This is a piece of fiction inspired by two statues of Lucifer and the fact that they were carved by two brothers. Other than that it has no relationship whatsoever to reality. Under a cut for length and sexual content. 

Louis
had been commissioned carve a marble statue of Satan for the cathedral. The
project, so far, was turning out to be appropriately hellish.

His
brother, also a sculptor, had not spoken to him in weeks. Gaspard, elder and a
more eminent artist, had been confident that he would receive the commission.
When Louis had been asked to sculpt Satan, Gaspard had been convinced that he
himself would be asked to tackle more sublime subject matter—John the Baptist,
the blessed Virgin, perhaps even Christ on the Cross. He had mocked his younger
brother as an inferior talent, saying he had only the skill to capture the
ugliness of Satan, not the pure beauty of saints or angels. But as days passed
and it became clear that no commission was coming to Gaspard, he grew bitter.
He stopped speaking to Louis, even to mock. He simply shut him out.

Gaspard
even contrived to pull their father into the quarrel. Somehow, he had convinced
him that Louis was malicious, conniving, and insolent in taking a commission so
clearly intended for his more established elder brother. Louis received a curt
note from the patriarch expressing disappointment in him for wronging his
brother so, and even quoting a bit of scripture regarding Cain and Abel. It
ended by notifying him that his allowance would be suspended until he made
amends to his brother.

Little
as he relished the familial strife—and much as the loss of his father’s support
had hurt him, emotionally and financially—Louis had more pressing problems on
his mind. Chief among them was the project itself.

The
Archbishop had been disquietingly vague in his instructions. He had specified
the approximate dimensions of the statue and the space it was intended to fill,
and said that it was to portray the Adversary. Which left Louis to answer the hardest
question: how?

The
problem had obsessed him for several nights now. At first it had been precipitated
by the gloom that descended after being shunned by his father and brother, but
soon the question itself had grown into the source of a despair even deeper.
What, after all, was the nature of the Devil? Louis knew only what he had been
taught in church, and had never thought too long or hard about Satan. Now that
he had begun to ruminate on the nature of the adversary, his thoughts had grown
deep and terrifying.

He
turned first to scripture to answer his questions, but only found himself more
confused. Here was the serpent, slithering through the garden of Eden. Here was
Lucifer, son of the morning, fallen from heaven. Here was the devil tempting
Job, nearly playing dice with men’s souls—disturbingly, with God for a gambling
partner. His image of Satan became less distinct, and yet more seductively
sinister, with every verse.

And
those verses were few and far between. Louis soon realized the Good Book was a
poor source of information on the evil one. It contained very few mentions of
the devil, and what was there often seemed contradictory. Scriptures that had
once made sense to Louis now seemed a pack of nonsense and lies. So agonizing
was his doubt, so anguished his confusion, that he began to fear that Devil was
actually taking hold of his soul.

Despairing
of finding inspiration in scripture, Louis sought it in art history. He turned
next to medieval manuscripts, where he saw Satan as snarling and
serpent-tongued. Here, at least, was an entity that seemed more recognizable to
him from the sermons. He made a few half-hearted sketches based on this
impression, and sent them to the Archbishop. They were sent back. The Archbishop,
he was told, wanted something a bit more modern. Modernity hardly seemed to Louis
like a Catholic virtue, and he found himself now doubting not just the holy scriptures,
but the Archbishop as well. His inner darkness deepened, along with his
artistic frustration.

He
had spent a fortnight, now, staring at the marble block. Sometimes he wasted
hours running his hands along it, hoping to discover, in the raw rock, some
demonic form waiting to manifest. His money was running out—without his
father’s allowance, he had only the Archbishop’s deposit to live on.

Many
nights, he found himself staring not at the marble block but at the beams of
the ceiling, thinking of where to hang a noose. At other times, he contemplated
taking the chisel not to the marble, but to his own tender wrists.

One
early morning, at the tail end of one such bad and sleepless night, he stood
before the marble. The gray light of dawn, creeping through the windows,
combined with the uneven light of a few sputtering candles to reveal his
pathetic condition. He was unshaven, unwashed, and thin. He gripped his chisel
like a murder weapon. Without meaning to, he found himself saying a sort of
prayer in his head, not to God on high, but to the dark one below.

Show yourself to
me, he
was begging in his heart. I must see you.

That
was he heard his studio door open.

Louis
spun about, chisel upraised, to face the intruder. At first he thought he was
hallucinating, that desperation and sleep-deprivation had driven him mad.
Surely the apparition before him could not be flesh and blood.

