Chapter Text
As he did every day, Encre hummed a tune that only he remembered. A sweet, affable melody, the kind that blends with the wind, only to shatter into a void that knows only how to produce withered echoes.
His fingers glide like ocean waves, splashing across some of the many planks bruised by time, resting amidst the remnants of funeral soil and dried stains. The cool breeze weaves through a few leaves, and parched petals crunch against the grey tones of what was once grass. It was a whisper that embraced the skeleton’s body like a consolation; he only wanted to forget it all with every stroke and return to what once was.
Now, he could only remain in what is.
Long ago, his soul stopped throbbing with longing and wonder for the world. He felt himself losing his way with every brushstroke, even if it was an attempt to maintain his sanity. He hardly ever rests. His body seemed to move on its own while his mind wandered toward the next painting he would create, toward questions he knew would never be answered. Toward waiting to see if anyone would ever come.
He had a sort of routine: opening his small workshop after gathering ingredients, crushing them, talking to the villagers, helping them, trying to paint, and waiting patiently for a visitor until closing time.
Of course, he knew no one would come.
Everyone was dead.
Despite knowing this, he always maintained a wide smile, heavy with hope.
Perhaps, one day, after so long, someone would arrive and the bell would ring. His soul would leap as it once did, and he would know the reason why he picked up a brush. He would feel that his entire existence finally made sense.
But today would not be one of those days.
Encre sighs, letting his tremors dissolve into the sight of the sun sinking behind the mountain. Faint, orange rays filter through the cracks of abandoned houses, caressing the stone ruins as if seeking to awaken those who are no longer there. From his hillside, he sees no rubble; he sees the reflection of the peasants, the echoes of laughter, and the sweat of labor that once filled the air.
“Tomorrow will be another day,” he whispers, clinging to the phrase so many times, fearing that if he stopped saying it, the void in his soul would finally devour him, or that the words would lose their meaning.
He gazed at the work he hadn't even finished; it becomes increasingly difficult to remember, to paint; he no longer even knows what frustration feels like. His past self would have been discouraged; in fact, using this technique used to be stifling, dull, and heavy (literally) as the wood would end up splintering because of the winter. Now, it was as if nothing mattered anymore.
He had forgotten what it is... to feel.
He packs up his easel and carelessly leaves the plank lying on one of the piles, already dried by the egg tempera. They never stop stacking up. At first, they were landscapes that breathed life into the village, nuances and feelings that no one else dared to express. And now, he only "painted" scribbles that pretended to be the faces he barely remembers. Some he would paint on the walls of the houses using mixtures of lime and fresh sand.
Years ago, he built his home far from the village. At first, it was because he wanted a different perspective on things. He never expected that winter would come to stay and bring misfortune in its wake. Spring never arrived; flowers no longer bloom, and birds no longer sing. The crops were lost until the earth became barren; materials for his paints began to grow scarce, as did the violent strikes. And then, that plague took everyone’s lives in a black, rotting stain, as if they had never been worth anything at all.
“It’s not so bad; at least I have you, Broomie!” he spoke to the brush, upon which he’d painted a crooked mouth and two charcoal eyes, the companion he talked to daily to stave off the isolation. His only friend. “Don’t look at me like that; of course you’ll still be my favorite! Are you jealous because I didn’t use you today? I didn't know you were such a sentimentalist,” he teases amidst the lingering silence. “I know what will cheer you up: what did one lame man say to the other?”
He chuckled. He laughed at the same absurd jokes and poor puns. He cackled until it hurt, until the sound bounced off the vacant houses and returned to him like a taunt. He collapses onto the hardened earth hidden beneath the snow beside his brush, letting himself simply exist under the shimmering specks of the sky. Pearls so radiant and distant, gleaming against the hollow sockets of the skeleton who once loved painting as much as life itself. His grin faded. A sensation he hadn't recognized in years presses against his chest without intent to release him, and he feels tears searing his cheekbones.
Why him? Why was he the one to survive?
He tried to help. He attempted to save them. Many simply vanished, agonizing and convulsing. All of them bearing black stains and a pungent stench until they crumbled into dust. No one could have known, nor prevented it.
Breathing felt so heavy. Every heartbeat was a selfish mockery of those who had perished. Guilt was a bitter draught that always left him nauseated.
The snap of a branch put him on edge. He felt lightheaded as he bolted upright, heart racing. He found only the usual, inhospitable landscape.
“How strange. I’m certain I heard footsteps…”
Something invaded his chest. There was an element in the atmosphere that felt unusual. It wasn't the wind, nor his own hollow laughter; it was something with weight, something with a shadow, something that did not belong in his graveyard of wood.
What was this feeling?
“Perhaps I’m just weary,” he thought, wiping away the tears he believed were extinct within the cavity of his chest, “weary and... alone.”
After all, no one would come. No one would rescue him or offer companionship.
He would always... be alone.
★★★
It was a new day; perhaps the world knew it.
For Encre, time had ground to a halt the moment the village died.
Once again, he savors the melody, dragging along the brush he carved after the scourge of that disease left him trapped in solitude. It surprises him that he can still recall the splinters it gifted him. He didn’t mind; the touch felt as soothing as the tingling in his bare feet against the rocks and snow. Walking barefoot had become a habit; he believed that by being part of nature, he could more quickly find the minerals, plants, or insects that helped him "cook" his art.
He greets every stall with a nearly mechanical cheerfulness, as if they were still there. No one answers, nor does he expect them to. He simply opens his workshop. He sets up a new easel. He isn't worried about grabbing a used, weathered piece of wood; he has done it so many times. He has painted so many people he still remembers onto planks that are now warping. They are just senseless lines. Lines that no longer serve a purpose. Lines that, little by little… are forgotten and oxidized.
Lines that lost their life.
Encre trips; he no longer complains. He only watches as the colors spill across the counter, onto the floor. His chest tightens; his heartbeat strikes with a force capable of bringing him to his knees. He can’t believe it. At what point did this happen?
“My… m-my paints… there are n-none left…” he stammers. He scrambles up and begins searching everywhere, heedless of the jars he breaks or the things he destroys. “N-no… N-NOT MY P-PAINTS, N-NO!”
Without his paints, he was nothing. He had no purpose. No life. He knew they would run out someday because, since the winter and that Plague arrived, there was nothing left to turn to but death; and despite going out to explore, each time he returned with less until he reached nothing. And when they ran out, he would be ready to die if no one else came. That was a promise he made to the world when he could take no more, fueled by a foolish hope that someone would arrive in his life to save him.
Why did he still believe in life? Why did he still cling to painting?
Did he even have the right to enjoy the little he had when everyone else was gone?
He is beyond salvation.
He was alone for eternity, wandering in a world that had lost its color.
Was this his destiny?
The silence that followed his screams was the heaviest he had ever felt. Encre stood there, watching the black pigment seep away, just as the sickness had seeped into his people. He was ready to stop breathing. He was ready for winter to claim the last corner it had forgotten to wither.
He… didn’t want to live like this.
A sound sliced through the air. Sharp. Metallic.
He froze. His sockets dilated. For years, the workshop bell had been nothing more than a scrap of metal rusted by neglect. It rings again. His heartbeat overflows. He thought it was his imagination or the wind playing tricks on his sanity, and now he cannot comprehend what it is. He hadn't even heard footsteps approaching… like the ones he thought he heard at night that kept him from sleep, though, let’s be honest, what even was sleep anymore?
“It is poor manners to keep a client waiting,” he hears a raspy, deep voice, velvety, yet vibrating through Encre’s bones like a warning. “Especially one who has traveled so far to find... color.”
The same sensation that draped over him that night makes him turn, and what he found made his soul plummet.
It wasn't a villager. It was nothing like anything he had ever known. It was an imposing shadow, concealed beneath the brim of a somber elegance. His eyes, so mismatched, in shades of crimson and gold. He seemed to be scanning not just the workshop, but the very cracks in the skeleton's soul. This being did not smell of death, nor disease, nor dust. He smelled of something ancient, something powerful... something dangerously alive.
“I want you to paint my portrait.”
Encre took a step back, unable to comprehend how the other had drawn near so swiftly, stumbling against an empty easel. The stranger's elegance fascinated him, yet the aura of power he exuded was suffocating. It was like staring into an eclipse: one could not look away, even knowing it would lead to blindness.
"I... I do not..." he managed to utter, glancing sideways at his stained hands. "I-I do not know what you speak of, I-
The stranger tilted his head slightly. The movement was slow, predatory. A lopsided, almost feline smile etched itself upon that face.
"I have heard that you are a much-beloved painter of this village," he hums; Encre notices the gaze shifting toward his phalanges. "And, in truth, I have traveled far too great a distance to depart empty-handed."
The echo of his boots vibrates more than it should within his skull. It is the only sound Encre hears. Suddenly, through a fine, dark silk cloth, the stranger took his hands. He did so with a calculated gentleness and slowness that caused the air to stagnate in Encre’s throat. The gesture was a silent invasion. That individual had closed the distance until his shadow devoured him entirely. The skeleton felt the chill emanating from the stranger, a cold that, paradoxically, seared and quickened the thrumming of his soul.
