Painting Rain (Books of Dalthia Book 4) by Annette K. Larsen

Author:Annette K. Larsen [Larsen, Annette K.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hidden Falls Publishing
Published: 2016-02-20T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

THE COLORS WERE starting to blur as my eyes became too tired to focus properly. I didn’t know how long I’d been sitting here, staring at what I’d created, but I knew my face was wet with tears, the first I had shed since the day Tobias died.

My hands were covered in paint and I still clutched a brush between my fingers. I hadn’t put on an apron before I’d started. My dress was likely ruined—again. And still I sat there, staring into my own eyes from where they stood out on the canvas. I had never painted a self-portrait before. The canvas held an image of me walking through a field, the landscape spread out behind me. To the left, darkness consumed the scene and the hard lines of dead trees reached for me. My painted figure was in the midst of fleeing the darkness, my fearful eyes cast over my shoulder even though my hands strained to reach for the light. The right half of the scene brightened, softened and came alive with blossoming trees and radiant sunlight.

I hadn’t realized until I sat back to look at it that what I really wanted to portray was the fault that I accepted for the path of my life. This painting was my way of admitting my guilt, while also claiming my innocence. It had been my choice to seclude myself, to stay away from the light I craved. I owned blame for many things, but Tobias’s death wasn’t one of them.

Someone stepped in front of me, blocking the view of my painting. I recognized the royal insignia of his belt.

West.

I didn’t lift my eyes to his face, having nothing to say. He sank into a crouch so that his gaze fell into my line of sight. His brow was pulled down in concern as he searched my eyes. “The sun will be setting soon,” he said.

I nodded without blinking. He studied my face for a moment more before turning to look over his shoulder at the painting, and then back at me. “You’ve never painted yourself before.”

I looked at him, unable to voice a response.

He reached up, brushing his thumb over the tear there. “Who do you cry for?”

“You know how selfish I am.” My voice came as a bare whisper. “So it shouldn’t come as any surprise that I cry for myself.”

“I don’t believe that’s selfish.”

“You should.” I didn’t know why I said it. Perhaps I was hoping to scare him away and regain my solitude. Perhaps I hoped that he would condemn me in the same way I condemned myself.

His eyes dove into mine, searching for something. Finally he spoke, his question bold. “Are you ever angry with him?”

I didn’t have to ask to whom he referred. Several more tears streaked down my face. “More often than I ought.”

He clenched his jaw, but nodded his head. “Good. Because it makes me angry to see him still hurting you.”

“I carry plenty of the blame.”

“More than you should.”

I

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