Chapter Text
"I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well."
Psalm 139:14
Night came softly.
The hotel room was modest but elegant, with high ceilings and tall windows that let in the glow of streetlights below. Two twin beds draped in cream linens against one wall, a door to a small ensuite on the other. Above the dresser, a Van Gogh replica; Starry Night. Elisa sat on the edge of her bed, the charcoal portrait resting across her knees. She hadn't turned on the lamp. She didn't need to. Every line was already burned into her mind. The deep shading, tenderly placed, as though he'd known exactly where sorrow lived in her face. He'd been so careful not to disturb it. Her lashes were dark with the weight of tears. One had already fallen, and he captured it delicately, suspended on her cheek. The corners of her mouth were soft, parted just enough to suggest a breath she never took. There was no smile, no performance of composure. Only a quiet, devastating vulnerability laid bare. And yet, his lines were harsh. Her eyes stared outward, unflinching, not wilting beneath her grief, but carrying it like an ember she refused to let die. He hadn't just made her beautiful, he'd made her... enduring. Featherlight fingers traced the signature again.
B. Moreau.
His new life. Was it good? God, she hoped so. She scrunched her nose at the feel of God in her thoughts, and expelled him from her mind. Their quarrel was far from done.
Then, voices from the hallway.
"Will you shut up?"
"Why don't you shut up, you're the one who loves the sound of your own voice--"
"You would too if you didn't sound like an inbred fuck."
"Southern does not equal inbred!"
"Yeah, yeah, piss off, Alabama."
"Louisiana, you uppity bitch."
The door opened, and someone flicked the lights on with a surprised squeak.
"Elisa," Beth placed diamond glinting fingers over her chest, "You scared me!"
"Boo," Elisa breathed with a strained smile, placing the portrait aside.
Elijah's eyes went to it immediately.
"So?" Beth asked excitedly, taking her coat off as she stepped into the room. "I can't believe you sent us away--"
"Cruel, honestly, to make me spend time with this one--"
"Piss off-- I so wanted to see the reunion!" Beth melted down to her knees in front of Elisa, taking her hands and looking up at her. "Was it romantic? Tell me every detail or I'll just die!"
Elisa squeezed her hands, "Well, it was, uhh..."
Elijah came in, clicking the door shut behind his back. "He didn't come with you?"
Elisa looked over at him, "No."
"And you didn't go with him?"
"Clearly not," she felt irritation stir in her gut.
"He ask you where you stayin'?"
Suddenly, Elisa stood, breaking hands with Bethany. She walked to a window that overlooked the Parisian nightlife below.
Bethany threw a scowl over her shoulder at Elijah, then rose to her feet to join her Mistress by the window. She placed a loving hand at her back and then gently asked, quite seriously, "Do you want me to kill him?"
Elisa nearly laughed, "I know he annoys you but--"
"No, I mean Vlad."
Elisa frowned and turned her head, "Why would I want you to do that?"
"Well... I mean, it seems to me that..." Bethany hesitated a moment, "Is there not another woman?"
Elisa stared blankly. What if there was?
She'd kill her.
Content with this plan, Elisa's expression brightened again somewhat. "Look, I think it's time I told you both something." She turned away from the window to meet Elijah's eyes. He held her gaze, unblinking, but beneath the surface, he was braced.
Bethany straightened, hand slipping from Elisa’s back. "Oh?" she said lightly. "That sounds ominous."
"It isn’t," Elisa lied. "Not entirely."
Elijah crossed his arms. "Go on, then."
She drew a breath she did not need. "Vlad and I... we didn't separate the way you think."
"What do you mean?" Beth asked.
And then she told them everything.
Bastien's POV
He took the steps two, three at a time, case swinging underarm. His studio was six streets away, and he'd ran the entire way, lungs burning, heart hammering like a drum. He didn't bother dodging pedestrians, only muttering apologies that came out mostly incoherent-- he couldn't hear, or think, over the roaring in his ears.
The door to the studio swung open, and he stumbled inside, breathless. He dropped the case to the floor with a thud, crouching for a moment to catch his breath, head in his hands.
Sunlight filtered through dusty windows that lined a tall back wall, casting long, warm rectangles across the floor. The space was large, open and cluttered, lived in. Canvases leaned, some stacked haphazardly, others propped on easels. A small mattress pressed into a corner with rumpled sheets that bore witness to sleepless nights spent working-- always working-- in the same room. Sketches and scraps of paper littered the floor, and jars of brushes, pens, and odd trinkets filled every available surface. It smelled faintly of old paper and coffee; cedarwood too. Bastien's eyes lifted, landing on what had made him run as if the ground had gave chase. On every available inch of wall, staring back at him, was four hundred and seventy one pictures of her likeness.
The woman from the square.
"Mon Dieu..." he whispered through panting breathes. How could it be so? To have the same face come to him, everyday, a face he didn't know and yet-- Sometimes it was just the eyes, other times the colour of cheeks, or the angle of a cupid's bow. All pieces that he had stitched together, over and over, never feeling it was quite right. But when she had wept... he'd never thought to draw that. When he did, something horrible clicked into place. A vision so strong, so real, that Bastien could barely sense up from down. Her face, streaked with tears and pain, staring down at him. Willing something. Something... God, that would be the next thing to steal his sleep. Well, at least he'd finally captured it-- the visions and dreams that had driven him to the utter brink of madness. And he'd given it away. For free.
And he didn't even ask for her name.
"Fuck," Bastien cursed loudly, jolting upright and dashing papers off an end table. His hands shook as he pressed against the door, trying to steady himself. His eyes refused to leave the walls. Oil paintings, pastels, water colour, sketches, each one was a fragment, a memory, a prayer he hadn't known he'd been screaming. She was real, flesh and blood, in his city. It was hers now; his city, his mind, his art. His silent prayer. Every inch, every thought, every shadow. Who even was she? He had to know-- he had to know, or it would drive him mad. How? He could go back to the square. He could wait there, he wouldn't sleep anyway, and maybe she'd come back. Yes, that's what he'd do. But first, a prayer.
Almost stumbling, he crossed the room, marching to the wall. Frantic hands ripped down all the images, arms sweeping, hands grabbing, pulling, ripping. They didn't matter anymore. He had to get it down quickly, in case it faded-- though he very much doubted that. Now he had seen her, the full picture, he would have a hard time forgetting. She haunted him, and he couldn’t stop seeing the delicate trail of tears on her cheek, the curve of her lips parted just so, the ember glowing in eyes that were such a deep hazel that if they never saw the sun, you'd never see amber in a bed of moss. Bastien tore open tubes, squinting at the labels, tossing them aside. Ochres, umbers, a touch of crimson-- no, too warm-- he scraped, squeezed, mixed, tested, cursed, adjusted. His hands were streaked with every attempt; the wall became a palette of obsession. Finally, he found it, and then it began.
He plunged a wide brush into her skin and slashed across the wall, smearing, layering, building the subtle rise of cheekbones, the soft hollow beneath her jaw. The rest of the room disappeared. There was only her-- her colours, her textures. Everything emerged so effortlessly, as if he was always meant to paint her. He mixed, slashed, obsessed until the plaster itself seemed to breathe beneath his hands, alive because he'd made it so. When it was done, he stepped back, hands trembling, chest heaving. His hands were slick with paint, streaks running up his forearms, flecks dotted his face like war scars, burgundy in blond hair that stuck to beads of sweat. What he'd made... It had nothing to do with talent. It was whatever had possessed him. It was divine beauty. It was...
Holy.