Work Text:
Here is a fact
Anya Forger was going to die
It was all too sudden. A push, a tug, and suddenly, she found herself throwing her canvas across the room. Strokes of paint littered the walls, and a slimmer of light shines through the binds. Her hands were red, not with paint, but with the scars of frustration. Batted breath.
In.
Out.
The music from her mother's gramophone had long fallen silent. She could only hear the rhythmic static and the pulse of a heart ready to burst.
Years after world peace was (silently) achieved, Eden proudly announced their roster for Ostania's creative olympics -- one of the most prestigious art competitions in Europa. Artists from all corners of the world would flock to Berlint, eager to see the latest stock of artistry the young can conjure. Some fail, while others flew, soaring to heights never thought possible.
She let out a slurry of curses at her ruined canvas. The jury looks only for the finest of minds -- a perfect blend of craftsmanship and theory. They quietly appreciated the classics, yet some look for ambition.
Some look for a forbidden apple. A loose cog in an otherwise uniform machine.
The canvas was a mess, its corners chipped from the damage it received when the sixteen-year-old psychic threw the board at the wall. She had tried to create a scene -- a twisted Berlint, personified as a man on his knees, cradling his intestines, while a soldier points a Lurger to his head.
An observation
The human body is a canvas. It is a shape. Any person can draw a man, but it takes a master to evoke abject misery from a tapestry of chaotic brushstrokes.
A man in red and another in black, eyes glinting. Berlint, on its knees, piercing the viewer's own soul with his thousand-yard stare.
If only she could undo those strokes. It never ceases to amaze (and frustrate) her on how much the mood of a painting could change from a simple revision of the eyes. Grey, hollow eyes turned black. A terrible mistake, caused by the sting of a mosquito bite. She fought back the urge to break. Days of hard-work and isolation, ruined by nature.
Fate is a cruel mistress; it never seems to want her subjects to be happy.
Her work was a failure. There was no way that she could present this to the judges and win the competition. She and her family will be public humiliated, herself shamed by the community she desperately seeks to enter, over a minor error.
And Sy-on boy. How will she tell him that she failed after promising him the world. Her world.
The room smelled of dried cedar and aged wine. Her parents had outfitted the old wine cellar into her personal art studio -- a place for her to leave behind their world and enter her own. When she first held her hands on that brush all those years ago, a flash of lightning struck her. Instinctively, she painted a snow-topped mountain, overlooking an idyllic lake. Granted, the mountains looked more like hills and the snow was made out of glue she scavenged from Becky's pencil-case, but the smile on her father's face when she showed him the painting.
A calculated analysis, thrown aside for raw emotion. Pride swelled from his chest as he lifted the young Anya off her feet. They celebrated with cake and television, her parents locked in a tight embrace, watching their daughter plant the seeds of future artistry.
She wished she could return to the innocence of youth. There was hardly any time for her to relish the fruits of her childhood. Though her parents tried their best to give her a semblance of a normal upbringing, Eden sculpted her mind with unkept brutality. She grew older, saw the world for what it truly was -- a dance between light and day. Her works demolished by the criticisms of adults centuries older than her.
Appearance-wise, of course. She knew they couldn't be older than fifty-years-old, but you can never tell with adults these days. Living with the looming threat of nuclear war tends to drag one's spirit downs, she once noted.
But through fiery words and frozen eyes, she persevered.
She worked and worked and worked.
A confession
Talent does not exist -- at least in Anya's book. Her parents fought hard to earn the lives they enjoy now. They were not born with talent, so she must do the same.
Fire and blood -- that is how you win.
'But it's so easy to give up,' she heard her mind spoke to her. It was strange to hear her own mind speak their own thoughts, but not even an esper is immune to their own psychic abilities. She felt her grip tightened on the brush in her hand. Its shaft had begun to split when the door was busted open.
Enter Twilight.
No.
Enter Loid Forger, concerned father and Westalian ambassador to Ostania.
He ran to her side, grabbing her hands softly. The callouses of his fingers were rough, but there was grace in his movements. The aged diplomat noted the bruises on his daughter's knuckles, and the spurt of blood from her thumb. Glancing over his shoulders, he saw a deep incision on the wall. Anya chuckled sheepishly, her eyes fixed on the ground. "Anya, please," he said, pained.
She moved her lips to speak, but found no words leaving her mouth.
"I made us tomato soup," he paused. "And honey-roasted peanuts. Your favourite," slowly, he grazed the bottom of her chin, lifting it so that her emerald eyes met his.
Anya did not see disappointment in his cool, blue eyes.
Only the worried look of a father.
She nodded slowly. He gripped her hands softly, raising the young woman onto her feet. "Come. Let's," they navigated the long hallways of the embassy. Long ago, she and her parents lived in an apartment smaller than her classroom. But as they walked across the corridors, she remembered just how large her life has become. Each wall was adorned with paintings (of her own make) and photographs.
