Painting the Sea-Part III
Part I | Part II
The door to the tiny room he’d been allocated creaked exactly three days later, as his portrait of the Countess was finished. It was evening and everyone had retired; de Aislin didn’t even bother to knock.
‘My payment for silence, painter Serr.’ De Aislin’s voice was level as he surveyed the bare room with the painter sitting calmly on the narrow bed. ‘Don’t you want to protest some more?’ he frowned, skeptical of Serr’s apparent willingness.
Serr just shrugged. ‘I’ve told you already, sir, t’is for naught. And what would I fight, with your mother and my own reputation at stake?’ He started unbuttoning his tunic to reveal a greyed and rough undershirt. ‘If you could make it quick-I still have a few retouches to your mother’s portrait.’
De Aislin stared at him uncomprehendingly. ‘So you have struck a similar bargain before. Are you tainted?’ he snarled, stalking towards the occupied bed.
‘I have not,’ responded Serr, his words holding no inflection. ‘And I would return the question; you are more likely to be tainted than I, sir. With all due respects, of course,’ Serr added, composed even as he divested himself of most of his garments, leaving only the undershirt and light breeches. He was expressionless, sitting on the edge of the bed with a pile of his clothing folded in a neat manner next to him.
De Aislin didn’t bother answering. He gauged the sitting Serr, eyeing him for more than a few minutes, as if he didn’t know where to start. The painter was too thin but his arms were lightly muscled, dark hair held back with shredded lace and spilling in between stark shoulderblades.
Theodric had not attempted blackmail before. Never had he thought this ploy of his would work; surely, the painter knew his father wouldn’t hurt Lady Brea… she was his wife, after all. She may just be property-even Theodric was aware of that-but ever had his sire taken good care of what belonged to him.
After all himself, who he almost doubted had been born to his late mother (his colouring was foreign: where in the burning Fields of Hell does one find grey eyes in any case? Alexis still insisted Mother had had the same), had received the same education as Alexis himself did. Certainly his parents would have stopped procreating had their coupling been distasteful.
Was it possible the painter was afraid for his own reputation? Theodric hadn’t even considered it. A lowly painter-although if he depended on the coin he made during commissions, his name could only be pristine. Still-
‘Why mention my mother’s reputation? It is only for yours that you fear.’
Serr laughed and it was a harsh, grating sound. ‘Sir, it is quite obvious you lack any understanding for reality. I do not care the number of people that have passed through your bed,’ he cut as de Aislin opened his mouth to retaliate, ‘because you are little more than a brat blinded by filial affection. To buy my silence so you don’t badmouth your stepmother and subject her to your father’s wrath-’
Theodric saw red. ‘Do not badmouth my sire!’
‘Get on with it then!’ Ire filled Serr’s face and the darkened eyes flashed. ‘You’ve named your price, now either claim it or deliver me from your presence,’ he bit out, adding ‘sir’ as an afterthought and tensing under de Aislin’s bruising hands.
Serr stared at the ceiling as those hands started journeying across his body, stroking his chest, shoulders and neck and leaving red marks in their wake. De Aislin had been angered and it showed, roughness and a little bit of hurt where Serr desired… Well, he wasn’t certain what his desires were, but he was adamant that this wasn’t it.
He wasn’t any warmer.
He started as a mouth latched to his throat, sprinkling gentle kisses at odds with the aggressive hands; to his surprise Serr shivered, throat closing up as he was abruptly wrenched from the place his mind tended to go when he was in situations he’d rather avoid.
The kisses didn’t stop. De Aislin peppered the line of his throat, mouthing his Adam’s apple as large hands violently stroked his arms and torso and Serr could feel an alien warmth tighten his stomach.
This was nicer than he ever remembered.
But then lips clamped onto his and he pushed de Aislin away, surprising the other man and sending him almost tumbling off the mattress. ‘No,’ Serr snapped.
‘You said you’d allow me your night,’ de Aislin growled. ‘Backing out of your word now, painter?’
‘No kiss,’ Serr retorted angrily. ‘You implied you wanted to use me; kissing is usually not part of that bargain.’
De Aislin had gone livid at Serr’s words, blood draining from his cheeks until only two red and angry splotches were left on his cheeks. ‘I did not just want to ‘use you’ as you say, damn it!’ he roared. ‘You drove me to take the measures I did because you were denigrating-you had no right to ignore-’
Serr cut him off, voice like a whip. ‘I had every right to refuse, sir. That you have newly warmed more beds than you care to count does not entitle you to force repulsive acts onto other peo-’ The rest of Serr’s tirade was muffled as de Aislin’s lips bruised his, his tongue forcing Serr’s lips apart as a hand clutched at his jaw and pressed, pushing his mouth open. It hurt.
