What is colour?

You’ve always wondered that.

What does it mean to see the colour blue? What is the burning heat of red? Why is lightning both white and blue?

People would try to explain. But how do you explain that blue is the colour of the river water to someone who cannot see the water? Who cannot see blue?

How do you explain that red is the colour of the roaring fire in front of you, when you cannot see the flames?

You’ve always wondered that, always wondered why it was you that was cursed.

For you are cursed, there is no doubt about that.

Third-born of the Scharfeklinge Marquis family, the second daughter in the line. You, Loretta Scharfeklinge, are the black sheep of the family.

Not that you’ve ever seen a sheep, though the colour black is one you are well aware of.

It’s your constant companion in a cold, dark world.

A curse they call it, something from your great, great grandfather’s time.

‘By the veil of night eternal, hear and heed this doom I weave! Thine eyes shall blacken henceforever, no draught nor rune their sight retrieve. Each morn, a sense by lot shall flee, the last restored in cruel deceit— No charm nor balm shall break this chain, in shifting void thy soul replete. And lo! The victim of this blight shall hail from eras yet untold, When thou art great-great grandsire dust, my vengeance wakes in futures cold!’

Every morning, you wake to find your sight stolen, and with it one of your other senses too. Only to regain hope as the one previous returns.

You’re a stain on the house’s reputation, on the kingdoms… dressed in what feels like fine clothes and rustles like laces and fabrics you could never imagine. Hair that is said to be the colour of the leaves on the evergreens, eyes that glow with the autumn passing, yet fade to the whites of starlight far too fast…

But they are just a shackle to you. A reflection you cannot see, that maids tell you makes you look beautiful, but you can hear them snickering beyond the door as a comb vanishes here or a jewel you’ll never see there.

And here you stand, finally.

The snowy wind of the northern border howls. A mournful, monstrous sound. The chill fills your bones and your flesh, today, it’s your lips that don’t work. A mercy you suppose… you can feel the fear-sweat freezing on them as you stand on the edge of this cliff.

A scoff, a sound you’ve long grown used to. Charlotte. Your sister. The older one.

"Still playing the tragic heroine, are you, Loretta? Standing there as though the wind might pity you? Even blind, you manage to find the most dramatic cliffs."

You turn to her, the wind obscures the exact direction, but you’ve gotten good at telling where she is from how many times her shuffling feet have met yours on top of the stairs.

"You should have been left in the cradle when the curse claimed you. Mother said so once, you know. But Father was ever the sentimental fool — couldn’t bear to lose his daughter that looked exactly like Mother before she passed, even if you’re… defective."

A crunch, a step, she’s coming closer. Your foot grinds on the stone under the snow, till you feel a lack of pressure for just a fraction of a second, sliding it forward again.

Your cane is long gone… you lost it somewhere in the forest… when Ceciliy, your maid, kicked it out from under you…

"Do you know what colour the snow is, little sister? No, of course you don’t. It’s white — pure, cold, unblemished. Everything you’ll never be."

Her words are old scars, but they still burn every time. Another crack in your heart that only wanted a family that loved you…

Mother did not survive the winter of your birth. Too much blood loss, a doctor that was more focused on his own slandering of the houses name and the skirts of the maids then your own mothers wellbeing.

Your brother, Erste, too busy with the blade, with leading the knights, to care about a sister who could not look after herself. He was never home, always away slaying the monsters in the woods and mountains, or in the capital fighting with words.

He never replied to your letter. One you had painstakingly written over and over again until Ceciliy said it was at least legible. Though only pressure and repetition… No reply, no response… just ignored as the failure of your house that you were.

"Perhaps the curse was merciful. At least you don’t have to look upon yourself."

Your father… You don’t think he ever looked at you. At least, he’s never said your name. He’s never been in your room. Always too busy with Charlotte. With conversing with her, with attending her tea parties, with her dresses and jewelry.

You’d get a token offering of course, a bear, a dress, a necklace or earring… but they were all simply to appear as if you were also being considered.

Was a conversation too much? Was simply patting you on the head when you did something good in all this darkness and quiet too much?

A tear drips from your eye, freezing in the cold that numbs your bones as another crunch of snow approaches. Heavier, a harder step.

That must be one of the squires… they always looked at you like you were an eyesore. Well, you could feel their malice, just as you feel the hot spike of it as one of them grabs your shoulder.

"And yet, here you stand, wrapped in silks, pretending there’s still a place for you in this family. Tell me, when you dream — do you dream in black as well?"

A push, a shove, your struggles ignored, your resistance fails. The snow catches your feet, your feet once covered in heels, now empty and cold slide along the ice under the snow.

And then, there’s nothing but the roaring winds of the north, for just a moment.

No pressure to stand up, no pressure to be a noble lady despite your lackings.

No scorn aimed at you for simply existing, no disgust, no calling you a monster simply because of something you have no choice in.

The wind is rough, it is harsh, it is freezing… but it’s the warmest you’ve ever felt as gravity resumes it’s hold.

Charlotte laughs. It echo’s in the wind for a moment, before the yawning chasm of the World Split swallows you and the howling wind roars ever louder.

You fall.

And fall.

And fall.

You should be afraid, you should be screaming as well.

But… It’s nice. To just…. Feel.

The end is coming.

There is no restart. No reset. No do over for a failure like you.

And that’s... okay.

But… just this once.. You’d like to at least see the stars.

The head maid whispered about them once when you couldn’t sleep.

The shine of the many gods and goddesses, looking down upon this small, fractured world.

Small pinpricks of light from distances unfathomable, yet so close. She called them white on blue and black.

You…

You wonder what they look like as something sharp pierces through your back and you stop being.

…

…

..

.

But do you really?

Isn’t it unfair to just stop?

Isn’t it unfair to just… let this happen? To let yourself be pushed around like this? To suffer?

No… it’s what you’ve earned, it’s the duty of your birth. You must suffer, so everyone else doesn’t have to deal with the curse.

Even if all you ever wanted was to… help.

Was that what you wanted? Are you even thinking, as the lifeblood in your body drips warm and hot down your legs and to the rocks below.

Thoughts become hard, feelings harder. The cold overtakes you.

And then so does heat. ​