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Ari & Milo
Ari & Milo
Dearest Lady Ariella Edwards,
I trust this letter finds you recovering well after your evening in that wretched place. It is with no small amount of amusement that I recall your charming declaration that my artistic eye is, shall we say, “rather awful.” How boldly you cut me down, and yet, with such exquisitely untamed grace...how could I possibly be offended?
But, my dear, I wonder... Have you truly glimpsed the depth of what I create? A single glance at a lone painting is akin to tasting the first drop of wine before it’s had time to bloom upon your tongue. And though I will concede that the grotesque and immature subject of my recent portrait might have left much to be desired, I must ask...did I not capture every ounce of his delusion with uncanny precision? Was it not a masterpiece in its own right, for no other reason than the audacity it required?
I would be remiss if I didn’t offer you the opportunity to see more. The gallery holds so many secrets...each piece a layer, each layer a revelation. There’s a reason art is meant to be experienced in full, under the soft glow of candlelight, with shadows shifting like whispers on the canvas. You may find that something stirs in you yet...something deeper, more visceral...if only you let yourself be drawn into my world. After all, the greatest works of art are those that provoke, that linger long after you’ve turned away.
Of course, should your opinion remain unchanged, I’ll bear the brunt of your critique once more. However, call it a hunch…or perhaps even arrogance, but I am certain that won’t be the case. Furthermore, the punishment that has been cast upon you will be far more pleasurable for us both, should we take the time to truly get to know one another.
There’s so much I could show you, far beyond the confines of any portrait. I trust you’ll follow your curiosity and let it lead you to my door. After all, the only way to know the truth of my art...and of me...is to immerse yourself in all that I have to offer.
Yours, awaiting with great anticipation,
Mr. Sunshine
Milo St. Claire
I trust this letter finds you recovering well after your evening in that wretched place. It is with no small amount of amusement that I recall your charming declaration that my artistic eye is, shall we say, “rather awful.” How boldly you cut me down, and yet, with such exquisitely untamed grace...how could I possibly be offended?
But, my dear, I wonder... Have you truly glimpsed the depth of what I create? A single glance at a lone painting is akin to tasting the first drop of wine before it’s had time to bloom upon your tongue. And though I will concede that the grotesque and immature subject of my recent portrait might have left much to be desired, I must ask...did I not capture every ounce of his delusion with uncanny precision? Was it not a masterpiece in its own right, for no other reason than the audacity it required?
I would be remiss if I didn’t offer you the opportunity to see more. The gallery holds so many secrets...each piece a layer, each layer a revelation. There’s a reason art is meant to be experienced in full, under the soft glow of candlelight, with shadows shifting like whispers on the canvas. You may find that something stirs in you yet...something deeper, more visceral...if only you let yourself be drawn into my world. After all, the greatest works of art are those that provoke, that linger long after you’ve turned away.
Of course, should your opinion remain unchanged, I’ll bear the brunt of your critique once more. However, call it a hunch…or perhaps even arrogance, but I am certain that won’t be the case. Furthermore, the punishment that has been cast upon you will be far more pleasurable for us both, should we take the time to truly get to know one another.
There’s so much I could show you, far beyond the confines of any portrait. I trust you’ll follow your curiosity and let it lead you to my door. After all, the only way to know the truth of my art...and of me...is to immerse yourself in all that I have to offer.
Yours, awaiting with great anticipation,
Mr. Sunshine
Milo St. Claire
Ari set the letter down on her lap, her fingers idly tracing the edges as she mulled over her predicament. Was it worse to endure the dungeons again or sit through the agonizing stillness of being painted? She wasn’t sure, but the answer was becoming clear—this was far worse. Sitting for hours, under the scrutinizing gaze of an artist —it was almost unbearable.
The thought of the king’s portrait made her bristle. It was arrogant of anyone to think she might like what he painted. But the king's face stirred something deep within her, an unsettling mix of emotions. Still, she felt a pang of guilt for having defaced the work. Whatever her feelings about the king, it had probably taken the artist ages to complete.
Standing up, Ari’s bare toes curled into the dirt of her sanctuary, grounding her in a place that felt far more real than the painted halls of the palace. It had been too long since she had returned here. After the disaster of Drake's birthday party, especially with her mother’s sharp tongue, home was the last place she wanted to be. She needed to be in *her* home—the sanctuary she had built among the ruins.
