Erador grabbed the doorknob, staring at the red paint in his hand. Loma claimed Eli overheard Aminria and him talking about how the Raven escaped. Erador couldn’t see a reason why he would lie about it being him, but Erador couldn’t stop thinking about the red-stained rag. He pushed the door open. The shutters on the tall windows were open, allowing light to overtake the room. Erador hesitated in the dark corridor before entering. This part of the manor didn’t have black-painted windows to allow natural light for artists.

  Painted canvas’s hung around the room, works of Eli’s and his apprentices. Easels were stacked in a corner, brushes on the shelves, and paint tubes were in wooden bins. Paint stains were everywhere, from the floor to the windowsills It was a room where being messy could be appreciated; it was the cause of endless hours artists poured into their paintings. No one here painted anymore, except Eli.

  Eli stood by the window, holding a brush to the canvas on the easel. His eyes brightened when Erador approached.

  “A new painting? Erador said, trying to peek around the canvas. “Can I see?”

  “Not quite,” Eli shooed him back and looked at Erador’s hand. “You found red paint?”

  “Uh…” Erador looked down “Yes.”

  Smiling, Eli took the jar and moved to the easel. “Where did you find it?”

  Erador dodged his suspicious look. “Hawth. I asked him to get some from New Akthelia.”

  “Always has to fuel that keid addiction.” Eli unscrewed the cap and poured paint on his palette. “Guess I have mine.” He gave a pained smiled and rubbed his wrist. “I can’t seem to stop, though my hands ache.”

  “Should I have gotten you pain medication too?”

  Eli laughed. “I doubt I’ll need my hands much longer.”

  Erador dipped his head and whispered, “Don’t say that.”

  “It’s true. I’m old.”

  Eli didn’t have health problems, not that Erador knew. He noticed how Eli winched when he stroked his brush, but kept going despite the pain. Other times he would stop and stare at his painting. Erador figured he was examining his work to find little mistakes, but it helped rest his tired hand.

  Erador wasn’t ready to face Eli’s death. He didn’t want to say goodbye to his new paintings, to hearing his warm laughter, and his beliefs, though Erador didn’t always agree.

  “Do you believe in rebirth?” Erador asked.

  “Rebirth as in reincarnation?” Eli dipped his brush in the sparkling red paint. “I’ve thought about it.”

  “It doesn’t make sense, does it?”

  “The Cheeokwa believe it. Well… not a full rebirth of their root spirit, just their element spirit.”

  “Let me guess, you learned that blasphemy from Haven,” Erador said with lightness.

  Eli cracked a smile. “She’ll tell anyone who listens, so long as your father’s not around.”

  “I want to know what you believe.”

  “Are we truly reborn if we can’t remember who we were before?”

  Finally an idea Erador could agree with. “That’s news coming from you.”

  Eli gently stroked the brush on the canvas. “It’s a thought. I know many tales about death and the afterlife. Want to hear?”

  “Not really.” Erador crossed his arms and leaned against a small bookshelf. “How is it after learning so many conflicting ideas, you still believe in Paradise?”

  “I’m merely searching for an answer.” Eli gathered more red paint on his brush. “Hearing other’s beliefs gives you ideas and maybe a little hope that there’s more to life.”

  This kind of thinking was something Judgment didn’t allow. No matter how hard he tried to prevent it, others had their own beliefs like Loma, Eli, Haven and himself, and who knows how many more. Erador could understand how frustrating it was to conform to Judgment’s ideals.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Erador moved across the room to a painting of a flower. “Are you scared of death?”

  Eli paused his brush and then continued his stroke. “When you’re young and healthy you don’t always think of death. You’re too busy living life, finding love, raising children, and always searching for a purpose. Before you know it, you have old hands that have trouble doing tasks that used to be easy. Then this,” he said, gesturing at himself, “Becomes normal and you’re finally staring death in the face. For some it’s not easy to accept.”

  Erador walked the length of the room, looking at the paintings on the walls. He wasn’t scared of not existing. He had almost died before.

  “People are looking for a purpose,” Erador said. “That’s why it’s hard for them to let go.”

