The paintbrush is a noble thing. It can be anything, from a mere tool to a creator of worlds. It can drive one insane or it can inspire the soul. It can spend a thousand strokes to say utterly nothing, or it can phrase an emotion indescribable in one.
One can compare it to the pen, yet it is so much greater. The pen’s notation is mere a single shade of the paintbrush’s artistry. The cold machinations of mathematics and texthood are for biological automatons. Man can be alive for a hundred years and yet not spend a single day living. Man can die and yet live for eternity. The pen facilitates the former, the paintbrush allows the latter.
- “The Paintbrush”, by Goddess Olephia, of Chaos. Painted 29 years in the Great War.
Olephia turned away from the very first painting, “The Paintbrush”. It was the perfect primer for what was to come, and it was precisely the thing she wanted to start with. This was her gallery, but it was not about her. Her strength was irreplaceable and terrible. There was no inspiration to be found within it, there was only fear. That was one of the reasons she had taken up the paintbrush. It was one of the few ways she could inspire.
Olephia readjusted her dress. It was a deep purple to match her eyes and hung down to her calves. The long noble dress was for inspiring terror on the battlefield, this sheet of silk around her was to seem approachable. She hoped for that at least. Keeping the cloth tight around her stomach was a black belt with a stylish pouch affixed. Inside were her notepad, pen and phone if she needed to talk.
Olephia wanted to sing with happiness at the fact that the people of the Empire had turned up to view her gallery. Men and women in their best clothes, dressed in suits and dresses or in dark trousers and button-up shirts all wandered through the gallery of Zawitz. Divines had come too. Her father was attending. So was Helenna. Neneria said she would visit later. Anassa, of course, had taken the chance to come and show herself off in a dress of brilliant red silk. Olephia did not even care, she was just impressed that the want to see what she could do had beaten the fear people had of her.
Olephia moved from her first paint. The Paintbrush was a photorealistic painting of the said tool. The second was one of a Lubskan mountain. This one had been painted recently.
One may see Mountains as many things. I see them as one of the world’s last fortresses against nature’s relentless advance. There was a time when the world was nothing but stone. It was only then, before the oceans and before the continents, that Arda was truly united.
Even when the oceans formed, even before humanity came into being, even not that humanity bends the world to its will, there are none who will to homogenize all existence back into that dull shade of grey.
- “The Mountain”, by Goddess Olephia. Painted in Year 1 of The Second Imperial Founding.
Olephia moved from painting to painting. This scene of people in awe at her art, yet so unwilling to come close to ask her, she would paint later. Maybe not exactly this, but she would aim for emotion. Olephia smiled and made a mental note of it as she continued. Besides, what was there to do? She couldn’t convince people to suddenly not be afraid of her. Fear was one of the most natural emotions in existence. Explaining fear was one thing, trying to make others experience causing fear was another entirely.
Olephia watched the throngs of people move from painting to painting in these halls. Olonia had lent her Lubska’s National Art Gallery. It was a beautiful building, mages and builders had come not to modernise the structure but to fully activate its potential. Now it was stone tiles, beautiful walls with red wallpaper, and led lights on the ceilings that angled to bring attention to paintings. Waiters handed out champagne and small delicacies, guides directed people down the route Olephia had devised.
The Goddess of Chaos further down to one of her favourite pieces. One of her entire family: Arascus, her Father, stood tall and proud. Irinika to one side, Olephia to the other, both with black hair, yet Olephia was shorter and with purple eyes compared to Irinika’s pitch black. Malam was next to Irinika. It was like that on purple, since the woman’s snow-white hair stood out compared to Irinika on one side and Anassa to the other, both with black. Anassa wore a dress of red silk, Kassandora was next to her, her hair and eyes almost the same shade. Almost, Anassa always a red Olephia would describe as sensual, Kassandora’s red was raging.
