HPDBC Chapter 84 The Shadow (7)
Chapter 84 The Shadow (7)
Chapter 84 The Shadow (7)
Trisha tossed and turned under the covers, engaging in idle chatter with me until she eventually fell asleep.
I wrote a letter to send to Silveryn.
Only Trishas breathing and the scratch of my pen filled my room.
Strangely, the sound of her shallow breathing brought me a sense of mental tranquility.
I stopped writing the letter for a moment and looked over at the bed.
I had been flustered when she insisted on coming to the manor, but now, seeing her asleep, it seemed like the right decision to have brought her along.
Perhaps it was the peace of mind, but my concerns that Silveryn might get angry for not sending a letter had also subsided.
It wasnt difficult to surmise if I put myself in her shoes.
If Silveryn didnt reply to my letter for a while, I would be worried, but Id dismiss it casually with the thought that it happens. Most likely, Silveryn would think similarly.
Considering she designated the fireplace for sending letters is telling. Silveryn isnt one to rage or sulk over not receiving letters. Such things they dont suit her.
I approached the bed and sat on the edge. And gazed blankly at the sleeping Trisha.
The pure white hair still took some getting used to.
And before I knew it, I found myself reaching out to stroke that hair but halted mid-action.
Realizing I still retained past habits, I smiled bitterly.
When I used to stroke silver locks, my nails and palm held stubborn black grease that refused to wash off. Now, my hands are very clean.
So much has changed. My appearance and my memories.
Sometimes I even forget that Liza is here in Eternia. Its probably for the best for me.
Liza must also be creating her own new memories. I have started to walk my own path, albeit belatedly. Once, I hoped Liza would think of and miss me, but not anymore.
I dont wish to return to the past. The new things that Ive embraced since parting ways with Liza have become so precious to me.
I planned to join the art club, to retain the memories with Silveryn, Trisha, and new people in the form of paintings.
Through the strokes of a brush, Id overlap memories, and as the paintings accumulate, the lingering tinges of my past bitterness, anger, and pain would eventually fade out of sight.
Someday, Lizas role in my life will then truly come to an end.
***
Dawn brought a light drizzle of rain. It had stopped by the time we left, but the morning fog had yet to clear.
I boarded the carriage bound for Eternia with Trisha.
She brushed her hair as she admired the twilight breaking through the dissipating mist.
Unusual was the sight inside the carriage all of her disguise artifacts were removed.Updated chapters on ing a tune, Trisha brushed her pristine white hair, then sneakily glanced at my face.
When our eyes met, she quickly looked back out the window.
Why are you doing that?
Doing what?
Why have you reverted to your original look inside the carriage?
She would revert back when she puts on the artifacts, so why would she bother brushing her hair?
Because I want to.
Then Trisha retorted sharply.
You like this appearance, too, dont you?
I rolled my eyes, trying to recall.
Me?
As if questioning whether Id ever said such a thing, she ceased brushing and fell silent.
Hmph.
Did I say something wrong? Trisha suddenly seemed slightly sulky.
We rode in silence for a while until the carriage reached Eternias main gate, where Trisha put her artifacts back on.
Ill get off here.
Just go a little further. Its a long walk from here.
No, Im getting off.
As Trisha insisted, I ultimately stopped the carriage.
She alighted from the carriage, looking sullen, and said to me,
Come pick me up at six in the evening.
You want to go back to the manor together again?
Of course.
Alright, then Ill see you at the main gate.
Trisha suddenly yelled, her voice full of irritation.
No! Come to the drama club to get me!
With that, she slammed the carriage door shut. She stalked away from the carriage, clearly fuming.
I dont have that level of expertiseyou may be expecting too much.
The professor shook her head and spoke with an expression slightly engrossed in thought.
Its okay not to draw well. Theres beauty in that too. Art has no magic or artefacts; its all pigment and brushwork, but within it, we can see the human spirit. Thats the grandeur of art.
Its a complex philosophy. Will I be able to fit in here?
***
Despite being a city where institutions dedicated to establishing doctrines and exploring the divine were concentrated, it wasnt entirely separated from secular logic.
The Holy City was awash with money, and it was a nexus of honor and power. To humans, faith was ultimately a tool used to fulfill desires, circling back to its essential purpose.
