Bereft: Foretold

17 | A Wishful Purpose

I came at last upon a conservatory kept within the manor's many odd and varied levels. Diffused light crept in from the mist-clad windows and shone upon the various trees and untamed bushes sequestered within. A path of white flagstones wove through the wood planters, picking a route that displayed the most colorful of the assorted foliage. 

Ignoring the gathered beauty, I found the patio beneath the boughs of a Valian elm tree. Cuxiel was there, stationed upon his favored stool with his easel and canvas angled toward the thin daylight. The sleeves of his tunic were rolled to his elbows, flecks of paint marring his hands and bared wrists, while his black breeches were untidily tucked into the tops of his riding boots.

The brush swayed in his experienced hand, and the liquid motion stopped when the Sin of Sloth's gilded eyes snapped to me.

"Long trip?" he quipped with a slight smirk, resuming his work. "You should have jumped in a river on your way back. I can smell you from here, old friend." 

My answer was to strip off my gloves and flex my hands. They were sore from gripping the reins for so long, but a slight whisper of energy was enough to relax the uncomfortable ache. "I did what I had to."

Cuxiel hesitated, the brush hovering an inch from the canvas's face. "I noticed you've taken to not carrying your sword about."

"What of it?"

"I thought you enjoyed swordplay."

I did, but swords were not popular in "proper" society—the rings of aristocratic hell in which I had to survive. What I enjoyed didn't matter, only the role I had to play. "It does not concern you."

Mumbling under his breath, Cuxiel returned to his painting. I should have ascended to my rooms, but I remained for a time, taking a seat on a planter, content to relax in the quiet of the conservatory, breathing in the sweet, mist-filled air as I listened to the quiet chatter of birds loose in the rafters. I had but maybe a day or so to relax before a letter would come, yet again summoning the Sin of Pride to wreak ruin upon the countryside. 

I realized Cuxiel was humming, the music of his voice interwoven with the gentle scratching of his brush stroking the palette. He had a coy smile at his lips, one that didn't dissipate even as I glared.

"What is wrong with you?" I demanded as I leaned my back against the elm's gnarled trunk, feeling the thick roots press against my thighs and backside. "Why are you...pleased?"

The word left my lips as if it were a filthy slur, and Cuxiel laughed, his amusement resounding in the enclosed space. "Darius, you can be such a fool. It's a woman." 

"A woman?"

"Yes." He sighed as he rubbed his jawline with paint-splattered fingers, considering his work. "A mortal woman, named Kyra. I'm...quite taken with her. She can be rather spirited. I enjoy her company."

The disgust in my voice was blatant. "How the mighty have fallen. A mortal, Cuxiel? Really?"

"Mock me if you must. We each find purpose in our own ways, be it in the chase of actualization or the comfort of a mortal girl, and we shouldn't be ashamed of it." Cuxiel shrugged, unruffled by my accusatory words. "What is your purpose, Darius?"

My shoulders tightened, the muscles of my jaw twitching with unfocused strength. Purpose? Utter nonsense. "I am a Sin," I answered, annunciating each syllable with care, lest my frustration show. "I have no purpose but for the execution of my host's will."

"Rubbish." Cuxiel shifted, dropping from the stool. "You need a bloody hobby, Darius. If you've given up the blade, then try your hand at other occupations. Find something with which you identify, some skill you feel gives your person definition. Come—have a go at painting." He swiveled the brush in his hand so the end was held out to me. "Up you come, my friend."