An artist was nothing without a patron. Viggo's master had reminded him of this time and time again, and time and time again, Viggo had struggled against it.
"You can *be* an artist without a patron, yes," his master had said, "but you cannot *succeed* without one."
"But success means *nothing* to me, you know that," Viggo always retorted.
"Success may not, but food does, I think? Without a patron, you cannot sell your work and your art, and without money, you cannot buy food. Someday, you will understand that--and someday, you will find your patron."
But Viggo's master was ten years gone. Viggo held his own mastery by guild-right and place; his apprentices were already making names for themselves.
After all, though, his master had been right; he could not survive without a patron. He'd given them courtesy and sometimes more than courtesy, as the situation demanded, and they had given him entrance to the nobles' world, commissions for lords and princes. Every day, he wished for independence, knowing he could never have it, and cursed himself for his weakness.
Yet here he was, waiting for his latest patron, shackled once again to a man he barely knew, who would never know or understand his art. A foreign lord, Lord Sean, from a cold northern island, far across the continent. What could he know of art?
When the door opened, he knelt--patrons were always noble.
"Ah, no, please," came a warm, rich voice. Hands were extended to him, and, uncertain, Viggo took them, only to find himself raised up to meet laughing green eyes and a face that made him itch to sketch. "You should never kneel to me--you serve a higher Muse."
And Viggo thought that perhaps, in Sean, he had found his patron.