What to paint

Chapter 5

Painting something from your mind should be easier than replicating something from reality. That's what you thought when you started. The goddess was gentle and kind as she explained what she wanted. She sat beside you as you set up your things. She was caring and gentle, as she guided you through your mind. When your eyes filled with frustration and tears she place a cold hand on your hip and pulled you close. There was a warmth to the embrace. Even though the goddess radiated frost, you could feel the warmth that consumed her heart.
The paint itself was a blur. A haphazardly blocked-out figure. Smudged and blurred paint. A muddy shadow of a person. Missing the expression, the features of a person. A hazy thought and memory that was missing. It was splattered and whipped across the canvas. As if you were looking at someone through water. Painting something from an incomplete thought, gives an imperfect picture.
Forgetting everything that you were told to paint you continued. The face became clearer. The dark hair. Round face. More and more you painted until your brush was set aside. You didn't know why or how. Yet you had succeeded. A picture of a person whose face you could not remember. You didn't know if it was correct or looked like Scaramouche.
"May I take this from you?" the goddess asked you.
"Yes, if you want it."
The goddess picked up the canvas. Her fingers ghosted over the curves of a face. She studied the eyes of the portrait.
"Thank you," she spoke finally, "You've done exactly as I have asked. Thank you I know it was difficult." She stood from her thrown and left. She carried the picture with her as she left.
You smiled as the door opened a while later and Scaramouche walked in. You were painting the empty thrown. You liked painting the intricate details and carvings. You stopped painting the designs and happily followed the man out of the room.
"I've arranged for a tailor to arrive in a short while." He explained sipping from a cup of tea. "You need new clothing."
"Why? I'm comfortable with what I have." Your amnesia didn't prevent you from doing the daily things that you used to. You changed every morning. You brushed your hair, took a shower. It was a routine that you simply had even if you would forget what was clean, or where you placed your brush or comb.
"You need more formal clothes," he set down his cup. "We'll be more having guests soon. I don't want anyone to think you broke in or may steal something."
You nodded and took one of the tarts from the tray. It was a comfortable silence you fell into. You had nothing to talk about. No questions to ask. So you fell into work. Drinking tea as each of you did your own things.
With a knock, a maid peered in through the door. "The tailor has arrived." Scaramouche nodded and rose from his seat.
You did the same but grabbed one of the pieces of bread from the table when they weren't looking.
The tailor was waiting patiently. She was standing at a rack of clothes. A measuring tape hung around her neck. She had a pouch of pins and needles on her hip. Her hair was tied up and out of her face. Her clothing was simple but it looked nice.
"Sir Scaramouche," she bowed slightly her hands folded in front of her. "Thank you for calling for me." 
Scaramouche sat behind a divider in the room as you were dressed in a variety of different colors styles and fits. One too long another too wide at the hips and needed to have a seem altered. He sipped his tea as he criticized the patterns.
"Too dark for their eyes," he said at once. "That's too bright." Simple complaints but god you would have cried. "Would you dare to have someone wear that? To have to live with the knowledge that someone is actually wearing it and telling people that it's your work? Pathetic."
She pulled another from the rack. A long pale green. It was adorned with flowers and embroidery that made you stare in awe. There was a light lilac trim to it. Elegant and beautiful. She dressed you in it and tied it for you. This one he nodded at. You saw the lady's eyes glow with joy.
Her luck was better from there. A deep violet, a pale blue. She had figured out what style pleased the cynical and harsh man. Then in her joy, she pricked you with a needle.