The Enchanted Portrait - Part Two (Closed)

Introduction:

The portrait hangs on the wall. It could be any style, any age and any size.
Canvas and oil, water colour or sketch, photographic reality or fantastical, all is possible for The Enchanted Portrait.
Yet it is SHE who is the one definitive factor.
The woman who stares out at you.
For years she may go unnoticed, or perhaps just months, or weeks …
Yet it is your attention … your fantasies … your desires that will bring her to life … ​

The portrait was just that … a portrait.

At some time in the distant past she had undergone an artist's scrutiny. The image captured had been a true likeness, one which had delighted those around her during her life time and which thereafter had been a comfort, a treasured memory of one dead and gone.

And so the years passed and the portrait no longer held any association or meaning with those living.
The image had become detached from she who had first inspired the creation.
Indeed, the only life within that frame was in the brief questioning glances of those whose hands she passed through over the years.

And yet despite their wondering, their brief imaginings, they did not understand the potential that lay beneath.
To them she merited no interest beyond a fleeting glance.
And so she soon became invisible, discarded … lost …

“Two two hundred seventy five, do I hear three? Three hundred dollars, for this original work...going once. Twice. Three hundred? Sold at two hundred seventy five dollars to number 22 in the back.”

Auctions were boring, but great opportunities to get stuff cheap. Especially estate sales like this. He managed to get a few bits of art, but this place never had a great collection. He never even intended to bid on the one he'd just won for a mere $270, but for some reason couldn't take his eyes off the woman in the painting. He thought maybe he'd seen the work in a book somewhere and maybe it was a lost masterpiece.

He took it all back to his office and had it all packaged up, and put away carefully. He'd fix up the frames, and find buyers for it all starting on Monday. Now it was time to actually enjoy his Friday night. A few drinks, maybe flirt with the girls at the bar...he was due.

Letting that vision dance in his head as he dutifully sat down to his computer and began several searches on the mysterious woman in the one painting he couldn't bring himself to put away. Instead that one was unwrapped and set in the couch that seldom entertained clients; everything was done over the phone or Internet now a days. She seemed to star at him from that couch, daring him to find an answer. She looked regal, but could find no date or artist marking the painting at all. She was a mystery, and her almost smile, barely seen at the corner of her mouth mocked those to tried to uncover her secrets.

He fell asleep at his computer, awaking only due to a pain in his neck from hanging his head for so long. But as he rubbed the stiffness fro his muscles he took not of another stiffness; one below his belt. He remembered dreaming of the girl in the picture, as she danced and teased the boys in some forgotten courtly dance. He'd watched her as she pretended not to notice how their eyes, his eyes, lingered on her every movement. He had dreamt of her in a garden too, high walls providing privacy, as she teased him, offering him a peak of her flesh, then darting off around a corner; loving the chase.

He shook his head to clear it, ashamed that he was having such thoughts about a painting. But his imagination refused to let go entirely, and he swore her smile was just a little more evident now. Locked everything up and shut off the computer, but couldn't leave the painting, so brought it home and set it against the wall. More research, over the weekend, was how he told himself, as to why she now could stare at him in his own home.

The auction: It was at the auction that it started.
As usual there were the usual glances, assessing the brush strokes, the artist's signature, the frame, everything except the actual image within.
But that had not been so with him.
Of course he had assessed the work as a whole, but time and again, his eyes had been drawn to that face, the gaze so intent that she knew.
At last, he was the one, the one she would pick and who would pick her.

From then on the outcome of the bidding was a formality.
That connection had been made and it was never a possibility that she would remain packaged up with the other artwork, never a chance that she would be sold on to another buyer.

She stared at him from her vantage point on the couch.
Time and again his gaze drifted back towards her.
It was as it had always been.
He never had been able to resist her.
From the very first time he set eyes on her, she had known … and had abused that fact shamefully.
The smile deepened, a fact that did not seem to go unmissed by the earnest looking young man who paused and looked across the room in her direction once more.

"Enigma" had been the "unofficial" title of the portrait: The only record being in family diaries: so called because of the questions raised by that barely withheld smile, and perhaps because she had proved so illusive for so long. Secure in the knowledge of his devotion, Gabriella had made sure that her attentions and favours were not easily given and made her suitor work for her hand; a chase they had both enjoyed and that had made their unionall the more sweet.

But she could not tell him this.
This time round it was she who had to await his summons,
she who would rely on his need to make her reality possible.
Instead, she had to content herself in entering his dreams, giving him a glimpse of what they had shared a life time ago.

