Fairytale- Painting the Sea
Title: Painting the Sea
Summary: A wandering painter scatters himself in his paintings. Can he ever put himself together again?
Warnings: Slash.
A/N: Pfffft. I've been writing this since the end of May and the last scenes have me flummoxed. I'll be glad to go back to Will and Ashley after that >.< I've also tried a random way of quoting dialogue with single quotes as opposed to double quotes. Hn. Stupid medieval book.
Current Word Count: ~13000
.::Painting the Sea::.
‘A portrait, if you are willing. For thirty golds; she is to leave home soon,’ the Earl said with a deep voice, ‘and I would like to have a reminder other than my failing memories.’
The sharp brown eyes were the only noteworthy thing in the thin face staring back at him. The painter’s clothes were threadbare, a linen undershirt made grey by too many washes peeking from under a heavier jerkin, which had most likely been stitched out of good leather but was now so thin it was a wonder it didn’t fall apart. A jacket stopped at his narrow hips, large wool fabric cut out without a thought for beauty or style, voluminous sleeves strapped skilfully at the fine-boned wrists.
But out of these faded and tattered garments peeked the most beautiful hands the Earl had ever seen; more beautiful even than his wife’s, and she was known over the realm for the most graceful limbs, even to the tip of her ten fingers. She cared for her hands the way some cared for their hair and others for their skin, purchasing more creams than he’d care to put a careful price on and slathering them in oil and unguents. But the painter’s hands… The Earl schooled his thoughts and tried reading the man before him, but to no avail. He’d learned from the Baron that the man before him took his time considering every request: from the solicitation for a painting to whether he wanted to eat or not, in the midst of his work.
And such a mousy man to create the beauty he had seen hanging in the Baron’s study. The Earl remained incredulous; the painter’s skill had yet to be tested, and the man wouldn’t see a single gold before the commission was finished. He didn’t care a whit the painter had to sustain himself the duration of the painting. It would teach him to be shabby and not answer at once!
‘You seem to have drifted, my lord,’ a rough voice startled the Earl out of his uncharitable contemplations. ‘I merely ask to meet the young lady before I come to a decision.’
The Earl raised an eyebrow even as he rang for a footman to go fetch his daughter. ‘I wasn’t aware you thought yourself permitted to refuse requests,’ he said, eyeing the painter’s garb haughtily.
‘Things are not always as they seem, my lord.’ Eyes much older than three and twenty years bore straight into him and he felt the painter weigh then dismiss him; the Earl knew he had been found lacking. Furious, with a dismissal on the tip of his tongue, he was stopped by the soft knocking on the door of his study: it was Celia. Bidding his daughter to enter, his stern features softened at her sight. She was turning eighteen this summer, and balls had already been planned to introduce her to the world. As much as the Earl knew she had reached the age most would consider marriage-able, he couldn’t bear to think his flower would soon belong to another. He loved her so, and to know she would leave… Sometimes, it was more than he thought he could bear.
‘My lady.’ It was as if the clothes had disappeared; in the place of the shabby painter stood royalty, the bow perfect and the kiss on Celia’s white hand proper and more respectful than all the nobles he had presented to her yet. There was no lust in the painter’s eyes, just reverence.
Reverence.
The Earl’s breath caught as his daughter giggled and a small smile bloomed on the painter’s lips and he saw his daughter, the apple of his eye, blush prettily then introduce herself. There was no trace of the nervous wreck she had been when Baron Londale had visited, and where she had tripped and made an unfortunate mess of herself. His Celia, oh how he loved her so.
‘My lord, you’ll have the painting two weeks whence. Do I need to ask for a preferred location?’ There was this rough voice again but the eyes had thawed, and the painter’s hand was still grasping Celia’s, holding her limb high and up to her shoulder as she was treated by the painter the way one treats a queen. Celia was beaming.
Just then, the Earl knew what kind of man he would gladly entrust his daughter to.
Exactly two weeks later, Celia’s portrait graced his study, and never had any rendition of her wrenched his heart as this one did. It was so vivid it was as if it were real: Celia’s golden hair was loose, her painted eyes a blue so pale it seemed the sky had drowned in them. Her skin seemed as soft on the canvas as it did when he stroked her cheeks after other nobles had made her cry-for she was a nervous and clumsy thing, his poor Celia, when confronted with others that were as ruthless as she was kind-and her rosy lips were parted in the small smile he had thought only he was privy to.