At the end of the hallway, placed underneath a glass panel, was a human-size portrait of their family. Taken three years ago, the barriers that once existed were no longer present. Loid held Yor tenderly, his arms wrapped around her waist. Between them was a young Anya, whose infectious smile casted a spell on the otherwise stoic couple.
Bond ran towards the pair, letting out a concerned howl for his family. Anya patted the great pyrenees dog. Streaks of grey dotted his otherwise uniform, white coat. He caressed his companion's hand, purring.
His mouth peaked upwards slightly at the sight, though he retained his deep frown.
Underneath a grand chandelier, a feast was set. Strewn all over the table were dishes of all shapes and sizes. A bowl of fruits sat next to a plate of rib-eye steaks, cooked to perfection. Adjacent to the plates was a bowl of tomato soup, steam emanating from the dish. Green garnish surrounded by a stream of cream. One of the butlers stationed in the hall approached them. He moved with reserved elegance, his skin as pale as snow. He bowed politely at the pair when they entered the room. "Good evening, sir and madam. Is there anything I can assist you with?"
Loid shook his head. "We're fine, thank you, Alfred," he replied softly. "Can you leave us alone for a moment? But please bring a first aid kit and a hot towel."
"Very well, sir," with practiced precision, he left the room as swiftly as he entered, moving with naught a sound from his footsteps.
"I can never get used to this..." he chuckled warmly, hoping to raise his daughter's spirits.
But how do you encourage a failed artist?
As Twilight, he was taught the finest curriculum Westalis could provide. He excelled in all fields, surpassing his famed predecessors by a significant margin. Knowledge was power in his field, but there are some lessons that could only be taught from experience. He could recite the history of Rembradt, but possess none of the faculties necessary to recreate his piece. He imagined the feeling to be similar to that of a mission went awry.
A small fact
There are five stages of grief: Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and denial. Each stage is a test on the resolve of one's character. But Twilight found grief is not a ladder, but a gaping pit.
It consumes you whole until you break, and there is nothing of you left.
Anya stared at the roaring fire while her father devoured the soup. He had bags under his eyes -- deeper than usual. With each swoop from the bowl, a glint of light shone from his ring. A decade ago, he and Yor proposed to each other in the midst of battle, but hushed agreements quickly turned to silent adoration, until it blossomed to something much more. On the eve of their fifth year, beneath a moonlit sky, the former spy knelt and presented to her a silver ring -- a relic from a life long forgotten.
She fiddled with her spoon and carefully took a sip from the soup. A tang of acidity, overpowered by a savoury mix of cream, onion, and basil. Her eyes softened as she took another sip, then another, until the soup was half full.
"Careful not to burn your tongue, Anya. It's still hot at the bottom," he warned gently. The esper nodded and slowed her pace. Her skin was dry, lips chapped. Emerald eyes, dampened by exhaustion, diluting its brilliant colour with a greyish tint. 'She must not have slept in days. Poor girl.' He noted internally. It was not too long ago when she discovered his daughter's unusual abilities. Telepathy -- who knew he'd found himself in a family full of unique characters. Him a spy, an assassin for a wife, and an esper for a daughter. Operation Strix would not have completed as quickly as it did without Anya's help, but it was only after intensive investigation that led him to discover a secret Ostanian program, with the aim of creating super-soldiers from kidnapped children.
All funded by Donovan Desmond's pockets.
But the end of one war did not signal an end to all wars. Words were exchanged, agreements made, and Loid found himself stationed as the chief ambassador for Westalia in Berlint. Anya's war in Eden, however, never ended. He was proud of the woman Anya has grown into, but shame lurked in his mind. Through his work, she was given the best education a parent could possibly ask for their child, but it came at a cost. Her heightened senses made her susceptible to the intense psychological mine field that existed in such a prestigious academy. Each conversation made contained layers of unspoken words; every action taken, a battle in a much larger war for glory. Only those with the strongest wills could make through the trials set forth by the academy. As a result, her childhood were filled with sleepless nights, studying for exams meant for children years above her age.
Silence reigned.
A crack of fire.
"Anya, is everything okay?" he asked suddenly, breaking the silence. 'Her movements are sluggish; she choked on her words earlier. She is anything but okay,' he remarked mentally.
She wiped the splodges of soup on her mouth with a napkin. "Everything's fine, papa. I'm just tired," she lied effortlessly. But it takes a liar to know a liar, and Loid knew those words was but a shield for what she truly felt. He wanted to probe further, but he relented. She must go at her pace.
But it did not help to nudge her to the right direction.
A simple lesson
The truth could be gained through a clever ear. It is better to ask open-ended questions.
