Roses can't grow beautiful in solitude, so his Sire used to say.
His Sire was dead now though. Bloomed as splendidly as a true rose, and almost as short-lived. Gabriel never stopped to mourn him.
The moon was high in the sky that night, distant and cold, but still the only one permitted to observe him while he created. A brush stroke. Then another. And then a long pause. Was his art any good? He himself wasn't certain about it. He hardly remembered how he used to paint as a young teenager in his master's halls. He remembered the sun filtering through the curtains, the smell of fresh painting and the cheerful cries of the other apprentices - but not his own art, never his own art. Was he better back then? Death had robbed him of his talent? Or added depth to it? Not even his Sire had ever been able to answer to that. His beautiful Sire, all warm smiles and songs. How many times he had asked the same question and he had just smiled? A brush stroke. He didn't know if this painting was any good either. Like all the others. Sometimes, Kindred came to his Haven, in the heart itself of the woods, to admire his works. Many asked to buy them, even. Gabriel had never understood money or gold, if not as what kept him able to have the tools to create more paintings. But he didn't need all the money the stangers offered for them, so he simply used to shake his head at their requests. Some left forever, some returned periodically. One once asked him a question: "Why always the same subject? You could draw anything - why always this?" A brush stroke. When was that? The last year? Or the last century? He couldn't tell, since the woods and the moon changed little in his quiet corner of peace. He knew, however, that the answer was the same today as in that long past night. "He still hasn't answered my question."
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