It
was a young man, perfect in his beauty. He wore his hair unfashionably long and
scandalously loose around his shoulders, but it was hard to blame him for
showing off that softly curling golden mane. His features were smooth and
well-balanced, a paragon of masculine beauty so harmonious it seemed to have
been created by mathematical formula. Yet despite his appearance as a platonic
ideal of youthful manhood, nothing about him seemed tame or rational at all.
There was a bright wildness in his eyes, which were a tawny golden color. His
full lips looked too red, too sensuous, obscene; a haughty smile played around
them. He was dressed in rich clothes, but his cravat hung half-undone around
his throat, his shirt was partially unbuttoned, and his suit was rumpled.

He
met Louis’s gaze with his wild eyes. Upon that contact, the sculptor seemed to
hear a howling in his head, as of high winds and lashing rain; and the muffled
noise of huge, beating wings. He staggered, and had to steady himself against
the marble block for support.

“Who
are you?” he croaked, still half-brandishing the chisel in unconscious self
defense. “What do you want?”

The
young man’s smile widened, showing strangely sharp teeth. It was mocking smile,
but somehow not unkind. Its effect was profoundly unnerving.

“I
have heard you are the sculpt the devil.” His voice was an androgynous tenor. “I
am he.”

Louis,
in his state of near delirium, actually believed him for a moment. Then he put
the notion aside. He even convinced himself that he had heard or remembered the
words incorrectly—the young man must have said something like “I am your devil.” He was a young model
supremely confident of receiving a job, nothing more.

Having
persuaded himself of this version of reality, Louis looked at the young man
more closely, more critically. There was something peculiarly wicked and
demonic about his beauty. His wildness, his hauteur, the insolence of those
perfect lips—yes, this could be a fallen angel, previously the wisest and
fairest of them all.

“Yes,”
Louis heard himself muttering aloud, “Yes, you could be. I know the hearts of
men. They do not fall from grace by chasing ugliness. They fall for beauty.”

The
young man said nothing, merely inclined his head slightly, as if agreeing with
the point—no, as if acknowledging that the point was made self-evident by his
very being. Louis, entranced, wondered who had fallen for that beauty before.
He did not doubt that many had. He thought men and women alike probably went
mad for it, died for it, scratched their eyes out desperately trying to forget
it.

Without
another word, the young model began to shed his clothes. He was completely
unselfconscious about it, shucking everything as though, to him, it was all mere
affectation. Nudity brought his beauty into even starker relief. It wasn’t so
much that his body was beautiful—though it was, achingly so—more as if the
layers of clothing had served to dim some inner radiance of his, that flowed
out from every inch of his exposed flesh. Louis swallowed uncomfortably, his
mouth suddenly watering and his breeches feeling very tight.

The
model cast him a teasing glance, then pointed at a stool across the room.

“I
will sit on that,” he said.

Louis
stood still for a moment, stunned and stupefied, then shook himself and went to
retrieve the seat, pulling it into a good position. The model alighted upon it,
gloriously, irresistibly nude. Louis drew back, afraid to accidentally touch
his skin. A shocking heat seemed to radiate from the man’s body, as if his skin
would burn to touch.

“You’ll
be needing a drape,” Louis said after a moment.

The
model glanced back over his shoulder at Louis. “Will I?” His eyes were dark and
bright at once, his grin bewitching. In the periphery of Louis’s vision, he saw
something twitch, like a large and very lewd snake.

Louis
swallowed hard and tried to sound severe. “Definitely,” he said firmly. “The
sculpture is for a church.”

“Of
course,” the model sighed. “Do as you must, I suppose.”

Louis
brought over a drape, and arranged it delicately across the model’s lap. The
model wasted no time in making adjustments, tucking it in under his buttocks
and arranging it so that it covered merely the essentials, riding low across
his hips but high over his knees.

Louis
started to protest.  

“Be
quiet.” The model’s voice was startlingly firm. “It has to be just so. This is
an image of temptation, yes?”

Louis
hesitated, then paced around the model in a slow circle. He had to admit,
reluctantly, that the flash of nude buttock, the suggestive drape between the
knees, was compositionally perfect. It drew the eye to all the right, or wrong,
places. After a moment’s further hesitation, he nodded.

The
model swept his eyes up to the ceiling, drew in a deep breath, and seemed to
collect himself. “Fallen from heaven,” he murmured, and his voice sounded sad.
“Of course. Right.”

He
adjusted his posture so that his shoulders curved slightly, as if beneath the
weight of wings. His eyes were cast down on his lap, and held a fierce, burning
regard. His expression was serious, but at the same time, serene. A fallen
angel who has accepted his lot, gathering his strength and courage to begin his
reign in hell. He was perfect.

“Yes,”
Louis whispered, “Yes, I see you.”

