Work Text:
It's been years since the manor atop Wuthering Heights faced against the Erlking again. I can't even remember how long it's been. Ten years? Twenty?
What I do remember, though, is the man who lived there. I visited on occasion, though we didn't talk. I remember him. Gregor. His sister, Grete. His face blurs in my mind, but I still remember him.
Why?
I've come here yet again, haven't I. Back to my studio, filled with tools and canvases. Each trying to capture his likeness. His real likeness.
I knew.
He hated himself for losing. Losing everything. His sister. His home. His arm. I knew he lost his arm, and he hated me for it.
Sketching out an oval on the canvas with charcoal, I think back on our youth. He and I got along back then. I remember, though, overhearing something. His mother wanted him kicked out, as he had feelings for me, if my memory is correct. That couldn't come to pass. He was meant to marry a wealthy young lady, not me.
I smear the charcoal with my left hand. It's a habit I got into whilst making these portraits. He became left-handed, didn't he? Yes, he did, as he lost his dominant arm. I remember overhearing gossip about it, but not believing it for myself. I was never one for rumor-mongering like that.
And yet one day I accidentally stumbled upon him, holding a prosthetic arm in one hand and attempting to install it himself, alone in his room.
I was terrified. I have no idea why. Scared of the change? Scared of the idea that he truly had been disfigured by that battle? That if I stayed with him, I may be next?
I still remember those words clearly.
"That's horrible."
I didn't mean it in that way. Maybe I did, back then.
But he must have overheard. Taken it the worst way, in such a sensitive moment. He always was quite delicate, wasn't he?
After that, he shut down. He became even more reclusive. Refusing to talk to even his maids. I start to draw in the details. What I think goes where.
Now, I regretted it, but I couldn't just tell him. He was avoiding me. I suppose his mother's wish was granted, just... after her passing.
I erase the face and try again. It doesn't look right. None of these portraits do. That's why I've never finished one. He was so fragile, and I accidentally broke him. And now it's too late to try and put the pieces back together.
Why am I so obsessed with him...? He and I were friends, yes. That's all we were, though. I should be thinking of him less. Grieving in a different way.
That face... I can't get it right. The lines aren't sharp enough, the curves aren't soft enough. I decide to try drawing his arm instead. That very arm I was scared of. The details are engraved in my mind, just like the patterns on the metal plating.
...It really was a work of art, wasn't it? I can't believe I, as an artist, could never see the beauty in such a piece. Carefully, I sketch out the pattern. The fleur-de-lis is my favorite part. I've drawn it so many times that I don't need to redo a single line.
He really was kind. I wish I could have apologized for those words. Explained to him everything. Told him that it's not wrong to change. I know that now. That I was wrong, that he should accept himself. Not despite his changes, but including them. That he did change, and that's okay. That I still... love him.
Oh god. I love him, and it's too late. I loved him, and he's gone. Neither of us realized it in time, did we?
What was horrible wasn't the loss of his arm. It was that he went through it alone. No one to lean on, no one to help him.
I suppose... All I have are these portraits. Even if the "you" in these portraits isn't around anymore, even if my memories change, I'll still have them. You'll still live on in my memories, as long as you're here, on the canvas.
"If only we had changed in time."
I'm sure you're thinking this too, in the afterlife.