Painting the Sea-Part II
Part I
‘My lords. Please leave. Her ladyship is getting flustered.’ It took all Serr had not to growl the words.
‘Now isn’t this sweet? Take a look, Alexis, Mother here is flustered.’ It was scorn, mockery and contempt all rolled into a few well-chosen words. Serr now understood in no uncertain terms the hopelessness that wouldn’t leave Lady Brea’s gaze. Akin to hers, it seemed his own hopelessness when it came to the de Aislin lineage had settled in his chest: damn his penchant to beauty.
Lady Brea was five and twenty, and had married a man with two sons from a previous marriage. Sons who, quite evidently, were older than her in years. The Lady and him had barely sat in the garden for him to do a quick study of her features that two men had emerged, one quite obviously returning from a horseback ride and the other freshly awoken.
It was a wonder the Lady hadn’t been courted by those two, Serr thought wryly as his breath caught at their sight, and that she had ended up with the father. Mayhap one of the sons had seen her first and reported back to his sire, and then he… Serr was most certain it had all unfolded that way and the Count was proving more and more despicable. The dratted man could not take no for an answer. What he wanted, he usually got.
Serr remembered the one thing the man had been denied a decade ago: both royal heirs. The Count had been refused the Princess (Serr was not certain he had, in reality, requested her hand. A Count was no match for a Princess in standing, after all,) and he had tried to make the Prince submit, at dusk, after having imbibed too much alcohol at one function or the other.
Thankfully, it had only been once. And the court’s painter most likely hadn’t suspected, but he had been the diversion that had allowed the Prince to get away.
It was a shame the sons seemed to take after their sire in their ruffian behaviours.
‘Painter, are you requesting time with Lady Brea? Alone? You are bolder than we have given you credit for-’
‘Please, Theodric!’ It was amazing how the Countess managed to sound offended and outraged and pleading at the same time. Yes, she must possess an iron will to withstand such insinuations daily.
Especially as neither lords were difficult on the eyes, obviously not taking after their father on this account. Both were tall, dark-haired, with eyes to match (or so Serr speculated as he couldn’t get a good look). They were broad-shouldered and powerful and wore the finest spun garments available: silk, wool and leather that enhanced their frames, the clothing tailored and in every way flattering the hard planes of their bodies, hinting at defined musculatures. Although one of the men was smaller, stockier than the other; his features were rounder, with crinkles at the corner of his eyes. The eldest one then… Yes, most likely the heir.
‘Painter Serr… Serr?’
He jerked out of his thoughts, his charcoal holding fingers still moving atop his large paper. He tore his eyes away from Lady Brea’s refined features as he focused on her gaze, meeting her eyes as opposed to the fine line of her jaw. ‘Milady.’
‘I apologise for the unseemly behaviour.’ She shot the two men a dark look. ‘Please meet the two sons of my husband, Alexis and Theodric de Aislin.’
Theodric was the taller one, with a fuller lower lip that begged a kiss. ‘My lords.’
‘So you’re the infamous painter Father has been scouting for. I, for one, doubt your skill.’
Ah. It seemed Theodric was also the more reckless and contemptuous one. Second son indeed… Serr didn’t deign offer a response, continuing instead his rendering of Lady Brea’s locks. To capture the sun and its streaks melting the dark brown strands to a smoother and lighter colour using only charcoal necessitated a focus he could not divert to the loud-mouthed, captivating brat still spouting off.
Ah, there it was… Just the pressure and angle he was looking for. Frowning a little and biting his lower lip, Serr swiped the piece of charcoal in long, smooth strokes, pressing more or less depending on the beautiful picture the Lady standing still offered him. It was turning out rather well, if he did say so himself. Drinking in her features with a critical eye, he strengthened the line of her jaw and finalised the glint in her eye after reaffirming her eyebrows.
There; he felt drained.
He should ask if he could also catch her profile and he’d be fully-rounded and ready for a canvas.
‘You seem genuine.’
Serr started so badly his charcoal snapped. Theodric de Aislin was so close he could feel the heat emanating from the other man, the way he smelled of horses and sweat and just a hint of spice.
He felt his cheeks heat for the first time in years, even as his tongue responded as it should. ‘I’m relieved I convinced you, my lord.’
