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Snowman is quite used to the Felt being unable to meet her eyes, so she thinks nothing of the way Crowbar’s eyes look away from her and crawl over the walls of her room, searching for something less intimidating to look at. For once though, rather than just mumbling his way through an invitation for her to join the Felt downstairs at Doc Scratch’s request, he pauses and looks at a spot just above her head.
“Who painted that one?” Crowbar asks her and when she follows his gaze, she finds his eyes fixed on the painting above her fireplace. “It looks different from the others.”
“It is different.” Snowman turns in her seat, looking up at the portrait that dominates the room. It’s old now and the oils are perhaps a little less glossy than they once were, but it is still the most magnificent thing she has ever set her eyes on. “This came from Derse and was painted before the War.”
Crowbar spends most of his time flushed and sweating nervously when he’s in her presence, but for once, he manages to raise his voice as he talks to her. “So, when it was made, you were still a queen?”
She nods just the once. Things have changed since then. She doesn’t talk much to the Felt about those days, but they don’t particular ask her for details either. “It was one of many works, though this one was always my favorite.”
“That’s why you took it with you when you left?” He asks, but she shakes her head.
“No, they didn’t let me take anything, and they certainly wouldn’t have let me have this. This was never mine, though it could have been if I had demanded it.” She gestures vaguely to one of the spare chairs, inviting Crowbar to sit with her. He holds himself tightly as he walks over and sits, sinking into the plush upholstery. “This was part of the Hall of Great Works, which was my favorite place on Derse…”
She explains, and he listens.
--
The Hall of Great Works may be the Black Queen’s favorite place on Derse. Her chambers are wonderful and her court is breathtaking, but there is nothing quite like standing among a hundred different representations of herself.
The Black Queen has found herself a popular subject among artists, to no one’s surprise. The Black King is present as well, often depicted in the aftermath of a future victory or standing triumphantly in the ruins of Prospit, but he doesn’t have the sheer number or variety of images to his name. Some artists find themselves inspired by the Black King, but it seems everyone is inspired by her.
Tonight is a grand unveiling of a half a dozen new works. Four of them involve her. She has been warned by the Meticulous Curator that one of the images depicts her nude and she has resolved herself to have no reaction. It will hardly be the first image of that kind in the Hall, though it has been some time since the last carapacian felt bold enough to take a guess at what lies beneath her queenly robes. She does not mind the representations - she likes her body, and she likes being desired - though she acknowledges she may feel differently if they are unflattering.
There is champagne and canapes and she allows herself a glass, standing above the crowd of Dersites. The Black King remains on the Battlefield and so she has brought a sullen Jack Noir with her, delighting in the way he itches at his formal uniform.
“Stop that,” she chides him for the third time in the past hour. He turns his eyes on her but wisely says nothing, even as his fingers keep scrabbling against the edges of his shell. “If you must itch yourself, go to the washroom and do it privately.”
“I just did but this fucking- stupid outfit keeps getting stray fibers in the cracks.” Jack catches himself swearing a moment late and finally drops his hand from his neck, eyeing up her uniform. “Why can’t I get something made out of whatever yours is?”
“You can, if you pay for it. And no, I will not let you requisition a uniform using the fine payments we’ve accrued. Those are needed to run the prison.” She could have a uniform made for him, but his is perfectly fine. If he would wash it more than once, it would soften up. But of course, Jack seems content to never wash it, and so his discomfort is well earned. Perhaps one day, she will take pity on him and tell him this.
Today is not that day though and she sips from her glass to hide the slight smile that gathers on her lips when he begins to itch himself again.
The Meticulous Curator breaks off from a conversation she’s having to approach the Black Queen. “Your Majesty? We’ll be unveiling the works in a moment.”
“Of course,” she says, dismissing the Curator and handing her flute of champagne to Jack. “If you even think of spitting in it, I will have you deshelled.”
He makes a face but keeps it away from his mouth. The Black Queen follows the Curator to the main podium, taking her place there. There are speeches that will be given, but her attention remains on the artists standing there by their works. There are four easels, a covered statue, and a blank Fenestrated Wall waiting to display something. It is easy to locate the artist who painted her nude - the shy sculptor looks at the floor, her shell dark with what the Black Queen imagines must be a blush.
The artist nearest to her turns to face her, giving a short little bow. He has an oval face and soft features, and his hands look heavily worked from some job other than art. “Your Majesty. It’s an honor to have you here.”
