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It is a painting of a young girl.
The piece displays thick brushstrokes, the texture carrying the unrefined style of an early attempt. The pigment captures the curve of childhood cheeks and the flow of brown strands against a background of green grass.
She approaches the canvas, her thumb brushing the cracked, dry texture of the old paint. The features on the aged cloth belong to her own childhood frame. Her breath stalls as she turns to see landscapes depicting a bright sky. Her eyes then land on a newer portrait, a piece executed with precision and detail. This canvas captures her form as she appears now. The warm candlelight from the wall sconces illuminates her current likeness, the soft glow warming the rich tones of the oil pigments while the painting depicts her eyes filled with familiarity, matching the look she gave him when they stood weeks ago in the castle dining hall.
Elara approaches the table, her breaths rising deep within her chest. Her focus narrows down to the surface, where a single booklet rests open. A quill sits beside the binding, the tip dry where he left his final thoughts incomplete. She pulls the booklet into her tight grasp, the leather cool against her palms while she turns to the previous pages to discover his voice.
The silent winters froze my youthful tongue,
Within these walls where heavy grief was hung,
A lonely boy possessed no voice to speak,
Amid the shadows where the light grew bleak.
But memory preserved a summer night,
A girl who offered grace and sudden light,
Your forest eyes became my secret shield,
The sole devotion that would never yield.
I held that phantom warmth across the years,
To conquer every shade of silent fears,
And now the child I carried in my mind,
Stands as the love I always hoped to find.
“It cannot be,” Elara’s voice trembles, her eyes landing upon the paintings and down at the poems. The resemblance. The answers to the poems he wrote in his booklet. She recalls one of the lines in his poems she once read a while ago.
Only the memory of the girl I once met,
Elara’s head throbs, pulling a moan from her mouth. She presses the heel of her hand against her brow, while the candlelit chamber recedes into a dark blur. The throb behind her temples gives way to a rhythmic pressure, like the pulse of rising water. The echo of the palace alarm bells begins to distort, melting into a softer splash.
A sensory warmth replaces the chill in her limbs. The scent of ink and aged paper fades, overtaken by the heavy fragrance of blooming jasmine and wet moss. In the theater of her mind, the darkness fades to reveal a soft luminescence filtering through a structure of overhead glass. The details assemble piece by piece, sharpening until her focus centers on the fluid ripple of a stone pool.
Elara paces beside her mother, her small fingers clasping the woman’s palm while her shorter stride strains to match the forward momentum. Tilting her chin, a smile parts her lips. “Mama?”
Queen Aline maintains her focus to the left while King Eric marches ahead in the center, guards and knights forming an iron perimeter around their frames. “Yes?”
“How long will your duties take today?” Elara asks, her brow folding into a furrow. “You always take too long.”
Her mother offers a soft laugh, the morning radiance softening the pink hue of her cheeks. “I know, my dear. Your father and I must manage affairs that demand our patience. To guarantee your safety, remain beside Walker. During our last visit, you escaped our sight and became lost within the press.”
Elara nods, her chin dipping. “Okay.”
Her parents part from her side, dissolving into the gathering together to greet the citizens who maintain a distance. Elara watches her mother’s gentle composure, observing the care she extends to the elderly and the assistance she offers to the families. She sees a woman she wishes to become one day, a queen of kindness who grants hope and delivers only goodness, even when the work leaves her exhausted behind the castle walls.
“Let us find a secure spot to sit, Elara,” Walker says, taking her hand to guide their path into the middle of Veyrenn’s central area. They settle upon a wooden bench, the morning warmth resting upon their skin.
Elara remains seated, her legs swinging back and forth in a matching rhythm. Veyrenn increases in land while new structures appear across the district. Boutiques, apothecaries, and small stands selling fresh fruits and vegetables line the street. Each season, the kingdom improves in appearance and work. It makes Elara wonder if she can ever match such success.
“I see the merchants opened new boutiques,” Walker smiles. “Perhaps one day, we will have the tailors stitch a prettier gown for you?”
“Is my dress now ugly?” Elara asks, her lips pouting while she looks down at her short pink dress with light floral stitched patterns.
