i string the words together softly

This was always Aesop’s least favorite part.

He doesn’t like to pose- it’s why he’d found his place behind the brush, instead. He’s never sure where to place his hands, how to hold his expression- he’s gotten good enough at it with practice, of course, from staring at his own reflection and watching the way his features shift, the way the muscles lie under the skin, and from having seen it on every model he’s come across in his lifetime.

Still.

Aesop holds the position as best as he can, sitting poised upon the stool with his hands folded in his lap, left over right, allowing himself to move only his eyes. They flicker across the room, scanning his students’ faces in concentration.

“Pay close attention to my outline, and contours,” he reminds them, gentle voice breaking the silence of the studio. “Take your time.”

Their gazes dart up and down, up and down, looking both at him and through him all at once.

“The sketch is essential. It’s your foundation. It doesn’t need to be perfect, as your mistakes can be covered, but this stage will be the building blocks to-“

His voice falters.

The quiet falls over them again, though to Aesop, it’s overpowered by the thundering of his heartbeat in his ears, the way his fingers curl into fists against his will, the way his breaths stagger in struggle until he finally builds the courage to wet his dry tongue and ask-

“Who brought that painting out?”

One by one, they lift their heads, swiveling to follow Aesop’s stare across the room.

It had been scattered amongst all the other paintings, brought out of storage and propped up on easels, he hadn’t noticed it at the beginning of the lesson but now, the color has drained from his face, gone ashy and pallor, almost pained.

“I did,” one of them answers and he’s too far gone in his memories to recall their name. “Should I not have?”

“No.”

“Did you paint it?”

“Yes.” And then. “A long time ago.”

“Does it have a title?”

Moonlit clouds stretch over a vast, sapphire sky, dotted with twinkling silver stars. It gives way to a grassy field, lit dimly by a sole source, standing upright in the center- the distant silhouette of a man, features indistinguishable save for long white hair, flowing over the shoulder, and a flame, igniting the hem of his cloak.

Aesop swallows.

“Portrait du jeune homme en feu.”

-

A rather harsh wave has another bout of nausea rolling through Aesop’s body, and he might fear losing the contents of his stomach, were there anything inside of it.

Travel by boat is a necessary evil when it comes to his profession, but that doesn’t mean he’s grown at all accustomed to the stinging sea salt spray and assault on his senses. Especially in a rickety row boat like this one, there’s no escape from the way the water rocks them to and fro. Even the rowers’ motions seem haphazard and precarious at best, but there must be some sort of method to it, because the tiny island that had been a speck on the horizon has been growing closer and closer every minute.

Trying to get a better look at the approaching shore, Aesop lifts a hand from his lap, where it had previously been clutched around the edges of a wooden parcel, to brush his bangs away from his face. It turns out this is the worst mistake he could make.

A particularly rough wave jolts the boat underneath of them, and in one sharp turn, the crate nearly flies out of his lap. His fingers curl around the makeshift strap of thick twine in a last ditch attempt, but it’s too little too late, leaving him only with a slight friction burn and wide eyes as the wood hits the water.

The resulting splash sprays droplets across his cheek, and for a short, horrifying movement, nobody moves.

Aesop counts his blessings when the crate doesn’t immediately begin to sink, and knowing what he has to do, he doesn’t waste a second counting on anyone else to handle things for him. Standing, his vision is a blur as he’s hastily shucking off his thick woolen overcoat until the moment his body hits the frigid water. All at once, he’s plunged under, and then he resurfaces with a desperate gasp. Too determined for the sudden shock of cold to leave him frozen, he does the best imitation of a breaststroke that he can muster, knowing how pathetic his attempt must appear to his onlookers and not caring at all, until he catches up with the crate that the tide has steadily been carrying away from him.

He doesn’t remember the jump, doesn’t remember swimming back to the boat or being hauled on board, but all he knows is that he’s in his seat again, now dripping a steadily growing puddle. Every part of him is shivering, even with that woolen cloak draped over his shoulders, a kind of chill that’s bone deep and cuts through him anew with every gust of wind. Teeth chattering, Aesop clenches his jaw and digs his fingernails into the grain of the wood, and prays the adrenaline will flow through him long enough to power him through the rest of the journey.

