Gil-kun and the Painter

"So you see, I never really cared about the sex cult stuff, all I wanted was to spread knowledge, to let people grok their future, what awaits them, the meaning of God and death, the reason we exist. Any means would have been fine for me. I just took the first one I found out, when I still didn't really get earthly morals. Of course, looking back at it now, I would have picked a different path."

"... that's still fucked up, dude."

"Yeah, I guess it is. Sorry for that."

"It's fine, don't worry about it. After all, we as rulers have probably commited way worse crimes anyway, or at least Salty and Goldie did, hehe."

"You know that going insane doesn't excuse you from what you did?"

"Ha, if only it were that easy..."

"Well, I suppose life isn't easy. After all, that's the reason humans invented comedy. To hide their pain."

"Life isn't meant to be easy, mongrel. You must use all your strength and power to bend life to your will, to carve the path that you wish to follow. You simply chose the path you had to put less effort into, that's why you're nothing more than a mongrel."

"Does he go around calling everyone a mongrel or do I piss him off in a special way?"

"He does that to everyone when he first meets them."

"Oh, I see."

"As if someone like you could ever be considered special in any way by someone like me. Mongrels will always be mongrels. Nothing more, nothing less. Where to now?"

"Oh, right. Ehm... over there, towards that small hill. Anyway, aren't the plains so much better than the desert?"

"I mean... one is a sea of yellow, the other is a sea of green. Not much of a difference."

"At least it's not as hot as before, we even had a costume change!"

Flashback

"It's so hot in here! I'm changing!"

Nero complained as she modified her clothes into a more Middle Eastern style, until she was covered by a red burqa.

"Wow, this is so light, and yet it covers me. Who would have thought that by balancing the shading and the heating effect of clothes, someone could walk through the desert dressed like this! Humans are great!"

"I suppose this does feel better..."

Salter commented drily as she wore similar clothing that left her face exposed, with a cover over her hair, obviously black.

Gilgamesh didn't say anything as he simply switched up to clothing from a similar area, with a golden fez, a white long tunic with straight golden lines over it, and finally, golden shades.

Back to the present

"Yeah, I guess we did, though was it really necessary?"

"Well, don't we look cool like this?"

Nero asked with a gesture that showed off her bright red deel (a traditional clothing from Mongolia) with golden, white and green highlights and decorations.

"I suppose it's not bad."

"Indeed! But don't you like colour, Salty? Your outfits are always so... black!"

"Black is elegant and powerful. And it's not all black, look at these colourful lines."

"You mean... those icy grey lines?"

"They match my hair."

"Well, I guess they do."

"And why aren't you on his ass too, then? He keeps wearing gold!"

"Well, gold is more colourful than black! Besides, that one isn't so bad, it's checkered and it has all kinds of different shades and colours."

"It's still mostly gold."

"Oh? Are you perhaps admiring my clothing, Salter? Or is this just an excuse to look at my body? Don't worry, I shall allow it."

"I'll kill you."

"Don't say these things out of the blue, Salty!"

"Ehm, guys... we can stop here. It's almost sunset and I suggested the blonde woman to rest in that house over there, so maybe we can also seek their hospitality and-"

"Shut it, mongrel, we're only going there to see if Saber is there. We are not staying here."

Gilgamesh concluded with a neutral expression on his face, ready to get this little side mission over with. They all descended from the chariot and headed towards the small wooden house.

Before they could knock on the door, it opened.

A young gentleman, dressed in typical middle-class from the end of the 19th century's fashion, smiled at them gleefully and immediately offered them a bottle of wine.

"Greetings, travelers! Welcome to our little great home!"

He said excitedly as he basically pushed them inside. The interior was simple yet decorated by several paintings hanging from the walls. A group of young people, all dressed in a similar way to the one who had brought them there, greeted them with smiles and laughter.

"That's a good way to scare them!"

"We're just being friendly, Edgar!"

"Come on, everyone, drink up, drink up!"

"Calm down, Jean. You're going to drink all our alcohol!"

"Don't sweat it, Pierre! We'll just make some more."

"You're as selfish as always. Me and Alfred have barely touched a bottle."

"Haha, then you better stop talking and start drinking, Berthe!"

Salter looked at the others confused.

"Have we walked into an asylum?"

"The atmosphere is pretty chaotic."

"Let's go. Saber's no longer here."

"Hey, hey, why are you leaving so soon? Oh, that's right, silly me! I forgot the chairs for you!"

The young man said, as he took out a brush and started moving it around as if he was painting the air, and the paint actually remained still wherever he passed with the brush. Finally, after a few strokes and half a minute, four new chairs appeared along with more bottles of wine.

"There you go, sit down, please!"

He invited them with his friendly smile.

"Let's stay here just some more, Goldie!" Nero said as she took a sip out of the wine she was offered, only to spit it out.

"Sorry, that was the wine Camille made!"

One of the youngsters shouted as they all exploded into a hearty laugh.

"That's enough! Who are you mongrels that treat rulers like us so casually?"