It seemed Lord Theodric did recognise sarcasm. Serr bit the inside of his mouth as the man flushed to the roots of his hair. Easily riled, that one. De Aislin was standing right behind him, leaning over his shoulder and looking at the rough drawing intently. Then looking at Serr, long eyelashes framing calculating grey eyes.
It was unsettling.
Serr moved away in slow movements, inching downwards for a new sheet of paper and a graphite pencil. Now the details… If he could only get Lady Brea to sit for long enough and Lord Theodric to leave. His hands were trembling, and the heat of the man standing at his back, the silk frock brushing his rough-spun cotton shirt and de Aislin’s leather clad knees pressing slightly against the small of his back--
Never had heat twisted his gut so quickly. It must be the spices and the scent of a roughened noble, Serr thought, dizzy.
‘You make her this beautiful, painter, and people are going to talk.’
The nerve of him! And damn that melodious voice which he was sure had come straight out of one of the six hells. Serr was strained when he finally found his tongue long enough to string a few sentences together. ‘I am a painter, my lord. Please move away from my source of light. You are not my subject.’
‘And what a pity that is.’ Lord Theodric finally backed away, but not before firmly pressing against Serr’s back. Serr was certain the man felt the sharp intake of breath that had dilated his lungs at the contact.
De Aislin had won the first round.
.::.
‘It is said the fumes are toxic.’
‘Turpentine accomplishes its purpose.’
‘You are a man of very few words, painter Serr.’ Theodric de Aislin laughed as he lounged on the grass, midway between Lady Brea and Serr. It was the first sitting, during which the Lady had decided the garden would be a perfect backdrop to her portrait, and Serr had made her sit at three-quarter: he doubted the Count would appreciate anything other than what the trends depicted as a ‘perfect’ portrait, with the subject sitting at a three-quarter angle and wearing their stuffiest clothes.
Lady Brea had drawn the line at the clothes. ‘I’ll wear something appropriate, but I refuse to sit for hours only to expire of suffocation.’
‘I can embellish it at will, my Lady.’ Serr was rewarded by a genuine smile, if a little strained at the mouth. Serr empathised. He was also at loss as to why Lord Theodric was sitting a few paces away from them, quite obviously listening in and shadowing them with a knowing smirk etched on his features.
The bastard. He was awaiting some slip, something to crucify Lady Brea-
Serr wanted to be incensed. As it was, he continued sketching the beautiful woman to place all the reference points he needed. Drawing came not as a talent for him, but as hard work; it suspended his thoughts and emotions, directing them to the canvas before him. It was the ultimate catharsis in every way, and he had never been more grateful for it in spite of its ill-effects.
Serr then hummed under his breath as he diluted the ochre, ferric oxide and clay swirling to produce a light paste he continued mixing until it averaged a yellow viscous liquid with hints of red. The day was sunny and warm on his skin, the rays tickling his nape as crickets chirped in the background and Lord Theodric made himself scarce.
Serr’s phantom ire did not withstand the pull of the weather, and he was almost certain a foolish smile was pulling the corner of his lips up. He had always liked when spring bled into summer, Nature and gardens fully awake and preparing to embellish their first green coat with their ultimate fruits and flowers. It smelled of sunshine.
Someone was speaking.
Ah, he had wandered again. Still not focusing on the words, he glanced at the canvas and was glad his straying thoughts had not detracted his hand. Lady Brea was in shades of ochre, from deep yellow to only a faint sheen in the white of the eyes and the strands that caught the most light.
‘You’re ignoring your master, painter Serr.’
Damn the man for sneaking up on him but this time, Serr held onto his brush. Still depositing little amounts of colour in order to build his first layer, holding on to the warm feeling in his chest and sensing it bleed through his brush, he refused to glance at the tall man crowding his side. Lady Brea was looking his way, worried. ‘Count de Aislin is not present, my lord. Milady, would you mind tilting our head just a little bit forward? Ah, that’s perfect. Thank you.’
‘I asked you a question, painter.’ Lord Theodric moved even closer, on the verge of hindering Serr’s movements.
‘I’m dreadfully sorry, my lord. My attention was elsewhere; I doubted anything of importance would require it.’