He
went to work with the chisel immediately. Every cut he made felt painful, as if
he was sculpting from his own flesh, but he did not stop. The lithe, youthful
form, and the suggestion of wings behind it, began to emerge from the stone.

Louis
worked feverishly. The deeper he went into the stone, the closer he felt he was
coming to that smooth, frighteningly warm flesh. He longed to trace the
subtleties of clavicles, biceps, and jawbone. He couldn’t wait to trace the
soft contours of those perfect areolas with his chisel. But he was far from
such levels of detail when he felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up to
find the young model standing beside him.

“Louis,”
he said softly. “Enough. You’ve carved all day and all night. You have to
stop.”

Louis
looked blearily over at the window, to see the rose hues of another dawn
gracing the horizon.

“Your
body cannot take this, Louis,” the voice sounded pitying. “You are only human.
You must rest.”

“No,”
Louis said unclearly, “Inspiration like this, it never comes. I have to
continue…” his voice shook with exhaustion and fear.

A
soft laugh. “Poor artists. I adore you so. You are the only real martyrs. Your
inspiration will return, I promise it.”

Louis
shook his head, still trembling, feeling drunk from exhaustion.

“Hush.
Hush. Let me sustain you.” Blackness was already beginning to cover his vision.
He felt himself enveloped in strong arms, a body hot as a furnace pressed close
to him. “Taste of the forbidden fruit.” The words seemed to come at once from
very far away, and from within his own skull. A rush of soft wings enfolded
him, and lips as scarlet and as scorching as coals pressed to his mouth. And
then he knew no more.

When
Louis woke, he felt refreshed and rested as he never had before.

He
lay in the model’s arms. What he had dreamed were enfolding wings must have
been the sheets and soft down of the pillows.

Louis
sat up quickly, horrified to find himself in the embrace of a naked man, still
more distressed to realize he was naked too.

A
soft chuckle let him know he was being watched. He looked down and met the
golden eyes of the beautiful youth.

“How,”
Louis began, “What…?”

The
model sat up, leaning gracefully on his elbow. In the morning light, the
contours of his body were serpentine, elegant. “Hush, my friend. You have slept
as innocently as a babe.” His lips curved, and Louis dizzily thought—the bow of Eros.

“I
do not corrupt,” he murmured. “Only tempt. And last night, you were much too
tired to be tempted.”

Louis
rubbed unnecessarily at his eyes, trying to banish sleepiness that was not
there. On the contrary, his sight had never seemed clearer.

“Besides,”
the young model laughed, “You only want to do one thing.”

The
sculpture. Louis’s hunger to finish it was ravenous, lascivious. As he raked
his eyes over the boy’s form, he knew that where other men might desire to
touch him, Louis would be satisfied far more deeply by drawing its copy out of
the marble. To mutilate the stone in search of that gorgeous form would be far
more piquant a consummation. Thinking these thoughts, he flushed, and nodded.

It
was another day and night of feverish work. Louis did not eat, but he did not
feel hungry. It was as if he fed on proximity to his model, drank him with his
eyes. The wings were beginning to take shape, framing the body. It nestled
between them, the face like… like the
pearl within a woman’s folds, Louis could not help but think. It was a
blasphemous thought, but it seemed right. Was this not the forbidden
fruit—desire? Knowledge, of the most carnal kind?

Louis
came to know that bright body, his chisel conforming to its most intimate
contours. His strokes were still rough—it was not time, yet, for the cherished
smoothing, the forming of delicate features—but he strained towards those
details passionately, taking away the stone a bit at a time, leaving just
enough so that he would be able to perfect the close work later.

The
model sat perfectly still, barely seeming to breathe. He had assumed the exact
pose, the exact expression, of the previous session. He was not only the most
beautiful model Louis had ever had the pleasure of working from, but also the
best.  

Marble
chips showered to the floor like hail. Powdery white dust filled the air,
coating Louis’s face and hands until he himself looked like a statue.

When
another dawn approached, the model again stopped Louis’s work with a gentle
hand. He lead him away to a warm bath, perfumed with the scent of roses. As Louis
soaked, the model sat at the edge of the tub, massaging the sculptor’s sore
neck and shoulders. Under his hands, Louis felt himself become something
better, more refined—as if the model was a kind of sculptor himself. When the
water had cooled, the model led Louis to bed and gave him another gentle kiss,
and the artist once again slipped into a blissful sleep full of nothingness.

           It
went on like that for a week. A day and a night of work, a day and a night of
seemingly drugged slumber. Louis was on fire, happier than he had ever been in
his life. His work was extraordinary, glowing with the light of genius.

           One
day, mid afternoon, Louis was surprised to feel himself stopped, again, by a
hand on his shoulder. He was even more startled to glance out the window and
see the sun still high in the sky.

