Chapter Text
The ashes still smelled like betrayal.
Clea moved through the ruined atelier as if it still answered to her alone.
Her steps were unhurried. Certain. The space bent around her without protest, chroma lifting instinctively at her approach, pigments aligning themselves into disciplined arcs. She had not needed to raise her voice in years. The world listened when she moved.
Fire had failed to take this place from her.
Time had failed to soften it.
Clea moves over her neatly placed materials just beside the canvas. She opens a brush case and studies the slim paint brush that she chose, touching its bristles softly. Once satisfied, she then collects the palette and places colors upon colors of paint. She prepares every single material she would need with practiced precision. The eldest stares over the huge canvas in front of her, focusing on one painted figure alone.
With a critical eye and masterful will she starts to paint. But not exactly, no.
She starts to paint over one of Aline's creations.
'She needs correcting.'
Her painted self.
The eldest's hand moves steady, precise. Not one wasted movement evident on her demeanor. She contemplates if she should completely erase it or make the abomination kill everyone just so she can force their little shadow to finally come into the light.
Here, in the mortal world, where she naturally belongs. As feable as she may, Alicia has already spent 7 whole years inside the canvas. Her body is doomed to be up and about like the undead rising when she's forced to come out.
Clea's face started to form a certain pattern of color, it starts on her eyes and then spreads to her cheeks. A shade of blue, white and black mixing themselves to form a Paintress' patterns. A feeling she knows all too well, but doesn't really bother her.
The woman ponders in thought while she paints. She lifts her chin a bit and reaches out with her hand to delicately smoothen the rough stroke she wanted to paint over. Clea accidentally smudges some of the palette's colors on her face, but she didn't blink. She was used to being splashed over, in more ways than one.
'Compliance is always a good option.'
But one where Clea lacks the most. The Paintress didn't have the emotional capacity to persuade her sister. An argument in university, in court or in this household she wins everytime. But inside the canvas is a different story. She has tried almost everything. But Alicia still persists.
The eldest Dessendre ponders over how in the heavens would she be able to that. Persuading her sister to willingly remove herself inside the canvas is like moving the mountains using one finger.
Surely Alicia must be aware of how fragile she could be right now. But then again its her naive of a sister we're talking about here. She didn't really expect much from the younger girl.
It starts small but the canvas starts to shift. Hues dancing around its edges to form a huge opening.
Clea was immediately snapped out of her thoughts.
The chroma around the atelier shifts into a welcoming descent as another Paintress announces her arrival. The canvas parted with a sound like fabric drawn through water slow, resistant.
The brush the eldest Dessendre was using gradually went down on her side. She places the palette down on her working table and steps back from the canvas. She proceeds to stand facing its front, letting herself witness the scene first hand.
Her guard never let down for a second even if she moves in a very nonchalant way. From the looks of it, the eldest already recognizes who's chroma it is just by the feel of it.
This was most unexpected but evidently a sight to behold for the eldest Dessendre finally seeing the youngest manifesting into life.
And there she was.
Alicia.
The youngest Dessendre stood in front of the canvas, her back facing its front, almost like a protective figure.
This is not the girl she saw last 7 years ago. No.
She has grown.
Clea remembers every detail as an artist herself. She knows that this version of Alicia was definitely not the one she saw last, in more ways than one.
The young redhead, the one who had once folded into painted walls to survive seems and looks quite different.
She stood upright, weight evenly balanced, shoulders relaxed but ready. Present in a way the real world had never allowed her to be. Clea’s eyes narrowed slightly, and she began to circle Alicia slowly, deliberately, as if appraising a painting in motion. She observed every line of her posture, every subtle tension and ease in her muscles, the way she held herself without flinch or hesitation.
The burn marks on her body, she now wears with armor. Confidence simply oozes out of Alicia and it is simply breathtaking to see her youngest sibling as she finally releases herself on the shackles of the canvas.
Twenty-three, Clea realized.
Not sixteen anymore. Twenty-three years old, and yet… different. Sharper. Grounded. Controlled.
