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If you asked the people of Cyprus who could create the most extravagant, lifelike, and breathtaking art on this side of Greece, there would be no hesitation in their response. All fingers would point toward the palace near Paphos Harbour. “Our King,” they would say with a warm, knowing smile. “our King is the one you seek. His talent is unmatched, his creations legendary.”
They would speak of his abilities with reverence, describing how he molds marble as if it were mere clay, bending it in effortless grace. The King, they would tell you, does not merely paint; he conjoures landscapes so vivid that you’d swear he had taken a slice of the world itself and fixed it onto a scroll, capturing nature’s essence with the stroke of his brush. “Our King,” they would repeat, voices full of pride, “can transform anything–no matter how simple–into something worthy of the Gods themselves.”
But then, as their words lingered in the air, a shift would occur. their voices would drop to a whisper, eyes glancing cautiously toward the palace in the distance. “Tread carefully,” they would warn, leaning in as if the wind could overhear. “He loves his art more than anything else in the world. one wrong word, one misstep in your speech, and it could cost you dearly. His temper, like his genius, knows no bounds.”
If you pressed them for more, if you asked for clarity on this cryptic warning, they would merely shake their heads. without another word, they would carry on with their lives, leaving you with only the fading echo of their cautionary whispers, as if nothing had been said at all.
What the people of Cyprus don’t know–nor could they ever have the chance to discover–is that the King, Scar, as he likes to call himself in the privacy of his chambers, is anything but the moody and obsessive ruler he so carefully portrays himself to be.
"Obsessive" might be an adjective he would reluctantly add to the long list of qualities that define him. But Scar would never settle for such a simple word. He would much rather choose terms like overworked, perfectionist, sometimes scatterbrained or perhaps even exhausted, if he were to be particularly honest. To him, obsession was too dramatic a label–one that implied a loss of control, and Scar was a man who prided himself on his discipline. Every detail, every charcoal stroke, and every cut of marble had to meet his impossibly high standards. Anything less was unworthy of his name, unworthy of the gods.
His days would often begin at the first light of dawn, a time when the rest of his kingdom still slumbered. Alone in his workshop, Scar would hunch over a piece of parchment, drawing and redrawing his designs with almost mechanical precision. Each stroke of the charcoal seemed to carry the weight of the world, for in Scar's mind, even a slight misstep could ruin the entire vision. His fingers would smudge the edges of the paper as he worked tirelessly, erasing, correcting, and starting again until the lines finally spoke the language of perfection. Hours would pass unnoticed, the rising sun climbing higher as Scar wrestled with his vision, always finding something that wasn’t quite right, something that needed more refinement.
When the parchment no longer sufficed, he would turn to marble–his true medium, where his genius and frustration collided. He would carve the stone with a feverish intensity, each hammer strike echoing in the hollow chamber like a heartbeat. As the hours wore on, his hands would grow red, raw, and eventually blistered, but he paid little mind to the pain. To Scar, it was merely another part of the process, a small price to pay in the pursuit of perfection. The marble would begin to take shape under his relentless care, but just as he neared completion, his critical eye would spot yet another imperfection. A line too sharp, a curve not smooth enough. With a heavy sigh, he would set down his tools and begin again, unwilling to rest until the piece before him mirrored the vision in his mind.
Each creation became a battle of endurance, an endless cycle of frustration and triumph. Scar would pause only briefly, examining his work with an intensity that bordered on obsession. Yet, in the back of his mind, he refused to admit it. He couldn’t stop, not when there was always something more to fix, something more to perfect. Time and again, he would find himself back at the beginning, reworking the same details as if chasing an impossible ideal.
In these solitary moments, Scar was no longer a king, no longer the ruler revered by his people. He was simply a man at war with himself, trapped between his desire for flawlessness and the reality that perfection could never truly be reached. But still, he pressed on, driven by an unyielding need to create something that could stand among the gods.
And when the moon finally showed her face, kissing the sun goodnight after yet another long day, Scar would absently realize that he had once again neglected his royal duties in pursuit of creating something breathtaking. He would flex his tired fingers, slowly putting away the tools he had used. Then, locking his workshop with the key he would always keep in his left pocket, Scar would nod to the guard that was stationed outside and make his way back to his bedchamber.
Upon reaching his room, however, he would not go to bed and let Hypnos take him to the land of dreams and rest. No. Instead, he would take the key from around his neck and unlock a hidden door leading to his secret workshop. Lighting a candle, Scar would gently run his fingers over the cool, smooth ivory marble of the statue before him, his touch almost reverent.
During the endless hours of the day, he would draw, hammer, carve–working with anything he could get his hands on, honing his craft with relentless precision. Yet, it was always in preparation for this moment, his true masterpiece: his beloved. His darling sweetheart. The only reason he is still alive and breathing.
Scars’ calloused fingers would gently trace the fine lines of the statue's brows, gliding over the perfectly sculpted nose and down across the smooth, unblemished cheeks. Finally, his touch would linger on the cold lips, expertly crafted into a warm, inviting smile. Though his loves’ eyes were inanimate, lifeless stone, they still captured that mischievous–one that never failed to draw a soft chuckle out of Scar.
