Bereft: Foretold

17 | A Wishful Purpose

"Don't be ridiculous." I crossed my arms, wincing at the baldric's hold.

"I am not the one being ridiculous."

Our impasse continued for some minutes before I indeed began to feel ridiculous. I knew he would not relent on this issue, so I rose, soothing the front of my doublet as I strode across the space separating us and snatched the brush from the Sin.

Cuxiel suppressed a smile as he tugged on my arm, pulling me before the easel.

The piece he was working on was beautiful. It featured a murder of crows taking flight from the half-bare branches of an autumn tree, their motion captured in a flurry of glossy black feathers and curled leaves. The main subjects had been completed, but the miscellaneous background elements and part of the earth were yet untouched.

"Go on."

Cuxiel urged me forth and I hesitated, uncertain. "I will ruin it."

"So? It's just paint, Darius."

It may have just been paint to him, an afternoon project meant to pass the drudgery of time, but it was beautiful in my eyes. I yearned to create such beauty, but I spent my days destroying such things, killing and breaking people, burning their homes, watching as art and its effort turned to smoke. I was used to painting the sky black.

Footsteps brought my attention from the canvas and I jerked back, the brush slipping from my poised fingers to the flagstones below. A woman had appeared from the overgrown path, the chestnut curls of her hair peppered with the white blossoms of a dogwood tree. She was a pretty thing, but rather severe looking, her bones and drawn flesh belying the richness of her new gown. The room's essence stirred, riled by a sudden spike in Cuxiel's mood. I peered sidelong at the fool and knew this must be his mortal.

"My apologies," she said, tipping into a brief, reluctant curtsy. "I didn't realize—."

"Don't mind him," Cuxiel crooned, extending his hand toward the woman with a measure of unnecessary flair. "You are as lovely as ever and very much welcome."

The woman's lips flattened as she came nearer, heels clicking on the stones, and I was under the impression she would have refuted Cuxiel had I not been standing there. She laid a gloved hand in his and Sloth's fingers gently wrapped about hers.

"Kyra, I'd like you to meet my associate." He drew short, mirth in his golden eyes as he looked me over. "I've quite forgotten your name, though. What do they call you now?"

A cold feeling gripped my chest as the woman's violet eyes met my gaze and Cuxiel's arm encircled her waist. I'd seen the man with other women in ages passed, when familiarity was a social norm and not the marker of a pariah—but I'd never seen him like this. Cuxiel wasn't just smitten. His attention was stolen by her every breath, every movement, every quirk of her strange, sharp eyes. From one moment to the next, he became an entirely different person. It was plain he loved this mortal girl.

My lip curled. "Pride," I sneered, unable to look upon such a travesty for another second. I swept from the room.

In my wake, I heard Cuxiel guffaw, whispering, "I told you not to mind him, my dear."

Later, when the sun had retreated from its heavenly climes to the reaches beyond, I walked the gardens, savoring the seasonal chill, and listened to the sounds of the Aos Sí in the distance as they discarded their noble personas and returned to their wild beginnings, their voices raised in laughter and song, their children shrieking with joy as they darted through the maze hedges. There was to be a bonfire tonight.