“You’ve grown,” Clea said finally, voice low, measured. Not admiration. Assessment.
She scanned Alicia’s face, shoulders, hands, her stance noting everything she could harness, everything she might breakdown if needed.
The youngest Dessendre met her gaze steadily, then allowed herself a small smile.
“As do you,” she said, voice no longer raspy, it's as if she has also fixed herself in the mortal world too. This is no longer a painted version of her sister. It's the real and current Alicia.
The girl's eye drifts over Clea's before moving down and about to observe the notable features of her eldest sister. “You seem stronger.. mature and even more beautiful as the last day I saw you in Verso's canvas."
Clea’s jaw tightened. Her lips pressed into a firm line, but she did not speak, letting the words hang in the air like pigments suspended in Chroma.
“You came back.. And willingly.” Clea states, sharp and authoritative, carrying accusation without raising her voice.
Alicia begins her stride towards the other woman. The canvas sealed behind her with a faint, resentful shudder.
“I had to leave,” she said calmly. “I was starting to weaken. Unfortunately, my body here has already reached its limits.. If I’d stayed any longer, I'd say I wouldn’t be able to speak in front of you right now.”
Clea’s eyes narrowed further. Alicia was a novice Paintress, it was painfully obvious that she had little control of the time she spends inside the canvas and out in the mortal world. She has been gone for 7 years, hence the 23 years of age. But in the canvas she was already 25.
Clea in comparison can stay in the canvas for 10 years equating only 5 months in the mortal world. That's how great their difference is.
The eldest dismisses her thoughts, finally giving her response to the other girl in front of her.
"You went out in your own accord. I must say you took me by surpise sister dear." Clea allows a small smile grace her lips, genuine in her fascination of the current situation.
The eldest Dessendre is more than delighted to get a huge responsibility off of her shoulders. Honestly, she simply cannot waste her time figuring out how to keep her sister alive when the whole family is practically in shambles.
"And here I was, contemplating on how I would have to force you out again before this family loses another one of its blood.." She pauses, and looks at the girl properly in the eyes. Sincerity evident on her features.
"But you didn't ask for a hand this time. You knew how to get out on your own when you had trouble getting inside the canvas the first time you made contact with it.” Clea raises a brow and folds her arms below the chest. Seemingly satisfied.
Alicia notices this of course. She has always been one to observe the master Paintress that is her sister. All way back when they were both children. Even the tiniest expression and actions are jotted down in that brilliant mind of hers.
"I know.” the redhead simply says. No justification.
“I needed to regain my strength outside the canvas,” Alicia continues. “I needed to exist without being supported by something that wasn’t real.”
Clea began her cycle of thinking. It was good seeing her sister return, but she carefully decides on what her real objective is, weighing them against the strength she sensed in Alicia.
The eldest notes that the young woman doesn't seem all that tired. All of the Painters would be bedridden after being gone for so long inside the canvas, but it seems Alicia was an exception. One worthy to study.
One worthy indeed.
Maybe her waif of a sister wasn't that much of a novice after all.
Alicia held her stare. She didn’t shrink either. She stayed where she was, breathing even, gaze forward.
“You’ve changed,” Clea said.
"Have I?" She tilts her head to the side. A slight glint in her eye.
Clea nods her confirmation.
Alicia sighs and walks over. Getting closer and closer to the other woman until they were merely shy of a few inches against each other.
“You've changed as well,” Alicia added, letting her gaze sweep over Clea, noting the weight and authority in her shoulders, the confidence in her hands, the sharp lines of a body honed by discipline. Mutual recognition hung between them quiet, intimate, unspoken.
Clea feels her sister's breath hover dangerously along her collarbone. But she did not offer her any reaction.
“You know.. You’re a lot stronger than Maman ever was,” Alicia says as she gazes on Clea's right hand, still holding the paint brush she was using.
“You always have been.”
Clea’s jaw tightened. “Careful,” she warned. “Flattery does not suit you.”
“This isn’t flattery,” Alicia said softly. She swiftly touches Clea's free hand, caressing the taunted muscles that have seemed to ingrain themselves like a sculpture in the woman's veiny hands.