She nods slightly, her hands held behind her back. “What is your name?”
“Judicious Virtuoso,” he says, and before he can say anything else, the Curator gives her speech, welcoming all and speaking about the requirements to have art entered in the Great Hall. None of the people on stage tonight are full-time artists, but instead have other positions and duties. Art is what they do in their off-hours, as a hobby for some and as another source of income for others.
One by one the sheets come off. On the far end, there is a beautiful photograph of Derse from a tall tower. The carapacian who shot it works on repairing spires. Beside him, a painting of the Black Queen holding court, by a carapacian who tends to the sleeping Princes and Princesses. The sculpture depicts the Black Queen emerging from a shattered cloning tube, droplets of sterile growth fluid clinging to her naked shell. The shy artist turns out to be one of Jack Noir’s aides. The fourth item is short film by a sewer maintenance worker, having captured the crypts beneath Derse in a haunting tribute to the deceased Princess of Time. The fifth is a portrait of the Black King and Queen accepting the surrender of Prospit from a defeated and kneeling White Queen.
The Black Queen is leaning towards the sculpture as her favorite, even as she waits to see what the Judicious Virtuoso has made. He pulls aside the sheet hiding his work, revealing a painting. The Curator explains that JV runs an inn, and though there is more, the Black Queen does not hear it. Her eyes are locked on the painting.
It is unlike any portrait she has seen of herself before. The Black Queen is surrounded by images of her, strong and fierce and every inch a Queen. The painting is lovely and she is beautiful in it, but a kind of beautiful she’s never seen before. She is almost vulnerable, mouth slightly parted and her eyes at half lid. She has never seen a portrait of herself that did not have her facing head-on, but in this, her head is turned over her shoulder and she has been captured looking back at someone. Is she surprised? Or pleased to see someone approach her?
It feels so much more intimate than the sculpture could ever hope to, even if she is fully clothed in it.
“Your Majesty,” Judicious Virtuoso speaks to her, shaking the Black Queen from her thoughts. He looks so hopefully up at her, his hands clasped in front of him. “Do you approve?”
“I do,” she says, and she never knew her voice could be so soft. The portrait is beautiful and worthy of the Great Hall. She covets it and knows she could snap her fingers and have it delivered to her quarters, where only she would see it. The Black Queen could gaze upon it anytime she wished.
But… perhaps not. It is a great work, and it deserves to be seen. She will leave it here, for now. Sooner or later, she’ll have it brought to her chambers. The Black Queen knows exactly where she’ll display it. Her parlor has an open place where she can sit and gaze on it.
She takes the Virtuoso’s hands in her own. “I would like to purchase any further works you make. Bring them to the Court and I will pay you handsomely.”
“Of course, your Highness.” He bows and she squeezes his hands softly before turning to the other artists. The sculptress weeps a little when the Black Queen compliments her, and the other painter smiles gratefully and bows as well. The crowd comes close to look at the art and the Black Queen finds Jack Noir, once again itching at his collar. He offers her the champagne, which she exchanges for a fresh glass.
“I like the sculpture,” Jack says, his eyes locked on the carved breasts, “it’s uh. Real stirring stuff.”
She knows what he means by that and chooses to pretend she doesn’t so she won’t have to acknowledge it. While he leers at the nude form (which is lovely, but has had some artistic liberties taken with it), her own eyes drift back to the painting at the end. It makes her feel so strange. When the war is won, she’ll bring the Black King here and show it to him. Perhaps he’ll feel the same about it.
The Black Queen sips her champagne and turns her attention back to the crowd reluctantly. The painting will be there when this event is over, and anytime she wishes to see it afterward.
--
Crowbar waits for the story to come to a lull before he speaks up. “I would have thought you’d have taken it right there and then, if you liked it that much.”
“I often considered it. I must have written up the orders to fetch it a dozen different times over the years.” Snowman is sure the slips are still out there somewhere, her neat and tidy handwriting commanding that the Hall of Great Works gift it to her. “Each time I thought of taking it, I would think of a reason to leave it there.”
Safety, since the building was one of the safest places and meant to withstand direct attacks. Convenience, since it was a wonderful excuse to visit the Hall anytime she wished. Laziness, since taking it would require some amount of effort she could expend elsewhere.