Silveryn was the most intriguing figure to the merchants, mages, knights, and clergy who flocked to the Holy City to realize their worldly desires.
From a secular perspective, she was a person without flaws.
Transcendent magical abilities, remarkable achievements, and above all, her beauty stimulated the most curiosity. The area around where she stayed was consistently abuzz with people eager to verify the rumors that her beauty was enchanting, circulating amongst them.
However, despite numerous entreaties, no one was granted an audience with her. Silveryn had barred all visitors, choosing to seclude herself in her room.
Her room was curtained off to block outside views, with only a single candle providing a faint glimmer of light within the spacious area.
The letters that piled up at her door were ignored after identifying the sender.
Silveryns body was immune to colds and fevers, but she appeared much like a patient suffering from fever. Having lost her appetite, she hadnt eaten anything since the previous day. The table laden with green grapes, veal ribeye steak, and a 27-year vintage Rutton wine, favored by the Duke of Ganax, remained untouched since a servant had placed them there in the morning.
She lacked the drive to do anything. Lying in bed, she didnt sleep but simply let the time pass listlessly.
Her sole activity all day involved listlessly fiddling with a bottle containing a cube.
Continuing thoughts about her disciple endlessly chased each other in her mind.
Surely her heart was still beating soundly, so why hadnt his letter arrived? Her heart had been tumultuous the evening before. Was he rolling around with a peer-aged girl? Or had he been training? He has the time for training but no time to write a letter to me?
She no longer felt angry. The accumulation of neglect had transitioned into profound sorrow. Thinking of her disciple made her heart ache as if crushed under a carriage wheel. The stifling feeling wouldnt subside even with deep breaths.
This wretched disciple is sure to make me ill
She just wanted any news from him, anything at all.
Damian was not to blame.
If there was fault, it rested with the teacher who had inadequately educated himshe blamed herself.
Biting her lip, she pounded the pillow fiercely with the hand clutching the bottle.
I need to educate him more much more.
Silveryn was aware. The relationship with her disciple had become lopsided.
She needed to re-educate him.
So that her disciple would become desperate for her scent and warmth, to the point of incapacitation.
Only then would the axes of their relationship align.
***
After completing Damians membership procedures, Georgia sent him away. She felt a lingering discomfort, as if something unresolved remained.
What did she miss? Even though they met for the first time, why did Damians face seem familiar?
She suddenly stood up from tending to the flowers in the greenhouse and headed somewhere determined.
If there was something nagging at her memory, there was one likely culprit.
She went to the art clubs storeroom, unlocked it, and entered.
Inside, paintings left behind by students who had passed through the art club were densely packed and displayed.
Georgia, hands clasped behind her back, briskly surveyed the displayed artworks. Some had been neglected for so long that paint had cracked, dust accumulated, and those placed near the window were discolored by sunlight.
Portraitures, landscapes, still lifes, abstracts, and hundreds of other paintings she rapidly scanned them until she paused abruptly at something in the corner.
Approaching a shrouded easel with a black cloth, she moved toward it.
The fabric, stiff and smooth as if freshly laundered, was well-maintained without a single common stain or speck of dust.
She unveiled the cloth to reveal the painting hidden beneath.
.
An image that seemed briefly encountered long ago.
Georgias intuition had been precisely on target. It wasnt Damian she had seen before; it was the painting.
Two paintings were left abandoned there. One was a portrait of a boy named Damian, whom she had met that morning.
Beside it was a landscape painted in warm hues, like an illustration from a fairy tale.
Within the setting, a brown-haired boy and a gray-haired girl were facing each other inside a fountain.
The gray-haired girl touched the boys cheek, smiling broadly.
Even to an art novice, it was a captivating and poignant painting.
However, Georgia couldnt recall who had painted it.
Surely, the artist was connected to the boy named Damian, but the gray-haired girl purported to be the artist had not entered the art club in recent years.
The painting bore no signature from which to deduce the creator. While searching for any clues left behind, Georgia noticed a label attached to the fountain painting and narrowed her eyes.
She read the significant title and fell into thoughtful contemplation.
Written on the label was,
[The Reason to Live].