I was talking to a friend in DMs (shout out to @va-vaki) about Burning Spice having certain talents and how his mental state affects his pursuit of them, and it unearthed a particular headcanon I thought of for him that specifically applies to him in my main canon. So incoming yap session haha
Post-redemption, my Burning Spice has a handful of hobbies that he enjoys and indulges in on his own time. Things that he does for the sake of doing them, and that's really all. A big part of his rehabilitation is him discovering the freedom to make his own choices and live how he wishes to, without being held to an impossible standard or always needing to serve and answer to a perpetually unsatisfied crowd (all this without turning to dangerous/harmful behaviors, of course). Included in these are various forms of arts and crafts, including the subject of this post: painting. But none of them came to him easily, despite them being things he actually did do once upon a time.
To put it extremely simply (I want to talk more in depth about this in a separate post about my Spice's redemption overall), a decent way into his rehabilitation, Golden Cheese starts half-nagging, half-genuinely encouraging him to find things to do with himself and his time. Things that don't involve fighting, that don't involve blood and suffering. Perhaps some of the things he used to do as Herald, like he's opened up to her about once or twice before? Which he, of course, balks at... at least for a time. But by this point, he's reached a state of being where he's... calm? Calmer. Calm enough, and close enough to her, to actually be willing to listen, if only for a moment. Begrudgingly.
So he tries painting. That's easy enough. That's something he did once; the Herald was a patron of the arts and humanities once, in all of their forms. So he takes what he perceives to be the easiest route and picks up a brush and canvas. (He actually used to paint murals most often, but a small surface is enough for now.)
But... he can't think of what to paint. At all. Painting requires creativity, creativity requires passion, passion requires investment. And he doesn't have any of that, doesn't feel any of that for anything anymore. Art requries a love and appreciation for life in some way, and Spice does not love or appreciate life yet (he's made a couple of baby steps by then, but they're nowhere near enough to mark a real shift). Best he can think of is Golden Cheese; that's something, someone, he's passionate about. Something beyond destruction. But what, is he really just supposed to paint portraits of her and nothing else for eternity? He can't bear stagnancy and that would just be a smaller form of it, a microcosm of his grievances with existence as a whole.
Eventually, he snaps. But, instead of simply destroying the canvas and giving up, he actually does go on to paint something. In a rage that is surprisingly calculated, he paints a burning village. It's well made, enough to make the subject matter that much more dire, and he finds a sick satisfaction in it. So he keeps it up. He makes more gruesome paintings. Towns being razed, armies being brutally vanquished, innocents facing agonizing deaths. It's for the best that these are all done in seclusion; they'd spark unease, if not outright terror, in whomever was there to watch him work. But it's all he has in him to paint, in that moment.
The truth of the matter is, these are his memories. Every last painting is simply a recollection of his past. And he does find a legitimate satisfaction in it, the first few times. In these brief revisitings of the chaos he wrought. It's... cathartic, in a macabre sort of way. But, over time, with each completed painting (and thus, revisited memory), he begins to face a two-fold struggle:
The cognitive dissonance of having fun creating these paintings while otherwise despising the act of creation on a visceral level. He has not created in millennia, has not enjoyed creating anything in perhaps even longer. To be doing this, here and now... He no longer believed himself capable, never mind willing, and it's difficult to grasp. He wants to stop, but he doesn't want to. He's hit a stride and he hates it. When's the last time he's felt something like this? But damn it, it's pointless, it's futile, it always is and always has beenโ but he's having fun. Why is he having fun? This is absurd, he should tear the canvas in two and be done with itโ but he's just going to get another one and start over, isn't he. For fuck's sake
The emerging moral and emotional crisis, as a result of repeated and prolonged exposure to events he otherwise left buried. Empathy and understanding have so far come to him extraordinarily slowly, dragged to him kicking and screaming. He has made some progress, he's softened a teensy bit (he went through something else prior to this that helped him along a good amount, but that's for the separate post). But it remains a major uphill battle. But... the paintings. The places, the people. The memories. He's forgotten so much. No, worse: he's repressed it all, for reasons he isn't comfortable enough to explore yet. Worse still, worst of all... for the very first time, he feels... looking at the mangled corpses and crumbling homes and shattered swords and statues and any emblems of hope or peace, all rendered with a disturbing beauty and accuracy, he feels...
In short, the paintings become therapeutic to a degree, for Burning Spice. In good and bad senses. Good, in that for once, he is finding amusement and (at least something approaching) purpose in something besides sparring, besides fights, besides pain, besides destruction. Bad, in that dual confrontation he inadvertently forces upon himself: confronting his sudden joy in something he has long since removed from his life and heart with brutal prejudice, something he damned his own soul trying to denounce; and confronting himself via stepping back to behold the reality of his many atrocities in new and excruciating detail, detail HE painstakingly added in when no one told him to, and coming to think, "this really is quite awful, isn't it". He's far enough along in his journey for guilt, real guilt, to begin stirring somewhere no longer deep enough for him to ignore. (And still good, in that this is happening. That's he's waking up and learning. But he doesn't see it that way and won't for a long time yet.)
It is nothing less than agony to him. All of it. But what is he, if not hooked on agony? Perhaps there's some sort of perverse relish in this self-inflicted misery. He's never shied away from it before. Shameless sadomasochist. Or perhaps he's just too stubborn to stop? Does he think that, now that he's gone this far, dug so deep into the wounds, that he might as well continue? He can barely stomach what afflicts him now, this regret, how much worse will it get if he keeps going?
... Eventually, Golden Cheese is allowed to see his work. He's painted enough that every inch of all four walls of the room are hidden behind them. She is... horrified. Nothing short of it. And yet, she cannot deny his talent. Some part of her can't help but be pleased, to see that there is something he's held onto all these years, some nonviolent skill. But... the paintings.
They have a short but somber conversation about them. She can already surmise what happened here; he confirms it, talks a bit more about it. She asks if it helped him at all, to remember. To feel. He says he does not know. She asks what he plans to do with them now. He doesn't know that, either.
(He actually does hold onto them for a little while. Keeps them safe and hidden, in the space he was allowed to create them in. Later, he asks Golden Cheese if she would help him destroy them. Bit reluctant, but she agrees. She understands why he asks.)
In the far future, when he's finally reached the end of the road, when he's learned to let go and be a better man, he still paints occasionally. Not as common an indulgence as his other hobbies and habits, but it still holds some weight to him. Some value. He paints many more different things than he used to; landscapes, objects, people. But oftentimes he finds himself painting his memories again. Some of them superficially pleasant; the Herald. Others, more honest in their discontent; the Beast. It's... a bit easier now, to look back at them, free of the burdens of their titles. He's strong enough to see it all and accept it for what it was. Though it still hurts, he's rather grateful that he can remember more clearly now.
Besides... after everything he did, he has no right to forget.
(Most of the time, though, he paints with his daughter. She loves arts and crafts and he loves spending time with her even more.)