De Aislin’s other hand was holding his flailing fists away from the heavy, hot body now covering him; dread filled Serr, dread and cold because he really didn’t want this anymore, he wanted it to stop and how in the six hells had he ever wanted such an encounter?
De Aislin’s lips were slippery and painful and he couldn’t breathe, his movements hindered. His chest ached he was going numb. He couldn’t escape, trapped as he was between the bed and de Aislin suffocating him, an unmistakable hardness jabbing at his thigh.
De Aislin desired him; but for the very first time, Serr’s partner was more interested in him than in his own need. Serr was not sure he appreciated the feeling but surely, it would pass. It couldn’t continue, even de Aislin required oxygen…
‘Theo, what in the six hells-Leave him be!’
Serr watched with relief as his door suddenly flew open, de Aislin’s brother storming in. The man was in his nightclothes and his hair was in disarray and Serr had never been more grateful than to feel the blunt heat against his thigh lessen and move away.
De Aislin still refused to release his wrists, even under the horrified gaze of his brother, and Serr wondered detachedly if he expected the other man to join him after Alexis assessed the situation.
‘Theo, you can’t do this. He’s not worth it, look at him, he’s scrawny and pale and-Theo, please. Please,’ De Aislin’s brother was close to begging, his eyes fastened in consternation to his brother’s frame blanketing Serr as he approached the untidy bed very carefully. Slowly, so that de Aislin wouldn’t consider him a threat.
‘You don’t understand, Alex, you don’t-’ de Aislin’s voice was high-pitched and held more than a little note of madness, his eyes having left Serr to stare upon his approaching brother. ‘He won’t-No one has ever said no, and he just refuses… He said no, and never before have I felt like this…’
The man was panting, his words desperate, and Serr could feel the fingers around his wrist tighten some more and gods, this was going to bruise something fierce.
‘Leave him, Theo,’ warned Alexis, eyes flashing. He was almost at an arm’s length now; close enough to touch his brother.
‘No, Alexis, I just wanted to make him feel the same things I do, he said he couldn’t-’ De Aislin was interrupted as his brother’s fist sent him reeling.
‘You have a minute, Theo, to let the painter be. And leave.’ With these words, Alexis strode out, with a pointed look to his brother’s pelvis and where it was still pressing against Serr’s own.
Serr’s cock was still flaccid under the un-tented underpants.
De Aislin’s hands released him. The man was seething.
‘You’re cold. Frigid bitch, you even turned my own brother against me,’ de Aislin spat with hateful eyes, his hand going to his painful jaw. It was going to bruise. He removed his body from Serr’s immobile frame and went around the room, gathering his clothing as Serr waited for him to leave with his eyes locked on the tiny window in the room.
Serr didn’t reiterate that he had warned him. It was of no practical use; the slamming door as Theodric exited spoke the words for him.
He was shivering; he retched a few minutes after de Aislin left and knew he couldn’t stay one more day in this wretched place.
He barely realised he was crying as he gathered his brushes for the final touches on the Countess’s portrait. He took a blank canvas after he was had finished, locked the door and wished the night away as a misty morning came alive under his almost monochrome strokes.
Relief poured from his heart through to the canvas and hope shone from behind the ghostly and delicate smog as tiny drops of silver. Light before dawn…Fright, distress and reassurance left him to better storm in his shimmering wash of a morning, small touches of oil bringing it to life.
He left at dawn, awaiting no payment. The commissioned portrait he carefully wrapped and deposited on the table in the main dining room as he strode out. The other was left to dry, on the floor across from sir Alexis’s room.
.::.
Serr was too old. It was in the creak of his knuckles, the difficulty his knees had in bending to his will. It didn’t help that the past four years had been spent in and out of various forests or on the side of the Sea Trail.
The Sea Trail… His journey had been so much longer than he could have ever anticipated. It had taken him years to make his way on foot, and more than one winter had almost snuffed the life out of him. It didn’t help that he was always so cold now, so damn cold.
The Countess’ portrait had been the last commission he had ever made. He had hoarded his new supplies after that, sketching and inking on anything he could find, ripped textile, abandoned cardboard, cobblestones. He just wanted to empty himself, let all that had happened at that thrice damned mansion wash away.