Oh, only this little pushed de Aislin to the brink? Serr smiled at the reddened face and the tight-lipped mouth staring down at him, and he could see Lady Brea’s eyes crinkling at the corners in the distance.
‘You’re disrespectful, painter. You do not know your place.’ De Aislin stalked away, biting words an ungraceful defeat at Serr besting him.
‘He could have repeated his question,’ he said to Lady Brea who was unsuccessfully trying to muffle her chuckles with the back of a white hand. ‘I truly was focused on… Well, quite obviously not on his brattishness.’
‘I think he is less of a spoiled child than he appears,’ Lady Brea responded, calming down just enough so the words made it past her lips. ‘He is a good man, if a badly-tempered one.’
‘Why would you defend him so?’
It would suffice to say he defended me once.’ Lady Brea’s gaze was far away. ‘To no avail, but he did try. You curb him nicely, painter,’ she finished, mirth returning to colour her voice.
‘I do no such thing, my Lady.’ Lady Brea’s laughter rung long enough its echoes were still present as Serr’s first ochre layer was completed, leaving him shivering.
.::.
The painter was driving him insane. That first look-Theodric was at loss as to the emotion strangling him, the feelings that filled him to the brim and choked him. What was it about that man, he thought, that horrendous whelp of a painter that didn’t look to be older than twenty summers.
Theodric knew for a fact that the man was six and twenty, a few months older than himself.
But those eyes… They were supposedly dull brown. But with the amount of time Theodric had spent stealing glimpses and long looks while the painter was absorbed in his craft, he could distinguish yellow flecks that turned the gaze a liquid gold, in sharp contrast to the strands of hazelnut that would gleam were they to be washed properly. Or so he thought; just letting them out of the small and measly braid in between Serr’s shoulders would be better.
And that white skin… Theodric did not believe the man could have been on the road for more than a decade. It was unblemished, smooth and creamy and covering the painter’s symmetrical features. Covering those hands. Those hands-
Theodric exhaled sharply as just the image of Serr’s hands sent heat pooling down his stomach. Hells, the long alabaster fingers with short nails, the delicate palms connected to those fine-boned wrists… And the smooth skin on top, oh hells. But it wasn’t just that. It was their choppy movements whenever Serr wasn’t holding a brush or a piece of charcoal, as opposed to their flutter, strong and sure, when faced with a piece of paper or a canvas.
It was the way the painter bit on that bottom lip as he concentrated, leaving the skin to redden as blood came close to the surface; it was also the way he frowned when disturbed, eyes sharpening a dark gold and tongue lashing out in a sting, but still ever polite.
Hells, Theodric wanted him.
He conceded it might be just because he couldn’t seem to have him, as the painter rebuked his every opening, and not gently either. But the mere thought of that body, that will, submitting to him… He hardened at the thrilling thought.
Oh yes, he would find a way to have him. No one had ever refused him before.
It seemed, however, that Serr was adept at ruining his plans.
Theodric seethed as he and his carefully formulated actions-seduce the painter into bed-were thwarted since the Lady and the painter were nowhere to be found the days following their second altercation. Every morning the location of Lady Brea’s sitting changed; and while they remained hours long, Theodric had duties to attend and papers to sign in lieu of his departed father.
Let working be damned. It never gave him enough time to hunt down their new location, be it somewhere in the house or even on the damned roof.
It was only a week later his day emptied enough for him to join them outside in the gardens again. It looked like Lady Breacadh’s portrait was already coloured, her vivacious face jumping out of the canvas. The work seemed finished, his father’s wife resplendent, surrounded by a delicate archway of woven branches and flowers, the waters of a pond delicately glimmering in behind her white shoulder.
The painting was alive. But Theodric’s breath caught at the painter, who looked to be on the verge of collapse.
Now was his time to strike.
He approached the pair noisily, just as Serr bid Lady Brea to rest under in the shade, or back in the house. He did not require her presence to add the finish touches to the background.
They were alone, which Serr only belatedly realised. ‘Do you require anything, my Lord?’
‘A simple morning greeting would suffice, painter,’ Theodric replied, advancing till he stood but a mere three foot away. Now to set his trap. ‘You’ve slighted me, whisking Mother away these past days. Ignoring my greetings.’ Serr barely refrained a snort, but Theodric continued doggedly. ‘How do you intent to compensate me?’
