Painting Portraits - HRExItaly

She paints. Constantly.

Little fingers dabbed in greens and blue, apron and dress speckled in a rainbow of colors (something she would get scolded for later, she was sure of), she paints.

Scenes of flower fields, bright and vibrant; full of yellow flowers, full of sunshine, full of cheer and happiness.

Scenes of hallways, pristine and white, the deep scarlet of draped curtains adding a dash of interest, a touch of regality.

Scenes of night skies, the darkest of blues but dazzling with stars, full of the wishes and dreams of those they watch over.

She paints scenes she knows, scenes she's seen.

Scenes with him.

Adding the black of a hat, a cape; the bright yellow of blond locks; and the sapphire blues of youthful eyes, the scenes become complete.

Complete.

Something she has not felt in a long time.

The flower field was still there. The hallways and the night sky too.

But the key factor, the part that gave these scenes purpose…

The person that gave these scenes life was gone.

She still paints; spurred on by promises of future meetings, spurred on by the abundance of hope and trust she has always possessed.

Memories are not the only things she paints. New scenes flow off her brush just as easily as the old, recent scenes that are still fresh in her mind.

New faces she's met, new places she's explored, new moments of joy, new flashes of fear.

Any new experiences she immortalizes in paints, recording ever detail she can remember, as studious in her paintings as scholars are in their research.

She has to be diligent. How else was she supposed to share these scenes with him?

Every tiny stroke is important, every detail was pivotal. She had so many stories to tell him! The things she could not voice, the things she couldn't describe with words; anything she wanted to say, to remember, to share with the boy she recorded in paint.

Every spare moment—any moment not filled with chores, any time she was alone, she paints. Hunching over a canvas, paints and dress sprawled around her, smile on her lips.

She paints. And she waits.

Waiting for him.





The years go on.

Dresses are replaced by robes, aprons replaced with sashes.

He still waits.





He wishes he could return to his youth sometimes, back to when everything seemed so much simpler.

Times when he could spend his days painting, times not filled with fighting.

Back when he wore dresses, back to the innocent days in that mansion.

The dresses were long gone, and 'she' had quickly grown into a young man, a man thrown into the world and fighting for his independence.

Many of his possessions have been lost in riots, in fires during the fights, his memories and his past burning away right before his eyes. No time is left for grieving or for remorse. Spare moments are spent rebuilding, planning, organizing.

Focused on his people; focused on becoming his own nation; focused on creating something to be proud of.

There is no time for himself, no time to grieve. Much more important things are at hand.





He can see his brother again for the first time in years! The nation they are, the nation that they were always supposed to be is slowly unfolding before them.

He is finally whole again. His nation is one again.

…he should be happy.

But always, something is missing.

Something is missing from this "scene;" something that has been missing for a long time.

His memories are hazy. The existential piece to the scene eludes him.

He still paints. Paints things he's seen, paints new experiences he's had. Paints things he wants to share, paints things he cannot express with words. He was never good with words, anyways.

But new things…aren't the only thing he paints.

Memories, fleeting memories. As soon as they cross his mind, he paints.

Flower fields, hallways, night skies…he paints them as if he had just seen them yesterday.

But the scenes are empty, missing something.

He knows what they're missing, he's always known.

The black of a hat, a cape…the yellow of blond locks…the sapphire blues of youthful eyes…

He knows what they're missing.

But the figure escapes him.

He knows he knows! He knows exactly what the figure looks like, what he looks like. The boy he has been waiting for, hundreds of years of waiting.

He could never forget; he knows he knows!

His hand hesitates, lithe fingers covered in paints.

He knows.  The face is in his thoughts, taunting him from the corner of his mind's eye.

He knows the face. He knows the figure, knows it just as well as his own.

But…he doesn't know.

He can't record the details, can't push them from his memories and onto the canvas.

He knows…but he doesn't know.

All the details, the colors, the edges; everything has gone blurry.

He still paints, just as diligently as he had in the past. Trying to recall every detail he can, trying to record anything, anything he can; anything to cause a spark, anything to bring that face back to him.

Tears mix with the paints, washing them out, colors running together, but he still paints. He has to paint.

He knows he knows. If he saw that face just once, just once more…

He knows it. He knows the face.

He's grown since then. The face, it must have grown as well.

But he knows it. He would know it.

If he just saw the face, he would never forget.





A tomato crate was not the best place to hide, but he had no other choice.

He was sick of the fighting, sick of the dying, sick of the power struggles. If avoiding all of that meant hiding in a cramped box…

Then he could hide forever!

Forever seemed to escape him as a knock sounded from the outside. He immediately begged; begged to be left alone, begged to be spared from the pain of war once again.

His pleas fell on deaf ears, and the lid was ripped from his sanctuary, bringing him to the light.

Face to face with a memory.