The once-empty space was now a haven of intentional clutter. Flowers and leaves adorned the walls with delicate care, some hanging to dry, others placed purely for the joy of seeing them there. Tiny skulls and bones, remnants of animals, had been fashioned into charms that hung like talismans of protection. Her books were scattered everywhere, pages half-turned, notes and sketches drawn hurriedly in the margins—evidence of her restless mind.
With a sigh, Ari left her cove, feeling the weight of what was to come. She moved with purpose, but inside, all she could think was how desperately she wished she didn’t have to face this.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Ariella has spent most of the morning attempting to Locate his gallery. She didn’t even bother going home to clean up her appearance. Her dirty feet, grass-stained, mud-stained dress, and messy hair with random strands of grass stuck within two braids that hung down her shoulders. By all accounts, she looked poorly but for Ari, she was by far her at her happiest.
She reached the gallery door “ Milo St.Claire” gold plated on the door. She let out a sigh before pushing open the door.
Stepping inside she looked around, unable to see a single soul.
Hello? she called out.
As Ariella pushed open the door to the Sorian Gallery of Fine Arts, the quiet sound of her entrance echoed through the vast, elegant space. The gallery was an embodiment of opulence... marble floors polished to a mirror shine, soft lighting illuminating the intricate details of paintings lining the walls, and sculptures artfully placed to draw the eye. Each piece seemed carefully curated to create an atmosphere of refinement and prestige; this was a place where the finest art could truly be appreciated. The air smelled faintly of polished wood and lavender, a subtle but unmistakable mark of sophistication.
A few patrons wandered through the main hall, their hushed voices melding into the sound of footsteps against the floor. Despite the serenity, there was an undercurrent of business and formality, where even the faintest out-of-place detail could disrupt the gallery’s carefully maintained aesthetic.
To say that Ariella’s presence disrupted that very aesthetic would be the understatement of the century.
She looked nothing like the other patrons... dressed in mud-stained clothes, her feet bare and dirtied, with strands of grass clinging to her wild hair. Her braids swung loosely as she stood there in the entryway.
From the other side of the room, a sharply dressed woman in her late thirties noticed Ari immediately. Ms. Ingrid Hollis, the gallery’s lead receptionist, was an embodiment of order and propriety. Dressed in a crisp gray blazer with a matching skirt, her expression instantly soured as she took in Ari’s disheveled appearance.
Her heels clicked sharply against the marble as she made her way toward Ariella, an air of passive aggression practically radiating off of her. She forced a tight-lipped smile as she approached, her tone dripping with condescension. Excuse me, miss, but I believe you may have taken a wrong turn. This is The Sorian Gallery of Fine Arts, not the local market. She looked pointedly at Ari's bare feet. We do have certain... standards here.
Ingrid folded her arms and let her eyes drift over Ari, making no attempt to hide her distaste. Perhaps you’d like directions to a place more suited to your, ah, current condition?
Ariella's eyes looked down at her feet then back up, ready to snap back at the rather rude woman. But before Ari could respond, a smooth voice cut through the tension.
Ms. Hollis, I believe there’s been a misunderstanding, said Mr. Duval, a tall man with slicked-back, curly hair and a carefully maintained beard. He appeared behind Ingrid, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit with an air of effortless charm. Mr. Duval was Milo’s personal assistant and public relations representative...a man known for his ability to manage crises and navigate delicate social situations.
Ingrid stepped back, visibly confused by his intervention. “Mr. Duval, I...”
He held up a hand, silencing her with a firm smile. “This young woman is a special guest of Mr. St. Claire himself. There will be no further issue.” His eyes flicked to Ari with a warmth and understanding absent in Ingrid’s judgmental gaze.
Ingrid’s face blanched, and she instantly backtracked, her tone suddenly much softer. “I-I wasn’t aware. My apologies, miss.”
Mr. Duval dismissed Ingrid with a nod, turning his full attention to Ari. His voice dropped into a more conversational tone as if he were addressing a friend. “Miss Edwards, I presume? Mr. St. Claire has been expecting you.” He extended an arm toward the gallery’s inner halls. “Allow me to escort you to his lounge.”
