@peredore : "Please. I need you to trust me, Clea."
please, please, please 𓇢𓆸 accepting ;;
Her focus shifts at the sound of her name carrying such gravity — the pain of sleepless nights they spent thinking, meditating on recent events — the weight of the endless pondering, while her father kept despairing. Alone. It had gotten worse with each passing day — and the confirmation of all their doubts did finally manifest the moment her mother did not reemerge from Verso's canvas — without any notice, no hints. She simply disappeared into ink and colors. Since then, he has known no peace.
At first, she had almost thought him a coward to think any less of the brilliant paintress — their teacher and mentor, the woman whose paintbrush always seemed like nothing but an extension of her own hand; she couldn't possibly choose to waste away inside a painting. She would know when to stop, when to return home — and in the meantime, Clea believed, she would have processed the immense, obscure grief of Verso's death the way she preferred the most.
It's gone now, faded like snow in spring — that assurance of a return. Listening to her father, it almost sounds as though the woman will never return home. Never return to life.
The cowardice permeating that irrational fear of his, now, shifts into something else. Pain -- and when he begs her to listen to him, hurt yet convinced of his plan, she finds it impossible to ignore. His grief, her mother's — it is her own. And it burns a different way than Renoir's.
❛ Trust you to enter the canvas, and-- what then ? ❜ she raises an eyebrow, doubt showing in her features — narrowed eyes, pursed lips — though she already knows how this is about to end. How she will eventually concede, after all. For her father's sake, and no one else's. And because, aside from Renoir, she remains the only other Painter in the house, and in the family — who can assist his desperate rescue mission.
The faltering sentiment comes not from pity. She has none for her mother, and he needs it not. Wouldn't even accept it, actually. No — it's the thought she will have to enter that Canvas again, after so much time, that acts as a bridle, halting her resolve enough to make her think twice, to make her imagine what's to come. The place she once considered hers and Verso's playground, their safe haven shaped at the simplest, creative whim of a child — now probably botched. Perhaps unrecognizable, too. Oh, she dreads the moment her eyes, and heart, would start noticing the many differences.
❛ What you ask of me... it won't be easy. But, if there is no other way— ❜ her tone is low, her back against the chair relaxes as it fully leans against it. At the very least, it's testament enough that her father regards her as one skilled Paintress for the task. That brings some solace to her soul. ❛ Then I choose to trust you. If only to have this pantomime your wife has set in motion finally come to an end. ❜
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