As usual, he barely sleeps. He has never really worn the night with any sort of grace and cannot remember a time when he ever did. So, in the early morning right as the sun just starts to pink the sky, he bursts out of his bedroom in a restless way, the heels of his boots clicking impatiently against the hardwood floors. Rushed, moody and preoccupied, he brushes past the solemn, knowing faces of the housing staff and dons his coat with careless ease before heading out to walk the cold sea cliffs alone. He inhales, letting the salt in the air sting his nose and throat. It wakes him up harshly, slaps some color back into his cheeks. He takes his time here, ignoring the faraway sound of a bell being rung announcing that breakfast was ready and instead stalks further across the well-worn paths down towards the shore in a shimmer of white, gray, and silver.
A man is allowed his habits, he thinks. Especially if they’ve prevailed for as long as his have. Centuries at least, by now.
He stops by the sloping edge of a particularly jagged rock and tries to look out as far as he can towards the line of the horizon, lost in his own ponderings for a moment. He’s anxious today, as he has been for the past few months, meeting with and being disappointed by a handful of artists his sister Phillipa had stubbornly sent his way (and it’s not that he doesn’t trust his sister, no. He loves and respects her. But the woman had absolutely no taste when it came to the visual arts, that much was for certain). His last portrait was done in the winter over 30 years ago now by someone overseas. Usually, it would have lasted much longer, but Alecto had been more careless with himself lately and the poor thing was not holding up as well as it should. The last time he dared to look upon it nearly made him sick all over his own legs. Yes, he was in dire need of a new one and quickly. In fact, he swears he could feel the effects of the painting’s unique magic starting to fade already, the touch of time creeping into his veins and wrapping it relentless fingers around his throat. He looks older, even. Dreadful.
But like with all magic, it comes with price. A steep one. So he wanted to be picky. He had to be.
He frowns, thoughts suddenly grinding to a halt as he feels a strange and violating sensation, as if he were being watched. He turns around, curious. Right then, the wind picks up suddenly, whips his loose silken necktie across his face, temporarily covering half of his face with its sheer fabric in a surprisingly coy manner, leaving only his bright, grey-green eyes, shining like cut-gems, glaring out at the man who was coming up the hill behind him.
“You there,” he says, his voice cool with a distinct and yet unplaceable accent. “...Are you my new painter?”
no subject
A man is allowed his habits, he thinks. Especially if they’ve prevailed for as long as his have. Centuries at least, by now.
He stops by the sloping edge of a particularly jagged rock and tries to look out as far as he can towards the line of the horizon, lost in his own ponderings for a moment. He’s anxious today, as he has been for the past few months, meeting with and being disappointed by a handful of artists his sister Phillipa had stubbornly sent his way (and it’s not that he doesn’t trust his sister, no. He loves and respects her. But the woman had absolutely no taste when it came to the visual arts, that much was for certain). His last portrait was done in the winter over 30 years ago now by someone overseas. Usually, it would have lasted much longer, but Alecto had been more careless with himself lately and the poor thing was not holding up as well as it should. The last time he dared to look upon it nearly made him sick all over his own legs. Yes, he was in dire need of a new one and quickly. In fact, he swears he could feel the effects of the painting’s unique magic starting to fade already, the touch of time creeping into his veins and wrapping it relentless fingers around his throat. He looks older, even. Dreadful.
But like with all magic, it comes with price. A steep one. So he wanted to be picky. He had to be.
He frowns, thoughts suddenly grinding to a halt as he feels a strange and violating sensation, as if he were being watched. He turns around, curious. Right then, the wind picks up suddenly, whips his loose silken necktie across his face, temporarily covering half of his face with its sheer fabric in a surprisingly coy manner, leaving only his bright, grey-green eyes, shining like cut-gems, glaring out at the man who was coming up the hill behind him.
“You there,” he says, his voice cool with a distinct and yet unplaceable accent. “...Are you my new painter?”