...
The twilight breaks, the clouds are melancholy. Ferocio likes it when they’re lush, deep colors enveloping the sky.
“Are you finished?” He turns to ask.
“Yes, somewhat.” Nery replies from below,
the last few scratches from brush to slate is heard.
Then, he stands, wiping paint-stained hands. He must be careful of his thoughts, resenting Ferocio barely aiding though he saw it, too.
“Wow.” He draws from a barely gaping mouth.
It is almost as he saw it a first time. And that, he didn’t see his reaction, they were unconscious.
“It was hard making the colors that don’t exist in this spectrum.”
“Correct, but we didn’t leave anything blank.”
Nery smiles, quite satisfied his other spirit of being approves.
It was a sight that made them cry.
They take it in, a long moment, memorizing for each other.
And then, with a heavy face, Ferocio takes the rock in his hand, and throws it in the river.
The paint flies off, washed with the river.
