Sam wiped at her forehead, smearing a streak of red paint across it. Within her eyes, a conflict was taking place, one between the exhaustion brought on by the late night and the sparking, glittering mania of the situation. That feral grin she had gained almost an hour ago was still plastered across her face even now, but something in the way it broadened just a smidgen informed Kreig that a change had occurred.

George had a similar expression, if somewhat subdued. Although his face showed none of her expression, his eyes were just as bright, dimmed only by the solemn realization that he wouldn’t be getting any sleep that night.

George took a step back from the canvas, paint-stained hand shooting up to rub his chin. “I’d say it’s pretty much done.”

“Yeah. Pretty much done,” Sam echoed approvingly, arms crossed over her chest. A fire seemed to blaze up in her eyes as she grabbed the canvas from off of the stand and held it up for Kreig to see.

Until now, Kreig had been stuck in a middle point between constant, uninterrupted thinking and sliding into his soldier’s habit of waking meditation. He just didn’t know how to react. The last time he was forced to pose for a portrait he could at least be sure that he’d be there for a few hours and that his painter wouldn’t do anything strange, but with how his siblings had been looking at him over the past hour, the situation was completely unpredictable. And now, it seemed to have come to an end.

Kreig turned his weary gaze to the painting held in her dirty hands.

It was… well, honestly, Kreig wasn’t sure what he had expected, but this sure was/n’t it.

First of all, that couch was way too small. Almost comically so, being the approximate size of a small stool shoved beneath his body, which, in comparison, was massive. For some reason, Kreig was happy to notice he was wearing clothes. A white, paint-stained apron and regular, modern clothing. Still, for some reason, his body reminded him of some sort of massive bull, swollen and huge, lying on his side just as she had wanted. His hair was long and his face was pale, eyes hazy…

And he was smiling.

Sure, the smile was just a single, unbroken black line, but… A smile.

Even stranger, for some reason, it felt right. Of course he’d be smiling. He was having a good time, wasn’t he? Of course he was. And so was George, and so was Sam.

He carefully slid off the couch to stand. Trod over to where Sam stood. Her wild eyes and bright grin followed him all the way until he stood right in front of her. Wordlessly, she handed him the painting. His fingers brushed over it lightly.

Sand Emperor's Touch (X)

The crude oil-painting, clearly amateur, was sealed and rendered eternal.

His mind moved back seventy years, to when he had his portrait painted by one of dozen master painters. He’d been standing still for hours, his hair tied back as if in preparation for war, body encased in uselessly ornate armour made for looks, broadsword in one hand and shield in the other. When he saw his portrait, he had felt his heart sink. Eyes soulless and rimmed with dark bags, face stale and stoic, a harsh frown tugging at his lips. That portrait had then been hung up alongside a million other soulless portraits down the halls of the palace. Immortalized as another one of the Emperor’s mysteries.

...This was not that.

Although almost childishly drawn, like something two toddlers with access to paint might conjure, it was still better than what that master artist had made. This - this had a soul. It wasn’t a warrior or a machine of murder. This was him, as he was, as they saw him.

Smiling.

Kreig saw his vision growing cloudy, his hands trembling just slightly as they held the portrait. He could feel the edges of his lips dipping, threatening to form his lips into a frown. In retaliation, in a strange form of mimicry towards the painted version of himself, he forced a smile onto his lips. A trembling, honest smile.

The painting was hung up in the living room while the one he made of his siblings was mounted on the wall in his own room. The rest of the night passed in the blink of an eye, spent mostly by cleaning up after the childish event. And when the clock hit 6, both Sam and George realized that they still had work to get to. It may be a Thursday, but it was still a workday.

And so, after an hour or so, they left the house yet again, leaving him alone. But he wouldn’t be alone for long, and he knew that.

While he waited for his tutor to arrive, he poked around a little. Not much, not too prying, but he did take a look around. Of course, it’s not like he’d dare to touch the television or anything near it, but he did find a small row of what seemed to be books along the edge of one of the small cupboards. Once he picked one up and flipped it open though, he realized that it wasn’t a book. At least, not quite.

It was filled from edge to edge with small, strange-looking paintings, periodically interrupted by small bubbles filled with text. “Wait for me!” one of the bubbles said, “I’ll see you on the other side.”

Hm. Although Kreig hardly recognized this exact form, it did somewhat remind him of some murals that could be found here and there, telling stories in a series of pictures. Except these pictures were very small. And with text.

He turned to the picture next to the first one. “Please don’t go,” the bubble said gravely, “I’m not letting you leave me.” As Kreig continued, panel-to-panel, he found that time seemed to be going in reverse. Either that, or he was reading them in the wrong order.

...Yeah, he was reading them in the wrong order. Though, that posed the question: why would the panels go from right to left when texts were usually meant to be read left-to-right? Very strange.

A chime resounded through the apartment and he was forced to leave the book and the question behind. His tutor had arrived.

She was as radiant as the last time he had seen her and just a smidge less obviously terrified.

Unlike yesterday, they actually spent the day, well, working. Sort of. The hours before lunch was spent familiarizing Kreig with the subject of social sciences and establishing how he’d best learn such subjects. Lunch went well and Erica seemed to, once again, thoroughly enjoy what he had to offer. The time after lunch was spent with science, and unlike what Kreig had expected at a glance, with her tutoring he found himself unexpectedly understanding parts that he believed would completely slip his mind.

Once she put her mind to it, Erica was surprisingly good at explaining things in a simple but thorough manner. And, at the end of it, he found himself completing exercises that seemed impossible at first glance with ease.

And when he finished a problem like that, and Erica came over to check if he completed it with the proper solution, and she told him he did it just right, he felt a strange surge of pride.

And when Erica left for the night, he had completely forgotten his plans of cancelling the tutoring.