Resident Evil Oneshots

Her muse

The late afternoon light filtered through the narrow window, casting soft, golden hues over Lady Cassandra's quarters as I carefully dusted the shelves. The air was thick with the subtle scent of lavender and something darker, something unmistakably hers. Every movement I made was precise, delicate. There was something about being in her personal space that demanded reverence. I handled her belongings with care, as if they were extensions of herself—strong, beautiful, and undeniably captivating.

As I worked, my gaze kept drifting to the various paintings scattered throughout her room. Some hung on the walls, others were propped against furniture, half-finished or discarded. Each brushstroke spoke of a passion, a need to create. The figures in the paintings—familiar yet unnamed—seemed to hold pieces of a story I couldn't quite grasp. I felt a strange connection to them, as though I'd seen these faces somewhere before, though I dismissed the thought as a mere trick of the mind. After all, I spent so much time in the castle, surrounded by its history. Perhaps the faces were just echoes of that.

But still, I couldn't tear my eyes away from them. The way the figures were painted—strong, yet fragile in their own way—reminded me of Lady Cassandra herself. There was a subtle intensity in her work, something deeply personal. I admired her for it, for the way she could express herself so freely, while I remained locked in my own silence.

As I adjusted one of the frames on her desk, I felt the weight of my own hidden thoughts pressing down on me. I had always admired Lady Cassandra. Her strength, her beauty, her intelligence—they were impossible to ignore. But it wasn't just admiration that I felt, was it? No, there was something more, something I had buried deep within myself, knowing full well that such feelings were foolish, impossible. I was just a maid, after all, bound by duty and decorum. People like me didn't entertain such thoughts about someone like her. And yet, as I stood there, alone in her room, I couldn't help but feel a quiet longing stir in my chest, a longing that I had been trying to suppress for far too long.

A soft creak behind me snapped me out of my thoughts, and I turned sharply, heart leaping into my throat. Lady Cassandra stood in the doorway, her presence filling the room with an energy that made my skin prickle. She hadn't announced her arrival, hadn't made a sound until now, and yet she stood there as though she had been watching me for longer than I realized. Her gaze was steady, piercing, but not unkind. I immediately lowered my eyes, feeling a flush of heat creep up my neck.

"My Lady,"

I murmured, my voice betraying the nervousness that now fluttered in my chest. She didn't move, not at first. For a moment, the only sound was the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth, the tension between us hanging in the air like a thread waiting to be pulled. Then, finally, she spoke, her voice low, but carrying that familiar authority.

"What do you think of them?"

she asked, gesturing slightly toward the paintings that adorned her walls. I blinked, caught off guard by the question. My mind scrambled for a response, unsure of how to answer.

"The paintings?"

I asked softly, still hesitant. She nodded, stepping further into the room, her gaze lingering on the canvas as though she, too, were lost in their meaning.

"Yes. I've noticed you looking at them."

I swallowed hard, suddenly hyper-aware of her attention on me. My hands fidgeted with the dust cloth, trying to find an anchor in the midst of the nervous energy that her presence brought.

"They're... beautiful,"

I said, my voice soft but sincere.

"They are full of emotion."