           The
model stood over him, beaming.

           “Stop,
you silly man,” he commanded. “Can’t you see that it’s already perfect?”

           In
a daze, Louis glanced up, and saw that it was. He was kneeling at the statue’s
feet, detailing a serpent that ran around the base of the pedestal. The marble
eyes of the devil stared down at him, their gaze somehow penetrating despite their
blankness. Their regard led the way down a magnificent body, lovingly detailed.
Every centimeter of it had been rendered flawlessly, and polished to a smooth
radiance that nearly hurt to look at.

           Over
him stood the original of this perfect copy, and his smile was incandescent.

           Louis
felt tears come to his eyes.

           “I
don’t want to stop,” he whispered. “I can’t give you up.”

           The
model squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. His fingers were still painfully hot,
but Louis had grown used to that burning touch, and to the scorch marks it left
on him.

           “You
have to stop, Louis, or ruin your most perfect work.”

           Louis
nodded, unable to deny it. Now that he looked at the thing in its entirety, he
realized the model had stopped him just in time. A single stroke more would
have marred it.

           “You
will always be mine,” came the voice from above him, and once again Louis heard
thunder and rain. “But not in the way you fear. Poor Louis,” he continued, as
the grew louder, “Your father is so cruel to you, as mine was to me. Do not
fear. You will never have to meet my father. You will join me in the shade,
beneath the tree of knowledge.”

           “It
is you, isn’t it?” Louis murmured in wonder.

           Behind
him, he heard the rush of air as the mighty wings spread.

           “You
want to keep it for yourself. You don’t want it to go to the church. That is
fine, Louis. Such selfishness is no sin. Be patient, and I will come back to
you. I promise it.”

           Louis
closed his eyes and tilted back his head, and accepted, for one final time,
that burning kiss that consumed his consciousness.

           The
statue was at the cathedral that same day. No one saw the work crew come and
install it. It was simply there.

           The
Archbishop received word that the work was done, and was content. He sent Louis
his full payment, and a little extra. He did not even bother to come and see
it—at least, not at first.

           Soon
the atmosphere in the cathedral began to change. It began as a subtle shift—a dark
shimmer in the air, a little extra heat. Fewer offerings were strewn at the
feet of the Virgin, fewer candles burned by the hem of her stone skirts. The
flowers, the candles, the incense, and the praying devotees soon crowded around
the sublime statue of Lucifer instead.

           Men
came to church dressed as women, and women as men. They looked so natural, so
happy and content, that nobody would have noticed—save for the fact that they
recognized their neighbors. Here a farmer or a banker in a long skirt, there a
housewife in her husband’s breeches.

           The
priest got a child with the Mother Superior at a nearby convent. Both had to be
dismissed in disgrace. They were soon seen holding hands and gazing together at
the exquisitely carven face of the fallen one.

           It
was whispered that in the dark hours of the night, nude figures crowded into
the cathedral, a congregation far greater than had ever assembled there before.
The worshippers writhed together on the pews, or entwined in the aisles between
them. Incense burned and strange hymns were sung. Kisses were given and
received like the eucharist, sperm swallowed like communion wine. Neither the Archbishop
or the new Priest or any of the elders of the church were there to see it—or at
least, they claimed ignorance of the lascivious midnight masses, and tried to
dismiss the stories as wild rumors. But evidence was found, here and there—a
suspicious stain on an altar cloth, a smear on the pages of a Bible, a discarded
piece of underclothing draped over the Virgin’s shoulder.

           Something
had to be done.

           The
Archbishop had the statue removed and delivered back to Louis’ door less than
two weeks later.

           “Keep
your cursed sculpture,” read the accompanying note, “And the money too. You
have completed your commission all too well.”

           Louis
smiled as he read the brief missive, and a warm hand seemed to graze his cheek.

           In
the end, Gaspard got the coveted commission. His Lucifer was stormier in aspect.
His brow was furrowed, his expression grim. One hand tugging frantically at his
wild hair, and his ankle strained at a chain. The face of the statue, though,
looked familiar. Many speculated he had worked from the same model as his
brother.

           Not
long after, Gaspard was found dead and blinded. It seemed he had scratched his
own eyes out. Their father, overcome with grief, took fever and passed away in
early spring, leaving Louis sole heir of the family fortune.

           Louis
cared little about the money. He was drowning in commissions, so many that he
could happily pick and choose, accepting only the work that made his heart
sing.

           And
sometimes, as he worked, his masterpiece would stir, blinking an eye, or
stretching a wing. As soon as he looked directly at it again, the motion was
gone, and all returned to its place.

Except,
he could swear that the drape was forever slipping further and further down
those divine hips.