My Last Artist

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

Spring 512 AV, Day 81 "We can give him to Jelvin if you like," Nat said as she stared at the Symenestra idling in the doorway of the Studio. His body had become a piece of origami in the late sun's light. As an artist her eye was drawn to the shape of things. Curiosity ended in revulsion as the familiar humanoid slope starved itself into brittle lines. She suddenly felt she had found an insect under her dish. "He wanted someone with a talent for anatomy. And that's you." The younger artist snorted a laugh, "Sounds sordid." Bravery false and true rang through her sloppy posture and replies. Little could awaken fear in someone so young and clever. Her fingers were gray with charcoal dust, and smoky lines on her lap showed where she had used her tunic to clean her hands. Nat began to twirl her brush between her fingers, a sign of impatience. "Be sincere, Nea. Yes or no?" Anea arched her spine to get a better look at the customer: tallish, neatly attired and phenomenally bored. That made two of them. One more portrait of a beloved child or weapon and she would eat her mahlstick. He moved from the doorway, inconsiderate of her spying. "What do you think I'll need?" "Charcoal, then ink. Doesn't need color." Wouldn't be too hard then, and the money would be good. She could charge this foreigner through the nose and no one would fault her. It might even earn praise at the table. "Yes." "Fine," Nat's eyes flit back and forth between the customer and artist, "But you're not leaving the studio. They're not to be trusted." "What about the tea shop?" she cajoled, "I'm famished." "Just keep eyes about you, Nea." "He's not going to eat me in broad daylight surrounded by Lhavitians." "You'll be smart?" The younger artist nodded a bit too enthusiastically to be entirely genuine, but it was enough to reassure Nat. "All yours then." As Anea walked out Nat couldn't help but call after her maternally, "And mind yourself!"

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

By the time Anea exited, the Symenestra had taken a seat on a ledge. A wide journal was on his lap, loose papers sticking out between its pages. Something about him made Anea think he was posing, as if trying to mimic how normal people sat on flat surfaces. The result was a bit formal. She had to get his attention, as he was contemplating something afar off. "Hello, I am your artist, Mister..." The Symenestra reeled in his far-flung focus then flicked his eyes up and down in quick appraisal. He stood as he spoke, responding courteously to her presence. "Hellebore," he said automatically, but found his voice moving without him, "Duvalyon suits just as well." His voice gave her pause. She had expected something rasped or half sibilant not a textured sophistication. "Mister Hellebore," she insisted subtly, "I'm -- " would a family name betray more than a first name? "Anea." "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Anea," he said with a fraction of a bow. "Bit fancy aren’t we?" she said without thinking. "I'm a creature of habit," he replied just as quickly. A rude Symenestra wouldn't last long abroad, she thought, his habit was likely part of an elaborate scheme of self-preservation. "I was told you need some drawings done, Mister Hellebore."

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

She had moved to the purpose quickly, a good sign. Duvalyon had worried talking to a human artist would be like trying to reason with a cat. He wanted detail and precision, not a lilac infused interpretation. Though he could tell she wanted a neat, timely answer, Duvalyon didn't speak for a moment, but watched her expression and hands. Even when humans kept stern and brave features, their fingers could clutch or tremble with their true feelings. Hers were tightening around a bundle of tools. Without noticing, he had begun to toy with her. He was dragging the silence just an inch past an uncomfortable threshold and made cool but obvious signs of review. Her lips began to peel, but he spoke just in time to halt her. "Anatomy drawings for an entry I hope to submit to the Bahrani library on Symenestra venom." "I don't know whether that's scandalous or immensely dull," she answered. Duvalyon countered in a low rumble, "Most scandalous things are very dull once the shock is overcome." Her head tilted a modicum. Interest and surprise, he had been schooled to recognize their tells. "Which is your project then?" she asked. "It's just boring enough to be accepted by scholars and overlooked by everyone else." Duvalyon stopped himself from any further parries. He hadn't come for conversation. "Are you going to sketch out here? Or may I go into the studio?"