“Won’t be long now,” someone tries to reassure him and he nods curtly, attempting to ignore the way it makes sodden strands of hair cling to his cheeks, the way he feels like a drowned dog in a storm.

Solid earth- as solid as a coarse, sandy beach can be, anyway- is a godsend beneath his feet, and as soon as he stumbles out of the row boat, he lets out a grateful sigh. As relieving as it is, though, the full effect of gravity is starting to take its toll, combined with the wooziness of being out on the water, it’s practically tripping uphill with limbs wrought of lead. Not at all made easier by the rucksack of personal belongings he’s slung over his shoulder and the wooden crate, that wretched piece of twine trapped between his fingers in a white knuckled vice grip.

His primary guide, a few steps ahead of him- how easy it must be, to carry oneself across the dunes without being waterlogged- shows him to the beginning of a winding path at the base of the shore. It gives way to a rocky outcrop, and the beginnings of grass, the stubborn kind, that can only grow in harsh conditions and thin soil. He takes the opportunity to set his things down in the sand, and wrings out the hem of his coat.

“Where do I go, exactly?” Aesop asks, voice rough, when it becomes apparent that his companion has stopped and intends to take him no further.

“Just up this stretch,” he answers, pointing up the footpath that transcends the hill. “Dirt path’ll take y’ right to the front door.”

“Right.” That’s not very specific. Aesop breathes a long exhale through his nose and heaves his belongings up off the ground again. “Thanks.”

It’s nearing dusk now, with just enough daylight left to illuminate his walk with the last bits of warm, fleeting sunlight. After how far he’s traveled to be here, this last part should be nothing more than a simple stroll, but it’s all starting to catch up to him. Even the bag, sparsely packed with one fresh set of clothes, a book, his paints, and his brushes, meant to last him just a week, is feeling more and more like a boulder by the second.

A steep and rocky incline gives way to flat land, sand, then dirt, shaded by half barren trees and covered in dead leaves that crunch under Aesop’s shoes with every step. But finally, he makes it to the front porch, a large wooden door wrought with age waiting to greet him.

He knocks. Four times. They’re firm and solid and he has to resist the urge to knock again- knows they’ve been expecting him all day, but it is a rather sizable estate. It might take someone any matter of minutes to cross and let him inside.

Thankfully, the door swings open only a few moments later, and Aesop is welcomed by a servant, Emma, she tells him, who ushers him briskly inside to shut the chill of the encroaching night and salty wind out.

Carrying the lone candle that lights their way, Emma leads them up two flights up stairs, the blue glow from the dusk sky bleeding in through the thick glass windows that line the walls. They take a turn down a short hall and, at the end, enter a room with thick, sweeping curtains, and a fireplace, already alight with a flickering ember.

Emma sets the candle on the mantle and reaches for the poker, kneeling on the ground to stoke the fire. Aesop crosses to follow, setting his things down in a dusty corner.

“It was a reception room,” she starts, punctuated by the crackle of the burning logs. “It’s never been used in all the time I’ve been here.”

“How long?”

Emma shrugs, and then stands. The poker goes back into the holder and she folds her hands politely in front of her.

“Three years.”

“Do you like it here?” Aesop asks.

“Yes.”

The answer is curt, soft, but he has no reason to doubt it. Perhaps, properly lit and cleaned, he could imagine this being a pleasant place to stay.

The silence carries on for another beat before Emma nods, dismissing herself with a sudden frazzledness. Aesop has to wonder if he’s the first guest they’ve had.

“I'll let you get dry.”

Her footsteps echo faintly throughout the room as she exits, shutting the door behind her so that it does not thud, likely out of consideration not only for himself but for the home’s other inhabitants as well.

Finally alone, Aesop sheds the layers of his clothes, spreading the thinner ones out on the floor by the fire in hopes that they’ll dry quick enough to be put back on in a few hours. He’s not in any rush, of course, he has a nightgown tucked away somewhere in his bag, but the thicker garments like his woolen overcoat will need at least the whole night, and a bigger fire than this one.

