Chapter Text
Brassius waited a while for his patron, but not as long as most people would have.
“Did my cousin really treat you so poorly?”
Even though they hadn’t seen each other in a few years, Geeta skipped the pleasantries and immediately greeted him with her signature mild smirk.
“There are ways you can treat a lap dog that you can’t treat a racing dog.” Brassius folded his arms and leaned back in his chair indignantly. “I was mistreated as an artist.”
And the part of Kalos her cousin lived in was very, very cold.
“You really couldn’t stand it another minute, could you? Braving the crowded city to come see me instead of waiting for a visit?”
“I already waited for a letter saying you had a commission for me.” He was starting to raise his voice. “If I had to take on one more of her husband’s insipid projects, I could have died .”
“Of what?”
Brassius shrugged and threw his hands up dramatically.
“Don’t worry, this commission has plenty of room for artistic freedom. Lots of fresh air, warm sun, and unsociable monks.”
“Monks?”
“Monasterio de San Arturo. In the southeast.”
“I’ve heard of it. Don’t tell me I’m going to be restoring their statues.”
He was from that area, and once knew it well. The monastery famously fell victim to both an earthquake and severe flood within the past ten years. Then, as if it were cursed, every sculptor hired to restore the attached chapel’s facade had failed miserably. According to reports, at least. Brassius hadn’t seen the botched statues himself. Not only had he been busy in Kalos for half of that time, he knew he’d be struck by an overwhelming pity for the poor souls who’d been unlucky enough to get involved with San Arturo.
Perhaps Geeta saw the nervousness on his face. Her smile widened, which he was pretty sure was supposed to be reassuring. “Don’t worry. They’ve decided to give up on the restoration and start from scratch.”
Brassius perked up at that, but tilted his head and stroked his chin the more he thought about the situation. “I don’t know if a project of that size would suit me…”
“It’s not a full construction project. So far, the commission is only for the central tympanum. I’ll pay for more depending on how you like it.”
“Alright, I’m game. Why San Arturo, though? Do you have land around there, or did you just feel sorry for them?”
“Those are both the case, but you were also requested.” Geeta closed her eyes, as if reflecting. “A friend who lives in the area was impressed by some of your work in the castle.”
“In this castle? Those are from ages ago…”
“I told him as such, but he wouldn’t have it. You don’t need to be concerned about disappointing him. Not only do you still have the same talent as when you made the sculptures here… he’s impossible to let down.”
“And if I let down the monks?”
“They’re monks, Brassius. They can pray harder for the next time.”
He was already constantly pushing his luck with Geeta’s patronage, so he didn’t think he was in any position to “they’ve been through enough” her. Brassius was completely unsuited for a clerical lifestyle, but he saw the appeal in it, and therefore had a great deal of empathy for monks and other cloistered types.
“You’ll be staying at the monastery, but they have guest quarters. You don’t need to take any oaths. Other than your oath to me, of course.”
Brassius thought her joke was funny and chuckled under his breath. Geeta was glad. Most of her other employees would not have agreed.
—
And so, several days later, Brassius found himself squinting at a stick of charcoal held up to the dilapidated church’s facade, a gaggle of robed men mumbling amongst themselves behind him.
Once upon a time, he’d considered joining a monastery. San Arturo wasn’t the closest one to where he grew up, but it was closer than he would have tried. He thought a monastery was the type of place you could go and nobody would ask questions as long as you kept your head down.
It turned out, since that was a popular idea, they actually did ask a lot of questions. Then, Brassius also realized he was actually horrible at keeping his head down.
Given their recent history with artists, San Arturo’s monks were wary of Brassius, but didn’t treat him with any kind of contempt. When looking at the current tympanum, it was hard to ignore the bulging eyes of the angel and the off-center archivolt framing it. Even some Smolivs in the details were lumpy and misshapen. The monks probably could have done a better job themselves. It didn’t seem like their hopes were high, but it was clear they thought Brassius couldn’t make anything worse.
“Who recommended me, anyway?”
He asked as he started to sketch his ideas. The monks mumbled more enthusiastically amongst themselves when they realized they were being spoken to. Eventually, the abbott, who Brassius could only tell apart because he looked older than any of the other monks, stepped forward.
“Your patron is the friend of a local… er…” He turned around to look at the other monks for a suggestion.
“Hermit!” one ventured.
The abbott shushed him. It was clear they usually referred to this person as a hermit, but knew they probably shouldn’t.
Brassius didn’t look up from his sketching. “A hermit? How is a hermit friends with Lady Geeta?”
He wasn’t sure if Geeta ever visited the area, but she wouldn’t need to for these monks to know her name. Everyone knew her name.
“He’s not a hermit.” The abbott glared at the monk who made the outburst. “He’s a wise man who lives alone in the hills to the south.”
He sounded a little like a hermit when he put it that way, actually.
“He must be quite wise for monks to consider him a wise man.”
The loud monk answered again. “Yes, he’s often protecting us from beasts.”
Brassius sighed. He was already concerned about another natural disaster undoing any work he did at the church, but rampaging beasts were also a problem? He did hear tales of such a thing when he was growing up in the hills on the outskirts of Levincia, but his only reference were small herds of Tauros which didn’t threaten manmade structures.
“What kinds of beasts?”
“Dragons.”
“ Applin are dragons.” Brassius wasn’t particularly impressed.