None of those were the real reason she left it behind. Crowbar seems to sense this, but he doesn’t press her to discuss that. “You said you didn’t take it with you when you left. Did it just end up in the desert in one of those ships?”
“That was how it was eventually transported to me, yes. In fact, it was aboard the very ship that I was exiled on, though I was unaware of it at the time. I only realized that fact much later.” Her cigarette is nearly finished and she plucks it from her holder, stubbing the end out in an ashtray. She fetches herself another. Crowbar watches closely, so she offers him one as well, watching as he carefully pulls a cigarette from the package. “You know that Spades Slick was responsible for my exile?”
Crowbar nods, putting the cigarette in his mouth. He’s attempting to look hard boiled and she supposes for a moment, he just might have achieved his goal. Snowman lights her cigarette and holds the flame for Crowbar, encouraging him to lean in and light his on it. “You’ve mentioned that once or twice. And you’ve said that you had something to do with his too.”
“I’ve been told revenge is a dish best served cold. But I found it was much more enjoyable to deliver Slick’s warm. The command consoles in the desert offered me a chance to turn Slick’s conspirators against him.” She snaps the lighter shut when Crowbar takes his first puff. He handles it much better than she would have expected. While his eyes water up, he doesn’t choke on it. She gives him a slight nod of approval and continues her story. “When I entered exile, I was not allowed to take anything with me. I knew that the moment I was gone, Slick would have every single last image of me destroyed. I thought I was powerless to save any of them.”
The portrait is proof that wasn’t entirely true. Crowbar relaxes a little and perhaps even enjoys his cigarette as she continues the story.
--
Derse is no place for Prospitian dreamers, but the voice in Terezi’s mind has helped her find her way past the security checkpoints with minimal violence. The Great Hall is empty at this time of night, shut to the general public. On the other end of a terminal, long black fingers type out a message for her ward.
Continue down the corridor another dozen meters. The painting will be to your right.
Terezi does as she’s asked, though she dawdles here and there, stopping to sniff at various statues or paintings. The exile has learned to be patient. The troll-child will do as she is commanded in her own time. Rushing her leads to interesting behavior, while waiting returns much quicker results.
She stops to write on a wall in a bright searing orange. It reads: 4WFUL LOT OF P41NT1NGS 1N H3R3 W1TH YOUR F4C3
One of the perks of being the Queen. They are less eager to paint me these days.
The War had stopped all artistic output, except among the deserters. For Terezi, it was not the end of the War, a period of time the once Queen of Derse had not been around to see. Her exile was days away to the troll, and weeks behind the woman sitting at a keyboard, guiding the girl through steps that were destined to be taken. Soon the window of what she knows to be true will shut, and she will be in the dark about the future once more.
The girl vandalizes the wall a little more, switching from orange to teal, which she seems to find more pleasing. She is near the painting, but it seems she is having trouble telling which one to fetch.
TH3Y 4LL SM3LL TH3 S4M3 L1K3 L1COR1C3 4ND GR4P3 M4SH3D TOG3T3R.
She can’t tell the girl to look for the one where the Queen is unlike all the others. This one could not see the difference between it and the others where she stares boldly ahead. And she might lick it, and that is the very last thing that she should do to the paintings.
Look for the one that smells like licorice and mint. It has a green background.
This is enough for the girl, who finds it rather quickly after that (and somehow resists from licking it). She captchalogues it securely in her inventory, leaving a bare spot among the artworks where it once hung. The Queen feels deeply saddened to see it taken from the wall, but it must be done. There is no other choice. There are so many other paintings here she wishes she could take as well, but she knows she cannot. The girl is listening to her and she is willing to help the exile take her revenge against Jack Noir, but she will not and cannot take anything else. Stealing this one painting is risk enough, but she cannot let it stay on Derse and she won’t risk letting it be destroyed once the Black Queen is exiled on false charges.
On the way out, she stops to write again, scribbling out a question at the back entrance to the Hall. No one will see this, not until it is too late. WHY TH1S ON3? TH3R3’S SO M4NY OTH3R D3L1C1OUS P41NT1NGS H3R3
This one is important to me. Hurry, a guard will come along in a few minutes.
There is no such guard due, but she doesn’t want to explain why to this child. She is unlikely to understand what it means to see yourself always seen as strong and unyielding, and then for someone to look and see something vulnerable within you.