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

Though his question was made with gracious words, his tone lacked the lilt of something truly humble. He was asking in a casual timbre that showed he both understood restrictions and was tired of them. Anea found herself slipping into the dangerous trait of her kind: curiosity. An artist sought to both inhabit and recreate life outside herself. She wanted to reel her insides around a brush and press them on a canvas mingled with all the impossibly fascinating things she could not possess. It would be the nearest she and the viewer could come to these frustratingly untouchable things. It was this impulse that made her speak out of turn, wondering what monsters were made from. At what joint did this thing's nature contort into something hideous? "What do you do, Mister Hellebore?" He blinked and she rewarded herself for being able to surprise him. "I'm a medic." Her upper hand slipped with her own marvel, but he didn't let it linger. "The studio or here, Anea?" he asked again, handling her name with more ease than made her comfortable. "Neither," she answered, "I'd like to go to the teahouse. I haven't eaten all day." A shrug was his answer, and he fluidly moved to the courtyard gate. He held it open for her with relaxed gallantry. As she passed through, she tried to avoid looking at him close-up, tempting as it was to her artistic sensibility. When they walked, he kept a mild distance ahead of her, obviously knowing where they were going. This proved he was not too recent to the city, and clever enough to not be caught at a wandering lady's elbow. Occasionally he paused or parted ways for her without looking back. It was an odd dance: she was being both escorted and completely ignored. At the Mhakula teahouse, he ceased his lead and waited for her to establish the pace of things. Only when they were settled into the green cushions and tea steamed in front of them, did Anea speak to him. This was done between mouthfuls of spongey cakes. With infuriating poise, he just sipped the hot drink and watched her dribble crumbs onto the table. Client or no client, she grumbled inwardly, she was famished. "So tell me what you have in mind," she said. He carefully set his tea aside and placed the journal on the table. Black claws picked at page edges, a visual arpeggio. "Illustrations," he explained, "Showing the inner workings and anatomy I am trying to describe. While I know what the drawings ought to be... You can see." There were light drawings showing the shape of things. They were flat and mechanical, but lacked the perfection the term might imply. He knew what he wanted but stuttered to articulate it. "They leave something to be desired," he explained. "You think?" She watched the Symenestra's eyes narrow slightly before he smothered the annoyed twinge in handsome disregard. "You reminded me of my brother for a moment there," she observed, "The look. Not the 'good behavior' after." She began to turn more pages. The paper had been used frugally; wadj was precious and vellum delicate. Notes and descriptions were pressed into corners. The even looped writing switched between languages, as if the author forgot his audience in a bout of enthusiasm. "I expect you'll explain all this to me. I want more than shapes or 'bigger' or 'smaller' for direction. It is necessary I know the function." She went on without regard for her company. Symenestra didn't deserve it. "Pity I don't have a dissected specimen." "A rare thing to come by abroad," he had not responded to her subtle slight. "We are an uncommon race, known more in rumor than person. I may even be alone in Lhavit at the moment." Anea chuckled cruelly, "My heart breaks for you." She pressed further, full of righteous bile, "I promise to not have a party when you die out."

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

Duvalyon took a long sip from his tea, likely to stop himself from saying what he felt. "I'm going to leave you with my notes until tomorrow," he finally replied. He slid out of the bench and stood. "Consider them and whether or not this project is to your liking." A frustrated edge entered the artist's voice, "I still need you to tell me what all this means and what they 'should' look like. You can't just walk out in a snit." "I can. I will." It felt like he was back home fighting with his intolerable brother. "I also have to go to my work." True, but not for another bell. "How do you know I won't use all this shyke for kindling?" she called after him. Duvalyon hid a twinge of fear over the continued existence of his exhaustive treatise. "We'll just have to trust one another."

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

Anea watched the Symenestra leave. Her temper was wadding into an incoherent ball. She had every right to abuse and insult him. Where did he get off looking offended? Petcher was trying to manipulate her already by making her the 'bad one'. Even though she was staunchly in the right, something pricked her conscience. Perhaps that was the difference between the two of them. She still had a sense of right and wrong. He hadn't done anything but open doors, sip tea and offer to pay her for her art. Was it fair to levy the transgressions of a whole race on a single member? Or was she being a fool by allowing him any right to her goodwill? All that aside, she was curious. How often would one get to pry apart a Symenestra without fear of being carried off? If she could get a solid sketch of him it would be a unique work of a rarely portrayed race. The same thoughts were still colliding in her head when she lay down to sleep. Petch. Petch. Petch. This was getting complicated. By morning she felt like she had an emotional hangover, as if guilt could knock one down like too much Riverfall wine. She was over thinking it. Wasting hours on a spider. Her mind fumbled for a pragmatic reason to justify her impulsive decision: she wanted the money. He hadn't specified what part of "tomorrow" she would see him, so Anea kept about the studio, even eating her midday snack on its steps. When the light left, she assumed she was the new owner of a poorly drawn, half incoherent volume on Widow teeth. As everyone was shuffling out for the day, a fellow artist stuck her head into Anea's studio as she was applying a glaze. Focused on her work, Anea waved past her canvas without looking up. "Night!" "Anea." "Mmm?" "Your client is sitting in the dark courtyard startling the shyke out of everyone that sees him." "What?" "Can you send him away? He's petching eerie." "I didn't even know he was here." "Well he is. In all his creepy glory." "What's he doing?" "Well… nothing really. Just sitting. Reading or something. Can you imagine that? Reading in the dark." Anea sighed, "Give me a moment. I'll get rid of him." She cleaned her brushes and wiped her hands on her apron. He could wait a few more chimes. He was precisely where they described him, making no effort to obscure himself. If it was anything else, it would have been a wisp of surprise to spot him, but a Widow in the dim could make one clench and stagger. "I asked for you," he said, "They told me to wait." Anea's surprised expression made him pause and add dryly, "I suspect no one relayed my request." "Only when you started spooking everyone by lurking in the dark." "Dark?" he shrugged. "It was lighter when I arrived. I can't tell the difference very well." "You've been sitting here that long?" "Not really." "Liar." He ignored this. "I'd like my notes back. I'll pay you for the time you spent yesterday." "I'm taking the work." His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "It's like this…" Anea made a long pause, "I really need the money." It was hard to tell, but she swore he might have smiled.