"I have heard that your hands possess a forbidden magic," with his silk-covered thumb, he caressed the back of Encre's hand, stained with dried pigment, as if it were a flower. "That your paintings are so vivid, so laden with soul where there ought to be only oblivion..."
A thick silence fell, charged with a sensation Encre could not name. He attempted to withdraw his hands, but the grip, though soft, was as steadfast as iron.
"They say you can paint beauty even where only darkness remains," he murmurs; his voice, so near to his face, sounded like the brush of velvet.
Encre looked up, and those mismatched eyes, crimson and gold, glinted with an ancient hunger.
"I am one condemned to never know his own countenance. Mirrors ignore me; the water rejects me..." he squeezes his hands, a jolt. "I dwell in a void where death is my only solace."
He lets out a choked gasp, mesmerized by seeing himself reflected in a gaze that seemed to claim every part of him. Up close, he could discern blue markings surrounding the stranger’s sockets, lending him a dominant air. Still failing to grasp what was happening, he felt so fragile, so exposed, and yet so intrigued. An eclipse of fire and gold that seemed to be stripping bare every crack in his chest.
"If your hands are as magical as they say..." he never ceased his gaze, never ceased his caresses. "Restore me to life upon one of your planks, fair flower."
Encre could not look away either.
The pulses of his soul skyrocket in a way he does not understand, in a way he believed had rusted away. Those gloved hands draw his own toward the figure’s mouth, and then, he tastes the bitterness of the pigment and the sting of pain in a soft kiss that leaves him stunned beneath the depth of those eyes.
Like a caress to the soul. So dark. So seductive.
As if he expected Encre to flee or unravel beneath his touch.
He barely reacted when the contact vanished as suddenly as it had arrived. Encre felt a frigid void, a pang of abandonment that made him stagger. His phalanges, still marked by the invisible moisture of that kiss and the trace of bitter pigment, trembled before he instinctively hid them against his chest.
What was happening?
“I-I… I can't,” he replies on impulse, his voice fractured, spilling rapid incoherencies he can barely formulate. “I-I… I am out of paint, I-I… I can't… I can't give you life if my world has gone blank.”
Could what he creates even be considered “paintings”? If they are merely scribbles of people who no longer exist, specters who judge him through those strokes for being the only one left alive.
Is it worth living like this?
Why now, just when he wanted to leave everything behind?
He doesn't know how many things he babbles. He stops when he perceives those eyes contemplating him in silence, the stranger standing tall with impassive elegance and his head slightly tilted; a golden spark accentuates the crimson, stirring sensations he cannot understand, cannot explain.
Why did he look at him that way?
And why… was he so drawn to him?
“A pity. I was told I would find what I require here, yet all I found was a coward,” he says, in a tone that cannot be deciphered. He turns his back. “I shall depart to seek life where they still know how to cherish it. Perhaps to the south, where talent yet remains.”
Encre watched him walk away, moving further and further into the distance. With every step, the workshop seemed to shrink and distort. He begins to tremble. His breathing grows erratic. His mind can process nothing beyond a single word.
“Life.”
“Wait!” Encre’s cry pierced the air. His bare feet struck the cold ground as he scrambled toward the imposing shadow. “Did you say… did you say there is life elsewhere?”
The figure stopped but did not turn. The elegance of his back seemed like an impenetrable wall.
“The world is vast, fair flower. Death has claimed much, but not all. There are places where color still dares to defy the winter,” his voice dropped an octave, becoming a temptation that honeyed the senses of his prey. “Those are places for those who still possess a will. You seem to have chosen to die here, amidst broken planks and dried paints.”
Encre felt a pang of panic. The thought of being left alone, of losing everything once more, was unbearable.
If he left, Encre knew his sanity would wither away.
“Take me with you!” he pleaded, his hands shaking. “I will paint for you… I will search for materials, I’ll do anything! I-
The stranger turned his head just enough for one of his eyes, a ruby ignited in the gloom, to capture Encre’s desolate gaze.
“Only those who serve me have a place on my journey,” he declared with a cutting coldness. “I depart in seven moons. Give me a reason not to leave you here, withering in the snow. I shall return. You know what must be done.”
Without another word, he was gone, a final echo that left Encre alone with his gasps.
★★★
He did not know when the morning arrived.
He did not sleep. He did not eat.
He remained for hours staring at the snow as it mingled with the cold sunlight and the ashes of bonfires from years ago, as if by closing his sockets, the entire world would simply dissipate.
“Do you think he will come, Broomie?” he whispered, his gaze losing itself in the path where the shadow had departed. “Or was it only a dream?”
Broomie is in no mood to speak; it seemed as though he were judging him with those charcoal eyes. Encre stood up, brushing off his worn rags, and looked toward the horizon with a constricted soul.
His head aches slightly when he remembers those scarlet eyes touched with gold. The way he looked at him. The depth of his voice. It felt so real, and the fact that it was a possibility was what felt suffocating. An agonizing pang that stole his breath away.
He wished it were only a dream.
He wished that touch had not been real.
He looked at his hands. He can still feel the ghost of that kiss, of those caresses. Something that seems to have no intention of fading, but rather, of pressing down with a strange sensation.
What was he feeling?
What was it… to feel?
He shakes his head. He didn’t want to overthink it. He didn’t want to deal with his life. He didn’t want to give himself the chance to paint a stranger because he felt he didn’t deserve it.
Everything was over. His paints. Everything about him.
And yet, there he was, moving through the snow and the dust of corpses with a branch, following a path he knew by heart from the many times he’d been lost while exploring. There he was, trying to obtain materials for a new painting.
How did it come to this?
Was it his cold words?
The way he touched him?
Or was it that gaze with that spark that said so much and yet so little?
Whatever it was, it made him wonder about so many things that he didn’t even know where to begin, and all those questions did nothing but sow a feeling he couldn’t identify. Something ached in his chest, something uncomfortable, something new, because for the first time after everything, his soul wasn’t trying to dissolve. His soul seemed to feel… alive.
“Restore me to life upon one of your planks, fair flower.”
Could this… be fear?
He breaks his wandering thoughts by returning to his task, going deeper, clearing away layers of snow with the branch, losing himself in time. This used to be his favorite hobby, his creative process. His mother would always scold him for coming home so late, so filthy and covered in twigs. He couldn’t help it; everything he saw was magical and fueled his curiosity. Everything was so colorful, so beautiful, that he felt like a part of the world even when he was lost.
His fingers, numb and soiled with ash, foraged frantically beneath a layer of frozen snow at the base of an ancient oak. Nothing. Not a single larva, nor a trace of mold that could serve him. His sockets, dry from staring without truly seeing, fixed upon the white nothingness surrounding him.
“Merde...” he hissed through his teeth. “Not a single damn insect. Nothing. All of this is useless...”
He staggers, his chest heaving in painful gasps. Not even Broomie can console him. Why does he keep doing this? Why did he go to the trouble if he doesn't even know if that man is real or not? He is a fool. Perhaps this delirium is part of death. Perhaps he is already dead, and collapsing in the woods would be easier. There is nothing and no one waiting for him, nor needing him.
A very subtle sound made him react. It wasn't the wind. It was like the dry snap of a leaf breaking, or perhaps... the rustle of a silk cloak.
He snapped his sockets open, dizzy. He forced himself to look in every direction, but there was nothing. No one.
When he looked down, he didn't know what to think.
There, upon the pristine snow he could have sworn he had already checked, was a small cluster of beetles with shimmering shells, of a crimson hue so intense it almost hurt to look at them. Just beside them, a small crack in the rock shed a fine powder of a deep, brilliant gold. There were also traces of clay and green crusts.
Encre stood paralyzed. He rubbed his sockets hard. Was he hallucinating? Were hunger and cold playing one last trick on him? He approached slowly, his heart hammering against his ribs, with the absurd idea that the insects would fly away at any moment. They were real. And they shouldn’t be there.
A shiver that had nothing to do with the weather raced down his spine. He felt a pressure at the nape of his neck, an intense sensation of being watched by eyes that knew every corner of his fractured soul. He spun around quickly, staring into the thick shadows of a crumbling bell tower.
Nothing. Only shadows and silence.
Trembling, he gathered the materials, feeling the strange warmth they emanated. He looked once more into the void, a mixture of panic and a dangerous fascination blooming in his chest.
Was he losing his mind?
“Best we... head back to the workshop, Broomie,” he says, shouldering the massive brush. “That was enough for today, and it’s already... getting late.”
Encre arrives without a word. He sets the materials on the workbench and stands there for a long while observing them, still in disbelief. Pigments like red and yellow are so difficult to obtain due to their toxicity. How could he have found them so quickly?
“I assume you have made some progress, then?”
The white skeleton jolts from where he stands, dropping a crushing tool, and looks at the shadowy, taller skeleton watching him from a prudent distance with a coldness icier than the snow.
“Mon Dieu...” a shaky sigh escapes him, feeling his phalanges grow numb from the shock. He clutches his chest. “You nearly scared me to death! Since when...? How...?”
“I told you I would return,” he moves with a predatory grace, laden with a firmness that makes the workshop seem even smaller. He sits, transforming the old chair into a throne. “So, will you paint me?”
Encre still hasn't processed it. He can’t, not when he already had a small wooden plank covered in a thin layer of wax on the counter for sketching.