It seemed painter Serr had reached his daughter, had seen a part of her no other painter, none other than him, her father, knew she possessed.
Serr also left the first shadows in his daughter’s eyes. The Earl couldn’t say how he knew, but as he passed a fifty gold pouch to painter Serr who thanked him quietly and wouldn’t even check the amount, he was certain Celia had just lived and lost her first love. And it was a first love he could only have wished upon his daughter, for he knew such pure emotion was as rare as the pair of hands that had painted his Celia.
The sentiment was white and pure, with none of the baser instinct characteristic of mankind. It was a deep respect tinged with affection and warmth, and he doubted the painter saw a woman in Celia-only a beautiful being, inside and out. For a moment, the Earl wondered if painter Serr even knew of the baser instincts; it seemed the man was so far removed from carnal pleasures, from any pleasures. He barely ate, spoke only when necessary, and too much of his time was spent with his smudged fingers running over a piece of paper. The Earl had heard he had refused many a painting to other peers of the realm after meeting the potential subject, heedless of their anger or how much coin he lost in consequence.
He was otherworldly.
The Earl was only sad painter Serr’s emotions did not inhabit his body, and only inhabited his work; even he in his deliberate obtuseness regarding such manners couldn’t help but notice it. He couldn’t begin to imagine what it would be like to abandon a part of yourself to a strange and unknown household.
Was it possible for one to run out of sentiments? For painter Serr’s sake, he hoped not with a fervour that surprised him; seldom did anything elicit such a passionate response these days, at six and fifty, if it wasn’t related to Celia in some way. As he gifted Serr with newer garments and a warmer jacket, smoothing the fabric over the thin frame while he bid the painter goodbye, he couldn’t help but extend an invitation to the man: his house would be open to painter Serr should he ever need solace.
‘Would you write once at the change of the season? I know Celia would be very pleased to hear from you.’
‘I wander, my lord,’ replied the painter. The Earl was certain this was a polite rebuttal, but his daughter suddenly knocked and came in with her head held high. It seemed even she couldn’t deny the love radiating from the painting, and the Earl knew it made her feel beautiful.
‘Please write,’ she told him, eyes melancholic but only a little. ‘I would like it very much to see you again someday, Serr.’ The name rolled off her tongue easily as he grasped her hand delicately and kissed the back of it, eyes shining. He agreed to the letters and left, Celia’s heart breaking just for a moment. ‘He’s very beautiful, Papa,’ she told her father.
‘Yes, that he is,’ answered the Earl, embracing his daughter tightly. ‘And he saw you just as beautiful as I know you are.’
It took only a few months before suitors were at the door of his study, asking for Lady Celia’s hand after seeing the portrait. But it was years before another man walked through the study door with a hint of a sad smile tugging at his lips as he gazed at the painting. ‘He does paint them rather exquisitely, does he not?’ he murmured, his voice echoing in the study after he introduced himself.
‘Would you like to meet my daughter, sir Alexis?’ the Earl inquired calmly, rising to ring for the footman.
The wedding was celebrated a year later.
From the moment the painting hung in the Earl’s study, it took Serr twelve years to finally find solace with the Earl and his daughter again.
.::.
Serr hummed as he nursed his glass of water, the barkeep throwing him foul looks from afar. His free hand went instinctively to the ragged-looking piece of paper he had laid out in front of him, his last charcoal stick dwindling as he captured the stale and dark atmosphere of the little inn he had stumbled upon. He had just enough silver for a room tonight and new supplies, the rest having gone to old and too young beggars who had too often crossed his path. Mayhap it was time for another commission. Yes, mayhap.
Serr sighed, but just a little; it wouldn’t be fair, for he had never painted a being he hadn’t wanted to. Yes, his fussiness did make him lose his fair share of work, but… He wondered if Auba looked upon him with pride, wherever she was now. Not that he believed she was anywhere; his beloved sister was dead.
Well, he was mostly sure of that. But best was not to dwell on it; the memories were nothing but bitter and still tasted acidic whenever they came to the forefront of his mind. Not that he let them, usually. Just… As of today, it would have been a decade since his departure from home to go paint the world. And true to his word, he would pour every last bit of love he possessed into canvases and sheets he would most likely never see again. By the end of his travels, he would be empty.
