The Sight Beyond The Haze

Chapter 15: There was a Painting in the Gallery

"I hate being uncertain," I greeted them as they quietly slipped inside the room I was in.

It was a great gallery hall, and it was also a very grand one. I was never one for arts, but even I could name a few paintings that were displayed here. They were all exquisite, of course, and some were very rare too, but what draw me here was not the painting, not even the rich history of every piece of art. It was because this hall was so close to the room that I was provided for.

Meeting them inside my room seemed to be an almost intimate act to do, so I opted to meet, nay, to wait for them. I opened one of the windows and the arrival of the glimmering butterflies fluttering to the opened window signaled me that they have already come.

Just as I have expected.

I was looking at a painting of a great manor with a county background. There was not a thing that was special about it; short paint brush's strokes marked the painting, but it was on the very center of the wall. It was arguably just a regular panting, but the gold covered frame and the way it was placed on the very center marked it as a somewhat special piece, maybe just a favorite one.

"I thought you are going to pretend," they responded as they walked to stand beside me. There was the tone of reminder on their tone which had me nodding.

I turned my head to watch them gracefully glide from one point to another, every step was careful and silent. But it was not the odd mask that welcomed my sight, but Haziel Imbert's face. She smiled at me serenely.

I stopped looking at her, forcing the question of why they have to turned their guise into Haziel Imbert's.

"The first time that I met Haziel Imbert," I started while my eyes became fixated on the painting yet again, "was it you? Or was it the real Haziel Imbert?"

I felt them shifted slightly, the gentle face of Haziel was replaced by a mask of pure black where, again, three crescent shapes were placed for a mouth and for the eyes. The crescent shaped mouth's half pointing upwards while the other half was pointing downwards.

"It was indeed Haziel Imbert," they answered calmly.

The bright red hair of Haziel turned into black and became longer in length. Within a flash of golden butterflies passing between the two of us, they became the same person that I saw in my dream. Wearing flowing robes and expansive sleeves that I was not even able to see their hands, their mere countenance exhibited a calm demeanor. They were taller than me by merely just a few inches, but I have never felt so small next to a person.

Even Zachriel Legrand was only as tall as me.

"But the time that you got into that accident," they added and I saw them in my periphery turned their body to me, "it was I. Both the person who pulled you out of the debris' way and the person who saw you off."

I knew much of that.

It was also the first time that I dreamt of them.

A moment of silence passed by without me noticing how long we have been staring at the same painting for quite a while now. I was only snapped back into the reality when they spoke in the same low and sonorous voice.

"Is it such a good painting that it had you staring at it like that?" they asked to me.

I shook my head.

"I am not an expert," I answered, "sadly, I cannot tell what a painting is worth or valued at, but it was not a bad painting... I guess. It just seems to be so sad."

"There was a story about that manor," they stated.

The very fact that they were telling me something as spontaneous as this surprised me, but I listened intently. The butterflies around us were still fluttering, they were such a good alternative for the electric lights that were hidden in the chandelier of the hall. They all distributed their lights on the darkened hall. Though I could not see the painting clearly, they still provided enough for me to glimpse at it.

"What was it about?" I asked curiously and looked at them only to find them staring deeply at the painting.

"That there was a witch and a young lord of that estate," they continued, not minding that I was outright looking at them so shamelessly. "The witch whose heart was that of full of love, she cursed the young lord to be with her forever, only to die as a repentance of such a wicked curse. The curse was made for the good, but it did not achieve any of the outcome the witch hoped for."

"And they both died?" I inquired, but they shook their head as an intial answer.

"Only one of them remained."

There was a touch of sadness on their tone that was overrode with the tranquility and stillness of their voice, unwavering and steady.

"The young lord endured the treatment of the people from around his estate until all has passed and faded. Until he was the only one remaning, and so, the manor still housed the same young lord."

"That does not sounds like a happy ending, does it not?" I rhetorically said, not expecting an answer but one came rilght away.

"It was not a good story to begin with," they responded, "something as shallow as love, fleeting and very temporary, could move a person to sacrifice a part of themselves for the person they are yearning for. That kind of emotion would only guarantee a breaking heart."

"You have seen me," I stated, "and know my name, possibly all of the secrets I am not even aware about myself that I have. Would you at least tell me what your name is?"

They paused for a second, their body almost turning to my direction. Two glimmering butterflies perched on both of their shoulders, making them looked like they were glowing.

"Deo," they finally said after some time, "the name that I was given was Deo."

"Deo," I repeated then quickly changed the subject of the conversation when their head slumped down. I was not certain what they were thinking, but the way their head tilted on the side, were they really embarrassed of giving their name to me? "Do you want me to address you on that way?" I confirmed.

Their head immediately rose, I thought that the mask that they were wearing would almost fall off from their face with that abrupt movement.