His hand trembles and feels heavy as he picks up the pointed stylus. It has been a long time since he’s done this, and it feels so foreign. The stars in his eyes fall upon the features of that figure. Their bloody, sparkling orbs clashing with his own, it is as if he were the only living thing in a world submerged in shades of grey.
The intensity of those mismatched eyes, crimson and gold, keeps him paralyzed, as though the stranger could see right through him. He didn't move. He didn't speak. There was something that made him seek more of that gaze, of his sharp features, of what he was hiding; it seemed that for this individual, the world was a stage, and he, the darkness pulling the strings.
Who was this person? Was he even real?
Should he say something?
“And... where are you from?” Encre asks clumsily, desperately trying to regain some modicum of control as the air grows thick. There was something unusual. Something unsettling. He didn't know what it was.
“From everywhere,” he replies with a vibrating ambiguity. “And from nowhere.”
“Do you travel much? You seem... unaffected by the cold, or the plague that killed everyone.”
He sees him sketch a lopsided smile, a grimace that doesn't reach his eyes. He says nothing. Had Encre said something funny?
The tension becomes almost unbearable. Encre tries to focus his sockets on the bone structure of the being before him, on the way the candlelight plays with the silk of his clothes, but his mind is chaos. Every time he looks up to take a reference, he is met with a fixed, scrutinizing, predatory stare. As if he were enjoying it.
It is a silent dance of attraction and danger. Encre feels as though he is being stripped bare under that gaze. The sensation from before has transformed into something else... a searing fascination, a magnetic attraction toward the darkness this stranger represents. The stylus feels heavy, his heart throbs with an intensity he thought long forgotten.
He felt that something was about to happen, and it made him sigh.
“You know, you needn't be present for the rest...” he justifies, looking away. “I can handle the rest. Though, I still must find more materials, and it may take longer.”
“Nonsense,” he answers in a velvety whisper that crawls up the artist’s spine. “I told you I would return. Or is my presence perhaps too much for you?”
“N-no, that isn't it...”
“Then?” The voice is apathetic, firm, yet there is an electric current beneath it that makes Encre bow his head.
His soul pulses with more fervor; he grips the stylus, and strangely, a warm sensation invades his cheekbones. He needs to know more. He needs to break through this thick, heavy layer of mist that suffocates and attracts him all at once.
“You...” he looks up, feeling as though he is treading a path that seemed to have no exit. “You look like nothing from this place. Not like someone who survived the Plague. Or the death. Who... are you, really? What is your name?”
The painter trembles, noticing the scarlet eyes glowing with an intensity that touched him. He doesn’t answer. Not immediately. It seemed as if he were calculating every word or playing with his patience.
“I am something of... a collector, painter.”
“A collector?” He frowns, trying to concentrate on the shape of the stranger's jaw.
“I collect things that others consider lost. Forgotten beauties. Objects... with a soul.”
Encre’s heart skips a beat. The coldness of the response clashes with the way he looks at him.
“Like my p-paintings?” he asks, his voice a mere thread.
The stranger leans forward slightly, breaking the prudent distance. The cold emanating from him envelops Encre.
“Rather, like the artist who creates them.”
Encre is left breathless. The stylus slips from his fingers. His sockets are dilated, trapped by the ruby and the gold.
Suddenly, the figure stands up with an unnatural fluidity.
“That is enough for today. I shall return tomorrow, fair flower.”
The snowy skeleton cannot manage a response. He only watches him vanish into the shadows, leaving him with more questions than answers and a soul hammering against his chest.
★★★
The following morning, the breeze was so frigid that it pained him to breathe. Encre felt that strange warmth invading his senses; he carried Broomie with him, still not understanding what had transpired yesterday or how the hours had slipped away so quickly.
All those words, those gestures. Everything about that dark and mysterious skeleton swirled within him. What was he trying to achieve with all of that? All Encre knew was that the stranger had left him a nervous wreck, and he didn’t know why, but despite telling himself it was merely a delusion, there was something. It was as if he longed to know what would happen next.
Yes, it made no sense.
“He isn’t real, Encre. Broomie is the only one who’s real,” he repeated that nonsense. “Calm down! Today you and Broomie are going to look for more-
The painter froze once again. The stranger was standing against the grey landscape, only a few paces from the workshop. He didn't seem affected by the cold; on the contrary, he looked elegant in a long robe that moved gracefully with the rhythm of the wind.
“Good morning, painter,” the raspy voice broke the silence but not the calm; it resonated with an authority that disarmed him. “Do you plan to head out in search of color?”
Encre nodded slowly, unable to utter a single word. He felt his soul suddenly quicken. Once more, that warmth caressed his chest as he recalled every detail of him, his gaze as he kissed his phalanges...
“May I accompany you, fair flower?” He shivers at the depth of the tone, at those eyes tracing every inch of him.
It felt as though he had whispered it right into his “ear,” and he hadn't even had to move a finger. Encre could only stammer a shy “yes,” and so, they set off.
Neither of them spoke. Encre sensed a weight upon him, scanning and analyzing his every move. The presence at his side, for some reason, made him feel protected even though nothing was said, and that was the uncomfortable part. Heavens, he didn't even know why he’d said “yes”! He couldn't stay silent for so long; usually, he would talk to Broomie or tell him a joke, but this guy seemed like a tough audience!
He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t notice where they were walking, or rather, that the individual seemed to be guiding him toward small mounds of rare roots and mineral stones hidden beneath the snow.
“How... strange,” he says, spotting a group of black beetles he would have sworn hadn't been there in ages. “Yesterday I found nothing for hours, and now... ingredients are appearing out of thin air. What do you think, Broomie?” He turned toward the giant brush strapped to his back.
“That’s because you’re so scatterbrained, Encre. You nearly tripped over that mound a second ago!” The white skeleton mimicked the brush's response, shifting his tone slightly to a higher, more playful pitch.
“Oh, I did not! I am the most observant artist in this...!” he defended himself, pouting.
“Oh, really? Shall I remind you of the day you spent three hours searching for the clay you were holding in your hand?” Broomie continued in a mocking voice.
“D-don’t say that! Can't you see we have c-company?” he interrupted him, blushing and glancing around nervously. He trembled as he met the stranger's expression, a mix of incredulity and a touch of something he couldn't quite grasp. A raised eyebrow. “A-ah! What’s that over there?”
Encre dashes toward the other mounds. Gemstones. Clay. Charcoal. There was an endless array of minerals that would typically be incredibly difficult to obtain. He was so marveled. So hopeful. A small smile formed as energy surged through his body, momentarily erasing the crushing sadness that weighed on him every day. Without wasting a second, he gathered each item as if he had found a treasure.
“Painter.” He turns toward the call. “You must eat. You need your strength to portray me.”
He is taken aback. Upon a fine cloth on the ground lay wild berries of a deep red that looked like frozen blood, blueberries, and plums. Too fresh. Too perfect for a world blanketed in snow.
He hesitates when the skeleton extends a few berries toward him. He hadn't eaten anything solid in weeks, leaving his bones frail. Nevertheless, the gaze of that being was irresistible. Thus, he took a berry, feeling the brush of the other’s fingers hidden beneath the silk. The flavor was sweet, intense; it provided a surge of energy that compelled him to eat more, as tears threatened to escape.
It had been years... since he knew what it was to taste something so good.
It had been years since he knew what it was to eat... with someone.
He doesn't know how he ended up sitting there, eating. He only knew that the stranger watched him in silence, imperturbable.
“You... where did you get these?” he tries to utter. “Everything in this village has been dead for years.”
The stranger tilted his head. His mismatched eyes analyzed Encre, as if evaluating whether a question so mundane was worth answering.
“I have my methods, painter. Forgotten places where winter has yet to arrive,” he says, leaving a dangerous sensation that, though small, seemed to have triggered something in Encre’s mind. “Life's gifts are not to be questioned; they are simply to be enjoyed.”
Encre stared at a solitary berry in his hand for a while, then looked up at him. No. There was more to it than that. Something told him so, and it wasn’t just the mournful yet graceful aura he exuded.
“You know, you look so different from the skeletons I... that I used to know,” he begins to pry, feeling his own audacity and nervousness rising in his throat. “Are there more like you where you come from?”
“No.”
“I see...” he draws out the word. “How long have you been traveling?”
“A lifetime.”
“And... will you tell me where you are from yet?”
“I told you. From everywhere and from nowhere.”
“That cannot be possible,” he refutes gently. “You must come from somewhere, right? We all come from somewhere. I-I mean, no one, save for royalty, wears a robe of silk. Are you perhaps some kind of runaway King and you don't want to tell me?” He leans in a little. “How did you know how to reach this village? I thought everyone died from the Plague and... how did you survive? Who told you about me if everyone is dea-
“You have an implacable memory for someone so scatterbrained,” he indicates, appearing genuinely amused by the questions. “Knowing too much is often dangerous, fair flower. Curiosity... sometimes burns hotter than the cold.”
Encre lets out a sigh.
“At least...” he insisted, “at least, can you tell me your name? Mine is Encre, well, it’s the only thing I remember from... so many years ago.” He smiles with a certain melancholy and shame.
