Of Brushes and Needles — Alain & Ysabella

You walk across a wide, expansive bedroom chamber with ceilings almost as high as a cathedral and tapestries more expensive than all the decor of Tarragona's commoners put together. 

Alain Theer waits for you at the doorway with a crooked grin and admiring brown eyes. You smile as you near, wondering where he'll take you, but halt when you catch something in your periphery. 

Under a tall window with silk green curtains rests a long desk that rises just a little below your knees. A low pink divan serves as a chair, and on top of the desk, you see the expected quill, a tiny bottle of black tint, and, beside them, two large flasks with tight corks.

You step closer and spot the paint twirling within. "What is this?" you ask Alain. 

The noble's eyebrows shoot up. "Hmm?" He hums, stalking closer. "Oh. Drawing paints. A present from Mother dear." Alain's smile is terse. "Distance and absence can be repaired by expensive gifts."

You don't comment on the bitterness in his tone and sit on the low divan. Your fingers brush the top of the intricate paint bottles. One is low and wide, like a fat man, and the other is tall and narrowed like a lady squeezed into a tight corset. Both are of a deep ocean blue that is so compact that hides the paint within, but when you rattle it, you can just make out the liquid movement inside. 

Adso's bottles were nothing like these. His had been shaped like ordinary bottles of milk, transparent and small.

"What colors are these?" you ask Alain, your nails lightly tapping on the wide bottle.

"... I don't recall," Alain admits defeat and flops down on the divan beside you. He grabs the edge of the divan next to your hip so that his arm acts as a support for your back. The smell of rose water and fresh soap drifts to your nostrils. 

"Can I?" you ask, oddly expectant. This was exciting in a past life, but why are your fingertips buzzing the same they did every time you entered your childhood church?

Alain's breath tingles the fine hairs next to your ear. "Of course, sparrow. God knows I won't use them."

You smile and open the lady-shaped bottle. The scent of paint is so strong that it grows two powerful arms and slams you through the cracked wall of memory. 

Scenes of you, a smaller you, reclined over a desk with a candle by your right and Phoenix sleeping with her beak hidden beneath her wing. The sunset would be painted in a dozen multicolors as it seeped through the abandoned church's tainted windows. And an old, grizzled hand, sometimes shaken by intense bouts of cough, gently holding your shoulder. 

"The H should be bigger," Adso's wise voice would tell you, full of kindness that bordered on affection. "And sharper, young scholar."

"Ah, I've always liked this smell," Alain comments, taking a big whiff of air. "It smells like alchemy. Have you ever been near an alchemy table?"

You swallow the knock in your throat and shake your head. You try to keep your face hidden from him, but Alain is too distracted to take notice. "I'll take you! The first time I've seen a combustion, I thought the devil had finally come to punish my sins. And the stench! It's awful. It burns your eyes and throat and makes you want to cough out your lungs."

"This isn't awful," you whisper, holding the bottle beneath your nose. 

Alain pauses, seeming to think. "No, but it... it's similar. There are the smells of wilderness, and then there are smells like paint and alchemy."

You understand. "Not natural."

"Or too natural," Alain counters. "Like raw nature."

You can't help but smile. You look up to see the boyish excitement on his face, and are sure then, of what Alain tries so hard to hide: that he cares for more than hedonistic pleasures.

"Raw nature," you muse, swirling the bottle in your hand. "I like that."

His smile makes his eyes crinkle. "Raw always makes things better," Alain quips and laughs when you roll your eyes. "But why in hell are we talking?" He jumps up and rushes to a big shelf. "Wait a moment."

After rummaging for a bit, he returns with a plate in hand, a cup with brushes inside, and, between his rolled lips, a thin stack of papers. He dumps it all on the low desk. "There. Now, show me that hidden talent of yours."

You look down with parted lips. "Are— are you sure? This is your mother's gift."

Alain waves your concern aside. "And what am I to do with it? Throw it at my cousin's head?" He pauses and makes a face of serious consideration. "That wouldn't be such a bad idea, actually..." Alain shakes his head. "No. Take it, or I'll be in trouble."

Holding a laugh, you tilt the bottle to the farthest side of the plate. What comes out is a perfectly blended, silky stream of a deep blue. Patterns swirl within as if the paint has currents of its own. "It's beautiful,” you breathe out.

Alain nods, probing it with a fingertip. "I'm not a painter," he says, studying the tip of his finger. "But this one’s of fine quality."

"Yes, it's— oh!"

Alain boops your nose with his finger, and you feel the cold quelch of paint.

"Alain," you chastise, fighting back a smile at his pleased grin. You let the paint in there, a vague blue shade between your eyes, and grab the other bottle. The cork goes, and when you pour it onto the plate, a swirling gold spreads in a puddle. 

Yours and Alain's inhales are in synch. 

"Wow," you say, leaning closer. "I've never seen a fairer yellow shade."

"It's like gold," Alain remarks. 

"It probably cost a bunch of gold."

The noble grins. "Maybe it's melted gold."

You pump your shoulder with his. "Then I'm taking the bottle."

