Hobbling through the gravel on crooked legs, the vulture carefully poked at a rock, desperate to spy anything edible below it.
Hunger.
Up in the canopy, the other two ate their fill, like they did every day. Feasting on insects, berries, and maybe even fresh flesh. With broken wings and twisted legs, the vulture could only dream about the bounties of the heavens. Occasionally a scrap was dropped by the wasteful indulgence, never out of pity, only just enough to keep the scavenging going.
The vulture doubted the other two even knew of its existence, but it never called out either. It didn't want help. To feast until nothing was left. Every leaf and every bug, every living thing. Those were things worth wanting.
Another angry peck at the bark of a tree left another mark in the well-decorated scar tissue near the roots. No one would ever bother to count them.
One more round. Surely food would be found on the next search. Keeping more desperate thoughts at bay, the vulture busied itself with grousing about its sorry state.
Leaving was not an option. Any predator would have the easiest of meals, even if it would not be much more than bones and feathers.
The real issue, though, lay not with being easy prey. It stemmed from the fact that leaving was impossible. Countless attempts had found the vulture walking beneath the same few trees again. The same rocks. The same damned scratched bark.
It was routine.
Walking, scavenging, marking, hating.
There was no room for anything else.
And it was this way until the endless day ended, and for the first time since the first scratching of the tree, the sun set and darkness reigned.
No moon, no stars, finally breaking the monotonous torture of the vulture.
Black wings blended so well that the bird could not see itself. Everything disappeared in the inky black void, silence all around drowning out even the chatter from up top.
As if sunset had never happened, suddenly a new orb of light stood in the sky, its almost black-purple colour tinting the trees in an unnatural twilight.
Invigorating. Empowering. Liberating.
Even a few stray rays of light that made it through the canopy instilled the vulture with the feeling that the time had finally come.
First it would feast on its neighbours, then the forest, and then this blessed new sun.
The ascent came unnoticed, instinctual, as if nothing was more natural than leaving the broken body on the ground, an endless neck stretching the white feathers thinner and thinner, until only skin slithered past the branches.
Ever upwards, until at last the leaves gave way, revealing for the first time who it was that had tormented the vulture unknowingly.
A once white owl, now coloured in the rays of the newly risen sun, sat as if hypnotised, staring directly at its core. It was regal, hale, healthy, and everything the vulture wasn't.
Endless stores of loathing washed away any rational thought, spurring on the desperate leap, shooting towards the owl with its curved beak wide open.
The only taste was ash and then a burning pain, urging to quickly retch up the remains of whatever had thrown itself in the path to the vulture's freedom.
It was grueling. As if having swallowed a hundred bees, the stinging left behind by the ashes would make the coming feast horrible. But it would still be a feast.
The next strike was halted in the same manner. And all others too.
When the mind returned enough to feint the next bite, the enemy revealed itself inadvertently.
Majestic plumage, long tail feathers, and slightly ablaze was the until-now missing part of the pair. It hovered between vulture and owl, frigid with anticipation, ready to throw itself in the way again at the first sign of danger.
Hatred blinding, hunger numbing, the vulture began its endless assault, a new routine setting in.
Feinting, biting, retching, hating.
After countless cycles of repetition, the owl still unmoved, the vulture noticed a gap in the feathering of the opponent's left wing.
Even if it took forever, they had eternity to spend.
Not a single ashen-orange, no, blackened-orange feather, no, an auburn so dark it was almost black…
—
The canvas was upended and crashed to the floor, flung from its easel in frustration. She had been so close to the end, too.
The vision bestowed upon her by her Goddess replayed itself within her mind, endlessly repeating every angle from which the phoenix had been seen.
"Auburn… tinged with ash and blackflame… reflecting the divine light…"
What colour makes that? How to accurately display what was etched into her brain?
It was only a hobby. Turned side business. Turned into a holy task by divine decree.
Hermione had never felt this much out of her depth. She had to improve, better herself, become the best this world had to offer, and then… only then would she dare paint what she most desired. She would still be unworthy, of course, but the chance that she might accomplish capturing Her beauty, Her grace, or Her power was enough to spur her on.
A look around her office-turned Sanctum revealed attempts one to twenty-five of the 'Three-Bird-Vision.' She dared not paint anywhere else, this being the closest she could be to the Goddess, but to leave this holy place in disarray sat ill with her.
It had been three weeks since her best friend became a champion of the Goddess and three weeks since her first vision. The moment her best friend had been ushered through the Gate, Hermione had been lost to her vision, vividly witnessing the conflict of endless strife.
When she was woken up, it had been her boss questioning her as to how she had rotated the veil. She had only laughed at the absurdity of that question.
Her research had long hinted at the existence of gods or whatever these abominations had been. Her boss knew this, and yet he doubted her. No matter in what detail she described her Goddess or her best friend's ascension, he would not budge.
When a colleague was called over to examine her for mind-tampering magic, he found her mind closed to him. Absolutely shut out in a way not ever seen before.
They started to believe her a little then, but it didn't last long after she revealed her ordained task.
Painting was not on their list of what a God-touched person would be put to work to. Missionary work to spread the faith or a crusade against the unbelievers had come to their mind.
Even if her boss had cut Hermione's pay, he would still let her use the Sanctum and even supplied her with materials in order to be allowed to see her finished works.
He was curious, she could tell, and it would be worth it for him in the end.
As soon as she improved enough to paint the Goddess's countenance in all Her glory, her boss would be the first to bask in it.
