Page 134 of Rage

It’s a charcoal depiction of me on the moors of the manor, hair blowing wildly in the wind, wearing the blue dress from the portrait hanging in the foyer. What’s unique about this painting is the combination of color and charcoal. The features of my face and hair are elegant shading and penciling, but the dress is a brilliant, vibrant swirl of color with splashes of paint, and I’m looking into the sky, smiling.

I scrape a talon gently down the painting without leaving a mark–luckily the paints dry–and I can feel him hovering behind me.

Like patrons at an art show, I move quietly to each picture, looking at the detail.

It’s like he’s memorized every inch of me, the real me and he’s only ever seen the one portrait in the hall.

He follows me quietly, almost timid, as though he’s scared of my reaction to his artwork of me.

Another one depicts me mid-roar, fangs bared and claws out, but instead of terror or anger in my expression, there’s…sheer indignation.

My brow furrows as I step closer to examine it, noticing the exaggerated details—the extra-fluffy mane of hair, the almost comedic way my claws are splayed. And then I spot it. He’s added a tiny squirrel perched on my shoulder, looking as equally outraged, as though it’s joining in on my tirade.

A laugh bursts out of me, sharp and unexpected, before I can stop it. "You gave me a backup vocalist?" I ask, turning to Steele, standing nearby with a sheepish grin.

“I figured you’d need some moral support during one of your epic rants,” he says, his voice tinged with humor.

I shake my head, a slight chuckle still escaping me. “You’re ridiculous.”

But for the first time in what feels like an eternity, my anger starts to thaw, the absurdity of the drawing chipping away at my defenses.

“It was after four or five days of painting straight. I wanted to do something more light-hearted. I never intended for you to see them.”

“Steele, these are great,” I respond, moving from one to the next. Some are on canvases, and some are on paper, taped at odd angles on the walls. Not a space is clear of simple stone, but every inch is a colorful or intricate drawing of something. Even the pictures of the scenery are immaculate.

"Thanks," he replies, his voice curt, carrying the weight of unsaid words too vast to escape. His gaze locks onto mine, unyielding, his piercing eyes a molten shade of firewood, rich and consuming. Standing so close, I catch the faint scent of ale lingering on his breath.

"Painting calms me," he admits, his voice rough, like the tumble of stones down a mountainside. "It's a release. Everything inside me—every thought, every feeling—pours out onto the canvas, leaving me empty and… steady."

"I only have writing," I respond, my words smooth and low, drifting to him like the verses of a whispered song.

His gaze sharpens, probing as if searching for pieces of my essence buried deep within.

"What do you write?" he asks, his voice a quiet, weighty question that feels more intimate than it should.

Instead of recoiling away, I sink over to the table and sit, picking up an empty cup as it fills with ale. “I write poetry mainly. I’ve had ideas for stories over the years, but when I sit down to write them, they don’t come out the way the novels in my library are written.”

Steele goes back to the painting he was working on, and I watch him work. His wild tangle of curls is such a brilliant shade of mushroom brown in the dying afternoon light.

“Why don’t you read books in the genre of the story you’re trying to tell and take note of how the authors use their words?”

“I’ve tried,” I admit, swirling the amber liquid around the pewter mug. “I still struggle with the in-between. I’m good with the important stuff, the intimate and meaningful scenes. It’s the drivel between the important stuff I struggle with.”

He nods imperceptibly, lost in his own creation. My eyes find an intimate portrait across the room, almost hidden behind another canvas. It’s of a mother and baby, and it’s definitely not me who’s depicted in the image.

It’s so intricate, a woman lying in bed, done solely in charcoal. She has long, dark hair and looks down lovingly at the babe wrapped in a blanket. As I reach the drawing, I’m swept away into that room as though witnessing the intimate moment between mother and newborn baby. It’s so detailed that I am sure it’s a memory and not his imagination gone wild—like most of the images of me.

Steele glances up from his work, catching sight of me studying the portrait. For a moment, his hand freezes, the brush hovering just above the canvas.

"That one…” he begins, his voice softer than I've heard before, almost reverent. He sets down his brush and wipes his hands on a rag as he walks over to me, his movements slow, deliberate.

“That's my wife," he says finally, his gaze fixed on the image as though seeing it anew. "And our son. She... they both died."

The words hang in the air, heavy and raw. I glance up at him, his face unreadable but his eyes betraying the depth of the wound he still carries.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, feeling the moment's weight pressing down on us.

He shrugs, a small, pained smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "It's been years. Painting them helps. Keeps them with me in some way, you know?"

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