Lies sculpted to truth.
"The Ostanian delegation was particularly nosy today. You should have seen it. They kept fumbling over their words due to the SSS officers that were assigned to them," he chuckled. "I would not be surprised if your uncle placed them there himself. You know, the usual. Him and his... fondness for your mother,"
Anya giggled softly. "I wish I could've seen it. Do you think they planted an audio chip while they were here?" she was always privy to his life as a spy, but he found it was better to tell the truth. Besides, truth or not, she could always scan through his mind to check the validity of his stories.
He shook his head. "Believe me, the SSS are paranoid, but with that paranoia comes sloppiness. It just so happens your uncle is the exception to that rule. Either way, I would have known by now if they planted a bug around the embassy," he replied, oozing with confidence. He may have retired years ago, but the skills he gained from decades of experience as a spy remained a sharp as ever. "How is the painting going?"
She dropped her spoon into the bowl, splashing its contents slightly. Her body was frozen, as if he had struck her nerve.
It was the only way she could come to peace with herself.
"It's..." she paused, her voice trembling. It did not take a telepath to note the tears that held back in her eyes. He placed his hand over hers. Days of pressure and stress were unleashed as the esper finally broke down. A torrent of tears fell from her eyes, and the sound of her cries reverberated throughout the room. He stood up from his chair and gave his daughter a fatherly embrace. No words could ever comfort a person at their lowest.
Sometimes, it is better to listen than to speak.
"I-I found a photo and I wanted to recreate it, but the brush... my hands," she choked on her sobs as she thought about the mistake she made. Instinctively, Loid brought her head onto his shoulders. His beige sweater damped with tears.
As a spy, he was no stranger to errors. Adaptability was key in his field, and it was only through his quick thinking that saved him from certain death. But errors were the bane of every creative. A simple mistake could ruin their spirit, shatter their resolve.
"How bad?"
"Bad. Enough to disqualify me from the competition," she whispered.
I've seen her work before. It will take more than a single error to take her out of the competition. She may doubt herself, but I doubt the error is bad enough to disqualify from the competition entirely. I can't say the same for the Franks, however. He shuddered at the thought of the Franks.
"Why do you think so?"
"W-Well, the perspective is too natural. There's no sense of depth. The red was too bold, so it overwhelmed the monotone colours. And..." she could list a hundred things wrong with her painting. How the strokes that formed the hands were too elegant for such a chaotic scene, the stiffness in the officer's body as he points the pistol to Berlint, and the eyes.
They say eyes are the windows to one's soul. How could one see the soul of Berlint if his eyes are devoid of any sort of emotion?
"No one is ever free from errors. We can try and try, but fail all the same. That is what makes us human," he assured her as he ran his hands through her pink hair. She opened her mouth to speak, but she uttered no words. "I can't speak for you, but I am certain that you'll come back stronger."
She sniffed. "Why is it all so... hard. I can't bear with it -- the pressure. I feel like a ball, papa. Every time I try to do something with my work, I feel myself getting kicked in the stomach. I shouldn't have signed up for the competition--"
"What's done is done, Anya. When you signed up, there was always the chance that you weren't accepted into the draft, but you were!" he wiped a tear from her cheek, and shone a tender smirk at her. "You rose to the occasion. You even beat that one girl, who was her name again?"
"Anastasia," she replied briefly.
"Her, yes. Remember her? She did everything she could to sabotage your work, paid other people to do her work for her, but you were chosen. Your work paid off,"
She furrowed her brows. "She cheated?"
He shook his head playfully. "I'm surprise you didn't know. Yes, she did cheat. Her parents contracted a senior painter in the Berlint House of Art to make a piece for her," he removed the strands of hair that covered her piercing eyes.
"Oh..." she frowned. "I must've been too focused on my own work to pay attention to her," she confessed.
"It was hardly something anyone would notice. Her body was too stiff when she unfurled the curtain over her painting. That, and her eyes were darting everywhere," he sighed. "You kids are perceptive, but you make things too easy sometimes," he laughed softly.
She clutched his sweater tightly. "I'm so scared, papa. The whole world is going to see me on that stage with my work. If the panel disapproves, I can't imagine how the kids in school are going to treat me," her voice trembled as she burrowed deeper into his shoulder. "I don't want to disappoint Sy-on boy..." she felt her face heat up when she thought of the youngest member of the Desmond household. A day before the announcement was released, the two of them strolled around the academy grounds. It took all of her courage to proclaim her intention to gift the world to him, her fingers locked between his.
"Y-You can't give me the whole world! What are you, dumb?" he stumbled over his words. His cheeks were rose-red with embarrassment, but he did not let go of her hands. On the contrary, he cradled them closer to his heart.
"The judges would have to be stupid to fail you over a small mistake. They may be pretentious, but they're not stupid. They know hard work when they see one."
