Chapter Text
It is dark when he finally reaches his door. The seas where uncalm today and their catch wasn't big enough. Any good sailor knew that fish were hard to get in a storm. Still, Captain ordered him to stay more than usual, cause no fish meant no payment and Killian couldn't afford that. So he stayed and he put on a wrestle with the waves.
His back is aching when he finally unlocks his door and walks up the stairs inside the small place he calls home. He disposes the coat from his shoulders to one of the few chairs he owns. He doesn't have much. His valuable possessions could fit into a saddle bag or a small chest. He could pack them at any moment and leave. The thought had passed his mind many a time. But where to go? He has no one to follow him, or at least someone to stay back and miss him if he does go.
Killian unties the cravat from his neck and places it on the wooden table. The cloth as wet as the rest of him. His hair had stopped dripping but is still hanging over his eyes. The thought that he needs to cut it before it’s too long to fit in a ponytail crosses his mind. Usually he would have felt cold but the August evening has the atmosphere pretty warm. Good. At least he would dry soon enough.
He drags his body to the window in the very back of his small house. It is placed in the middle of the wall, beneath it to its left is the semi large bunk he uses as a bed, to its right his canvases, tripods and a small table holding the colors, palette and paint brushes. He draws back the old flimsy curtains and opens it. The full moon seems to illustrate the whole space. He rests his forearms on the worn out wood and leans forward to exhale a long breath. It was nights like this when he missed his brother more than anything. He remembers how much he loved the full moon. How he used to take him by the hand and lead him to the beach where they would crouch down on the sand and stare at the endless sky. He used to teach him constellations and the stories behind them. Anything he would hear while working at the docks.
It was nights like this that he misses his brother more than anything. "Oh Liam."
It comes out as a whisper, an almost breath he didn't hear himself. "I miss you brother." He bows his head and looks down at the street. Few citizens are still out. This part of the city doesn't have that much of activity anyway. He sees a few people passing by. Most of them are just commoners like him, dressed with simple cloths and dull colored materials. He sees some horses with the riders walking by their side holding the reins and a few carriages as well. The night is quiet, most of the noises coming from the beasts' hooves on the wet pavement.
He raises his stare at the sky once again. It's full of stars like every night. The storm had passed and left behind a clear sky, almost like it was never there in the first place. After gazing for a few moments he spots the Morning Star. The brightest of them all. The legend says that if you wish upon it during the night of the August full moon it will grand your wish.
Killian used to love this story as a lad. He used to wish every summer for a better life for his family. Then for a better life for him and his brother. Now he had nothing left to wish for. He stopped wishing years ago. But now, watching the bright star shinning on the dark sky, a sudden urge is blooming in his chest. It feels so intense, a feeling that will either come out or make his insides explode.
So he closes his eyes on instinct, feeling droplets running down his scruffy cheeks, takes a deep breath and whispers in the night.
"I wish I was not alone anymore"
When he reopens his eyes he feels somehow lighter inside. Like a burden was lifted from his chest. Suddenly he chuckles to himself, a sound that soon turns into a laugh and a few more tears escape his eyes again. But he doesn't feel grief anymore, he feels joy. He doesn't know where the feeling comes from but he likes it. It feels good to laugh after so much time. He can't remember the last time he laughed a genuine laugh.
And then he stops as unexpected as he started. He looks up at the Morning Star and somehow finds it shining brighter that before. It's like smiling down at him.
He pushes away from the window. He has the urge to paint. To grab a brush and feel the hard wood of the base, to dip his fingers in the smooth cool texture of liquid paint, let its aroma feel his nostrils.
He rolls the sleeves of his white linen shirt up his elbows. He should probably take it off if he doesn't want to have paint on it, but he doesn't care right now. He approaches his canvas. The unfinished face of his dead brother looking back at him. In the place where his eyes should be there's still an incomplete blank space. He could never finish it. Could never create the exact same shade of blue for his brother's eyes. It never looked good enough. So he let the painting be. Waiting. He would never be able to finish it. He didn't have the strength to without breaking down. Until now.
He grabs his pallet and the container of the blue paint powder. He starts creating the different shades on it. They're a lot. To him they look to be more than one hundred different shades. And then he paints. And it feels good, it feels cathartic. And he goes on and on, and as the night passes he doesn't stop. He doesn't stop until the painting is finished, blue paint is smudged all over his hands and forearms, and his brother's warm blue eyes stare back at him. He takes a step back to admire his work.
He has to name it, like he does with all his paintings. He never thought this moment would come, never thought he would actually find the courage to finish painting his brother and have to name the work. He wasn't prepared for this. But as he stares at the warm painted smile and the light curly brown hair, he knows the name is there, had always been there from the moment Killian was firstly born. So he dips the slim brush in black paint and then approaches the bottom of the canvas to scribe his birth name and the name of the painting. It reads:
The Morningstar
Killian Jones