Painted: 0.0.1

Prologue

The little red-headed girl sat alone with her paintbrush, with peaceful silence humming around her. Her mother would return soon. But before she did, the girl waited. And as she waited, she would paint.

She would paint because it felt as though painting ran through her bones; she would paint because it kept her going; she would paint because it made her feel as if she wasn’t alone anymore.

So there she sat, on the stool that lifted her to a proper height so that she could reach the canvas, which was colored with the happy tones of her young mind. Her mother's imperfect, yet still beautiful face smiling down at her had a calming effect on her mind... as if she was actually in the room; as if she was not away. The girl had painted on her mother's trademark yellow "kiss the chef!" apron to remind her of those few days when she woke up to steaming pancakes and a house that was no longer empty.

A hinge creaked from outside and immediately the girl's little hand dropped the brush into the jar of water. She darted out the door, her bare feet slapping against the groaning wood floor. “Mommy!”

“I’m home!” Sila cried out to her daughter and opened her arms. The little girl ran into them and snuggled for a moment, then withdrew.

“Come see what I’ve done! I’ve finished!” She pulled her through the halls until they came to her open bedroom door. She toted her mother, who still carried a rolling suitcase, up to the canvas and gestured proudly.

“Wow,” Sila said and smiled. She pushed away some red hair that had fallen into her face and stepped closer. “You’re getting much better.” She picked the little girl up for a kiss. The girl screamed and kicked and giggled, but Sila only continued to swing her around in big circles and kiss her rosy little cheeks. She didn’t put the girl down until the phone rang.

“Duty calls,” the mother said with a sad smile and plopped her somewhat disappointed daughter back on the ground.

"But Mummy..." the girl started, but cut herself off. She knew it was no use. “Duty calls,” she repeated glumly.

“I’ll tell you when the call is done. Then you can help me cook dinner, okay?”

Sila's smile said that it was okay, but they both knew it wasn't.

“Fine,” said the girl at last. The phone still rang incessantly in the background.

The girl knew that dinner would be late tonight.

* * * * *

The aching of hunger had started in the girl's stomach long ago. She knew she was forbidden to disturb her mother while she worked, but what authority did Sila have to tell her rules? Sila's business trips were so frequent that she could barely call herself the girl's mother anymore. The girl's tipping point should've been long ago.

She hopped off the stool and landed lightly on the floor.

The home that belonged to the mother and the daughter was a little cluttered, but not so much so that things couldn’t be found. It was a little creaky, but loved dearly. To the person who didn’t know their way around the corridors, the house could be foreboding. But most people who entered it knew their way. And so the little girl loved her home; she loved the occasional paint splatters on the walls and the paintings that greeted her around every corner.

There was one place, however, that was somewhat unknown to the young girl: a forbidden place. It was the place where her mother went. Of course, the girl knew where the entrance was and how to get to it, but she didn’t know exactly how to go about finding her mother once she had opened the door. The problem was that it wasn’t just one room, but a series.

She walked as quietly as she could through the first room. There was no furniture, but only strange paintings on the walls. The people in these paintings looked weird and shadowed, with their hair done up in odd ways and their clothes hanging around them in strange fashions. They weren’t scary, only unfamiliar.

The girl went through two more rooms of the like before she began to hear her mother’s voice. It came from one or two rooms over, and its whispers carried an underlying urgency.

The girl tiptoed to the doorway from which her mother's voice wafted and peeked through. The room behind the door was different than the one she was standing in. It had been furnished fully in glittering, ruby-inlaid furniture of grandiose but rather queer style. Unlike the other rooms in this labyrinth, this one was crowded and messy; strange golden and ruby objects were strewn about the floor, reflecting a bright red light that came from nowhere. But somehow, the room was still cloaked in shadow.

From inside, Sila’s voice was becoming more urgent. The girl peeked around the corner, and what she saw pushed her heart up in her throat so it became harder to keep a quiet breath.

She could see the red hair of her mother, who sat in a tall-backed, throne-like chair opposite the doorway. It appeared that her mother was looking at a large painting hung directly in front of the chair, depicting a cloaked figure sitting in a dimly lit room.

“Sila, if those rapscallions get what they want... if they manage--” the man's harsh voice made the girl jump. Where had it come from?

“But they won’t manage,” Sila assured her invisible company. “I’ll personally make sure of that."

“You’d better.” the man's voice said.

The girl could have sworn she saw the figure in the painting move slightly.

“I promise.”

In a moment's pause, the girl was sure her breath would be heard. But miraculously, her mother remained fixated on the painting and didn't turn to see her daughter.

“Sila, how can you expect that we’ll be able to keep them under control... with all that’s been happening.”

"What?”

Again, the girl though she saw the figure in the painting shift his weight.

“They'll succeed...” the man's voice continued. “They'll succeed because he wants them to.”

“How could he even know?”

“He knows everything.”

Another silence.

“And he has decided to aid them?”

“Not exactly...”

“What has happened?”

Who on Earth was he? What was her mother talking about? The girl had imagined her mother's job, her calls, and her office for so long that it felt as if she already knew them. Now all of that--all of what she'd tricked herself into thinking was knowledge--was being swept away, replaced anew. The girl squirmed slightly under her sweaty clothes. A floorboard creaked.

Sila’s head whipped around, but her daughter had darted back behind the wall again.

Sila slowly turned back to the painting and hissed, “What has happened?”

“He has made a prophecy. He has put a scroll out by way of the scepter."

"What does it say?"

"That he defies our wishes; the princess will become queen. And worse than that: she will resolve the contract; he has said that she must."

Silence.

"Good Pictor, Sila! Don't you see?" the man hissed. "It's Kassi."

The girl's eyes widened, and she grasped the wall behind her with sweaty palms. What did this--whatever this even was--have anything to do with her?

“He has started the game, but I will not allow him to finish it,” Sila said at last.

Where they still talking about her? the girl wondered. What was all of this?

This time, there could be no mistaking when the figure in the painting moved. He grasped the arms of his chair with bony white fingertips and launched himself into a standing position. He was tall, and he loomed above Sila, who cowered in her chair. Kassi tried to calm her heart, but it was racing like mad.

“No, Sila. There is only one way we can stop him," the man said. It was the man in the painting. "The scepter."

"I didn’t want it to come to this,” Sila said. “Can’t we... can’t we persuade Kassi...?”

“Not now that her fate has been prophesied. We have to use the scepter.”

Sila opened her mouth to retort, but Kassi didn't need to hear another word.

So she ran. She ran as fast as she could away from her fate. She ran, her feet slapping on the wood floors. She ran all the way back to her bedroom, and there she curled up on her bed and took deep breaths until she forgot.