It was far too early in the morning when Kurthnaga came bounding into Nala's room and pounced onto her bed.
"Oogh," she groaned, tugging the blankets over her head. "Too early. Go 'way."
The mattress shook with the young dragon's energetic bouncing. "Naaaala," he whined. "C'mon, the sun's almost up!" He grabbed a handful of coverlet and pulled it back to expose her face. "You promised we'd go flying today!"
Heavy-lidded, bright red eyes blinked open slowly and squinted up at him. "Kurthnaga," Nala yawned, sitting up slightly. "'Today' means after the sun comes up, you know."
He frowned. "Where does it say that? I thought 'today' meant whenever you woke up!"
She pushed her long bangs out of her face with one hand. Slightly messy viridian hair fell around her shoulders and partly down her back. "If that's the case, then the days sure are a lot longer when you're around."
He grinned. "So does that mean you're up?"
She flopped back on the pillows. "Yes, I'm up..." she sighed, rubbing her forehead in exasperation, but granting him a conciliatory smile nevertheless.
His youthful face brightened. "Great! So come teach me to fly, okay?"
Soren blinked awake with a start. His eyes wandered the dark ceiling before dropping to the vaulted window and finally to the polished marble floor. Nothing seemed out of place, but his mind was alert and the back of his neck tingled with guarded awareness. He pulled himself into a sitting position and ran his hands over his face, pushing his long bangs back behind his ears.
A bad dream? he thought. I don't remember. He spoke a soft word in a dead language and the lantern on the bedside table flared to life, illuminating the large chamber with warm, flickering light.
He sighed and slid out of the bed, shivering a little as he placed his feet on the cold stone. The dressing gown from earlier was gone, replaced by another that had been folded up by unseen hands and left on the dresser. He wondered idly about the servants who maintained the villa as he shrugged into the light garment. He didn't believe he'd ever heard one of them speak, but then, Kurthnaga seemed to talk more than enough for all of them.
It was when Soren crossed to the vanity, to look into the delicately ornamented mirror there and touch the fine ivory comb, that it occured to him that his royal host might be lonely.
He sighed and let his hand fall back to his side. It wasn't his problem anyway. He honestly couldn't believe he'd agreed to spend the week there. He was so far out of his element he felt completely blank, stripped of any reference point with which to ground his sense of identity. As rich and beautiful as the palatial villa was, it only served to make the emptiness and silence of the place that much more painful and apparent.
Soren's bare feet made a quiet sticking noise as he paced around the room, moving from surface to surface and just touching things - knickknacks, draperies, book-bindings, anything that he could do to disturb the settled air. What little warmth he had in his fingers he did his best to transfer to the cold deadness of the room. He figured he might at least sleep a little better if it didn't feel so much like a mausoleum.
He came to a thick wall-hanging mounted between two tall bookshelves. It was deep blue with a simple pattern of tiny silver stars and a single moon, hung almost like a false window opening onto perpetual night. He ran his fingers along the braided, tasseled edge, and came to a stop when the sensation changed from the feeling of rumpled velvet to that of a rough, three-dimensional surface.
He paused and looked closer. With his extended hand, he gently pushed aside the hanging fabric. An ornate wooden frame came into view, followed by a brightly colored swathe of painted canvas. At first it was purely abstract; an unintelligible detail of a woman's dress. Then her hands came into view, and as more of the covering fell away, more and more of the painting was exposed.
At last only her face was covered, and with a decisive yank Soren brought the rest of the heavy fabric tumbling down to rest at his feet. It fell from his hands, forgotten, as he saw for the first time the face of a woman who might have looked like his mother, if he had ever known her.
The portrait was formal, but not obviously posed, and the hands folded in her lap seemed to betray a certain nervous energy. She was pale, very pale, with lips the same shocking crimson as her eyes, and long dark green hair that was gathered up away from her face into an elaborate knot. Soren could immediately see the resemblance to Kurthnaga, but there was something else as well - something that lingered behind the small, slightly flirtatious smile she wore in the painting. Something familiar.
His eyes dropped to the golden nameplate that was set into the frame. Princess Nala, it said, in crisp copperplate lettering. Beneath that was marked the name of the artist - Thomas Faber.
"Faber," he murmured distantly, reaching out to touch the engraved letters with the tips of his fingers. It must have been the name of the artist's particular school - he had certainly never heard of a region by that name, unless it was long gone.
Soren took a few steps backwards, then turned and headed back to the bed. He curled up on top of the plush coverlet and hugged his knees to his chest. A piece of himself that he had always hated was smiling back at him from the wall, but he couldn't bring himself to cover the portrait again. He closed his eyes, and the last thing he thought before falling back into fitful sleep was how much harder it was now that he knew who she was.
"I'm just going to open this window, okay?" Sunlight flooded the room and Nala blinked in the sudden glare, holding up one hand to shelter her eyes.
