During those days, he would spend his time painting pictures like his life depended on it.
He brought life to millions of sceneries using his gifted hands and eased his loneliness through the canvas sheets he had.
The colors swirled against what seemed like dark recesses and travelled far past that room, far past that dark and dirty basement.
At first, he relied on his own emotions and the things he had already seen before.
The colonist soldier would frequently visit him underneath to deliver the boy some foods and drinks, but Toren would always be so busy to even thank him.
The captain would leave, having the littlest glimpse over his artworks.
And every single time, he would marvel at it. He would pretend to be unimpressed when he felt so moved even with such age.
The soldier fell in love one by one with the paintings. He had never seen anyone with that kind of talent.
He knew about prominent painters back in his country, but they were never nearly as good as the boy hidden in his basement.
Toren would eat less and even sleep less.
He would ponder less and live less.
It was only during one night when he had entered the otherworld to confide in his mother and right then, he felt so warm. But those were too rare.
He was bothered and wide awake most of the time.
Although there was always a looming loneliness in him, it was always dormant because of his beautiful and passionate paintings. The emotion that was truly prevalent of him was desperation.
He was desperate about something.
Toren imagined himself then living eternally, longing for luxuries, and painting with ease.
No rasping swords, no beheaded torsos lying around, no bleeding women, and no crying children.
That dream was crafted over and over to his imaginations that it was slowly turning into reality. But no matter how much he pushed, he would be reminded of the demons at the corners, the cobwebs at the ceiling, and the darkness wrapped around him.
He thought that there was no way he could possibly do such a thing
He receded back and forth to dreams and hopelessness in an endless cycle of doubt.
Now that he had been inside a cold void, knowing about the centuries he had watched Coen, he realized how things flipped around. Back then, when Toren was in the basement, he knew about someone else's eyes.
It could only belong to no other than his brother Coen.
He knew about the stares and the omniscience that was cast over him.
It was a bit uncomfortable at first, but it gradually became a bit comforting. It felt like someone was looking out for him.
Toren wondered what his brother could be thinking then.
He thought that Coen might be looking for him or worrying about him.
And maybe in some twisted hours, he thought that Coen would be relieved to see him trapped in the darkness forever. So none of the prophecies or the harms that were supposed to be inflicted would be fulfilled.
During those days, he searched for things.
What he desires the most and what he must do from now on.
There was a sense of freedom he obtained after running away. The shackles of torture are gone and the prison of accusation had been dissolved from his reality now.
Because of that, his presence was now out of his father's sight. He was truly free to do the things he could.
And it was during those days and weeks that some kind of a deceitful bargain was exchanged between a foolish, desperate boy and a pretty deep dark blue flower.