Offering a large smile to Mr Hollis she took Mr Duval's arm with pleasure. “ Thank you, “ she said nodding to Mr Duval as they began walking through the Gallery. For added effect, Ari slapped her feet against the Marble floors as the sound echoed through the room. Leaving a muddied trail across the clean floors.
“ I didn’t expect the gallery to be so … expensive.” she added looking around at all its finery. Her mother would die knowing that she showed up to a place like this looking as she did.
Mr. Duval chuckled softly as Ariella took his arm, her enthusiasm brightening the air around them. He felt the weight of her playful mischief as she slapped her feet against the polished marble, the sound echoing like a heartbeat through the gallery. The muddied trail she left behind seemed to almost rebel against the pristine decor, a bold statement of individuality that was both charming and audacious.
“Ah, well, it seems we have a little avant-garde art of our own in the making,” he quipped, casting a sidelong glance at the trail. “Perhaps we’ll need to commission a piece entitled The Footprints of Disobedience for the gallery's next exhibit.” His tone remained light, a clear attempt to match her energy. Ariella held back a chuckle, biting her lip instead she smiled.
As they walked further into the gallery, Mr. Duval gestured to the various pieces displayed around them, each one a testament to the caliber of Milo's work. “I can assure you, Miss Edwards, that the gallery's charm isn’t merely in the price tag of its art. It’s the stories behind each piece that truly captivates. Mr. St. Claire has an unrivaled talent for capturing the essence of the human experience...much like your own journey here today.”
He paused for a moment, allowing her to take in the vibrant colors and intricate details of the paintings lining the walls, but continued after that brief moment.
As they approached a set of opulently intricate double doors, Mr. Duval’s demeanor shifted slightly, a hint of seriousness entering his tone. “If you’re ready…Mr. St. Claire has been looking forward to your arrival.”
With a graceful gesture, he pushed the doors open, revealing a comfortable lounge bathed in golden light, and adorned with plush furnishings and paintings stacked against the walls. Sunlight streamed in through tall windows, casting a warm glow that danced across the walls. At the center of it all, lounging comfortably with a glass of brandy on the rocks in hand, sat Milo St. Claire himself, a smile already spreading across his lips as he saw her enter.
"Lady Ariella Edwards," Milo greeted smoothly, rising from his seat. "I knew you'd come."
"An order from the king would encourage that," she muttered under her breath, her voice carrying just enough edge to cut through the silence. She stepped further into the room, her feet leaving a trail of dirt across the polished floor, each footprint a subtle act of defiance. Her gaze swept the room, taking in the richly upholstered chairs, the intricate details in the tapestries, and the quiet opulence that seemed to press in from every angle.
But then her attention drifted to the windows, where the world outside called to her with a pull that no amount of luxury could match. The sprawling countryside beyond the glass seemed to breathe with life, the distant fields and whispering trees alive in a way the enclosed grandeur of the room could never be. A small, wistful smile tugged at her lips. No beauty within four walls could ever compete with the freedom and raw allure of the open air.
"I'm here because of… a painting, was it? Something I'm supposed to sit for?" she asked, her voice laced with playful curiosity. Her hands swung back, fingers clasping around her arms as she rocked gently on her heels, adding a touch of endearing awkwardness to her otherwise poised stance. Her eyes sparkled with a mix of intrigue and amusement, her brow slightly furrowed as if the idea of sitting still for a portrait was entirely foreign.
Milo’s smile widened at Ariella's cutting remark, clearly relishing her defiance. He watched with keen interest as she glanced longingly at the world outside, her small smile not lost on him. There was a wildness to her, something unrestrained, that was as captivating as it was refreshing amidst the gallery’s orderly grandeur.
He took a leisurely sip of his brandy, his eyes never leaving her. "Oh, indeed," he said, his voice rich with amusement. "The king can be quite… persuasive when he wishes. But I assure you, my dear Ariella, this is no mere task assigned to you out of obligation… It is meant to be penitence, after all."
Rolling her eyes and letting out a sigh, Ariella gave him a smug smile. Setting his glass down with a soft clink, he moved forward, his steps measured and smooth, closing the distance between them with a casual ease. Milo’s presence seemed to fill the room; he had a way of making even the largest of spaces feel intimate, as if there were no one else in the world but the two of them. Giving her a once-over now that they stood so close, Milo smiled as he spoke.
