Bianchi and I continued on for several more metres, after which I heard Mr.Elio give a great cry of anguish.When we returned to his side, we found that Mr.Aelius had been rendered to the form of thousands of mosaic tiles scattered over the ground and Mr.Elio’s hands.
Poor young Mr.Bianchi has been inconsolable for the past two weeks.I am remiss to ask him of what was said in those last moments he spent by Mr.Aelius’ side, not wanting to pry into the matters of a young person’s heart—and one so sorely afflicted by loss.But ah!If I were to know, perhaps I would be able to discern the reason that the third requirement did not work.From both my personal observations of Mr.Elio’s character, as well as the vouching of his father, friends, and family, he is a fine young man of great kindness and good breeding and treated Mr.Aelius with nothing but the most tender love and respect.
Perhaps the fates that weigh a person’s worth of love are beyond my understanding, or I have missed an additional requirement in the past.Or maybe there is a component that relies on the pugmalion him or herself that I have hitherto been unaware of, such as the amount of time that the pugmalion has been deceased.
Mlle.Anaïs was only dead for three years before being reawakened by Mlle.Louisa and managed to live on, while Duarte had been gone for fifty.Having previously been alive some sixteen hundred years ago, Mr.Aelius may very well have been deceased far too long to continue living.
In either case, it pains me that I was not able to send Mr.Aelius to my Reverie before Elio awakened him.
E.B.
The entry concluded there, with another dated several days later:
January 20, 1826
Whilst I awaited my carriage in the lobby of the hotel where I have made my dwellings, there was a great commotion at the concierge.As I left my seat to see what the matter was, imagine my surprise to see Mr.Elio Bianchi desperately seeking myself.Once I was able to catch his attention, we retired to a brief tea in the parlor in an attempt to ease his nerves.
The information young Mr.Bianchi so eagerly wished to confide in me was the following: that upon returning Mr.Aelius to the place where he had been strangled beneath the cypress tree, Aelius turned to Elio and professed his desire to be with his past lover, Felix.When Elio cried out that he did not want Aelius to disappear, Mr.Aelius smiled softly and did just that.
I’m uncertain of what this development means.Was Elio’s desire for Aelius to remain by his side construed by the fates as a selfish desire, rendering him unworthy of Aelius’ love?Was it Aelius’ desire to depart that caused him to do so?Or perhaps my previous hypothesis regarding the length of the pugmalion’s death serves as another factor?
I am as of yet uncertain.
If it is some sort of deity of fate who weighs the worthiness of a person’s heart upon a scale, then it is a cruel deity indeed.If what I have been led to believe is true and a boy as tender as Elio is capable of failing such a test, then in order to be worthy, one’s heart must truly be lighter than a feather.
E.B.
The journal ended there.
Blake stared down at his phone, a tremor working its way out from his heart and into his limbs, the icy numbness of horror diffusing through him.
“Blake?”Marin asked, looking up from the drawing on his iPad.He secured a hand around Blake’s wrist, concern furrowing his brow.His voice sounded a thousand miles away, like he was speaking through a wall or a thick sheet of glass.“Blake, are you okay?What is it?”
“It…” Blake spoke, and even his voice was distant to his own ears.“It was wrong.The conditions in the poem were wrong.”
26
