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He knows something is wrong, but can’t put his finger on it. It buzzes at the back of his mind all through breakfast and into the early afternoon, making him itch somewhere deep under his skin. These days, he doesn’t speak much, but even if he did, he’s not sure he’d have the words to put to his thoughts. Ansem suggests that perhaps he’s coming down with something, suggests he goes to bed early tonight and bundles up against the faint chill in the air. He’s more than content to accept this answer until he turns for the stairs and feels his breath catch in his chest.
Braig is missing an eye.
The portrait is many times larger than he is, each of their images carefully and painstakingly rendered in what might be oil or might be acrylic, but he’s never had much an eye for art.
Eye.
And Braig’s is gone, a dark, wet smear of rot bleeding down the right side of his face from the empty socket. He looks back up to Ansem, then to the painting again, but the wise man only places a hand on his shoulder and remarks that “It is a fantastic likeness, isn’t it?” as though he sees nothing out of the ordinary, as though he can’t see the way Braig’s face has begun to decay through the canvas.
He tries to put it out of his mind, but it’s only hours later that the Guards come rushing in, blood darkening their gloves as Braig bleeds through his bandages.
———
There’s a ghost in the Castle. He’s never believed in the supernatural, never put much credence into the paranormal, but there’s a leaden ball of dread in his stomach the instant he lays eye on it. It stands just to his right, grey and misty and nearly shapeless, but it’s there. When no one’s looking, he walks up to the portrait and lays a hand on it to see if perhaps something’s dripped onto it.
The canvas is dry and the ghost remains.
He can feel its unseen eyes bearing down into him, can almost feel an icy hand on his arm, and it’s all he can do to turn and walk away before the irrational part of his brain wins out.
As he reaches the front door, hoping for some fresh air or an afternoon ice cream, he’s bowled over by the others as they carry in a lifeless stranger.
———
There are plans to add Xehanort to the portrait, and he doesn’t need to hear the rest of the conversation to know precisely where he’ll be painted in.
Ienzo sits in the foyer, a small, wordless waif hidden between tapestries and shadows, watching as the others gather around for the unveiling. There are only sounds of approval when the image is displayed, and he knows immediately that none of them see the blood soaking Dilan’s uniform. It’s darkest on the knuckles of his gloves, but there are heavy droplets all across his chest, the faintest hint of something hungry darkening his smile.
He watches them all as they disperse, and doesn’t fail to notice the hooded glances Braig and Dilan exchange with the newcomer.
———
No one has said anything about the painting. No one has cast it more than a passing glance when walking down the staircase, and he’s beginning to wonder if he might just be losing his mind. Every morning he walks through the hall he does his best to avoid looking at the gilded frame and the decaying horror within it, yet it’s as though his eyes are not his own to control.
Even’s face has somehow begun to melt, distorting his features into the terrible Glasgow grin of something hiding under a bed. His eyes are wrong, his fingers too long, and his cool intellect has warped into something furious and unhinged.
He doesn’t want to connect the dots, doesn’t want to dwell on it, but it’s hard to ignore the screams that have begun creeping through the vents at night, or the heavy smell of metal on the scientist’s gloves.
Just because it’s beginning to make sense doesn’t mean he likes it.
———
The world drops out from under his feet when he enters the Castle from a long walk around the town square and finds the portrait glaring at him. The ice cream stick clatters to the floor, still stained sticky and blue, forgotten even though it’s a winner.
His steps are staggered as he approaches, his lungs shriveled to raisins in his chest. There are footsteps behind him and he reaches out, grabbing Aeleus’s sleeve with a desperation he’s never shown before. “What do you see?” he asks, his voice tiny and hoarse with disuse, and he can feel Aeleus’s surprise even without looking at him.
“Um,” the Guard rumbles, clearly taken aback.
“Look at me,” Ienzo clarifies, jabbing a finger towards his own likeness, trying to steady the shaking of his hand. “What do you see?”
There’s a moment of concerned silence. “What do you see?”
That wasn’t a fair question to ask, though, because for as loquacious as he was, Ienzo was still far too young to be able to put into words what lay before him. The black, mottled skin, the putrefaction clinging to its fangs, those horrible yellow eyes…”I asked you first,” he says, voice strangely level considering the tempo of his heart.
Aeleus shrugs and scratches his head, folding his arms across his chest as he regards the piece, but the gravity is lost on him. “I don’t know, Ienzo. I just see you. I just see us. There’s nothing else to see.”
"Easy for you to say,” he says, but it’s more to himself than anyone else. He can feel something terrible rising to the back of his tongue, can already anticipate the hot, frightened pricks of tears at the back of his eyes, but Aeleus is unmoved by his plight.
And it’s no wonder—his is the only image untouched.