Prologue: Brush Strokes
The painting was of a mountainside, dusted with expertly drawn blades of grass and several patches of lavender. A stream rolled down the decline, clear and bluer than the sky outside the window.
A golden sun shone down on the flowers, rays spreading out to the dark wood frame. Who ever carved the magnificent border was learned in their craft. A pattern of vines, dotted here and there with roses spiraled from one edge to the other, meeting and departing as if they were dancing.
The wooden flowers seemed to bloom under the natural light that shone through the windows. Beside the beautiful work of art lay a cloth, which covered it a few moments ago, before delicate hands pulled it away. If it were to be hung on the tall, slightly curved walls of the manor, it would have been quite at home amongst the other cheerful and vibrant colors. It would have been even lovelier.
"I don't like it."
As if someone had dropped a pile of books in a silent room, the spell was broken. The beautiful painting lost its glow under the sun as thin fingers ran their nails down the dried paint. The carved roses now seemed to only wilt under the scrutinizing Altmer gaze.
She stood before the painting, arms crossed over her chest, her posture straight. Her mouth was set into an icy cold sneer, her acidic green eyes narrowed with displeasure. She seemed tense, as if looking at the artwork was causing her some sort of personal insult.
"Of course you don't, dearest." Came a voice from slightly behind her. The Altmer woman turned on her heel to face her husband, a look of tired disappointment in his equally green and equally slanted eyes.
The lady set her mouth into a firm line, moving towards him with long, graceful strides. When she stood beside him, she looked back at the painting, instinctively reaching for the High Elf man's arm.
"The brush strokes are an abomination." She told him curtly and he nodded. "You could see them from a mile away." She was rewarded with yet another non-verbal agreement.
"You're quite right, my love." He finally said. "Quite right." He moved closer towards the canvas, placing his hands on the frame.
"It isn't worth hanging by my other pieces. I would be a laughingstock if anyone else knew I displayed that human trash in my home." Again, there came a nod.
"I should not have asked about it at the market." The male replied, running his hands over the smooth surface. He had not intended to give his wife a reason to be shamed, but now that she had pointed it out, it became obvious how amateur the painting was.
"Get rid of it." She hissed, turning away, walking towards the doors. "I am to be two hundred years, my love, I believe I deserve better." Placated by another nod, the Mer swept out of the room, closely followed by her husband.
After a moment, a creaking noise came from the cupboard at the far end of the room. Not a few seconds later, and equally golden and green-eyes face much smaller than the previous two peeked out from behind two intricately-carved wooden doors. She looked to the hall where her parents had left before stepping out of the cabinet and shutting it behind her.
She approached the painting, lifting a hand to touch the paint in a much gentler way than her mother had. She could see every flaw, every imperfection, just as she had been taught to. She let a finger rest on a bushel of painted lavender.
Everything in her mind screamed at her to leave the room and let the painting be thrown away. Everything except for a very small voice in the back of her mind. The painting was not perfect, but it was not ugly.
With a skittish sort of grace, the little Altmer girl lifted the frame and tucked it under her arm. With quick steps, she left as well. Her mother may have held a great distaste for the deep brush strokes and the little blotches of discolored paint in places, but Elanniea still found beauty in it.
Her room was as organized meticulously, even own to her bookcase, with the titles alphabetized. That was where she first went, placing the painting down and pushing the large piece of furniture to the left. Almost immediately, she was overwhelmed with the smell of earth and age. Behind her bookshelf was a tunnel, and not a large one at that.
Only she knew where it led, and the location nearly had her screaming the first time she discovered it. She had heard that Nords as well kept their dead in a special hall, but the hallowed serenity of an Altmer crypt was, to her, impossible to replicate. That did not mean she enjoyed where her secret tunnel led.
Elanniea was terrified of the dead, including the stone likeness of her great-grandmother, who watched her with kind, gray eyes when she went to visit her.
Quietly, she knelt down, placing the painting into the dim cavern. She could still see every imperfection clearly, but still found she did not care. If anything, Elanniea felt herself growing rather attached to the mistakes.
There was no doubt in her mind that she artist had seen them too, that they would improve for next time. She did not care about next time. She cared about this time, about the blue of the stream and the bright of the flowers. She cared about every brush stroke, every spot.
She left the painting there after moving the bookcase back where it belonged. As she lay in her bed that night, watching the place where she knew it was hidden, Elanniea realized she cared for the flaws as well.
A/N: Wow, this is kinda embarrassing. New multi-chap fic, how wonderful. Anyway, this has been stewing in my brain for a while, and I guess the only reason why I'm typing this is to thank indismero for BETAing not this chapter but the next couple of ones. Thank you, my dear.