Obsession

Her fingers itched to caress his face. She closed them into a fist and resisted the urge to stroke his hard cheekbones, his chiseled chin, the expanse of his neck. It was difficult, seeing him in person. She'd seen pictures, of course. She'd devoured the books. She knew every minute detail, except how he'd feel under her hands.

He'd always fascinated her. Something about his eyes called to her. They were sad, resigned to his fate. The first time she'd stared into them, they'd leaped off the page as if she, and only she, could save him. She knew it was impossible, irrational even, but still she found herself returning to his photos, secreted under the mattress of her tiny bed.

Now she was close enough to touch him. Close enough to ease his pain.

People around her ebbed and flowed. Her feet stayed planted to the ground as people jostled, jockeying for position. They called to each other, "Did you see? Do you know who that is?"

She felt anger simmer low in her belly. They didn't know him the way she did. They didn't understand him the way she did.

Gradually, the crowds thinned until they were nearly alone. She leaned a bit over the soft velvet rope, taking care not to let it swing and alert the lingerers. She reached out with one hand. Just a small touch. He'd never know. He'd never recognize a stranger's touch. Not with all the people who surrounded him day after day. No one would know. No one except her.

She'd know that her fingers had brushed his cheek. She'd cherish the feel of it as she lay in bed at night. She'd float on the memory of it as she walked the gray lined maze of her gray lined job. She would know that, for a moment, she'd touched greatness.

He was stone cold under her hand. It was a coldness that seeped through her arm until she could feel it slow her heart. The pain she'd seen in his eyes sliced through her, making her cry out for him. Her eyes filled with tears. She'd had no idea the depth of his loss.

"What are you doing? Get away from there!"

She spun her head at the sound of footsteps running towards her.

She turned to look at him again, where her hand still lay against his cheek. She looked into his eyes and felt something shift.

A hand grabbed her waist, tried to pull her away, but she refused to budge. She leaned forward, her body supported by velvet and lay both hands on either cheek.

A slow warmth began under her hands. The hands grabbing her waist dropped. Vaguely she was aware of the cries of alarm. She shut them out and closed her eyes, pushing all of her love into him. The warmth turned to heat until with a cry she dropped her stinging hands. She felt hands under her elbows support her.

She opened her eyes and stared into a blue so dark it was almost black.

"I knew you'd come," his voice was harsh with disuse. "I  knew you'd release me."

She struggled to speak. Her mind refused to see what stood before her.

"But first," he looked at the crowd surrounding him. He lifted a hand sending a bolt from one long finger. A scream rent the air as the crowd raced for the exit. "That one was not worthy to touch you."

Her mouth dropped open at the body motionless on the grass. It was one of the curators who had led tours of school children to see the great statue of a god so ancient he did not have a name. Horror filled her. "What have I done?" she whispered.

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This is a bit of fiction prompted by this week's Write at the Merge prompt from Write on Edge. There was a picture of a stone head that gave me the idea of a living statue. Now that I've finished this bit, I have to wonder...is he good or evil?