For now, he strings his cloak up on the line nailed from one wall to the other, sectioning off about a third of the room with the sweeping, linen curtains, almost like a makeshift privacy wall. He makes a note to explore behind it later, but is currently more concerned with belongings far more valuable.

By the fire, he selects a thicker metal rod from the stand, and uses it to pry open the wooden crate. Predictably, both of the canvases- he’d brought two, in case of an emergency, but well- are soaked.

He props them up on the hearth, close enough to dry but not close enough for the flame to catch, and hopes that by morning they’ll be good as new, otherwise, he’ll be losing valuable time. Less elegantly, he fumbles through his bag for his pipe, blowing his still damp hair out of his eyes when it gets in the way, and fishes out the tobacco that somehow survived the catastrophe.

Once enough water has evaporated from his skin, leaving a slightly sticky residue on the surface in its wake, Aesop recognizes the pang in his empty stomach and sighs.

Wrapped in his nightgown, Aesop’s bare feet fall against the cool, stone floor, as he exits his temporary room, retracing the path they’d taken to the main foyer. A chandelier hangs heavy in the stairwell, casting faint shadows on the grey brick walls until he wanders into what he assumes is the kitchen.

There’s a fireplace going in here, too, though he turns his back to it, immediately seeking out the pantry and rifling through it, helping himself to the first thing he finds- a loaf of bread and a block of cheese. He barely has the self restraint to set it on the table and seat himself before he tears off a chunk of bread with his hands, shoving it into mouth, using the nearest knife he spots to saw into the cheese with motions equally jagged and desperate.

Emma enters as he’s midway through sinking his teeth into his next bite.

“Sorry,” he swallows to clear his mouth. “I helped myself, I was hungry.”

She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look particularly affronted, and hasn’t stopped him yet. He eyes her warily but takes another cautious bite.

“Is there any wine?”

“Yes,” Emma nods, seemingly appreciative of the direction. She presents him with a glass and bottle moments later, pouring a modest amount into his cup, pausing, and pouring a little more.

The thick, burgundy liquid embitters his tongue on the way down, but it’s refreshing enough that he lets out a small gasp of relief, wiping the residue off his lips with the back of his hand. Emma’s still observing him wordlessly, perhaps out of distaste for his manners but he can’t really bring himself to care.

“May I be curious?” Aesop asks, the edges of his hunger have been placated enough for his curiosity to return.

In lieu of answering, Emma sits at the table, eyes wide and expectant to indicate her assent.

“What is your young master like?”

Emma frowns.

“I don’t know him well.”

“But you've been here for three years?” Aesop prods.

“He only arrived a few weeks ago.”

“Where from?”

“Missionary work,” she tells him, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “They brought him home because his brother died.”

“The one due to marry?” Aesop’s interest is piqued. “Did disease take him?”

Emma shakes her head.

She must not be keen on explaining further, because she doesn’t say anything more, and to Aesop, it’s a bit grating. It isn’t his business, he knows, but vague answers have always left him feeling like something is just out of his grasp.

“Will you manage it?” Emma says instead, changing the subject and cutting through the silence all at once.

“Manage what?”

“To paint him.”

Aesop pauses, taking a moment to fill his mouth with more bread and wine before answering.

“Why do you ask?”

“Another painter was here,” she recalls. “They weren't able to.”

“What happened?”

“I don't know.”

-

The first night falls, and then passes, and in proper daylight, Aesop gets a good look at the room.

There’s the abundance of drape cloths, some pitched up to divide the room and some thrown over furniture like somebody had tried to hide things. Like the idea of a reception room to entertain guests had been long forgotten and concealed in bland, taupe sheets, left to collect dust.

They’ve even got a harpsichord, Aesop discovers, lifting up the fabric just enough to sneak his hand under it, pressing down on a single note that rings out in defiance of its abandonment. It’s a little pitchy, and startling in the otherwise silent house, so he withdraws his hand and lets the  cloth cover it up again, deciding that if he’s got free time, maybe- maybe he’ll entertain the idea of playing some more.