But he had promised. For the sake of Auba and the man she had loved, he would continue on his journey to the sea, painting the world outside the walls of the park that had sheltered both of them for the first fifteen years of his life.
Serr chuckled, bitter; these reminiscences were going nowhere. Best was for him to find his bed for the night then set upon looking for work on the morrow.
He just wished the ache in his chest would leave.
Making his way to the rooms with his supply case-it was the only thing he had left, and it was almost as empty as his stomach-he undressed just enough to be comfortable, tucking his outer clothing under his torso and his supply case at arm’s length before burrowing under the old but clean sheets. The past week had been a difficult one, what with making his way from the past city to this new town, and sleep had not trouble finding him.
He was rudely awoken as the day broke, the rickety frame of his bed rattling under the innkeeper’s kick. ‘Up, there’s a missive and a footman for yer! Says he dun’ wanna wait.’
Serr scrambled up, throwing on his clothes and dunking his head in a bucket of cold water, then chewed on a mint leaf as he hastened down the stairs. Very few knew of his whimsical path through the world, or what little of the land he would be able to see with the coin he made, and he wrote to no one but Celia. He worried over the meaning of this as he spied the footman, a look of boredom etched across his features, rap his knuckles over the wooden counter.
‘Where is sir Serr, innkeeper?’ the man asked, irritated and not turning around.
‘Tis I. To whom do I have the honour, sir?’ Serr frowned. He didn’t like the air put on by nobility, it reminded him much of times long past, to which his back was now gladly turned. Well, ‘gladly’… That remained to be seen. But then, the situation was complicated to the six hells and back. He had hated home with a passion unequal to any other and yet, it had been refuge to the light of his life: it had been house to his Auba, his beautiful, beautiful Auba. He could have lived in the marshes and found them pleasing had he been with her. But home had also seen her leave him, leave all of them, to go join what her sixteen-year-old heart had seen as true love.
No one could know now if it had been. But Serr supposed she had seen the man as her salvation, her deliverance from a forced marriage, a scheming father and a dying mother… And one predator, who had brought on all the above to entrap her, as one slowly weaves a web destined solely for that single butterfly.
Serr also knew Auba had been the only one in the eyes of the one she had loved, the court’s painter who had seen her and had not been able to look elsewhere; if there was any redemption from those times, it would be that Serr was confident in his knowledge of that.
‘Have you not heard me, dratted painter? My lord demands a swift answer!’
Serr shook his head to dispel his train of thought and concentrated on the matter at hand. ‘Your master de Aislin would like to commission a portrait. What I do not understand is why he would have me fetched when not even the fowls are up.’
The footman sniffed. ‘He is to leave today on an important mission. For the King,’ at that it seemed the footman’s nose went up even higher, ‘and he has insisted upon you when it was known you were making your way towards him.’
Serr refrained from asking where the noble had obtained anything regarding his current whereabouts. Lady Celia was the only one he was currently corresponding with, and only four times a year at that. It didn’t really matter in any case: what mattered was his lack of coin and the opportunity that had just presented itself. He would do well to scope it out.
He would refuse it if it wasn’t to his liking. It would still mean more than a fortnight on the streets or in the forest, but he would manage. In truth… he still had enough silver for new supplies. If he accepted the demand, he would request supplies and hoard his coin for later times.
Still pondering, Serr followed the grumbling footman out. Dawn was breaking and the early morning sky was such a wondrous blend of colours he had to stop, taking out his last sheet of paper and some charcoal, sketching the heavens with quick, sure strokes.
For all the faults of its inhabitants, the world was indeed beautiful.
The footman didn’t seem of a mind to indulge him; berating him soundly and dismissing his running fingers, he led the way to a large house right at the heart of the now waking town. It was part of the wealthy residential area although it was not a mansion by any means.
‘This is my master’s pied-à-terre in the city, sir painter,’ commented the footman as if reading Serr’s thoughts. He led them through the back and into bustling kitchens, ignoring the elaborate front door carved out of heavy oak. ‘Would you like to… refresh yourself, painter Serr?’ asked the footman while staring at him from his messy brown hair to his only pair of old and dirty leather boots.
‘I do not require refreshment. Where would you have me meet your master?’
‘He is waiting in the drawing room. If you would follow me,’ the footman set out through long hallways decorated with rich woodcarvings that looked familiar. Ah. The court’s carver had not changed then, or mayhap this was the work of the man’s apprentice. The de Aislin could only be wealthy, to have these panels fitted after being transported from the First City.