You both chuckle, but your smile vanishes when you grab the thinnest brush of the bunch. It has clearly never been used, and your fingers instinctually hold it at the right angles.

"I'll need a glass of water," you mumble, half registering Alain getting up again as you start to write on the parchment. You draw a big blue 'H', with sharp corners and intricate patterns between the lines of each leg.

Like so, Adso's ghost praises.

You dip the brush in the water, turning it from clear to blue, and try the gold paint next. Here, you pause, before you start to draw a great big bird perched in the H.

Silence fills the large, airy room as you carefully materialize your mind picture into paper. Alain is uncharacteristically quiet, watching you with dark eyes. When you're outlining a great wing, the nobleman breaks his silence. "Are you going to tell me how you learned this?" Alain asks next to your ear. "Or are you writing the tale here? If every word is like that H, sparrow, then we'll be here a while."

You smile. "Only the first letter of the chapter is illustrated," you repeat word for word what Adso once taught you. "The rest is simply written."

"So, I've noticed."

Alain has probably read more books than you, Alessa, and Hadrian combined. Of course, he knew. But he keeps looking at you with poorly concealed curiosity, so you know you can't deflect any longer. 

But, you find, you didn't want to. "A monk taught me," you say when you finish the bird. You tried to make it like Phoenix, but it doesn't have half her beauty. "In an abandoned church."

Alain listens as you tell him about Adso and the market, Phoenix, and the golden hours spent learning how to write. You smile sadly when you recount how you once knocked over a bottle full of black tint, soiling the desk and part of the floor. You had panicked, but Adso only laughed and comforted you with a wrinkled hand. "It's only paint."

When you finished, the sun had set, and only a faint red light poured through the noble's window. Alain whistles, impressed. "A mercenary and a scholar," he says, his voice is jovial, and his lips grinning, but his eyes hold yours with a naked seriousness. "Aren't I a lucky man?"

He cups your cheek, thumb playing with your bottom lip. Wordlessly, you lift the brush and paint a streak of gold across his forehead. "Now we match," you whisper as he leans in to kiss you. 

The kiss is gentle, and he lingers. Alain seems to want to say something, but he clears his throat and leans away, grabbing your hand as he does. "Can I try?"

"It's your paints," you point out, giving him the brush.

Alain Theers tries his mother's gift for the first time. He's clumsy and sludges half the parchment, but he smiles wide like the boy he once was. You lean your head on his shoulder, helping whenever he asks, but otherwise stay quiet, daydreaming of the past.

- - -

It is unmistakable.

The air reeks of blood. 

You break into a sprint, heart hammering as your thoughts run wilder and wilder. "Ysabella!" you call out, bursting into the castle stables with a wild swing of the doors. 

"In here!" Ysabella Theer yells, and without breaking momentum, you turn right and open the gate to the nearest stall. 

The scene within looks straight out of a horror tale. 

Ysabella is kneeling on the ground, drenched in blood from her hands to her elbows. Her mane of curls is tied in a high ponytail, and the front of her dress might have once been white, but now it gleams in red. Ysabella looks up from the young foal heaving on its side and settles wild, desperate eyes on you. "Call forth the stablemaster!" she begs, trying to close the deep gash on the foal's leg. "There was a stake. He didn't see it. I — he's losing so much blood. Oh, God in Heaven."

The foal, as if to confirm her words, raises his head as high as he can and lets out an agonized wail. From the next stall, you hear the slamming of hooves and a high-pitched neigh. His mother.

You stand at the entrance, your hand on the gate, and take in the scene. Beside Ysabella, scattered by frantic hands, is a cloth drenched in blood, a bucket of water, and you note with relief, the leather case of the stablemaster. It has everything you need.

Ysabella yells your name. "Please, hurry!" 

You step inside the stall. "Bella," you say, crouching next to her and grabbing her hands in yours. She's frantic, her eyes darting everywhere, but you hold her wrists until she stops shaking. "I need you to breathe. Panic is the enemy of thought, so breathe."

"The—"

"Breathe."

Hesitantly, she does. You watch her inhaling deeply, holding it, and then exhale. By the second breath, you let her go to calmly put your palm on the foal's belly. "Easy, young one," you whisper, your other hand petting his neck. Its coat is sweaty, and its frenzied eyes are glossy with pain. "Easy, lad. I got you."

You keep whispering until, gradually, the foal stops kicking. When it's safer, you move down his body to look at the gash. It's ugly – gushing blood and tore wide, but, when you press the cloth hard, the blood flow lessens.

"No ruptured arteries, no broken bones." You turn towards Ysabella, who watches you with eyes the size of the moon. But they're panicked no longer. "We need only to close the wound. Ysabella?"

"Y— yes?"

"Pass me the leather case," you instruct, keeping your voice calm. You pet the foal's neck and spine, hushing him gently. Ysabella scrambles to get it and quickly gives it to you. "Now, see what I'm doing?" 

Bella follows your soothing motions. "I do."

"Do it."

With a shaky, red hand, she touches the foal's forehead and brings her face down. "My angel," she talks, brushing her fingers down his cheek. "My sweet angel. We're here to help."

