#thesaint

Becoming the Legend: The Many Faces of Val Kilmer

Val Kilmer didn’t just play characters — he became them. Whether it was the icy precision of Iceman in Top Gun, the dry wit and doomed brilliance of Doc Holliday in Tombstone, or the hypnotic fire of Jim Morrison in The Doors, Kilmer brought a raw intensity and presence to every role.

He gave us the genius chaos of Chris Knight in Real Genius, the brooding complexity of Bruce Wayne in Batman Forever, the ghostly charm of The Saint, and the silent strength of Chris Shiherlis in Heat. Even in the strangest corners — like The Island of Dr. Moreau — he left a mark that only he could.

Few could say that they had seen divinity other than that which was said to reside in grains of sand, in wildflowers.  The deity of Anri’s youth was depicted in shards of stained glass, painted onto frescoes that adorned vaulted ceilings.  Beautiful, unattainable, distant.  Reachable only through stern and decidedly human conduits, who were all too often hard-hearted.  

The kinless altar girl was now a woman, but she remained just as lost.  Stumbling through snow-carpeted streets, her pilgrimage had brought her to the Holy Father’s hallowed door, her pale hands clenched into tremulous fists.  Unwilling to leave, too fearful to knock.  Did he sense the appetite in her?  Did he know she harboured a hunger to match his own?

Frost climbed the windows, coating it like a second skin, but cold took no root.  Heat rolled out of Aldrich in waves, laced into those warm notes of incense and spice.  Seeming to smell her desperation, her uncertainty, his lordly head turned.  Candlelight bathed him in honeyed tones, the studs that decorated his features glinting, smouldering in eyes the colour of low-burning embers.  God saw her, and Anri fretted, fingers curling shyly in her skirt.

Comfort came in the elegant, proffered hand.  Broad in the palm, warm and soft.  Resplendent, Aldrich glittered and gleamed, bedecked in finery fit for the saint.  Anri surrendered, allowing one of her hands to settle in his.  A pale dove to be engulfed, buried in his gentle grip.  As he hinted at a grand pantheon of divines, she could think only of where their bodies touched, eager to believe that  he could adore even the unlovely creations of other gods.

A colossal hand cradled her cheek with unspeakable tenderness, as though she were something precious, something of immeasurable worth.  Tension bled from her as blood from a sacrificial lamb, but grief remained.  Sea-blue eyes brimmed with tears, recalling the child wracked with loneliness, grieving the family she was never able to call her own.  To an unwanted girl, no gift seemed greater than the offer of a home, of a wing under which to roost.

Hug Meme ;; Accepting

Where had he gone ?

Loyal shadow. Trustworthy friend. Her truest companion. They were to be an inseparable duo. Something was wrong here ... they must remain together. Someone had told her so, once, in cheerful pitch, or maybe twice, again, in murderous bellow. The happy-angry face lingered at the back of mind, brilliant light shining through stained glass visage, shattered here & cracked there, beams of violet & gold crowning her head, an ever present reminder of ... of ... of what ?

The haze of grand room overwhelmed ; it was too large, the soothing scents choked, the gentle light blinded, there were too many persons here - all possessed by singular thought & passion. Their reverence plagued her, a fever upon vulnerable psyche. Young Madgod fed upon such heightened emotions, or maybe it fed upon her ? Breaking her down. A rot from the inside out that spores of madness could not immunize against. The deacons, maggots all, gnawed at delicate guts & grey matter - botflies bit, laying their eggs, leaving larvae to burrow & wiggle beneath skin. Instinct bade her to claw them out, to cleanse herself with scorching self-destructive cinders so she could be born anew again & again & again. She could not remain stagnant. Her entire existence depended on consistent change.

Unwelcome feelings were brewing. Anxiety & sinking dread ... so very out of place. Someone else was out of place, someone like her, but she could no longer differentiate his presence from all the rest. There were no unique minds here. The hivemind was absolute. Heart patters within chest, rosy cheeks gone pale with a confused misery. Something was wrong. Where was he ? Something was WRONG.

As she felt fit to burst into a thousand fluttering wings, a single touch kept her together, pulling her back into a murky sense of calm. Warm hand, large, but gentle, engulfed her in a sluggish haze of euphoria. Her panic was unneeded. Out of place. & ... readily discarded. Hand became an arm. Then another. Madgod found herself pulled into a firm, welcoming, grasp. She did not fight. She felt no need to. Instead, slender hands clawed needily at his robes, sweet face burying itself into his mass without worry ; snuffing out all pesky woes & confusion. This was better ... this was what she needed. Saint's booming heart a hypnotic pendulum, drowning out all else. She wished to remain here, uncertain why she'd ever strayed from his side. Violet & gold left her as Saintly curtain hid stained glass visage. Thoughts of loyal shadow suffocated by enveloping, consuming, arms. The man she'd sought could be no one else.

This piece is one of a future triptych, The Saint.

Reductive charcoal on paper, inspired by Byzantium art and direct references to actual Saint artifacts.