“I came back because of what you said to me,” she continued. “Inside the canvas. When I thought my life belonged to the fire. To our parents. To what was lost.." Alicia tries to intertwine their hands, slowly but surely. Testing the waters of how far she can go with her own musings. How far Clea would let her.
Clea's shoulders stiffened upon contact. The girl in front of her, she needed getting used to. Cause for all she knows, the Alicia she knew would have never readily touched her hand so easily let alone caress it like a lover would. Why must this girl be so emotional and sensual? The eldest starts to feel unsure. But not entirely unpleasant. She would never admit that.
“You told me I owed them nothing,” Alicia continues. “That surviving wasn’t a debt. That I was allowed to live a life I actually want.” She starts to form a smile, a genuine one. It has graced her beautiful face and spread nicely along her features. The chroma shifts around her figure, touching fervently and seemingly painting something on its own.
"Wait-- Alicia!" Clea grips at her sister's arm the brush in her hand thrown away and forgotten.
'What is she doing??' The eldest tries to conjure chroma herself and proceeds to tear away at the offending chroma surrounding itself on her sister.
Before she could continue, Alicia's arm willfully dismissed every ounce of chroma present with a loud shudder. Clea flinches away but her hand is still with her sister's.
Slowly her eyes starts to flutter open. Cautiously looking over at Alicia.
The sight that greeted her left the woman speechless. Her eyes bulging out from the sudden surprise that greeted her.
'Her face isn't burned anymore.' Clea gulps, and was left utterly speechless. This was simply not possible. You cannot change who you are when you come back to the mortal realm. You cannot bring the version of yourself from the canvas. There has never been an instance in the Painter's historical records that has managed to succeed in this feat.
But there she was. Alicia. In all her glory.
The chroma reacted subtly to Clea’s tension, taken back by pigments flaring briefly before snapping back into obedience.
“I didn’t thank you then,” Alicia said. “I wasn’t strong enough. So I’m thanking you now.” The girl, now 25 has brought her painted version back into the mortal world, she has successfully regained herself in full.
Silence settled, thick and expectant. Clea is still in a trance, her own mouth left slightly open.
Alicia giggles and starts to move her hand and rest into her sister's cheek. Caressing them softly. That did it and Clea was finally back into consciousness.
She parries away that hand, a small blush creeping its way towards her face.
“A-- and?” Clea said sharply, trying to regain her composure.
“You don’t come back just to express gratitude.” She sneers accusingly. There was so much more she wanted to ask. But anger left her grounded, she focuses more on this feeling.
Alicia inhaled once, steady, deliberate.
“I want you to teach me,” the redhead blurts out. And pauses, suddenly nervous.
“To become a master Paintress.” she breathes out.
Clea’s eyes went sharp. “Say it again?” baffled.
“I want mastery,” Alicia repeated. “Not survival. Not fragments of control. I want to command chroma the way you do. And preferably control my time better inside and outside of the canvas.”
Clea stepped closer abruptly, forcing Alicia to lift her chin to maintain eye contact.
“You don’t understand the cost,” Clea said, voice iron-hard.
“I don’t nurture talent. I strip it down until nothing weak remains.” Even though Alicia was now 25, Clea was still taller than her. The dominant figure looming over the little shadow.
Alicia didn’t retreat. She did not falter.
“Then do it,” she said, taking a step forward. “If that’s what it takes. I'm willing to do everything.” She confesses resolutely.
Clea’s hand twitched, not toward chroma, but toward Alicia herself.
“I already lost one sibling from the fire,” Clea said quietly. “I won’t be the architect of another ruin.” The grip on Alicia's shoulders tightened.
“You wouldn’t be,” Alicia replied. “You’d be the reason I endure. You always have been."
Clea searched her face for fear.
Found none.
Only resolve.
“If you stay,” Clea said, voice final, “you obey my rules. You paint when I say. You stop when I say. You push past your limits only when I allow it. You do not retreat when it hurts." The eldest Dessendre moves away and looks around the paintings that her family proudly showed. All kissed by fire and some unrecognizable. She wanted nothing more than to have all the time she can conjure to destroy the writers. And if teaching Alicia gives them an advantage, then she will do it.
