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„Don’t try to force it “. The warm voice, as golden as a winter’s day shining over the desert, sounds slightly amused. “You need to be patient. Don’t think, dear one. You just need to feel”
Azkaellon looks up, trying to bite down the frustration. He must not snap at his Lord. Not even when he is put to the most exasperating task he has ever been given. It’s his duty to serve his master’s desires, as long as those desires do not put Sanguinius himself into needless danger.
“Yes, my Lord” he only acknowledges, glaring at his to date greatest foe. The yet empty canvass seems to radiate mockery with its pure white emptiness. Why is this so difficult?
Azkaellon so despises to fail in anything, let alone in something that his Sire has commanded him to do. He is not accustomed to it either. War came easy to him. Fighting and killing, serving and dying. Strategy and tactics, chain swords and bolters. Serving Sanguinius and guarding him, taking care of him when he is unable to do so himself. Obedience, no matter what. Loyalty in each and every form.
But Art? Expressing his feelings and emotions on a blank canvas. This is a harder test than any he has faced before.
To his right he can hear Amit’s boisterous laughter, hands deep into clay. It looks to become an urn in form of a blade. Why does his brother find it all come so easy to him? Why do all of them seem to find it so much less troublesome? His eyes flash to the left, where Raldoron is tugging on the kanun strings, working out a new piece. From what few words he can hear, it seems to involve Raldoron’s Adjutant’s latest poem to music. Mkani himself is sprawling over a low couch, laughingly commenting on Raldoron’s work so far. His dark eyes are glittering with relaxed delight.
All of them so at ease, so fulfilled in their art. It’s only Azkaellon himself who struggles. The whole atelier is filled with his father’s favoured sons, a multitude of different arts and crafts. Carved wood and stone next to weaved carpets and blown glass. Jewellery made besides origami and paintings Perfumes take form next to soap and fine clothes. Everyone is smiling and laughing, so very at ease. Poets are declaring their rhythms and musicians playing their instruments. And amidst all the cacophony, he stands alone. A large hand falls on his shoulder.
“Don’t overthink it.” Sanguinius is smiling at him. “Close your eyes, dear one. Listen to the music and just feel. Let it guide you”. The warm deep tones of the kanun hang in the air, as sweet and rich as honey. They sink deep into his mind, soothing the sharp anxious edges.
“Now just lift your coal and draw. Don’t open your eyes or think about what you’re doing.” A large hand wraps around his wrist and gently pulls it towards the canvas until he can feel the resistance of the fabric. “Now follow the music” His Sire repeats gently. What can he do but try to obey?
The din of different instruments fades into the background as he focuses on single sounds. Sanguinius barely audible humming beneath his breath and Raldoron’s kanun’s rich notes. Warm laughter, brotherhood and joy all around him and slowly the once discordant sounds begin to feel like the symphony of their beloved Red Tear itself. All thoughts of art and the struggle fade away
It is only as he opens his eyes again that he sees the shape that has subconsciously begun to take shape upon the canvas. It us rough and has barely started, but he can see his brothers upon it. These lines are Amit’s sharp smile, those ones Kano’s wild curls and slightly behind them are Raldoron’s clear eyes. Above them all there is a faint outline of wings and like them his inspiration soars. Maybe he can do this after all.