The Light Within Her - Book Nine

Ch. 6- Art is Surviving

"Girls like you deserve a love that always feels like summer."

***

Throughout my childhood, I've noticed so many things about my family. Whether or not they hid their emotions, I know at some point they would let their guard down. My mother, for example, is a lover of words. She loves to write in her journal and sometimes would let me read it. She said if she doesn't write it down, then it never happened. It was her passion that everyone respected and adored, which made me wonder what passion everyone else had. So at the age of ten, I questioned everyone about what they loved. My father said he was passionate about making his people loved and safe and I rolled my eyes and demanded he give me a real answer. He just laughed and said, "Every since I was your age, I always loved to play piano. The way I can make music with just my fingers is something I have always enjoyed, even when I didn't have time in my day to do it."

My brother, Aeson Breevort, became intrigued by the art of photography because of my mother's best friend, Jax. Before he died, he taught Ace how to take extravagant photos with just one click and throughout his life, he did just that. Even still, he walks around with his camera and I sometimes follow him out of curiosity. Every time he wondered around Ambrosia, I was there behind him. Aeson knew I was there, of course. But he stayed quiet and let me follow him, which is something I always questioned. My only sister, however, was different. She was complicated and a little hard to read, but I eventually cracked what she loved most. Kalama loved fire and she used exactly that to fuel her passions, whether it was pottery or making weapons. Everything they created, I realized, was beautiful. Magnificent enough to be placed in all of the museums in the world. Even though we all cannot do that for the fear of the humans finding out about us, we know if we really wanted to, we would make a fake name for ourselves.

Being an immortal being is sometimes like being a ghost. You're here, yet, no one knows who you are. In the moral world, I am no one but the girl walking down the street. But in my world, I am the youngest Princess of Ambrosia with sunlight in her veins. Which is what I was painting at this exact moment. My acrylic paints were right by my side as I concentrated on the canvas in front of me. This was my passion and mine alone. It started when I was a little girl running throughout my palace, only to find a room filled with portraits. Paintings of my dead relatives were scattered across the hallway and I remember spending half the day mesmerized by the details of all of them.

I was not as close to my mother than I should be, but at the time she was standing next to me as I stared at the portraits. More specifically, her painting. "Ask me anything, Soari." she whispered just enough for me to hear it.

I did not dare to glance at her because my eyes were glued to the painting. As if it were absorbing me piece by piece until I picked up a paintbrush and made my own portrait. "Your eyes are different than they are now, Mom." I explained. "It's as if you are alive but feel like you are dead. It doesn't make sense, I know." A minute later when I realized my mother did not reply, I finally looked her way. She was crying. "It's true, isn't it?" She smiled through her tears, urging me to keep going. So I did, stepping forward to get a better look at her painting. "The way you stand is specific, I think. I suppose you stood this way in the first war you fought. Or maybe when you accepted that you were going to die, you did not let our enemies show that you were afraid." I was quiet for a full moment, close to tears as I turned towards my mother again. "You were grieving. You were lost and didn't know how to find your way back home. You were sad and angry that you wouldn't be able to have forever with Dad, that you wouldn't be crowned a Queen or have children of your own."

My mother's scarlet hair was braided and she wore a simple white sweater and jeans at the time. "Aunt Elle took a picture of me days before I died when I was at my lowest. When I was brought back to life, I never would of thought she would make it into a portrait where everyone can see for centuries." She sighed, wiping a tear from her eye. "You notice things, Soari. Way more than the rest of us and I admire it. Remember that when things get terrible and you don't know what to do, you always have your mind."

I frowned. "Mom, can you buy me some paints and brushes?"

She smiled ear to ear at my request, as if finding my passion was something she was proud to accomplish. "I will buy you everything you need, my sweet girl. Hell, I would buy you a goddam studio if you wanted." Then she paused for a minute and widened her eyes. "We can build an extension to the library where you can paint all you want there without anyone to bother you. It will be yours."

I was only ten, but I figured out already that my mother would do anything to make me happy. To feel connected to the world and it's beauty. Something she never had the chance to do when she was little. Elora Breevort spent her life wondering what the hell she was or if she belonged to the world and I was relieved that she finally figured it out. That she wasn't the girl in the painting anymore. My mother was brighter than she has ever been, even though it took her some time to get to that place.

She was right, though. I did notice things a lot.

Maybe that will work in my favor in the future.

Only time will tell.