[Write about your muse – what do they look like? What does your muse do to inspire you?]

Leyla’s eyes rested on the blank canvas in front of her for a moment too long, causing a tear to form in her left eye.

“Ah, not again.” She complained, before wiping the drop away with her arm. “Really…every time.”

The woman sniffed before adjusting the canvas and her chair so that the incoming sunlight from the window to her right would shine just right.

“Now, let’s begin with a splash of grays and blue.”

To Leyla’s side was a small glass table covered in paints of the essential colors of life and in her hands were a palette and brush. She dipped the brush into the gray paint before wiping the blob on her palette so that she could add black and white as she pleased. When she found a suitable gray hue, she took just a few drops of dark blue from the table and applied it to some areas of the gray.

Then, the world infinitely condensed onto the tip of her paint brush before she violently slashed out at the blank canvas with it, covering almost the entire top half of the canvas in what appeared to be a smattering of stormy clouds.

The sky she had brought into existence almost seemed capable to thunder and explode with lightning before going on to sweep the earth…but under Leyla’s gaze, the winds dared not even release a whimper.

“Next, the browns and greens.”

Leyla followed the same process of pooling paint on her palette and mixing colors until she was satisfied with the results.

Then, the second slash.

In but another moment, a vast grassland appeared on the bottom half of the canvas, stretching beyond space itself as the sheer immensity of the mass gave the domineering impression of unending density. It was as though the land held all of existence upon itself, with countless room for more. Yet, under Leyla’s gaze, the grassland was no different than a sandbox in its grandeur.

“And that won’t be complete without…the reds.”

Another tear threatening to spill, Leyla blended the red for only an instant before her expression twisted into something fearsome, and she released the third slash with a howl of rage.

Splattering, boiling, flowing, pooling, spilling, cascading—the gruesome crimson hue of blood was suddenly unleashed upon the world Leyla created as both the earth and sky were drowned in death. Had a mortal been present to witness the third slash…their flesh would have rejected their own existence before bursting into a ghastly, gory flame and burning so hot that not even ashes remained.

The tear from before ceased threatening as it spilled onto Leyla’s lap.

“Lastly…the participants.”

A field of blood beneath a violent sky could not have occurred naturally. No, the scene required those who spilled the blood upon the world, and those whose blood was spilt.

However, Leyla did not disrespect the people whose likenesses she borrowed by splashing them onto the canvas. Instead, she took up a smaller brush from her work table and began recreating their images from memory with the utmost of care.

But even when paying respect to art and people, Leyla was far beyond her physical limitations. Figures locked in mortal combat appeared one after the other by random on the canvas. Some were cleaved in two by swords or whips as others were burned or obliterated by spells, while just as many did the killing. A few rode their trusted partners into battle—appearing on the scene atop the backs of birds, dragons, bulls, and other mighty steeds. Several were shown to be mighty warriors with valiant auras while many more appeared to be simple fodder.

But none of those compared to the two figures at the center of the painting—Jygohn and Feracimo Wyrzyk. The pair of brothers were situated side by side as their charged into the center of battle, identical armor and weapons on them both as they cleared the way forward, paving the ground in blood without a single drop of it belonging to either of the two.

Finally, the masterpiece was complete, and the battle recorded. Leyla looked on at her work, not a single shred of pride in her eyes as water blocked her view. Setting the brush aside, the woman cried into her hands for what felt like an eternity to her before she couldn’t find any more grief to let out.

As the painting had dried, she stood up from her chair and took the art into her arms, gently embracing it.

Jygohn was her lover, and Feracimo his little brother. Leyla sobbed at the memories of the two surfacing in her mind as she peered outside at the stone jutting out from the ground, surrounded by flowers. The woman carried the painting with her down a flight of stairs and outside her house into the garden. She slowly trudged her way to the undecorated stone, dropping to her knees before it.

“I always miss you.” Leyla managed to choke out through her sobs as she put the painting down, leaning against the gravestone.