Living Paintings

A warm summer breeze blew strongly through the trees that sheltered her from the harsh rays of the sun. Her fire red hair fluttered effortlessly in the wind torrents, whipping and lashing at cream colored cheeks, flushed with the sting of daylight. The gown she wore billowed in the draft, pulling back from her slender legs, accentuating her slim waist. Green eyes darted to him, where he stood, just feet away. She took a step toward him, watching him watching her. No words had been spoken, but they didn’t have to be. Everything was understood. It was the same as every other time. The silence was comfortable, yet explainable. They didn’t need speech. If they had spoken, it would have broken the bond.

Then, as all the other times, a single voice drifted over the wind, bearing with it a shiver that ran down her spine. “Time has stopped. Your majesty, it is time to take up the sword…” And, with one last glance at him, she would open her eyes in her bedroom, breathing erratically.

Aurora Deluca lived in a garden apartment complex that consisted of eight apartments, four on the bottom floor, four on the top floor. There was an open courtyard that housed all the front doors, and was reached by a little stone stairway. When she awoke from this dream, she would walk out onto her balcony and watch her little world. The morning glories would replace the night-blooming jasmine by dawn, and the moss and ivy on the walls was coated in dew. The other apartments awoke at different times.

Mrs. Haggerty, in 1B awoke at five a.m., to water her plants and feed her cats. She would hum quietly, or sing aloud, depending on her mood. Mr. Weeks, in 1A come home from the metro graveyard shift at six a.m., promptly turned on the television and passed out in his armchair. The Collins’ family, in 1C, awoke at seven to begin to usher the four children out the door. Mrs. Collin’s had her hands full with the triplets, and little Suzy, but she always managed to get them to the bus, then come back in and wave happily to whoever she met. Two roommates, that reminded Rory of Felix and Oscar, of the Odd Couple, lived in 1D. They both awoke at eight, and managed to bounce off each other until nine, when one would storm out, taking the only car they had.

The upper floor consisted of Rory, in 2A. The March’s in 2B, who awoke as late as possible. There were two of them, and they owned a little restaurant in the Village. They were rarely seen with each other, and would never discuss their relationship. Across the courtyard, in 2C, was the resident Mork and Mindy. She was a conservative banker, he was a run-a-muck artist. He came in at four in the morning, and began to paint. She left at seven. He kept painting until ten in the morning, then he’d nap, and just as she was walking in at seven that night, he’d be walking out. In 2D, a single man lived. He was a writer who fancied himself to be Stephen King. He would sit in his window seat all day and half the night, typing on an old-fashioned typewriter, because he heard somewhere that it was the ideal tool in writing. All day, you could hear the ding, ding, whirl of the machine, intersected only by the tick, tick, tick of the buttons.

So, Rory stood outside, listening to her little world wake up before she moved back in and began to dress for work. She had the dream at least once a night, it was never really clear, and she still had no idea who the man before her was. The voice that spoke chilled her, though it did not frighten her. It was calming. But the truth in her words made Rory tremble. Time to take up the sword… Rory had never even touched a sword. What did she mean, Time has stopped?

Outside, her day awaited her. Rory Deluca worked in an art gallery, in Manhattan. She strolled out of the building, and hailed a cab. The ride to work was quiet, if you could ignore the yelling cab driver, and the millions of honking horns. But Rory’s mind was on the dream, as it always was during the ride. She could never make heads or tails of the meaning, wondering just who it was before her eyes, and whose voice she heard.

She handed the driver the fee, and stepped onto the cold sidewalk. January in New York was bitterly cold, and she had wrapped herself tightly in her cashmere sweater and long, sweeping khaki skirt. Today was the highly-awaited Madrid Nightingale show. Madrid was a new, up and coming, her paintings were fantasy-like, and adored by many. She had been trying to get into the gallery for months, and finally, she had managed a show. It was in the middle of the week, but after seeing some of the paintings, Rory had called a few friends. It seemed that half the art critics in New York would be appearing for the afternoon showing.

Inside, Mr. Campbell, the director, stood yelling orders. “Thank goodness you’re here, Rory!” he exclaimed. “Miss Nightingale’s plane is delayed in Pennsylvania. There’s been a blizzard! She doesn’t think she’ll make it for the first hour of the show! Whatever will we do?”

