Zad never considered himself an art enthusiast.
Sure, he could appreciate a beautiful piece of artwork - even though he always destroyed it after admiring it - and he certainly never entertained any thought of himself being artistic in any way.
Until he finally caught that arrogant peacock of a Boy King.
Even after spending months in the forests, hiding in the dirt and mud, he was still as pale, clean, and white as before. He even still had his eyes lined with kohl.
He looked almost exactly like Zad remembered him. He was a blank canvas, ready for Zad's own personal form of art.
Purples, reds, and blues that would fade to blacks and greens blossomed under his hands and fists. Flashes of silver left lines of deep reds and pinks that would smear and drip as he continued. There were even trails of black and grey running down the boy's face, the black around the icy eyes smearing and running.
The boy was cowering now, clinging to what remained of his clothing that Zad's eager hands had eagerly torn away from the thin body.
The sight was intoxicating.
Blood dripped from the open wounds - the cuts, mainly, but also from the boy's nose and lip, all caused by Zad's hands - stained skin and fabric alike. Bruises of varying colors and shapes patterned the white skin. His favorites were the twin shapes on the boy's hips, just barely visible under the torn tunic. Perfect replicas of his palms.
The boy was watching him over his shoulder, his knees draw up to his chest and his head down, ready to curl up if Zad came at him again. Even more lines of grey ran down the boy's face, diluting the blood and crisscrossing over the bruises.
Zad looked at the soldier he had called for not too long ago.
"Get a room ready for our 'guest'." Zad ordered, smirking as he turned his attention back to his captive. "I think I want to keep him."
The boy sobbed.