But that’s about as welcoming as it gets. It’s all white walls, grey trim, cold blue shadows cast in every corner- even the daybed is draped with a white duvet and some creased pillows, like they’d been pulled from a long lost closet as a last thought. It’s as sanitized and impersonal as the man he’s been hired to paint.

For now, he draws back those sweeping curtains, letting more light flood into the room. The windows have a thick glaze on them that obscures a clear picture of the outside. He’s not interested in the scenery, though- what catches his eye is a mirror, leaned up against the wall that had been covered by the drapes.

It reflects the image of a canvas across the room, propped up on an easel. One he hadn’t noticed initially.

He turns his back to the mirror, approaching the easel with mostly curiosity, and a shred of trepidation. The canvas is facing away from him, and really, he’s not sure what he expects to find when he flips it around. But he does, and his eyes widen, last night’s warning of a failed painter flooding back into his mind and now, he understands.

It’s an almost finished portrait. The body is painted but the face is missing.

He reaches out, fingers brushing the gaping void in the canvas’ center. His subject, Joseph, (the name is only ever uttered in a whisper) remains elusive.

-

Emma brings the clothes in.

They’re the attire Joseph is to be painted in, she explains, presenting the items as such. Aesop thumbs at the fabric, getting a feel for its texture in order to better capture its likeness.

The waistcoat is sewn with a sturdy, emerald brocade, intricate but subtle details revealing themselves, glinting like jewels as he shifts the fabric to and fro- but for as nicely as it’s constructed, it’s, well-

Ugly.

He doesn’t say as much, of course, but he’s sure his expression is giving away his internal monologue and he catches himself, forcing his frown to fall back into passiveness as he continues to inspect what he has to work with.

“I’m afraid it’s the only one,” she laments. “He has no other clothes formal enough for the occasion.”

“You said he has blonde hair?” Aesop tries to picture it.

“Yes.”

“And his eyes are-?”

“Blue.”

Aesop’s hand falls, mouth screwing to the side in disapproval.

“It will do.”

-

He meets Joseph’s mother.

“Do you recognize it?”

Aesop nods, gazing up at the painting. It’s hung with pride over the fireplace in the living room, an ornate gold frame encasing the portrait of the woman sitting across from him, only, with less lines and wrinkles brought on by age.

“My father painted it,” he answers simply, but clearly.

“One of his first. It was in Milan, before my marriage,” she smiles fondly, turning away from the painting and gesturing for Aesop to sit, as she does the same. “My son’s suitress is Milanese. We'll go there if she likes the portrait.”

Aesop understands.

“... You'll leave.”

“I have to tell you, he wore out the painter before. In a very simple manner- he refused to pose. They never saw his face.”

“Why does he refuse to pose?”

“He refuses the marriage.”

The admittance weighs heavy in the air between them, and she pauses, allowing Aesop to digest the implications. A parent, forcing a lifepath upon their child against their will. For their best. What parent wouldn’t want their best for their child?

“You must paint him without him knowing. He thinks you're a companion for walks. He’s delighted- since he arrived, I haven’t let him out.”

An opportunity to siphon answers, answers that Emma would not give him, Aesop prods-

“Why not?”

Another pause.

“I wasn't wary enough with his brother.”

Her words are clipped. Final. The grief of a mother losing her son is far heavier than that of a servant to her master, and so, he relents, despite how maddening it is to be kept in the dark like this. So he changes the subject.

“He thinks I’ll watch over him?”

“And you observe him, yes. Is painting that way feasible?”

Aesop falls silent, lips pursed in thought at the task before him. Such frivolities had not been discussed in the commission letter, yet he supposes it was that vagueness that drew his interest in the first place.

“More than being a companion.”

-

Aesop takes it upon himself to modify the room to suit his purposes.

He’s sure they won’t mind, in fact the thought of them minding doesn’t even pass through his brain, if this is what it takes to get the job done. He hasn’t even met Joseph yet and his first impression of the man is that he’s too stubborn for his own good. Still, anything beyond that, anything beyond what others are willing to say about him, eludes Aesop.

