Warning: Abuse (physical, verbal, sexual, all of that)

Hair like woven gold, bright eyes of joy, a figure of a goddess. The woman is present in all the pieces that lay haphazardly in the room. Stacked up high, how much happiness did she invoke in one's heart? Paint and chalk and ink and more, her likeness is captured in every form that can be made through the touch of one's hands.

She really is presented in every shape and mode, hair up in two tails, reclining on a bed of sheer and water. Her hands bloodied, or in prayer to none other than herself for there is no god worthy of her.

Mevek hates her.

She hates this woman drawn so eagerly, so lovingly, by herself. Hates how she would treat the pieces so gently, when her own heart was shaken and torn and broken. When she remembers how there would be a snort and a derisive "how many times do i have to say no" with a sneer when she proposed. Or the roll of the eyes and a "dumbass", "worthless", "can't do anything right". Of how Kartas would slice through her flesh like it was water, and the rivers of red that would run from her, staining sheets and fur and the ash of the floor.

The woman did not stop when her eyes gave up and flooded with the crystalline from stars of the night sky. Not when they would mar her face and leave clothes, sheets, her shoulder (and palm and breasts and thighs. and sometimes, her fingers) wet for hours and hours and weeks on end. Not when her body would tremble and quiver, or when she would shake, sobbing, or when she would her eyes squeeze shut, praying for the end.

Not when her words would go ignored. "Please" was an invitation, one chanted on and on without end in desperation as her clothes were slipped off of her and she was taken to bed with tears forever present. Only reassurances were given when she whispered "I'm scared". Soft kisses on her face and neck and gentle touches that took more from her than the rough ones that didn't treat her with any care (except the time when her hands were on her neck and she could feel the pain as the woman murmured lovingly in her ear, "I'Il show you what you should be scared of" and she screamed the entire time).

She would plead "no" and "stop" and "i'm begging you please–" but that was just her being feisty wasn't it? Like when she was pressed against the wall (in a hallway of the Landegre manor) and her mouth said "don't" and when hearing "it's fine" as her head was between her thighs, with her last breath she whispered "people will see" but there was no answer. So she stood there, eyes empty with tears, and let the pleasure roll through her.

She had learnt from that, and then on, she would stay quiet. There was nothing to say, nothing to refuse, only eyes like still pools and a canvas where the empty space was filled with every passing day.

And so what if Mevek had enjoyed her company? What if she had giggled whenever the woman would bite her and blush at her compliments and kisses and affection? What if she had told her "i love you" even in the end?

Yes, when the woman came to her on that night, she held her in her arms by the fire and was made love to. Yes, as she felt her fade away, she had weeped, and yes, she wailed at her loss. Yes, she grieved! And mourned! And wished for death to take her, called for it, only remaining because of those who held her from entering into the abyss as she clawed at them.

It didn't change her hate for the woman.

Mevek stares at her hands, as scarred as the rest of her, as loved by Kartas as every other part of her was, and fire is borne on the tips of her fingers. Delicate, it dances, shivers, rises, but it is hot. For it is fire. Only fire. Pure and bright. Burning.

Watching as she lays her hand on a painting (for she is merely a spectator. she is foreign to herself, and does not remember what it's like to love, not others, but her own self), she hums. An old tune. It is a good accompaniment to the hissing of the flames, and her eyes are still pools again.

Only a single piece burns, but it will spread, and everything will disappear. First goes the green of the back, of the trees of the Kertia territory. Then it's the black silk on smooth skin. Lace on the sleeves. A knife and–

"Miss Reim!"

Mevek screams her name, her cries choked, and the flames are gone. In its place spills her tears, and she cradles the painting close.

"I hate you," she whispers, tracing her face. The way she looks at her is pitiful. With longing and grief and remains clandestine.

"Miss Reim," she says, her voice weak, "I hate you." Just like how her hands tremble and she strikes a frail figure against the room (with the countless pieces she has made and the way she is collapsed, clutching onto a painting, singed and smoke curling around it, as if it will disappear).

"Reim," she begs, voice breaking, heart already shattered, "I–" and does not say it, for it is not true.