Destined Delphinium

By Amrusha Acharya

The canvas before the painter stood empty. It had been empty for months. The young painter stood by the window in his studio, gazing at the busy street. Half of his face was hidden in shadows and no matter how long he stared at the canvas, he couldn't see anything on it. Long, exhaustive nights, dreamless slumbers and the pain in his eyes had drained his soul out of him. The emerald eyes sparkled like a twinkling star and the next moment, darkness would consume his senses. 

After considering for a moment, he decided to head down to the sea and watch the waves crash endlessly into the shore. 

It should've taken him less than ten minutes to walk there but nobody knew the whims of the universe. On his way there, he stopped in front of a shop, inconspicuous and painted a very warm okre– one that reminded him of the afternoon sun trailing in through stained glass. It was a flower shop. Through the French window he could see a young man working diligently to put together a bouquet– some daisies and red roses. Although the clouds covered the sky and the same clouds blurred his vision, he could still clearly see the silhouette of the florist putting the flowers together. His hair was a most beautiful shade of midnight black, reminiscent of the starless sky cascading right into a still river. The young painter wished to see more and this thought almost surprised him. How long had it been since he'd felt this way? More than anything, he wished to see the face of the young florist whose face was veiled behind the roses and daisies. 

He waited, he didn't know how long, though. But by the time he decided to enter the shop, the clouds had started crumbling apart into tiny specks of tear-shaped drops.

The little bell tinkled and the florist raised his face that was buried into the petals, trying to pick out fresh flowers. 

Delphiniums. The young artist's gaze lingered over the other's eyes– the sweetest shade of Delphiniums, capable of containing the entire sky in them, so blue and so, so beautiful. He wondered how the shade would look against his empty canvas and suddenly, he knew whose face he wanted the canvas to be filled with.

He ran his hand through his hair, gently asking the florist for his name. The repetitive smile on the florist's lips turned into something warm, like the kiss of spring on budding flowers, or the taste of nectar to a dying butterfly. 

The painter ordered a bouquet; he'd never bought flowers before but now he seemed to like the scent of the fresh flowers. He couldn't quite figure out why the playfully bright colours didn't bother his eyes. He watched the florist fiddle with the flowers, sorting through a number of fresh Morning Glories, deep pink and blue. He added delicate Pansies, their petals almost as golden as the painter's own hair; yet he wouldn't notice that. The florist pondered a moment before carefully placing a white lily at the centre of the arrangement, its leaves as fresh as a newborn's mirth, the colour almost certainly the same as the painter's eyes.

The artist stood awestruck, holding the huge bouquet in his hands like an award he had just won. He thanked the florist and reluctantly left the shop, heading back to his desolate little studio. 

Only when the darkness of the studio engulfed him did he realise the meaning of the lines he'd read once in a book. 

“In the cave of black Despair: He only looked upon the sun, and drank the morning air.”

When twilight approached, he gleamed at the canvas which was now filled with colours. Perhaps he knew what his final artwork would be. It was true what they said– the taste of nectar was too sweet, intoxicating enough to forget the endless pain of immortality it brought with that sweetness. 

He visited the shop frequently, at least as frequently his dwindling sight allowed him. Every time he visited the florist, he bought a new arrangement of flowers and every time, he took in everything he saw– the way the florist's smile lines settled after he greeted his customers, or how his lashes fanned around his blue eyes as he buried his hands in soft, cloud-like petals.

Every time he returned to his studio, he added new splashes and strokes of paint to the canvas that was almost filled entirely. Yet, as every dusk passed, he knew the time in his hands was slipping, slowly yet surely. His eyes stung in the morning, and the sun became his biggest enemy, yet he had to finish the painting, finish the final strokes before his life lost everything he ever cherished. 

A month passed and just like that, the painting that covered half a wall reached its finality. The painter could barely see now, his vision consisting only of dark splotches and blobs. Through a tiny corner, he could see the light trailing into the studio, falling right onto the painting. How cruel the world was; to deprive a painter of his sight, to deprive a dreamer of his dreams, and to deprive a lover of his love. He knew his time had come, the sea was his calling and the sun had long hidden behind the horizon. 

He grabbed his coat from the rack and headed out the door, navigating with great difficulty his way to the shop. It was troublesome but it didn't matter; his feet knew where the street would end and where the door of the shop would begin. The light trickled into his eyes and from the fragments, he could see the florist, sitting quietly by the flowers– just as he did in his painting; the expression on his face was a perfect match, that warm yet serene look that had taken him over a month to complete. The flowers surrounded him like they were worshipping a god, invoking their muse. He felt a rush of epiphany in his veins.

He pushed the door open, watching the florist smile brightly– as though he had been waiting for him for a long time. How wretched was this fate? Would he have to keep waiting forever now? He watched him intently, taking in every single action one final time; the artist knew everything by heart now. 

He ordered his final bouquet. 

A cluster of Delphiniums arranged amidst Black Delights, dotted with tiny Asters and Orchids. 

“Do you have a green ribbon?” He had asked the florist. 

When the bouquet was handed over to him, he couldn’t see the expectant eyes of the florist– the eyes that longed to know the artist's name. 

He walked out of that shop, pausing on the last step to take one final, final look at the florist. 

That night it rained heavily.

The finished painting was covered with a crimson silk drape when he hid his signature in the roses. Perhaps, this drape would never be uncovered.

The bouquet still looked fresh, only– a single note had been hidden within the petals. 

The bottle of champagne on his table was empty and his mind was numb.

He turned off the lights in his studio and began his long journey towards the sea. He stopped by the shop's steps, placed the bouquet down beneath the umbrella and said his silent goodbye. 

The sea surged, waves lurching at his feet– cold and tempting. He closed his eyes, dropping his coat onto the sand, the harsh winds tossing his golden hair into a mess. He dragged his feet forward, feeling the pull of the water. In his mind, he could see the ebony black hair, the sky blue irises and that warm smile. He was beautiful, far more beautiful than any flower he had ever laid his eyes upon. 

He was drowning, yet it didn't feel all that bad when his senses were numbed, dimmed almost into nothingness. He didn’t feel like he was dying; not when he could see the florist's face when the young man told him his name. 

Bubbles escaped his lips as he uttered the name for the very last time, before his heart struggled in his chest, beating once and then nevermore.

“Kieran, Son of the Midnight sky.”

***

By Amrusha Acharya