Perfection

Once upon a time, there lived a sculptor who was famous for his life like sculptures. He was sought out by kings and nobles alike to immortalize their likenesses in stone. But the sculptor was very particular and took only a handful of these commissions, not fearing who he would offend as he was a master in his craft. By the time the sculptor was an old man, he had only ever made six sculptures in the entire kingdom, each one a filled with almost life like detail, as if one were to begin a conversation with it, the art work might respond!

These sculptures were considered to be so precious and of such good quality that the owners rarely displayed them, out of fear they might become damaged. They certainly never displayed them outdoors, in fear that they would weather and the smoothness of the stone would inevitably wear away. Despite this acclaim and clear confidence in his talent, the sculptor never felt like he had achieved what so many artists had strove to do. He never felt as if he ever created his masterpiece.

On top of that, the sculptor was just as particular with his love life as he was his work life and was very lonely. He found that among the regret of never creating a masterpiece, he also mourned that he never had a child. As he grew older, his hands began to shake and his eyes began to fade, he knew soon his dream of creating the perfect sculpture would be impossible to achieve and neither of his regrets would be resolved. But the sculptor was a stubborn old goat who refused to be defeated. If his hands shook now and he could no longer produce an heir, then he would carve one from stone! This child would be his masterpiece, his magnum opus, the shining jewel of his life’s work. The morning of his decision, he set off to purchase a slab of marble from the local quarry.

The Quarry Master had known the sculpture for many years, having done business together for much of that time. He knew the sculptor’s eyes were beginning to fail him, so he instructed an apprentice to help him. The two spent hours inspecting marble slabs, the sculptures failing eyes being no match for his instincts. It was almost an hour passed the young man’s work day when the sculptor was finally satisfied that he had found the perfect slab to realize his vision. From the moment the slab was delivered to his workshop, the sculptor could be found nowhere else and no one was allowed into his workshop, save for the young apprentice from the quarry. The young man would often bring the sculptor food at the behest of the Quarry Master. The apprentice would often linger, at first to make sure the old man ate, but as time went on, he would find himself entranced by the forming statue.

The sculptor worked tirelessly for months, pouring in every bit of love and talent that he had left into creating his child, his Jewel. His old and withered hands shook with every strike of the hammer to the chisel but still he persisted. Eventually, nearly two years went by before he finally finished. He stepped back to admire his work, to take in the child he had brought in to the world through sheer force of will. The sculpture was of a young person, detailed with curves and edges, covered with an intricately carved robe that made distinguishing their gender impossible; long hair flowed in ripples and waves down their back. Their face, unblemished and round, expressed an innocent wonder, plush lips partially parted in awe and eyes wide. But something was missing. The statue was lifelike, of course, all his sculptures were. But it wasn’t alive. Thankfully, the sculptor had a solution to that.

Over the years he had received countless gifts from the few clients that he had taken, one of which was an orchid, seemingly made of solid gold. However, despite its shimmer and shine, the petals were soft and velvety to the touch, as a normal orchid normally would be. The flower was found growing in the Royal Garden of a neighboring kingdom and considered one of their greatest treasures. Now, he took the pot the flower sat in and cut off every single bloom from the stalk, laying them to dry. The next day he ground the petals in a mortar and added water until he was satisfied with the consistency, taking a brush, he painted their irises a beautiful shimmering gold. The sculptor took in the difference and blinked, captivated by their beauty.

And Jewel blinked back.

They began to move, awkwardly at first, unsure of their limbs. They brought their hand to their face and wiggled their fingers. They bent over and wiggled their toes. They tilted their head, side to side and looked back at their sculptor, who had stepped back once more. They tried to follow, falling from their stand, and when the old man went to catch them on instinct, it wasn’t the heavy weight of pure stone that crashed into his arms, but that of a young adult. Though their skin was still as cool and smooth, still clearly the hard marble he had spent countless hours chiseling away at, the magic of the flower seemed to grant them the lightness of life along with the breath. Jewel looked up, seemingly just as surprised as the sculptor, before smiling so bright, their eyes seemed to glow.