The tall, rough-looking beorc who had the rare honor of being allowed inside the royal villa turned and looked at her carefully. He squinted one pale blue eye and she squirmed uncomfortably. "Well?" she finally asked, after several minutes of scrutiny had passed.
"Beautiful," he said with a boyish grin and a wink. He hummed something under his breath and bent down to set up his easel.
Nala wrinkled her nose in irritation. As if it wasn't bad enough that her father was making her sit for a portrait, she had to endure this man as well? Certainly they could have found an artist with better manners, or at least better grooming. His face was rough and unshaven, and he hadn't even bothered to comb the mess of sandy brown hair on top of his head. It curled in every different direction, and she found the one piece that fell over his forehead particularly annoying.
"How long is this going to take?" she asked, one foot already tapping impatiently on the marble floor.
"Hmm?" The artist poked his head out from behind a window-sized canvas that he was struggling to mount on the easel.
"That depends on you, princess." His face disappeared again and he made a grunting noise as the clasps locked into place. "There we go."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
He straightened and fished a rag out of his pocket to mop across his forehead. "Do you know why your father hired me?" he asked conversationally.
"You're changing the subject."
"Am I?" He smirked and gave her a sidelong glance. She remained silent and glared back at him stubbornly. "Well, it's because I'm the best. Not the best painter, mind you. That would probably be Ewan, or well, maybe Andreas. But when it comes to portraiture, there's no one better than yours truly." He slapped his chest proudly.
Nala snorted. "You must be the rudest human I've ever met."
"Beorc," he corrected, bending to fish around in a case that was filled with small pots of paint.
"Whatever. I still don't see what this has to do with me."
"Oh, yes. I was getting to that, wasn't I?" He produced a palette and several long, slender brushes that he stuck into his mouth to free his hands. "You see," he said, mumbling slightly around the wooden handles, "the reason I'm the best is that I never paint a subject until the moment is right."
"Until the moment is right," Nala echoed dubiously. "And when would that be?"
He stood and carried an armful of paint pots over to the easel, where he carefully placed them into a set of reservoirs that was attached to the wooden frame. The brushes went in an adjacent holder, and he set the palette down on the ground.
Finally, he picked up the small stool he had brought, and dragged it around the easel to set right in front of where Nala was sitting.
"That," he said, plopping down on it and grinning up at her with an expression of maddening patience. "Is the part that's up to you."
She blinked. "You're really serious, aren't you?"
"I never lie, princess." Nala sighed and shook her head. She had the feeling this was going to be a lot more difficult than she expected.
When morning came, Kurthnaga was already on the veranda, watching the sky.
It looked like it was going to be an overcast day, and he wondered vaguely if it was going to rain while he scanned the cloudscape for signs of Gareth. He was contemplating taking wing himself when the sound of the door behind him startled him out of his reverie.
"Good morning, Soren," he said, turning to look at him. "Did you sleep well?"
The sage stepped up next to him and placed his hands on the railing, which was still slick with dew. "Not really," he admitted. Kurthnaga noted that he was back in his usual robes.
"Oh? Was the bed not suited to your needs?"
Soren looked up at the sky, then shook his head. "I think I dreamt of her," he said distantly.
Kurthnaga turned and looked at him in surprise. "Of Nala?"
"Yes." Ruby eyes flickered, then disappeared beneath thickly-lashed eyelids. "I found the portrait in my room."
"...I see," the prince replied. "Are you..."
"I'm fine," Soren responded quickly. He was surprised to find that it was actually half true. Somehow the nervous feeling he usually carried around was being replaced by a strange, calm vacancy. "Was that her room, too?"
Kurthnaga closed his eyes, a painful expression passing over his features. "It was," he admitted softly. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have put you there."
"And that painter, Thomas?"
A wan smile appeared on the prince's face. "Yes. He was her husband."
A salty breeze passed over them, rustling the treetop canopy below. Soren looked down at the tangle of leaves and branches, still puzzling over the vision from last night's dream.
"Honestly, it didn't even seem like she liked him," he said thoughtfully, after several minutes of silence had passed.
Kurthnaga gave him an astonished look, then started to chuckle softly. "She didn't," he said. "She hated him from the moment they met."
"So what happened?"
The young dragon quirked an eyebrow. "Are you sure you want to know?"
Soren sighed. "I asked, didn't I?"
Kurthnaga chuckled. "Fair enough. Well," he said, stretching and scanning the sky one more time. "Shall we go inside, then? It really is beginning to look like rain."
They wound up in a plush sitting room, where several overstuffed wing chairs were arranged around an ornate stone hearth. A silent servant came in and arranged a fire, lighting it by some means Soren didn't see and would probably be better off not knowing. He settled into the chair closest to the blaze and looked into it while Kurthnaga poured himself a glass of sweet-smelling liquor.
"Would you like some?" he asked, holding up a thin crystal bottle. The ruby liquid inside glimmered in the flickering firelight.