That day could not come too soon.
—
Attempt fifty-four bore fruit.
It was almost acceptable. A certain sheen was missing, but no varnish could accomplish what the vision demanded.
She would revisit it anyway after improving her technique.
Carefully Hermione let the palette float to the desk, relishing in having completed her first task; a small smile overcame her. The weight of her arms was quickly threatening to dislocate her joints, and her eyelids were suddenly out of control, closing at an ever-increasing pace.
A few drowsy steps landed her clumsily in her office chair, almost slipping off the side.
When had she last slept?
Everything was a blur.
Had she ever…
Sleep overcame her hard and fast. Hermione's head crashed down on the table, long-forgotten parchments twinkling before her closed eyes.
But no rest came…
—
Countless pale sapphires were sprinkled in the night sky, sharing only the slightest glint with the valley below.
Every so often, the stars would shoot off with blinding speed, freezing again after a few seconds, creating new constellations in a blink.
The village's church stood on a small hill, its stained glass windows offering more light to the scene than the heavens. At the gates stood a crooked being, standing out by dwarfing everything but the belltower.
Six long, spindly arms were reaching out from its endless coal habit to touch each believer leaving the late-night sermon, bestowing on them a profane blessing.
Wide, cleaving wounds erupted wherever a finger struck true, spilling blood on the steep stairway leading down the hill. Anointed by the bright crimson clefts, the small rat-like people squealed their hymns with righteous zealotry, carrying their unpleasant words far and wide.
With each passing devout, the dripping developed into a flowing river, feeding into the village below.
A flash, a thunder, a clap.
For a split second the sky turned pale, as it revealed the Goddess's embrace, lining the heavens with faces, instinctual fear rippling through the vermin-parish.
Scrambling down the slippery stairs, swept up yet still feeding the current, they fled from the hill on which Her champion had made his entrance.
Wearing his resplendent cloak, he would have cut a sharp figure, were his shoulders not slacking and his posture hunched over. Exhaustion was clear to see, even before the ensuing fight.
The six-armed giant wrenched his gaze away from the stars, which the Goddess had usurped, and regarded the newcomer with all of their eleven eyes.
Hurriedly, four arms tore at the large habit, ripping it to shreds, while one hand reached skywards, grasping at something invisible.
The last limb plunged into their own chest, where now sat a grotesque assortment of pus-oozing lesions, revealed beneath the tattered garments. Pressing heavily into wound after wound, the giant began his bloody communion.
An unholy cry of ecstasy.
Five arms now grasping at nothing, trying to pull something from the beyond and straining.
Confusion and realisation overcame them, a shocked look towards the yet again shifting faces in the sky.
On a world cloaked by the Goddess, the only thing they could reach for was air.
The stars aligned themselves and shone brightly for the first time that night, revealing a myriad of smiling faces, mocking the profane monk for their follies.
Her champion got to work.
—
That painting took forty-seven attempts.
Vision after vision, world after world.
A whole planet of feathered, snake-like people clinging onto an endless undead half-existence.
Once human-esque beings who instilled their souls into metal machines.
A bloated, mountain-tall octopus, lavishly toiling in a vast sea of rot, decaying yet not dying.
Wizened folk who had managed to animate their body after self-petrification, wielding gravity itself as a weapon.
Blooming in a verdant paradise, toads had taken root; fused with the world, they existed in perfect harmony.
After each vision, she painted.
After each painting, she slept.
Sometimes delirious, often enlightened.
It continued for a long time, or short; she couldn't tell. She had no needs but fulfilling her task, suffering no mortal distractions or penalties.
At one point her proficiency outpaced the visions, cursing her with mundane slumber and time not guided by the Goddess.
Her friends attempted an intervention when she saw the light of day again, their worried looks and concerned council forgotten in the face of divinity.
And so she kept her brushes steady, wand weaving animation on canvas. An endless pursuit to draw the Goddess herself.
Every spare minute was spent on improving.
A thousand attempts for just the veil. Ten thousand for her raiment, decorated by just as many faces.
Yet each time paint was supposed to form Her body, ruin followed. She stopped counting but kept trying.
—
Her last vision, she knew, could not be put to canvas. It featured the Goddess herself trying to smite, ignite, and pierce a bright golden haze hanging over a world.
A desperate rage echoed through the universe, each strike of her needle releasing a harmony pure and soothing in its deflection.
Forever it stretched on, longer than it ever had before, the vision crystal clear as it always had been.
The assault stopped. Rage turned to loss.
An eternity of waiting.
A tear was shed. Falling onto golden mists, creating a small window, allowing Her to peer past the barrier, if only a little.
For the longest time: Rage
Her champion lay on a grassy hillside, not even attempting to escape his imprisonment.
Sleeping. Smiling. Resting.
Then, again: Loss
—
An abrupt awakening left Hermione reeling.
Loss.
She left the Sanctum, not recognising the colleagues she passed, leaving them shocked and speechless. Their every gaze followed her heels.
It was day; the streets were packed.
Instead of George, she found Fred.
Instead of Andromeda, she found Victoire.
Instead of Ron, she found Padma.
The Goddess felt loss, and so could she.
Tears soaking a beautiful floral saree.
The Goddess had cried, and so could she.
The Goddess had cried so She could see.
Fulfilling her work, then so did she.
"DO NOT ENTER! FOR NONE TO SEE!"
Thus the Painter's Room was labeled.
The Goddess felt rage, and so would she.
Rage into art, a legacy fabled.