‘Painter Serr, I thought you would have been offered a chance to refresh.’ The tall man that greeted Serr towered over him, completely at ease surrounded by the gaudiest objects imaginable. The drawing room was in shades of green, from the olive walls to the large, glaucous and indecently comfortable chairs Serr was invited to.
‘It seems you are in a hurry, your grace. You sent for me?’ Serr’s voice was toneless, a niggling feeling he couldn’t shake spreading through him the more he was in the presence of the Count. The man’s beady eyes did not inspire confidence, and the authoritarian contempt shrouding him was heavy and tasted sour at the back of Serr’ mouth.
‘Yes, yes. I would like a portrait of my wife. I am to spend more time at the castle, you see, our King has asked for me specifically,’ Gerard de Aislin preened, the pride in his voice covering disdain for just a moment. ‘I am to be gone for three weeks, and would like to take the painting with me to my quarters in the City when I return for a visit. Name your price.’
‘I would request meeting the Lady first, your grace.’
De Aislin looked flummoxed, and Serr barely restrained a snort. Yes, the man had reined his curiosity in when asking about (or sneering about) the sorry state of Serr’s garb, but really. He had winced as Serr sat, his face set in a grimace for all of a second. It was a second too long, and Serr was of half-a-mind to refuse the commission because if the woman he were to paint was akin to the same woman who had decorated this place, she would most likely be a dire character indeed.
She wasn’t. On both counts.
Serr later reflected, as he met the Countess and the Count set off, that he was really losing his touch. A decade ago he would have sniffed the scandal a mile away. The Countess was a pretty thing, a tumble of brown hair atop a heart-shaped face set with large hazel eyes. She was at least twenty years the Count’s junior, if not five and twenty. Barely out of her mother’s skirts.
It was the hopeless resignation in those eyes that prompted him to accept the request. For seventy golds, of course, and new supplies he would be free to choose himself and which would be funded by the Count.
Serr learned, as she poured flavoured tea in two cups on the small terrace adjoined to the house, that she had recently married the man after being courted quite doggedly. The Count had worn down her parents (‘No one refuses him, painter Serr, you must understand,’) and she had finally been given away as she turned twenty. ‘T’was five years ago. He has always treated me correctly, if pushed me aside when I tried a little advising. He does not listen,’ she laughed bitterly, ‘and sometimes I wonder… But I have all the books I request, roof and food and shelter, and I need only lay still when it is time for my duty to be fulfilled. I have heard… Nay, I know others are not as lucky.’
Sometimes all it took was a listening ear for a woman to pour her heart out. Serr kept quiet as the Countess took a breath, and promised himself to warn her. It wouldn’t do for her to speak out loud as such; what if he hadn’t been but a lowly painter? This kind of talk could spell endless trouble for her, especially if her husband was who Serr thought he was. It had been so long; his memory was failing indeed. ‘I agree, my lady. Only-’ Serr paused at that, then figured he had already damned his tongue anyways. Ten years were enough to break him of his educational restraints.
‘Please feel free to speak, painter Serr.’ She truly was a jewel, mouth set into a determined line and her eyes dry, curious but a little wary.
‘I find that going with your heart’s desire cannot compare. Of course, since I’ve turned of age, I’ve only lived the life I’ve chosen for myself. But years ago-’ Serr’s voice caught in his throat and he coughed a little before continuing. ‘Years ago I made the choice that led me to be what I am today, and I left a life behind.’
‘You left… a life?’
Serr smiled. ‘It was difficult. I do not know whether I’d make the same choice again, given my knowledge today.’
She looked at him knowingly. ‘Forgive my brashness, but do not think there’s even a remote chance you wouldn’t.’
Serr blinked, then flushed. They were approximately the same age, he surmised, mayhap he was a few years older, and yet… How far life had brought him, and how different he was now. A life like hers… Yes, it was likely he would still have been a puppet subject to his sire’s whims and fancies, his mother no longer present to temper him. ‘Ah, my lady-’
‘None of this, painter Serr. Please, call me Breacadh.’
Serr started so badly tea sloshed out of his cup. His voice was rough as he gulped down the lukewarm infusion and stood up, asking her where she would like to spend a few hours so he could sketch a few charcoal roughs.
She didn’t ask. She thought few were the men who understood her name, and even fewer were the painters who seemed unsettled by it.