"Deo," I repeated again, then they nodded a couple of times. "I have..." I paused, hesitating whether I should go on. My eyes looked sideways, towards their expansive white sleeve.

"Go on," they urged me that startled me at first, "if it is an answer you seek, then I will try to answer it as honest as I could."

"I summoned you using the butterflies," I stated and cleared my throat softly, "you must have an idea why I would do so," I hinted at them. "Why would that happen to Amara?"

Earlier, their whole attention was fixated only to myself, but now, they turned towards the painting. Despite the mask on their face, covering his whole countenance, I knew that turning away from me was just their way of bidding their time.

I want to know, even just that.

I fixed my gaze at them, letting them see that smallest gleam of beseeching that I have, but they stubbornly evaded my gaze, which was, consequently, my question.

"Won't you really answer me?" I whispered to them.

There was a soft wind that flew by. I thought, at first, it was the butterflies' delicate wings that have a surprisingly great strength within those lines that decorated those thin pairs.

But it was not.

The wind came from the masked person, their white flowing robes were dancing with the sudden existence of the wind. It was graceful, but, at the same time, quite frightening to behold. A strange person with a strange mask being surrounded by hundreds of butterflies.

"I would never do any act that will put you in danger," they instead answered me vaguely, "that may not be the answer you are looking for, but I hope that would reassure you." Deo paused before they started talking again. "There was a tic inside Amara's mind that was waiting to explode. A precise trigger would make her snap as she did. It was an inevitable outcome of meddling with a person's mind; a certain tic that was waiting for the right moment to go off. A certain consequence."

"A certain tic?" I echoed them. "Like the tic I have for Zachriel Legrand, is it not? His face was the trigger, right? Are you implying that someone, maybe someone close to Zachriel, have meddled with the system of my mind, creating that certain point where my mind went off?"

"I am not implying anything," they said in a restrained voice. For a moment I thought that they would spring into action, but they remained still and looking at the painting. "But you are not stupid either," they added when I thought they would stay silent.

"All along I felt that my brain was hardwired to sense a feeling towards him," I imparted to them. They only remained silent, moving not a muscle, speaking not a word, and only gazing at that painting. "A sense of familiarity. Zachriel Legrand, but who is he really? Then you came along, what are you to me? If a person, out there, have indeed meddled with my brain then is there any chance that we were once—?"

"Do not intervene of what would happen," Deo warned me, "you have gotten this far ahead, only because I let you."

"Were you the one who intruded upon my mind?" I asked incredulously despite the faint warning lacing on their tone.

The butterflies that were flying around us became agitated. All at once, their wings flapped with the wind, creating a hushed sound upon the air. Their lights came on intervals, like a heart beating blood in the middle of a person's chest. There were moments that I would be looking blindly in front of me, darkness enveloping the surface of ever single thing here, and there would be moments that I would be looking at Deo's pure obsidian mask, seemingly laughing and crying simultaneously.

"Should I try to pretend again?" I suddenly asked. "We have only been playing this for a week, I do not think it was too late to veer off the course we are heading right now. Would you tolerate my existence if I ever has so many questions throwing at you?"

"That have always been my part in your life," they mumbled under their breath that I was not really able to hear it.

"The butterflies," I implied to them and gestured around the space between us, "I have never thought their strength would be incredibly great."

That sentence seemed to calm down the butterflies. They came back to their original glimmer, bright but not blinding, and providing us with that hazy golden light.

"One would think that you would push me harder," Deo instead said to me, circling back to the topic I just left.

"Have I not though?" I asked Deo seriously. "Have I not pushed you too far?"

"Not even close," Deo answered me in the same serious manner that I was unconsciously using to them.

They started walking around the great hall, inspecting every piece of art that was being displayed. I frowned slightly, wondering where Deo would go with this. I strode towards them, matching their graceful gliding with my big steps. Because Deo's robes were too long that it reached down to the carpeted ground, I cannot see Deo's own footsteps. There was not even a hint of noise when they glided along the hall while we both went to sightsee the whole room.

"Should I have pushed harder then?"

"Do not attempt," Deo answered calmly while inspecting a delicate porcelain vase on a glass container.

"Else you would go," I continued for them, but Deo shook their head on my statement, proving me to be wrong.

"Else you would only be tired," Deo corrected me, "I have an endless supply of patience."

When I looked at Deo's whole face, both the crescent shape's point, that represented for Deo's mouth, were pointing upwards unlike what it was earlier where the other end of the crescent shaped mouth waa pointing downwards. The black mask was still black, but the white crescent shapes for their mouth and eyes have a startling contrast. It was the contrast of colors that was a little startling, I guess, but it just added more to that mystery of the identity of the one behind the mask.

"The butterflies were all made from raw light," he explained and held out a finger to the air where an obedient golden butterfly flew, perching itself on the slender finger. "Be it the light of the moon or the sun, even artificial ones such as those made by humans, it will absorb anything it could, forming into these magnificent little creatures."

