Look Beyond What You See
Aerys's Portrait

With a furtive glance, Dmitri slowly opens the door to his most secret place. A kaleidoscope of light dazzles my eyes; at first, I cannot tell what stands before them, but when my vision clears, I am astounded. Sunlight pours through windows lining the western wall, but it is interrupted, bent, and redirected by swaths of heavy fabric in a variety of dark colors. Some thinner pieces of fabrics flutter in the breeze that flows from a few open windows, and these tint whatever beams of sunlight come their way. The fabric forms a fantastical forest; canopies cover most of the ceiling and thick trunks of slanting fabric are nailed to the floor. Between these fabric walls jut wooden sculptures, some sprouting from the floor and others plunging from the ceiling. All are painted curiously, with unlikely colors and strange patterns, but I replace them all delightful. Some are fantastical in nature: fauns and satyrs, centaurs, faeries, dryads mid-transformation between tree and human. Others are indisputably realistic renditions of Dmitri’s family members, the most notable being a stoic wooden Wesley. Behind that statue, which faces the windows, mirrors, black fabric, and electric lights have somehow created the illusion that real thunderbolts are being emitted from the carving’s hands.

Such is the case wherever sculptures can be found. The light is manipulated so as to create interesting effects. Zinaida’s likeness, for example, hangs from the ceiling by windswept tendrils of her wooden hair and seems to be caught in silvery air currents that are an illusion created by the splitting and redirecting of light. Shadows create a malevolent expression on a carving of a troll that crouches beneath a painting, leering at me as I pass by. The painting above it is a mountain landscape characterized by all manner of faces hidden in the thick fog and clouds through which the mountains protrude.

All of his paintings, indeed, show remarkable skill and unique perspective. I marvel over them while Dmitri watches me from a distance, agitated but trying not to show it. I am too awed by his work to give weight to his needless fears. Indeed, the fruits of his labor and imagination rob me of speech. A dark forest glowers menacingly at me from one canvas, within which a witch in dark robes attends a brilliantly glowing cauldron of vibrant purple liquid that, thanks to the lighting and his painting skill, seems to actually be frothing while the flames beneath it leap and crackle. The next painting is a tranquil view over a large body of water, beyond which the sun is setting. A single mermaid in the water clings to a rock, her sultry eyes entreating the viewer to join her for a swim.

The sheer variety and number of his pieces is amazing, his improvement over the years (traceable through the organization of the room) even more so. But one piece seems conspicuously missing--the one I know exists of an auburn-haired water goddess in a stream. Where has he hidden it? Did he not say that I would see it? Then I round a corner formed by rich blue fabric and am face-to-face with my likeness in canvas, which startles me so much that I jump back a little. Dmitri is suddenly by my side, solicitous but questioning, waiting for me to pass judgment.

He will have a bit of a wait. As bowled over as I was by the sights that have previously met my eyes in this chamber of wonders, this painting makes the others pale and weak in comparison, though perhaps the personal nature of this piece is what makes it so powerful to me. The Aerys he portrays much resembles the one I see when I look in the mirror: Wild auburn hair, clear blue eyes with a hint of elemental vibrance, pale skin, the same nose, the same full lips, even the same owl earrings dangling from her ears and the heavy antique chain about her neck. But this painted Aerys is far more beautiful than I have ever perceived myself, though I have always thought myself pretty. She is powerful while I am a creature of secret passages and shadows, an invisible and powerless girl compared to this woman in the canvas who raises a water spout with one hand and holds a swirling ball of water in the other. Her eyes are more arresting than mine have ever been, and they fairly glow with a seductive light I think he must have imagined, for I cannot recall ever giving such a look. But the look is directed to one side of the canvas and not out to the viewer, an unusual thing in comparison with his other works I have seen.

When I follow her line of vision, however, I understand completely. Her look beckons a handsome man with dark hair and blazing amber eyes who stands just within the confines of the canvas, looking from between two trees at the water goddess in the river. The young man is a marvellous self-portrait of my fiancé, and most captivating about him is the look in those flaming eyes--a look of such passion and lustful hunger that I cannot replace words, cannot move, can hardly breathe. Painted Dmitri’s eyes are only for painted Aerys, but the corollary to this message has not escaped my attention. No wonder he was nervous. How do I respond? Can I respond? Warm, gentle fingers touch my chin, guiding my face to face his, where his eyes show only guarded concern.

“What do you think?” he inquires, his voice a husky murmur that makes my spine tingle.

“You are by far the most talented artist whose works I have ever had the opportunity to see. I wonder that you claim the critics do not appreciate your art. Your pieces are unique and masterfully done, your use of lighting creative and effective, and always your intended message shines through, much as the sunlight pierces your fabric forest,” I reply with remarkable composure. The words seem to flow from a hidden spring within me, and I send silent thanks to Acionna for her guidance; I doubt I have achieved such calm on my own.

“So you have received the message of this piece, then, too,” he presses, his eyes more searching, demanding acknowledgement of the feelings he has bared. There can only be one response, but I am frightened by the prospect. Something more powerful than fear stirs within me, and a moment later my lips meet his of my own initiative. Hot hands pull my hips against his, press me against him as he takes control--not difficult, as the outpouring of emotion and the power of our magics’ desire for each other have rendered me all but helpless. Still my body knows what to do, though I do not; a touch here, a movement there, his temperature increases from each.

“How can feelings be so intense after so little time?” I murmur breathlessly as our lips separate, replaceing that air is more necessary than drinking each other in. His fire flares against my chest and I wonder if I’ve offended him, though how my innocent question could offend is quite beyond me at the moment.

“It doesn’t matter,” he breathes, his eyes intense and hypnotic. “Aerys--” A pounding on the door cuts him off and startles me out of his arms and into the arms of a life-sized carved centaur. Jealousy flames in his eyes for the brief moment I remain there before regaining my footing and gliding towards the door to see who has so rudely interrupted us.

“Dmitri!” Juniper’s imperious British-laced call answers my unvoiced question.

“What is it, Juniper?” I ask as I open the door. She starts at the sight of me in Dmitri’s art studio doorway, which is angled so as to prevent the sight of any of his works from it. A heated presence behind me informs me that Dmitri has followed me.

“Oh, splendid, you’re both here. Lady Berkeley has demanded your presence in her drawing room. She desires to begin wedding plans for the two of you. Come, come. She is not particularly patient today.”

***~O~***