Serr’s eyes widened, and they were feverish. He did not clamp on the grating bark that made its way out of his throat. ‘Compensate you? For accomplishing my work? Surely you jest.’
‘Oh how I do not, painter,’ Theodric chuckled as he crowded the sitting Serr further, leaning in till there were but mere inches between their faces. ‘I would taste your heat and be thoroughly compensated.’
Serr stared at him, jaw agape with incredulity. He was weary and sore, and it took a few tries for his mouth to work. His throat was parched, but his voice did not waver. ‘How would you wake heat that is lacking? One thing I learned is it cannot be forced into existence.’
Serr’s fingers brushed thick oil strokes that had dried on Lady Brea’s canvas. He wouldn’t meet Theodric’s eyes, and leaned backwards till he could safely turn away. Too often had he borne witness to spoiled, bratty nobles who were persuaded their mere touch would bring about miracles.
He would not look, not even if said nobles were remarkable specimens of the human race.
‘You are too exquisite not to know passion. Your eyes betray you,’ de Aislin replied, a seductive lilt to his voice. Serr recognised it; those were the same oily tones that inhabited the Advisor of his father’s mouth whenever the man had spoken to his sixteen-year-old sister, while he himself had been going on forty.
Repulsive snake… The mere memory of him was cause for Serr’s stomach to turn, heedless of the situation. For a moment, to his horror, both images of the Advisor and Lord Theodric superimposed.
Thank the Gods he hadn’t eaten, or else he was sure his meal would have found itself on the carefully trimmed grass by now.
‘I unsettle you,’ continued de Aislin, heedless of the colour that had left Serr’s cheeks.
The man did not know when to stop. ‘I would request you stop this nonsense, my lord,’ said Serr, toneless, urging his reactive stomach to settle. ‘I cannot seem to concentrate, and your mother’s portrait is due in a few days.’
‘Yes, Mother’s portrait…’ replied the smug, infuriating man. He had retreated to a more respectable distance, and Serr was able to breathe again. ‘She seems so much happier now that you’re painting her, I wonder… Oh how I wonder. What tales did you spin, painter Serr, for her to protect you so? She even accosted me to tell me to behave. Oh Mother,’ Theodric rued, insincere, as if speaking to himself, ‘you do not learn.’
‘She is deserving of your respect,’ Serr cut sharply. He could not hear one more word from this wretch, he couldn’t. The slander ripped open his chest, and his heart lay bleeding love and pain and hurt that weren’t his own. He remembered his own mother, so regal and royal and sad, she had been so sad, having sacrificed her soul for love.
And his ungrateful father never once realising it; on the contrary, his sire had driven the knife deeper and deeper, ruthlessly taking away all that had ever made his mother happy bit by bit simply because he hadn’t trusted her.
Truly, men were greedy animals. Always wanting more, more, and more! And in the end, never truly satisfied.
This was a perfect picture of the path Lord Theodric was winding for himself.
‘I demand you leave me to my work, sir.’
‘And I demand you give me one night,’ countered de Aislin. ‘You should be honoured of my request, for me to even consider a dalliance with a lowly painter such as yourself.’
‘I have told you, sir, that I have no desire for such things. I am quite incapable of any reaction concerning you, so if you’d be so kind as to-’
‘No reaction?’ De Aislin cut him off, large hands bruising his shoulders. Serr dropped his brush just in time for him to avoid an unseemly stroke of black right across his rendering of the Countess’s face and tensed violently. The nerve… ‘Agree, or my father will hear of you and Mother frolicking in the gardens. And not from me. I doubt you want your pretty head to leave your shoulders, painter.’
Serr knew he had to do it. Or else the bastard would spread the rumours and he wouldn’t be the only one to suffer. Theodric’s father’s wife seemed to be of no apparent concern for the man, and Serr truly believed the Count would make her pay dearly, should such a rumour make its way to his ears.
With luck, it might be a bluff. He could try, but he was not at his best. Theodric had struck in Serr’s moment of weakness.
‘I warn you, sir, not to attempt to blackmail me.’