His coin now came out of seasonal jobs he found on his way: harvesting, barkeeping and the like. It did not pay well, but he never stayed long enough to be trapped.
It was taking its toll. He wouldn’t last very much longer; he was bound to the sea, and once he saw it… There would be no sand left in him, and he would contain nothing. Would feel nothing. He’d finally be dead, his oath fulfilled, and that was all that mattered.
Now where was the damned sea?
Sighing, weary, Serr continued down the warping path that seemed to go on forever. He had asked for directions at the last inn he had worked at, and the old woman had smiled knowingly, telling him not to follow the main artery that led to the docks but to go down a twisted buttery path instead, which ran past the meadow facing her establishment.
He should not have listened; he was already tired, why put himself through more pains, he just wanted to see the damned water, four and thirty was too old for this-
His breath caught and the salty smell hit him like a slap in the face, got trapped in his lungs. His eyes prickled, taking in the stillness of the shimmering blue immensity lying, calm, before him. The winding path had been going upwards and had finally crested and now, the sea was spread at Serr’s feet.
He could hear the faint lapping of water on the pale and creamy shore. Water rolled, soft and endless and foaming at the top, to better die on the glittery sand. There was wind, too, almost soundless gusts that ruffled his hair and clothes, and big birds, white with gleaming beaks, which hovered over the water as they screeched in a rhythm.
Oh it was so beautiful. So. Beautiful-there were no words.
There were no words.
He stayed, immobile and staring, till the reflection of the sun on the endless pool of water forced him to turn away. He made his way down the path slowly, heedless of the children frolicking around on the edge, or the eccentrics throwing away a day of hard work to go for a swim and bake in the sun.
His supplies had never dwindled so fast before. Aquarelles or pastels or oils, charcoals or pencils or ink, no media was spared. His coin, carefully hoarded for the way back to the city and a respectable coffin, melted like snow is wont to do when exposed to sunlight.
Serr could not care less. His heart had permanently lodged itself in his throat, and the sea, the sea…
He stayed four months.
By the time winter rolled over in the quick change of the seasons, Serr’s beach was deserted, and it was growing too cold to continue sleeping in the shrubs delimiting the skeletal woods from the sands and shore. It was time to go back. His oath had been honoured, now was when he should leave.
It wouldn’t do for him to taint this place with his emptiness anyways.
.::.
Serr had been leaching off the sea, and only now was he realising it when walking back: his steps were slower and slower as he made his way further. And his heart weighed more and more as if stones were added in his chest as he marched away. His skin was too tight, and it itched from the salt he had refused to wash away. But… He wanted something to leave a mark. Although what marks a dehydrated and parched scroll-like skin would keep, he wondered.
Well, he wouldn’t be wondering long in any case: the longer he walked, the longer he would deplete until he truly contained nothing, just as it had been right before he saw the sea.
And then, it would all unfold as it should, and he’d finally die and that would be it.
Right.
Three weeks later, Serr was cursing his life and his oath and everything else. Where was death, damn it all to the fields of hell! He was sick and tired of trudging and waiting and barely eating and he wanted the end, the end, the end of it all. Maybe he could find a sharp branch lying somewhere and impale his heart or something of the sort…
Or the gist of it was, he still needed to do something before he’d be finally released.
… Celia.
Damn it. It would take him more than thirty weeks to make his way back on foot to where he had first met her, and the weather was not being compliant. The gusts of wind inhabiting the woods he was currently making his way through suggested a drop in the temperature would soon follow, and after that, who knew? It was a given the overcast was not good news, that it wasn’t.
Damn it all. He had nothing left to sell. And he was certainly not considering selling himself: first off, he was definitely not in his twenties any longer. No, he was four and thirty and closely resembling a scarecrow. His hair was the only part of him that had remained soft despite the hardships Serr had put it through and, against all odds, had continued growing longer. But his skin was dry and roughened where clothes had chafed and where wind and snow had cracked and scarred it, patchy where the sun had glazed it but not uniformly. The scars, especially, had lightened.
There was no way he could make his way back. It was simply impossible. He’d make his way to the closest town and expire there.
Yes, that sounded like an amenable plan.
.::.
‘ ’ey, man… ’ey! Are ye coming to?’
Serr was groggy and cold; his cheek was stinging slightly. It was hard to swallow, and his throat hurt. His lips tingled; words couldn’t seem to make it through. He tried speaking but it was too painful and settled for simply creaking his eyes open.
