Work Text:
Happy 5th Birthday Ella! I paint you this portrait to wish you a speedy recovery!
By the time you reach 15, and I’m 17, I’ll become a masterful painter.
Many will come to see my paintings, and you’ll be the sister of the greatest painter…
-
A promise is a promise. Edgar Valden does not break a promise. To do so would be dishonest, and Edgar Valden is anything but dishonest.
Hypocrisy, lies and deceit - those were the vices of the others, those self-serving aristocrats, and the faults of the others. Others and himself - those were the two groups Edgar had learned to sort the world into. It was a simple categorisation, and one that only made sense. The time where Edgar could be fooled into relating to them - the greedy masses who saw only profit in every paintbrush stroke - had long since passed. It had passed, along with…
…In truth, he does not quite remember.
How ridiculous, to let such miserable thoughts consume him on today of all days!
No, this is not what Ella would want. What impression would he make upon her by spouting all that nonsense? She has not yet arrived, and yet that judgemental pout occupies a vivid space in Edgar’s mind, as if he were gazing right upon it. She had never been one to tolerate what she considered to be his all-too-common philosophical musings.
(She had always been quick to learn big words, and just as keen to show them off. Just how long had she been proudly declaring him as ‘too philosophical?’)
…
(He cannot quite remember.)
She had a point, though, really. A painter’s skill was like magic, right? Fill a painter’s thoughts with bad things, and no longer will the beauty of life be depicted on the canvas. How to focus on the vibrancy of a blooming rose, the vastness of a horizon at dawn, when the mind is so filled with pointless cacophony?
The beauty is smudged out. Charcoal rubbed with careless hands.
But it should not be long now. Until Ella does arrive, that is. She was never late to Edgar’s opening shows - at the gallery, exhibitions, wherever else his notoriety had gained himself a spot to be ogled at. That is to say, she did sometimes cut her appearances fine, all sheepish smiles and apologies… any scolding he gave her for this, though, could only ever be half-hearted. How busy his little sister was these days!
There is an unexpected pang of nerves as, with restless fingers, Edgar adjusts the blue ribbon of his tie. Nerves? It is a feeling he would have claimed to have long forgotten, so used to now the all too familiar routine of his ‘success’. It is as he had said already - to himself, in his head, that is.
Ella had never missed a show.
She had never missed one.
Despite the occasion, this was to be a day like any other.
…And in many ways, this was unfortunate.
To find the very distracting cacophonies he so loathed, he need only to look around him. The place was bustling, the rich turning what should be a gallery into a hunting ground. He watches them now from where he stands, at the satin and silk donned upon their forms with the intention of impressions, at the shoulders rubbed and words spoken for the sake of snaking their way into the closest lucrative deal. Name upon Name, notorious and propped up by establishment, building themselves up upon stilts of rotten lies.
Ella, of all people, need not come here. But, neither of them could be considered children anymore. The innocence that could blind Edgar from the reality of their world was short-lived, had pulled its wool from his eyes long ago.
Ella, of all things, was not naïve.
She saw the beauty in this world as a show of strength - at least, that’s how Edgar saw it. She believed in the good and pure as an act of defiance. At times, it was a quality that she held onto for the both of them. At least today she would be here to carry it.
It took him back to when he first held the paintbrush between the podgy and clumsy hands of a small child. A garden. Trivial snacks. A beautiful white puppy. What simple things an infant was permitted to draw, all deemed worthy of an adult’s encouragement and praise. At the very least, it was enough to garner the amusement of a baby sister.
…And all at once, the lights begin to dim. It is an entirely artificial way of grabbing the attention of a crowd, but it does the trick - grating chatter quickly dies down into hushed murmurs, electrifying the air about them with excitement. Excitement that Edgar did not care for.
What happens in the next few immediate moments matters not. A speech is made, but it is not one for Edgar to speak. He is still only seventeen, his teacher had said. Let me handle the boring stuff, alright?
‘The boring stuff’ - that is, the very introductions to Edgar’s art, interpretations made of Edgar’s art, words smoothly strung together in order to sell Edgar’s art.
It was yet another noise amidst the cacophony that Edgar tuned out. As established, it mattered not. What happened next was all that mattered.
And happened it did. Curtains upon a wire are pulled back, and the gathered crowd drums their hands together in applause. Another noise. Unimportant. Behind the curtains, paintings within their ornate frames are revealed. Some are new, others familiar - and this made all the difference. The newer portraits did not yet know to resent their place upon the wall. The oldest, however, had long since grown tired. These were the ones Edgar avoided eye contact with, ashamed of the existence he had brought them into. All of them except…
His eyes flit about, seeking the place upon the wall he is looking for. It is not hard to find - not for him, even though it has been once again pushed to a wall’s far corner. Of course, even when others neglected the painting, Edgar ensured it would always be there.
Ella never missed a single show.
Upon her perch, she must see them all - for what they are, perhaps, but this does not seem to anger her. No, no… she smiles still, and at this Edgar can feel relief.
He is seventeen. She, now, is fifteen. Even so, portraits cannot outwardly age. She appears still as she did way back then. Chestnut curls frame her face, all the while a white bow pulls her hair back. Neatly. She had to pose for the painting, after all. She wasn’t meant to be smiling, but Edgar had made sure to depict it anyway. It was a knowing look they gave each other, an inward eye-roll at all the formality of big-brother painting little-sister. She would much rather watch him paint the doves that pecked about at the garden’s water fountain, to watch him paint freely.
Still, the day he had promised her had come. By all accounts, he had become that masterful painter. She was the sister of the greatest painter - a painter controlled by the whims of others, but itching to tug himself free.
Brother and sister - one made of flesh, the other of long-dried paint- lock eyes. If anyone among the crowd has tried to talk to him, it has gone unnoticed. He knows he does not have to speak aloud for her to hear him. Unlike his other paintings, she knows that he will find a way out, a way out for all of them.
You see it, Ella, don’t you?
The sentiment extends between the two of them. An invisible thread.
I could never break a promise to you.