“Thank you, Father.” They said, their voice as soft and sweet as the orchid that brought them to life.

So their life as father and child began, the sculptor believing he achieved both of his life long goals in one foul swoop. He doted on Jewel, taking his time to teach them his craft, to read and to write, everything but letting his child go outside. Like his patrons, the sculptor feared that Jewel might weather or break. So Jewel would busy themself with the tasks their father gave them throughout the day, from lessons to helping with chores. The only person besides their father they ever were allowed to see was the handsome young man that would bring their father food. Jewel would stand on their pedestal, perfectly still as their father instructed, as the stone they were made out of, and watch the young man. He was tall and broad, and his nose was just a little crooked. He had soft looking golden curls that would often be plastered to his forehead from the long walk from the long walk from the quarry to their father’s home. His skin was tanned and freckled and the hands that passed the boxes of food were calloused. They found him quite charming, despite not being able to see much of him. Their father no longer let the young man in, claiming the project he was working on was almost finished and he had clients to think of, but they would watch the young man try to sneak a look from the door anyway. Jewel had to be very careful, as the action always gave them the urge to smile.

However, that little lie began to hide a little bit of truth. As the days passed, the sculptor’s eyes began to fail him more and more, yet he began to see flaws in his “perfect” child. After all, his child could not feel the warm touch of skin or the bitter cold bite of winter. How could one truly call them ‘alive’ in those circumstances?

Perhaps if they were more feminine. The sculptor thought. Maybe I was too indecisive.

So that night, he took his tools and instructed Jewel to stand on the pedestal, like when the young man would visit, still as stone. The sculptor worked through the night to extenuate their curves and round out their features. Once he had a girl, she would come to life, surely.

Each bite of the chisel into their stone flesh, each grinding swipe of the sandpaper was agony to Jewel. They had loved how they had looked, loved how when the Quarry Master’s apprentice managed to sneak a peak of them, his eyes would fill with wonder and awe. Their father told them this would make them perfect, that they would be truly alive after he just finished making some adjustments. So, Jewel stood obediently, never flinching and never crying out no matter how much pain it caused deep in their chest. In the morning, they still weren’t what their father considered ‘alive’.

“A child that can’t feel anything, what kind of child is that at all?” The old man grumbled after waiting the whole rest of the day. “No, no, still not feminine enough, I’ll make a daughter of you yet. Once you become my daughter, you’ll really be alive, then you’ll be able to feel things.” He declared, taking up his tools once more.

“But Father, I can feel things.” Jewel protested but took their place back on the pedestal. “I feel happy, I feel curious, I feel hu-”

“Real things,” He dismissed. “Like fire or the ground beneath your feet. Now don’t move, let your father work.

This continued night after night, with the sculptor declaring that Jewel must not be enough a woman yet, that there were still too many masculine details. Jewel would protest less and less every night, sure that their father’s hearing must be going as well as his eyes. They didn’t even speak up when cracks began to show up on their skin. Their father knew what was best after all. Jewel took to looking out the window while their father worked to distract themself from the pain and imagine what the world outside of their father’s workshop was like. They wondered if everyone would see the flaws even their ailing father could see or if they would look at them with the unabashed awe that the young man with the golden hair did. In their harsher moments, they wondered if their father would ever decide they were perfect. As the cracks deepened they began to worry, but still they didn’t speak up. Maybe this is what it took to become a woman, maybe their father would finally have the daughter he desperately seemed to want. Sometimes they wouldn’t think at all, just focus on the sound of the hammer as it smack against the chisel.

Smack.

Smack.

Smack.

Crack.

And as Jewel crumbled to the ground, a mess of parts that even they didn’t recognize, they realized their father finally stopped. The old man held their face in the palms of his hands, the gold in their eyes dulled from the dust and alterations, Jewel finally felt the warmth and callouses of his hands. They blinked away burning tears, their face seeming frozen in the coy smile he had carved nights before.

Finally, She thought. I must be perfect.