Sometimes the Eye gave him visions so strong it was all Pegasus could do to heed them in time, his mind consumed with the desire to paint creatures exactly as he saw them lest they overwhelm his senses. Other times the visions were less urgent, but still present, patiently nudging the back of his brain with an ache that lingered until he sated them with hours at an easel. And other times the Millennium Item left him to his own devices, giving Pegasus room for creations all his own.

This time was one of the latter. He sketched his work first, unsure how to begin but knowing the feeling of inspiration, and came away with a drawing of a woman. There was a mournful look to her even then, he later recalled, but at the time Pegasus paid more attention to her face, the style and length of her hair. When a basic pose had been worked out—sitting in a field, staring at the sky, blossoms falling around her, a basket between her legs—he set to detailing the rest of her.

The hair, Pegasus decided, would be orange, the dress a blue not dissimilar to Cecelia's. The eyes were likewise blue, but as he began to paint Pegasus happened to glance at the portrait of his wife. It was only a glance, but enough for him to decide the contents of the girl's basket—roses.

Roses like the ones she loved, he thought, using quick, angry strokes to color the background. A setting sun, cast in orange and yellow, ephemeral and never the same twice. Cherry blossoms scattering in the wind, a sign of fleeting, beautiful life cut much too short. The girl was thin; too thin, barely making enough to get by. Still, he kept her eyes to the sky, her face daring to hope.

Pegasus was satisfied with his work, but there was a nudge at the back of his mind—he couldn't tell if it was the Eye, some desperate, bitter part of himself, or both—that urged him to continue the story.

Yes, he thought, sketching a second image. He would take it to its logical conclusion. The same girl, years later and even thinner, sitting morosely on a street corner, the lights behind her warm but only her flowers for comfort. Were he in a better mood perhaps life would be kinder, but Pegasus was lost in the memories of Cecelia he did have and the memories they could have made had she had more time.

Roses. Delicate, beautiful, so easily scattered in the winds.

From there the rest followed naturally—in the first painting the girl was innocent still, but he knew it was only for so long. Time and weight and life would wear her down, inexorably, crushing her as surely as his own innocence was crushed at his love's passing.

It was a cruel painting, he thought, raw and unforgiving. Cecelia might scold him for such cynicism, were she alive, but that was it, wasn't it? Life was unforgiving; happiness was as fragile as the roses she loved so much.

And yet, he thought, a person who would dare harm her was crueler still. For the more hopeful one, Pegasus decided that she would stay on the battlefield and keep opposing monsters from attacking, so long as she stood straight and proud as she could manage—and for the grimmer piece, whoever attacked would have their battle phase ended immediately, giving them no chance to continue.

Comparing the two, Pegasus felt satisfied at last, as if the ache in his heart had needed space to vent, to grow. Misery loves company, his thought distantly, though a small part of him, soon silenced, preferred the quiet hope of the first painting.

He dreamt of roses as he slept that night, and smelled them when he woke.

Cards: The Unhappy Girl; The Unhappy Maiden

This is something a little different than what I normally do-I'm making this an anthology series of sorts about the cards Pegasus makes :) If you want me to go into how Pegasus made a specific card or cards let me know which one! I don't think they'll all be this sad but you never know XD