Inside the case, you find a scissor, a large needle, and a stiff ball of thick string. You look for a bottle of spirits, but you find none. There's no time, now. You'll disinfect the wound later. With a knowledge you've forgotten you possess, you thread the cord-like string into the needle, tie it, and bring it closer to the wound. 

The foal's coat is brown and white, but you've done the same on your farm's cows and once, on the snout of one of your pigs. You had named her Piggly, and she was white and stout and full of personality. 

Your mother always told you that the animals were not your friends, but when Piggy died and you cried your first tears of real heartbreak, your mother carved you a wooden plaque to mark her grave — and stood with you at her funeral, hiding her tears. 

You had written Piggy's name and the date of her death, and every year, when spring colored the hills with flowers, you'd leave a bouquet by Piggy's resting place.

Vaguely, you wonder if the plaque is still there.

"Sweet, sweet thing, I'll buy you apples and carrots and give you kisses every morrow." Ysabella's voice brings you back to the present. 

"Bella, I'm going to sew the wound," you tell her. "You'll need to hold him down."

You glance at her and see her determined nod. "Alright." Ysabella rises and puts her upper body on top of the foal's shoulder. 

Your hand is as steady as marble as you pierce the skin. 

He yells, the mare shouts and bangs against the wall, and Ysabella flies momentarily in the air but holds the foal down. You don't hesitate an inch as you bring the needle around, and, in a neat row, sew the next stitch. 

The foal eventually settles down, realizing it can do nothing to avoid the pain, and Ysabella turns on top of him to gaze at your hands. You don't notice the look of marvelous wonder as, mechanically, you thread the needle again and again, leaving the same space between each stitch. 

"It'll take some time before he's healed," you speak when the wound is close to being sealed. "Don't let him run or jump for at least a fortnight and call the stablemaster after this so he can disinfect the wound. The good thing is that he's young and malleable."

You sew the last one.

"He will be fine," you announce, taking the scissors and cutting the cord.

Ysabella rises as you do. The foal does too, slowly, and you both help it up. "Let's put him with his mother," Ysabella says. You nod, helping the young horse limp from the bloodied stall to the next one. The reunion has you smiling foolishly wide. They both let out joyous neighs and worried grunts, and the mare laces her neck around her child, cooing gently. 

You and Ysabella leave them alone, settling back onto the stables. Ysabella suddenly grabs your hand. "Come, my savior," she says, tugging you to the back of the corridor. 

She guides you to a nook with fresh water. You go to grab a towel, but Ysabella takes it first. "Please," she says, gesturing to a sealed barrel. "Sit."

You do as she does, watching as she watches her hands before she grabs the cloth and soaks it. Then, she brings it closer and, with five delicate fingers holding your wrist, Ysabella starts to clean you. "Where did you learn to do that?" she asks, gently washing your finger, palm, forearm, and elbow. 

The soothing motions have your eyelids dropping. "I used to live on a farm," you tell her in a raspy voice. "We took care of chickens, three cows, a couple of pigs, and one old, stubborn donkey."

Ysabella glances up at you with a pretty smile. "Really?"

You smile back tiredly. "It was brutal work," you tell her. You don't say how much you miss it. "This was nothing. I've mended tendons, snapped dislocated bones into place, and had my entire arm inside a cow's unmentionables." Your smile turns into a grimace. "Honestly, if human birth is anything like cow's birth, I could even be a great midwife."

*if male

Bella giggles. "A male midwife. You'd be the first one."

*if female

Bella giggles. "I wouldn't go around calling pregnant women cows."

-

You chuckle but don't answer. Ysabella twists the towel over the bucket, getting rid of the bloodied water, and starts washing your other arm. Her touch raises the hairs on the back of your neck, and beneath the stench of blood, you can smell the rose of her perfume. 

"It was a small farm," you hear yourself talking. Ysabella nods to confirm she listens as she works. "Just me and my mother... though I did have friends. I saw them every summer, at a market. They sold bread."

You don't know how long you speak. Ysabella washes the towel twice more and, finally, puts it aside, but you're talking still. She sits beside you, her hands cupping one of yours, and listens.

Finally, when your throat is sore, you stop. Silence falls, not uncomfortable, but you suddenly feel embarrassed. What are you doing? Telling this to a noble. If she thinks a mercenary is beneath her, what will she think of you now?

 You clear your throat. "Anyway." You rise to your feet and hold out a hand for her. "We should get going. The last thing I need is the Red Guard bursting in and accusing me of abducting their precious Lady Ysabella."

Ysabella smiles graciously at the poor joke and takes your hand. You pull her up, but when you think she'll let go, Ysabella steps closer to rest her hands on your chest. "My dearest mercenary," she whispers. Her nails dig into your shirt, and she looks up at you with immeasurable warmth in her beautiful brown eyes. "I'm in awe of you."

"You're in awe of a farmer?" you say with a wry grin.

Ysabella Theer rises on her tiptoes to gently kiss your lips. "I'm in awe of everything you are, everything you have been." You close your eyes to savor her lips. "And everything you will become."