What to paint

Chapter 1

You sit there, atop your pedestal, a wooden stool tucked away into a corner of the grand hall. You sit there surrounded by your array of colors. A world of pictures that you had forever etched onto canvas.
The ever-growing collection of portraits and scenes. A grand ball, a wonderous feast, an execution, none of which you remember. Yet you paint and paint. The brush flowed across the canvas, unstopping unless it's to get more paint.
You sit watching as your queen who you see every day works. You sketch and paint, draw and color. Yet even then you forget her face. You can't remember how or why nonetheless you forget it all.
The world of paint and colors are the only thing you can try anymore. You forget the scenes though. When you set down the brush and look across the now empty room. The blade of a god isn't seen. You feel like you've made it all up.
You fear that the god you have sat next to for years is a figment of your imagination. The bloodstain is faint but up can see it yet you forget how it happened, who it was. The painting shows nameless faces. Carbon copies though you've forgotten of who.
You have nothing more to paint now. So you continue to sit. No god returns to her thrown that night. Yet you turn and paint the view from the balcony.
Something is missing though, the snow and the frost-covered ground are too pale. It's empty and it has no color. You want to add a person, but you can't remember who you were waiting for.
When you move again. A canvas and selection of watercolors in hand. You get lost. Among the array of halls and doors, you wander and paint. A map that you've cataloged thousands of times yet still forget.
It's when you are painting the entrance to the palace that you feel joy. A face appeared, one you can't name. Overwhelmed with a sense of longing and familiarity you run to them. Watercolors and brushes falling to the ground. You don't know why but you stop a few feet away and bow with a smile. You've forgotten that you're waiting for them.
They lead you away and signal for a maid to collect your paints. As you're led away from the entrance and past a large door you question only for a fraction of a second as to why the man grips your hand tighter as you pass by a masked figure.
You continue to draw even then. The man in front of you, the tea he had prepared. A new box of paints wrapped with a bow. Your recreation of the present is flawless and perfect. Every expression and hair is in the perfect spot. It looks more like a photo than a painting. Yet when you return to your room, you wonder what is the name of the man who covers your walls.