There’s a hammer and a handful of old nails that he finds rifling through a drawer, one that he uses to hang some of the spare drapery over the frosted windows for the perfect balance of outside light.

In the middle of the room, across from the modestly sized mirror propped up against the wall, he sets an ottoman. It’s rather large, upholstered with a gorgeous fabric, and comfortable enough to sit on for an extended period of time. This much, he decides by taking a moment to rest his feet, sinking into the plush with a sigh, wiping the sweat off his brow.

But then, he’s up again. Laying out a glass pane on top of some cloth to act as a home for his paint.

He applies a thin layer of underpaint to the canvas- his canvas, that had blessedly dried by sunrise next to the hearth- in a cool toned brown. He hasn't seen Joseph’s complexion yet, doesn’t know what undertones his skin has, what sort of shades will suit him. But they’re only giving him so much to work with like this, so god forbid he doesn’t get this detail right-

There’s a knock at the door.

Aesop startles, then pauses. His eyes dart between the door, canvas, door, and then he spurs into motion, drawing the curtain that acts as a privacy divider in order to block his easel from view.

He crosses the room and cracks open the door, bracing his heart to be met with an unfamiliar face, just in case- he’s been walking, tiptoeing around the final occupant of the household, not yet to meet.

But it’s just Emma.

“He’s waiting to go out,” she prompts expectedly, but Aesop figures he, Joseph, can wait a few more moments. Pulling her into the room, he closes the door once more to prevent their conversation from slipping through the cracks.

“Come in. Tell me what happened to your master. How did he die?”

She pauses, seemingly uncomfortable with the notion but Aesop understands exactly why that is, when she finally yields.

“We were walking by the cliffs. He vanished. I saw his broken body below.”

“Did you see him fall?”

“No… I think he jumped.”

“Why do you think that?” Aesop presses, just below his breath because he feels he’s too close to the truth and doesn’t want to scare it away.

Emma frowns.

“He didn’t cry out.”

-

Aesop finds himself taking the steps two at a time as he wrestles his coat on, the thick wool having dried just in time. As he rounds the corner into the foyer, the air leaves his lungs at the sight of Joseph waiting for him at the door.

He’s facing away, conveniently, with a hood pulled up over his head to protect himself from the elements, and he doesn’t even bother to wait for Aesop to catch up to him, taking the approaching footsteps as a prompt to push the door open and start outside.

His pace is brisk, and Aesop swears quietly, wondering if the jig is already up before it's even begun, if Joseph’s already doing his best to keep his likeness concealed.

Aesop steps out onto the lawn a few paces behind his companion, leaves crunching under the soles of his shoes and the cool midmorning mist hitting him in a rather refreshing way. He pulls in a deep breath, squinting out into the fog at the pattern decorating Joseph’s cloak. It’s a deep, rich blue, swirled into something almost paisley and baroque but not quite, and for a moment, Aesop wonders what it would feel like under his fingertips.

As Joseph’s steps seem to pick up, his hood falls away, no longer able to withstand the movement. It reveals his strikingly pale blonde hair, twisted into waves by the sea salt air and pulled up into a bun, errant strands blown out by the wind.

And then he starts to run.

It’s a jog that picks up into a full on sprint, and Aesop can’t help himself but to follow in a similar hurry, but for an entirely different reason. He pictures a mangled body on the rocks below, limbs splayed out at odd angles as Joseph gets closer and closer to the cliffs edge and suddenly he’s desperate to remember the last time he ran like this, wishes he could run faster, because having his subject throw himself off a cliff on his first day on the job doesn’t exactly sound like something he wants to add to his resume.

Joseph manages to keep a few steps ahead of him, barreling toward the sharp and untimely edge until he comes to a sudden stop, digging his heels into the rocky earth and jolting from the deceleration, forcing Aesop to come to a stop too. His arms are stretched out as though to counter his momentum, his shoulders rising visibly with every heaving inhale he takes.

And then he turns around.

“I have dreamt of that for years,” he admits, his blue eyes piercing Aesop with an unsettling clarity.

“Dying?” Aesop asks, his hands on his knees as he tries to catch his breath.

Joseph smiles.