The calendar pages are portraits, and while this image is of Fenris, it's a candid shot. It's not the picture I want to draw.
It's not the picture he wants to show you.
But it's the picture that's in my head right now, that won't let me do anything else til I write it.
Sunrise, after the Purges, and if this image had a title it would be either "It's over." or "How much of that is yours?"
The foyer of the Library, suffused with early light. Donna standing beside the stairs, looking older than she did when the night began. Hair uncharacteristically down, streaming across her shoulders. Skirts wrinkled from her balling her fists up in them all night.
Fenris, having just walked through the open door.
He looks older, too.
He doesn't know how many Hounds he's killed or wounded tonight.
He doesn't know how many people have died at the hands of the Hounds he and the Kirayth didn't take out, or didn't take out in time.
He knows that the second number is exponentially bigger than the first.
He's worn to the bone, having moved for the last hour-at-least strictly on adrenaline and necessity. His jeans are torn near to shreds. His leather jacket has clearly taken knife damage - the right arm is laid out from shoulder to elbow.
He's bruised and begrimed, but what draws the eye most is the blood crusted on leather and denim, on the hair that's escaped his ponytail to drift around his face, on his neck and jawline, crackling slightly when he swallows.
You don't see the lost and broken look in his eye unless you know him well, as well as Donna. You see the hardened warrior. But he does not want you to see his grief.