Painting the Roses Red

[Rousseau]

"Curiouser and Curiouser."

When Rousseau awoke it was with a great pain in her head and the dry taste of wine on her lips. Clenching her one eye shut against the early morning sunlight that peeked into her room curiously, she groaned and buried her face into the closest pillow.  She sniffed.  

What had happened the previous night?  The rat remembered the feast, Clutus, and that a fight had broken out during the festivities, but between what two parties and whether she had been a part of it was a mystery to her.  She suddenly remembered dying and being in Dark Forest.  Alcohol always did give her nightmares.  

Rousseau licked her lips, tasting the dreaded alcohol she loved so much.  The rat had always enjoyed being drunk.  She loved the feeling of the drink washing down her throat and the bubbly sensation that it provided when she had had one too many, but also the overwhelming desire that came over her to paint this straight to canvas.  There was no need for a rough sketch when she was like this.  She had learned that if the feeling was bad, the expression made by her brush would be the same, and if it was good, so too would be the creation.  

The sun was being persistent. The light seeped through anything the rat put in front of its path; window curtains, pillow, and eyelid were all unable to stop it.  

?Ugh, go ?way,? Rousseau muttered to herself.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

She hated Willump with a passion.  He was far too dedicated to his job.

?Wot?? she mumbled just loud enough.

?Ma?am, ye asked to be waked up at dawn,? the weasel called.  

How drunk had she been!?

The doorknob made a clunking sound as it rattled in place.  ?Why?s th? door locked, cap?n??

?It?s always locked, Will.?

?Not th? last three times I came,? her first mate said.

?Ya obviously don?t know how to count, Will.?  She distinctly remembered locking it the previous evening and every day before that.  

?Well, it's time t' get up, cap'n.  The wolves might wish t? speak to ya, I heard.?

The wolves.  The two words echoed in her head.  She had been drunk, she began thinking.  And she had talked to them.  While drunk.  Rousseau didn?t personally care whether or not the wolves liked her or not, but the idea of leaving a bad impression on them or, worse, saying something stupid to them made her sweat. Anything like that might stall her given task, and she would be forced to stay in the dreaded country even longer.

?Well, I don?t want t? talk to them,? she continued, pulling the covers more securely around her body. ?I was drunk.?

?What?re you talkin? ?bout??

?I was drunk, Will. I was drunk when I talked t? them.?  The rat gripped the edges of her pillow, not wanting to show her face to her invisible audience.  ?I?m tired, go away.?

The weasel seemed to pause as if contemplating what she had said.  ?No ma?am, I?m followin? orders from King Reginald t? make sure ya do yer duties.?

?In other words, he ordered yew t? make me miserable??

?Aye.? The doorknob jiggled once more.

Rousseau practically wept into the pillow, knowing she would lose this fight in the end.  ?Ten minutes,? she bargained, ?gimme ten minutes and I?ll be up.?

Silence. ?Alright, ten minutes.  But I?m comin? back with a key and the reports fer our status that need t? be filled out.?  Rousseau groaned. She had done the status reports only a week ago.  The rat listened to the soft pitter-patter of Willump?s paws moving down the stone floor.  She sat up in her bed, her single eye flickering open and closed as she attempted to wake herself up.  

Stretching her muscles, she gazed around the room and tried to survey the damage done by her previous night?s drunken adventure.  The organized chaos of her quarters was the same as it usually was. Unfolded clothes and garments were piled into the wardrobe clumsily, her captain?s logs lay cluttered where she could find them on a dresser with an array of empty bottles clustered around them, and multicolored canisters of paint and ink were strewn about by the legs of her easel which stood vigil by the room?s single window.  As the rat believed, it didn?t matter how everything was kept, so long as she knew where.  

Rousseau yawned, staring at the halfway-finished portrait of Clutus on the easel that watched over the room like a silent guardian.  His ebony eyes stared directly back at the rat, full of wonder and mysticism, as if he were actually curious about his artist that gazed back at him.  The windows of the little soul he had seemed to question her.  'Who are you, they seemed to say?' She answered them with ease. Captain Rousseau of the Crimson Lass.  'Who are you really?' Rousseau, just Rousseau. 'Why are you here?' Because I was told to come here. 'Why?'  Everybeast hates me.  'I don?t hate you.'  Of course you don?t, you enjoy using me like the rest.

Rousseau blinked herself out of the delusion and slowly got out of bed.  She grabbed her painter?s apron from where it lay on the floor and a bottle of black paint.  The dream gave her a muse, she realized, and this portrait of Clutus simply wouldn?t do.  It could wait, Inspiration had been caught.  The rat tied the apron around her middle and uncapped the bottle of paint.  Delicately, she poured it over the canvas in such a way that the owl?s body was destroyed, but his eyes were left untouched.  The bird?s eyes were unimpressive in reality.  He himself was unimpressive, a white smear on a colored canvas, in a sense.  And the eyes she had created suggested something that belonged to the real Jewel of Mossflower.

Vulpuz etched himself into her head.  

She turned the eyes a deep color of carmine, and immediately the face of the charcoal-black fox from her dream seemed to stare back at her.  Rousseau knew it had all been some chaotic drunkard?s dream brought on by too much wine, but it had seemed almost too real, like artwork of a place that didn?t exist.  Even now, with only his crimson eyes peering from the darkness of black paint, the rat felt the same shivering cold she felt when the god of the Dark Forest's companion had touched her.  She wondered what would happen if Vulpuz himself had touched her.