Rory’s mind clouded with a thousand choices. Sick? No. Delayed? No. Unable to attend? Absolutely not. Then a thought struck her. “Suspense,” Rory said. “Keep them wondering where she is. Mention that you were just speaking to her, only a moment ago. Turn around as if you’re looking for her. Damn, she vanished. Just one moment, I’ll track her down.” Mr. Campbell nodded.

Rory moved around the gallery, glancing left to right. The pictures were all placed well, set in the order in which Rory had arranged the day before. But, as she walked into the far room, she found four paintings wrapped up, leaning against a wall. “Jeannette!” She cried, turning toward the door. A young girl came running in, her hair disheveled, her eyes wild. “What are these?” Rory demanded, pointing.

“They arrived this morning,” Jeannette gasped out. “We had NO IDEA what to do with them!” Rory glared at the girl. “They weren’t on your diagram, Miss Deluca!”

“All right,” Rory said, her voice calm, though inside she was twisted in every direction. How dare this woman, whom they had bent over backwards for, send them last minute pictures! “Get Ethan and Dean in here, let’s open these up and see what we can do.”

Moments later, the pictures were resting against the back wall, and Ethan and Dean were unwrapping them unceremoniously. Rory had her back to them as she spoke with Jeanette, who was holding her diagram. Together, they rearranged enough wall space to accommodate the pictures. Jeannette fell silent, staring over Rory’s shoulder. “What is it, Jeannette?” Rory asked, glancing to where the girl was looking. Her heart began to hammer.

Staring back at her was the same amber hued eyes she’d seen for months. He stood in a field, long brown hair stripped back from his face. In the background was a white horse, with those same amber eyes. He was staring into her with such force that she trembled. Jeannette stood beside her, at loss for words. Rory’s eyes tore from the painting, and drifted to the one next to it. He stood now, with his back to them. He was tall, as tall as she remembered, and slender. Brown hair was plaited in a half-braid, down his back, to his shoulders. He had a bow and quiver slung across his shoulders, making an “X” on his white shirt. The next was him and a young girl, sitting beside a stream. He was showing her how to fashion a flute from a narrow stick. Her face was scrunched up in concentration, while his was soft and relaxed. But the final one made Rory’s heart thump so hard that her head began to ache. It was the clearing, amidst the trees. He stood opposite a woman. She had long, fiery red hair. The gown she wore billowed out behind her, and hair streamed in wisps around her like a halo. Rory’s knees went weak. On her right hand, she wore the ring that Rory had not removed from her finger since her mother had passed away ten years ago. Without warning, Rory’s eyes rolled back in her head, and she tumbled backwards.

She awoke on the couch in her office. Jeannette sat beside her, mopping her head with a damp cloth. “What?” Rory asked, her voice catching in her throat.

“You fainted,” Jeannette replied simply.

After a moment, Rory remembered what it was that made her faint. She felt light-headed again. He was in those paintings, as clearly as she had seen him standing before her just that morning. Only one person would be able to explain it. Madrid Nightingale.

“When is Miss Nightingale scheduled to arrive, at this point?” Rory questioned, feeling slightly woozy.

Jeanette checked her clipboard. “Two thirty,” she said, after a moment.

Rory glanced at her watch, only ten in the morning. “All right,” she said, sitting up. “Let’s finish this off. Make sure those pictures get put up right.” Jeannette nodded. And I don’t have to see them.

Three o’clock had rolled around by the time Madrid Nightingale appeared at the party. Critics were swarming all over, while collector’s recorded the titles of paintings they liked. The series of paintings that held Rory’s mystery man were the most asked after. Rory sent Jeannette to stand in the room, wishing to be as far from the paintings as possible. It felt as if he were staring at her.

So, by coincidence only, Rory was in the front hall when Miss Nightingale strode in the front doors. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a long braid that reached her waist. Sapphire eyes played against creamy white skin, and she was very willow-like, wispy, like a cloud. She stamped her feet against the cold, and turned to smile at Rory. “Miss Deluca,” she said, outstretching her hand. “I am Madrid Nightingale, it is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Hello, welcome to New York,” Rory said, trying to place the accent. It was unlike anything she’d ever heard before, most likely a dialect of a foreign country. “Listen, the paintings that you sent this morning, the last minute display,” Rory began.