The skeleton does not speak at first; he shifts his gaze toward the withered trees, and this heightens the painter’s nerves. Had he said something wrong? Had he crossed a line he couldn't see?
“For what purpose do you wish to know it, painter?” His voice was devoid of any warmth. “Names are for those who hope to be remembered by someone, and I... I am merely condemned to be an invisible stain.”
Encre felt a sting at those words. He couldn't let someone speak of themselves with such indifference.
“Don’t say that...” he said firmly. “A name... a name makes you unique. It defines you. It’s what keeps you real when everything else feels like a dream and-
“Then am I a dream to you?”
The silence that followed was dense, heavy. Encre did not expect that phrase, nor that it would disturb his heart so deeply. Much less the look the stranger gave him in return. The golden spark in his eyes seemed to intensify for a moment that felt eternal before returning to a crimson cold.
“Sometimes, reality is more terrifying than any dream, fair flower.”
What was said bubbles between the snow and the breeze in a tone laden with intent as he stands.
“But if you insist...” he continues, without taking his eyes off him. “You may call me whatever you wish, and I can become the dream you desire.”
He concludes with a dark smile that devours every one of Encre's bones, one that steals a gasp from him and draws him in with a mystical force. Then, the skeleton retreats until his footsteps merge with the snow, walking away without revealing his next move.
Encre only watches him from afar, his mind reeling and his fingers playing with slight tremors upon the fruit.
Something was sown in his chest, something that stings and burns all at once. Something that urged him to run and seek more of him.
“That guy...” he speaks to his brush. “That guy is strange.”
“I need to know more about him...” he thinks.
★★★
From one moment to the next, a sort of routine was born: every morning the stranger waited for him at the workshop, they found materials, and they returned to the village.
Encre strained to find answers. The stranger evaded him without much effort, permeating everything with that sinister aura. He spoke only what was necessary, in perfect measure. Encre, conversely, was becoming increasingly "noisy." It was frustrating for someone like him; he obtained nothing beyond simple gestures and pretentious phrases that, at a glance, said little. Yet, the painter knew there was something more, something fueling that spark that grows and sears his chest. He still cannot identify what it is, and the intensity with which his soul (which he believed dead) responds to his presence frightens him.
Was this a need? A need to break through that wall? To know the why behind his words and actions?
He did not understand that warm oppression in his ribs every time the shadow was near.
And what if… it’s a trap? What if he ends up alone again?
Or was it his own body disobeying him, feeling something his mind refused to process?
He was still not used to being trapped in that eclipse bathed in bloody gold; it was as if he were being studied minutely. Every time he moved a finger. Every time he used his tools. Every time he went from one place to another. He was there. Watching. It was strange and even embarrassing. He preferred to spend his creative process with his brushes and their sweet little faces rather than in the company of someone; he had a peculiar way of doing things and felt an uncomfortable pressure when watched while drawing. Though, that individual did not seem to understand the dilemmas of artists.
That individual whose name he still did not know.
“It’s not fair...” he murmurs, forcefully crushing the insects. “How is it possible that I don’t even know his name?”
This is already the fifth day, and he has achieved nothing. It didn't matter if he spoke of the little he remembered or told a small joke. The man looks so distant and detached from his "problems." He was there, invading his workshop. With his hands behind his back, he admired every jar, every scrap of fabric, every stacked and used plank, every instrument, even the wooden mannequins he kept for painting. He did so with total attention, with a calm that exuded a dominance making him look alien to the grey world, and yet, Encre felt that he was the one being observed.
He would even dare to say he was watched even at night, because that heaviness did not leave him even when he tried to fall asleep.
He scrapes the remains from the oil lamp to extract black dyes. He couldn't even finish the sketch. He couldn't do it. Not when he remembered that gaze and that kiss. That glow. That sensation coursing through him. Burning. A terrifying mixture of danger and warmth that made him tremble.
He stopped for a second, feeling that Broomie, his faithful brush, was judging him with his charcoal eyes.
“Don’t look at me like that. You feel it too, don’t you?!” He points at him with his tool. “It’s like... like trying to paint the wind. It won't let itself be caught. He hasn't even told me if he likes tea! Though I doubt he drinks tea... or...” He interrupted himself, lowering his voice and grabbing the brush. “I need a plan, Broomie. I need to know his intentions. Any ideas?”
“A plan? Encre, the plan is for you to stop being an idiot and paint!” He fakes Broomie's voice. “Besides, I remind you that the last time you tried to make a ‘plan,’ you ended up trapped in a bush.”
“Hey! That was the bush's fault for moving!” he grumbles indignantly, hugging the brush against his chest. “You should support me, not criticize me! We’re a team!”
He glances at him sideways. The individual was concentrated on other things, inspecting one of the books he used as references while sketching. He never thought that from one moment to the next, someone would have him like this, so confused and frustrated. No. What he never thought was that someone would arrive at this place where one breathes death and offer him company.
“If I can’t get his name with words, I’ll do it with the drawing,” he says, looking at the unfinished sketch. “Strokes do not lie. If I manage to capture the curve of his jaw or... or his hands-
Encre turned abruptly as if having a revelation and struck the workbench. The silhouette does not flinch. The movement was so clumsy he nearly knocked over a jar of binder.
“YOU!” he exclaimed, regaining his balance with a ridiculous hop. The individual’s immediate gaze steals his breath. “I-I mean, you... uh... For the portrait, I need to start with the most difficult details. The hands. Put your h-hands on the table, p-please.”
The figure did not move. Not yet. He only arched an imaginary eyebrow, the red intensifying in the darkness of his robe, letting the silence stretch until Encre shrank back, nervously fiddling with a very neat brown apron that accentuates his waist. With a sigh, the taller one decides to move, stripping off his ebony gloves with his teeth while staring fixedly at the smaller one with a depth that makes him shudder. A slow, sophisticated, and deliberate movement that seemed to freeze the air between them.
He slid his hands over the old wood of the counter. They were long, of a perfect anatomy. With hues of red, yellow, and black like obsidian; and Encre was only chaos, disorder, and stains that never stopped appearing on his own hands or his entire body. What impacted the artist most was their absolute stillness.
Encre approached, his heart threatening to abandon his ribcage. This was the part that terrified him most; drawing hands is a nightmare. His hand trembled so much that the first line on the board came out as a shaky scribble.
“You are nervous, fair flower,” the voice vibrated near his face, almost a purr. “Do my hands perhaps tell you something that your words cannot reach?”
“I-I... am only trying to understand the structure,” he lies, stumbling over his own feet as he tries to get closer to see the phalanges. “It’s just... your hands... they seem not to belong to this world.”
In a sudden burst of clumsiness and curiosity, he reached out his hand to adjust one of the other’s fingers, seeking a better position for the sketch. The moment his warm, stained bones brushed against him, an electric jolt surged through the painter.
He froze, the stranger’s hand held between his own, completely forgetting the sketch. The contact was like a spark that returned his life to him all at once.
“Have you found what you were looking for, painter?” he murmured, his crimson gaze locked onto Encre’s dilated orbs.
To feel the actual cold of someone else, the texture of their existence… it had been years since the Plague had stripped away his colors, and everything within him had been buried under meters upon meters of dust so as not to suffer anymore. And now this… this was too much.
What was this?
“I-I…” He withdrew his hand swiftly. His breathing fractured with every second. “Your hands are... fascinating. They have a shape...” He faltered, searching for words amidst his mental chaos and habitual awkwardness. “They have a shape that... makes me want to bite them...”
The silence that followed was deathly. Encre stood stunned, processing what he had just said. He couldn't believe it himself.
The skeleton narrowed his eyes, and for a microsecond, the red spark in his sockets flared with something he couldn't identify. Desire? Surprise? Danger?
“No! I meant trace! To trace with vigor!” He began to gesture wildly, accidentally knocking over his stylus. “It’s just that you... you are so... consumable! I mean, admirable! A-ah! Broomie is right, I’m an idiot!”
Encre turned to pick it up, giving his back to the stranger to hide the embarrassment burning his cheekbones.
“I-If you like, you can s-stop by tomorrow,” he stammered. “T-tomorrow I’ll be painting without any trouble and-
He was already gone. There was no farewell, no complaint, no trace, no shadow. Nothing. A thread of snow drifted into the workshop.
A hollow ache unsettled his stomach.
Had he ruined it?
★★★
Encre woke up abruptly over the workbench, his cheekbone aching from the wood of his own sketches and his body stiff. It had been years since he knew what it was to fall asleep; he always had to remain alert amidst the rubble.
The first thing he did, before even opening his sockets completely, was seek out that presence. That weight in the air that had accompanied him these past days, or those orbs that scrutinized every part of him.
He looked toward the chair. Empty. He looked toward the corner with the books. Empty. The workshop felt larger, more desolate, and terribly silent. Only the fresh morning breeze answered him. It was different this time. It wasn't the cold of the snow, but that hollow chill that remains when a room that was once full suddenly becomes void, just like when everyone died because of the Plague.
However, as he stood up, he felt something upon his shoulders. An old but clean cloth covered him completely. When had this arrived in his workshop? He didn't remember owning a fabric as fine and well-crafted as this; such things were permitted only for Royalty.
He ran to the entrance. He searched for footprints, searched for a shadow, searched for any trace of dark silk amidst the infinite white.
