prologue/chapter 1: canvas

'Art is dreaming.

Dreaming of 'what is' or even 'what can be.'

It can show your real emotions or the feelings you long for the most.

Even the horrors that lurk in your deepest and darkest dreams or the angels basking in the purest light, who will save you from those abominations, are a form of art.

These higher beings might be real or fictional, only to fit a narrative. They are in between 'what is and what could be.' This makes them great muses for paintings.

But a great muse is nothing without the canvas. How can it be portrayed without the place where the paint needs to stick? Where would the place be where colors collide and fight, or maybe even coexist?

The world is our canvas; we are its colors.

They call God the greatest painter. Orchestrating how everything is supposed to look, it is the only painter who can make 'what could be' into 'what is.' We are living examples of that, or we are fiction created by some lesser being with some extra creativity.

Well, whatever the answer is, it wouldn't matter. I think; so therefore, I am. I can't quite remember who actually said that to me; it might be from an old book I read.

Ah, who cares? Where was I?

Oh yeah, God is a painter, the world is its canvas, and we are the paint.

Which makes us hobbyists and professionals mere thieves of the most beautiful piece of art.

But that's not completely true, because we do add 'what could be' to every piece we make; a complete copy is impossible.

So the world is our inspiration. As an artist, we aspire to be God, to reach his excellence, to not use a muse but to make one ourselves.

There is only one question. Are humans able to do something so great?

Probably not.'

A young man around his early twenties was staring at a blank canvas. His blue eyes were hyperfocused on what was in front of him. His thoughts were somewhere else.

His left hand reached towards the left side of his head. He scratched through his messy, blond hair. The young man instantly wanted to paint after he woke up, so he had not taken any time for his looks.

This has happened a lot lately.

'Well the world I dreamt of last night was a lighter color.

Humanity living together, individuals taking care of each other.

A world so vast that there was enough space for everyone, but people on the opposite edges of this world did not have to miss each other's company.

Information being shared without a cost and cultures that learned from each other.

This is not a muse that I created; it's one I imagined with pre-existing Knowledge. So my assumption is right; humans can't create their muse.

It is only a 'what could be' that has been inspired by a 'what is.'

Oh well, who cares? I have inspiration now, so where do we start?

.....'

The early morning sunrays that shone through the windows were the only source of light in the room. This created quite the view. All kinds of utensils, paint, paintings, and cabinets surrounded the young man. This scene was already artistic on its own accord.

Two birds were busy making a nest on the roof of the house; their chirping could be heard inside.

After a few moments, another noise could be very clearly heard. It was a horse carriage that slowly moved past his house. Shortly after, another loud noise could be heard.

Bonk

It was a newspaper that was thrown against their door.

The young man didn't notice anything. He was focusing on something else.

'I wouldn't know what such a world looks like.

My muse doesn't exist for me.

The people are divided; cultures won't mix.

Knowledge is only for the rich and highly capable.

People divided can only write to each other; I would not call that conversing at all. A letter can make you feel happy at first, but it does not carry the exact words a person wants to say.

But words don't do that either.

Ahhh, I can think about that later. A letter is just not the same as seeing each other in the flesh. It only enhances the loneliness we feel when that person isn't around.

And the war that looms over us makes that loneliness deeper and deeper.

People who are sent to the front lines can only dream about seeing their loved ones; even letters won't reach them there.

...

Okay, so I know what the opposite of my world looks like. I think I can work with that.'

The young man started painting the sky. He used light color variations.

A little bit of yellow.

A little bit of red.

A little bit of blue.

And a little bit of white.

After a while, the canvas was still mostly white. The only thing that was done was the sky; the world itself was blanc.

The young man kept staring, scratching his head. He had no idea what his ideal world looked like.

Suddenly some noise could be heard behind the door of the room.

The young man still did not notice what was happening around him; his thoughts were taking all his attention.

Creak

A man around his fifties walked into the room. His blond hair was mostly grey now.

bonk, bonk

His right leg was nowhere to be found; in its place was a wooden version of a leg.

The lost leg caused some trouble for the older man, but he didn't care that much about it. He could still walk with its replacement, so it was no bother.

"What did I tell you about using my canvas, Caelus?"

Young Caelus shook out of his stupor.

"To not use them," he replied with a smile.

The older man shook his head.

"This is the last time. You will pay me for the next one. Now scram; I have work to do. Those nobles that visited us last week want their painting done."

Caelus nodded and walked towards the door, but he turned around before walking through it.

"Any news about the priest coming this year?"

His dad, who had taken the sky painting off the easel, looked towards his direction.

"Well the last festival was cancelled, so it's highly unlikely that they are going to make you wait another ten years."

The older man then sighed.

"And most of the young ones like you are going to be drafted soon, so knowing your gift is quite important. I am sure that he will visit soon enough."

Caelus nodded. He then took a glance at the painting his dad was making.

It wasn't completely done yet, but so far it looked like an almost exact copy of the real noble family. This was the gift the older man had had since birth.

The name Jonathan Dawn was well known in the lower noble ranks. He made perfect paintings. People wouldn't be able to see the difference between a real brush or a brush he painted. So these rich families wanted to immortalize themselves by having him paint them.

'I hope I get a similar gift as Dad; maybe that will get me out of the draft.'

"Alright. I'll take care of the groceries today; I assume that there is a list on the table."

His dad smiled while looking at his painting, thinking about which colors he needed to finish his project.

"It almost sounds like I have to do groceries too. That is your task alone, my dear son. Otherwise I won't be able to finish my work and than i won't be able to provide for my jobless son." Jonathan said in a teasing manner,"

"Well your jobless son will get a knight job appointed to him soon enough. You will wish that I stayed jobless." Caelus said with a big smile.

They both made a few more jokes and then left each other to their tasks.

Their conversation sounded like light banter, but it was far from it. They were both worried about the future. The only way to cope for them was to joke about it.

'So words don't really convey what we want to say, interesting.' Caelus thought.

He took the list from the table and went outside. The morning sun was now a bit higher.

The birds were still flying around to search for twigs.

Caelus walked through the garden and opened the fence gate. The garden was a little bit overgrown, but that wasn't a bad thing; it had its own charm.

Outside the gate was the street. It was filled with stones, which caused the horse carriages to wobble.

One of the neighbors was busy cleaning his roof. He waved towards Caelus.

"Morning, Caelus. Getting groceries for the old man I see." The man with a straw head shouted.

"Good morning, Lev. Yeah, it's my duty as a son to fulfill my dad's wishes," he shouted back in a joking tone.

Lev laughed and waved the young Caelus goodbye.

Caelus walked through a few more streets. Most of the people he saw were wearing working attire, which was mostly old clothing.

Their village had a lot of good farm land, so most of the citizens worked on the fields.

The market was quite rowdy. There were a few street artists who put smiles on the faces of the common people.

One guy shot bubbles out of his fingertip.

A woman turned invisible. Well, her body and her clothing were still visible.

And another man was sitting behind a desk.

Well, this man wasn't a street entertainer. He was recruiting people to become knights for the upcoming war.

This was a bit unnecessary, though. Everyone knew that the capable men above 18 were forced to join in this war. The only thing the king had to do was send a letter to every province, requesting manpower, and he would have it.

It would happen soon enough.

'Better enjoy my last few days of freedom,' Caelus thought while walking towards the bakery.

'I should probably finish my painting.'