AN: Hello Everybody! So this is going to be a short series of four one-shots, each less than eight pages, and each focusing on one of the human characters from Ib and their relation with the Gallery. The first one is going to be Weiss Guertena's point of view. I never really thought of him as the painting troll that some people think of him as, but as sort of a melancholy character. To create such beautiful and deep artwork, someone has to be more than just crazy. I hope you enjoy, even if your ideas about Weiss are not the same as mine.

If you are a native Chinese speaker, AoiAmber has translated this chapter! You can read it here: goldenspoon. lofter post /1eb02e _69157a4 (Minus the spaces of course!)

Disclaimer: I'm not the masterful genius who made Ib. That would be Kouri.

Weiss blinked in confusion at his surroundings. Not that they were strange, in fact, it was a rather plain hallway with olive green walls that he found himself in. What surprised him was that he had surroundings at all. They were solid, bright, and as real as walls could get, which meant that he was, undoubtedly, alive. He had read too many books where the clichéd character wakes up and thinks they're dead so he had determined that if he were to die and wake up then he would know he was alive. Weiss Guertena did not like to be cliché.

But even so, he was very certain he was dead.

He had finished his latest work, a large hanging painting with abstract images sprawling and blending together so it seemed like it moved, only hours ago. He hadn't even taken off his smock before sitting in his main room, sipping rose hip tea and watching the news lazily while waiting for the paint to dry. The painting had been commissioned by a church (a rare occurrence that he couldn't just pass up) and it wasn't what they had requested at all so he was fairly nervous they wouldn't accept it. He couldn't help but let himself get carried away once he had a paintbrush in hand but he had, as with all his paintings, poured his heart and soul into its making. The making of a Fabricated World.

It was when his chest seized up that his cup slipped out of his hand. The hot liquid spilled over his pants and apron, but it went unheeded as his hands clutched at his chest and he gasped for air that didn't seem to come properly. He was very aware of the sudden cold that started at his fingertips and toes that spread even as he continued gasping, unable to feel a pulse anywhere in his body any longer. The worst part was the wait. Even as loss of motion gripped him, Weiss' eyes continued seeing the news reel and his mind kept repeating heart attack-heart attack-heart attack.

He had died. Of that he was certain. He lived with no one and the people from the church weren't expected to pick up their painting for another three days. He had not been saved and therefore he died. And yet, he wasn't dead. He found his heart beating again, his smock an unstained ivory white, and warmth through his body that could come from nothing other than being alive. And it confounded him so.

He began walking down the hallway, intent on solving this mystery. He'd always liked puzzles and this one was no excuse. Perhaps she should have feared for his life, waking up in such a situation, but really it had just been saved, or something like it. As he examined the fern colored walls and plush, chartreuse carpet he wondered if perhaps he was dead and death was really just a simulation of life. Would that make this heaven or hell then?

With some surprise, he realized the wall was no longer empty but had a painting hung on the right side. His painting. He almost laughed out loud at the appropriateness of it. Heartbeat. This was Hell for certain.

Reaching out, he touched the unprotected canvas, only to jump backwards as the lime green line across it moved, accompanied by a loud echo of his own heart. In amazement he touched it again, to hear the loud base and spike of the line beat in tandem with his own heart. A wide grin split his face as he felt almost giddy. He didn't know how, but his exact vision for the painting had come true.

Feeling soothed by the sound and assurance that his heart was still beating, he took the painting off its hook and continued down the hallway, searching for another painting and nearly bursting in excitement for what it would do.

The Juggler. It took only a moment before the clown began to juggle expertly and Weiss was taken back to the day at the circus he had spent with his grandson. What a happy day. The clown smiled back at him, laughter accompanied by circus music floating out from the edges of the frame. Suddenly, this became one of his favorite paintings.

He continued, coming across other paintings he had made with his own hands. Enlightenment, The Geometrical Fish, Marvelous Night. He even found some of his statues, like the Taste-Cleansing Tree, and the sisters Uh and Ah.

