Chapter Text
Prologue
Edgar Valden was a strange child. Silent and well mannered, as the only heir to the Valden family he was expected to have talent, and of course, he did. That talent was painting, and what beautiful paintings he made. As a child, he could simply lock himself in his room and paint for hours and hours, with unlimited inspiration. Though as he grew up, he found it more and more difficult to paint. He lacked inspiration, everything he tried felt wrong. It was his paint that was the problem, or that’s what he thought. He tried different kinds of paint, but it couldn’t satisfy his expectations. Canvases filled trash cans, as he grew more frustrated with himself. But one day, he had accidentally cut himself with a kitchen knife. At first, he cursed himself for being so careless but...then a dark thought crossed his mind. What a pretty, pretty color that blood was. There was no color like it was there? It was his own unique color, only he could make it. He had an urge. He wanted to paint with this blood. He could make a beautiful portrait of himself, a beautiful painting with beautiful paint. Taking the knife to his room, he began his work. The best place to cut was the thighs and wrists. He winced in pain, the first few times but quickly grew used to the sensation. It was for a good cause, he had to do this, without painting he would go insane. No one questioned his pale completion. No one questioned the bandages. Maybe they should have. Maybe they should have done more then a few passing comments.
Edgar grew dissatisfied with his “paint” after a while. It was no longer pretty. He turned to one of the servants in the house. And began to think, deeper, darker thoughts. What did his blood look like? What could be made with the blood? Then Edgar, began plotting a way to drain this servant of his precious, precious blood. It happened the next night. Though the plan was messy, and unrefined, it worked. Edgar had gotten the servant into his room, undetected. Cutting the servant, seeing them squirm in pain, he felt a rush seeing the blood pour out of him. Skin was his palette, blood was his paint, and from those he could make beautiful paintings, his inspiration was back. But he was careless. He was greedy. He asked for too much. As the painting was finished and he went to show the servant he realized they were limp, hanging lifeless from the seat they were confined to. They were dead. He killed them. He knew taking blood was dangerous, but he never intended to take another’s life. Panic spread through his body, and he truly realized what he had done. What if the public found out? What would happen to the Valden name? What would he do? Something like this was unforgivable! No, no, he couldn’t tell anyone, he had to stay quiet. First, he would cover it up, then he would go to his parents for help. Surely they would understand he didn’t mean to, right? So he started cleaning up the blood, covering his tracks. Silently he went out in the night, and threw the body out into the woods. Animals would get it before it was discovered, was what he hoped, at least. Silently, he crept back into his now clean room, but passed, looking at the painting. He was reminded of the beauty in the blood. No, he can’t go on like this. But was it too late to go back? What if his parents disown him? No, no, he forced those thoughts out of his head. He could still save himself. He turned away from the painting, and went to his parents.
After that episode, he got treated for his problem, though it was clear he was lower in his parents eyes. It took days to have him to stop, sacrificing 3 other servants during the process. But a set of rules was now in place. No one was to shed any kind of blood in front of him, accident or not. All accidents and deaths were to be covered up and kept secret. The blood paintings were (to Edgar’s disappointment) to never be shown to the public. Though Edgar would never fully get rid of this urge of his, it wouldn’t be triggered unless he saw some kind of blood. And while he would never quite paint as well as he would when inspired, he would inspiration in other things. For example, he would often go out into the garden to paint. It seemed all these worries were cleanly and neatly swept under the rug and taken care of. Edgar grew older, his parents passed, and Manor grew silent. No more episodes, no more problems, no more distractions to keep him from painting. Everything was perfect now. Everything was fine now. But silently, deep in his heart, he wishes for that thrill again, the power to make those wonderful paintings. Those, were glorious.