The Hero's Gaze

The brush danced across the canvas, leaving a trail of soft gold pigments, accentuating the sunset through distant clouds. Soft greens and yellows intricately captured the grasses of the valley, and shades of crimson depicted batches of flowers. Thick impasto strokes created the rough, craggy texture of rocky outcroppings flanking the lone survivor of the Battle of the Ironkeep. The Rivercrest Citadel, on the banks of the Saphire Mountains River, filled the background. Its ancient spires were built high enough to pierce the clouds.

The smell of fresh paint hung heavy in the air, the pungent aroma filling the painter’s studio. It was a heavy mix of chemicals, solvents and pigments that melted together, a scent that the artist had grown addicted to during a lifetime of painting. It had a sharp, clean quality to it, like the crisp tang of a winter morning. It was a smell that spoke of new beginnings, fresh starts and unspoiled potential, a reminder that every blank canvas held the possibility for a new masterpiece.

The artist's studio was a large, airy space with high ceilings and large windows that allowed ample natural light to flood the room. The walls were adorned with half-finished paintings and sketches of various subjects, organized but cluttered, with canvases, paints, brushes, and other art supplies scattered about. Sitting in the corner, shrouded in the afternoon sun from the arched window, a motionless figure was posing on a rickety old stool.

“Are you done yet?” Alaric moaned, arching his back. The cracking of his spine echoed through the studio. His long, lean muscles begged to be released from their chainless captivity. He curled his toes within his well-worn tanned leather boots, and his black chausses clung to his legs as he slowly stretched them. Alaric ran his fingers through his black, scraggly hair, and stopped when he reached the back of his taught neck. He squeezed tight, hoping to release some pressure bound up in the knotted muscles.

“Almost,” Kethryll waved his free hand at Alaric. “Just a few more moments of inspiration. But I will need many more if you continue to move.”

Alaric grimaced as he watched the old man jumping back and forth with his fine brush, like a duelist fighting for his life. Each stroke was a calculated move. The difference between life and death. Kethryll’s white smock, splatted flecks of colour, rippled as the artist spun around. Bare feet padded on the stone floor as Kethryll darted to retrieve another paint pot filled with a vibrant colour the Alaric didn’t know the name of.

Alaric watched the deep grooves spread across Kethryll’s leathery face as the artist squinted at his creation. Kethryll patted his bald head a few times before he clasped his chin and stroked the length of his long white beard, leaving behind a trail of purple paint.

Brushmaster. A title bestowed upon whomever the King deemed worthy. And Kethryll was worthy. Alaric, despite his lack of artistic talent, could not help but admire the way Kethryll’s brush danced across the canvas, creating a masterpiece with each stroke. In all of Alaric’s travels in his long life, he had yet to see a moral that could come close to rivalling Kethryll’s skills.

“Sorry,” Alaric rolled his eyes. “This isn’t exactly my idea of fun.”

“When you are a Scion of the Divine, Progeny of Sacred, Heir to the Abandoned Pantheon—”

“Yes, yes,” Alaric cut in. “My father is a god. But what does that matter when there are hundreds of us?”

“You have hundreds of brothers and sisters?” Kethryll looked over the canvas at Alaric.

“What? No, I meant...” Alaric bumbled until he noticed the smile. “Funny.”

“Thank you,” Kethryll bowed. “My genius is not just limited to the arts you know.”

“That’s debatable,” Alaric muttered.

“Debating is another skill I possess,” Kethryll turned his attention back to the canvas. “Who was your father again?”

“Athanter,” Alaric said.

“That’s right,” Kethryll nodded. “The god of cured meats—”

“And haberdashery.” Alaric finished the sentence.”

“Cured meats and haberdashery, huh? Now that’s a combination you don’t see every day?”

“No, you don’t,” Alaric said. “A lot of good it does me.”

Kethryll grunted which Alaric interpreted as the artist’s agreement.

“Is your memory starting to go?” Alaric asked. “We’ve known each other a while now. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten all about me?”

“Oh, my no,” Kethryll walked backwards from the canvas tilting his head. “Sometimes my memory needs to warm up first. That’s all.”

“Right.”

