In the peace of Lumos, a pure town favored by the sun, flowers and harvests all thrive. A land covered by a hopeful evoking sight of flora and fauna, villages of people filled with love for humane things like literature, music, and art. Practicing them as if it was their only known religion.
The day is accompanied by the bustling sound of humans living today with a melodious routine, the brushing of leaves, trickling of the pristine waters along the whole town. Children singing with animals, farmers trading their fresh goods, mothers cooking for their families, and artists from the riverside atelier recording every moment delicately on paper.
The sunlight of this morning of a new year seeps into the quiet atelier in Lumos. It's been here since the founding of the town; there were old paintings of even the earliest village chiefs of Lumos, dyes that have dried from decades of careful preservation, and bundles of yellowed parchment, some even burnt by the blessed sun.
Inside that creative establishment enters a female apprentice enters, looking around with interest. A young maiden who dreams like it's her lifeline. A calming light, personified.
Lumiere Navia.
Nostalgia was evident in the way the room was left as it had been in the previous months, ever since the master went out of town. His colleagues must've been considerate enough not to tamper with what's left here. Easels stand firm, canvases with or without progress, used palettes, paintbrushes still soaked in pigment and water, along with a pile of crumpled unfinished artworks.
These are the handiwork from the previous group of apprentices. Pfft, these muddy jars are thriving with life at this point.
Lumiere walks over to the desk by the window, just enough where the light could drape over her somber face. She was about to set her things down and sit until a lone canvas discarded on the floor caught her eye.
Dyed with blue and white, from a distance, and with the technique used that made it able to emit light. It was so alluring already just from merely being afar. In an immediate trance, she walks over to it.
How could such a beautiful piece hold so much sorrow and longing?
Surely, this isn't just a mere practice work; someone certainly poured their heart and soul into this.
She stood before the painting on the floor, gazing from above. She observed every broken, blurry stroke, objects within, and the techniques. It was a painting of the night sky from a faraway cliff. Apparently, the enthralling light came from the moon, painted high in the middle of it all.
However, there was a striking detail in this scenery, a faceless angel sitting atop the moon, carrying what seems to be a rope made out of light.
The Lumiere luckily has a background about fascinating foreign myths apart from just humane genres of folklore since she loves to read. This girl particularly has an unexplainable interest in winged entities.
An angel, huh? Why would an angel be depicted having a rope, though?
Her gaze was directed by the painting as if orchestrated by the artist themselves. Seeing the scenic view first, before the tiny detail that was the angel. But only when her line of sight lowered did she notice that the black figure at the side wasn't a tree at all, but rather a person looking up at the sky.
It appeared to be a mysterious male figure, the face was upturned, but the moonlight caused the dew in his eyes and cheeks to be apparent. With this addition, she could only interpret so few.
The man seems broken and lost. And for some unexplainable reason, a sense of familiarity was felt.
She longed to touch this painted male, but resisted out of an artist's respect with the safety of one's work.
Is this a persona, or is this you, dear artist? Why do you also hold so much sorrow and longing in your gaze into the night? Or perhaps such sentiments were ink that bled from the artist's brush?
It's as if I'm being pulled into the world of a stranger whose lore I can feel deeply.
I doubt this is a piece without meaning…
"Little angel, guide your artist well," her soft voice uttered a tiny prayer.
Without thinking, Lumiere carefully picked up the canvas and relocated it. Dusting off a cabinet, clearing a way, only for her to store the artwork she had just admired earlier. Upon shutting the door, even when deprived of so much light, the moon still glistened from within.
As her hands fell to her sides, her fingertips shone with a silver smear. Though she didn't notice.
There's light evoked amongst the darkness.
When she goes back to her seat, an array of bustling noises approaches the room. Her fellow apprentices, along with the atelier's master, now enter. The tranquility is now broken by crowds of noise. As she is seated, Luna sighs, feeling empathetic with the painting. Though she can't tell whose emotions it holds, was it a persona only, or did the artist bleed into their work?
Pieces like this shouldn't be just misplaced on the floor; it's meaningful and inviting. I pray its owner takes it back soon.
The pads of her fingertips glowed subtly until the shift in the girl's focus made the mysterious pigment vanish.
"Oh, he's still here? I thought he gave up long ago?" Celia uttered from the side of the room several minutes after.