Anya felt her heart flutter with admiration. She was constantly compliment as being talented, yet she received those words in the same vain as one would with a slap to the face. Talent implies an inherent mastery over a field, one that manifests instinctively. But she worked hard to get where she is today.
Bruised hands and empty bottles of paint.
Her father understood this better than anyone. He understood that no skill is inherited, and the one true constant in life is a person's resolve to accomplish something greater than themselves. Anya doubts that even he understands the weight of artistry. He was a spy -- a man who was used to have his work go unspoken -- but an artist relishes in the spotlight. It is their oasis, an eden for them to showcase their masterpiece.
A statement
No art is pure from torment. The greater the pain, the greater the work.
Wax melts, a boy falls.
What is the price of glory if failure results in death?
He sighed. "Other than the technical details, why do you think you're going to fail?"
She choked back her words. Her hands trembled and she gripped her father tightly. "I shouldn't be here... I saw the paintings the other kids made. They were all so much better than mine, but I was chosen. Why?" she erupted into tears, his sweater further dampened with tears.
Loid held his daughter closer. There were a million words that flowed in his brilliant mind. Tender assurances, words of affirmation, but sometimes, words fail.
Sometimes, it is better to stay silent.
Eden is relentless. Any normal person would have cracked from the pressure placed onto them by the school. Ostania's finest minds were born within those halls, yet they fail to teach their students the most fundamental lesson of life: It is okay to fail. Through serrated words and the judgement, lies the secret to inner peace. But the concept was a stranger to the young Forger. In Eden, only the strongest thrive, and so the moment Anya understood the concept of winning, she fought hard to remain at the top.
"There is no one in Eden -- not even that Desmond boy -- that didn't know about the amount of work you did to get to where you are now. You might think that the others are better than you, but that doesn't invalidate your efforts. You fought, you struggled, and you were chosen," she sniffed. The young Forger could not even bring herself to cry anymore. Loid observed the room around him, and noticed that Bond had stood nearby, his drooped eyes brimming with concern. He urged the hound to come towards them. Slowly, the great pyrene nestled himself between the pair. Anya let out a reserved sneeze.
"The judges..." she muttered through shaky breath.
"To hell with what they think. I've met enough art 'connoisseurs' to know that most of them act with a stick in their ass," he joked crudely. He was once a reserved man, who hardly quipped or swore, but as his love for his family grew, the walls that he built to protect himself cracked, until there was nothing but the man that Twilight had long rejected. A man who yearned for affection.
She laughed sadly. "T-There are some good ones..."
"Name one," he quipped.
"Matej Potočnik?"
"Well..." he trailed off. "He is known for being eccentric with his tastes. Knowing you, he's going to love your piece,"
"And if he doesn't?"
He laughed heartily. "Then he's an idiot, or he might even be jealous," he teased.
"Shut up, chi-chi!" she smiled sheepishly. Their laughter echoed throughout the room, and they held each other in a tight embrace. She took a deep breath, her eyes puffy with dried tears. A frown crept onto her face. "I want to make you and mama proud. The other kids, I can manage, but..." she felt her mind barrelling towards a gaping pit.
"Anya Forger, I want you to stop that thought. I can see it quite clearly on your face," her eyes widened and she shook her head. "There is not a single day where we aren't proud of you. Most kids would've shattered from the stress we put you through," there was a lace of guilt strewn in his voice. "But you've become everything a parent could want from their child and more. An imperial scholar--" he pressed the button of her nose. "--and a wonderfully annoying artist."
"Hey!" she feigned an insulted look on her face, but her father simply laughed it off. He gave a peck on her forehead.
"My sweetie, one day, you'll blow us all away. Until that day comes, we will always support you, no matter the outcome," Bond's ears perked as he heard the faintest noise of heels, clinking against dark-oak panels. "And that will be your mother. Let's try to make ourselves look a bit presentable. I fear she might combust if she hears about what you've been doing to your hands."
She rose from her seat, her hair a ruffled mess. She wiped her face with the napkin on the table. "Thank you, papa. For everything," she locked her fingers between his.
He reciprocated the gesture, and smiled warmly at her. "Likewise, Anya."
Yor's frantic footsteps edged closer to the door.
A decade ago, she could not have imagined herself in the loving arms of a father nor did she expect him to be a spy from Ostania's greatest enemy nor did she expect her mother to be an assassin for one of the most feared organisations in the world. But as her family cradled each other by the roaring hearth, she thanked fate -- cruel mistress of life -- for granting her a second chance. For a moment, she would let worries elude her.
For a time, she found inner peace.
***
A headline
Sixteen-year-old girl wins first place at world-acclaimed art competition!
Westalian ambassador to Ostania moved to tears as he awarded his daughter grand prize.