"My name isn’t dear, it’s Ari," she quipped back. "Do you think I’d be here had you demanded anything? The king required me to be here. I would be much happier elsewhere, but I’d rather not spend another evening in the dungeon."
Her mood seemed to have shifted from the carefree demeanor she had earlier in the day. Something about Milo St. Claire seemed to bring that out of her. Crossing her arms, she added, "Do we have to do it in here?" she asked defiantly, watching as he continued to eye her. "Artists love the outdoors, no? Perhaps we could just find a nice field, and you can just paint while I…" She looked around the room. "Not be in here," she said, offering him another smile.
The artist’s smile softened, a hint of amusement flickering across his face as he studied her, taking in the shift in her demeanor with clear intrigue. His gaze lingered, dark and assessing, as he leaned back slightly. The intensity in his eyes shone through, though his perfected congeniality never faltered.
“Ari,” he repeated, the name slipping off his tongue like a promise. “So quick to forget we’re well past formalities. You did, in fact, vandalize a piece of art that would be worth millions on the market. A night in the dungeon and a free portrait are hardly severe punishments. Perhaps you just enjoy showing me you’re difficult to please.”
Crossing her arms, Ari squinted at him. “I am not hard to please. I’m rather easy to please.” She looked at him through the corner of her eye. “I just don’t like formalities, but if you're more comfortable with them, you may call me Lady Edwards. I also don’t agree that a canvas with some paint on it is worth more than my freedom, but I suppose that is where we disagree.”
He tilted his head, the dim, warm light casting shadows across his face as he seemed to consider her proposal. “The king may have brought you here, but don’t fool yourself,” he continued, his voice a deep murmur that somehow still held command. “You came to me. Your presence here… your stubborn, defiant presence… is no one’s decision but your own.” Her eyes drifted back to the large windows, counting the moments until she could leave.
A smirk touched his lips, and he stepped closer, closing that small distance again. “You want to be outside?” he mused, his voice calm, almost teasing. He let the suggestion hang there, a subtle challenge in his tone, before leaning just a bit closer, his gaze unwavering. “Besides, a field would be too… ordinary for you, wouldn’t it?” His eyes flickered with curiosity, as though seeing something intriguing in her just beneath the surface. Ari glanced back at him as she noted his intense look at her.
“How about this, Lady Edwards… Pick your most beloved place in all of Sorian, in town or out in the wilds, it matters not. Wherever you decide, I’ll paint you there.”
She couldn’t invite him to her secret spot—that was her favorite place—but there was a close second. “Lovers Lake,” she said without hesitation. “It’s one of my favorite places—the lake, the colors, the smell… everything. It’s beautiful.” She smiled at him. “Thank you…” she said softly, appearing to relax.
“So… does that mean you’ll be painting it today? I don’t know the artistic process, if I’m honest.”
Milo's gaze lingered on her as she described the lake, her voice softening with the memory of it, a spark of genuine fondness breaking through her defiant edge. He allowed a small smile, amused by the unexpected glimpse into her softer side. But, as her question lingered in the air, he tilted his head, letting the moment stretch a bit before answering.
“Unfortunately, Lady Edwards,” he began, his voice low, a trace of regret woven in, “the gallery’s launch in a couple of days leaves me with little freedom at the moment. My time, it seems, is bound to too many demands. But…” he let his words hang, leaning in a bit closer, “I’m sure we can arrange a way to meet again. After all, how else am I to capture the essence of the elusive Ariella Edwards if I’m not to exist in her aura for a time?”
Ari perked up “A launch? Oh! I’m sorry when I got your letter I assumed … I’m sorry.” she paused looking down at her feet “Oh…That explains that lady in the lobby.” she laughed nervously. “What about sketches though? I figured this painting would have been an afternoon thing.”
He brushed off her comment about sketches with an amused, almost dismissive wave. “Sketches? I’m flattered by your concern, but I’m afraid I’ve moved far beyond such basics. When the time comes, I won’t need sketches to see you...just the brilliance of my eye and the mastery of my hands. You’ll simply have to trust my expertise.” A soft challenge entered his eyes. “And if trust doesn’t come easily, well…Perhaps I can find ways of earning it.”