He looked over one of his favorites, The Red Lady. It wasn't really the painting he liked, but the satisfaction it brought to him whenever he looked at it. It had been this painting that drove unwanted suitors away from his home. It drove many undesirables away, actually. Professing an undying love for a painted face with red eyes did that apparently.

He was reminiscing one such occasion when the painting began to move. He expected this, of course, so it did not surprise him. What did was when the Lady's hands came out of her painting and rested themselves on his shoulders, steadying the wobbling frame and allowing the woman to lean forward so their foreheads touched. Her walnut brown hair hung around their faces like a curtain so that her garnet eyes seemed to be his whole world.

"Welcome home, Master."

Red explained that he was in his own gallery, where what had been mere vision when he painted became real. She admitted her utter joy for him being there, snuggling the back of his neck from where she hung on his back. Weiss wouldn't leave her behind. Especially when she switched between calling him husband and master. She led him to what she called the supply closet, filled from corner to corner with painting supplies of all kinds.

He wanted to drop her, hands itching to start painting and see his work come to life before his eyes. Unrestricted in any ideas he might have. Red, anticipating his thoughts, giggled and told him to let her down and go ahead.

He propped her on a box, as she could only get out of her frame up to her waist, and set up an easel near her, chatting easily as he found a palette and some paints, excited to get started even though, realistically, he had only just finished Fabricated World a few hours ago. He painted and painted, never feeling hungry and rarely feeling tired, falling asleep on the floor with Red brushing her fingers softly through his hair when he did.

Eventually a trio of statues found them—Death to the Individual—and though they did all act eerily similar, moving in synch more often than not, their company was welcome. They took to rearranging the gallery, putting like paintings together in rooms and coming to him whenever they found a nice place for him to paint in, a new supply closet, or needed a door to get to a new part of the gallery.

Weiss played with his hands; painting, sculpting, writing, sometimes even stitching or gardening too, though he wasn't as good at either. Day and night didn't exist in the gallery, and neither did hunger or loneliness. Whenever he might feel bored of his meager company he would simply paint or sculpt some more. He ended up with probably fifty or so Ladies of all different colors and around the same number of Individuals to fill the halls and rooms. Red, the first Lady and his first "wife" although all the Ladies called him "husband" once asked why he never painted their bottoms. He found himself blushing but unabashedly answered, "Because if I did, I am certain I would not be able to keep myself from you."

He was answered by many giggles and kisses from the Ladies, trying to make him blush more. Weiss was happier than he could have ever imagined, having long forgotten the real world and happy to remain in his own forever. Certainly, he thought, this must be Heaven.

Until he remembered with a squeezing of his chest that he was not dead.

The Ladies didn't notice his sudden nervousness. How he began to almost neglect his rose garden and forgot to acknowledge some of the more obscure paintings of his so they wouldn't get lonely. Red noticed him blinking more often than usual, keeping back the tears as he thought of being forced to leave this happy life, and when he excused it as dry eyes she suggested he paint some eye drops for himself. It was embarrassing how many times it took him to make them correctly.

He didn't have much time left and he knew that, but he wondered what to do with that remaining time, what he could create that would live long and happily in his gallery of wonders. Thinking of his daughter that he'd left behind in the real world he smiled. A daughter. A child that was his and his alone. She could be anything he wanted her to be. Any age, any hair or eye color, any height—they didn't have to look anything alike and she would still be his beloved daughter.

But he couldn't leave her alone, oh no. The Individuals would do her bidding as they did for he, the Ladies would raise her, and his books would entertain and teach her. There was paper to draw with and his own many tea sets to play with. Yes…friends…he set to work making dolls for his daughter. The most he regularly stitched were the dresses on the Individuals or the couch he'd made for resting a long while back, so it didn't come out perfectly, but they were good. Indigo blue cloth for the skin with cute rounded hands and feet, bubblegum pink, bumblebee yellow, and shamrock green dresses, little sable black eyes that matched the color of the yarn hair, and upturned stitched mouths. Yes, these would make good friends for his little girl.