But Madrid cut her off. “Of course!” she exclaimed, “The Lelandon Collection. It isn’t for sale, simply display. I trust you found a spot.” Rory nodded. “Wonderful! It’s my favorite!”

In a moment, Mr. Campbell joined them, making it impossible for Rory to ask her the inspiration for the paintings. “Miss Nightingale!” Mr. Campbell exclaimed, outstretching his hand to her. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you! I must say, this is quite an interesting show! Let me tell you, I haven’t seen such a turn out for a fantasy showing in almost ten years! Almost everyone wants abstract nowadays.” Madrid nodded, still staring at Rory. “Come along, I’d love to introduce you to every one,” Mr. Campbell said, taking her arm. Only as he led her down the hallway did Madrid finally pull her gaze from Rory’s features. Rory stared after them until they vanished around the corner, then she sank into a chair.

The day wore on as Rory found critics and spoke to them, selling pictures, and selling Madrid. One critic after another asked questions, and one collector after another paid enormous amounts for beautiful fantasy paintings. But the Lelandon Collection was the highest bid upon, and no matter the amount, Madrid never accepted it.

Finally, Rory was standing alone in the rear room, one of the only times in the day when the room was empty. “Intriguing, isn’t he?” a soft, sultry voice said from behind her. Madrid Nightingale stepped up beside her, bringing with her the soft scent of jasmine.

“Where did the idea come from?” Rory asked, her eyes locked on the ring in the painting.

Madrid stepped closer to the wall, and flicked her gaze to Rory. “Miss Deluca,” she said, so softly that Rory had to strain to hear, “Lelandon Night-Sky is not an idea… He is destiny. Yours, to be exact…”

“Beg your pardon?” Rory asked, turning to stare at her.

“Lelandon Night-Sky is your destiny, as was it mine to come here, and meet you,” Madrid whispered. She turned and stared back, piercing Rory with eyes that glowed of stars and novas. “I came here to bring you back with me.”

“Back?” Rory asked, her voice nothing but a whisper.

“To Laria.”

The world seemed surreal as Rory sank into the chair in her office. Madrid Nightingale sat across the way, her slender form limp in the chair. “Explain to me how I am to believe that you’re not crazy?” Rory asked, steepling her fingers, and leaned back in her chair.

“I can’t just say that I’m not crazy. You have to come with me. You have to come see Laria,” Madrid said, softly. “I was sent here for that exact reason.”

Rory rose to her feet, and slammed her hands down on her desk. “Get out!” she cried, her eyes flashing. Madrid didn’t move. “GET OUT OF MY OFFICE!” Rory screeched, pointing wildly out the door. “Never come back here again!” Without a word. Madrid rose to her feet and walked out of the room.

Her fire red hair whipped at her face, sticking to her lips and floating lazily around her eyes. Wind pushed the gown against her body, forcing her backwards. She fought to turn, needing to see him. There he was, standing only feet away, much closer then any other time. He reached out a hand to her. “Come to me, Aurora,” he said.

The sound of his voice shocked her beyond comprehension. She stood, staring at him, her mouth open.  “Are you real?” she asked, her voice strangely distant.

“Come to me, Aurora,” he whispered once more, his hand slipping into hers.

“Lelandon,” she sighed, watching his eyes. His grip tightened on hers for a second, then he was gone, and she was awake in her empty bed. It took her a moment to realize what woke her. The phone was ringing. “Hello?” she asked, her voice cracking with sleep.

“Miss Deluca?” a soft voice said.

“Jeannette?” Rory said, sitting bolt upright. “What’s wrong?”

“I am working late, Miss Deluca…” Jeannette whimpered. “I went downstairs to get something I left at the front desk, and…” She trailed off.

“What is it, Jeannette!” Rory exclaimed, slamming her fist into the bed. It wasn’t as great as she’d hoped.