He held her gaze, his expression playful yet intense, letting the words settle before adding, “Until we can escape to the lake, perhaps we can take advantage of a few moments here and there, getting to know each other. I imagine, in that time, you may find me far less a tyrant than you think.” His smile returned, a touch wicked. “Or perhaps more of one.”
Ari hummed thoughtfully, rocking back and forth on her heels with a mischievous glint in her eye. She cast a sideways glance at him, feigning casualness before fully turning her attention his way. "If you consider yourself a tyrant," she teased, her lips curling into a playful grin, “you clearly haven’t met my mother. She's a whole different league."
Her smile softened, warm and inviting. "You know," she continued, "I imagine sitting for a portrait wouldn’t feel half as daunting if I were acquainted with the artist.” She let her gaze wander around the room, admiring the paintings on the walls with genuine curiosity. “One of the gentlemen gave me a little tour on my way here," she mused, before leaning forward with an almost conspiratorial smile. "But maybe you could give me a private one?"
She paused, giving him a look of mock defeat. "Of course, if you're too busy with the grand opening, I wouldn’t dream of imposing." Her voice carried a hint of wistfulness as if her request were just a whisper of a wish. "I could always return another time."
“Today,” he began, his voice softening with amusement as he studied her expression, “I may be the busiest man in the entire world.” He paused, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly with intrigue. “But don’t think for a moment I’d be too busy for you.”
With that, he extended his hand toward her, the invitation clear in his gaze. “Come along then, Lady Edwards.” His tone was teasing, but his offer carried a hint of intimacy, a thread of sincerity woven beneath the playful charm. “After all, it’s only fair you get to know the man behind the work if you’re to trust his talent. Consider this…a little prelude to the lake. Plus, given your thoughts on my kingly portrait…I simply can’t wait to hear your critique of the rest of my work.”
“Oh, the busiest man in the entire world?” she echoed, her tone rich with mock surprise. “Well, I’d hate to be the one to distract you from such important duties.” Her voice was teasing, but there was a glint of curiosity in her eyes.
Finally, she unfolded her arms and placed her hand in his, her fingers warm and light in his grasp. “But who am I to turn down an invitation from such a busy man?” Her smile softened, a hint of sincerity slipping through her playful tone.
“And don’t worry—I’ll be sure to give my critique, fair and honest as always. Just know that I’ll hold you to that promise of the lake. I may be a lot of things, but I’m certainly not one to forget a promise.” With that, she inclined her head, a mischievous twinkle in her eye as she allowed him to lead the way.
Milo’s fingers closed lightly over hers, his grip confident yet unhurried, as though there was all the time in the world despite the mountains of preparation yet to be done over the next few days before the launch. With a faint curve to his lips, he led her toward a specific section of the space, where the soft hum of conversation and footsteps between the workers and those who had found their way with early passes faded into the background.
He paused before a smaller doorway, stepping aside to let her enter first. “Prepare yourself, Lady Edwards,” he said, his voice low with a hint of playful warning, “for here lies the true heart of my work. I suspect it may surprise you.”
He glanced back at her, his smirk unmistakable, before removing the cover from a painting next to them. It was rather large, so much so that shadows seemed to crawl out from its very edges, wrapping around the figure barely visible at the center. “The Whisper,” he said, his voice quieter now, his hand resting lightly on the frame. “A personal favorite of mine. It’s not meant to be comfortable. Art, after all, isn’t always kind. Sometimes, it reminds us of what we’d rather not see.”
“What do you think, Little Miss Chaos? Too much darkness? Or perhaps…” His lips curled into a teasing smile. “…just enough?” Milo stepped back, studying the piece for a moment before glancing at her again.
Ariella tilted her head, her eyes narrowing slightly as she took in the painting. “Chaos suits me, doesn’t it?” she teased, her voice laced with playful defiance. “But this… it’s not just dark. It’s something else. Like it’s alive.” Her voice softened, a flicker of genuine admiration creeping in as her gaze lingered on the piece.
