Cultivating Ink 3

When the sun reached its zenith, casting a bright light over the bustling marketplace of Eldermire, it looked like his wishes about having a good day was rewarded. Once the first merchant received his portrait, it triggered a small competition, which earned him eleven silver coins, and even more sizable copper pile.

It might not be much for other people, but for him, it represented a fortune. Not only it was enough for him to eat food where he could identify at least half of the ingredients — not including the meat — for a month, but also he could replenish dwindling stock of paints and canvas, maybe even get some hair for his brush tip.

Too bad he couldn’t repeat it immediately. Not just because sneaking into the city was not something he could repeat every day. He had a feeling that he had been too high profile today, and disappearing for a week or two, until people forgot his presence, was the best idea.

“Here it is,” he muttered as he put the finishing touches on another portrait, and passed it to his current client.

“Amazing work,” the merchant replied even as he passed him a silver coin despite his performative rejection. “May I ask the young master for a name plate for my business as well? I can only imagine how amazing is your calligraphy.”

Alaric shook his head. “Unfortunately, I’m focusing on practicing my mastery of painting,” he replied.

“I can pay,” he offered. “Ten coins.”

Alaric shook his head imperviously, the idea of turning away that much money hurting him. Unfortunately, calligraphy was not something he could achieve, especially since he lacked the most basic prerequisite for it.

He didn’t know how to read or write.

“Twenty,” he countered.

“No,” Alaric replied, doing his best to hide the pain of turning away such a fortune. He hoped that the merchant didn’t insist even more. As a supposed scholar-in-training, he couldn’t admit illiteracy.

Luckily, the merchant just looked disappointed rather than insisting on more, and departed with his portrait.

Alaric sighed as he watched the merchant walk away along with a fortune. Twenty silver coins would have been enough to get a seat in one of the caravans, to a city where he wasn’t known as a slum rat.

He closed his eyes, imagining a life where he didn’t have to be on the edge every second trying to eke out a living, and just focus on his art. It was a beautiful dream —

"Excuse me," a deep voice interrupted, pulling Alaric abruptly from his reverie.

He looked up, about to turn down the speaker because he had stayed enough, but the moment he did so, he froze.

Standing before him was a man unlike any he had ever seen up close. Dressed in flowing robes of dark emerald edged with silver thread, the stranger exuded an aura of quiet power. His eyes were sharp, almost luminous.

The thin sword hanging around his waist was enough to show his extraordinary background. No one but nobility was allowed to carry weapons openly in the streets.

But, it wasn’t just the implication of his background that scared Alaric. The man was somewhat … more.

“Y-yes, my lord,” Alaric managed to say, somehow managing to deliver the answer with only one stumble. He was afraid that the man was here because he saw through his subterfuge, and was here to punish him.

"I noticed your work," he said, his gaze drifting to the multiple paintings that Alaric had out in the open, drying in the wind. "You have a keen eye."

”Thank you, honored one," Alaric added, this time smoother, though he still quickly lowered his eyes in a show of respect. He needed to remember that he was supposed to be a scholar, one that needed to be gentle yet proud.

He hoped that the attention from the noble was just a fleeting one, but his hopes were quick to dash when another question hit his ears. "Would you be willing to paint a portrait for me?"

Alaric did his best to not to swallow. Fear twisted in his gut, but he didn’t have the luxury of showing it. He couldn’t afford the attention. Unfortunately, he couldn’t afford refusing the request from a noble even more.

“As long as you’re not insulted by my meager skills, it would be my honor, my lord,” he said even as he poured his current ink, and started preparing a new batch.

“I think you’re underrating yourself,” he said. “I never saw someone drawing the way you do. You need some more training, but you have the spark.”

Alaric just nodded even as he finished preparing the ink, grabbed his brush, and raised his gaze. He couldn’t draw him if he didn’t dare to look at him. “Is there a pose you prefer, my lord?” he asked.

“Something casual,” he answered. “I have too many portraits of me showing me heroic and distinguished.”