The room was dark, and a sweaty hand supported the back of his neck as he was tilted upwards. A cool breeze made him shiver. He was naked under the rough sheets.
“Can ye see me? Wait, ’ere…” A damp cloth was pressed to his chapped lips, and water trickled down Serr’s parched throat. His eyes almost rolled back in relief.
‘Damn lucky ye w’re rescued. Water’s good? Methinks ye sh’d be bathed, all tha’ filth…’
Serr tried nodding but his skin wouldn’t comply, itching under burned muscles. He tried to open his mouth but he couldn’t, a low, guttural croak the only thing that made it through.
‘I’ll get yer man.’ The old innkeeper-Serr surmised it was an innkeeper, so someone travelling on the roads must have found him and taken pity, since he wasn’t dead yet-
‘You’ve awoken.’
Serr jerked so hard he couldn’t help but groan. It hurt.
He hurt.
The voice was still as rich and deep as thick honey. Mellifluous. It soothed an ache he didn’t know he had and he huddled further into the threadbare blanket, afraid of what that sudden lurch in his chest meant. He tried opening his mouth but he couldn’t even seem to croak.
‘Painter Serr.’ Theodric de Aislin let the heavy wooden door fall shut behind him.
‘H-how? P-please-’ Serr truly did croak, the syllables low and guttural.
De Aislin flinched, his features coming to prominence by virtue of the one candle at Serr’s bedside. Five years had not aged him; his girth had not widened nor his shoulders slumped. He looked regal, even more so in the dreadfulness of the questionably clean room of the inn.
He still made Serr’s breath hitch.
Just a little, of course. Just a little. Or mayhap it was the hungry gaze the man seemed like he could barely restrain; silver eyes drank him in, from his corded muscles to his scarred skin to his hideously dirty locks.
Serr shivered, because de Aislin hands were fisted at his sides and he wasn’t coming any closer.
‘Painter Serr.’ De Aislin’s eyes flashed, his tone warning. As if he were close to breaking. ‘You seem unable to keep out of awkward situations.’
Serr snorted.
‘Whether one should call ‘awkward’ you nearly dying as I finally located you is still unclear,’ de Aislin conceded, his luminous eyes crinkling at the corners. Serr could count a first crow’s foot. He didn’t interrupt the man’s words; he’d learnt when to listen and cringed at the thought of his younger self, so brash in the face of de Aislin’s lewd behaviour. There were better, more efficient ways of thwarting someone taking too many liberties. ‘Painter Serr, I…’ De Aislin uncharacteristically stopped, as if hesitant. ‘It has been two years of me tracking you. My brother-’ and at that, the younger man scoffed-‘to be more specific, his wife sent me out. After quite a lengthy talk with my stepmother, might I add. They conspired against us all, there is no other explanation… In any case, you are finally in my grasp, and there is no way you can escape.’ De Aislin nodded, as if satisfied with his tirade, only heeding Serr’s raised eyebrows too late.
It seemed five years had not pounded into him the ability to keep his mouth shut. ‘You do realise, sir, that your ramblings have neither tails nor heads? I cannot, for the life of me, imagine why your brother’s wife would send you for me, or why-’ Serr laughed, the obscurity of it all but bludgeoning him. His side hurt as his lungs protested his deep breath and he choked on his laughter, harsh, strangled sounds that were alleviated by broad hands in an instant. They ran down his sides, pushing into the thin flesh as his back was stroked and he was pushed down, allowing his lungs to expand and him to draw in much needed air. ‘T-thank you,’ he muttered, still staring at the yellowish sheets his nose had been pushed into. They smelled of musk and his nose wrinkled.
‘You are coming back with me.’
De Aislin’s tone was categorical, and something kindled in Serr’s chest. The tightness and heat were so unfamiliar his hand twisted on his chest as he straightened up, unconsciously smoothing out his skin, his pert left nipple. He started as another hand joined his own.
‘When I finally stumbled upon you, you were not breathing. T’was a good thing I met a few sailors on my way, and they shared a bit that helped.’ De Aislin’s eyes skittered to his lips then his hand on Serr’s chest. Their fingers were entwined. ‘No is not an acceptable answer. As soon as you are well, we will make our way back.’
Serr was so unaccustomed to the light swell of something or the other in his chest, it didn’t even occur to him to oppose de Aislin’s decision.