It was food for thought.
.::.
To Part II
Summary: A wandering painter scatters himself in his paintings. Can he ever put himself together again?
Warnings: Slash.
A/N: Pfffft. I've been writing this since the end of May and the last scenes have me flummoxed. I'll be glad to go back to Will and Ashley after that >.< I've also tried a random way of quoting dialogue with single quotes as opposed to double quotes. Hn. Stupid medieval book.
Current Word Count: ~13000
.::Painting the Sea::.
‘A portrait, if you are willing. For thirty golds; she is to leave home soon,’ the Earl said with a deep voice, ‘and I would like to have a reminder other than my failing memories.’
The sharp brown eyes were the only noteworthy thing in the thin face staring back at him. The painter’s clothes were threadbare, a linen undershirt made grey by too many washes peeking from under a heavier jerkin, which had most likely been stitched out of good leather but was now so thin it was a wonder it didn’t fall apart. A jacket stopped at his narrow hips, large wool fabric cut out without a thought for beauty or style, voluminous sleeves strapped skilfully at the fine-boned wrists.
But out of these faded and tattered garments peeked the most beautiful hands the Earl had ever seen; more beautiful even than his wife’s, and she was known over the realm for the most graceful limbs, even to the tip of her ten fingers. She cared for her hands the way some cared for their hair and others for their skin, purchasing more creams than he’d care to put a careful price on and slathering them in oil and unguents. But the painter’s hands… The Earl schooled his thoughts and tried reading the man before him, but to no avail. He’d learned from the Baron that the man before him took his time considering every request: from the solicitation for a painting to whether he wanted to eat or not, in the midst of his work.
And such a mousy man to create the beauty he had seen hanging in the Baron’s study. The Earl remained incredulous; the painter’s skill had yet to be tested, and the man wouldn’t see a single gold before the commission was finished. He didn’t care a whit the painter had to sustain himself the duration of the painting. It would teach him to be shabby and not answer at once!
‘You seem to have drifted, my lord,’ a rough voice startled the Earl out of his uncharitable contemplations. ‘I merely ask to meet the young lady before I come to a decision.’
The Earl raised an eyebrow even as he rang for a footman to go fetch his daughter. ‘I wasn’t aware you thought yourself permitted to refuse requests,’ he said, eyeing the painter’s garb haughtily.
‘Things are not always as they seem, my lord.’ Eyes much older than three and twenty years bore straight into him and he felt the painter weigh then dismiss him; the Earl knew he had been found lacking. Furious, with a dismissal on the tip of his tongue, he was stopped by the soft knocking on the door of his study: it was Celia. Bidding his daughter to enter, his stern features softened at her sight. She was turning eighteen this summer, and balls had already been planned to introduce her to the world. As much as the Earl knew she had reached the age most would consider marriage-able, he couldn’t bear to think his flower would soon belong to another. He loved her so, and to know she would leave… Sometimes, it was more than he thought he could bear.
‘My lady.’ It was as if the clothes had disappeared; in the place of the shabby painter stood royalty, the bow perfect and the kiss on Celia’s white hand proper and more respectful than all the nobles he had presented to her yet. There was no lust in the painter’s eyes, just reverence.
Reverence.
The Earl’s breath caught as his daughter giggled and a small smile bloomed on the painter’s lips and he saw his daughter, the apple of his eye, blush prettily then introduce herself. There was no trace of the nervous wreck she had been when Baron Londale had visited, and where she had tripped and made an unfortunate mess of herself. His Celia, oh how he loved her so.
‘My lord, you’ll have the painting two weeks whence. Do I need to ask for a preferred location?’ There was this rough voice again but the eyes had thawed, and the painter’s hand was still grasping Celia’s, holding her limb high and up to her shoulder as she was treated by the painter the way one treats a queen. Celia was beaming.
Just then, the Earl knew what kind of man he would gladly entrust his daughter to.
Exactly two weeks later, Celia’s portrait graced his study, and never had any rendition of her wrenched his heart as this one did. It was so vivid it was as if it were real: Celia’s golden hair was loose, her painted eyes a blue so pale it seemed the sky had drowned in them. Her skin seemed as soft on the canvas as it did when he stroked her cheeks after other nobles had made her cry-for she was a nervous and clumsy thing, his poor Celia, when confronted with others that were as ruthless as she was kind-and her rosy lips were parted in the small smile he had thought only he was privy to.
