Work Text:
Art was, in its best definition, what gave meaning to Guertena's life. There was no other way to express all the feelings stored in the mind of the lonely man. The creations of the renowned artist were unquestionably beautiful in all their forms. Each painting and sculpture often served as an escape valve, but that mattered little to his admirers.
However, for a long time, he couldn't tell if it was his art that imitated his life or the other way around. The countless creations never stopped, and each one seemed to have stolen a small piece of his essence. But he never cared that each new work of art brought him closer to death, nor that his body was growing weaker until he struggled to lift his brush; Weiss still had work to do.
His long and tiring years in this world still had many stories to tell; like the ladies of many colors who wanted him for nothing more than his money, or the clow he saw with his grandson back when he was still a decent man who didn't neglect his own family. Those days were long gone, yet he was able to relive them. With each new creation, Weiss would get back what had been taken from him.
But the most important of them all was left for last. The blue of her eyes, the yellow of her long hair, the green of her favorite dress. The world had lost these colors, but Guertena painted them on his canvas again. She might not be the real Mary, not really his daughter, but his downfall was to love her as if she were.
When the brush finally moved away from the canvas, the fragile life his body still carried was taken away by the ink.
Mary lived once again, and Weiss needed nothing else.