Chapter 4
Nerion
Istood at the front of the gallery, the rest of my classmates parked on the floor or leaning against tables.
Behind me were three of my most recent oil paintings, each of them depicting a stormy sea with crashing waves consuming ships.
The last one, and the one I was most proud of, I’d just finished that morning. The paint was still very wet.
Everyone stared at me expectantly, waiting for me to wow them at this mandatory critique of our work every semester. This week it was my turn, and I fully expected to get nothing out of it as usual.
“More landscapes,” I said, gesturing to the paintings behind me.
“I’m sure you’re surprised.” That got a couple of giggles from the sophomores.
“This year I’m working mostly on capturing a sense of believable realism while pushing colors as far as I can without losing that credibility.
Subject matter mostly remains the same. I’ll pick some of these for the Junior Exhibition, just not sure which to go with yet. ”
They all stared at me, clearly anticipating some long-winded speech about feelings. Maybe they wanted me to break down and cry as I went on about my personal problems that I’d poured into the paintings. But I didn’t. I just stood there, silently waiting for their critique.
“Give us a little bit more to work with,” Professor Aurelia said. “I think we can all see that your technique is good, but what’s your reason behind these paintings? Why the sea? Why a storm?”
“I…” I began, my words failing me. “I just like water, I guess. The ocean is fun to paint.”
“Okay,” Aurelia nodded. “But why storms? If it was just fun, why not paint something happy, like a sunset in Hawaii or something?”
“To be honest with you,” I replied, crossing my arms. “If I was going to paint something as mundane as sunsets, I wouldn’t have come to college for art. I just would’ve learned on YouTube and hired some hot girl to sell them for me on Instagram.”
That got a lot more laughs. And a few glares. There was more than one painting student that did literally nothing but sunsets that looked like they belonged on a Trapper Keeper in the nineties.
“Are you saying you don’t want to be mainstream?” Aurelia pushed, still searching for answers. “That you don’t want to sell your work? What’s your goal when you paint?”
I shifted my weight uncomfortably under Aurelia’s gaze. She was doing that thing again where she tried to psychoanalyze my artwork like it was some window into my damaged soul.
“My goal is to paint well,” I finally said. “To capture something that feels real.”
“But why storms specifically?” she pressed. “There’s clearly some emotional connection there. The way you paint water in turmoil speaks to something deeper.”
I clenched my jaw. This was exactly why I hated these critiques. Everyone always wanted to dig beneath the surface, to find some profound meaning or trauma that explained my art. As if I couldn’t just enjoy painting the goddamn ocean without it being some cry for help.
“Fine,” I said, crossing my arms tighter.
“I paint storms because they’re powerful.
Because they’re beautiful and terrifying at the same time.
Because they remind us that nature doesn’t give a shit about humanity or their little boats.
” I gestured toward the shipwreck in my latest piece. “Is that deep enough for you?”
Professor Aurelia leaned back, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth. She thought she’d won, that she’d gotten me to open up. She had no idea how practiced I was at giving people just enough to make them back off.
“Let’s hear from the rest of the class,” she said, looking satisfied. “What do you all think about Nerion’s work?”
A girl in the front row—Lily, I think—raised her hand. “I love the way you capture the movement of the waves. It’s like they’re actually moving on the canvas.”
“Thanks,” I muttered.
“But I wonder why there are never any people in your paintings,” she continued. “Even in the shipwrecks, we don’t see anyone struggling or drowning. It’s like your oceans are empty.”
I stared at her, feeling suddenly exposed. I hadn’t even realized that myself. How had I never noticed that I always painted empty oceans?
“Maybe I just don’t like painting people,” I said with a shrug, trying to seem casual.
“Or maybe you’re afraid to connect with them,” said a voice from the back. It was one of the seniors, a witch with silver hair who always thought she knew everything. “Your technique is flawless, but there’s a coldness to your work. Like you’re observing from a distance rather than experiencing.”
I felt my scales rippling beneath my skin, a sure sign I was getting agitated. I took a deep breath, forcing them to settle.
“Not every piece of art has to be warm and fuzzy,” I countered. “Sometimes distance is the point.”
“Is it?” Professor Aurelia asked quietly. “Or is the distance a defense mechanism?”
The room fell silent as everyone waited for my response.
I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. This was getting dangerously close to territory I didn’t want to explore.
Not here, not with these people who knew nothing about what it meant to be a siren, to be cursed to destroy those who loved you.
“Look,” I said, struggling to keep my voice even, “not every artist pours their trauma onto the canvas. Sometimes a storm is just a storm. Sometimes I paint the ocean because I’m good at it, and that’s all there is to it.”
Professor Laurent, who had been quietly observing from the corner of the room, finally spoke up.
“I think what Professor Aurelia is trying to get at, Nerion, is whether your work reflects your experience as a water elemental. Your connection to the sea is evident in your technical mastery, but there seems to be a reluctance to fully embrace that connection emotionally.”
I froze. She knew. Somehow, she knew what I was. Or at least, she suspected. I glanced around the room, wondering if anyone else had caught her meaning.
“I’m not—” I started to deny it, but the words died in my throat. What was the point? “My heritage is my business,” I said instead, my voice low. “And it has nothing to do with my art.”
“Doesn’t it though?” Professor Laurent pressed gently. “Art is an expression of self. If you’re denying part of yourself in your life, won’t that naturally be reflected in your work?”
I stared at her, feeling cornered. The rest of the class was watching with rapt attention now, clearly sensing they were witnessing something important.
