He paints because he doesn't want to forget. Eternity makes every memory vague, faces fade and words lose their meaning. He barely speaks anymore, he just paints. He draws all the faces he never wants to forget, he paints all the scenes he always want to remember. He has gotten so good at it that he every now and then puts reality to shame, but he dislikes those paintings. He sells them, gives them away, and tries again. He tries to capture the truth, the way it truly was. All the blood that has been spilt, all the dirt that has soiled what could have been pure, all of the symptoms of the sicknesses which have contaminated the mortals around him, the crimes upon beauty and humanity he has been forced to witness, and every single death he has ever seen has been granted eternity, just like him.

He paints his sister more often than anyone else. He still remembers what she looked like when she was just a baby, the sound of her laughter when she was a child, and how blood and pain came to invade her nightmares. He paints that too, but he hides those paintings away. He paints it for her, because while she tells stories about the horrors in the dark, about brave knights in battered armor fighting dark angels, about suns which never set, and about all the things that mattered to her at one point, all those things begin to lose their meaning as she can't quite remember what happened centuries ago. He paints so she will not forget. He paints even the things he wishes away, things he wish she would never have been forced to go through. He paints it because she needs to remember in order to make everything else make sense. He paints for her, he paints for her knight, he paints even for the dark and twisted angel who he despised and loved at the same time. He paints him more often than he thinks, because he does not want to forget. He cannot forget. It was a long time ago but the pain lingers and the scars will never fade. Should he stop painting the vile angel the memories of his childhood would grow lonely, his sister's aches would become meaningless, the hate would grow hollow and the centuries of suffering would be for naught.

The perfect creature has been depicted on his papers and canvases many times. A never changing, constant beauty with a long lived pain creeping beneath the pale skin. To fail to paint that pain would allow the young man perfection that is no longer his to claim. It would be to trivialize the past and to insult his very being. So he paints it all. He paints and he paints what really is. The world he sees, the people around him, the ones that matter, those who don't and those who tried to matter, what is on the inside of them all and in his own mind. He cannot bring himself to speak of the pain that he sees, not even in the way his sister does. Instead he turns his blue eyes to the canvas again and begins his never ending work of granting memories immortality.  

To forget would be disrespectful, he knows this, and so he paints and paints until his hands ache.