Jeanette gulped audibly on the other end of the phone. “The picture… It changed…”

Heart racing, Rory threw the blankets from her. “I’ll be right there!” she said, and dropped the phone without hanging it up.

Rory pulled blue jeans up around her slim waist and tugged on her cashmere sweater. Boots made no sound on the frozen sidewalks as she ran down the empty pavement of New York at two in the morning.

Jeannette was sitting on the floor by the front desk when Rory came flying through the front doors. The girl had her head in her hands, and she was sobbing. “Jeannette,” Rory said, sliding down on her knees, and wrapping her arms around the girl. “What happened?”

Jeannette lifted one shaking hand, and pointed down the hallway, toward the stairs, and the room that held the Lelandon Collection. Slowly, Rory rose to her feet, and moved down the hall. Every step made her heart race, and she wanted to turn tail and run. But she managed to get into the room, only to fall to her knees as blood rushed to her feet. “Oh, god,” she cried out.

The picture in which she had been standing opposite Lelandon had changed. She had turned away from, much as she had in her dream, and now she had a profile shot of herself. Lelandon’s hand was out stretched, and his eyes filled with the passion she had heard in her dream. Farther down the hall, Jeannette started to sob again.

Rory turned around on her knees, and steadied herself with the wall. With more calm then she actually felt, she strolled down the long hallway and picked up the phone. “Yes, I need to be connected to Madrid Nightingale’s room immediately. Yes, I know what time it is. No, I don’t give a damn if it is the Ritz, connect me!” Jeannette glanced up at her, Rory smiled half-heartedly. “Hello, Miss Nightingale. This is Aurora Deluca, from the gallery. Yes, I would appreciate it if you would join us here immediately. Yes, it’s the Lelandon Collection. Thank you.”

Madrid Nightingale stepped within the foyer of the gallery, unsure if she was ready to approach Aurora Deluca. She had come to prepare the girl for her travels, through she was supposed to maintain a distance from her in general. It was not her place to explain Lelandon, or the Shadow-Gate. Yet, she had no choice at this point. Rory had come to far to ignore. This was the final moment.

Rory stood by the desk, beside her was the girl, Jeannette, still shaking. Oddly, Rory seemed indifferent to the situation. Perhaps she thought it could all be explained away, she seemed a practical girl. She couldn’t be more wrong. There was nothing practical about the explanation that Madrid would give her. Aurora Deluca’s life would never be the same.

“Listen,” Rory began, “I don’t know what kind of game it is that you’re playing. But scaring my assistant half out of her mind isn’t funny!”

Madrid shook her head. “Time has stopped. Your majesty, it is time to take up the sword,” the girl whispered, waving her hand in the direction of the glass doors. Outside, the snow stopped falling, just froze in mid-air. Beside her, Jeannette stopped crying, and became completely still.

Aurora gasped, and backed away. “What is this?” she demanded. “Am I dreaming?”

Slowly, Madrid shook her head. “No, majesty. It is time to accept you destiny.” Rory stared at her. “Twenty five mortal years ago, you were sent to this realm, to age as a mortal. For now, we need you, fully grown, with your magic manifested. You are not an orphan, majesty. And Lelandon awaits you.”

“No,” Rory said, stumbling backwards. “Back off, or I’ll call the police.”

“Don’t you understand?” Madrid asked, her voice soft. “Time has stopped. It is waiting for you.” The girl reached out a hand, offering it to Rory. Slowly, without understanding quite why, Rory brushed her palm against Madrid’s.

The world was sucked from beneath her feet, and she felt herself spiraling around in a multi-colored vortex. She spun head over heels, unable to stop it. Then, as she felt her body being ripped apart, she landed harshly on the firm ground of the forest. “What the hell?” she said, sitting up.

Feet from her, Madrid lay, flat on her back. But from behind her spoke a voice. “The Shadow-Gate.” It was a deeply masculine voice, that chilled Rory to the bone.

She turned to look behind her, as Madrid sat up. He stood behind her, his brown hair plaited down his back, a bow and quiver marking his chest, and those piercing amber eyes that bore through her. “Lelandon,” Rory whispered, her voice catching in her throat. The young man nodded and offered his hand.