On Canvas

[selenias]

On Canvas



Ike ran his hands over the rough, taut board again, the oil paint glossy but almost sticky under his fingers as he traced the bare edges of it carefully. For having been declared a work of art by nearly everyone in the fort, it was a pity that he was still struggling to identify the subject within.

“So...” he appraised, after a few long minutes of steady silence, “this is the painting that was made for you?”

Soren was sitting at the desk nearby, an expression of indifference on his face as he was sorting through paperwork. His quill scratched furiously across a page and Ike was reminded that he was probably being a distraction rather than good company.


“Appears that way,” Soren answered. “I honestly don't know what the queen was thinking when she gave that to me, though. It's a polite gesture, but I have no use for it...”

Shuffling his feet to the east curiously, Ike angled the image in his grasp. The sun through the open window pane immediately lit the canvas in an almost startling blindness and he had to blink back spots in his vision as the somber colors slowly altered into something new. Bright and glorious, the hues formed a figure. “We could put it on the mantle?” he suggested absently.

There was a quiet laugh and the sounds of papers being shuffled, a chair moving scraping across the floor. “...Do as you like with it, Ike. It's yours if you want it, though I don't see why you would.”

“Why is that?” He stared at the image, perplexed by what he was seeing: the finer edges of the figure as they came into focus, smooth brush strokes of dark paint and curves of soft red and burnt umber lighting the background in a glorious display of fall colors. Ike shifted the canvas in his grasp once more, frowning now.

“Why? I think we've received enough gifts for our heroism, don't you?” Soren's voice was surprised and Ike nodded abstractedly.

“Well yeah, but...” He trailed off as he shifted the canvas back into the warm rays of the sun and found that the image wasn't any clearer since he'd first picked it up. He was no artist, but even he should have been able to make sense of something as uncomplicated as a painting. But the colors blurred together, and the image in front of him simply wouldn't register no matter from which perspective he looked at it.

“Soren,” he said, topic forgotten, “who is this painting even of?”

There was a sigh and soft shuffling of feet as Soren breezily positioned himself by his commander's elbow. Ike offered the canvas to his companion and slender hands instantly wrapped themselves around the edges, grip firm and steady. Soren was quiet for only a moment before he made a disgruntled sound in the back of his throat and gave Ike an unimpressed look under a few strands of hair.


“...You don't recognize this person? You've known him for quite a while.”


Ike shook his head. “...No,” he said carefully, cautiously. “I mean, at least it's not how I know them.”

Soren's expression immediately turned bemused.

“Ike... this is a painting of me.”

It would have been easy to have said he didn't know any better, to say he was oblivious for not having noticed it sooner. But those words didn't work, and between the canvas and the person standing before him, he felt no guilt.

“...The artist didn't capture you very well,” It felt like the safest thing to say under the circumstances, under the strokes of paint and taut canvas skin and warm sun beams leaping off the image.

Soren looked briefly surprised, then slowly offered the canvas back after a few seconds passed. “...So you don't want it, then?”

In a warm manner Ike reserved for only the lightest of instances when doubt crept in, he gave Soren a brief smile. “I may already have the real thing, but that's no reason to discard the follow up,” he said softly.

Soren cocked an eyebrow, though the quirk of his lips betrayed his true emotions. “...As long as you're not set on putting it on the mantle, I'm not really concerned.”

Ike laughed. “No, this one I'll be keeping for me.” He took the offered painting in his hands at last and glanced over it again, now seeing the embedded figure beyond the vibrant bright splashes of paint and the sunlight's distortions:

He was a spectrum of colors within it, of different shades and different warmths. On canvas, the colors simply didn't fit in his head as they did in person, though he considered himself biased. “...I truly don't think paintings can ever really do you justice,” he said finally, “...but I do like this one. You really don't mind if I keep it?”

“Not at all.” Soren shrugged in dismissal, but even Ike wasn't as blind as to have missed the genuine smile that crossed his companion's face before he finally turned away.