His hand would then follow the sharp curve of the jawline, drifting down to the collarbone and over the strong shoulders. From there, his fingers would trail along the soft curve of the biceps, continuing down to the elbow, and further still to the wrist and hand, which was extended as if waiting for someone to take it. Scar, never one to let such an opportunity pass, carefully clasped the ivory hand in his own and pressed a featherlight kiss to its back.
“Good evening, my love. I hope you haven’t waited too long?” He whispered to his sweetheart.
Scar would be unable to pinpoint the exact moment where his obsession with his dearest began–nor did he particularly want to. He was a solitary king, he had never found someone who could love a reclusive, perfectionist like himself. He would pray to Aphrodite every moment of the day, whispering heartfelt but often incoherent prayers to his patron goddess. Everything he created was in the hope of finding a kindred spirit–someone who could stand by his side, distracting him just as much as he would engage in creating alongside him. He longed for someone fierce, loyal and loving; a real breathing person to whom he could devote himself entirely.
But the night was for himself alone. He would speak of his day, his craft, and the little things he had noticed—a cat darting across the courtyard, the beautiful song of a bird, or a rumor he overheard when no one thought he was listening.
Most importantly, he would whisper sweet nothings meant only for his love’s ears, imagining the things they might do if he were alive and breathing. He would take him to the beach by day, sneak out at night to watch the stars, hide away together from their royal duties, and steal kisses when no one was looking. He would oh-so-carefully continue his work between whispered confessions, until eventually, he would fall asleep at the feet of his dearest masterpiece.
In the evening after yet another day spent repeating the endless cycle of creation and perfecting his skill, something in the air changed. It was subtle at first–a tiny bee finding her way into his workshop, followed by a butterfly, then another. Soon a fresh breeze carried a soft smell of roses and sweet, ripe apples. Scar smiled to himself; he would recognize the signs of his patron goddess anywhere.
Setting aside the piece of charcoal he had been working with, he walked towards the window. A little sparrow then made its presence known, and Scar cooed softly at it. The sparrow chirped a few cheerful notes before flying off into the sunset.
Taking the appearance of the goddess’s signs as a cue to stop working for the day and return to his love, he cleaned up his tools and locked the door of his workshop once more. He quickly made his way down to his bedchamber and hurriedly opened the door to his secret workshop.
“Good evening, beautiful.” Scar sighed dreamily, skipping his usual routine and kneeling down in front of the figure. He pressed a kiss to the back of its hand. “I have been dreaming of you all day again.” He chuckled, resting his head against the cold knees of his creation. “I have been working on you for so long, I can hardly believe you are finally finished.”
His thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a hand gently combing through his unruly hair, tucking a stray strand behind his ear. Alarmed, Scar looked up and found himself staring into dark, gleaming, alive eyes.
“I’m glad you finally finished. I’ve waited patiently for far too long,” whispered a smooth, otherworldly voice.
Looking back on it, Scar would wish he had said something more sophisticated. But in the moment, his words lodged in his throat, and all he could manage was a high-pitched, stammering, “Wh-what? Who? What?” His confusion earned him the most handsome laugh he had ever heard.
Scar scrambled to his feet and took a step back to get a better look at the figure standing before him. He looked exactly like the statue Scar had spent countless nights carving, but now he was alive—breathing.
The once ivory skin had warmed into a healthy pink hue. His lifeless eyes–oh gods, those eyes–were now dark, deep, and brimming with emotion, still carrying that playful spark. Scar felt like he could get lost in them and drown. His hair, once sculpted stone, was now a rich honey color that shimmered golden in the candlelight.
“See something you like?” the man teased with an amused smile.
“Who–what, I mean, yes! Of course!” Scar blurted, flustered, earning him another ethereal laugh.
“How is this possible? Am I dreaming? Please tell me I’m not dreaming!” Scar pleaded, stepping closer once again.
“Aphrodite, goddess of love, beauty, and desire, has blessed her most faithful devotee with a gift as precious as his heart. She has breathed life into the form you so tirelessly shaped through many long seasons. A companion, destined to be by your side.” He smiled softly, lifting his hand. Scar took it without a moment's hesitation, their fingers entwining naturally.
“She has granted you what you longed for most, and I could not be more honored to be that someone–if you would have me.” His voice grew tender, and his head dipped slightly. “I’ve cherished every moment, listening to your voice as you so carefully and lovingly brought me into being.” His cheeks flushed faintly, a soft blush that made Scar’s heart flutter.
“What is your name, my love?” Scar asked softly, knowing that the response would be all the answer he needed.
“Aphrodite named me Galateo–he who is milk-white–, but I would like to call myself Grian.” Grian smiled in return.
“A beautiful name for the most magnificent man,” Scar murmured, his eyes filled with warmth. “Come, Grian,” He added with a smile, gently tugging at his hand. “Let me show you the stars.”