A Portrait of Love

By: Skye Posted on: October 29, 2004

I saw her there, amidst the roses. Her eyes crimson, her skin pale and cheeks rosy. Her beauty was unlike any other, a class even above her Siren race. Was I worthy to even lay eyes on her? Let alone profess my feelings? Oh would the Gods strike me down if I dared believe that her beauty could match even the Goddess Herself? But why not… she is perfection in my eyes, those blood-red lips, that slender brow, her form slim and willowy, each movement flowing like the Zaphar, no other can compare… and no one can avert my gaze from her. For is she not Love?

When I first laid eyes on her, she was standing in a group of her own kind, a bevy of beauties the others said. The knights all stood their straightest and proudest, Alvian, my best friend, you could not take your eyes off them, even though your captain stood right in front of you. I slouched behind, easel and brush under my arm, edging back without looking and bumped into Blu, the blue dragon merely snorting either in disgust or amusement at me as I apologized profusely. Then I saw her, laughing, fan fluttering as she brings a cool mountain breeze that toys with a stray lock of golden blonde hair. My heart seized up, breath caught as I watched her, and her hips a-swaying, her eyes so cold and yet glittering with mirth as one of her friends told some girlish joke that was beyond my male comprehension. From that day I knew, it had to be her…

The weeks pass, the leaves turning colours of flame and gold. My attic room is growing cold, the chill seeping in through cracks in the wood; I look out of my window, hoping to see her again.

Love… I had learned that was her name from a passing Bard who oft performed at her father's mansion. Since then, as I blushingly realize, my heart and mind only had her and her alone. Only Love….

I returned to Caer Witrin to visit my mentor. Frida, blessed by the Great Bard since birth, produced works of skill beyond almost beyond mortal standards, kind and absent minded she laughed and chattered as she worked. Her style so different from Salai and myself, my ‘brother in brush', shy and retiring had few words, his art intense and yet somehow, like mine, lacking the life that Frida had managed to capture. My mentor laughed when I mentioned it.

"Eyron, you cannot give life to what you do not love." She chided as she mixed her paints, not once looking up from her labours, yet her voice and manner showed every indication that she had heard every word I said.

Love… Frida never left the town. She said that if she left she would not be able to produce the same great work she had, because all she loved was around her. Her studio was filled with paintings of still-life, animals and beautiful landscape, there was a touch of cold in each of them, the snow wouldn't stop falling… Dearest Frida, despite your smiles and laughter, your soul was cold and empty like the crystalline flakes that fell from the sky… "The spirit of the artist is in their work; their very essence can be captured along with the essence of the subject in the picture."

My thoughts drift back to her…

---

It was mid-Autumn, the Hunter's moon a gleaming sphere of pale red. I stared upwards at the night sky, blowing on my hands to try and brings warmth to my numb fingers. Autumn in Cyrene sometimes felt like winter in other cities and it was clear that my thread bare gloves would not last another year. I was about to step back into the inn, to my room and into warmer air when I saw her again… my Lady Love. Her black silk dress was covered by a splendid red and black tartan hemmed coat, black velvet gloves encasing her slim fingers, she carried not a fan this time, her long blonde hair left free to dance with the wind. She, as usual was not alone, but with her friends, the daughters of other noblemen, all pretty, but plain in comparison to her. I stumbled, fumbling in my step before realizing that I had stepped into her path.

"F, forgive me, my Lady Love." I stammered, almost wishing I would die as she coolly arched a delicate eyebrow at this interruption.

Blushing as red as her cherry red lips, I moved hastily aside, or at least tried to. My legs are frozen, whether figuratively or literally I can't quite tell anymore. I wished my clothes weren't quite so rumpled or covered in paint stains, and cursed myself for not trimming my unruly beard this morning. She looked me over with those intense ruby eyes and simply smiled, turning to a slightly hawkish looking Atavian girl in green satin.

"Master Byron's son has asked me to the Blu Fest already…" she told her companion, ignoring me entirely, "He is so uncouth, that Master Raed… always hunting, always off doing such… boorish manly things."

The Atavian sniffed her agreement, wings unfurling briefly as she runs a hand through the downy feathers. I barely noticed her, my eyes fixed upon my Lady Love. She cast me another sideways look, her smile, others would have said was sly, but I saw nothing but her enrapturing beauty…

"I do wish he was more involved in the arts… perhaps if he painted a portrait of me, I would consider letting him woo me for real." She smiled again, her entourage giggling childishly.

"I would paint a portrait of you… if you would let me woo you in return, my Lady." I blurted out before I can stop myself.

