III. Bloody Masterpiece
"Dang it. Completely ruined, again..." Cassandra trailed off, his teeth gritting slightly at the scene. He put the brush and palette aside as he looked at the canvas. "I should have known that the gold might bleed into the grey...Dang it..."
If there was something the children hadn't learned about him in the past week since they started living here at his castle, it was that he secretly enjoyed painting and looking at all sorts of pretty artwork. Cassandra remembered so well of all the once lively looking, beautiful-so-beautiful paintings hanging about in the halls. He'd always liked beautiful things. Beautiful clothing, art, music, people...
Not that he ever courted anyone, of course. He never had, not even once in his thirty-five years of life. He wasn't interested in the women that flocked to him, because despite their pretty faces, he knew deep down they were all disgusting wretches who would lift their skirts for anyone who would pretend to love them for even one night. Of course, there were some women that didn't do such things, but he didn't find them interesting, even if they weren't sleeping with other nobles behind their fathers' backs.
There was that one boy, a boy who was Alexis' eldest son. Nine years younger than him. Ten years ago, before Alexis put him under the horrendous spell. How old would he be now? Cassandra asked himself silently. Twenty-six years of age, now? He is more than old enough to be married to someone now, but...I highly doubt he would be interested in anyone still, or married, let alone be close to anyone besides his father and Cassian-
Cassandra shook his head a bit, letting out a sigh. Cassian...That boy, no, man was Jizabel's bodyguard, basically. Cassandra still remembered what he and Jizabel looked like back then. Of course, Jizabel's appearance probably would have changed drastically by now, but he knew that it wasn't possible for Cassian, who he remembered was the same age as him. Cassian couldn't grow past the age of twelve, because of some sort of medical condition...
Cassandra looked at the ruined canvas, before looking at his left arm. He then turned, seeing a palette knife resting on a nearby stool. He paused, before picking it up with his right hand...
Leroy had no idea where Cassandra was in this whole castle. He didn't want to search in the West Wing, because that was a forbidden place, but he did make sure to search the lower floors. He checked the kitchen, the ballroom, he even looked in the bathing quarters to see if the older man/beast was there, but he wasn't. The boy let out a sigh, leaning against a wall and wondering where Cassandra could be.
At least, he was wondering until he heard a sudden sob, echoing down the empty hallway. Leroy paused, listening for it, and he heard another sob. He treaded quickly down the hallway, cautiously and unsure of what it could be. A ghost, maybe? Or was it...
Leroy didn't know what to say at first as soon as he walked into the room. Cassandra was just simply sitting, with his back to Leroy. But when he turned to make eye contact-
That was when Leroy noticed the cuts on his left arm. Blood slowly dripped down Cassandra's arm, before droplets began to splatter the lower part of the painter's smock the older man wore overtop his tunic.
"What are you doing?" Leroy finally blurted out, after a moment of silence. "Why did you..." He did his best to compose himself as he quickly walked over to Cassandra and looked at his not-accidental wounds, before looking at the bloody palette knife, before making eye contact with the Beast. "Why?"
"I needed red paint." Cassandra muttered sourly, looking down at his wounded arm. "I forgot after I cut myself that blood turns brown when it dries."
Leroy let out a sigh, shaking his head a bit. "No, really. Why did you do it?"
"..." Cassandra wiped his eyes with his sleeve before he responded, looking up at Leroy. "I don't understand why I do it sometimes-it's an instinct sort of thing. It always happens whenever I'm painting and thinking about old memories at the same time."
"They must have been really painful, huh? I mean, they probably are if you keep cutting yourself like that." Leroy remarked. He paused, putting a hand on the palette knife before placing it aside, before speaking. "What was it like back then, anyway? When everyone else in your kingdom was still alive?"
Cassandra paused, before starting to respond. "...There were many, many women that tried to flock to me." He began. "I never dared to court any of them, even if they were beautiful like artwork. Why? That's because I know that despite their pretty faces, they cannot be trusted. Many that I've met were disgusting wretches who would do all sorts of things to feel 'loved' as they put it. It disgusts me."
Leroy had a feeling that this subject probably wasn't the best to ask Cassandra about... "I guess they weren't very good memories, were they?"
"Not really." Cassandra admitted. "As much as the fancy parties were enjoyable, as well as painting in my spare time or going out in the woods to hunt, I honestly hated life here at the castle. Most of my time was spent going through all these lessons of etiquette, of sums, you can name them all. And I hated most of them. Especially etiquette lessons. The ones I liked were all in the category of the arts, and I suppose that makes sense considering I liked painting so much."
The two were silent, before Leroy spoke up again. "We should get your arm bandaged. I don't think it's good for you to let it keep bleeding like that."
"I don't think so, either." Cassandra responded, before glancing once at the once-blank canvas.
Blood slowly dried on the canvas, colouring the painting of Leroy from a scarlet red to a rust-like brown.