The first of the series was found in the café Musain. It was hanging in the back room, next to a map of the French Republic. The portrait stumped the art critic who bought it from the aged owner, for it had no true style.
It depicted a young woman. Her hair seemed tangible, and yet her facial features resembled those on cartoons. Her clothing followed the Greek style of flowing, and yet they were decorated like they were miniature abstract paintings inside the larger sketch.
The woman had long, shaggy hair. The artist, who signed his name with just a simple 'R', colored lightly enough so that the charcoal was the prominent display of material. However, a closer inspection would reveal color. The hair was a warm caramel color and framed a tan face- not something that one would think lovely, but something that R managed to make appear so. Her eyes were swirls of pale color, so that they appeared to be all colors and none at the same time.
Her bones jutted from beneath her skin, and R made it so that a single scar was colored a bright red while the rest remained gray. Bruises decorated the crook of her elbow, and yet a smile twitched her plump lips.
On the back was a nonsensical note, "Apollo serait jaloux de moi. J'ai Patria de contempler dans toute sa gloire."* Followed was a scribbled date, as if added at the last minute. "15, September, 1831."
The art critique, who we shall now refer to as 'Henri', was overly fascinated by this work, and proceeded to search galleries and pawn shops everywhere for another painting. His findings led him through a story that remained untold until then. It was the story of Patria, R, and Apollo.
The sun was gleaming on the washed stones of the elegant buildings. Cheerful chattering filled the airs, the deep voices occasionally mingling with a feminine laugh as a student's mistress joined him on his way home. The air smelt of autumn, and yet the weather hadn't gotten wind of such news, so the resulting day was beautiful and perfect to everyone but a single man who walked alone.
To this man, who you may have guessed was the painter 'R', everything was overly gay and far too excitable for his liking. He preferred things to be easy on the eyes, for this early in the morning he was stuck in a perpetual hangover from his excess drinking the night before. One could even argue that the Green Fairy was still buzzing in his ear during his first class, causing his poisoned blood to pump a little faster than usual.
To top off the beginning of what he was sure to be a terrible day, he was given a mandatory assignment that he found rather droll.
"Depict something you do not believe in, and make it seem beautiful." The professor had said, aiming a pointed look at 'R' as he said so. "Monsieur Grantaire, this should be quite an easy assignment for you."
It was true. R, or Grantaire, was a natural cynic who believed in nothing but drinking and loyalty to tangible objects. This is why he was so opposed to this new project, for it presented little-to-no challenge to the student artist. He could easily sit down the handsome Enjolras and have him list the things that Les Amis de l'ABC believed in, but the latter party probably wouldn't finish in time for the deadline.
He was lost in his thoughts; none of the random ideas that flitted through his tired brain made any sense except for one, It's not too early to drink, is it?
It was that moment that he registered the lightest brushing against his thigh. His hand shot out with an ability procured from his many years of gymnastics, and he caught the thief by the wrist.
A pair of startling eyes stared up at him, their owner unfazed and staring at him with a fierce determination that was all too familiar. It was a girl, no older than seventeen, and her wrist felt far too delicate in Grantaire's calloused hands.
The two stood there in the middle of the sidewalk, staring down with an intensity that very nearly matched that of bickering siblings. Finally, the girl spoke with a high voice that lilted with a strange accent. Her shaking tone revealed that she was more scared than she let on.
"You're not going to call the police, are you?"
She also spoke in flawless grammar, which was highly unusual for a street urchin. He shook his head. He'd had enough run-ins with the police for public indecency, and with the unpleasant addition of treason on behalf of Les Amis, the police were a force to avoid.
The autumn sun suddenly hit the girl so that she lit up as if enveloped in a heavenly shaft of light. Her hair seemed rich and healthy, and her eyes were alight with a youthful glow. Her skin was a warm shade that was far different from the women that Grantaire was used to bedding, and even her scars seemed to take on an unearthly beauty.
"Patria." He whispered, and she looked at him with confusion etched into her grimy features.
"I'm sorry, Monsieur?"
"Listen, petite fille, I have a deal to strike with you. I won't go to the police if-" He began, but she shrunk inside herself, her delicate limbs quivering as she shook her head violently.
"Non, non, non. I'd rather go to jail than do that! Monsieur, please, I beg of you, I am not that kind of woman!" She basically spit, recoiling as if Grantaire was liable to hit her. He barked out a laugh. This was obviously the opposite of what she expected, for her face fell slack.
"I was to ask if I could do your portrait for a class assignment! For the time that it takes to complete, I'd give you meals…" He knew that he had her at 'meals', so he shifted his grip so that it appeared that the dark-haired cynic was escorting a strange gamine down the road by the university.
"Parfait." He murmured as he sharpened his pencil against his pocket knife. For indeed, it was true. She was a perfect muse.
The girl, whose name he still hadn't learned, was beautiful for a child of the streets, and yet too plain to be a burgoise. That being what it was, it was very easy for an artist to convey her hidden beauty through carefully measured pencil strokes.
He had her kneeling on his bed with her hands locked behind her back so that her bruised elbows were on display. Her hair fell over her right shoulder, the same shoulder that the weak fabric of her dress fell over. This created almost a seductive sight, for the young girl's exposed torso was cleverly covered by hair. Grantaire made her wash her face so that her features were clear, but the slightest bit of dirt clung to her cheekbones and chin.
Grantaire finished the initial sketch mere minutes after he had begun. Looking at his work, he felt it would be a crime to change it too much for he felt as if it captured the essence of what he was opposed to. And what Apollo believed in. He nodded briefly at the girl to let her know that she could relax.
She did just that, sinking back into the soft pillows that were the highlight of his mediocre bed. Within an hour of Grantaire's careful, light coloring, she was lulled to sleep by the scratching sound and the musky scent of parchment and charcoal.
He considered waking her, but he didn't have the heart to do so. Looking at his little muse, he thought that she was most likely to die soon. Her bones were far too prominent and her skin, although tanned, had a sickly aura.
He pulled his quilt over the sleeping urchin and left a plate of bread and cheese for when she woke up. He slept in his living room that night, and when he awoke, sa Patria was gone, leaving him with a completed sketch, an empty plate, and the slightest smell of the Seine.
So, um, yes. This is my weird story.
*Apollo would be jealous of me. I have Patria to behold in all her glory.
I need some Celtic girl's names. Anyone? Anyone?
UNEDITED AND... This is probably absolutely terrible, but review anyway?