"Oh, my apologies, great people! I completely forgot to introduce myself! I'm sorry, I got really excited. I'll drink to that guys!"

"Yeah!"

"Answer me, you drunk!"

"Oh yeah, sorry. I'm Claude Monet. Perhaps you've heard of me. From what I understand, I still am somewhat famous in this current age, which is really surprising if you ask me, haha! And these are Edouard, Berthe, Alfred, Camille, Jean, Pierre and Edgar. Oh, and Gustave is on the couch, he drank too much."

"Wait, so you're Manet, she's Morisot, and you two are Sisley and Bazille and-"

"Oh, please miss..."

"I'm Nero!"

"Please, dear Nero, let's not use such formalities between friends, ok?"

"Sure!"

"And who are you, guys?"

"I'm Michael."

"Oh my, are you my angel?"

"If you want to."

"Hey Alfred, did you hear that? A fellow Englishman!"

"No, no, I'm actually Martian!"

"Even better! Hey Edgar, isn't one of your aunts from there?"

"That's Le Mans, you moron!"

"No, no, she's actually from Venus!"

"Ah, I see!"

"I think I have a cousin who's Martian, yeah, his father passed away recently."

"Oh, I'm really sorry to hear that. Have they eaten his corpse yet?"

"I think the ceremony will be held tomorrow."

"I see, it really is a shame to be able to be there."

"Indeed... well, here's my comfort!" Camille shouted as he drunkenly lifted his bottle of wine, followed by all his friends.

"This is a circus. Salter, let's g-"

"Can you guys make beer too?"

"Oh? And who might you be, bewitching lady?" Manet asked with a chuckle.

"I'm the King of Britain, Artoria."

"See? She's British! Let's all raise our bottles! Alfred has found a girlfriend!"

"And Berthe female friends! Hurray!"

"Now, can I have my beer?"

"Sure, milady." Manet moved around his brush and created a bottle which contained a yellow liquid.

Salter drank it, with a bit of suspicion, but she realised it really tasted like beer.

"It's actually not that bad... but how can you make this?"

"Oh, it's one of our skills: we, great painters, who shaped and twisted reality with our art, can create things out of our imagination and through our paintings. It's like the skill Enchant, but for us painters, so way cooler!"

"Wow, it really is pretty cool!"

"Even on Mars they don't possess such power! I think a toast is needed. To painting!"

"To painting!"

"What the hell are you guys doing? We have to go now!"

"I can't refuse a free drink, plus I don't like sleeping in the middle of the desert. Last night, sand got into my ears, and it's still there, I can't even hear properly."

"I can make a house, just for the four of us."

"What?"

"I said I can make a house too!"

"Mmm?"

"Oh for Gods' sake..."

"Come on, Goldie, just lose yourself in the moment a bit. As we said the other day, we are going much faster than any person can go by foot, so one day more, one day less, we can still catch up to your dear Saber!"

"Do not haste, Golden King, for life is a journey that must be made slowly, and in company of those we hold dear in our heart."

"What would a mongrel like you know about the way to live?"

"I don't, but I know quite well the hardships of life, and what life can put through one man when he is alone. I know the awful feeling of solitude. You do too, don't you? You've lost a friend before... and I lost many... so many..."

Paris, 1917

The rain was pouring. Light was nowhere in sight. The great city was surprisingly empty. It had been like this ever since the war broke out. Not a lot of people were there. Not many at all. 30 people at maximum. Some relatives, a few curious onlookers, some people who had known him, Mary Cassett, his apprentice, and he, the nearly blind man, sitting on a wheelchair.

His eyes were giving out. He could barely see the light that had made all their paintings so alive, their inspiration, the mother of all colours. He had almost lost her completely. His body too was giving up. He could barely move his legs and his arms. Although he kept painting, even the thing he loved most in the whole world had become difficult and painful.

With his declining eyesight, he looked forward, trying to make out what was in front of him, as the priest kept repeating words he didn't quite comprehend.

Sure enough, he could barely distinguish the letters on the tombstone.

Hilaire-Germain Edgar Degas. That's all it said. The most basic, simple and poor writing possible. Anything less would have been throwing his friend in a random spot on the ground.

He had realised that life wasn't going so well for his friend, ever since he started speaking of economic difficulties during their lunches at Berthe's house every Thursday. And yet he had proudly refused all offers of help from him and Pierre.

He imagined his last moments of life, filled with pain, agony, misery, and solitude.

He had died alone, forgotten by the world.

His last friend.

And now, he sat there, as the rain kept pouring, thinking about, wondering where everyone went.

Bazille was long gone, the first one of them to leave life.

And so was Sisley.

And Pissarro.

And Morisot.

And Caillebotte.

Renoir had also died, he himself half-paralised, in the quietness of his house, surrounded by some family members. A very meek ending for such a great and active person.

A fate similar to the one that he would meet very soon, he thought.

And now Edgar was also gone.

And even though the rain was pouring, everyone could tell that Monet was crying.

He had an umbrella, after all.

"It seems like... you've all... left me behind..."

Impressionism had died.

He was now all alone.

And the rain kept on pouring.