“Not those kinds!” The loud monk seemed eager to defend the hermit. “Real dragons, like Noivern and Haxorus!”
Poor Applin. Brassius only meant that they weren’t intimidating. They were real dragons, too. Plenty of people were still afraid of them. Brassius had been around the block a few times. Dragon tamers may have been news to these hick— men of God , but he’d heard of much stranger things.
“He’s kind and mysterious, and he knows a lot about art.” The loud monk continued while the abbott started to look more and more embarrassed. “I’m surprised you haven’t met him since he spoke so highly of you.”
“All of Lady Geeta’s benefactees have a lot of name recognition…”
“I can’t think of any other ones.”
Another monk jeered at the loud one from the back of the crowd “But you don’t know anything about art, Brother Juan Pablo.”
“Well, I suppose the more recognizable names are chefs and musicians. I am the only sculptor.” Brassius stroked his chin, then, realizing he probably smudged charcoal on his face, licked his thumb and hastily rubbed it off.
The abbott smiled sympathetically. “I wish I could tell you your humility will go a long way, but none of the artists before you were exceptionally prideful, either.”
Brassius showed too many teeth in his return smile. What happened to virtue for virtue’s sake?
—
As he didn’t go out often, it was a few days before Hassel learned the artist Geeta hired arrived at the monastery.
It wasn’t hard to find him. As soon as he reached the lowlands and approached the monastery, he saw Brassius standing outside the church with his hands on his hips, supervising some local laborers taking down the botched tympanum.
It made him sad to see it. Hassel hadn’t been around for all of the restoration attempts, but he had seen the most recent. The artist was very distraught by her inability to live up to her own standards, much less anyone else’s.
After thinking along those lines for a while, he eventually noticed that Brassius was no longer looking at the church, but at him, with his forehead wrinkled in concern.
“Are you alright?”
Hassel inhaled shakily as tears started to well in his eyes. “I’m fine, I just… she tried so hard…”
Brassius didn’t really know what was going on, but he put a reassuring hand on the man’s shoulder. “I figured, that’s why I asked them to take it down in as few pieces as possible.”
Hassel tried to thank him, but as he looked into those big silver eyes gazing up at him, the only movement on his face was caused by gravity’s pull on his tears. A hoarse squeak came out of his mouth.
“You seem very attached to it. I’m making the replacement. I hope I can do it justice.”
Hassel choked out a laugh, then forced a smile when he realized it would otherwise come across as a sob. “I’m sure you will. I’m the one who recommended you, after all.”
Brassius’s eyes widened, and he dropped his hand. Hassel’s shoulder suddenly felt strangely cold.
“Did you recommend the last restorer, too?”
“No… I barely knew her, but… it’s so hard to see someone try and be so disappointed in themselves!”
He buried his face in his sleeve. His sobbing only quieted slightly when Brassius gave him a few pats on the back.
“I-I’m Hassel, by the way. This must be some first impression…” His voice was stuffy.
“I’m pleased to meet you. I think you already know that I’m Brassius. Well, now I’m not worried that you’ll be disappointed in my work here.”
“Of course not! I’d never be! I’ve seen what you can do!” Hassel suddenly sounded almost offended.
Brassius shrugged, trying not to let his anxieties show. “All of the pieces at Lady Geeta’s estate are quite old now. I’ve been… stifled for several years. It’s put me in a bit of a rut.”
Hassel turned toward Brassius and put his hands on both of his shoulders. “Not anymore. For this project, the sky’s the limit. Go crazy. Get heretical, if you have to. I know what will happen if we see you at your full potential.”
Brassius looked around to see if any of the monks were nearby. They weren’t. “With all due respect, my lo—, uh, sir , are you the one who should be making those kinds of decisions?”
“No, you’re right, you are. Don’t worry about the monks. They trust me, and I trust you. And please, don’t ‘sir’ me. Hassel is fine.”
Rank and title themselves never mattered to Brassius, but he did prefer to play along with that kind of thing. It made for a more dramatic effect when he sometimes felt the need to drop a title or use a lower one on purpose. Hassel had to be nobility, right? His carriage and friendship with Geeta implied as much, and not just anyone was taught how to tame dragons. If Brassius hadn’t heard of him before, he was probably from another region.
“In any case, I was only planning to go crazy on things like expression and details, so don’t get your hopes up for heresy. Unless I do something by accident.”
“Exactly. Who can keep up with what is and isn’t heresy these days?” Hassel wiped the remaining tears from his eyes, but was now trying a little too hard to avoid staring at Brassius.
He wasn’t sure what he expected to happen back when he first pointed those incredible sculptures out to Geeta. He wanted to say he expected something normal: the artist would come to Monasterio de San Arturo, he would do a good job, and everyone would happily go their separate ways, maybe picking up a casual penpal to talk about art with. Unfortunately, Hassel was too much of a romantic to think about it that way.
It hadn’t seemed quite so inappropriate to fantasize about the far-fetched scenario of the mysterious artist being beautiful and amazing and immediately sweeping him off his feet, but now he was thinking of this artist as a real person. A real person who just so happened to be exactly his type, sensitive with a charming smile, had a certain sadness behind his moonlike eyes, and reacted gently and with kindness to his own outbursts… Suddenly, those whimsical daydreams made him feel incredibly creepy, and more than a little pathetic. At least Brassius had already seen him be pathetic?
In any case, Hassel had just met him, and already felt like he was in far over his head.