The visions faded, leaving in my mind the fragmented images of a cosmic violence and the sense of ancient loss. The Painter... her 'art' was not mindless malice, but a response to a wound in the very fabric of reality. A wound caused by the Fracture, by the destruction of the Primeval Monolith. The realization of this did not lessen the horror of her method, but it wrapped it in a layer of cosmic tragedy. She was the echo of a wail, attempting to sew a void with the thread of our lives.
My companions looked at me, their faces reflecting the shock of the revelation. Silence returned, heavy, not with the tension of combat, but with the weight of an overwhelming truth. How do you respond to such a being? How do you stop someone whose existence and purpose are so fundamentally tied to repairing a cosmic damage, even if its cure is our downfall?
"The Fracture..." Sciel murmured, his voice barely audible, but there was a spark of intense scholarly interest in his eyes, overcoming even his fear. "Legends are so limited... Who or what caused it?"
The Painter's storm of light flickered gently. I felt her weighing the question, not as a threat, but as an... assessment. "The source of the dissonance?" her voice echoed. "A confrontation. Between those who wove the harmony of the canvas... and those who sought to impose silence. A war over the fundamental rhythm of existence."
A cosmic war. The Fracture was not an accident, but an act of intentional violence. And the Primordial Monolith, because of what it implied, was central to the "harmony" the Painter sought.
"The Primeval Monolith?" Gustave asked, returning to the object we felt was linked to the Painter's cycle. "If it was broken... can it be repaired? Or recreated?"
The Painter fell silent again. The symphony of the Fountain within me seemed to turn melancholic. I felt a resistance to this line of questioning. Perhaps bringing up the Monolith hurt the Painter, or perhaps it was a subject she considered... closed.
I tried to rephrase the question, searching for a different 'rhythm,' an approach that might resonate better with their perspective. I focused on the sense of emptiness I'd felt at the Fracture vision. "I felt... a void," I said. "An absence. Is that what you're trying to fill? With... with our lives?"
The storm of light swirled gently. "The void is the absence of the original song," the Painter replied. "The Primeval Monolith... was the conductor of the canvas. Its destruction... created the dissonance. My art... is my way of imitating that song. Of filling the void with color. With... echoes of the lost harmony."
Echoes of lost harmony. Our lives turned into echoes to fill a cosmic void. The thought was heartbreaking.
"But there is another way," Maelle said firmly. "A way to restore that harmony... without erasing the existence of those who live now. Without causing suffering."
The Painter seemed... perplexed. I sensed a fluctuation in her rhythm, a kind of disconnection from the idea. "Another way?" her voice echoed. "There is no other brush. Only mine. There is no other pigment... only what the Veil offers me."
Our conversation was stalling. It seemed that the Painter, trapped in her perspective and her pain from the Fracture, couldn't conceive of a solution that didn't involve her own method. Her 'art' was her only response to the trauma.
I remembered the vision of the Fracture, the Primeval Monolith breaking. If the Monolith's destruction caused the dissonance and emptiness the Painter is trying to fill, perhaps the key wasn't to stop the Painter directly, but to address the original cause: the broken Monolith.
I focused on the symphony of the Source's rhythm, searching for a dissonant note, a vibration that belonged not to the Painter or her lament, but to the Fracture, the broken Monolith. It was difficult, like searching for a single note in a choir of thousands. But my skill had sharpened. And I felt... a subtle disturbance in the complex melody. It wasn't in the Painter, but in the very fabric of the Source, in a particular 'direction' within this vastness. It was a different echo, more... harsh, fractured. An echo of the Primeval Monolith.
"The Fracture... the Primeval Monolith..." I said, my voice a little strained with concentration. "I feel... an echo. A fragment of the original rhythm. It's here, in the Source. Not in you, Painter, but... somewhere in this space." I pointed in the direction where I felt that particular dissonance. "Perhaps... if we find that echo. If we understand what was broken... we might find a way to repair it. To restore harmony without... without your painting."
The storm of light stopped. The symphony of the Source's rhythm fluctuated violently for a moment, as if reality itself were shocked. The Painter remained silent, her 'attention' fixed completely on me, on what she had detected.
"The echo..." her voice echoed after a long moment. There was a new quality to it, a mixture of wonder, curiosity, and… something like hope. "A resonance of the original dissonance. It has remained… even here. A testament to the fracture."
He looked in the direction I'd pointed. There was no visible change in the vastness of light and crystal, but I felt his own perception shifting in that direction.
"If you can find that echo..." the voice echoed. "If you can understand the nature of dissonance... perhaps... perhaps there is another way. Another brush. Another melody for the canvas." His final words were almost a whisper, but they carried the force of a cosmic promise.
It wasn't a guarantee. It was a possibility. An immense, almost impossible task. Finding an echo of a cosmic war and a broken object within the mind or heart of the entity trying to repair it. But it was a path forward that didn't involve simply trying to destroy the Painter (a task that felt futile against such a being).
"We'll look for him," Gustave said firmly. "If it's the way to stop the curse... we'll find him."
The Painter didn't respond directly. The storm of light began to swirl again, but in a different pattern, less chaotic, more... expectant. I felt her attention shift, focusing in the direction we'd pointed, as if she were giving us permission, or perhaps challenging us, to find that echo.
The rhythm of the Veil around me seemed to adjust, a new, subtle current emerging from the symphony, guiding us toward the dissonance I had detected. It was a path, invisible to the eye, but clear to my sense of rhythm.
.
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