Chapter Thirty-Eight
Azizi
When I first met Theodore Villin, I could see the hunger in him. See the depth of his starvation and the beast hiding behind his teeth.
I am no stranger to hunger. I know it as intimately as I know myself. The endless, sanguine hunger that stabs at my gums. The carnal hunger that heats between my legs and wets beneath my tongue. The hunger for my muse that bleeds within my heart, dripping like too much paint on a dirtied canvas.
Sometimes I think I am more hunger than skin.
That first time I truly met his hunger, it stood on my doorstep like a wounded pup. Dragging mud all over the floor, staring up at me with a frightened plea for help. For acceptance.
And of course I fed it—coaxed it to find comfort in the warmth of my home, to let me take care of it and love it as I love my own kind of hungers.
The next time I meet his hunger, it is a vicious, protective thing.
A tamed beast that stands at our side and bares its teeth to the world and all that would threaten us.
It curls at my feet and rumbles with contentment as I run my fingers through its fur.
It bounds through our forest and draws a border line in blood, marking its territory as a warning to those who would hunt us.
I close my eyes and see it wandering our halls at the heel of my muse. See the glow of Kolfina's light—so much closer than she has ever been before—and there at her side, our little beast stands guardian.
They are beautiful. Devastatingly, hauntingly, so.
Inspiration clings to me like a desperate child clings to its mother, wrapped tight around my hands until I have no choice but to follow its call.
What began as a mere sketch of Theodore in the forest begins to unfold before me, but this time it is different.
This time I allow myself to chase my muse and her guardian.
Allow my own hunger to consume and devour the insecurity that made a home in my chest, if only for a time.
I tear my heart from my chest, and I place it in the cradle of their hands, and I watch it beat again.
A tight forest blooms in phthalo leaves and viridian brambles. I carve the trees from burnt umbers and dark taupes, spread out a clearing of moss and myrtle. Shades of brandy and carnelian sprout in a spiral of mushrooms worthy enough for the fairies to dance on.
Just as before, Theodore kneels in the center of the spiral.
His face is half-hidden beneath his bangs, the other half split into a too-wide mouth full of teeth, but it does not matter.
I would know him by the colour of his soul, know him by every variant shade of blacks and blues that curl through his hair, every brown and red that litters his skin in freckles, reflecting the night sky.
I place him there amongst the shadows of the trees, Kolfina's flowers resting in a circle upon his head, the forest floor littered with the bone-white remnants of his feasting.
In his hands, I rest my heart, ready for devouring.
It is here that my muse begins to truly sing. It is here that I open my chest and pour my soul into this reflection of my love. Where I let my hunger consume me.
The paint I need is already prepared, and when I open the pigskin and rest it beside me, I can smell the blood I've mixed with the oils and pigments.
Not fresh, not anymore, but delicious, nonetheless.
I wish I could have taken more without the priest's death seeming too suspicious.
Wish I could have drained him dry and painted an entire collection for my Theodore using the blood of his tormentor as my tool.
But for now, this is enough. For now, I dip my brush and set it to canvas, creating life with the colour of death.
I am all too aware of how little material I have to work with, each brush stroke painstaking and precise.
Every movement is carefully thought out, every drop of paint perfectly placed.
Blood pools in Theodore's palms, dripping between his fingers to stain the forest floor, nourishing it the same as my heart nourishes him.
It carves rivers down his bared forearms, gathering in the rolled sleeves of his shirt.
It kisses his lips and seeps between his teeth.
Time passes, and I do not notice. The sun rises and sets.
Allard wanders in to clean the mess around me, refilling my glass with blood to keep me fed.
Kolfina drifts through the walls on occasion, cool fingers brushing mine, before disappearing again.
My brother plays her piano and sings, his voice a familiar accompaniment I find comfort in as I work.
I do not let Theodore in to see the work yet.
My father does not try.
When the pigskin runs dry, I pluck a vial from my cabinet, and I sprinkle flakes of gold throughout the image.
I gild the freckles that dot Theodore's cheeks and arms, gild the veins and ventricles of my heart and the light that reflects off the crimson rivers on his skin.
