Heir of the Underground

Chapter 12: Prissayne

"How can you stomach painting right now?" Prissayne mused, the carriage hitting another bump on the path.

Eldridge looked up at her, his pale blue eyes fixating on her in quiet confusion. "Why wouldn't I be able to?" he pondered.

Prissayne managed a shrug. "I just figured that the motion from the carriage might make you feel sick. Not to mention, the bumps in the road. Wouldn't they cause you to mess up?"

She didn't know much about painting, nor did she have much of a knack for it. Regardless, the thought of trying to paint in a moving vehicle seemed nearly impossible, not to mention incredibly frustrating.

But Eldridge was Eldridge, and his natural-born gift was painting. He could probably paint a masterpiece blindfolded.

And as he turned the piece he was working on, Prissayne couldn't help but marvel at his talent. Every line, every shape, was clean, perfect, exactly as intended.

"Your talent never ceases to amaze me," she glowed, casting a smile to her brother.

He returned the grin, though there was an absence to it, as there often was. Something about Eldridge always seemed mystical and ethereal—not quite there. He seemed far too wise and too otherworldly for his age.

"What exactly are you painting?" Prissayne wondered.

Upon first glance, the painting seemed abstract, with methodically placed shapes and lines of varying colors. It was a lot—seemingly chaotic, yet with logic and thought behind all of it. It wasn't filled with random splotches or splashes. It was choreographed, perfectly planned.

He picked up the painting, studying it as though he had never looked at it before, as though it were something he had begun creating mindlessly, nothing more than an intuitive, subconscious story he had borne unto the canvas before him.

"It's turmoil," he answered, his voice slow and lilted. "Someone's head when they're conflicted, when they have a lot of feelings inside but can't let them out."

Squinting, Prissayne examined the painting again. "Yes, I can certainly gather all of that from it." She pointed, drawing his attention to a patch of spikes—incomplete triangles—red and gold in color. "That's rage, isn't it?"

He nodded, his whisps of blond hair bobbing along with him. "It's greed and anxiety too," he added. "And the waves of blue and brown are guilt. And spirals of pink, purple, and green are rejection. Mingled with a bit of jealousy. And hurt, even."

Prissayne blinked, astonished. Such insight her brother had. What did he know of these feelings? Adult feelings that he surely had never felt for himself. Had he observed them in others? He was often quiet, often scanning a room and painting whatever caught his eye.

"Do these thoughts belong to anyone in particular?"

The question lingered between them a moment before finally settling, just as Eldridge settled on a response.

"Laurent."

"Laurent?" Prissayne repeated, taken aback. "Those are Laurent's feelings?"

Rage. Greed. Anxiety. Guilt. Rejection. Jealousy. Hurt.

"You don't agree?" Eldridge asked confusedly, tilting his head to the side. Something in his face read of sudden self-doubt, as though he feared that he had miscalculated or misread.

Yet, Prissayne said nothing to assuage his fear. She was struck, unsure of how to react.

Why would Laurent be feeling all of those things? Some came as no surprise. She knew that he was always greedy, always wanting more. And he had a number of things to be jealous or hurt over. But rage? Why be angry? Why be anxious? And rejected by who? And better yet, guilty for what?