For a crucial moment, she thought she had failed.
Systematically he had moved around the room, until all was darkness.
She was to be left alone again, discarded, she was sure.
And then he had returned.

The portrait had been taken up and carried carefully.

And so it was that she found herself brought to his home...

He could concentrate on nothing else, and even thought he might be going a little crazy; but the girl in the painting had taken over his mind. Everywhere he went he looked for a hint as to where he'd seen her before. Nothing came to him, but he started seeing her, just out of the corner of his eye as if she was following him. He'd turn and she was gone, but he felt her watching.

“You're going insane Bradly,” He told himself, but that did little good. “Look, you're even talking to yourself now.” Somehow the joke wasn't all that funny.

When he returned home, there she was, still sitting, smirking at him. He'd exhausted all the art books at the library, and all the places he knew too look online. He decided that the painting of the mysterious woman was something a talented but unknown artist had done, of a woman that plagued him as much as the painting did to it's current owner now. Somehow thinking that she had been real, and tormented some poor guy in the past made him feel better.

Brad mixed himself a dry martini, a rarity for him, and sat down to stare back at his captor. She continued to haunt his world, just glimpse of her at the corner of his vision, but the painting itself stared off smiling as ever before. “Here's to you, who ever you are.” He raised his glass to toast the painting, then took a swig.

Soon, he was drifting off again, tired from his running and searching. The empty martini glass was left on the coffee table after the second round he'd made. He was in a deep, uninhibited sleep, where dreams of catching the girl who loved being chased played out in his mind. The dreams always changed just before getting to anything really, really good, but he found that kissing this woman, who's lips held that mocking smile, was a heaven in itself; at least in his dreams.

He had no idea how long he'd been out, but only that his obsession had gotten worse, not better. He didn't even want to open his eyes and see the beauty stare at him again, not yet. But she was there if he slept too....there was no hiding.

Stronger and stronger, the link between them grew. Every look, every thought he spent on her conjured her nearer to him. Silently she watched, aching to relieve his torment, to wrap her arms around his shoulders and soothe him, yet the ability to make that physical connection evaded her.

“Here's to you, who ever you are.”

She had been so close, to being able to respond to him, yet even as he had spoken directly to her, he had turned away. He had no expectation that she might respond to him and shut down the energy that so nearly brought them together, still convinced that he was "insane".

She had to convince him; she had to tell him what it was that he sought in books. On and on he read, yet she knew he would find no record of the painting in academic tomes and this man was, she could tell an academic, one used to reason, to research and proof of what was and it was that very quality that kept the barrier between them.

Only in sleep could Gabriella break through. In sleep he allowed his imagination, his fancy to run free. And so she gave him glimpses of the past, the merest hint of what might be in the future ... ensuring that she cast out lures to his imagination, to his senses in the hope that he might over-ride that quest for mere fact. Even as he began to wake, she could feel the weakening of that connection as he struggled into consciousness and yet it held. She smiled. He was trying to hold onto the illusions of his sleep. She could feel his reluctance to give up on the reality of mere emotion.

…. Gabriella ….

She spoke her name into his mind.


…. Gabriella ….

The whisper repeated in an attempt to imprint that knowledge within him.

His eyes fluttered dazedly open. For mere seconds their eyes met and held.

…. Gabriella ….

She willed him to recall the name, the sight of her, before he finally blinked awake.

He woke, much to his dismay, and stumbled to the bathroom to take care of morning necessities. A name hung in his head, and on the tip of his tongue. This seemed strange, that without anyone to talk to, or even a point of reference, he wanted to say the name.

“Gabriella...”

A shiver went up his spine, and his eyes went wide. As the name left his lips the image of a girl, the same in the painting, sprung into his mind. He finished up his business, and beat his head against the wall. “You're fucking loosing it man...”

He could think of nothing but the girl, whom his obsession had given a name, or his deteriorating mental state all through his breakfast of English muffins, lightly toasted, with peanut butter. A child hood favorite. Today he took his coffee black, and made extra strong in an attempt to shock his brain into operating properly.

And yet all he came up with was more retarded ideas. “Maybe the painting is haunted...?” If only he believed in ghosts, that might be a lot easier.

He sat down to his computer and let out a sigh. He wanted to start his search again, but figured he was all wrong about the whole thing. He'd never seen the painting before, and he'd never find out anything about it. It was just going to sit there and mock him as he went insane.

At 10 A.M. Brad poured himself a glass scotch, and sat down to stare at his tormentor. “You're driving me crazy you know. Is that the plan? Why can't I get you out of my head?!” He yelled at the painting.

“Gabriella, the silent mistress of my doom...” Not as polite a toast as the last he had given her, but he took a long drink from his glass anyway.