Soren shook his head. "I don't drink."
"Oh? That's a shame." Kurthnaga capped the bottle with a diminutive clink and carried his glass over to where Soren was sitting.
"I don't think so. Alcohol just clouds the mind and diminishes the senses."
The dragon prince smiled and curled up in one of the large chairs. "I think that's precisely why so many enjoy it," he remarked. "I can have the servants bring you something else, perhaps?"
Soren shifted. "I'm fine, really." He felt irritated at the delay, like a small child anxious to hear a story.
Kurthnaga sipped delicately, then set the glass down on a nearby table. "All right. I'm sure you're ready to hear what I have to say. I'm just... trying to make certain I'm ready to say it." He sat back and looked into the fire, long tendrils of dancing flame reflected in his amber eyes. "You dreamt of Nala and Thomas?"
"I did. She was... he was getting ready to paint her. Is that how they met?"
He smiled distantly. "Yes. Father hired him from the village. He was renowned for his portraiture. It was said that he used his considerable skill as a magician to infuse the paintings with the very essence of the subject."
Soren frowned. He'd never heard of such a thing. "Is that true?" he asked skeptically.
Kurthnaga raised his eyebrows and shook his head. "I don't know. It may have been magic, or it may have been genius. But that portrait..." he closed his eyes. "To those that knew her, it's like a slice out of time."
There was a moment of silence. "...She seemed happy," Soren murmured.
The prince smiled gratefully. "She was, when the portrait was painted. Thomas made certain of that." He gave a small laugh, as if remembering a joke he heard a long time ago. "But it took a while to get there."
"How long?"
"Weeks. They were two of the most stubborn people I have ever known. I think they managed to spend days at a time locked in that room, without ever making progress on the painting."
Soren found himself smiling a little, despite his usual propensity not to. "He was stalling?"
Kurthnaga chuckled and shook his head. "I don't think so. He kept saying that the moment wasn't right. Father was not pleased, of course. He didn't understand why he was paying a man to not paint."
"So why didn't he just find someone else?"
"Because Nala asked him not to."
Soren blinked in surprise. "Why? I thought she hated him."
"She did. But it had become a game to her. She wanted to win the little competition they were having, so of course it had to come to a natural conclusion." He looked nostalgically back into the fire. "She figured as long as Thomas wasn't painting her, she was winning. So they talked, played cards, performed whatever diversion she could come up with. She never got that Thomas had already gotten the better of her."
"How so?"
Kurthnaga smiled and turned his gentle gaze on Soren. "It was never about the painting. It was about her. You see, Thomas chose some aspect of his subjects to be the focal point of their portrait - for some, it was elderly wisdom, others, youthful innocence. And for Nala..."
Soren sat back, realization dawning on his face. "It was love."
"Yes. It was love."
Soren let out a long breath that he hadn't even been aware he was holding. "So he wouldn't paint her until she fell in love with him..."
"And the whole time, that's exactly what she was doing." Kurthnaga chuckled and brushed back a piece of his hair with one hand. "It was the first time I ever saw anyone get the better of Nala."
"But he married her."
"Of course. He had been in love with her from the moment he laid eyes on her. Like I said, it was never about the painting."
For a long time, Soren said nothing, just went over it again and again in his head while he stared into the waning fire. "...That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard," he said at last.
Kurthnaga laughed. "People will do crazy things for love."
Just then, the heavy double doors to the sitting room opened inwards, and two very soggy figures crossed the threshold, oblivious to the water they were dripping all over the carpet. Outside, the sound of heavy rain could be heard beating against the walls of the house. Kurthnaga got to his feet, his nose wrinkling slightly in distaste.
"It's good to have you back, Gareth, but couldn't you have at least changed first?" he asked, folding his arms over his chest.
"I'm sorry, Your Majesty," the red dragon replied coarsely. "He insisted on coming straight here."
"Indeed. Well, allow me to extend my welcome to -"
"...Ike?" Soren asked quietly, almost in disbelief, as he stood from his chair. The figure behind Gareth was hooded and dismally wet, but two impossibly familiar blue eyes smiled at him from that shaded face.
Kurthnaga fell quiet and took a step backwards, motioning for Gareth to do the same. Soren and Ike just stared at each other for a long time, communicating everything wordlessly in the divide that meant nothing to them at that moment. Somehow, one or the other of them crossed the room and they wound up in a tight, desperate hug.
"Soren," Ike finally managed to say, pulling his hood down with one hand. "I, uh... I'm all wet..."
"I don't care," the sage breathed, his ruby eyes closed tightly against Ike's chest, and all the rest of the world forgotten.
"I smell like pegasus..."
"I don't care," Soren echoed.
Ike's steady breathing faltered. "I'm glad you're okay," he said quietly, and seriously.
A very small smile came to Soren's lips. "Me too," he responded. He looked up then, ruby eyes searching Ike's face. "And I think... we have a lot of catching up to do."