He swept a brush over an open canvas painting a crimson sun over foggy horizons, faded orange skies over a valley shrouded in mist and a sea of blades buried in the ground; he sat back to admire his work, and found only a sense of rising frustration. There was nothing wrong with this picture, but what about it was right? How many tries would it take before he finally got it right?

Shouting in frustration he lifted the canvas off its easel, and drop kicked it off the balcony. The door behind him creaked open and a tall, slender man peeked out from the doorway.

“That's the second one this week, Master Jamison.”

Jamison stretched his back before collapsing on to his seat. “Just fetch me some more paint and have someone get me a new canvas.”

“Perhaps you should take a brea-”

“The paint, Derrick. Now.”

“Certainly, Master Jamison.”

The door closed behind him and he rested his arms and head on the railings. Children played in the streets, birds sung, and the trees bloomed in different shades of vibrant, beautiful colors. It was a pleasant sight but not enough to inspire him, lately life had just become mundane. The way things were these days was a far cry from the misadventures of his youth or the tense competition he’d experienced in his early adulthood.

He heard someone knocking at his door. No one was scheduled for today and he certainly didn't feel like putting up with anyone now, but the knocking kept on coming. He let this go on for about five minutes before he gave up and walked down a couple flights of stairs, taking his time strolling through his house just in case they were about to give up. After a couple more minutes he decided that his visitor wasn't going away anytime soon, so he briskly walked over and opened the door.

“Damn it! What could be so important that…”

“You owe me Jamison.” A tall man stood at his doorstep. His clothes were tattered, he smelled like misery and his eyes were red and puffy.

“Salamn? You look like a wreck.”

“I'm fine, just fine. But, I need you to do something, please it's the least you can do.”

Master Jamison nodded grimly. “Whatever it is that needs doing I’ll do it.”

“...Thank you.”

He shouted across his manor. “Derrick, never mind the paint and canvas just fetch me two cups of tea, the best we have in stock.”

Derrick shouted back. “Certainly, Master Jamison.”

Jamison turned back to address him. “Right this way.”

He nodded, following Jamison into a luxurious common room. The floors were made of a dark, rich wood; light streamed in from the windows and a beautiful garden could be seen just beyond the glass. The tables were finely crafted and engraved in the likeness of roses and smaller, more decorative pieces lined the shelves, but most of all were the chairs. Those had perfect arm and leg rests covered in velvety-red cushions that looked absolutely inviting. He beelined towards the chairs without a care in the world for propriety or decorum. He fell onto the chairs and when he did, the tension seemed to visibly leave his body.

Jamison sat across from him content to let him rest until he was ready to speak. What he saw now was a haggard man, with deep bags under his eyes, content to be sprawled onto someone else’s chair without having been invited or offered a seat elsewhere. If this were anyone else he’d have had them kicked out by now.

Derrick arrived silently, opening the door without so much as a sound and quietly pouring them both a warm cup of tea before bowing out and leaving through the same entrance. He took a sip from his cup slowly, lounging in the silence and watching the dust float by in rays of sunlight. Salamn began to sit upright slowly, lethargically. He raised the cup to his mouth and drained it all in one go; before pouring several more and draining them too.

Jamison hesitated. “So, what do you need?”

Salamn looked away. “I need a memorial, something beautiful in a… melancholy way.”

“Oh.”

“Its fine, really.”

“Who for?”

"My kids.”

“I see,” Jamison paused hoping to find the right words, “Look, I know they were your kids and all… but kids die from the plagues often. There’s a lot more you could do for your family with my money, maybe build a bigger business off of it, tend to the living before you care for the dead, you know? I mean I’ll do it if you still want me to but-”

“That’s the thing.” Salamn buried his hands in his face. “It wasn’t the plagues that killed them.”

Jamison’s expression hardened. “Then what did?”

“The Arbors.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.

“What’d they do? Your kids I mean.”

“Not sure.”

"Then there’s nothing you can do about it, is there?”

Salamn shook his head. “Guess not.”

Jamison shook his head. “Look, you should get some sleep.”

"No, no I really should get going, I’ll be fine I’m sure.” Salamn tried to stand again.

Jamison easily intercepted him, laying a hand on his shoulder and easing him back onto the chair “No, you’re not.”

He turned around and called out. “Derrick!”

“Yes Master Jamison!”

"Would you be so kind as to escort this man to the guest room!”

"Certainly, Master Jamison.”

Salamn struggled again to get up. “No, no I... I couldn’t possibly.”

“Nonsense! Derrick, take him to his room.”

Derrick appeared again by the entrance. “Sir, I believe that wasn’t a request.”

Salamn was exasperated. “What am I, a child?”

"When it comes to politics yes. Please, just rest here for a couple days.”

"Alright.” He let out a small sigh, too tired to argue.

"Thank you, I’ll take care of things from here and I’ll see what I can do about the Arbors alright?”

"Alright.”