Muahaha... Alright, evil laughter is over. I wrote a LOT more than this. It's nearly 45 pages long front and back handwritten, but I don't have a lot of time to type it up, because I tend to add on more as I go. So, this will be updated, but probably not THAT often.


Victoria stood with her feet planted firmly in the stance of a sailor on a rocking ship. She planted her hand on her hips and slowly surveyed her new room. It was small and slightly cramped, but it had a large picture window with a seat below it covered with a thick cushion. She crossed the room to look through the window. It looked out on a large pristine forest to the north. It was filled with trees that just asked to be climbed and explored. She sighed. The room wasn't much, but the window and the view more than made up for it. It would be a shame to leave it behind when they moved on.

Victoria turned from the captivating view and looked at the boxes scattered around the room. They were surprisingly few in number considering that they held her entire life in them. But, she thought, you learned to consolidate when you moved as much as she did.

Many of the boxes contained art supplies and sketchbooks. Others held her past sketches. She only kept the best ones, or the ones she planned to redo, but there were still many of them left.

Victoria knelt down beside a random box, and gently pulled the flaps apart. She smiled softly. It figured that this was the first box she opened. She frowned slightly. The first package was a familiar one.

She quickly averted her attention elsewhere, hoping when she turned back, the package wouldn't be what she thought it was, or better, that it had disappeared.

She focused on the bare walls, painted with a deep red. They would never say "home" to her, but they could be made more welcoming. She turned back to the box, frowning fiercely when the package was still there. She sighed and opened it gently.

This package was different from many of the other similar shaped ones in various boxes in Victoria's new bedroom. It was about two feet high and the same across. The painting beneath the newspaper wrapping was a source of confusion, annoyance, and (just a little) fear. It was about six years old, and had been done when Victoria, now fifteen, had been nine.

The story of how it came to be had been repeated many times. Most of the time it was Victoria herself who asked to be told the story. Of course, it wasn't really a story. A story isn't true usually, or is exaggerated. This was true, the only thing is, Victoria didn't remember it.

A couple of days after Victoria turned nine; she got sick with a virus that none of the doctors had ever seen before. They wanted to take tests and analyze her like a science project, but her mother turned them down, to say it politely. If you want the not-polite version, she kicked them out of the house repeatedly with their designer suits skidding on the ground, and when they tried to take her to court for withholding valuable scientific data, well, she was a lawyer. A darn good one at that. The case didn't last long.

Meanwhile, Victoria was nearly delirious , and for the lack of anything else to do, she painted. She painted many things, most of which were the bright and alluring paintings of madness, but one was different. Near the end of the sickness, she was nearly lucid, and she began what was to be one of her best paintings. It was a boy. He sat at an old-fashioned rough-hewn table. His elbows were propped on the table and his head was in his hands. His shoulders looked as if a great burden had been placed on them. He was dressed in old-fashioned clothes.

But even though the boy seemed sad and worried, there was an air of capability around him. He seemed as if he could take whatever you threw at him, and never complain.

Unbeknownst to Victoria, this was a real boy. He was born a long time ago, when boys knew what gallantry and chivalry were, and didn't have to use a dictionary to figure out the meaning. He was very quick to defend those he loved.

When Victoria came out of her delirium, she found her easel set up in the middle of her room, paints scattered everywhere, and a canvas leaning up against the wall to dry. She sat up, and walked over to it. Had she drawn this? She nodded to herself, answering her own question. Yes, she had. But, she thought hazily as the fogginess that covered her during her sickness crept close again, there was something she needed to remember about him. What was it? It jiggled at the edges of her memory, nagging her. She waved a hand shakily by her ear as if to dislodge the errant thought. It could wait, she thought as she tried to get back to her bed before she collapsed. She climbed sluggishly under the covers, and fell asleep. She slept for 3 days straight, and when she woke up, she remembered that she needed to remember something, but as hard as she tried, she couldn't remember what.