The Portrait
By Laura Schiller
Series: The Faerie Path Trilogy
Copyright: Frewin Jones and HarperCollins Publishing
Valentyne looked up from his desk, put down his quill and sighed. He had been working on his research paper on the winged people in Prydein, inspired by Princess Tania's accounts, all day long and simply couldn't concentrated anymore. His eyes were drawn, inexorably, to the portrait on the wall. It had been hanging there for so long that he had begun to ignore it as part of the wall, but after Eden's return, he had found himself staring at it more and more.
Eden, young and smiling, her hair black as a raven's wing and curling around her shoulders like an ocean wave. Her blue eyes thoughtful, but with a spark of mischief in them, and matched by a sumptuous gown of sea-blue silk.
Himself, with that ageless look all Faeries possessed once they reached maturity. Dark brown eyes, brown hair carefully combed back so it would not stand on end as usual. Wearing his best black suit. Not smiling, but proud and confident, in the prime of life...and love.
Their joined hands, in the centre of the painting, as they sat on a bench in their rose garden. Always the last thing he looked at.
The painter was a true master. He had captured their marriage in one image – the peace and comfort, the shared silences, the mutual loyalty, affection and trust. They had not had a passionate love affair like some couples; in fact, their marriage had been arranged by King Oberon for political reasons, as Valentyne's family was one of the most powerful of Faerie. Then somehow, to their surprise, they had found that the other was the best friend and partner they ever had.
Not that their hadn't been passion. He flashed a crooked little grin at the Eden in the portrait, remembering those nights in their enormous, cozy four-poster bed.
Wonderful times.
The supper bell chimed through the corridors; Valentyne stopped up his inkstand, considered clearing away the pile of books on his desk, and shook his head. That could wait.
()
Meals at the castle were a strange and awkward affair. In the small parlour set between their bedrooms – separated at Eden's request – with a silent footman at the door and a silent maid serving the meal, Eden and Valentyne sat opposite each other and were silent. Not the comfortable silence of their early marriage, but a heavy, clumsy thing like a dusty blanket weighing on his soul. There was only one thing worse...
"How was your day, my lord?"
...Meaningless, stilted small talk.
"Well enough."
He hated the way she had taken to calling him 'my lord' – coolly, politely, like a distant acquaintance who just happened to be married to him. Although he supposed, after five hundred years of suffering and separation, that was what they were.
Strangers.
He caught sight of their reflections in the window glass, lit by the fitful, flickering light of the candles in their holders. How stiffly they sat, with the distance of the table yawning between them like an entire continent. A thin, pale woman with shadowy eyes and lines of pain and grief in her face, her hair snow-white. A bent old man, with a spiky shock of ash-grey hair and a face as creased and wrinkled as a used handkerchief. This was what the Long Twilight had done to them. When Faeries show age, it means they have suffered.
The air was thick with unspoken words; it was a stifling atmosphere, but he was afraid of what would happen if he let them out.
Why did you shut yourself away?
Was my love not enough?
Now our suffering is over, why will you still not speak to me?
Do you not love me anymore?
He thought his mind would snap like the proverbial camel's back. He cleared his throat - the sound echoed around the room – and launched into a long and convoluted lecture about his planned study of the Lios Foltaigg, and how he planned to investigate the details of their permanent wings to find out why they had evolved so differently. Anything to fill up the silence.
Eden listened with growing interest, how and then adding her agreement or a helpful little suggestion. Once he made her smile; instead of dragging on at its usual pace, time seemed to collect itself and pick up a bit of speed.
The glass on the window reflected a man and a woman, white-haired and worn, but bright and alert with intellectual curiosity, gesturing in a lively, graceful way and leaning towards each other across the table.
For a moment, he could almost believe they were a couple again.
He would continue to hope that in time, they would be.