Milo moved suddenly, with purpose, toward another painting. With a fluid motion, he pulled the cover away, revealing a piece of art that seemed to pulsate with its own raw energy. It was a vast, sprawling canvas, dominated by shades of deep crimson and bruised purples. The scene was fragmented yet cohesive: a faceless figure emerging from a churning sea of hands, some grasping, others reaching, as though in desperation or prayer. The edges of the painting dissolved into shadow, giving the impression of something endless and consuming.
“I call this one The Weight of Wanting,” Milo murmured, stepping back so she could take it in. “Desire, hunger, need... It devours as much as it sustains. It’s beautiful in its tragedy, don’t you think?”
Ariella's breath hitched as she absorbed the painting's intensity. “It’s… haunting,” she admitted, her tone softer now, almost reverent. “But there’s something… painfully human about it. Like it’s holding up a mirror no one wants to look into.”
He didn’t wait for her response, instead moving to the next canvas. With a sharp tug, he unveiled a smaller but no less striking piece. This one was painted in stark black and bone white, depicting a skeletal tree growing out of a pile of crumbling masks. From its branches hung fragments of broken mirrors, each reflecting distorted, mournful faces.
“Truth’s Bloom,” he explained, his tone quieter now. “It grows from the lies we tell ourselves, feeding on what we try to bury. But the truth always finds a way to emerge. Sometimes it’s ugly. Sometimes it’s... unforgiving.” His eyes lingered on the piece for a long moment before flicking back to her.
Ariella’s gaze was fixed on the painting, her expression unreadable. “The masks… they’re us, aren’t they?” she said softly, almost as if to herself. “We wear them, thinking they’ll protect us. But in the end, they just crumble.” She turned to him, her eyes meeting his. “It’s raw. Honest. And, yes, unforgiving.”
Milo moved to the next painting, his hand brushing the fabric of its cover as he paused. “This one…” His voice dropped, carrying a weight that hadn’t been there before. “This one is closer to me than most.” He pulled the cover away with slow precision, revealing a hauntingly intimate work.
A single figure sat alone in a cavernous, empty room. The walls loomed with shadows that seemed to shift and crawl, swallowing the light that trickled through a cracked window. The figure’s face was turned away, but their posture spoke of crushing grief, of a burden too heavy to bear. Around their feet lay scattered items... a broken violin, a wilted rose, a small, tattered book... each rendered with exquisite, painful detail.
“Elegy for the Living,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s about those we lose, yes, but also the parts of ourselves that die along with them.” He glanced at her, his stormy hazel eyes searching hers. “Do you see it, Lady Edwards? The beauty in the breaking? The truth in the ache?”
The room felt heavier now, as if the paintings themselves had filled it with their collective sorrow, longing, and fragile hope. Milo stepped closer to her, his expression unreadable. “Each of these,” he said, his voice low, “is a piece of my soul. The side of me that doesn’t bow to kings, smile to the masses, or entertain salons. It’s raw, and it’s uncomfortable, and it’s real. But isn’t that what art is meant to be?”
Ariella tilted her head, her vibrant red hair catching the light as she studied The Whisper, her green eyes narrowing with a mixture of curiosity and something softer. She stepped closer, standing on her tiptoes to get a better look, as though the height might offer her some secret insight. Her fingers twitched at her sides, wanting to trace the shadows on the canvas but knowing better than to touch.
“Darkness isn’t always a bad thing,” she murmured, her voice unusually quiet. “Sometimes it just… feels honest. Like this.” She glanced at Milo out of the corner of her eye, trying to suppress the hint of awe tugging at her expression. “It’s… different. Portraits show faces, sure, but this shows something. Something I can’t quite name.”
When he unveiled The Weight of Wanting, Milo watched her closely, a faint smirk playing on his lips as her breath hitched and she leaned in again, her arms crossing loosely over her chest.
“It’s a lot,” she admitted after a pause, her tone laced with reluctant admiration. “Not too much, though. It makes you feel, and that’s… unexpected.” She wrinkled her nose, trying to mask her intrigue with indifference. “It’s not like those grand, dull paintings of kings that just sit there looking smug.”
As Milo moved to the next piece, Truth’s Bloom, he noted her reaction with quiet satisfaction. She tilted her head again, her hair brushing against her cheek, and frowned—not with displeasure but with thoughtfulness—as her eyes flitted over the skeletal tree and the shattered reflections.
