Kohl

You measure it with the negative space, by the in-between. The reserved gallery wall that would have showcased his next masterpiece. The unheard footsteps down the hallway of his gallery. The silent voice of wisdom, loudly missing from the table. You measure it by the uninspired heart, inundated with the demands of life.

Kohl had stopped going to funerals. He had lived too long, and had attended far too many. Grief was its own trauma, and at some point, there was such a thing as too much loss, causing irreparable damage. At least, that was what Fy said to convince their brother to step away after his husband's passing, to protect his heart a little in the long run. The man was going to carry the weight and memory of the dead anyway, why subject himself to a human ritual to formalize the process? And in fact, whether Kohl attended the memorials and the wakes did not stop his heart from thoroughly breaking after each subsequent loss. But he conceded, for the most part, if only to set his sibling's mind at ease.

His participation at Algernon's memorial service and associated fundraising auction was an exception. A once in a generation kind of promise made when Algernon was still just potential and late rent money irresponsibly spent on primers and canvas. Kohl had seen the rise and fall of stars, and he invested in the young painter in a moment of doubt with a promise of future witness.

And so here he was. Back in San Solaris after decades. Witnessing a legacy that didn't even need his eyes. A legacy that reached beyond the beauty of the departed's work. Algernon Bennett had lived a life so full of impact that his memory would carry with or without Kohl's say about it, and that was at least some comfort for Kohl this time around.

But it was his work that stirred Kohl, for he worshipped beauty. The witnessing of work that could pierce the heart by capturing the very essence of what it meant to be alive, was an act of worship. The mourning of such loss was no less painful for Kohl, despite not having spoken to Algernon for years but witnessed his progression from afar, whose current suffering was indistinguishable from the loss of love.

With a sigh, Kohl monitored and instructed the crew's unloading of his own contribution to the auction. A single figure sculpted in soft stone with the posture of a soul carrying too much, yet had found elegance in their adjustment. Conflict and contradictions expressed between the strain and layering of muscles in the figure's neck and down their back. He pushed the sleeves of his bomber jacket up to his elbows to support the installment, ignoring the lingering glances at the burn scars across his arms. Completing his task, he lifted a flat cap to reveal fiery red curly hair, just for a moment to comb the stray strands back with his fingers, before replacing the hat on his head.

Then, thanking the extra sets of hands with a courteous nod, he wandered through the gallery space.

And there, he smiled at the other reason he made an exception for this memorial. If the loss of the beauty of one mind was meaningful, then the gathering of so many others could only make his heart swell in reverence. A bittersweet smile rested on his lips as he stopped at a rather dynamic painting of animals in motion, a herd of something resembling horses splashing across a river. Easy to capture the emotions of a solitary moment. But Kohl had always struggled with the moving forward; to represent, in stillness, the perpetual and unrelenting forward momentum of life that threatened to leave one behind. And in his contemplation, lingered before said painting for an extended silence.

"You like it?" The artist asked from behind him, "I came across a herd of these creatures on a business trip off-world. They were so unique I knew I'd someday have to attempt to redraw them after leaving them behind..."

The very fact of life, that mortals and immortals alike must all reconcile, was that the universe will continue to move forward with or without them. The only true constant was change, and the world will change and continue on, whether or not one was ready for it. Wars have been started by those who attempted to resist it. Imposed all sorts of oppression and violence against the vehicles of change. Resist it hard enough, and the change would simply destroy what stood in its way.

Kohl had been left behind, and had done the leaving behind. And it did not matter whether time and mortality forced it, or if love was simply not enough sometimes.

When Zealand’s time ended, Kohl had let the world leave him behind in his mourning. For generations, the world moved forward, one step after another. And then the truth was that he also continued to move forward. One step after another. The love was still there, sometimes the weight of it dropped Kohl to his knees. And then -

And then, he’d push himself off the ground, and he’d continue to move forward. One step after another. To the next mission, to the next city, to the next country, to the next -

“Off world,” He repeated, well, that explained the bizarre creatures in the painting. Kohl’s eyes did not leave the canvas as he spoke, “I have seen your work in these circles, Ms. Aliprandi. It is often the unique creatures that draw the attention of your audience, but I would argue that the brilliance of your technique is in your ability to capture the unrelenting motion of life, in all parts.”

Kohl paused, then cleared his throat. “Apologies, my manners appeared to have abandoned me in a time of grief. Kohl,” He turned to the artist, and offered a hand in greeting, then adjusted the name for context. The name attached to his art, “Rowtag. Cole Rowtag.”