‘It is not an attempt, painter Serr. Agree to my terms and I’ll leave you in peace, only to visit you once for payment. You’ll have all the quiet you need to finish my mother’s painting.’
Serr sighed. At six and twenty, this was not the first time something akin to this situation had happened. Most nobles were always looking for something to do, or someone to obtain. Illicitly, of course, or else the game lost all its appeal. ‘Sir. I have no passion for you to take. I have nothing that would appeal to you.’
‘You already appeal to me aplenty.’
To Serr’s surprise, the voice did make him shiver. Well, that was new, especially since he had almost finished a portrait. The work usually bled him dry. Mayhap it was because the lord’s seductive tone had been foregone for something that sounded like desperation. Any invite usually left him cold.
‘Would you not let me try?’ De Aislin pled in a whisper, his hands now ghosting over Serr’s shoulders, warming them when Serr was so numb.
Serr could not see the man’s face, and did not understand why his throat rasped as he answered. ‘Will you let me be until then?’ Almost as an afterthought, and even as his body screamed at him to lean back and drown in the steady heat, he added, ‘I have no desire to see you, sir, anymore than I already do.’
De Aislin stepped away as if in pain. ‘I will not interfere in your work, painter Serr. I’ll expect you to grant me your last night.’
Serr shrugged as the other man walked away and he grew frozen again. De Aislin would be sorely disappointed; Serr had much love to give to his paintings, but it left him bereft of passion. It was the price to pay.
Twice only had lust twisted his entrails, and twice had it not been slaked, thank the Gods. It had been illicit, unlawful, unmentionable, and he was being punished for it: he did not have any more feelings of his own to keep.
He was like the top part of an hourglass, letting sand run through till he was forever empty. But unlike an hourglass, there was no bottom part to keep the sand prisoner. The sand just fell away, his emotions leaking out of him until no grain of sand-not any emotion-was left.
It was happening faster as the years passed by, leaving him colder and colder as he painted more and more. The shivers just now, with de Aislin’s hands on his shoulders, must have been an unfortunate accident.
De Aislin was, after all, one of the most striking men Serr had ever encountered. And that was from a purely factual standpoint.
It was. But… De Aislin had warmed him. Maybe the encounter also would.
Although they had stricken a bargain, de Aislin still did not leave Serr be. Oh, he no longer puttered about and watched the painter’s every stroke, hovering over Serr the close way a hawk would stalk its prey, but he was always in the vicinity. Whether Serr chose to work in the gardens or the dining room, whether it was morning or afternoon, the dratted man was always somewhere in Serr’s line of sight.
It unsettled him. What did de Aislin want? He had gotten the promise of a dalliance, although Serr was quite certain he’d have to prepare himself beforehand. He had ever been willing during intercourse, but his lack of passion made him unbearably unattractive.
He’d had to stretch and oil himself a few hours before his second encounter so he would make sure not to be to be in too much discomfort. The first time… Even with all the oil in the world, it has still been painful. He had later learned-on his own, of course-that his muscle could be stretched properly.
He had not especially wanted to have sex; but he believed he had to understand it and the mechanics of it. Since he was almost certain he couldn’t manage an erection, he’d resigned himself to observing others. And warming men’s beds; he couldn’t be of any use to a woman, after all.
His three times had left him indifferent.
He wondered… What kind of a lover would de Aislin be? Serr started at the thought, his hand absently lighting the Countess’s cheeks with little touches of imperceptible white. He had never bothered to wonder: the three he had dallied with had all been the same.
Of a lower standing perhaps-one had been a farmer, another an innkeeper and the third, a soldier; they had all been common folk, assuming none of them had lied-but they had all been focused on their own pleasure. Taking whatever little he could give and sneering because, quite obviously, it was even less than he had thought at first.
Serr had focused on their pleasure, since he couldn’t manage his own. If anything, the encounters had proven educational. Mayhap this one would be as well. And for the fist time, mayhap it would bring warmth.
Three more days for him to wait.
It was strange, for his gut to be tightening when he thought about Theodric de Aislin now. Perhaps it was only because he knew what was to come…but then again, perhaps not. He had also known, with the others.
Best for him not to dwell on the issue; he very rarely hardened anyways, and even the apparently talented de Aislin wouldn’t change that fact.
To Part III