“It’s haunting,” she said softly, standing back on her heels for a moment before rising again onto her toes, as if trying to see more of the hidden faces in the broken mirrors. “Like it knows something we don’t.” She hesitated, glancing at him. “Why do you hide these?” she asked, her voice betraying her genuine curiosity.
“They’re not like anything else I’ve seen, Milo. They… make you look twice. Portraits don’t do that.”
When the last cover was removed, revealing Elegy for the Living, Ariella stilled completely. She didn’t step forward this time, instead hugging her elbows as she gazed at the figure in the painting. Her throat tightened, and she pressed her lips together, determined not to let the ache it stirred show on her face.
“It’s lonely,” she finally said, her voice barely above a whisper. “And heavy. Like the kind of sadness you carry because you don’t know how to put it down.” She paused, her gaze flickering to the broken violin. “It’s beautiful, though. In a way that hurts.”
She looked at him then, really looked, her eyes searching his face for answers. “Why would you want to hide these parts of yourself?” she asked, her tone soft but insistent. “You say they’re uncomfortable, but they’re… alive. These aren’t just paintings—they feel something. They make you feel something.” Her cheeks flushed as she realized how earnest she sounded, and she quickly added, “Not that I’m saying I like them, of course. Just… that they’re not what I expected.”
Ariella stepped back, her arms still crossed, though her expression softened as she glanced at the paintings again. “You’re right, though,” she said quietly. “Art isn’t supposed to bow or smile. It’s supposed to leave something behind. And this…” She gestured to the room, her voice trailing off. “…it does that.”
Milo tilted his head slightly, as though considering her words. His hazel eyes gleamed with a flicker of something unreadable…mischief, perhaps, or maybe satisfaction. He took a measured step closer, the soft rustle of his silk shirt filling the pause between them.
“Hiding them?” he echoed, his tone low, carrying the weight of his amusement. “Oh, Lady Edwards, far from it. These”...he gestured to the haunting collection around them... “are about to be laid bare for the world to see. Every shadow, every fractured reflection, every ache I’ve poured onto these canvases will be spread before Sorian’s prying, judgmental eyes.”
His hand grazed the edge of Elegy for the Living, his touch deliberate but reverent. “But now that you’ve seen them first,” he murmured, his voice softening, “I can’t help but feel as though this moment belongs to us alone. A secret, just for you and me, before the masses try to make sense of it all...or worse, twist it into something it’s not.”
Milo’s eyes lingered on her, sharp and searching, as though he was committing her expression to memory. Then, his lips curved again, this time into something warmer, less guarded. “Let Sorian see them,” he continued, his voice more than resolute. “Let them try to wrap their minds around the weight and the shadows. But whatever they take from these pieces, it won’t compare to this...to witnessing you standing here, raw and unfiltered, letting them truly and wholly wash over you.”
Ari's gaze admired the paintings, her eyes tracing the intricate details as though unable to tear herself away. The intensity of her focus was palpable, as if each brushstroke held some unspoken truth. A soft chuckle escaped her lips, a fleeting sound that danced through the quiet room, followed by a smile that curved playfully across her face. But then, something shifted—like a cloud passing over the sun. The smile faltered, fading into a quiet sorrow as a thought seemed to settle in her mind. Her eyes, bright and full of life only moments before, clouded with realization.
"Sorian doesn’t like the strange and unusual," she murmured, her voice tinged with a mix of resignation and quiet bitterness. "They much rather you wear shoes and curtsy to every demand." Her shoulders, once poised with an air of casual confidence, sagged in defeat, as if the weight of her words had taken their toll. "It’s a shame that these will likely be scrutinized…."
Her eyes shifted from the paintings to their creator, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them before she spoke again, her tone softer now. "I like the strange and unusual though," she added, a spark of warmth returning to her gaze as it once again found its way to the artwork before her. The smile that bloomed on her lips this time was genuine, albeit tinged with a bittersweet fondness. "You paint portraits and landscapes, but I think these are the most honest I’ve seen."
A soft sigh escaped her, as though she had been holding her breath for far too long. Slowly, she took a step back, her body relaxing as she clasped her hands in front of her, the motion almost meditative. "At first, I thought you might paint me like you did the portrait of the king," she said, her voice trailing off with a touch of uncertainty. "But now… I hope you do something like this."
