The Price of Perfection

Lord Antoni D’Mingi was a master at his craft, though he would never allow himself to believe it. Despite the swaths of endless praise he received daily, he insisted upon a life of humility. The Lord made his small fortune in five short years and would not entertain a single compliment through any of it. He felt in his heart that if he allowed himself to give into pride, his artistry would surely die.

He spent countless hours fretting over the smallest details of his work, examining individual fibers on the parchment, searching for imperfections. When found, he systematically destroyed them to make way for the beauty of perfection. Though it seemed perfection was simply out of his reach, no matter how hard he worked or how humble he stayed.

When he studied the greats of Valentine antiquity, he understood they were inherently perfect, beyond criticism. Lord D'Mingi wondered if Astrofus thought ill of his most famous sculpture—Dusk Conquering Death, rendered from a single slab of marble—but quickly shook the notion off as preposterous. The Lord failed to recall that Astrofus did not became famous until a century after he died of malaria.

The Lord, however, knew certainly his contemporaries doubted themselves. Of course they did, they exist in the same period as the great Lord Antoni D'Mingi. Who could resist shaking in their moccasins when confronted by such stalwart adversity?

One morning, Lord D'Mingi woke in a cold sweat. In his dream he saw what he knew would become his greatest work. A piece that would stand the test of eons.

Naturally, his usual pigment supplier had run dry. Not to worry, the church also has a steady flow of supplies. He would simply sell his soul to Sunlight. What good was a soul when it stands in the way of greatness?

The Lord marched to the Temple District, which was always prim and proper. The white stone paths curved elegantly between leaning buildings, bordering trees and shrubberies cut to precise specifications. There was not a spec of dirt to be seen throughout the entire neighborhood. Lord D'Mingi mused about spending more time there, but quickly dismissed the notion. Piety was for the poor and unskilled.

The stationary supply, usually reserved for the scribes, apparently began stocking tubes of oil paints recently. He searched the storefront, analyzing each shelf with his hawk-like eyes. His mouth curled three-times over when he found the last tube of Roseway Mummy Brown.

"Oils!" he shrieked, startling the heavy man behind the counter.

The clerk was some sort of monk, the back of his head shaved. It was a horrific display of one's sensibilities, if you were to ask Lord D'Mingi. Not that anyone would. People hate hearing the truth, he had learned that much.

“Greetings, Lord D’Mingi,” the monk said. Dark rings circled his eyes, a pathetic visage to show in public. If you're tired, Lord D'Mingi thought to himself, stay home!

“Good day, monsieur...” Lord D'Mingi trailed off for the monk to fill in the blank. He knew he had met the monk once. Even twice. But an important man like Lord D'Mingi cannot be expected to remember such trifles.

“Francois, my lord,” the monk clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes. “Francois Hartenfel.”

Lord D'Mingi recoiled. Hartenfel? The poor bastard was related to the worst creator of their generation. Now he understood why the monk was so exhausted. Surely, the Lord himself would lose sleep over such shame as well. Of course, Lord Antoni De’Mingi held a clean name and good reputation. He slept like a baby each night despite the fact that he had yet to achieve proper perfection.

“My condolences," Lord D'Mingi conjured, "Manon was a close friend of mine. I was saddened to hear of his rather violent passing.”

“Thank you, my lord. Though, I didn’t know him well. He was a distant cousin on my father’s side."

“Be comforted that Manon's paintings have tripled in value. I just sold off all my original Hartenfels."

The monk gaped at the Lord, who only shrugged.

Lord D'Mingi chuckled heartily. "Yes, you're right. I should have held onto them for another year or two. Damn my impulses!"

The monk cleared his throat. “May I get you anything, lord? Oils, perhaps?”

“Actually, as it happens," Lord D'Mingi sighed, "I am in need of high-quality oil paint. Only the very best will do.”

And so, the great Lord Antoni D'Mingi gathered everything he would need to binge in his studio for weeks on end. And that was exactly what he did. For three weeks, he hardly slept, ate, or drank. He only ceased his laborious passions to use the privy and only when absolutely necessary. If he spent too much time away, Lord D'Mingi knew he would lose the spark driving his brilliance. Stroke after stroke, layer upon layer, then soon a face took shape on the canvas.

A woman’s face. She was coming to life before him.

