The Painter's Blood

The Hermit

It is generally assumed that with royal blood comes a royal position. That being said, it applies to the opposite as well. It was a bit ironic that the man on the throne was even there at all; his blood was no more or no less than that of a dog's. He had been born in dirt, and he figured, even now, that it would only be fitting that he should die in the dirt. It seemed that all of Northumbra agreed.
It was as if time hadn't passed at all. He had been in a forest, only just beginning to hit puberty, and...
The Count sighed. He looked around the room carefully, wondering if any mind readers were nearby to spy on his thoughts. He shrugged and leaned back in his uncomfortably ornate throne, a hand-me-down left over from the previous Count. It couldn't hurt to dwell on the past, could it? His eyes slipped closed...

Genos looked in awe at the palace around him. The palace was enormous and lavishly decorated, large paintings and plush armchairs littering the hallways. He was led into a room that spoke just as loudly of the money that had been put into this place. An elegant mahogany table sat in the center, but the fact that it was level with the velveteen seats of the chaise lounges made it obvious that it wasn't a dining table. He sat awkwardly on one of the lounges, biting his lip nervously. He looked up to ask how long it would be, but the green haired woman was nowhere to be seen. He sighed and lay back on the cushions, staring up at the ceiling.

"Hey, wake up baldy!" A voice yelled in his ear.
The Count awoke with a jolt of panic, his eyes wide and his breathing rapid. He stared forward for a moment, then blinked.
"What is it?" He asked, looking over at his messenger and leaning his head on a hand.
"I've brought the master painter like you asked. Although I don't see why anyone would need him for anything." The girl rolled her eyes and started to ramble. "He's all dirty and looks like he's homeless, and I mean, a hobo is pretty useless and his work isn't even cool and-"
"Can you get me a visual?" The Count interrupted. He imagined that the master painter would be a reedy, beanpole of a guy with thinning hair and worn hands. The girl rolled her eyes and blew a bubble, then closed her eyes to concentrate. The Count blinked in surprise when he saw a young man in some sort of armour, his hair lush and full. The closer he looked, the more familiar he seemed.
Wait... It wasn't armour, it was his skin. He was... An automaton? 'He's certainly a machine of some sort.'

It happened so suddenly that the Count barely had time to register the change. The high marble ceiling above him was suddenly soft and green, light dappling through it. He was no longer a Count. Not here, at least.
He lay in the grass, his arms beneath his head and his legs slightly spread. He was relaxed; he had done this many times before: gone to a place from his past, unable to control his movements. He sat up when the sun reached its peak, then climbed a tree and sat in a low branch. He sat completely still, although his conscious mind wanted his past body to move. He held his breath as the rabbit sprung through the trees, paint smearing along behind it. He followed it with his eyes, smiling when a few butterflies followed.
Each day at the same time, these painted creatures would run along the same path. He would have looked for the person responsible for these creations, but he was afraid that he would be seen and questioned, so he settled on observing the beautiful works. Occasionally he would hear the laugh of a child or catch a glimpse of shining metal. He had always wondered what was beyond the foliage.

One night he was hunting, a dagger gripped in his hand to deal with any animals caught in his snares. The moon was low overhead. It was wonderfully silent in the way that nature usually was. He loved the serenity of the forest.
And then there was a shout from the edge of the forest.

"Witch!"

There were several words blurred together, the sound of raised voices and the sudden light of torches. The fear in the people of this village was so apparent that he could smell it. He crept to the treeline and crouched in a row of bushes. From his spot, he saw a gleam of metal and a mop of blonde hair; heard a child cry out. There was a loud clang as he was shoved into a metal contraption, a burst of red as a fire was lit beneath it.
He looked around the crowd, his eyes stopping on a splatter of paint on the ground. This was the work of the mystery creator; the one they thought was a witch. The one they were... going to kill.
Although he braced himself for what he knew was about to come, he still cried out. There was a loud snapping of bones as he felt a hot pressure on his back. His fingers tore into the ground, dirt burying itself beneath his nails. He cried out again and the pain burned hotter, making his skin crawl. His vision went red.

When he opened his eyes again he was staring at the image of the painter in the bubble. His messenger was still rambling on about the man, which made the Count sigh in relief. No time had passed, and if so it had been mere moments. He straightened in his chair. "Alright. Send him in."

//981 words. Good so far?