  “That’s a good observation,” Eli said, lifting his paint brush. “I think some are scared of how death will feel. Will there be pain or suffering?”

  “Or...” Erador said, touching the dry paint brushes in a bin. “They’re afraid of eternally suffering in the afterlife because they can’t admit their sins.”

  Eli chuckled, his long drooping mustache wiggling. “Now that’s a good reason to be scared.”

  Erador faced Eli. “My father… he doesn’t believe in Paradise, does he?”

  “I think he does.”

  Erador shook his head. “Maybe he’s lied to himself.”

  “He’s holding on so he can help us find it.” Eli mixed two colors to birth a new one on his palette. “He’s afraid everyone will give up once he’s gone.”

  Erador scoffed and crossed his arms. “He’s afraid of not being the center of attention anymore.”

  Eli frowned and stopped painting. “You resent him for that.”

  “I resent him for not being there when I was growing up,” Erador said, angrily. “He cared more about himself and what he could gain. According to him, I offered nothing but frustration, annoyance, and disobedience.”

  “Yet there’s some part of you that holds on to him.”

  Erador brushed his words away. He wasn’t holding on to his father. He didn’t need him. He could leave if it wasn’t for this stupid mark.

  “I’m not,” Erador said, moving away.

  “Whatever you say.”

  Erador glared at Eli who went to painting. His silence was irritating. “I’m not trying to impress him or prove anything to him.”

  “I never said you were, but you’re refusing to see you can’t let him go. For what reason, I can only assume, but only you can figure out why. And when you do, I hope it’ll finally help you break your anchor from his ship.”

  Erador shifted toward the window. He was here because of his mark, but also because his father needed help and protection. Something he needed as a child, not a leader who kept him at a distance to be used. He rubbed his chin and stared at the garden. He was here for the people he cared for. His father was a part of that.

  “When my father dies… that’s when I’ll let go.”

  Eli gave a knowing hum. “He hopes to have a rebirth.”

  “That won’t happen?” Erador said, raising his eyebrows. “What the Raven did stands. If Judgment somehow has his rebirth, the kingdoms will come for him.”

  With Yuni here, maybe they already had. They didn’t want Judgment better. He had too much influence over people.

  Eli gave a forced smile. “I had a rebirth of sorts.”

  “How?” Erador turned his head toward him.

  “I faked my death.” Eli raised his palette. “Famous painter and all.”

  He was respected by everyone in Lucrethia, but famous? Eli didn’t spend his entire life here.

  “You… famous?” Erador said. “Where?”

  “Odinaty,” Eli said.

  “Seriously?” Erador dragged his tongue across his lip. “You don’t seem like you’re from there.”

  “Is it because I’m not a bigot?” Eli raised his eyebrows. “That’s one reason I left.” He smiled, slightly. “Living there hindered my creativity. When I left, I had been reborn. I had a chance to start over and no one to follow me.” He set down his palette. “One day you might have a chance to begin anew.”

  Erador couldn’t see that as a possibility, not with that mark under his sleeve. With the Raven free, his chances of freedom were lesser when he could end up dead.

  He looked to the red paint on the end table and wandered back to the bin overflowing with paint tubes, but many were nearly empty. Maybe Eli had red paint somewhere and got that on the rag. As much as he wanted to dig through the paints to find a red, he couldn't bring himself to believe Eli was lying.

  Eli studied his painting. “I like how this paint can make blood sparkle. It’s like there’s a party.”

  Erador raised an eyebrow. “You’re painting death as we speak of it?”

  “No, but it gave me an idea.” He laughed. “Come look.”

  Erador moved around the painting and was surprised to find a raven. It was perched on a cage with a broken door. A sparkling reddish, orange sunset enhanced the raven’s beauty. It’s beak was tilted in the sky as if it had finally gotten the freedom it deserved.

  “It’s nice,” Erador whispered.

  “That’s all you have to say?”

  Erador scratched his head and shifted onto his other leg. “It’s uh…”

  “Controversial?” Eli laughed and studied his painting. “It’s a bird, Erador. Just a bird.”