There were bumps on the road to perfection. Sometimes he slipped and smeared color where it should never go. Twice fatigue overtook him and he dozed. When he woke, he found an unfinished dry patch.

But no, the road to perfection is never perfect. Any creator knows that much. He was a master at correcting the faults. Turning the ugly into the desirable. By God, Lord Antoni D'Mingi could turn shit into art. Not that he would stoop so low.

And then it was finished. She was finished.

“Gods in Hell…” he said, taking in her sumptuous visage.

Raven hair. Gray eyes. A stern, but soft face with a knowing expression. Perhaps she was all-knowing. She did, after all, possess the beauty of a goddess. And he had given it to her; he had given her shape.

He achieved perfection. And how he loved her.

What would he do? Surely, no other soul was worthy of her grace. For five more days, he sat in utter silence just admiring her. This woman, this goddess, this entity he had created.

Then it struck him. Clearly this piece was granted to him by divine providence. No man alive could comprehend such beauty on their own. Obviously this was a gift from God, which Lord D'Mingi suddenly believed in. The Lord understood he need to find this woman, he need to claim her.

He sent out letters to his most trusted contacts. His plan would be compromised should his competitors learn of his plans. Within the week, two figures in black arrived at his door. A man and a woman.

Lord D'Mingi poked his head out. “You are the ones I sent for?” he said covertly, his hawk-like eyes darting about searching for eavesdroppers.

The man, his face completely obscured, clicked his tongue. “We are.”

The Lord ushered them in. Even in the light of his entry hall, the figures remained shadowy. Whatever enchantment these people utilized hid their features from even the most thorough scrutiny.

“I'm going to show you something no other living person has seen.”

Though he could not see their faces, Lord D'Mingi knew they were intrigued. He could sense such things from people.

“Lead on, monsieur,” the woman said with a thick, brutish Wystran accent, which butchered the traditional Valentine courtesy.

He led them to his studio, theatrically whipping the curtain off his masterwork. Lord D'Mingi moaned under his breath as he looked into the static gaze of his love, once again.

If the two were impressed, they made no effort to show it. It took everything in him not to scream at them for their insolence. But how could he expect a brute and foreigner to appreciate such elegance?

“I need you to find this woman and bring her to me. She will be my wife."

They looked at each other a moment. Then the man nodded. “It shall be done, my lord.”

“Good! I expect swift results.”

“We are professionals, monsieur,” the woman said.

Though only two days passed before their return, it felt like years to the patient Lord Antoni D’Mingi. He spent the days the pacing and the nights staring at his ceiling. In his head, he drafted and redrafted the poem he would utter to his wife when they met. Often he went to the studio to stare at her. She stared back with her knowing gaze, seeing right through him. Never had anyone understood him so thoroughly, so completely.

When the knock on the door came, his heart thumped irregularly for a beat. This was it. It was time to meet the woman of his dreams. The subject of his masterpiece.

She has to love me, he declared in his mind, she simply must.

He opened the door, the shadowy man stood on the stoop. “Just you? Where is my wife?”

The man clicked his tongue and turned to reveal the woman standing behind him. Raven hair, gray eyes. Her knowing expression saw right into his essence, as if they had always known one another.

It is meant to be, he thought, finding it hard to believe but not questioning it for a second.

He was at a loss for words, the poem fled his mind.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, monsieur,” she said in the most elegant drawl, “I have seen you in my dreams.”

“And I, you,” he stammered. “Please, come in.”

The man put a hand up. “Payment.”

“Why yes, of course! You are more than deserving.” Lord D'Mingi led them to his study.

“Ten-thousand, just as we agreed,” he said, handing the shadowy man a small heavy chest.

The man opened it and seemed satisfied. “I’ll see myself out, my lord.”

After the man left, Lord D'Mingi shuffled through the paperwork on his desk.

“I’ve drawn up everything we need, my love,” he felt her touch his shoulder. “We can marry here, all we need do is say the vows in front of priest and consummate—”

He felt a sharp burning between his ribs. The little breath he had left him all at once. Something warm was flowing down his mid-section soaking his blouse and silken breeches.

“What is the value of a masterwork after the tragic death of the author, monsieur?”

Lord Antoni D'Mingi turned. He gasped and found he could not speak. His love was holding a thin stiletto, shining crimson in the lamplight. Her gorgeous mouth curled into a knowing smile and her face shifted and contorted until he no longer recognized her.