stand with me on the edge of the sky

Few things steadied his hands these days. Coordination was sloppy at times despite his best efforts; he’d had his fair share of tripping over his own feet; silverware shook while he ate. The gods only knew the numerous dishes he had shattered, how many innkeeps fired him in Cornelia. It would seem only pen, brush, and charcoal were his lifeline.

Stepping back from the wall, Alaric eyed his work, seeking out obvious errors. Delicate brushstrokes swept over the space like a jungle canopy, leaden with birds resting on branches. It was outside of his element, given he favored sketching over paint. Yet, when one is on the streets, days from starving, with naught on you but your sword and sketchbook, you made do. So when a complete stranger offered payment for art, if you had half a mind, you’d take the opportunity.

He skimmed again, assessing it did not look too flawless, static, too…otherworldly. With ages come and gone, the probability of crossing paths with kindred was next to none, yet Alaric couldn’t shake his ghosts. Yet a part of himself longed with an eerie delight to stumble across another Lufenian. Perhaps that is why his signature reflected his mother tongue.

Ridiculous. Inwardly he scoffed. They were dead, every last one of them, so there was no point in penning an equally dead language. Heart lurching at the traitorous thought, Alaric locked his jaw, steeled his resolve. There was no need for erratic emotions when it came to the truth. The best course of action would be to accept it and move on. Yet he left his signature untouched.

Deeming his work satisfactory, he let his hand drop to his side, paint brush clasped loosely. Laurent would have been breathless…

“Everything ok?”

Jolting, Alaric all but tripped over his tools as he turned to face the source of the voice. The bell hadn’t chimed with the door, signaling his commissioner’s approach. Another look revealed the door had been propped open allowing the coastal air to circulate the shop. Paint fumes didn’t mix well in a restaurant.

Heart still rabbit-quick, Alaric straightened. “Yes.” Had he been another, he would have flashed a convincing, comforting smile. His own fell short, evident by Isaiah’s eyes narrowing. Emotions were messy, tricky in how to present them in a convincing light. He’d have to observe and do better next time. His tongue felt leaden. “I am fine.”

Mercifully, Isaiah didn’t press the subject. “If you say so, lad.”

Ever quick to change the subject, Alaric asked, “Has the sign been delivered?”

Isaiah smiled beneath his beard, skin crinkling around his eyes. “Yes. She’s a beaut, too.”

Both men walked into the street; one with his cane, the other with brush and pail. On their left, beneath the bay window, was a slab of unfinished wood. The artisan had done well, Alaric would admit as he took in the upraised letters, the craftsmanship superb. It was an honor to work on such a fine piece.

“I have some errands to run.” Alaric turned to face his commissioner. “When I get back, we’ll discuss your compensation.” With that, he ambled down the street.

Left alone, Alaric rolled his shoulders, knelt, and began layering the basecoat.