“He’s gone,” he whispered tremulously. “Is he truly gone…?”
He returned to the workshop, shuffling his feet, feeling like the smallest being in the world. He sat on the floor in front of his empty easel. He hugged himself, feeling how soft, warm, and comforting the fabric cradling him was. It gave off an unusual and addictive scent, like oak, daffodils, and something metallic.
Suddenly, the image of his mother, covering him when he was small after a day of painting in the rain, came to his mind with painful clarity. He felt pathetic, alone, and horribly sad in that dead village.
“P-please, Encre… l-let me go… I-I… I can no longer… promise me that… that you will leave this place. Live… live, son, live. I-I will always be with you….”
“No… I can't, I-I’m not letting you go! I won’t abandon you, Maman! N-no… Don’t you…!”
“It was your fault… E-EVERYTHING WAS YOUR FAULT!”
He crumpled the fabric sheltering him even tighter.
“Maybe he doesn't like today’s snow. Yes, that must be it, right, Broomie?” He slapped his own cheeks, trying to push away the memory that haunted him. Trying not to remember how his mother agonized on the floor, and no matter the effort, she died of the Plague. “M-maybe he’ll come back later. Maybe… I should clean!”
If only… he hadn't gone exploring that day…
He began to hum that melody that kept him sane while he cleaned the workshop. A good way to wait for him, he thought. Of course, he didn't imagine he would clean the workshop more than three times. Arranging and rearranging the pigments by color, by size, by mood, nearly four times; the seashells his father had given him on one of his trips. He needed to feel he had control over something, anything, while the silence of the workshop suffocated him.
Every time the wind blew a bit harder against the bell, Encre would jump, his soul nearly peeking out through his sockets; he would turn toward the entrance, hoping to see an elegant silhouette watching him.
But no one came.
Like a maniac, he sketched on the walls, an electricity making him restless. He sang the melody with more strength. His hands trembled so much he only managed erratic strokes. Something began to weigh on his chest, and he didn't know what it was; it worsened as the bell kept ringing and there was no trace of him. His breathing was frantic. Memories swirled. Smiles that distorted into black stains, laughter that turned into screams and wails laden with suffering. Faces he thought he had forgotten vanished into time.
Everyone has abandoned him…
Encre flings the brush aside and falls backward, clutching his head and wrapping himself in the jet-black cloth. He realizes that night is slowly falling, yet he has no strength to rise and light an oil lamp. The workshop felt more aggressive, more personal. He hadn't eaten the remaining berries; he couldn't. He felt that if he did, he would erase something vital. What was that vital thing?
He only stares at the unfinished sketch. The only thing clearly discernible is the silhouette of that gaze, those somber orbs. An eclipse that, now that he notices it, he hasn't stopped looking at, and he doesn't want to, no matter if the darkness no longer permits him to see. With a trembling hand, he caresses it, doing so more out of instinct than anything else. He does it without knowing, without understanding. And it is as if he could feel his gaze, hear his voice between his fingers.
Why didn't that stranger appear? Had something happened to him?
Why does he feel this way? Why won't this oppression in his ribs let him breathe?
“It hurts... i-it hurts me...” he releases into the void, startled by his own broken voice, by the tears overflowing. “Is it... i-is it my fault? Will... e-everyone a-abandon me?” he continues. “He... he won't come back. He left me... he left me like everyone else here. Why...?”
Why was he still waiting for him?
The way he judged him... the stupidity of telling him he wanted to "bite" him. It all repeated like a painful taunt. Encre covers his face, filled with so many sensations reaching a single conclusion: it was his fault, it definitely was. That surely offended him, infuriated him; he looked at him that way for a reason, didn't he?
If only he hadn't said that stupid thing...
Hours pass and the white skeleton remains seated with his back against the counter, clutching the board and the fabric, staring at the pile of worn planks. The sun had not risen. Instead, a dense fog covers the entire village, accompanied by a breeze that tosses everything in its path and flakes of snow. The pressure grew, and he felt as if it were crushing him. And still, there was still a tiny hope that that man would return, even though the color had faded from his sockets.
How pathetic. What an idiot.
Why did someone like him matter to him? It was evident he wouldn't want to be near a broken, crazy skeleton who talks to brushes.
Why couldn't he stop thinking about his phrases, his company, his eyes? The touch of his fingers. The kiss on his hands...
“Broomie...” he turned toward the brush. “You were right, I’m an idiot. Why did I say those things? Who says that? No one sane. That’s why he left me here... to die alone.”
He laughs, with bitterness, with pain.
Why did he let himself be carried away like that?
“I suppose...” he stands up as best he can; “another memory to paint... right?”
As if on autopilot, his body heavy and shivering, he searches for the various colors he found alongside the stranger. He sketches a weak smile, remembering his attempts to make him speak, the silly questions he asked him. He even told him some anecdotes of when he got lost in the forest, well, the ones he remembered. He listened to him, even though Encre would interrupt himself and jump to another story because he couldn't remember any more.
He grabs a used panel and lights the fireplace. It hurts again, and he doesn't understand what is hurting. The brush weighs tons, and he cannot manage to trace a single line; thus, he only realizes he has been standing before the board full of scribbles for hours when he notices the fire is dying out.
He looks at the sketch again. He is useless; he couldn't even paint something. He had no desire. He collapses against the plank with a tight chest, still not understanding the nature of that void.
“Why... why do I keep doing this? What if it was just a figment of my imagination?” he sobs. “Why am I not just dead? Why... did I believe I could...? That I deserved to be...?”
A gasp. A revelation. One that caused a sharp headache and a shock that nearly shoved him over.
Was he... was he starting to grow accustomed to his presence?
The sound of something heavy striking the floor nearly gave him a heart attack. He startled so violently that he tripped over the easel and fell to the floor, letting out a groan of pain and confusion.
“I see the floor is more comfortable to you than a chair, painter.”
A heartbeat. A very loud one. Was his mind playing a cruel joke on him?
He understood that when something leaves... it never returns.
He raised his head slowly. There he was. Impeccable amidst the snowflakes falling with more vehemence. The glow of his eyes converged beneath the dark robe; he was examining him intensely. At his feet were several planks of dry, cured, and clean wood, of a quality Encre had not seen in decades.
“Y-you...” he rose with the speed of a spring, staggering. The dark cloth covering him slipped to his feet. “You came back!”
“Why would I not?” He arched an eyebrow, noting the disarray of the workshop. His orbs descended toward the cloth on the floor and then returned to Encre’s tearful sockets, lingering longer than necessary. “I told you I would return; I merely took the liberty of seeking a material worthy of my portrait.”
Encre felt he was going to explode. A whirlwind of emotions that, given that declaration, turned him into a fool, and no, not a Court Jester.
“I thought... I thought you had gone! That you had abandoned me like everyone else here!” he shrieked, taking a step toward him and gesturing frantically with his hands. “I thought I had ruined it because of what I said! I thought I disgusted you! Even Broomie had to endure my funeral! And now it turns out... that you just went to look for wood?!”
He began to laugh, a nervous, agonizing laugh that transformed into weeping. He hugged himself, and the figure remained motionless, barely processing the explosion of words. A sigh. A tiny, imperceptible curve appeared at the corner of his mouth.
“Disgust?” he inquired, closing the distance with a single step, forcing Encre to tilt his head back to hold his gaze. “You are a fascinating creature, painter. But I am not moved by such mundane whims. I was merely... seeking materials for you, so that you might manage to paint the world as your eyes feel it.”
Those words stole a gasp from him. Of course, it makes sense. How was he going to paint him if all the wood he had was used and very old?
Without thinking, he grabbed the lapel of the stranger’s robe, rumpling it. His body trembled so hard he thought he would fall apart right then and there. He wasn't aware he was invading the personal space of a powerful shadow, but his fear of loneliness was stronger.
“Don't go!” he pleads, pressing his forehead almost against the taller one’s chest. “D-don't... don't leave me alone with this silence again, please...”
Neither expected that approach. Encre couldn't even reflect on that impulse. He couldn't think of anything else. The stranger, conversely, looked down at the hands rumpling the silk. He did not embrace him. He did not flinch. It wasn't necessary. He simply allowed him to be and to stay.
Slowly, with one of his fingers, he forced the white skeleton to raise his face by the chin. The pressure was firm, almost painful.
“Look at me,” he commanded, blood and gold intertwining within the tearful stars. “If you ever doubt my word again, silence will be the least of your problems. Now, release my clothes and get to work.”
Encre shivers at the icy, demanding words, but in his eyes, there was something different. A spark that did not match what was said. His cheekbones colored, perhaps out of embarrassment.
“Of course...”
He is released, left breathless. Encre took a step back, feeling the void of physical contact almost immediately. His fingers tingled. The distance burns just as that touch did. As his mother would say, he had been imprudent once again.
Perhaps he was just misinterpreting things.
“By the way,” he purrs in a dangerous, velvety tone, “I see my cloak has served you as a consolation. I did not know my scent was so... indispensable for you to fall asleep, fair flower.”
Encre felt the heat rise up his neck until it set his cheekbones ablaze. He was struck dumb. That cloth... it was his cloak all along?! How did he not realize? Broomie truly was right to call him scatterbrained.
