War Of Men

Emilee

Emilee escaped her sister's side and approached him. 'It's beautiful, isn't it?'

The man shrugged. 'I guess so. If you want a commission, there's a waiting list.'

'Oh, no, that's not why I came over here.' She flushed.

'Then why did you come?'

Emilee grew redder still. 'Well, I feel that the beauty of the spectacle is lost on many who take this all for granted. I wanted to speak to another who recognises the wonder of it all, though I guess if it's a mere commission, it may have been a wasted journey. Then again, I'd love to see how you've recreated it with oil paints.'

She could have sworn she saw the hints of a smile tugging at his lips when he gestured at her to come over. Rather phlegmatically he explained, 'So far I've just sketched it out and that's all I plan to do today. That rough figure there, that's going to be the madame who wants to project herself as the prettiest belle at the funeral.'

'If you're not planning on painting today, why get out the colours?'

'It's part of my artistic process, you know,' he said nonchalantly.

Emilee wasn't sure how she felt about that and just summoned her courtier's smile. Why was she being so judgemental? The artistic process was something sacred, she had no right to cast judgement over it. This man was a professional, after all, he knew far more than an amateur such as her.

'There you are,' exclaimed Elanora, appearing by her side. 'I thought you'd changed you mind about the braid.' Her eyes ran over the painter. 'Mr. Bennett. A pleasure.' Her tone suggested otherwise.

'I know,' he joked with a flamboyant wave of his paintbrush. 'I'd say the same, but I don't know who you are and would rather not judge a book by its cover.'

'Says the painter,' Ela sniffed. Without sparing him another glance, she hooked her arm into her twin's and tenderly said, 'We should make our way to the service.'

Emilee let herself be steered away, but gave the painter a shy smile. He waved casually, then returned his focus to his work, which at this point seemed to be sitting. Emilee felt bad for having distracted him. Not to mention, she probably shouldn't be this chirpy at the funeral of such high-ranking religious figures.

The path was wide, but not enough so for all the courtiers flocking to the aedrum. It was easy to tell those that had genuinely been close to the Eseterrians from those that had merely befriended them for social status. True friends had glassy eyes and were trying to suppress their tears, whereas others feigned loud, dramatic wails. The men usually remained stoic as was expected of them, supporting weeping drama queens. It was like a play, a spectacle staged to please the crowd. It was true, people had died and it was sad, but this was just pageantry.

Emilee rubbed her sister's back gently. Her sister's grief wasn't fake. The tears that threatened to fall from her eyes were genuine, summoned by religious devotion more than the loss of a friend.

'There will be more Eseterrians. The spirits live on.'

'She was so young, Em,' Elanora said. 'She was only nine.'

'I know...' she sighed.

Ice crystals and snow crackled under people's feet, but soon the sound was replaced by the pattering of shoes on the polished floor of the aedrum. Pillars with carvings of scenes from the Libtoria supported a high decorated ceiling. Literal imagery of the five spirits that had created the land was prohibited, so artists often substituted with symbolism from tales of Eseterrians. Toutelé was often portrayed as a burning tree in a storm, Ellux as a candle and the sun. Gadeden was clocks and the celestial symbols of passing time: the moon, the sun and the stars. Emilee longed to run a hand over the carvings, but turned away. She and Elanora made their way up the stairs and took their place near the back, the designated area for lower nobles.