“Oh, speaking of memories, there’s a question that I’ve been meaning to ask you. I’m planning a mural of the gods. Specifically, the Day of Departure. The day when prayers went unanswered. My scholarly research skills are a bit rusty. Did you ever discover why the gods left all those centuries ago?” Kethryll squatted low to the ground, shuffling forward. His eyes were glued to his work.

“No,” Alaric frowned. “I was just a child. I barely even remember my father.”

Alaric’s eyes turned to the window. Pigeons cooed on a nearby rooftop, and the cacophony of the street below seeped into the studio. The sea of terracotta roof tiles flowed down the slope of the land, stopping abruptly on the capital’s ancient walls.

“No matter,” Kethryll said. “So, what’s next my friend? Another adventure? Another glorious battle? More foes to vanquish?”

“I think I might have a break,” Alaric mussed. “Stick around the city for a while. Then when the season turns, maybe head south to the coast, lay on a beach with a drink in my hand and the sun for company until I run out of money.”

“The idea of laying about like a washed-up log from a storm doesn’t sound appealing to me. The drinks though,” Kethryll’s fine brush added a final detail before he stepped back. “There. I have captured the essence of a hero.”

“I don’t have an essence.” Alaric sniffed his armpit.

Kethryll motioned for Alaric to come and look upon greatness. “Ah, but that is where you are wrong, my friend. Your essence is what makes you a hero, what sets you apart from others. It is the very thing that makes you worthy of a portrait.”

Slowly Alaric rose from the stool, stretching out his body from being motionless for what felt like the better part of two days. “Well, I guess that makes sense.”

“Come, come. Be the first to witness a masterpiece that will outlast your legendary feats.”

Alaric stepped around the easel and stared intently at the canvas. His eyes darted over every inch, absorbing the vibrant colours and intricate details. His brow furrowed as he focused on the lone figure in the painting, facing away from the viewer, looking over the majestic valley towards Rivercrest Citadel.

After a few moments of silence, he turned to the Kethryll. “Is this me?”

“Of course, it's you,” Kethryll gave Alaric a weak smile. “Who else would it be?”

Alaric let out a deep sigh, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Well, it's the back of you, but it's definitely you.”

“Why did you paint me from behind?”

“I thought it would be more...dramatic. You know, looking out over the valley with the Citadel in the distance. The hero returns with the prized sceptre.”

Alaric turned to the artist with a bewildered look, “But I didn’t carry it on my back.”

“Ah, well, artistic license, you know?” Kethryll waved his hands dismissively.

Alaric took a few steps back and examined the painting again, his hand slowly rubbing his chin. “I suppose it does capture the moment.”

“I’m glad you like it. I call it…The Hero's Gaze.”

Suddenly, Alaric spun around to face the artist again, with a worried look on his face. “Wait a minute, is that what I look like from behind?”

Kethryll the Brushmaster winced “Um, well, not exactly. I have added some, extra proportions to the shoulders.”

Alaric instinctively ran his hand over his slender shoulder muscles.

“You’re not exactly model material from that angle Alaric.”

“From any angle?”

Kethryll’s eyes fell to the floor as he turned away from Alaric’s glare. He quickly collected his brushes and started cleaning them with a singular focus. Hoping Alaric would leave.

“Well?” Alaric asked.

“Huh?”

“Huh?”

“Huh?”

“The angles!”

“Oh,” Kethryll cleared his throat and spoke delicately. “You see, my friend, your features are, ahem, quite unusual, to say the least. And as an artist, I must confess that capturing them accurately would be a rather daunting task.”

“What do you mean?” Alaric asked.

Kethryll hesitated for a moment before continuing. “Well, it's just that, uh, your nose is a bit crooked, and your chin is rather pronounced, and... well, let's just say that your overall countenance presents a certain degree of, ah, challenge for an artist such as myself.”

Alaric’s expression darkened. “Are you saying that I'm ugly?”

“No, no, of course not!” The artist quickly backpedaled. I simply mean that your unique features are not the easiest to capture in paint. But fear not, my dear hero, for I shall do my best to create a portrait that does justice to your...erm...individuality.”

“Fine, do what you can,” he grumbled. “Just make sure it looks impressive, okay?”

“You have my word, my friend,” Kethryll smiled weakly as he went to fetch a blank canvas, from his second studio, several leagues away.