Work Text:
Sarnliss’ Mental Image: You copy an exact likeness of your surroundings onto a piece of stationery. The recorded image can include creatures, plants, landforms, and anything else in your field of view that is visible. The image is in color and lasts indefinitely.
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“Hold that beautiful smile, Leia!” I say cheerfully. She does so flawlessly, radiating both warmth and playfulness from her perfect visage. Her deep red dress stands out against the spring backdrop, further highlighting her radiance.
With a muttering of arcane words, I press the paintbrush into the canvas. My hand begins moving of its own accord, magic flowing through my fingers as my field of vision is condensed and then recreated.
This is purely for a more lasting reference, of course. While Sarnliss’ Mental Image has been invaluable in capturing exact moments in time and the flawless appearances of whatever I lay eyes upon, it holds no artistic vision of its own. And is that not why art is purchased? The way I’ll convey Leia’s smile, the color mixing I’ll perform to match the rosey tint in her cheeks, the slight imperfection in the way I paint the twinkle in her eyes—it is through my painting that her image will truly come to life, not through a perfect recreation of a still moment.
These thoughts occupy my mind as the brush continues, needing no paint nor precision. It always takes exactly 10 minutes and 6 seconds to complete.
After said time has elapsed, I set the brush down and roll my shoulder. Leia eagerly stands from the stool, skipping over to rest her head on my shoulder and examine the image.
“Ooh…” she says, kissing my cheek. “It’s like looking in a mirror! Well… a mirror that doesn’t reflect!”
She tilts her head and steps closer, tracing her finger over her duplicate’s forehead. “You didn’t tell me I had stray bangs!”
“Where you see flaws, I see perfection,” I say sincerely.
She crossed her arms and huffed, but I could see hints of the smile that makes life worth living tugging at the corners of her lips.
“Well… promise to keep them out of the painting?” she asked, meeting my eyes.
My eyes twinkled. “As you command, my love.”
~~~~~
I run a paint-stained hand through my unkempt hair, my vision entirely narrowed in on tracing every last strand of hers. A single gas lantern illuminates my desecrated studio, the flickering flame taunting me. Despite my ragged breathing (my lungs having been damaged from decades of paint fumes) and trembling lips, my hands remained as steady as ever. Surely this would be the one. This would bring her back to me.
I’ve labored my whole life to capture perfection. Many who have purchased my works would claim I have.
They are all fools. I still have yet to achieve perfection. Every canvas I toss aside is another failure. Leia’s image surrounds me, binds me, consumes me. The warmth she held in life, not the gray pallor her skin held after sickness claimed her. Her beauty from all angles and in all scenes. Posing by the lake. Cooking dinner. Sleeping. Walking through the city. Wearing the same dress in every photo. None of them are correct.
Only when it’s perfect will she return to me. Only once I’ve captured her look exactly will she call my name.
My hand slips. A stray brushstroke along her neckline.
“No, no, NO!”
I stand up in a rage, heaving the canvas and easel to the ground. Mistakes cannot be painted over. Their failure will corrupt the entire work. Leia will notice. I can almost hear her complaints, her melodic voice teasing me about the apparent protrusion of skin I tried to hide. In the previous one, her left eye was too big. Before that, her hair was too short.
The mocking in my mind will not cease. It blurs between my voice and hers. It tests everything I’ve ever known.
It’s time for a new approach.
The one avenue yet unexplored.
Sarnliss’ Mental Image. Mental Image. If it can capture what my eyes see, why not what my mind sees?
I pick my easel back up, carelessly tossing the failure into the ever-growing pile and setting up a new canvas.
I dip my brush into the palette.
I’m out of red.
I don’t have time to find more.
I take out my dagger and slice open my palm, swirling the bristles around in my hand. The color matches Leia’s dress perfectly. Perhaps this was what I was missing. Perhaps Leia could sense I wasn’t truly dedicated if I wasn’t willing to bleed my feelings into my art.
I close my eyes. I envision her as she was on that day. Her smile; her misplaced faith in me. A warmth spreads through my body as I murmur the arcane words I’d all but forgotten.
The magic flows through me again, inspiring my hand to follow. Blood drips from my injured hand, but all I feel is a heat filling my chest. This was it. I can picture her smile, clear as day. The stray bangs on her forehead, her blood-red dress, the gleam in her blue eyes.
10 minutes pass. I open my eyes, heart swelling as I prepare to greet my beloved again.
The canvas is solid black.
~~~~~
It’s not working.
It’s not working.
No matter how clearly I can picture her, it never works. Fifty canvases now and all are solid black. No matter what I do, the spell only captures the world my eyes see. Her presence grows further distant with each passing failure. Is it possible I am wrong?
No. The answer is clear. The gray world around me does not hold the answers. I must change what I see. I must truly witness her in front of me. Only then will she be realized.
I will not surrender to the lies my mind and eyes tell me. They perceive her to be absent. They are wrong.
The spell draws from my vision. Try as I might, I can’t suppress the view of the inside of my eyelids, nor the slight orange hue from the lantern that penetrates them. There can be only one solution.
Without hesitation, I plunge my still-bloodsoaked dagger into my eye. Immediately, half of my vision swarms with crimson before dimming. The pain does not register; nothing physical can ever compare to the chasm in my soul.
Into the other eye, the ball popping before I sever its connection to my skull. It is a small price to pay. I would rather live on without seeing than live on without her.
I stifle my whimpers and steady my hands, lifting the brush into my now-empty eye socket and swirling it, gathering the paint. This is what was lacking. Her image has never been so clear.
I perform the familiar motion I no longer need to see to enact, lowering my hand towards the canvas. The well-worn brush makes contact and I cast the spell one final time.
~~~~~
Time loses all meaning. Conscious thought flees me, leaving only feeling. I know she’ll call out my name this time. I’ve waited years; I can wait minutes. The blur of my hand I can no longer see, the sound of bristles scratching against canvas, the feeling of paint dripping from my eye sockets down my cheeks—all of it combines into a clear certainty.
This will work.
My hand stops. I inhale sharply, waiting with bated breath. Now, she will call out my name.
She does not.
“Leia?” I rasp, tracing my finger along the painting’s surface. I can feel the variances in the stroke type and length. This is not a pure-black canvas. Her image is there.
My thumb traces her cheeks, painted with my own blood. The spell worked. It should have brought her back.
Could every bit of hope I’d been painting have all been for nothing?
No, it couldn’t be.
Stay in denial.
I can feel it. I’m closer than I’ve ever been.
My fingers brush over her painted lips.
I can still see you smile.
That’s it. Her smile. It’s imperfect. Every cell in my body screams it out at me. My mental image was off.
I can figure out what it feels like. That’s what I need. I just need to find my original mental image. The last one I took of her.
It’s somewhere in the pile behind me. I turn quickly and dash towards the pile, knocking something off the table me. The sound of glass breaking goes nearly unnoticed as I dive into the sea of canvases. One touch tells me which are the solid-black failures.
I feel my face heating. My goal has never been so close. The urgency of the situation fuels my fervor.
More canvases tossed behind me, crackling and popping as they land. The fire within me grows, singing my hair and melting the paint on my fingers.
At last, I find it. Buried at the bottom of the pile, I feel the familiar texture. My fingers trace her smile.
The heat swells further. I feel her presence. This warmth is surely what her embrace must feel like. Her love wraps around my soul and body, consuming me in its glory. It swells upwards, engulfing me in her bright beauty. It torches my skin, melting flesh from bone. It fills my lungs and scorches my empty eyes.
Yes… this is where I belong. I clutch the canvas to my chest, feeling her mental image made real at last.