When he had lost Cynthia, Pegasus had first tried to regain her through art. He painted so he could see her again. He had talent, and the time of the idle rich to practise; there were weeks of nothing but relentless sketching and stippling and scraping - of the feel of grease and the smell of turpentine.
He painted his late wife. The composition, the colours and the chiaroscuro were so close to perfect as to make Michelangelo swoon. Yet with all his mastery of anatomy and perspective, the portrait was flat. Cold. Nothing of Cynthia's smile. Nothing of her self.
When he gained the Eye, he had seen her again. It was the ultimate inspiration. And so he had painted the ultimate portrait. Not all at once - not like the first attempts - but in the quiet moments, between his trips to Egypt's tombs and his company business. When he felt the absence of her presence.
And he had done it. Created a veritable trompe l'oeil. He had captured his love between oils and canvas. And he painted her again and again. And when he reclaimed her, he would show her his work, and he would paint all their doings together...
The bandage across his face kept itching. His empty eye-socket ached.
Still, he tried to paint. Tried to capture Cynthia again. But the pieces didn't come come together; there was no depth.
Maybe it was because he lost the Eye. It left the world flat.
But paintings are always flat.
And everyone else could cope without seeing the souls sequestered behind the world's physical façades. So could Pegasus.
The mind scanning, the soul stealing... he didn't need that. But he had to paint Cynthia. To see her again.
Maybe it was because he looked at her portrait without hope.