“Maybe we should move on to technical aspects,” Professor Aurelia suggested, changing the subject for me. “Anyone have thoughts on my color choices or brush technique?”
A few students obliged, offering comments about my use of ultramarine and the way I captured the foam on the waves. I nodded mechanically, barely hearing them as my mind raced. How much did Professor Laurent know? Had she recognized the faint shimmer of scales on my forearms? Had someone told her?
When the critique finally ended, I gathered my paintings quickly, eager to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the gallery.
“Nerion,” Professor Aurelia called as I headed for the door. “A word, please.”
I considered pretending I hadn’t heard her, but that would only delay the inevitable. With a resigned sigh, I set my paintings down and turned to face her.
“Yes, Professor?”
“I wanted to check in with you,” she said, stepping closer and lowering her voice so the lingering students couldn’t hear. “That critique got a bit more... personal than I intended.”
I shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant despite the anxiety still churning in my gut. “It’s fine. I’m used to people over-analyzing my work.”
Professor Aurelia studied me for a moment, her eyes searching mine. “Laurent shouldn’t have brought up your heritage like that. Not everyone is comfortable discussing their magical background, especially in front of the class.”
So she knew too. Great. Was there a faculty memo about the siren in their midst that I’d missed?
“How many professors know what I am?” I asked bluntly.
“Only those who need to know for safety reasons,” she replied. “Your file is mostly confidential, but certain... attributes require special consideration.”
“Special consideration,” I echoed flatly. “You mean keeping an eye on the dangerous sea creature. I’m not a fucking shark you know?”
Aurelia’s expression softened. “That’s not what I meant. However, your heritage does give you unique perspectives that could enrich your art if you’d let it.”
“My heritage,” I said, the words bitter on my tongue, “is a curse. And I’d appreciate it if you’d all stop trying to make me ‘embrace’ it.”
“Nerion—”
“Are we done here?” I cut her off, reaching for my paintings. “I have another class to get to.”
It was a lie, but she didn’t call me on it. Instead, she nodded with a resigned sigh.
“Just think about what I said. Your work is technically brilliant, but it could be so much more if you allowed yourself to be vulnerable in it.”
I didn’t respond, just gathered my canvases and headed for the door. Vulnerability was a luxury I couldn’t afford. Not when a single moment of genuine connection could lead to my own destruction.
Outside, the crisp autumn air helped clear my head. I made my way across campus, my paintings awkwardly balanced in my arms. Students milled about between classes, some practicing minor spells in the courtyard while others lounged on the grass enjoying the last warm days before winter set in.
I spotted Linden sitting under our usual oak tree, his fingers gently coaxing a withered flower back to life. He looked up as I approached, his smile fading when he saw my expression.
“That bad, huh?” he asked as I dropped my paintings unceremoniously onto the grass.
“Worse,” I groaned, collapsing next to him. “Professor Laurent practically outed me to the whole class. She called me a water elemental, but it wouldn’t take much more to figure out the truth.”
Linden winced. “Shit. What did you do?”
“What could I do? I deflected, Aurelia changed the subject, and then she cornered me afterward to talk about being ‘vulnerable’ in my art.” I made air quotes with my fingers, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Maybe she has a point,” Linden said gently. “Your paintings are amazing, but they do feel a bit... distant.”
I glared at him. “Et tu, Linden? I thought you were on my side.”
“I am on your side,” he insisted, the flower in his hand blooming fully as his emotions intensified. “But as your friend, I also want to see you happy. And I can tell you’re not.”
“I’m fine,” I said automatically.
“No, you’re not. You sleep with half the campus but never let anyone get close. You paint these incredible storms but never show what you really feel about them. You’re just... existing, not living.”
I stared at him, momentarily speechless. Linden rarely pushed like this. He was usually content to let me be my prickly self without comment.
“What’s gotten into you today?” I finally asked. “What’s gotten into everyone? Is it just pick on Nerion day?”
He sighed, setting the flower aside. “I’m worried about you.”
“You have nothing to worry about,” I retorted. “I don’t need to be talked off a ledge that doesn’t exist. I’m fine.”
Linden ran his fingers through the grass, which seemed to lean toward his touch like puppies seeking affection. “Look, I get it. Your situation is complicated. But you’re isolating yourself more and more.”
I picked at a loose thread on my jeans, avoiding his gaze. “I hang out with you, don’t I?”
“Only because I wouldn’t take no for an answer freshman year,” he pointed out. “And even with me, there are walls. Big ones.”
The truth of his words stung more than I wanted to admit.
Linden was probably the closest thing I had to a real friend, and even he only got the carefully curated version of me.
The version that was sarcastic and aloof but ultimately harmless.
Not the version that could enchant people with a single note or turn to seafoam if someone fell in love with me and then changed their mind.
“Walls keep me safe,” I finally said, my voice quieter now.
“Do they?” Linden asked. “Or do they just keep you lonely?”
“Linden… you know what will happen to me if I choose the wrong person.”
“But what if you choose the right one?” he offered. “Wouldn’t that be incredible?”
“Yeah,” I scoffed, flopping down on the grass and throwing my arm over my eyes. “Except fairy tales aren’t real and I’m not willing to gamble with my life for some… guy.”
“Even if he was perfect?”
“Oh Linden…” I sighed. “Perfect guys don’t exist. There’s perfect cocks and perfect asses, but there are no perfect men.”
I heard Linden sigh, and I knew he was shaking his head at me even though I couldn’t see it. “You should tell the other art students that next time you critique. I bet that would shut the professors up.”
“That,” I replied, grinning from ear to ear. “Is an excellent idea.”