They did your portrait, they measured your height and dressed you appropriately. They asked you to wear the long earrings, the ones that resemble strings of gold with that tiny shiny bubble at the end. Your dress was neckhigh and old fashioned, laced and intricate at the collar. Flowing movements of silk in confinement of the moment. They did your portrait and you looked demure, your eyes cast a downward glance. To make sure your earrings would be clearly seen, together with your finely lined neck and back, your hair was always cut short; still the curls hung tightly. Of course, you didn't walk around with a halo above your head, you weren't an angel; still, they'd paint you this way.

They did your portrait and you were perfectly still, perfectly silent. There was no need for a smile, no need for accentuated backgrounds or added finery. Your imagery, bound to adorn castle walls until time come undone, would have no emblem, no signature and no title. All you get is a halo; it's the style of a princess in this country. A princess; a princess without a name. In silence, speak not; do not even whisper. You will sit still and gaze at your hands, or patiently tear holes in the fabric of reality with your dark eyes. They will paint you and you will have fulfilled your duty, the essence of your burden being nothing like a life of clouds. In this country, nobility is nothing less but slavery. You are caught forever.

They did your portrait while I watched you. All the colours blending into the canvas, stroking your slightly cold features into balance, whisking away the words and replacing them with hollow husks. I remember how perfect it was, how truly captivating the reflection. And I remember the darkness of that day, the soft fall of the leaves on the barren ground, the icy feel of the old rock that made up your castle. I remember the bustling of the heavy and moth-eaten curtains, of the stained glass giving just a little light. And when they were done you rose from your chair like crackling pergament, though eternally young, all your veins were sighing. And when they had wrapped up their brushes and palettes you stood by the little table by the window, always undefeatable, always iconic.
They did your portrait and I remember your name.

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