As he painted, he came up with ideas for names with the Ladies. He didn't tell them of his time limit, only that he wanted a daughter and that he wanted them to love her as mothers did. All the Ladies were excited. They were sisters to all the other artwork, not mothers or daughters and the idea of new family members always excited them. Butterscotch hair, cerulean eyes, a cute teal scarf around her neck and a pear green dress with lace.

"Samantha?"

"How about Rose or Rosetta? From that garden you like so much, Weiss?"

"No, her name has to be special."

"Susan?"

"Maybe something like Crystal or Ruby?"

Weiss wrinkled his nose in response to the suggestion as he tried to make his daughter's smile just right. He could feel his chest grow tighter but ignored it. Just until I'm done. Just until I'm done with her.

"What about something more traditional? Like Elizabeth or Margaret?

Weiss hummed slightly. He at least liked the sound of it better.

"She looks like a Mary to me."

Weiss paused—he was almost done anyways—and looked down at Red, who had been quietly watching him paint while listening to her sisters. Weiss leaned back to look at his girl for a moment and found himself putting the name to her face.

"Mary," he repeated and smiled. "I like that." It was simple, cute, and elegant. A long-lasting name. He hoped Mary would think the same.

He was just putting his name on the bottom corner, within the petal of one of the roses around the border, when his chest seized up again. The surprise came before the anguish as he realized he wouldn't live to see his daughter come to life. The paint had to be dry for the image to come alive, and that would still be a few hours yet.

The Ladies were fawning over their soon to be daughter and so he excused himself from the room to take a breath and wash his hands. His heart panged with something other than pain. He didn't want the gallery to know he died. To sadden all the Ladies and have the Individuals wander aimlessly around the halls. To have Mary's first sight and knowledge when she woke up to be her dead father who couldn't keep his heart beating long enough to tell her he loved her. But he was certain she'd know. Each brushstroke he'd made certainly conveyed the love he felt for her. And the Ladies would make sure she knew as well.

Weiss entered his inner gallery. He supposed this would be the best place to die if any.

Using a pencil, he fashioned a door and stepped into a hallway with a staircase leading down. He erased the door before heading down. This wasn't the first time he'd been here, though was certain it was the last time he'd use the door. The gallery, with its many occupants, became stifling at times, to the point where his tall rose bushes even were too close for comfort. The room at the bottom of the stairs held a single bed; large, comfortable, and always waiting for him.

He laid down, breathing heavily even though he'd expended little energy with his hand fisted in the fabric around his chest. Perhaps this was not a heart attack this time but merely old age. His body never seemed to age, but his spirit could certainly feel the time he'd spent in the gallery. He wondered how many days or years he'd spent there, cheating death once and forgetting what his life had been.

It hadn't been a particularly happy or exciting life before coming to the Gallery, filled with suitors after his family money, a daughter, son-in-law, and grandchild all created from a short and unsatisfying affair when he was much younger. His artwork never being fully appreciated by his peers or the time it found itself in. He had been thoroughly unhappy with everything but the sensation of a paintbrush or pencil in hand, allowing him to create to no end.

Dying the first time and coming to the Gallery had been the best thing to even happen to him. He would certainly consider his true life having been in the Gallery. He was happy there. Happier than he might have ever considered himself capable of.

His chest constricted painfully and he gasped at the familiarity of it. This time, as he died, thrashing uncontrollably against fate, his eyes welled with tears. He didn't want to die! He wanted to see his daughter smile and make her some of his favorite rosehip tea. He wanted to make his Ladies laugh and let Red run her gentle fingers through his alabaster hair. He wanted to live in his Gallery forever. And as his limbs froze over and his eyes slowly turned unseeing, he got exactly what he wished for.