Behind him, I lay a crescent of gold around his head, a halo of his own to christen his rebirth.
On the back I title it ‘The Beast of Echo’s Peak’, and at the bottom I sign my name.
A. Darling
I do not know how long I sit there staring at it when I finish. My paints are put away so they don't dry out, though I was not the one to do it. My brushes are washed and dried, though I do not remember finding water to clean them.
A chill dusts across the side of my face, a breeze pushing back the strands of my hair that have fallen from the haphazard braid I threw it into.
Kolfina smiles down at me when I finally look away from the canvas. A saint resting over my shoulder and guiding me back to my weary body.
Exhaustion settles in my bones, but there is something else there that blooms in the space I plucked my heart from. The memory of sunshine warming my skin; the smell of my first stroke of paint; the sound of a giggle bubbling in my throat, trying to spill past my lips.
Happiness.
"It's finished," I tell her, a hint of that laughter edging my words. I let it out, let it tip my lips up into a smile that borders on prideful. "It is finished, and... and it is perfect."
Kolfina’s smile shines as bright as the sun, so full and warm that I fear I might burn from its full attention.
She frames my face with her fingers, dips in to place a kiss on my lips.
I cannot feel it fully, not like I can Theodore's, but there is a soft pressure there regardless.
Like the brush of cold silk on my skin. I can taste the flowers that make her up, can hear the soundless song she sings me, and I know that she is happy for me. Proud of me.
A quiet knock on the door interrupts us, and Kolfina leaves one last kiss on my lips before disappearing back into the walls, the lingering salt on my tongue the only proof she was here at all.
“Come in!”
I expect Theodore to pop his head in like he sometimes does when checking in on me—respectful of my wish for secrecy with this piece and yet still too worried to leave me alone with my spiraling for too long.
So I am surprised when the door creaks open and my father steps into the room.
He says nothing at first, his eyes searching my face for any sign that he is not welcome.
And though my insecurities fight to claw to the surface, to drag me into shame and madness once more, I take a deep breath and step away from the painting, silently inviting him forward.
There is a part of me that wishes to tear the painting from the easel before he has a chance to reach it. Before I can see what thoughts lie behind his piercing eyes—horror? Disappointment? Regret?
It is a foolish concern. This is not the first of my darker works that my father has seen.
The very first piece I drew for him had been a macabre thing, though I do not recall what it was—a skeleton of some kind, I’m sure.
Regardless, my father knows my work; he has several of my paintings hung in our family villa.
But still, there is a child-shaped fear that crowds my chest and reaches into my hands, begging me not to let him see, not to let him know.
The last time this pride for my work filled me, it was met with vitriol and accusations, my reputation ruined in a single moment of vulnerability.
The time before that, when I was a tiny, trusting thing in the hands of a mentor, I’d been given only flames and spit in response to my work.
Even now I can hear the snap of the canvas frame, sharp and sudden like the crack of bones. I can hear the screaming, muffled in my ears from the overwhelming panic and terror and anger that roared through my blood.
Insecurities built on a century’s old fear, carved by the hands of a man long since dead and buried, further cracked by a society not yet accepting enough of my particular brand of madness.
I clasp my hands behind my back to keep that terrified child at bay. Squeeze so tight, I feel the ache between my joints, like my body is threatening to break the fingers for good should my father find fault in me.
A trembling breath escapes me as he reaches out a hand to trace the curve of Theodore’s face, though he does not touch the paint, well aware that it will take weeks to dry completely in the right conditions.
He follows the line of the jaw, the arch of shoulders, before resting on the heart cradled in my lover’s palms.
The tension in the room grows palpable. Heavy. I wonder if this is how Kolfina feels when the wallpaper tries to pull her in. If it is the same suffocating anxiety of waiting, questioning what might happen next.
“Have I ever told you that I visited Sainte-Falaise once?” my father asks as he folds his hands behind his back. He does not look at me, his gaze still taking in the details of the painting, of the forest around Theodore and the spiral of mushrooms he’s knelt in the center of.
“You have not.”