“I-I... I was just cold and...” he stammered, trying uselessly to hide the fabric with his foot.
Then, he didn't expect what came next. The figure released a sound that almost seemed like a dry laugh, laden with a magnetic arrogance.
“Do not bother lying; your beautiful eyes are far too honest for that. If you wish, you may keep it,” he mentions with a disinterested gesture, regaining his imperturbable posture. “Listen well, painter. Only for you, and because of the curiosity your... peculiar way of biting provokes in me, I shall stay here longer than I planned. But my patience has its limit.”
He paused, letting the silence of the workshop fill with the promise of something darker.
“Make sure I do not regret it.”
The wind howls; the bell chimes. But that laugh left him bewildered. It doesn't stop hammering in his head or pressing in his chest.
Because now, he understood one thing. What burned his chest most was that, for the first time in years, he had felt the warmth of life through an icy touch, and during his absence... the loneliness weighed double.
He grew accustomed to that individual in a short time, and he didn't know how.
He only knew that it terrified him.
★★★
Once again the fog lashed the village, and for someone as experienced as he, that only meant preservation problems.
The dark figure, ever punctual, appeared in the workshop. His eyes studied and traveled with the speed and fluidity with which the painter ran; covering the windows and any space with waxed cloths, protecting the paintings and the wooden planks he brought like something sacred that must not freeze. He listened to how he complained every time he tripped over the mannequins and fought with them for being so in the way, or with the counter. Though the strangest part of the matter wasn't that he was fighting alone. It was what he was wearing: a very pleated, long brown dress; perhaps he borrowed it from another mannequin.
“How dare you touch me, oh, Jean Le Noir?” he sighs to the poor mannequin with touches of dramatization and anger, placing the silk cloak on it in a bold movement; “works of art are to be touched, to be felt, but I am but a simple roturier compared to such a chef-d’oeuvre!” He leans against it, in a way that his body fits perfectly against its chest. “Unless you wish for me to be your toile vierge…”
“You have an interesting sense of fashion, painter.”
“N-no, Azure! I-I’m not…!”
Encre lets out a sharp shriek. The sudden turn causes him to collide with the mannequin, making him scream again. The silhouette wobbles and, by some feat of magic or inertia, topples over the skeleton, pinning him down and crushing the dress.
“Non, Jean le Noir, c'était une blague, c'était une blague!” He tries to push it away, but he “falls” as well, squeezing his sockets shut as he braces for the impact.
The blow never came.
Instead, he felt a firm grip around his waist, stopping him dead in his tracks. He opened his eyes. His breath hitched. The stranger’s face was inches from his own, impassive, wearing an expression that, if Broomie didn’t bury him right then and there, he would do himself.
Why was he so close?
“‘Bla-gue’? What dialect is that, painter?” he repeats in confusion. “Has the collision with the mannequin made you forget how to speak correctly?”
Oh, heavens. Oh, holy heavens!
Encre felt as if his soul wanted to abandon his body. Heat rushed to his cheekbones with such force he could almost swear steam was rising from his bones.
“I-it is... nothing. It is only...” he stammered, his nerves on edge as he noticed the dark gaze sweeping over the pleated dress. He felt the squeeze on his waist tighten, which only made him shove the other away. “IT IS JUST ARTIST SPEAK! Y-yes! T-that!”
He didn't even understand how he escaped those clutches; honestly, the ease with which he’d been caught was almost insulting, as if he were a mere feather destined to be stained. Of all times, this had to happen during his creative process. Yes. His process was based on dressing up and imagining he was living a novel; according to him, it helped recreate vivid emotions and sensations, like being a part of life itself. And he just had to arrive and catch him in the act! And not only that… he had put the cloak on the mannequin! In his defense, he’d only done it to add a bit of flair to the scene.
Yes, perhaps he had been mad since birth.
“How long... have you been here?” He clears his throat, dying of embarrassment as he put the dress back in its place, praying the other wouldn't mention a word of what he saw. This time, he focused on finishing the sanding of the wood the stranger had obtained, preparing to apply multiple layers of gesso. “I thought you wouldn't come, you know, because of the weather.”
“Is it not clear to you yet?” he hums, this time inspecting some well-preserved paintings at a prudent distance from the fireplace's heat. “I told you I would return. I would return and stay a while longer... for you.”
A jolt. One that grips him and won’t let go.
“Besides,” he lets out into the air before looking at him calmly, “you have something important to do for me, remember?”
Why did this man... never cease to be so strange?
“We have a little problem with that,” Encre scratches the back of his neck, trying to dissipate the sensation slowly creeping through his bones. “The weather, though beautiful, is ghastly for painting. The wood won't hold up. The paints will dry before they even touch the board.”
“I know,” he expresses almost instantly; “and I also know that you will find a way. I trust you.”
Encre, strangely, remains silent. Even if he tried to speak, he couldn't; nor could he erase what burns in his chest, what makes his pulse explode. What makes him look trapped within the eyes of the darkness.
“W-well, I haven't finished the sketch yet...” His fingers tremble, his chest heaves, and doubt grows so much he doesn't know how to move forward. “Perhaps we could do something about it.”
But he does move forward. Because he feels he cannot say no to the way he is being looked at.
The stranger tilted his head, his silhouette silhouetted against the fire of the chimney and the candles. He watched as the painter prepared a few small boards with wax and thick gesso. Encre put on a coat and special gloves. With agility, he packed a bag with some materials and then turned toward him.
“You and I are going out, right now!” He pointed at him with a finger covered in charcoal and wax.
“Are you asking me to step out into the storm to satisfy your... inspiration?”
“Yes! I mean...!” I can't sketch here; I need atmosphere,” he explains in an affable tone, approaching him like a butterfly fluttering through the softness of flower fields. “Please! It will only be a moment. Perhaps that way I’ll find the perfect angle!”
For a second, Encre thought he’d ruined it again because the being remained motionless, sockets narrowed and arms crossed. He fidgets with the feathers of his coat, though his gaze does not yield, not this time. It shines with strength, determined.
That makes the other let out a sigh, a short one, and avert his gaze. To the painter's surprise, he walked toward the exit without a word. With a small laugh, Encre followed him almost at a trot, feeling like a young child coming to life.
They stepped out into the fog. The whiteness of the world enveloped them. They decided to head into that forest that was once impenetrable, where rumors of magical creatures, spirits, and demons dwelling within the virgin nature once abounded. To Encre, that was just unfounded fear; it was silly that no one was allowed near. Nature was beautiful in all its forms, and he loved being part of it. Alive, replete with colors.
It was a shame that the Plague had reduced it to dust and dull groves.
“And you, where do you stay?” He moves ahead of the shadow, walking backward playfully, somewhat high-spirited. “I only see you arrive at the workshop, but I have never seen where you live.”
“Near you,” is all he replies, vaguely.
"Near? But there are no houses on my hill, and the nearest one is in ruins!" That bewilders him and only makes him formulate a thousand theories per second. "Does that explain... why I feel like I’m being watched at night?"
“Oh, come on! You are worse than an oak trunk,” he grumbles. “Or are you hiding from me that you’ve squatted in one of the houses? Don't tell me... you're a pirate!”
“You have a very extravagant mind.” And Encre gets nothing more than that.
“And you are very mysterious, Éclipse!” He stops in front of him, pouting. The black skeleton stops walking.
“‘Éclipse’?” He pronounces the word a bit clumsily.
“Since you won't deign to tell me your name, I made one up for you!” He places both hands on his waist. “It’s mystical, it’s deep, it’s—”
“I see that your stay in this dead village has turned you into a second-rate poet, painter.”
“Pardon?!” He clutches his chest, utterly indignant at such "blasphemy." “It’s better than calling you ‘Mister Mystery’! So don’t complain!”
Again, he hears him let out a short huff that makes him give a little jump. Why does he look at him like that? Irritated? Amused? This man was so difficult to read. How annoying.
“W-well, what about telling me what book you like?” He resumes what the stranger calls an "interrogation." “I see you read my sketching manuals every time you come to the workshop, oh, those old things. Shall I tell you something? Once I confused them with my mother's recipe books! I nearly died when... oh, what were we talking about?”
Thus began a series of anecdotes that led nowhere; Encre talked and talked. The other simply listened, as if it were the most interesting thing he had heard in millennia. And the question remained in the air, and after those came more, from which he obtained very little.
“Look, over there!” He points toward some twisted trees, their branches so laden with frost they mimicked glass threads. He framed his fingers as if creating a painting, sticking out his tongue, and his eyes sparkled. “It’s perfect! Come on, Éclipse!” He snapped his fingers. Without thinking, he grabbed him by the sleeve of his robe and dragged him along. “Lean back and look at me,” he requested, pulling out every material with surprising speed. “N-not at me...! I mean at the horizon, as if you were waiting for time to stop!”
While Encre made sure not to let his head melt as he activated his artistic instincts, memorizing every detail as if his life depended on it, the shadow blinked at the sudden burst of energy. Nonetheless, he did as he was told. He leaned against the gnarled trunk, crossing his arms. The wind whipped his robe, and for a second, the contrast between the shadowy figure, the fog, and the infinite whiteness of the forest was so beautiful it made Encre’s chest ache.