It seemed painter Serr had reached his daughter, had seen a part of her no other painter, none other than him, her father, knew she possessed.
Serr also left the first shadows in his daughter’s eyes. The Earl couldn’t say how he knew, but as he passed a fifty gold pouch to painter Serr who thanked him quietly and wouldn’t even check the amount, he was certain Celia had just lived and lost her first love. And it was a first love he could only have wished upon his daughter, for he knew such pure emotion was as rare as the pair of hands that had painted his Celia.
The sentiment was white and pure, with none of the baser instinct characteristic of mankind. It was a deep respect tinged with affection and warmth, and he doubted the painter saw a woman in Celia-only a beautiful being, inside and out. For a moment, the Earl wondered if painter Serr even knew of the baser instincts; it seemed the man was so far removed from carnal pleasures, from any pleasures. He barely ate, spoke only when necessary, and too much of his time was spent with his smudged fingers running over a piece of paper. The Earl had heard he had refused many a painting to other peers of the realm after meeting the potential subject, heedless of their anger or how much coin he lost in consequence.
He was otherworldly.
The Earl was only sad painter Serr’s emotions did not inhabit his body, and only inhabited his work; even he in his deliberate obtuseness regarding such manners couldn’t help but notice it. He couldn’t begin to imagine what it would be like to abandon a part of yourself to a strange and unknown household.
Was it possible for one to run out of sentiments? For painter Serr’s sake, he hoped not with a fervour that surprised him; seldom did anything elicit such a passionate response these days, at six and fifty, if it wasn’t related to Celia in some way. As he gifted Serr with newer garments and a warmer jacket, smoothing the fabric over the thin frame while he bid the painter goodbye, he couldn’t help but extend an invitation to the man: his house would be open to painter Serr should he ever need solace.
‘Would you write once at the change of the season? I know Celia would be very pleased to hear from you.’
‘I wander, my lord,’ replied the painter. The Earl was certain this was a polite rebuttal, but his daughter suddenly knocked and came in with her head held high. It seemed even she couldn’t deny the love radiating from the painting, and the Earl knew it made her feel beautiful.
‘Please write,’ she told him, eyes melancholic but only a little. ‘I would like it very much to see you again someday, Serr.’ The name rolled off her tongue easily as he grasped her hand delicately and kissed the back of it, eyes shining. He agreed to the letters and left, Celia’s heart breaking just for a moment. ‘He’s very beautiful, Papa,’ she told her father.
‘Yes, that he is,’ answered the Earl, embracing his daughter tightly. ‘And he saw you just as beautiful as I know you are.’
It took only a few months before suitors were at the door of his study, asking for Lady Celia’s hand after seeing the portrait. But it was years before another man walked through the study door with a hint of a sad smile tugging at his lips as he gazed at the painting. ‘He does paint them rather exquisitely, does he not?’ he murmured, his voice echoing in the study after he introduced himself.
‘Would you like to meet my daughter, sir Alexis?’ the Earl inquired calmly, rising to ring for the footman.
The wedding was celebrated a year later.
From the moment the painting hung in the Earl’s study, it took Serr twelve years to finally find solace with the Earl and his daughter again.
.::.
Serr hummed as he nursed his glass of water, the barkeep throwing him foul looks from afar. His free hand went instinctively to the ragged-looking piece of paper he had laid out in front of him, his last charcoal stick dwindling as he captured the stale and dark atmosphere of the little inn he had stumbled upon. He had just enough silver for a room tonight and new supplies, the rest having gone to old and too young beggars who had too often crossed his path. Mayhap it was time for another commission. Yes, mayhap.
Serr sighed, but just a little; it wouldn’t be fair, for he had never painted a being he hadn’t wanted to. Yes, his fussiness did make him lose his fair share of work, but… He wondered if Auba looked upon him with pride, wherever she was now. Not that he believed she was anywhere; his beloved sister was dead.
Well, he was mostly sure of that. But best was not to dwell on it; the memories were nothing but bitter and still tasted acidic whenever they came to the forefront of his mind. Not that he let them, usually. Just… As of today, it would have been a decade since his departure from home to go paint the world. And true to his word, he would pour every last bit of love he possessed into canvases and sheets he would most likely never see again. By the end of his travels, he would be empty.
But he had promised. For the sake of Auba and the man she had loved, he would continue on his journey to the sea, painting the world outside the walls of the park that had sheltered both of them for the first fifteen years of his life.