And then on Olephia’s side was small Baalka, of Disease. She had still not awoken from whatever the Jungle had done to her. Olephia was sure she would come eventually. She wished she could do more for her sister. Next to Baalka was Fer, almost twice her height and the tallest bar Arascus. A mane of golden hair only added to the brilliant smile Olephia had managed to capture. And then Neneria. At the end, although naturally she would. Olephia had made to capture the Goddess of Death with that shy smile she carried.
Family. Priceless.
- “Family”, by Goddess Olephia, of Chaos, Painted 1 year before the Great War.
Olephia always liked that painting. An artist’s eyes always caught the mechanical in their own works. Olephia did not even care about the fact that Kassandora’s red hair was slightly too bushy or that Fer’s golden mane had been tempered down from the usual mess it was. Nor did she care about that Baalka was slightly out of scale, or that the shadows were a simple oval of dark-grey underneath each person. It was one of her favourite paintings, ever. Maybe that was narcissistic to say, Olephia didn’t think so though, it was her family, it was only right that she love them.
Olephia moved on, turned a corner, and her purple eyes widened. Kassandora and Malam were there. And not only that, it was obvious that both of them had dressed up! Amazing! Both were in black dresses, almost matching. Almost, Kassandora’s was far more formal and Malam’s was laced with red roses and frills. Olephia made sure not to interrupt their viewing nor their conversation. Both of them were laughing, most likely each at other. And both of them were staring at another of Olephia’s paintings.
That was brilliant, Kassandora was usually far too busy to appreciate art and Malam was far too full of herself to think anyone else could inspire emotion. Olephia silently walked to the side so she could inspect what they were looking at. What art one enjoyed always revealed something about the viewer. Both sisters were staring up at the picture of the Village in Flames. It was a smaller piece, in shades only of red, orange, yellow for flames that devoured a home. The background was a dark purple that demanded no attention whatsoever, the foreground was a pitch-black silhouette of a wolf howling.
Whether the hunter be beast or flame, it matters not.
All teeth rip and tear.
All flames devour and howl.
- “Village In Flames”
Of course they would have chosen that one. Olephia smiled at how utterly predictable her sisters were. White-haired Malam nudged Kassandora, leaned over, said something, the other Goddess chuckled and shook her head. Olephia resisted her curiosity to come and listen closer, these two did not get enough enjoyment usually, she should let them have fun for once.
Olephia walked through more rooms of her gallery. Mortals moved out of her way as they took pictures of her. She did not mind, it was impossible to stop them and she knew she was a sight simply by the virtue of being the Goddess of Chaos. Besides, she had dressed up precisely for this. It would be a waste if not decided to save her appearance in digital permanence. She finally came another Divine. Aslana of the Sword. The woman was the first of the Weapon Divines. She stood in a dress of scales, a longsword hung on her hip and people swarmed around her. Of course they did, the Weapon Divines were on every frontline. They rested in the same tents as soldiers.
And she was stairing up at The Crown. It was a simple painting of the object and nothing else. A gold band with gems inlaid onto it. It was not the most decorated crown, nor was it the simplest, but Olephia had specifically made sure not to make particularly striking in appearance. The goal of the painting hadn’t been to mesmerize with skill of artistry, for one to gaze and see only an object would be a failing for the Goddess of Chaos.
Man cannot wear power or nobility, intention or gratitude, rulership or skill, ambition or deserving on their head.
So man wears crowns.
- “The Crown.”
Further on, Olephia found Helenna. The Goddess of Love walked through the halls much life the Goddess of Chaos did. She stared at each picture for a few moments, she gave the crowds a longer gaze and she moved on. Olephia didn’t mind, Helenna had viewed her pictures more than enough and it was Helenna who had helped create this gallery in the first place.
The Goddess of Love was by a picture of a bed that had been messed up. That one, Olephia had put lots of work into. Whereas the messaging could be whatever one interpreted an unmade bed to be, Olephia was prouder of the way the silk looked and how its shadows fell. In terms of artistic skill, it was almost unmatched. The painting was so realistic it could have been a photograph.