This silence was different; it was more bearable, more comfortable. All oppression vanished. This time, the artist did not hesitate to draw near, to move away, to circle him, to visualize every possible angle, studying every feature as if it were a newly pawned jewel, watching how the meager light played with his shadows. What he didn't notice was that he was too close. Perhaps too deep in his artistic reverie as he traced a few lines on the wood. The other, however, did not move, but his sharp, red orbs followed every movement of the little painter.
“C'est si majestueux...” he whispered without realizing it, eyes fixed on the way the robe's shadow merged into the fog, on how the wind shook the branches, creating a sound of breaking glass that almost seemed like music.
“Did you say something, painter?”
“NOTHING!” He pulls away abruptly. “E-eh... could you take off your hood? I-I need to study your features more closely.”
“Oh, I see,” a smirk, a slight curve that reddens his scarlet orbs even further. “Do you also wish for me to undress, fair flower?”
“N-NO! J-JUST...!” He flails his arms countless times, cheekbones blazing. “Y-you know what?! L-let’s just try something else! Other poses! L-look the other way!”
Again, without rationalizing his impulses, he raised the other’s arm, observing it for a while. Then he took the man's hand, using the other half-finished sketch he had to adjust it, stopping for a moment to appreciate the perfection not only of his hands but of every bit that could be seen amidst that somber robe. His soul beats, for suddenly, he wonders how large those hands are compared to his own. Éclipse notices, and instead of pulling away, he allows Encre to do as he pleases for just a while. A long while that could be translated into hours.
“You certainly have very interesting methods, painter.” The whisper makes him raise his head. Finding himself between those orbs of gold and blood.
He didn't know how long they stayed like that, watching each other. Only Encre knew that his soul wouldn't stop beating. That tension again. That ache that dazes him again. Normally his sessions didn't last more than two hours and the client could go on with their life until the painting was ready, but this? This seemed eternal.
Why did he want it to be?
“W-we... we are finished. Let us head back.”
There are no more words.
The shadow walks ahead, and Encre takes the opportunity to look at the different boards he used for sketching, hoping at least to have captured the wonder he witnessed and not just random scribbles. Upon looking at them, his energy evaporated. The strokes were impeccable, yes. The perspective was correct, as well. But Éclipse looked so... flat. There was no trace of that "majesty" that had made him tremble.
This caused him a severe bout of dizziness. One he had only experienced when he understood that everyone had died; causing him, in a silence he was not used to, to look at the tall figure. An oppression in his chest, the kind that made you bite your fingers. He gripped the wood.
Could he ever portray a work as alive as this?
No...
Would it even be worth leaving this place?
★★★
The weather neither yielded nor improved. It was not a good sign at all.
However, that would not stop an artist as obsessed as Encre.
Processing pigments was complicated enough, and waiting a week for the gesso to dry on the wood was a torment. It was a pity he had no apprentices to quicken the process. With this weather, he had to protect both the front and back of the future painting, as well as the materials, if he wanted them to endure through time; thus, he had to make use of the candles and firewood to keep them warm. Still, waiting allowed him to experiment or connect with anything that might make the work feel less heavy.
One of those things… is Éclipse. A complex parable to decipher.
He never stopped visiting. They never stopped exploring together. He accompanied him in the workshop day and night, generally in silence. He brought him fresh food. He listened to him. And before Encre realized it, the seven moons had turned into two more weeks. Two weeks where he never believed someone would come to a place where everything was lost. Two weeks where he still obtained little information. Two weeks where that company felt almost like a refuge.
Refuge…
“And this one here is Doodle Jr! Broomie’s younger brother,” he shows him a tiny brush with pride; it had a mocking little face sticking its tongue out. He had already introduced more than thirty brushes of various sizes. “He’s very elusive, I’m always losing him! I suppose he might be shy.”
He explains with a playful and innocent countenance; at the same time, he submerges many of the insects into an improvised pot to extract the dye. Simultaneously, he processes clay on the workbench to make it appear more reddish. He collects charcoal remains to turn them into an intense black. He supervised the vinegar barrel where green tints were already emerging. He did it all at an incredible speed, one that intrigued the dark skeleton.
He looked so… enthusiastic amidst such chaos. In his own world. It was as if he were performing magic. There was something hypnotic in seeing how he transformed the ingredients, in how he treated his tools as if they were living beings.
What he did not know was that Encre was doing it with force, with great force. So that the noise would force the word “refuge” and its meaning to fall silent.
“You know? My mother always said that if you treat your materials well, they will tell you the secrets of color.” Encre let out a giggle, wiping a smudge of clay-red from his cheekbone, unaware that he was only dirtying himself further. “We were always surrounded by people… like a family.” For a second, he looked at a small painting of his mother and father, one of the few he did not dare forget or deface. “I suppose I can’t help wanting to give life to everything. Even if they are no longer here… these brushes, all of this, became my family. And even if it sounds silly, I don’t care.”
A brief silence fell, broken only by the bubbling of the ink pot and the hiss of the fire.
“And you, Éclipse? I haven't heard you speak of your family,” he drops the question while preparing new jars to fill with pigment powder. “Do you have a family?”
“Family is but an illusion that time takes care of erasing, painter.”
Of the little he has learned about this man, it is that when he speaks, there is always something immensely heavy behind it, and some questions seem to make him react more than others. This confirms it. Encre did not expect an answer, let alone one like that. He thought he would look as stoic as only he knew how. To his surprise, when he turned toward him, he noticed his eyes darkened; he frowned. A nuance of coldness he had never seen before.
The bubbling of the pot seemed to become deafening. The workshop, previously full of enthusiasm, shifted into a heaviness that was almost horrifying. He swallowed hard, suddenly feeling very small before the immensity of the shadow that he felt growing until it touched him.
“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t-
“Stop wasting time on your pathetic fantasies and focus on your work.”
This was new. Hurting and new.
Encre lowers his head, feeling a sharp pain in his chest. Feeling foolish. Feeling insignificant. That is what happens for crossing lines, for wanting to break boundaries. His parents always scolded him for this, and in the village, he was sometimes treated as strange by other children. His father would sometimes feel ashamed because, according to him, he lived in a world of fantasies. That he should act like a man, that he was growing up… why does he suddenly remember this? Perhaps because of the tone used, a contemptuous one, identical to his father’s when referring to these things.
Did he consider him pathetic even all those times he listened to him?
He looks up. He was gone.
“What is his problem?” he thinks.
The sensation in his chest returns, the pain, the burning. But this time, Encre has no time to falter. Perhaps he just needs to take a breath. Perhaps he shouldn't have asked anything. Regardless, and though fear was present, he had to cling to what was in front of him.
“Alright, Broomie, finally just you and me! Time to create!” He stretches and sketches his best smile. At least he already had sketches prepared to begin.
His fingers caress the wood. Truly, it was very good wood. Very difficult to find in this season, much like the materials. Painters like him had to order everything in large quantities before winter arrived.
He took what was necessary to sketch a path of lines. They connect. They twist. They dissolve. All with the fluidity worthy of wind spirals. This time he had to work faster than usual. He didn't want winter to damage the little he managed to build. Truth be told, he felt a bit nervous because it had been a long time since he painted seriously. Nothing compared to the scribbles on the houses or the broken boards he had scattered everywhere.
In reality, he never thought he would paint again, and here he was. All because of a stranger with a penetrating gaze and a mysterious countenance.
For an instant, he contemplated the sketch. Mismatched eyes, which always observed him, always sought him. A raspy, somber voice that sweetened him with phrases he still hasn't made sense of. His gestures. The cold of his hands. That kiss. His soul beats once more. His hand trembles again. It hurts again.
Why do I do all this?
“It’s nothing, Broomie. He’s just... just in a bad mood,” he says more to himself than to the brush. “He’ll come back! I-I just... I just have to paint. Focus, Encre!”
And what if, when he finishes… he leaves him?
After all, he is condemned to be alone. To be invisible.
“Maybe… it’s best if I stay here,” he speaks again, looking at the workshop, the paintings, the wood, the marks, everything. Everything had a history. Everything reminded him of his life; it was all he had. “Yes, why did I think I could leave? I-I am… I am selfish.”
He shook his head and, like a madman, began to fill the lines with color. After applying a few pigments, the painter stepped back a few paces.
His heart skipped a beat, but not with joy. On the plank was a dark figure, perfectly proportioned, with the cloak flowing like smoke. Technically, the intention was perfect. It was an early sign of Éclipse. But it had no… soul. It was just decorated wood.
“No, no, no...” he approached. “It lacks light here. Maybe it needs more depth here. Maybe…”
As if an oil lamp had lit in his head, the white skeleton ran toward the mannequin and snatched the cloak to put it on himself, greeted by the scent of daffodils. Perhaps he just needed to be like him. To imagine the cold of his bones. His sinister and imposing posture. That distinguished attire, similar to that of royalty, which made him look ethereal amidst the snow. The shadow of his silhouette that traps him and cradles him like the icy touch that still burns at his waist.
He painted for what seemed like centuries; he painted with frenzy, ignoring that the sky was darkening again. His eyes burn and feel heavy from the effort; his fingers throb. He tried to capture what his fragmented mind could remember of the forest, the fog, the figure of Éclipse intertwining, the harmony of ice. Though he added more pigments, more details, the further he moved from what he sought. From what the darkness represented.
