Demons (Damirae)

Chapter Ninety-One

The days passed, as they did so, the time came for Damian and Raven's finished artwork to be entered for the competition at school. Now, when Bruce had proposed it to them, expecting a lot of shouting and jeers, he'd been wholeheartedly surprised that they'd accepted. Now, given the revelation that Damian and Raven were in a relationship, it made some sense.

Still, none of Bruce's expectations lived up to what sat before his eyes. He was moved almost to tears at the terrible realistic beauty of the piece they'd crafted, meant to be a representation of their 'identity' (as had been the theme). All those hours spent in that spare room in the manner, coming down for supper with paint-smeared faces and clothes, Bruce had never thought much of it. Now, he was beyond words.

They'd incorporated different artistic techniques from watercolour painting to collaging, aiding the impression of conflict presented on the canvas- which stood at around 4 ft by 5ft, portrait. It had been done in a way that gave the impression of two overlapping central images.

At the heart if the page, they had created two devastating figures. One, faded- done in pencil and watercolour- and of a person standing with their back towards the observers. The person was neither distinctly male nor distinctly female, nor were the details of its body distinct. Save one feature.

Wings.

Glorious things. Extending from one corner of the canvas to the other. Jagged things. With each feather like an individual blade, poised and proud, yet soft upon a further look. The texture was so lifelike, if one reached out their hand, they would almost certainly caress the feathers of a noble bird. So light was the hand that had detailed each feather that they simultaneously appeared individual spears of terror and constructs of the clouds. 

Neither could their colour be pinned down. The most depressing of greys at a glance, and the most optimistic of blues at another. And yet, still faded. Like a distant memory of these great wings, a spirit willing to be free.

And the second, overlapping image- as terrible as the first. A second figure, that somehow was easy to identify as the same as the first, crouching where the winged-one stood. Their back too was to the lookers. In shame. In fear? The image was out of focus, blurred like the view out of tears eyes. But a smidgen clearer only to emphasise on the crushing pain.

On this figure's back we're two stumps. Gnarly, blackened, stumps. Like shorn branches -trunks even- of trees, growing from the mother soul rather than Mother Nature. No red paint trickled from the stumps, only brownish smudges- the memory of that red. And here, the texture was undeniable. What looked like real bark, but jet black, stemmed from the crouched figure's back. Gnarly, black stubs.

Setting the tint for the sheer figures, was a canopy of midnight, with no crescent or sphere in sight. Merely the glinting of silver like the stars had be captured and set loose on the canvas. Cassiopeia watched in all her vanity.

The darkness did not fade down the canvas, until it reached the flames. They licked at the heels of the figures, taunting and tempting. Emerald, jade, amber...the eyes of a snake. Bruce could almost hear the hissing of the flames.

And in the bottom right corner, in black ink, the initials D.W and R.R claimed their place, done in a swirling calligraphy.

Bruce's eyes were wide, "This is..."

"Beautiful.", Cassandra finished, her eyes soaking in the art piece.

The group that had forced their way in to the room to see the picture voiced their agreement, awed as they praised the project.