TheWriter

übersetzen 11 Jahre

Timid Queen The Queen sits in her elegant, carved ebony throne in the pale quiet throne room.The stone walls are a pale grey, on the ceiling is a large, resplendent chandelier, coruscating in the subtle December sunlight that dances through the large gothic windows. Her deep alluring sapphire eyes wander down the black aisle that lays before her, leading to a large pair or doors. She is fastidious, and capricious with her ways, but she is adored for her suaveness and wisdom, but feared for stoic ways and acrimony. She runs her slender, elegant fingers through her long fair curls, and adjusts her long modish emerald dress. She listens carefully, hearing men's voices from the outside of the large doors at the end of the isle. She pulls out a small mirror that sits at her side, and looks herself over for a moment. Her face is gracefully symmetrical, her round eyes are lurid sapphires. Her lips are dusted pink rose petals, and her skin is snowy and poised.Her collar bones spread out like a bird's open wings, every fluid thread that creates her is glorious.Her stomach turns, and she throws the mirror with disgust. It shatters, pieces smother the stone floor, just as the doors burst open. A guard in chainmail and partial armor, with the kingdom's coat of arms spread across his iron chest plate. He leads a peasant man in his middle-ages, with tawny skin and deep brown eyes that glimmer with a certain angst.his ragged clothes are covered in lurid, abstract colours. He holds a large canvas, but the back is facing her direction. She studies him for a moment in silence, noticing his bony, quivering body. "Where do you come from, peasant?" She asks. "The West, Sire." He says bowing. She glances to the guard, who stands in silent. She looks again to the trembling man before her. "What do you have there?" She asks, suddenly hungry to see what is on the other side of the canvas. "I have created this for you, Sire." He says, turning the canvas over. She studies it for a long moment, mesmerized by the endless transcendental colours. He had transformed the bare, bland canvas into a aesthetic wonder, every stroke of his brush seeming so graceful across it. The Queen is generally quite per functionary, without time or any thought put into such things. But for a long moment, she is fascinated, entranced by the wild, abstruse colours before her.It was beautiful. "You put your heart, your thought, and skill into it, have you?" "Yes, I have." he says. "I see. I see every emotion, every ounce or your heart and soul entwined into every fiber of this wondrous, peculiar piece you have created.And I must confess, that this puzzling creation is beautiful." Gracious tears emerge from his dark chocolate eyes. "Thank you." He says, kneeling. She says nothing, her eyes still fixed on the painting. Something dark begins to churn inside of her. Her blood runs cold, her eyes glimmer poisonously. "Thousands of colours, in this emotional diversity you have placed on the canvas. So deranged in a way, but so beautiful in another. You are a mindless artist, with a ravishing creation." She says blandly, her eyes still fixed on the chaotic rainbow."Guard, burn this piece, and kill this man." Shock spreads through the peasant's face. The guard snatches the painting from his hands. "But Sire, you just said it was-" "I did, simple creature. But you must understand." "Understand what, if I may?" He pleads.She rises from her throne, and circles the peasant, who is forced to his knees, with a broadsword at his throat. She see's the painting the guard has thrown aside, in the pile of shards. "You see, peasant, that this is a dark world. We are all broken, and selfish, and destructive. We're all hungry, suffering shadows in this torturous realm, and as soon as light, and beauty is found, it is taken. It is abused, and stolen, and it becomes worn. It withers and dies painfully, because we all fight for it. A burning desire flickers in all of us for riches, beauty, and effortless living. And if we can grasp it, we always break it.So to keep this world from fighting, we bury the light before its eaten, and the embers of the burning desire inside of us remains cool. Beauty is much too delicate for this selfish world to cherish. Beauty is so fragile, it makes porcelain look like iron. And you are a maker of such divine, frangible creations. But they will be eaten.I cannot spare you. I'm afraid to see such a dreadful thing." She turns her back to him. "Thank you." She says, snapping her fingers. There's a cry, and an awful sound. Blood splashes the hem of her dress. She turns to the guard, not acknowledging the gruesome display by her feet. He wipes the blood from his blade. "Take this canvas outside. I will follow. I would like to see it devoured by flames." She demands, suddenly feeling distressed and drained.He obeys, picking up the painting from the mess of shards on the floor. "May I ask about the broken mirror, Majesty?" he asked. The Queen exhales, swallowing a lump in her throat. "I am adored for my apparent beauty by many. There is no king by my choice, because I refuse to be ruined. But I cannot help but fear my reflection, because if I am beautiful, I will be shattered, and among the rest of the ruins of broken, beautiful things. Humans think to much with eyes instead of minds, and I cannot be seen. I long to be thought, but no pair of eyes will bind with the mind." "I see." he says quietly. She feels his eyes on her through his helmet.A single tear rolls down her cheek. "I must hide, because I am radiant among this bland kingdom. I must remain bitter and cold, so there is no warmth to create love, and no love to create weakness. I cannot have a heart, because that's so human, and I have not arranged to be broken." She sighs shakily. "I had to kill that man before he is hurt. Now take me to see his ravishing work burn."