She had thought her efforts in vain.
She watched as he stumbled out of the room, reason forcing him to push aside the name that surely echoed through his consciousness.
Denial … that was the only emotion she felt from him … denial of what he had felt, what he had heard …

And so it went … every distraction he could find he took refuge in: food … drink … the books that he allowed himself to become absorbed in once more until finally he reached for a drink and rose in exasperation.

“You're driving me crazy you know. Is that the plan? Why can't I get you out of my head?!”

Her eyes locked with his, but frustration, anger kept the barrier between them.

“Gabriella, the silent mistress of my doom...”

The glass was raised towards her a parody of past toasts with another so long ago.
The memory was torturous, the effort of trying to reach out to him had left her emotions raw. Even as he took a drink from his glass, she smiled sadly, those enigmatic eyes wistful, their sadness almost palpable as they welled and brimmed … slow tears trailing silently down those previously flawless cheeks.

The scotch did little to relieve his stress. He just stared dumbly at the painting, wanting something, anything really, to just happen. For him to finally crack, and become completely insane, leaving off the last strands of sanity that tormented him, or for the painting to just catch fire and leave him finally.

He swallowed the rest of the amber fluid in a gulp, and rose from his seat, slowly stalking the bit of art that had firmly captured his mind. He knew he was nuts, as he paced back and forth in front of it. Finally he slumped down, falling to his knees, and grabbed the frame in his hands, almost yelling at the mysterious woman, Gabriella, “What do you want from me?!”

His head bowed to rest on the top of the frame, as he gave up, just wanting his torment over with; as if some swirls of paint from untold years ago could provide him any comfort, as it had provided so much doubt and strain. His eyes closed, breathing deeply, praying that all would be well again, and he'd just be a silly man holding a painting when he opened his eyes again.

Both stared at each other, yet did not see.
She trapped within the canvas and he wrapped in his own stress and fear of insanity.
Years and worlds apart, yet united in misery in need.

“What do you want from me?!”

His words were anger, frustration, sentiments Gabriella echoed and wished she could express, yet her prison was mute.
Defeat hung in the air as he dropped to his knees, his hands still grasping the frame as if it were a lifeline.

The touch was light … so light he might have missed it.
Then again … the hand ran through his hair … tentative … exploring.
It was a dream … a past memory … it had to be some explanation and yet no … she could feel the heat of his scalp … the soft flick of the hair …
In her mind she had reached out to comfort him and suddenly she was there …

As his head rose slowly the painting was a mere shadow, muted smudges upon blank canvas … this time as he turned the reality stood before him … locked in the same wonder as he, her hand remaining outstretched as if reaching out to him … the trace of tears still visible as the silence stretched between them …

The soft, almost just a hint of a touch at first, graced his head, his eyes flew open, wide with surprise. His head slowly rotated, turning his body with it, until he saw the full extent of his delusions. It was a beautiful hallucination, he told himself, and he slowly stood up, looking his tormentor in the eye.

“Gabriella,” He started but the word caught in his throat. He reached for her outstretched hand, and was honestly surprised, despite the initial touch, that her finger were solid. Solid and soft. The painting did not do this woman, this fabrication of his mind, justice. His heart sank, seeing the evidence of tears on her face, and he moved closer, catching her cheek in the palm of his hand, letting his thumb wipe at the streaks.

He was insane, he knew, but he couldn't care much, finally seeing her, literally the woman of his dreams. The least he could was enjoy it, before they locked him up and threw away the key. But she felt so REAL....

His gaze was incredulous, she herself could not believe that just when it had seemed totally helpless the impossible had happened.

“Gabri…"

He did not complete her name. Yet he stood knowing without checking that it was indeed her.
Only when their hands touched did she realise she had actually extended a hand to comfort him.

The light touch upon her fingers was electric. Warmth … contact … for how long had she had gone without that … how long had she craved the merest touch …?

So lost had she been in her reverie that the touch of his hand upon her face took her completely by surprise.
The palm of his hand nestled against her cheek with such infinite tenderness that her eyes brimmed with the sudden intensity of feeling even as the brush of his thumb removed the trails of her past tears.
Instinctively, she too reached out once more tentatively touching his chest, her palm resting against the warm solidity of his torso.

It had been so long and only now did she realise how achingly lonely she had been.

Knowing you were mad did nothing, ti seemed, to stop you from mad actions. The voice in his head speaking of the impossibility of what he saw was pushed further and further back. The rest of him knew her, or wanted to. He knew a name, beyond that it was just a mix of images from his dreams. Were those real too, if any of this was?