The sound of wood falling to the floor resonated like a collapsing tree. His hands were stained with so many colors that led to nothing, cracked by the cold, trembling. He looked at the painting and, for the first time, the "magic" disappeared.
“It’s true...” his voice broke, and the dizziness he felt in the forest returned with overwhelming force. “He was right. I am pathetic.”
A dry sob escaped his chest. He fell to his knees before the easel, surrounded by his brushes with ridiculous names that now seemed like simple sticks with dead hair. He couldn't understand it; he couldn't do it. The same thing that happened with the sketches occurred, and it was the first time it happened. How was it possible that, among so many he has painted, he couldn't do it with him? Could what he says be true? That he is condemned?
He pressed the board against his chest, staining his own clothes, ruining everything. He felt so broken. So alone. So forgotten. Why did he believe he could do it? Had the Plague also taken the little he had left? Painting. Creating. It was the only thing he considered himself good at. It was the only thing that made him feel he had a purpose… and now, it seemed he had no direction.
“I-I couldn't do it, Broomie…” Encre whispered. His voice was a thread, broken by weeping. “The Plague left nothing alive in me. I ruined it. I-I’m pathetic, I-I’m a failure. What kind of painter am I if I cannot paint?”
Suddenly, a gust of air threatened to blow out the candles, causing him to cling to the fabric, to curl into it. The sound of boots intertwined with his tears laden with helplessness, with his frustrated sobs. Encre does not react because of how exhausted he is; however, he knew who it was, and that made him feel many things. In a blink, the presence was standing right beside him, and he felt his gaze striking him from above. A sort of twisted comfort.
“I can’t… I can’t capture anything,” he speaks, because he knew the individual expected answers. With great difficulty, he stands up. “You-you were right. I… I-I’m just a guy with pathetic fantasies, r-right?”
He flees from those eyes that pursue him. He hides the insignificant painting against his chest. He has never been one to give up so quickly, but all of this made him feel pressured. He didn't want to disappoint anyone. He didn't want to fail. He didn't want to… lose anything else.
“You should… you should abandon me, find someone else, I-I…” he stammers, a trembling, fragile smile appearing even as tears overflowed. “I feel that I... I no longer have a purpose.”
He starts as he hears a sigh, when suddenly, he is taken by the chin and forced to lose himself in those eyes that devour him in an instant. Encre gasps and trembles again as he feels a handkerchief wiping the remains of ink from his cheekbones.
“Perhaps the problem is not your talent, painter. Maybe you need another perspective,” he said with an icy voice, a slanted and predatory smile appearing. “...with more life.”
“P-perspective? Life? But... I couldn't portray you. You said that"
“I said you would portray me, and you will,” he interrupted. “Prepare yourself. We are leaving now.”
“We... are leaving? Where?” Feelings flare up, still not believing what he was hearing. “But what about the workshop? And Broomie?”
“Broomie can stay if he is so important to you.”
“B-but… but I can't leave!” He pulls away abruptly. “This is my home! They are my family, my life! I-I can't let them go… I can't! They are all I have! How can you ask me that… after what you told me? You are heartless!”
“Encre.” The voice with which he pronounces his name makes him shudder, it sounded like a warning. “This place. This village. All of this is just a cage of memories that only ends up dragging you down. What you once had cannot be recovered, but you can choose how to honor it in what can still be.”
He gasps again, eyes wide, soul racing, and not just because of what was said. For the first time, he pronounces his name. For the first time, and it didn't matter if it sounded so cold and blunt, this individual said something more than vague and ambiguous phrases. And deep down, he knew it was true. A reality he did not want to accept.
He did not want to accept… that everyone was gone.
“You… Y-you don’t understand!” he exclaims, bringing his hands to his face. “You d-don’t…”
“It is very strange for you to say that to me when we met, you” he pauses; “you looked enthusiastic about wanting to abandon this place.”
If he did, the void would be larger, and he felt he would forget them completely. That he was being selfish. He didn't want that.
“Why… why me?” he murmurs as best he can, hugging himself and looking at the skeleton with a courage and glimmers that made him look more miserable. “Why…? I cannot understand it".
He always had options to leave; moreover, he did not want to do so despite this stranger suggesting it at the beginning when they started this. He didn't want to become them. He didn't want to become those who ended up abandoning him. He didn't want to… be like the Plague that killed the essence and the memory. He didn't want to let go; he had told his mother seconds before she died. He didn't want to be like the others. Was that so hard to understand?
Was it bad to want… for the Plague to return? Just to see them again, and again, and again, and again…
“Because you, fair flower, you see life where there is no longer hope, where there is pain,” he said. “I have noticed it since I arrived here, the scribbles you painted on the walls of the houses. Everything. You do not seek to remember faces. You seek to catch their last breaths. You seek to immortalize what they were… their souls.”
Encre was left breathless, stunned, surprised. No one, ever, had understood his art. Not even he himself had formulated it that way. He always held back from drawing beyond the limits because the people of the village were frightened, and he only sought to paint what many desired. What they wanted. Not what HE wanted. He had spent years painting desperately so as not to forget, but he himself knew it was a lie. And now, he feels so… exposed and at the same time, so… seen.
That gripped his soul, filling and overflowing it with a heat that spun out of control.
“But… but what if I fail again?” is all he says, so saturated, so overwhelmed. “What happens if I don’t manage to paint you? What happens if I-
“Encre,” he sighs and closes the distance. “Do not paint what you see. Stop trying to understand me. What is seen is fleeting. What is not seen is eternal.” Then, he cradles him with his hands in a touch that is almost ghostly. “Just paint what you feel, because what is felt… is indelible.” He pronounces this in a vibrant, deep tone, as if speaking from the soul. Encre feels he can take no more. He felt his legs falter.
Neither speaks. It was no longer necessary. Encre pulls away, and the taller one only watches him. Both knew what they had to do.
So, the painter was quick. With an old bag, he took everything he found, or rather, everything he could carry. Some materials. Some brushes. He paused a moment before taking the painting of his parents, looking at them, so smiling, at peace. Perhaps none of them would want him to suffer like this. Perhaps they too would want him to leave these ruins behind… to start a new life.
“Live. I will always be with you...”
Oh, but none of them… they are no longer here.
Was it wrong to think that, somehow, it thrilled him to be able to escape?
He secured them with a flexible white cloth that his father had given him on one of his trips to the Capital. He also took a jar he had forgotten he had, a liquid and oily one. Finally, he did not forget his faithful companion, Broomie. Of course he couldn't stay.
“Everything ready, painter?”
“Yes, everything is…” He stopped his gait, surprised even more by the silhouette of a coal-black steed waiting beside the stranger. “That… i-is that a horse? Where did you get it?”
He does not answer. Instead, he limits himself to mounting the animal with grace and majesty, extending a gloved hand toward him.
“You… truly are mysterious, Éclipse.”
“And you, very curious, fair flower,” he replies with an elegance that can warp into a taunt.
With his heart pounding in his throat, he accepted it. The contact was electrifying, strong. He pulled him up in one tug, forcing him to settle in front of him as if he were a damsel in distress.
“Hold on.” The command fluttered against the back of the other, and the painter had no choice but to cling tightly to the dark robe.
The trot was rhythmic, almost hypnotic. To Encre, it felt more like a judgment bell disturbing his senses, his thoughts. He did not dare look back; his mind ended up betraying him. He looked back one last time at how they moved away from the village that saw him grow. How he was leaving behind everything that made him "him". Memories flow. He remembered the times his father took him to play in that square. The appetizing smell of his mother’s meals. The times he took refuge in the forest. The first time… he learned what art was.
“Forgive me… f-forgive me…” he releases in a trembling whisper, one carried away by the wind.
His soul would not stop beating. Everything was a whirlpool inside him. He felt the sting of something being torn away, something latent. He felt like a traitor who only knew how to flee. He was abandoning them. Everything he knew and everything he was. Everything he lived. Everything. He was accepting that there was no remedy, and that… that was like dying bit by bit.
“Why do you weep now, painter?” He started at the sound of his voice. He wasn't even looking at him, and Encre wondered how he could see the path amidst such darkness, without any lamp. “Do you regret having chosen freedom?”
“No… I don’t…” he managed to say with a broken voice. “I-it’s nothing.”
For a moment, he returned his eyes to him, the words spoken earlier destroying him inside. Feeling the pressure of the arms holding the reins, looking forward without any expression. Surrounding him in a way so fixed, and yet so gentle, that it contradicted what was shown on the outside.
“You see life where there is no longer hope, fair flower.”
Unconsciously he grips the fabric, his cheekbones full of colors, his soul threatening to escape his ribs. Feeling so many things, so many emotions he did not understand. He did not know where they were heading, nor what awaited them. He knew that if he went back, he would not find his home. Nevertheless, there was something that wouldn't let him be at peace. Something that wouldn't let him breathe and seemed unwilling to let him go. That terrifies him, because it burns.
He can only think that this is bad. That this should not be happening...
...because he did not want his soul, which he believed dead in life, to have begun beating again only to be wounded once more.