Humans.

Deo said humans.

Deo said that like they were not part of this world, but then again, I promised to pretend that every bit of magic I was seeing I have already known from the very start. Maybe Deo was not from this world, but should that be any problem when Deo does not do any harm on any people?

"There is only one person who taught me to make these creatures," they imparted, they shook their finger a little causing the golden butterfly that was perched atop his finger to languidly fly off. "Consequently, that person was the one who made these butterflies in the first place."

"They are quite useful in combat," I complimented and the same butterfly that was on Deo's finger that has not flown very far came back to perch itself on the tip of my nose.

I lightly touched it with the softest and barest skin of my finger, fearing it will finally and truly fly off, but, as usual, the golden butterflies were obedient. It stayed still and fluttered its wings once and settled on my cheek, flying the small distance on my face.

"How impertinent," Deo, however, remarked. They were also about to touch the butterfly itself, then maybe Deo realized what that small action would entail; which was to also touch me.

The hand that was in the air, almost as the same height level to my face, was abruptly stopped mid-air. When I stared at Deo's hand; they were very much like mine—like a human's. Though Deo's pair was paler than the ones I have and probably more calloused, there was not a thing that was wrong with those.

Not a thing that could possibly warrant as out of human-like.

"Mr. Tharraleos seems to have known a thing or two," I stated, not minding the awkwardness that Deo positively radiated.

Deo let their hand fell on their side unhurriedly that was still mid-air to touch the impertinent butterfly but was never able to do so. That particular move was painstakingly slow, as though Deo was measuring if I ever saw or noticed that.

I pretended that I did not notice.

"Does he?" Deo answered, their voice was still deep and snorious, their hand, that was stretched out earlier was finally back in his side.

"And you do not sound surprised," I continued. "Let us talk none of that any longer, I apologize for bringing it further."

In my defense, I only brought it out only for the reason that Deo seemed to be perturbed and unsettled somehow with the small matter of touching. Maybe Deo does not want to be touched, or that Deo cannot be touched.

Or maybe just because and there was no particular reason for it.

I opened my palm for the butterfly that was still perched on the tip of my nose and it flew almost as instantly. It fluttered its wings yet again before finally settling down.

It was almost midnight when I realized just how long we have been staying inside this gallery hall. When I thought that the moon was too high up hanging on the sky, I implied at Deo that I would go back to my room. Deo simply nodded as an answer, not giving me any word or showing any niceties as one should.

Another strong gust of wind circled around the room, blowing the curtains' placement awry and even shaking off some tapestries. Then the next moment, Deo was not standing where they once were. Even the golden butterflies were all gone.

It was empty.

The gallery hall seemed to be oddly empty. Even when I just the only person or creature inside, just like I had been earlier before Deo and the butterflies came in, I never thought that I was alone. The paintings and every pieces of art here seemed to have a breath of life of the people that made them. Without the butterflies' glow and the hushed beating of their wings, it was as though night has truly fallen when the moring has just started.

"Good-bye," I gently whispered to the wind.

My back turned to that painting that Deo has been looking at.

The implication was clear enough to me when I realized that even the usual three butterflies that were flying and following around me were not there, even as I lie on the bed that I was borrowing on this house.

I wonder where Deo went.

If Deo was nothing of human, then how they came to be?

With that on my mind, I fell into a deep sleep.

The next day, I bid my farewell to Miss Eris. I was also supposed to give my thanks to the master of the house, but Mr. Tharraleos never appeared. Miss Eris only said that he was a busy boy, and it was also Miss Eris that called him in such a way. I frowned at that, at the blatant defamation that would surely make the person himself frown.

It was the first day of the week and tomorrow was finally going to be the start of my classes.

Since Amara was still out of it, I supposed there was not reason for me to prolong my stay at the mansion. The indication that Mr. Tharraleos was not here was actually a great reason enough, or it could be that I was just not important enough to be send off by him.

"I'll call the car to drive you to school," Miss Eris offered to me, "and don't, please, don't refuse or I'll lose my mind!"

I only nodded, not even once did I think of refusing her offer. I was done with commuting if I get to face creatures the way I did yesterday.

"Seraphim?" Miss Eris called out to me.

"Yes?" I responded, rather blankly.

"I hope you know that everything will be okay," she stated. It was a sweet sentiment and it gave me a surge of little hope just as she said, but whether that was a lie or not, I was not really certain at all.

Nonetheless, I still nodded at her.

I do not believe her words.

Or maybe I should to give myself something; a little hope and a bit of optimism, or something else that could make me more formidable or stronger. I do not know which, but a thing or two should do. But I was not certain of how the tomorrow will unfold, so I asked her the next thing that she was probably expecting me to do.

"Amara will be fine?"

"Of course," Miss Eris answered.

But I never saw Amara again after that.