This hadn't become a problem, and Lena didn't have cause to question her memories, until recently, when 'Aunt' Magica made one final revelation to her niece. Whether it was some posthypnotic suggestion or simply an unsavory truth, Lena came to understand something about her nature and self. It made no difference if Lena really was just a fragment of her aunt's subconscious, or something else entirely; Magica had complete control over her memories, and her entire ability to remember.
The last thought Magica beamed into Lena's mind, before her defeat, was that all of her niece's memories and ideas of selfhood were false, formed and implanted by Magica's own psyche to instill an untrue sense of identity in her shadow spawn.
While Lena didn't understand the full extent of it until the so-called 'shadow war,' she had long been aware that Magica's sorcery was powerful enough to alter her memories, and remembered shreds of these 'mind-control' experiences that her aunt couldn't wash away. However, Lena was never able to make sense of it while she was under Magica's control; her thoughts would become clouded and the entire process would fall apart before any conclusions could be reached. Once she had broken free from Magica, though, Lena finally had the unclouded faculty to remember, and began to piece her 'life' back together - then realized very little of it made any chronological sense.
For once, Aunt Magica might have been telling the truth.
Did she really see that concert in Paris? Did she really dye her hair, or was it always like this? Did she even exist before she met Webby on Ma Beagle's birthday? Or were all these 'memories' just the confabulations of a false mind? A fake person?
Lena buried her face in her pillow, having already tangled herself in a wad of sheets and blankets in an attempt to feel safe. She knew these questions were made of quicksand, but couldn't stop herself from getting sucked in whenever they appeared. Dwelling on her 'aunt' wouldn't bring any kind of clarity or catharsis; only pain. But she did it anyway.
Magica might have been gone, but was certainly not forgotten. Even if Lena wasn't just a part of her aunt, anymore, Magica would always be a part of Lena. Her memories might have not been real, but the pain was, definitely. She could tell because it still hurt; all of the abuse and mistreatment echoed through her mind at the slightest provocation. Lena could hear a few stanzas from the wrong poem and be nine years old again, getting assailed with magic for failing to memorize the incantation to a spell. She might see a twig on the side of the road, or even a pencil, and feel the weight of a dozen different wands getting snapped over her head because she didn't flick them just right.
Maybe Aunt Magica wasn't gone after all. If Lena could still feel her looking over her shoulder, and still hear all of the belittling insults, and still taste the blood in her mouth, then Magica might as well have never left. If her aunt's memory lived, didn't she live with it?
Lena threw off the covers and untangled herself from the bedding, scrambling onto her feet. Her room in Scrooge's Mansion was nice, but she couldn't be alone in it. She had to go somewhere, and never get there - just keep moving long enough for these thoughts to lose track of her.
Lena straightened her nightshirt and peeped into the hallway. It was empty. She stepped out of her room, then started walking. No destination, and no plan beyond 'avoid everyone'. She took corners slowly, checking for signs of life before continuing, and kept her footsteps confined to rugs and carpeting, if she could help it.
With every step, the echoes of her past seemed to quiet, but were never truly silenced.
Trying to focus on anything but her memories of Magica, Lena started to fully appreciate the decor of Manor McDuck. Paintings, all in the same realist style and usually depicting scenes from Scotland's history, were hung in profusion behind display cases and suits of armor. Lena had decided, though, that after the third hallway nearly identical to the first, her appreciation for the decorations had reached fullest capacity. She needed some fresh air.
A few minutes later, Lena had crept through the winding halls and reached one of the back doors that opened into the gardens. Gingerly wrapping her fingers around the cold brass, she cautiously turned the handle, hoping there wasn't an alarm system that would start blaring once she opened the door. There wasn't, and as soon as she felt the chilly blast of night air from outside, she stepped through and closed the door behind her, wincing at how loudly she accidentally did so.
The gardens, glistening with frost and starlight, were beautiful. Even if the interior design was lacking, whoever took the time cultivate the laburnum and weigelia out back was a true artist. Luxuriant vines of violet and golden chains adorned marble statuary that, considering Scrooge's wealth, may have been originals. But Lena's ability to appreciate pretty plants diminished along with her body heat, and soon she was huddled against herself, knees turned in and arms folded. Hopefully, the door didn't lock behind-
"Lena?" Huey was standing just a few feet away on the stone porch, dressed in pajamas and draped in a quilt while he stood at an easel, paintbrush in one hand and palette in the other.
"Here, take my-" he couldn't finish offering before Lena snatched the quilt off of his shoulders and wrapped herself in it. "You're welcome."
It looked as though Huey were painting an impressionist landscape of the garden at night, though with only a rough composition on the canvas. He had stacked a few art manuals on a stone railing and propped one open, to reference for technique.
"What are you doing?" Lena asked, trying to question him before he could question her.
Huey just smirked at her incredulously, instead of giving the obvious answer.
"Okay, smartass, you're painting," Lena smirked back. "Tell me why."
"'To be awarded the first-class merit badge in painting,' with gold trim, 'a junior woodchuck must paint three different landscapes or portraits,'" answered Huey, quoting some regulation as he turned back to the canvas. "I'm hoping they'll count the gardens at night as a different landscape from the gardens during the day."
"Why don't you just paint it from memory?" Lena asked, still trying to control the conversation.
"Because I'm not a serial killer?" he answered, jokingly. Lena distinctly remembered multiple times Scrooge had made Huey use his eidetic memory to impress or entertain someone.