She guides the child to the vast shipyards. There are carapacians on guard there and unfortunately, she must allow the child to slaughter a pair of loyal men. She would prefer to do it without a body count, but the painting must be delivered. The battleship sits at dock, but it won’t see war. In a few days time, it will be launched, the course set for a portal that leads to a dusty and distant land.
Place it in the compartment at the back. There is just enough space for it.
There is a small opening. Terezi finds it easily. She digs through her inventory, sniffing and scratching until she finds the right one, producing the painting. There’s bubblewrap waiting and the troll covers the painting it in and pops it behind a loose panel. The exile knows where that place on the ship is. She’s seen it before, though she didn’t look into it at the time. Very soon, she’ll see it again.
When it closes up, the girl turns a piece of chalk between her fingers but doesn’t write anything on the walls. She sits, as she does when she speaks to her friends through her glasses, and the exile leaves her be, turning off the monitor and standing up. She knows exactly where to go, thinking of the ship and letting herself be pulled through space, trading the cold iron bulkhead for something gold and dusty.
The ship’s not been touched in a long time. Sand’s come in through the windows and doors, gathering in colourful swirls here and there in the corridor. She steps over and around it, finding her way down familiar paths.
The panel is not so easily budged this time, not quit rusted shut but near enough that it can't be opened using just her hand. She uses her lance as leverage, sliding the cigarette holder’s tip inside and then pulling on it until the lance’s girth pops the panel’s top free. From there, she yanks the metal off and discards it, her fingers closing on the dusty wrappings around the painting and carefully pulling that free as well. The exiled Queen strips the layers off and brings the painting into view to ensure the right one reached her in exile.
The black and green reveals as she unwraps it, and then she finds herself looking at her own face. She thinks of the Virtuoso and wonders what happened to him. Exile or death? He never did bring his paintings to the court, if there ever were any more. Perhaps this is all he had in him. If so, it was worth it for this one masterpiece.
She reluctantly wraps the painting up again, preparing it for transport. It will only be a while longer. Just a little longer, until she can have it mounted once more. She always meant to have it on the walls of her parlor. Now she will.
The woman once known as the Black Queen, now known as Snowman, holds the painting loose in one hand and a whip in the other, thinking of her new home in the shifting desert sands as she teleports to it.
--
Crowbar’s cigarette is nearly finished. She slides the ashtray closer to him and he stubs it out. Both of them are looking up at the painting again. Time has only made it more beautiful to her. Once, there were a hundred works of art that captured her. Now she can count them on a single hand.
She has a portrait in one of the halls, and she appears in a few group portraits, but they are so different from this one. In all of those, she remains closed off, arms pulled tight to her chest and her hat casting shadows over her face. It has been hard for her to imagine being the woman in the portrait, so open and inviting. These men are strangers with no reason to be loyal to her, and Jack Noir taught her that even those who should be loyal often aren’t. It’s been easier to remain apart from them and to cultivate an air of menace.
“I like it.” Crowbar finally says, and nods to the portrait, as if there were any doubts about what it was he liked. The blush is back, but he seems to be in better control of it. “It’s a side of you I’ve never seen. You look so… peaceful.”
She raises an eyebrow. Peaceful is not a word she would have used. Though… there is nothing wrong with it either. She supposes that the expression could be that of a woman at peace with her world and her kingdom, content and able to be vulnerable without the specter of war looming over her every decision.
And now she wonders; did Judicious Virtuoso imagine this is what she would look like when they won the War?
“Hey.” Crowbar shakes her from her thoughts. He holds the ashtray out to her, and she realizes she’s allowed a rather large ash to accumulate on the end of her cigarette. Snowman carefully taps it out, granting him a small nod of appreciation. “I uh. Was coming up here to invite you downstairs. The rest of us were going to play some cards, maybe a few hands of poker. What do you think?”
Had he lead with that, her answer would have been to teleport away, or to give him no answer and to drive him out passively. But now she looks at his anxious face, and again at her painting, seeking an answer in the soft eyes and half-parted lips.
“A few hands,” she agrees to and leaves her cigarette to burn out in the ashtray, slipping her holder away. Snowman does not teleport directly to the game, deciding to walk to it for once. Crowbar gives her a nod and a pleased sort of look, covering it up a moment later in something more serious. Snowman allows him to lead, even if the action still feels so strange to her, pausing to close up her room. She meets her portrait’s eyes briefly before locking the door tight and heading downstairs to see exactly how poker is played among the Felt.