Alaric nodded even as he cursed the question in his mind. He should have just painted. His request was very dangerous. What if he looked too much like a commoner, and got angry. He had seen guards beat people to death for lesser insults.

As he battled with his fear, he sat down a nearby crate, and started looking at the marketplace. His posture was relaxed, but still emanated an unmistakable strength. Alaric started to examine him more carefully.

The first thing he really noticed was the age of his current model. He was younger than he had first realized. Alaric wouldn’t have been surprised if he was younger than him. He was taller and stronger, but both could be the result of growing without wondering where his next meal was coming from. The way his eyes and face sat on his face was a much better indicator of his age.

He was still handsome, but it was an immature one, lacking the maturity of a man.

Alaric decided to push himself to limit. He couldn’t afford not to … and, if he was being honest, he had never worked with such an impressive model.

If he was going to die, he wanted his last painting to be the best he had ever created.

He took a deep breath, and abandoned all his worldly worries, the way he was only able to do when he was locked in his tiny, windowless room, one that lacked the light to paint properly. For the moment, he abandoned every little fear he had.

And, looked.

His model was a beautiful dichotomy. An immature strength, like an oak tree that needed to grow a bit more to resist the storms, a handsome and dashing face that could grow, a blade that was yet to be blooded, filled with hesitance and determination in equal measure, tinged with a desire for glory…

He could see the kindness in his gaze as he looked at the marketplace, but for some reason, that kindness scared Alaric the most. It reminded him of the young girls that decided to help the young birds by picking them from their nest and feeding them, unaware that they were condemning those little birds to death…

His brush danced on the paper, capturing everything he could see as the young man stood at the center, while the marketplace danced around him. It was a beautiful painting, but an unbalanced one. No matter how much Alaric twisted the marketplace, it didn’t fit the harmony. For some reason, he felt like the young man could flex his hand, and everything around him would shatter…

It must have been his subconscious acknowledgement of his nobility, Alaric decided. Any desire to mix him with the marketplace felt … wrong.

Yet, even as he finished the painting, something felt wrong. Something was missing. He closed his eyes, trying to make sense of what was going on. After thinking a while, he let his brush dance, and for some reason, he drew a tree next to him, a mighty one that hinted to go for a thousand paces, but whose branches still protected the young man.

It was absurd, but somehow, it made sense.

His brush danced, putting the last strokes on the painting, correcting the way the light infused the land.

“It’s the best I could do, my lord,” Alaric admitted, frustrated. He had done his best with the painting, but he could feel that something was still missing. His skills as a painter was unable to capture the true majesty of what was in front of him.

Yet, under his frustration, there was elation as well. While painting, he managed to touch something deep inside him.

“Impressive,” the young lord said even as he examined the painting. “I told you, you have the talent. Give him a reward,” he said.

Alaric was stumped at his words. Who was he was speaking to —

And old man suddenly appeared next to the young lord. No, he had been there all along, Alaric realized. He was the tree he had painted. He just didn’t register his presence consciously. Alaric felt his heart chill as he realized something was wrong.

He was not a lord. No …

The old man pulled a small rock from his pouch, one that glowed with an inner light. Alaric didn’t know what it was, but from the sudden silence in the marketplace, everyone’s gazes turning toward the rock, he knew that it was not something normal.

The young man smiled even as the old man passed him the rock, clearly unaware that he had just signed Alaric’s death sentence. The reaction from the merchants made it clear that it was treasure.

Yet, when Alaric tried to open his mouth to beg him to take it back, his mouth stayed shut. The old man did it with one glare. The reason suddenly clicked. The young man’s kindness, one that Alaric felt to be more dangerous than his blade. The old man was just as aware of that flaw…

And, Alaric was the sacrifice that was chosen to fix it.

“Don’t worry. Your painting is beautiful. Certainly worth the reward,” the young man said even as turned and walked away, unaware of the danger he put Alaric in.

Alaric gulped.