She thought about pressing the issue, but decided to keep it casual in case he pushed back and asked why she was there in the first place.
"You never really struck me as the 'artsy' type," Lena teased, wrapping the quilt a little closer.
"Oh, I didn't?" Huey began, his tone dripping with playful sarcasm. "After this, I'll read you some of my poetry. Unless, of course, you aren't ready to fall in love?"
Lena had to smile. Huey was her favorite out of the triplets, because he was the only one who teased her back. Louie could snark, and Dewey could crack a joke, but only Huey had the wits to banter.
Lena just wished she were in more of a joking mood. A minute or so of silence passed between them, the only sounds being the squealing wind and Huey's brush slithering across canvas. If he was getting cold, he didn't mention it. Huey could be stoic, that way.
There were a few cushioned lounge chairs on the opulent patio overlooking the gardens, and Lena curled up onto one close to Huey, to get her feet off the cold stone underfoot.
"Seriously, though, I thought you had a photographic memory," she piped up, now genuinely curious. "Wouldn't it be better just to paint inside, instead of out here in the freezing cold?"
"Well, yeah, I could just paint from memory. But even if I'm certain I remember something perfectly, I can't be certain of my certainty. You know?" Huey switched to a finer brush and flipped to a different page of his open art manual, then started touching up some frost-covered leaves in his painting.
"Memories are just… the echoes of experience," he continued, "and it's hard enough to be sure of an experience even while you're still experiencing it - so what's in a memory? It's better just to stay out here, where I can see it."
Something clicked for Lena, in her heart, when Huey said that. She wasn't sure what, exactly, but it made the icy clutch of anxiety melt away from her chest and head. She smiled again, for what felt like the first time.
With a handful of words, mumbled off the top of his head, Huey had pulled Lena out of despondency.
"Besides, the beauty isn't in the object, but in the artist's interpretation of it. And it is a choice you make, how to interpret something. No matter what anyone says." Huey finished, like a magician performing a miracle by accident.
And he didn't even realize it.
A few more minutes of silence followed, Huey painting and an enamored Lena watching him, his ivory feathers aglow in the serious moonlight.
In this small, quiet moment, Lena finally appreciated something about Huey. He really was different, not just from his brothers, but from everyone. There was something enchanting about him, shown up in every facet of his being; a furtive masculinity, a patrician dignity, and that dreamy, hypnotic look in his eyes. Huey possessed that magical, indescribable quality. She had seen it before, when he gave his little lectures about the history of this, or the science behind that, but she didn't really grasp the beauty of it until now.
It was something in his soul, a healing radiance that gave and gave and gave but never took back. If Huey lived in the middle ages, they would have sent him into exile for it. Lena had become fascinated by it, and him.
"So, what brought you out here, anyway?" Huey asked, nonchalantly. "Not that I'm complaining about your company, or anything. I enjoy having you here," he clarified, his tone becoming much softer, almost guilty as he looked back at her.
"It's cool," Lena reassured, smiling. Huey was a sweetheart, just like Webby. "I had some trouble falling asleep, so I went for a walk,' she answered, only realizing she had told him the truth after the fact. She didn't mind, though. Huey could know.
"Oh, well," Huey glanced down, then looked back at his painting. "If you ever want to talk about it," he began, but the same old spiel Lena had heard a hundred times sounded so much more genuine coming from him.
Before he could finish, Lena stood up and stepped over to him. She rewrapped the quilt around her body, then wrapped her body around Huey. She couldn't stand seeing the cold sap that loving warmth from him, anymore. Huey couldn't keep it to himself, and if anyone was going to take it from him, it was going to be her.
"Uh, I, um…" Huey stammered, trembling either from the cold or from Lena's body heat.
"I know," Lena whispered, low and breathy. "Your feathers are so cold," she hugged him tighter, pressing her bill down against his cheek, so her hot breath flowed across his neck.
Lena wasn't sure how long it lasted, standing there, embracing Huey. They were both perfectly still, with only her throbbing heart, his trembling body, and the warm breathing between them betraying any motion at all.
Eventually, Huey picked up one of his brushes and started detailing the statues in his painting, trying to focus on the task at hand rather than acknowledge what was happening. Lena felt herself softly giggle at the idea of it.
"When will you be finished painting?" she asked, hearing a rare sweetness in her own voice.
"I, um, I just have to finish the lighting on the statues, then I can finish the rest tomorrow, I think," Huey answered, sounding nervous but not displeased.
"Okay," Lena replied, barely audible, and rested her head against his own. Smiling, she closed her eyes and thoughtlessly savored the sensation of her body melting onto his. It rarely felt right, to her, to so much as touch someone else, let alone hug them; but this felt more than right. This felt good.
A few short, indulgent minutes passed.
"A-alright, I'm finished," Huey quietly washed and dried his brush, then set it down.
"Mhm," Lena smiled, not really listening.
"It's oil, so the paint should be fine to dry out here," he said.
"Mhm," Lena didn't get the hint. It wasn't until Huey started moving around in her arms that she realized it was time to go inside.
They clumsily waltzed back indoors, Lena unwilling to end the embrace until she was sure it was warm enough for the object of her affection.
Huey turned, and Lena noticed how hard he was blushing once they faced each other. She stifled another giggle, not wanting Huey to think she was laughing at him.
She wondered how easy it would be to make him blush even harder.
"I guess I'll, uh…" Huey muttered, awkwardly. "Goodni-"
Lena pulled him in by his shoulder and kissed Huey on the cheek.
"Goodnight."