Chapitre 15: 14: Fall of Icarus
Beta'd by SnowyEgrett
Lin FenXiang froze as soon as he set foot into the hall.
The reason?
Quite a lot of his paintings were there, innocently hanging on the light-coloured walls of the vast hall. Not only that, even his sculpted statues were there, receiving the admiration of attendees.
Lin FenXiang slowly trudged into the hall, his sight trained on a single painting.
— Fall of Icarus.
The first painting he'd made after everything that had happened to him. Fall of Icarus was the painting which he has used to express his deteriorating mental health.
Tuning out everything else around him, Lin FenXiang made his way to his painting. Subconsciously he reached his hand as if to touch the glass it was stored behind.
But fortunately, before he could make that mistake and embarrass himself, someone put a hand on his shoulder, effectively snapping him out of his trance.
Somewhat dazedly, he turned to look behind him. First at the hand on his shoulder and then at its owner.
Behind him was Tristan Fletcher, looking at him in question while tilting their head. The man opened slowly.
"Michael, what are you doing?" They asked, whispering. "I don't think we are allowed to touch these." Lin FenXiang nodded sheepishly.
"I know, I just, I don't know what I was thinking."
Tristan nodded thoughtfully. "I understand. It's easy to get entranced by this painting. In fact, all the artworks present here are as enthralling as they are." They paused. "But, I don't know, you seemed lost. Is everything alright?"
Lin FenXiang nodded a little stiffly. "Yeah, I guess. I was just thinking about this painting and the ones that aren't here."
"There are a lot of other paintings and statues that aren't here because of the damage that has happened to them."
"I know," Lin FenXiang muttered, turning to look at the painting. His voice held a reminiscent edge to it as he spoke to Tristan. "Fall of Icarus. The first painting Drystan Meyer made after completing his apprenticeship and after the massacre that changed his entire life."
Tristan nodded along. "I heard, and read here and there about the painting and the story behind it. But we can never be too sure of historical records. After all, historians do go around claiming him and the Duke of Yorkshire to be best friends, really, really close best friends," they scoffed blandly. "I don't think close friends are supposed to talk about each other's lips, dicks and shit. Or swear to be together for their entire lives."
Lin FenXiang spluttered, feeling a little scandalised. "What?" He squawked. Tristan looked at him doubtfully.
"You didn't know?"
"No. Of course I do!" Lin FenXiang exclaimed slowly. "But do you have to say this so openly?!"
"What are you? An old man?"
Well, technically, yes, Lin FenXiang thought dryly.
"No."
"Then, come on, let's keep on admiring this piece of art."
Lin FenXiang nodded slightly and turned his attention back to the painting.
.
A youth who looked to be at least fifteen was sitting in front of an easel with his canvas, palette in one hand and a paintbrush in the other, as he painted. His eyebrows were knitted together in a tight troubled frown.
Slowly painting stroke after stroke on the pitch white canvas, gradually the white was replaced by the light colour of sky as a picture started to take its form.
His hands shook terribly, but the youth continued to paint despite the shaking.
"Drystan, stop!" A gruff and stern voice broke him out of his hyper concentration. "Your hands are shaking. You need to relax."
The youth — Drystan — stiffly lowered his hand as he held the paint away from the canvas. Bowing his head, he clenched his fist around the paintbrush.
"Uncle," he greeted, his voice shaking with exertion and unknown emotions. "I'm sorry. I can't, I can't control myself."
His uncle sighed softly, approaching him.
His uncle gently placed his hand on Drystan's shoulder as the painter flinched under his touch.
"I'm sorry, sorry," he muttered intelligibly. "I can't, I can't— those voices, they just keep ringing in my, my ears over and over again. Even after all these years I can't seem to—"
"Stop, Drystan, stop!" His uncle's voice pierced through the haze in his mind. "Deep breath, take deep breaths, calm down."
Sucking in deep breaths, Drystan exhaled shakily.
"I'm—"
"Stop." His uncle interrupted firmly. "And concentrate. Bury those memories somewhere safe. When your time for vengeance comes, bring them back. Make them the fuel that drives you."
Drystan nodded, trembling. "Ri, right."
His uncle patted his shoulder somewhat sympathetically as he strode out of the room, throwing behind one sentence.
"Carry on, it might help you."
Drystan inhaled and exhaled once more before sitting back in front of his easel and held his paintbrush. This time the shaking seemed somewhat subdued.
He didn't know how much time passed before he was finally done with the base of the painting. The shaking of his hands has returned once more. His head was throbbing, he was feeling dizzy, his surroundings seemed to spin as he tried and failed to stand up.
His entire body seemed to go weak as he let go of the paintbrush and stared at his hands, the paintbrush fell on the floor with a clatter as the youth stared at his hands in daze.
Drystan held his hands and squinted. They seem to blur and fade in and out of his vision. He balled his hands into a fists and stood up far too quickly.
The regret that came was instant as his legs gave out and he stumbled, nearly falling onto the floor had it not been for a pair of hands to support him.
Slowly turning his head to look at his aid, he realised that it was his aunt.
"Hello, aunt," he gave her a wobbly smile as he spoke in a weak voice.
"Oh, Drystan, why would you keep overexerting yourself?" His aunt said softly. "Stand up, lay in the bed. I'll call over a doctor."
"No, no, aunt, please don't!" He grabbed her hand in a feeble grip in order to stop her when she laid him on the bed. "I don't want to bother you."
His aunt shook her head, from what he could make out through his blurred vision. "Nonsense," she rebuked him gently. "Let me go."
Drystan smiled helplessly as he let go of her hand and let her go.
After some time, right outside of his room, he could hear the muffled argument between his uncle and aunt.
"Enough," his aunt said coldly. "He's already suffering and you and father make him go through rigorous training! How will he keep up? He keeps on getting nightmares! He'll fall apart if you keep this up."
His uncle answered, ice in his voice. "He has to do this. He'll have to survive in Britain if he is to go back there!"
"But—"
"That's his home, my wife. He can't stay away forever. We all know this and so, he'll have to become strong enough to face every trial life throws at him." His uncle's voice sounded pained. "If he hits rock bottom, the only way to go is up."
Drystan sighed and let their voice fade into nothingness.
His uncle's worries weren't unfounded anyway.
After finally recovering from his brief weakness, Drystan finally gave his full attention to the painting he was making.
Fall of Icarus.
That was what he'd decided to call it.
Icarus had flown too close to the sun for a brief moment of happiness and then suffered a fall great enough to end his life. He, too, had been too immersed in his happiness that the massacre had come as an unexpected blow, knocking him off-balance.
Fortunately, he had his maternal family supporting him through the tough and painful time.
When the painting was finally completed after labouring for days, Drystan was happy.
Although the painting was somewhat incomparable to actual masterpieces, it was enough for him to express himself.
The falling man with molten wax searing his skin in his painting did not have the breathtaking and fantastical beauty. However, it had a feeling of unexpected despair and grief as the man, too drunk in his happiness, realised his end was nearing.
Despite the smile on his lips and the laughter in his throat, his eyes leaked with tears conveying his choking despair, the drop of water shining in the light of the sun as the man fell.
Drystan finally smiled genuinely in a long time.
.
"—Michael?!"
Lin FenXiang snapped back to himself as he looked at Tristan, startled.
"You were zoning out," they explained. "Again."
"Sorry," he apologised softly. "I remembered something. I might get lost in thoughts more often today.
"Well, whatever comforts you."
"Mn."
Lin FenXiang stared at the Fall of Icarus and sighed before moving away from the painting.
Author has something to say:
Tristan: What's wrong with you?
Xiao Xiang, smiling gently: Everything
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