Helenna did not stay long. She moved on quickly to the next one, then the next one, and then the next one. Olephia was not going to stalk her either, so she let her be. Instead, Olephia walked through the gallery as she inspected the people here and there and everywhere. The waiters that carefully balanced glasses of champagne in their hands. The people in fine clothes who looked upon the works in awe, or in wonder, or who sat and pondered a particular piece. Olephia could not keep her lips from turning upwards nor slow herself down as to not walk to the tune of the gentle music. This was exactly what she had been hoping for.
Olephia a corner and saw her father. Arascus stood a full head and a half taller than her. Broad-shouldered, he took up the space of three Divines. His dark hair fell down his back and he had come in an imperial uniform. Olephia smiled, of course he did. The God of Pride’s greatest gift had been the fact his pride was so overwhelming and content it had no need to show off. He could easily have stolen the show, but now he stood and simply stared up at another painting on the wall.
Mortals stood all around him, although Arascus ignored them entirely. He had simply been transfixed by the painting on the wall. It wasn’t the first time, nor was it the second, it wasn’t even the hundredth or thousandth time Olephia had managed to impress him. But it didn’t matter, each time it was even sweeter than the last. He transfixed her everyday after all, she was reminded of her father every time she picked up the pen to write a message to someone. Without Arascus, where would she be? Still in those cursed lands? Still using her voice to drown the landscape in hellfire? The man had taught her how to write and how to hold the brush. He gave her a way to speak without speaking.
That gift, she could never repay.
The painting he gazed upon was a simple one. Two hands, they were both purposefully delicate and quaint and they took up the entire frame, clasping each other. Whether to shake or whether to hold each other or whether to grasp had never been on Olephia’s mind when she created this piece. It did not matter. The description ensured what she wanted was conveyed.
To provide a description would be to force interpretation onto the viewer. There is no need. Everyone knows what they are looking at.
- “Connection”
How long did Olephia stare at her father? She honestly had no clue. She admired the man just as he admired that picture. Eventually, Arascus pulled away, he looked around, he saw Olephia, he gave his daughter a respectful nod, and he turned to move onto the next painting. This one, of rolling fields and mountains and oceans and a sky filled with clouds on one side, of everything the world had to offer, Arascus did not gaze upon for so long.
So Olephia herself moved on too. People talked around and faint music played through the speakers as everyone admired her works. She turned one corner, then another, she saw a man and a woman hug each other, she made sure to save the moment in her mind. Then she found one piece she had enjoyed making, although it had not been planned whatsoever. The Aris National Art Gallery in Rancais had conserved some of her paintings, it turned out that her image of the moon had been preserved. So she had travelled up to Norje to paint the moon in the exact same spot all over again.
And she had put in as much effort into capturing this image as she had with the painting of the bed. It was photorealistic. She had spent hours studying the moon and two full nights on making sure it was exactly as she was wanted it. The image told no lie save for its name. It was actually around twelve hundred years difference between the two, the older piece had been painted before the Great War. A thousand simply sounded much better. She had kept the text short, the work was already on the nose; the theme was permanence but themes always hit better when they weren’t stated directly.
The difference of a thousand years.
- “Moon” and “Moon, 1,000 years later”
Olephia gazed upon her own paintings, still smiling. She admired her own work. She saw all the crevices that her eyes could catch. All those great craters and valleys and everything else that nature had put up into the sky. And then Olephia blinked. Her smile dropped. She took a deep breath. Her eyes started to jump from painting to painting. She…
It wasn’t a failure of the artist. The brushwork was obviously changed and modern paints used a different formula, so it was only natural the images could not be called the exact same. But it wasn’t that.
These paintings were of two different things. The craters, the dots, the shadows, the lines… Wait… new craters should be impossible. How could asteroid hit this side of the moon after all? And why did the moon have straight lines? And why, rare as they were, where there dots of brightness? A few differences here and there, she would have accepted. It was imposs…
It should be impossible.
Yet it obviously wasn’t because Olephia had not spent hours crafting these paintings only to make such changes! Besides, how could she even! It was the moon! How could one take creative liberties with the moon of all things?! It couldn’t be…
Yet there was only one conclusion which made sense.
The moon had changed.