Seconds tick by as I stood in utter mortification at my words and she in amusement. Again I wish I had died before this moment had come, without thought I had spoken. Foolish words from a foolish dwarf…

"Impress me." She replied, that same smile on her face, eyes sparkling. Oh, my heart could have stopped right there and then. "You have the remains of this autumn and the whole winter. Impress me come spring and I shall let you steal kisses from me as though I were a common serving girl!" she laughed as though delighted at the thought, the other girls hid their smiles.

My mouth worked wordlessly, any flowery declarations of promise and love caught somewhere between my throat and audible sound.

"But…"

My jaw stopped flapping as I listened to the obligatory conditions that would stand in the way between my beloved and me.

"You will paint the portrait without your model." Her voice sounded so sweet, so innocent and childlike "If you love me as much as you imply you do… you should have no difficulty in transferring my image and beauty onto canvas."

I nodded vigorously, scarcely daring to believe my luck, any difficulties seemed to disappear at the thought of my lips against my Lady Love's, to woo her and claim her heart as she has already claimed mine. With a curtsey so perfect beyond words the entourage departed once more, leaving me standing there, back bent in a low bow.

I stayed there that way for a few minutes till a pair of slightly scuffed shoes and the hem of a plain cotton dress came into vision. There was no need to look up to know who was standing in front of me, hands on hips, brows furrowed in that disapproving frown.

"Eyron, you can't be serious about painting that… that… vixen's portrait!" Dianthe exclaimed.

My jaw clenched at her words, not at all in the mood for one of her admonitions. Straightening myself I walked back to the inn, leaving her fuming behind me with words I had shut out.

---

The leaves have fallen, the trees bare. My eyes have been fixed so long upon the blank canvas for so long, I could see nothing but white. How many weeks have passed? I'm not sure. Each time I lift my hand to begin my work, I set it down. How could I possibly even begin to describe her? Love… she's all the matters to me… all that's in my heart… My mind slowly flooded with the images, her smile, that sway in her hips… I began to paint. I will give this image life…

---

Winter. The attic was freezing but I barely have the heart or mind to light a fire, food barely passes my lips as I work yet I feel not cold nor hunger. Only the great work before me matters.

Every stroke feels like a breath of life leaving me, the hues growing lifelike, even the portrait's eyes seem to follow me as I move about the room. When it is complete, she will love me. When the final touches are laid, so will her heart be sealed to mine. I must keep working… for my Lady Love…

---

Dianthe opened the door cautiously, shivering as an ice cold draft swept out of the room like a bird from an open cage.

"Eyron?"

She stepped further into the room, noting with some disgust the layer of dust that covered everything and the chill. He lay slumped over his work, probably exhausted, he barely left his room as of late, his food was mostly untouched as well. It was no wonder… she paused, hesitating to touch his shoulder. Something didn't feel quite right.

"Eyron wake up, your room's a mess." She muttered, gathering her courage and jabbing him roughly with a very ungentle finger. The digit met cold flesh. She finally saw him clearly at last, a lifeless dwarf upon the canvas with his lips pressed to the portrait's. He had finished his work. She staggered, then fell backwards, half screaming and crying.

---

Spring. The Lady Love looked up from her book as she watched a servant carry in a large framed portrait. She looked it over with a critical eye, as though trying hard to find fault in it but eventually conceding.

"Hmm… it is rather impressive isn't it?" she commented, idly twirling a strand of golden hair between her fingers, "Has the artist been rewarded yet?"

The servant hesitated, before answering "No my Lady, I'm afraid he's dead."

She arched an eyebrow, lips pursed in a moment's thought.

"Well, I suppose it would be a waste to have such a painting discarded. I'm sure there's a free space in the hall somewhere."

She resumed flipping absent mindedly though her book as a young man entered the room watching the servant trundle out with the portrait.

"New painting, Love? An admirer?" he smirked.

She laughed, taking his hand in hers.

"Are you jealous, Raed?" she teased.

He smiled and took her in his arms.

"You're my Love and no one else's. I don't like to think that anyone else even has their eyes on you."

"Then I'll throw it away then. Since you don't like it."

And they smiled at each other, having forgotten the painting entirely. The servant shook his head as he removed the piece of art and placed it outside the house for someone to take away. Hair woven into an intricate bun braided and strung with glass beads, her crimson eyes are enhanced by a dark outlining of khol. Her lips are sensuously pouting as she lay upon a field of snow blossoms, dark red gown spread out over the pink and white petals. Even to my uncouth eye, the beauty and detail of the painting is remarkable, one could almost swear it was alive. The artist's admiration and love of the subject clearly felt through every brush stroke. I shook my head as I heard the servant tell the story, picking up my satchel, elementals following closely behind and resuming my walk though lonely Ruminic. Perhaps the tale reminded me of the bitterness in my own heart.

Love is not worth dying for.