Work Text:
The ruins of this village are covered in life.
Ink has seen plenty of beautiful universes before. Some that specialize in lush forestry and others the deep, sonorous ocean. From thousands and thousands of stars, all the way to brilliant gemstones and vast metropolises, he had seen so many different ideas that one would think he had grown accustomed to such splendor. And yet, that was one of the purest things about him; his natural curiosity and artistic mind allowed each new world to be just as stunning and interesting as the last.
He wandered the world in search of what kept it so vibrant. There may not have been monster or human souls, but animals like insects and squirrels and large game had taken occupancy in the surrounding woods. Everywhere he looked, it seemed the foliage had taken a peculiar pattern, directing him elsewhere. He follows the path provided, and it leads him deeper into the chaos of the recovering world.
Inevitably, he finds it. The statute of a boy, forever reaching, forever screaming for someone who would never hear. One hand is clenched close to his chest, and one foot has taken a step forward, ready to run. Not too far from him is a tree stump, roots craggled and sprawling, and what may just be evidence of the tremendous impact that felling such a tree had left behind.
Ink orbits the stone, taking note of the details. Really, it was impressive, just how many little things the artist had felt fit to include. The skeleton boy was no older than ten, and his attire gave him the aura of a lost prince.
Ink didn't get the chance to meet him when he was still alive. He had been around; he just didn't think to visit until…after the incident.
He honestly expected this world to be so fully entrenched in ruin and hatred, negativity oozing from the very sky—but this isn't the case. If anything, it seems that the boy's presence, even in this form, was enough to purify the surrounding waste over so many centuries. You couldn't tell that screams had once filled the air when that space had been taken up by the serene babbling of a nearby brook.
Ink hums, sitting himself down in front of the statue and taking out his supplies. He wanted to make a memory out of this moment, and so with pencils and charcoal and a dash of his namesake, he sketches the scene.
He spends quite some time on it, experimenting with the light and shadows. He studies the boy's expression and jots it down. Ink makes sure to spend extra time on the state of the stump. All of it piques his fancy, and he allows this inspiration to flow through him without hindrance.
He makes idle conversation with the world around him, knowing that no one in particular would respond. He hopes to give the emptiness some company anyway, knowing what it's like to spend so much time alone.
He shows off his finished piece with a sense of pride, and though the statue says nothing, Ink imagines the boy would be rather impressed, thank you very much.
He talks to him about everything and nothing, and fills him in on all the goings on of the greater multiverse, yapping until the stars are visible. He cleans off the surface of the statue, and by the new day, he takes his paints and shrinks his brush, a fun idea having gripped him overnight.
His brushstrokes are haphazard with excitement, splashing all sorts of colors over his brand new muse. The stone takes the pigments well, and all the while Ink blathers on about this, that, or the other, multicolored tongue sticking out only in moments of true concentration.
His colors even out eventually as he blends and corrects. It helps that he himself is not so much taller than the boy, allowing him easy access to all sides. He doesn't realize just how long this process takes him, even as the days begin to cycle. Only when his paints run low, does he realize that he must return to his Doodle Sphere. Even then, the fill up is quick, and he is back again before any paint has a chance to dry.
Ink sighs. “I wish you were smiling,” he says, adding one last highlight to the tip of the boy's nasal aperture. He takes a step back, looking over his work with a soft smile. It's bittersweet. The fun part was over. “I guess I could carve it in myself…aw, man. I should have thought of that before I started. Oh, well. I hope you like yellow. It's one of my favorite colors.”
Ink takes his yellow paint vial and pops the top, throwing his head back to take a gulp of the fluid. It's delicious and immediately floods him with another wash of pure, vibrant joy. He laughs as he wipes a dribble of paint off his chin, twirling on the spot.
He laughs and laughs as the paint settles with the rest of his pigments, squealing with glee and skipping around the lush clearing. Jumps and spins and cartwheels of exuberance from too big of a gulp.
Eventually, the red and blue in his system counters the yellow, and with a big, satisfied sigh, he flops over into the wild grass to catch his breath. He gazes up at the vibrantly blue sky and her fluffy white clouds, taking it all in. The grass is soft. It's really nice here.
He hates to leave it.
And yet, that is exactly what he does. He figures he can be back in a few days once the paint has fully dried, anyway. He dips a sharp claw into the permanent stain of ink on his face and finds an empty spot on his scarf, jotting down the note for later.
He says goodbye to his muse and sinks into the rushing water of the ravine, leaving the empty world to its recovery.
When he returns weeks later, on a whim and a miracle, he takes the scenic route back to that clearing.
He stops in his tracks when it comes into view, purple and orange bubbling up into a boiling bout of dread within him.
The only proof the boy was ever there were two patches of dirt denoting where he stood still for 500 years, and a gloomy, overcast sky; perfect for mourning.