Fading Colors in Shadow

Art Keeps One Sane

"Pathetic," said the guard who had assigned Camille some work down in the Production Zone. The Production Zone was in the lower levels of the Fortress of Meropide, and ten minutes into turning handwheels nonstop, Camille was on the floor, panting. She sort of regretted never exercising now. "All you prompt noble princesses are pathetic." She took a deep breath, and then gave him a look. He scoffed. "What, did you think we wouldn't notice? You're far too clean to be a regular worker."

"I used to work at the Palais Mermonia," said Camille, gritting her teeth. "I prefer administrative work to this manual labor!"

He scoffed again, looking down at her with disdain. "What, can't handle getting a little dirty? You're not getting any coupons for this. Get out. Go find something else to do."

Camille had to refrain from muttering a curse at him under her breath, and from stomping all the way back up. She leaned against the wall of the elevator with a sigh. There had to be something she could do here. Exiting the elevator, she walked around for a while, and then noticed one of the guards carrying a little too many boxes. She grabbed half of them from him. "Can I help you?"

The guard squinted at her, and then gave her a nod. "It's still work hours," he said. "Did you get kicked out of the Production Zone?" She winced and shifted the boxes in her hand. The guard smiled. "It's been happening more often lately. Especially if Manon ends up supervising you." He rolled his eyes, and started walking, Camille on his heels. "I suppose his standards for workers have gone up after that masked fellow." He set down the boxes and gave her a once-over. "How about I give you some work to do?"

"I would be grateful," said Camille, relenting her grip on the boxes as he took them from her and stacked them to the side.

"A well-mannered prisoner," the guard mused. "Makes my job easier. Head over to the Pankration ring and do a count on the boxes and their contents. Report them to me here in a half-hour, and I'll let the other guards know that we have a voluntary sacri—I mean, helper."

Camille gave him a dry look as he smiled. "I'll be on my way then."

There weren't many people up here now, she thought as she walked to the Pankration ring. That did make sense considering it was still morning. Most people preferred morning shifts, so they could while the afternoon and evening away.

She walked into the Pankration ring, not really looking at the match currently underway. Scanning the outside of the ring, she spotted a stack of boxes. She knelt down beside them and counted the boxes and made a mental tally of their contents, when someone flew into the wall beside her, landing next to her with a crash. Freaking out, Camille jumped back, staring at the man. He was unconscious.

"Sorry girlie, are you alright?" Camille looked up at the ring, and the man in the ring pulled his mask to the side of his head. His orange hair was bright in the light, his blue eyes shining, almost like he was having the time of his life in there. Camille just nodded mutely, and then tapped the unconscious fellow on the shoulder. He was twice the size of the fellow in the ring, how on earth did he get tossed like a sack of potatoes?

"Someone drag him over to the Head Nurse."

Camille watched as someone literally grabbed the unconscious fellow and dragged him away by the feet. At least the boxes were safe.

"And the winner is THE MASKED MANIAC!" the announcer said, as people all around her cheered. She supposed bets had been placed, considering a few people were grimacing. Camille finished her mental tally, and walked out, faster than she had walked in a while ago.

"Thirteen boxes, forty-two fonta bottles, six random pieces of yarn and twelve snacks," she rattled off to the guard. "And that's all."

"So," asked the guard as he wrote all of it down, "Who won the match?"

"The Masked Maniac," Camille mused.

"I see," said the guard with a small smile. He nodded to Camille. "The name's Allen. Thank you for the help." He handed her a good number of credit coupons, and then walked away, throwing her a wave over his shoulder.

Food was free, so she decided to use the cash for something else. Camille walked to the Rag and Bone shop, mentally rehearsing what she wanted to say for a second. And then she walked in, a little surprised to see the Duke chatting away with the owner.

"Camille," he said, turning at the sound of her footsteps.

She remembered his comment about how people who saw him too often were meant to be miserable. "Good to see you," she nodded to him. He smiled, as if he knew what Camille was thinking.

The owner nodded to her. "Welcome to the Rag and Bone shop, feel free to buy anything, as long as you have the coupons." He waved to his merchandise—stacks and stacks of boxes lining the shop—and then turned to Wriothesley. "Is that all then, Your Grace?"

"Indeed." Wriothesley turned and nodded to Camille as he crossed her, and then he headed out. Camille stared at the back of his coat until he was out of sight.

"What was that about?"

"A routine inspection. It's not often he comes himself, however. He usually sends one of the guards to check it out themselves. Perhaps he caught wind of something happening," the owner trailed off as if he realized he was speaking to himself out loud. He shook his head. "Anyway, what did you want to buy?"

Camille hesitated slightly. "Do you... have any paint?" She showed him all the coupons she had.

"Ah," he said, looking at them a little somberly. "An artist in a place where the sun doesn't shine." He smiled at her sadly. "You're woefully lacking the coupons for paint."

She wilted, as he handed her a few containers. Camille looked at them. Lavender, blue, red, green, yellow, pink, white, and a brush too. "2400 credit coupons. Pay it back later. The balance you need to give me is 2000. No interest." He waved a hand dismissively.

Camille almost choked up. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

He waved her away again. "The paint's been sitting here awhile. No one paints down here, and I needed to give them away too. Go do your thing."

And that was how, several hours, late into the night, Camille sat there, mixing colors and painting the walls of her dorm. She wondered if she were breaking any rules, and then decided that if that were the case, it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission. She was halfway through another wall, when she heard footsteps entering her dorm. She froze, as Marianne and Wriothesley walked in.

She hid her paint-splattered hands behind her back, even though there was no point. Wriothesley looked at the walls, as Marianne just sighed. "Well, this is interesting," mused the Duke.

"I'm sorry," said Camille softly.

He paid that no attention, and instead walked over to a drawing of the center of the Court of Fontaine that she had painted on the far side of the wall. "Beautiful," he murmured. "Almost makes me want to see the real thing right now."

"You're supposed to be asleep at this time," said Marianne, probably realizing Wriothesley wasn't going to give Camille a much-needed verbal thrashing.

Camille nodded. "I apologize."

Marianne sighed again, stopping by the wall she was currently painting. An image of the Opera Epiclese. "I'm not going to tell you to stop, considering His Grace himself doesn't seem to mind, but do keep it down. Other inmates were complaining about the sound."

"Yes, miss."

Wriothesley looked her over once. "You're quite the talented fellow. Shame you landed up here."

"I know," said Camille, as she walked over to him. She stood by him and stared at the Court of Fontaine, wishing she were walking down the street again. It made her heart ache.

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So yeah, I was wrong about the late updates.