Serr chuckled, bitter; these reminiscences were going nowhere. Best was for him to find his bed for the night then set upon looking for work on the morrow.
He just wished the ache in his chest would leave.
Making his way to the rooms with his supply case-it was the only thing he had left, and it was almost as empty as his stomach-he undressed just enough to be comfortable, tucking his outer clothing under his torso and his supply case at arm’s length before burrowing under the old but clean sheets. The past week had been a difficult one, what with making his way from the past city to this new town, and sleep had not trouble finding him.
He was rudely awoken as the day broke, the rickety frame of his bed rattling under the innkeeper’s kick. ‘Up, there’s a missive and a footman for yer! Says he dun’ wanna wait.’
Serr scrambled up, throwing on his clothes and dunking his head in a bucket of cold water, then chewed on a mint leaf as he hastened down the stairs. Very few knew of his whimsical path through the world, or what little of the land he would be able to see with the coin he made, and he wrote to no one but Celia. He worried over the meaning of this as he spied the footman, a look of boredom etched across his features, rap his knuckles over the wooden counter.
‘Where is sir Serr, innkeeper?’ the man asked, irritated and not turning around.
‘Tis I. To whom do I have the honour, sir?’ Serr frowned. He didn’t like the air put on by nobility, it reminded him much of times long past, to which his back was now gladly turned. Well, ‘gladly’… That remained to be seen. But then, the situation was complicated to the six hells and back. He had hated home with a passion unequal to any other and yet, it had been refuge to the light of his life: it had been house to his Auba, his beautiful, beautiful Auba. He could have lived in the marshes and found them pleasing had he been with her. But home had also seen her leave him, leave all of them, to go join what her sixteen-year-old heart had seen as true love.
No one could know now if it had been. But Serr supposed she had seen the man as her salvation, her deliverance from a forced marriage, a scheming father and a dying mother… And one predator, who had brought on all the above to entrap her, as one slowly weaves a web destined solely for that single butterfly.
Serr also knew Auba had been the only one in the eyes of the one she had loved, the court’s painter who had seen her and had not been able to look elsewhere; if there was any redemption from those times, it would be that Serr was confident in his knowledge of that.
‘Have you not heard me, dratted painter? My lord demands a swift answer!’
Serr shook his head to dispel his train of thought and concentrated on the matter at hand. ‘Your master de Aislin would like to commission a portrait. What I do not understand is why he would have me fetched when not even the fowls are up.’
The footman sniffed. ‘He is to leave today on an important mission. For the King,’ at that it seemed the footman’s nose went up even higher, ‘and he has insisted upon you when it was known you were making your way towards him.’
Serr refrained from asking where the noble had obtained anything regarding his current whereabouts. Lady Celia was the only one he was currently corresponding with, and only four times a year at that. It didn’t really matter in any case: what mattered was his lack of coin and the opportunity that had just presented itself. He would do well to scope it out.
He would refuse it if it wasn’t to his liking. It would still mean more than a fortnight on the streets or in the forest, but he would manage. In truth… he still had enough silver for new supplies. If he accepted the demand, he would request supplies and hoard his coin for later times.
Still pondering, Serr followed the grumbling footman out. Dawn was breaking and the early morning sky was such a wondrous blend of colours he had to stop, taking out his last sheet of paper and some charcoal, sketching the heavens with quick, sure strokes.
For all the faults of its inhabitants, the world was indeed beautiful.
The footman didn’t seem of a mind to indulge him; berating him soundly and dismissing his running fingers, he led the way to a large house right at the heart of the now waking town. It was part of the wealthy residential area although it was not a mansion by any means.
‘This is my master’s pied-à-terre in the city, sir painter,’ commented the footman as if reading Serr’s thoughts. He led them through the back and into bustling kitchens, ignoring the elaborate front door carved out of heavy oak. ‘Would you like to… refresh yourself, painter Serr?’ asked the footman while staring at him from his messy brown hair to his only pair of old and dirty leather boots.
‘I do not require refreshment. Where would you have me meet your master?’
‘He is waiting in the drawing room. If you would follow me,’ the footman set out through long hallways decorated with rich woodcarvings that looked familiar. Ah. The court’s carver had not changed then, or mayhap this was the work of the man’s apprentice. The de Aislin could only be wealthy, to have these panels fitted after being transported from the First City.
