Memento Mori

The tubes of color were spread in front of her. It seemed like mixing was all she ever did lately, but that could be a good thing. Sometimes an artist needed to get away from her art. This gave the artist time to consider other influences and gain a new perspective.

Today she had not participated in the art. She had merely observed from a place of safety. She had not been seen by the falcon from the palace. Artists observe the subject of their work. It did not work the other way around.

She had watched ants in a different time. They had marched right over the still warm wax and then they were trapped, feet-first, and left to starve to death. They never saw the danger, though it was right in front of their faces. Mr. 3 had said it was because ants were too small to see the big picture.

Exactly.

There was a warm hand on her shoulder. "Did you hear me, kid?"

She hadn't, she'd been thinking of Mr. 3. She turned to look at him. "Did you find everyone you were looking for?"

Bracken smiled. "And how. It'll begin soon."

She nodded and began to clean her brushes. Even though there was an abundance of camel hair in the country, an artist did not treat her tools lightly. And they had been a gift too.

"You got everything you need?"

There it was again. Concern. The rest of the camp had no concern for her; they were always watching her hands as if waiting for the quick draw, even though they were the ones with the guns and knives, not her.

"I'm fine. Thank you."

"Do you have enough tea? Got your crackers?"

She nodded silently. Bracken juggled his rifle so that he could shove a hand into his pocket. "Picked this up. Thought you might like it."

He dropped it into her lap; it was an intricate bracelet of turquoise and worked silver.

"It's beautiful." She only rarely said that; of sunsets or at the end of a particularly good assignment when the wax had finished hardening.

Here was a work of art and he couldn't see it.

Bracken had been around long to know her silences especially well and crouched beside her.

"Hey, kid. We'll find out the truth; one way or the other." Bracken's jaw tightened. "You'll talk to whoever you want, however you want, when this is all over."

His hand came up to her shoulder and gave her a reassuring squeeze. "Trust me, okay?"

She nodded. She trusted him. His hate for their enemies was as great as hers.

"I'm gonna go over plans with the others. You call if you need anything."

He left and she began mixing colors again. She wanted something that matched the mood of the camp. What were the colors of revenge? Should they be black and blue and red and purple; a livid bruise?

She reflected that she'd never had the opportunity to paint that. Mr. 3 insisted on preserving things the way they had been at their prime. He didn't think art should be allowed to develop on its own.

But if a piece of meat were left out in the hot sun to spoil; what color would it become?

It was time to change art styles.

She would rid her palette of the pinks and peaches and light browns she had used for skin tones that would last forever. She reached into her satchel and pulled tubes that had been used very little, adding their contents to her palette in spurts and glops. The display of energy was unusual for her; her emotion and energy was usually used as sparingly as these new colors.

That reserve was gone. She had a vision of what her new piece would be and she needed to put all of her passion behind it.

Mr. 3 had said passion was not a substitute for technique, but he wasn't here anymore and the rote repeating of their time was a cheap, poor copy of something that she would never have again. She could only save herself in innovation, in the creative process found in destruction.

She examined her palette. Dessicated brown and rot green and bone white.

These would be the colors of her memento mori.