Rousseau shuddered.  She could finish it later.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

The rat?s ears perked at the unfamiliar knock.

?Aye?? she called.

?May I come in?? The voice of Clutus was as irritating as ever.  

?Wot d?ya want??

?To talk,? he answered.

?We kin talk jest fine like this.?

?I wish to see the progress of my second portrait.?

?I destroyed it.?

?What!??

Rousseau opened the door.  The owl looked more fumed than usual, a result of her statement.  ?Aye.  I didn?t like it, and I didn?t think th? eyes fit ya, so I scrapped it and started workin? on somethin? else.?

Clutus practically stomped inside of her room.  ?And what work could possibly be more important??  The owl stared long at the two crimson eyes painted on the canvas, unblinking.  ?Interesting.?

?You got me drunk.?  

?And do you normally paint rubbish when you?re drunk??

Rousseau clenched her teeth, but then she smiled.  ?Aye.  Good thing I messed up yer portrait, I painted it while drunk.  It was rubbish.?

Clutus frowned.  ?I demand you erase this rubbish.?

?Ain?t that simple.  Paint doesn?t come off, if ya aren?t aware,? she answered.  

?We had a deal. I told you a secret about the woodlanders-?

?And wot a great secret that was.  Ya made me have to get me paws dirty.?  The rat already had her paw on her rapier hilt.  It didn?t matter whether or not the avian had the ability to fly or not, he was still a natural predator.  He was also almost twice her size in height.  ?Don?t make me get them dirty again.?

Rousseau noticed the bird take a step back.  ??Very well then, Rousseau, I suppose if it had been garbage then an artist of your caliber would recognize it as such. Take as long as you need, so long as the finished product is satisfactory.?

?Aye.? She relaxed her grip.

?I?m just curious as to why you chose such a subject for this portrait.  Why somebeast as dull and boring as a fox like Vulpuz?? the owl said.

Rousseau couldn?t help but be curious at the fact that the avian knew who Vulpuz was.  The rat shrugged. ?I had a dream.?

?What kind of dream?? he asked.

?I died.?

?Interesting,? Clutus replied.  ?And what else happened in your dream??

?Vulpuz talked with us, said we had t? kill somebeast who was supposed to ?ave died, I think.  I dunno, I wasn?t really payin? attention,? she said. ?You were there, I remember that much.?  She was growing bored and stared back at the fox?s eyes.  She quivered.

?Was I?? he asked skeptically.

"I jest said that, didn't I??

?I had a dream similar to what you?re describing.  You were in mine as well.?  

?Yer point??  

?It?s as simple as this.  Do you think it wasn?t a dream??

?No,? she said simply.  

?And you do believe that you are alive and well, and it is the day after the feast??

Click.

The door opened abruptly, ending the duo?s conversation almost immediately.  Willump stood silently at the entrance, a key in one of his mallet sized paws and a mound of papers in the other.  A bucket of water had been sat on the floor behind him, just in case.  He pushed it away with one of his footpaws and smiled.  ?Heh, didn?t think you?d be up.  Good mornin?, cap?n.?

?If yew ever wake me up like that, Will?, you?ll need t? start sleepin? with one eye open,?  Rousseau muttered.  ?Now tell me, mate, so I kin prove something t? my friend here.  We ?ad a feast ?ere last evenin?, right??

?Wot?re you talkin? about??

?Wot??  Rousseau glared at her first mate then at Clutus.  The owl seemed to smile.

?Interesting,? he said.

The rat rushed forward and seized hold of the weasel?s collar.  ?Wot?re yew tellin? me?  Was there a feast last evenin???

?Are yew feelin? okay? Mebbe yew should go back t? bed,?  Willump replied.

?ANSWER ME!?

?No ma?am!?

Rousseau let go of his collar and took a step back.  She blinked once and continued her questions.  ?When did we get t? Kotir??

?Three days ago, cap?n.?

"Have I talked t' the wolves yet?"

"Only to introduce yerself and yer goal, cap'n.  Nothin' major."

?Is the castle finished??

?No, ma?am.?

Without another word, Rousseau snatched the status logs from her first mate and flipped through them, looking at the dates in the margins.  The papers fell to the floor in a heap.  

?Wotever joke this is? I?m gonna get t? the bottom of it.  And then I?ll be sure t? kill ya both,? the rat said.  

?That?s awfully rude, Rousseau,? Clutus said, a feigned smile on his face.  Rousseau could sense the concern in his voice.  

?You don?t seem well.  Mebbe yew should take the day off.  Cap?n, do ya want me to call off the meetin? with the wolves and reschedule?? Willump chimed in.  

?Aye,? she said, staring back at her new painting.  ?I wasn?t payin? attention.  So, Clutus, tell me.  Do ya remember anybeast else in our? dream?? She hoped the great, wise Clutus had a better memory than hers.

?I know some names, yes.  Rexim, Luka, Chokk Wulgar, Alan Blacktip--

?I know Alan,? she answered. ?He?s the captain of the guard.?

?Good.  If he?s a captain, he may know the rest of them.?

?Aye.  He will.?

?Then it would be best--

?If we had a little chat with him,? Rousseau finished for him.

The rat gazed at the crimson eyes of Vulpuz peering from the blackness.  Even without a snout, she could tell he was smiling.