Nothing.
She doesn't want to face it, so she sees nothing beyond the draperies of her bed.
Whenever Briar Rosette had a persistent problem stirring in her woebegone heart, she would paint. Colors had always been a perfect method of expression. If she's happy, then her palette would be bright like the glory of the sun and the billows of the sea that mirrors the sky. If she's angry, then her palette would be disastrous yet wonderful, wretched yet beckoning with livid brush strokes, unleashing monsters formed by ire.
And whenever she doesn't understand what she feels at all, she just paints at random, letting her wrist flick along the canvas without any concept art in her mind. Once the painting would reach its completion, she'd try to do an analysis of her freeform expression, try to comprehend what had been bugging her for days until she can independently compromise with her inner voice.
However, right now...
Painting can't even make the maiden get out of her thick blankets, let alone her fortification of feather-stuffed pillows. She didn't have the will to do any sort of action. She was afraid that should she do more, someone else's death follows.
No, not again. She must never allow it to happen again.
Why did I request for her to execute such a dangerous job? She wondered, regrets piling up like bricks that made her unable to lift her own weight.
With great power comes with great responsibility, but look at her now. Her bare feet wouldn't dare touch the cold floor for most hours. Her room had been engulfed by darkness. She was responsible for what will be written down on History books, but where was this so-called power within her frail, shivering body?
She left the door unlocked for Gertrude to come and go, serving her meal after meal in bed. Often, the young miss didn't eat, so there would be instances that the old woman leaves with a wasted tray of food, much to the princes’ observations.
“I am worried about you.” Gertrude said one day during dinner.
She respected the maiden's wishes, not going out-of-bounds with the given orders—which were to enter and exit quietly, either for mealtime or for escorting the maiden to her private wood-panelled bathroom along with dressing her up in simple silk.
So for the old woman to speak in spite of her orders obviously startled the young miss.
“Well, worry not. It will do you no good. Only gives you more wrinkles.” Rosette replied anyway, earning a gentle laugh from her personal attendant. She wanted to laugh along, though she hesitated and cancelled the attempt. How can she laugh at a time like this? After that bloodcurdling afternoon at the gallows?
“I missed that voice of yours, young miss. It is nice to hear it again.” The old woman smiled warmly, a contrasting feature within the wintry, dimlit bedroom. “Tell me, what must be done for you to feel better?”
There must be something.
There was something. But she doesn't know what. She doesn't want to know what. She was deadweight. People shouldn't care much for deadweight.
Finally, she answered. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” frowned the personal attendant.
“Nothing. I think I feel better with doing nothing. I feel better with nothing. I think I am better to feel nothing. Just...nothing.”
Rosette sprawled lazily on the soft mattress, her body slowly sinking as though she was being sucked into the bed. Gertrude watched her with a wearying gaze.
YOU ARE READING
Slowly and Painfully ー ✓
Fanfiction[COMPLETE] ❝Seven princes stood before me. But which of them is the one I seek?❞ Briar Rosette, a curious girl of the 21st century, was somehow captivated by one of History's greatest mysteries. It was the tale between the Painter and the Musician...