"If you betray my trust.." Clea mutters darkly. Her hands fidget at her sides. Alicia notices and strides toward her sister. Capturing her hands and placing them on her chest.
“Please, Clea.. I promise I'll be good." The eldest Dessendre risks a look at her younger sister. The once scarred face now replaced with the beauty she actually deserves. She wants to know how Alicia did this, for all she knows this could be an ace in the deck of cards.
But in all honesty, Clea didn’t believe her. She knows her sister will never trade the canvas for the world. Mercy leaves marks like that.
But she said nothing. "Then stay.” The atelier exhaled. Chroma seemingly dying down with the tension around the two sisters start to disappear.
"We practice first thing in the morning. Come to my Atelier, you know where it is. And, Do. Not. Be Late."
Before Alicia could reply, Clea was already gone. Leaving the redhead to care for herself.
A huge silence creeped over the atelier. And with a few minutes dying out. Alicia finally rolls her stiff shoulders, willing herself to relax.
"Oh Clea, not really the type to do aftercare." The youngest Dessendre smiles to herself. A shared joke she and Verso always had with a grumpy storming out Clea.
Once the tension has completely subsided, Alicia started to test her body. Stretching and doing walks with little jogs here and there.
Alicia felt exhaustion seep into her very bones. But thanks to her skills as a Paintress at the very least she wasn't bedridden.
---
Night came swiftly. The moonlight had casted a wonderful display inside the hushed corridors of the Dessendres all too famous manor.
Clea walks out of her room and decides to go to the kitchen to fetch some water. Then she hears it.
A dull, rhythmic tap echoing down the hall. She followed the familiar sound and eventually led to a pause outside Alicia’s room, listening.
Tap.
Tap.
Inside, Alicia stood over a block of pale stone, sleeves rolled up, dust coating her hands. A chisel in one hand. A hammer in the other. Secretly borrowed tools.
Clea watches over, noting her sister's skill in sculpting. Careful, deliberate strikes.
Wihout warning or atleast a knock to announce her presence, the eldest Dessendre barges in the room. Her hair swaying animatedly as she walks.
"Putain!" The youngest Dessendre shrieks and almost throws the hammer she has in hand at her own sister.
“You didn’t ask,” Clea simply says.
“I didn’t think you’d approve.” Alicia rubs her temples, smudging herself with dirt.
Clea stepps forward, taking the chisel and hammer from Alicia's hands without asking.
“Sculpture isn’t paint,” Clea said. “Stone remembers every mistake.”
Clea studied the emerging form early, rough, intentional. Then looks back at Alicia.
“You’re too cautious,” she said, demonstrating one decisive strike. “Stone doesn’t reward hesitation.”
Alicia mirrored her stance.
Tap.
Tap.
“You want mastery,” Clea said, voice softening just slightly, “then learn consequence.”
Alicia’s eyes lit not with excitement, but recognition.
"Thank you." She meets Clea's eyes as the woman hands back the stolen materials. She grunts a reply and turns to walk away.
"You can always ask for help you know." Clea decides to say after a brief moment of contemplation. Her figure stopping in front of the door.
Alicia says nothing for a good minute, her eyes cast down at her dirtied hands. "I.. didnt want to add more weight on your shoulders. Thinking it might be too much since I already asked you to mentor me in painting."
Clea sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. This girl really knows how to stress a woman out. Being all sad and emotional all of a sudden.
"Your weight is one I'd gladly carry. Never forget that, dear sister." And with that, the door closed with a soft click.
Alicia stared at it a bit longer than she has to.
She gathers up all of her supplies and places them neatly in the corner of her room. The youngest decides to stop working on sculpting for now.
She flops down in bed. Repeating the words Clea had said to her moments before slipping away into her own quarters. She wishes to sleep with her sister just like the way they used to when they were children.
Being with someone that strong has a unique comforting effect.
Alicia would never admit it, but she longs for her sister's comfort.