A/N: This is Eleonore Duplay – lived during the French Revolution of 1789 and Gian Giacomo known as Salai – who lived and worked with Leonardo da Vinci. After being offered a choice at the moment of their respective deaths, they have come to a strange in between realm under the guardianship of a Irishman name Finn O’Reilly and Ene. Tasked with creating “things” in the words of Ene, they now try to spend their time trying not to kill one another.
“This is stupid,” Salai hissed. He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t like you.”
Eleonore ignored him. She’d had younger siblings all her life, including one little brother who was very much like Salai. She instead focused on her painting, the scene coming to her in a vivid wash of color. Two figures in a cave. Or not them, but their shadows, the light streaming in from the mouth of the cave.
“That’s not what the shadows would look like,” Salai interrupted her concentration again. “You’re making it too intense for the strength of the light. There aren’t any lines like that in life, you know.” He sniffed in superiority.
Eleonore’s brush stopped for a moment as she gritted her teeth together.
“I know. But art isn’t real life, is it?” she asked, her tone as mild as milk.
Salai, this loathsome brat she’d been saddled with, scoffed. “It isn’t. But it should be an accurate reflection, shouldn’t it?”
Eleonore looked at him, an eyebrow raising in surprise. That was the first hint he’d shown of something other than shallow enjoyment of anything. His relaxed posture on the chaise lounge, flipping through a magazine and eating the new dessert that Finn had brought back for them to try—layers of thin pastry and honey, topped with nuts. She watched as a sticky string of honey dripped off the fork.
Salai’s cultivated nonchalance regarding their new position made her want to hit him. She’d never struck her siblings in life, even when they deliberately tried to bother her. Her even temper had been one of the things she and her father had shared. One of the things that made Maximilien value her company.
She took a slow breath and set down her brush.
“Do you mean that art should reflect the life an artist perceives? Or do you mean that art should be real life?”
Salai took another bite of his dessert, sucking the fork free of honey. His eyes rolled as he thought. “I think that art should be a reflection of what the artist sees. Or maybe what they also want to see.” He frowned. “But it should look like real life. And there are no lines in real life.”
“But then how do we show more than just that one moment? How do we show who a person is, what they want? Art can’t just look like real life,” Eleonore said, thinking about David’s La Mort de Marat. “And lines are a part of life too.” She pointed at the door. “What do you call the boundary between a wall and the edge of a door?”
“The subject should tell the story,” Salai snapped at her. “What does a woman know of art anyway?”
Eleonore snorted. “You clearly weren’t paying attention to when El introduced us. I was trained as an artist in life.”
Salai stared at her. Ate another bite of the dessert. “Were you any good? Have any patrons?”
“No,” she returned with a distasteful curl of her lip. “But I would imagine that you wouldn’t understand the concept of working for oneself.”
Salai sat up. “And what do you mean by that?”
Eleonore raised an eyebrow. “Nothing. Only that you are remembered for being an eternal apprentice.” She turned from him.
“Well, at least I’m not remembered for being unsuccessful in marrying a man,” Salai snapped before storming out the door, which slammed behind him.
Stories, both long and short. 