‘Painter Serr, I thought you would have been offered a chance to refresh.’ The tall man that greeted Serr towered over him, completely at ease surrounded by the gaudiest objects imaginable. The drawing room was in shades of green, from the olive walls to the large, glaucous and indecently comfortable chairs Serr was invited to.
‘It seems you are in a hurry, your grace. You sent for me?’ Serr’s voice was toneless, a niggling feeling he couldn’t shake spreading through him the more he was in the presence of the Count. The man’s beady eyes did not inspire confidence, and the authoritarian contempt shrouding him was heavy and tasted sour at the back of Serr’ mouth.
‘Yes, yes. I would like a portrait of my wife. I am to spend more time at the castle, you see, our King has asked for me specifically,’ Gerard de Aislin preened, the pride in his voice covering disdain for just a moment. ‘I am to be gone for three weeks, and would like to take the painting with me to my quarters in the City when I return for a visit. Name your price.’
‘I would request meeting the Lady first, your grace.’
De Aislin looked flummoxed, and Serr barely restrained a snort. Yes, the man had reined his curiosity in when asking about (or sneering about) the sorry state of Serr’s garb, but really. He had winced as Serr sat, his face set in a grimace for all of a second. It was a second too long, and Serr was of half-a-mind to refuse the commission because if the woman he were to paint was akin to the same woman who had decorated this place, she would most likely be a dire character indeed.
She wasn’t. On both counts.
Serr later reflected, as he met the Countess and the Count set off, that he was really losing his touch. A decade ago he would have sniffed the scandal a mile away. The Countess was a pretty thing, a tumble of brown hair atop a heart-shaped face set with large hazel eyes. She was at least twenty years the Count’s junior, if not five and twenty. Barely out of her mother’s skirts.
It was the hopeless resignation in those eyes that prompted him to accept the request. For seventy golds, of course, and new supplies he would be free to choose himself and which would be funded by the Count.
Serr learned, as she poured flavoured tea in two cups on the small terrace adjoined to the house, that she had recently married the man after being courted quite doggedly. The Count had worn down her parents (‘No one refuses him, painter Serr, you must understand,’) and she had finally been given away as she turned twenty. ‘T’was five years ago. He has always treated me correctly, if pushed me aside when I tried a little advising. He does not listen,’ she laughed bitterly, ‘and sometimes I wonder… But I have all the books I request, roof and food and shelter, and I need only lay still when it is time for my duty to be fulfilled. I have heard… Nay, I know others are not as lucky.’
Sometimes all it took was a listening ear for a woman to pour her heart out. Serr kept quiet as the Countess took a breath, and promised himself to warn her. It wouldn’t do for her to speak out loud as such; what if he hadn’t been but a lowly painter? This kind of talk could spell endless trouble for her, especially if her husband was who Serr thought he was. It had been so long; his memory was failing indeed. ‘I agree, my lady. Only-’ Serr paused at that, then figured he had already damned his tongue anyways. Ten years were enough to break him of his educational restraints.
‘Please feel free to speak, painter Serr.’ She truly was a jewel, mouth set into a determined line and her eyes dry, curious but a little wary.
‘I find that going with your heart’s desire cannot compare. Of course, since I’ve turned of age, I’ve only lived the life I’ve chosen for myself. But years ago-’ Serr’s voice caught in his throat and he coughed a little before continuing. ‘Years ago I made the choice that led me to be what I am today, and I left a life behind.’
‘You left… a life?’
Serr smiled. ‘It was difficult. I do not know whether I’d make the same choice again, given my knowledge today.’
She looked at him knowingly. ‘Forgive my brashness, but do not think there’s even a remote chance you wouldn’t.’
Serr blinked, then flushed. They were approximately the same age, he surmised, mayhap he was a few years older, and yet… How far life had brought him, and how different he was now. A life like hers… Yes, it was likely he would still have been a puppet subject to his sire’s whims and fancies, his mother no longer present to temper him. ‘Ah, my lady-’
‘None of this, painter Serr. Please, call me Breacadh.’
Serr started so badly tea sloshed out of his cup. His voice was rough as he gulped down the lukewarm infusion and stood up, asking her where she would like to spend a few hours so he could sketch a few charcoal roughs.
She didn’t ask. She thought few were the men who understood her name, and even fewer were the painters who seemed unsettled by it.
It was food for thought.
.::.
To Part II