His hand, cupping her soft features, moved down, floating down her neck, slowly moving behind her head. He pulled her to him, and he drew closer as well, until they lips, finally, met in the middle. Any doubts to the the truth of her presence was burnt away with the heat of her tender lips, laced with the salty taste of her shed tears. He feasted on these, slowly, but with a hunger that seemed to span the ages.

Soon his other hand joined in, pulling her too him, forcing them into a tight embrace. Everything happened by instinct, that increasingly tiny voice mentioned something about forcing kisses on strange women....and was never heard. After all, she was his hallucination, right?

The rest of him knew different. He did not hold himself, in some sick vision, but he was reunited with something, someone. Something intangible, and impossible to define washed over him, and as their lips parted and bodies pulled away to stare into each others eyes, there was an odd, silent, understanding in the air.

“I....I think I missed you....but that doesn't make sense...”

Memories filled her mind, flashes from long ago seemed to crash in on her as his hand moved down her neck and behind her head. She closed her eyes as he drew her to him choking back a silent sob as their lips met. The intensity of the reaction shocked her. Soft and tender, the emotion seemed to well up from her very soul until they clung desperately to each other, the kisses passionate in their desperation.
And then there bodies were locked together, the feeling of that unity seeming right, reminding her of all the love and emotion she had shared with himway back across the ages.

Finally as they drew apart, her body quivered their eyes locking together as she stared lost for words.

“I....I think I missed you....but that doesn't make sense...”

It was he who spoke first.

"Yes … yes it does … "

She told him softly and then laughed softly as tears trickled slowly down her cheeks realising that her words were crazy given all that had happened with her "portrait".
She had literally stepped out of time and stood before him in that regal dress with her head formally dressed … save for a few tendrils that had worked themselves loose. Yet he still looked drawn and exhausted from the restless night he had spent.

"I've been searching for you … for so long … "

She murmured her hand touching his face incredulously.

His appearance was altered. He no longer looked the same …

"I hoped that this time … but … "

Even as she gently traced his features she felt it. She had felt it as soon as they had touched … even without the kiss … she had known.

"I never dreamt I'd finally find you … Nicco ... "

Brad listened to her, and felt his heart leap as she called him by another name. He didn't feel the jealousy of hearing another's name form your lovers lips, but some strange familiarity. Things felt right, but still he felt as if the room was spinning, his world turned on its head.

“You've been.....looking for me?” He wanted to ask how she had been looking, but was certain he wasn't ready for the answer.

He took a step back, to take in the full sight of her. She was beautiful, regal looking, and totally out of place; like some princess from a fairy tale. In backing up his foot brushed against the painting, now little more then a dark background. The contact startled him, and he panicked as soon as he looked down to see what he hit. Immediately he turned, grabbed the frame and hid it behind the couch, as if he feared the exposed surfaces might gobble her back up and steal her from him again.

Turning back to Gabriella, Brad took her hand and invited her to the couch, letting her sit first, then joining her. Thankful to be on the seats, as he was certain one more shock might inspire his knees to fail him, he could now question her a bit more comfortably.

“How...?” How did you ask a question you had no words to formulate? Instead he shook his head and leaned in to kiss her again.

“You've been.....looking for me?”

She smiled, nodding wordlessly as he questioned.
She did not move as he took a step back taking in the situation.
She did not notice the now blank canvas, her erstwhile prison from which only his belief and need could free her.
Not that was until he picked it up and put it behind the sofa.
When he turned back her eyes were still on his, willing him to turn his back on what had been and accept the present as reality.
His hand was on hers and she moved forwards and took the seat he guided her to.
Her hand remained in his as he seated himself

“How...?”

The question remained incomplete as it hung between them.
She squeezed his hand and completed his query.

"How could I have been looking for you?"

He nodded, but she continued.

"And … how do you know that before your memory of this life, we were destined to be together?"

She saw his shock as the words sank in.

"And never have been … until now … "

Tears pricked her eyes as she remembered all those times, wasted times when she had evaded him, teasing him in her certainty of his ardent courtship until …

"Only you, your need, your … "

She dared not say love for she could not assume that his adoration of her had transcended the centuries, so she continued.

" … your belief … can unite us again … "

She searched his eyes. She didn't deserve a second chance.
Only a couple of times previously had she been close, so close to completing her quest, but it had not been time … perhaps even now "sanity" would take over and he would turn away from the truth that defied logic and reason.

"I'm in your hands Nico ... "

She murmured, her fingers lifting to trace the contours of his face, her eyes lost in his as if commiting every feature to memory.