Chapter Text
An Artist searching for inspiration finds his muse among old, dark tales.
The portrait was looking good, he thought with satisfaction. And truly, how could it not when he had such a beautiful subject to work on?
Rafayel had spent the better part of two weeks now, painstakingly capturing the enchanting lady with precise brushstrokes, trying to match every nuance of her being. Her skin as pale as moonlight, the way shadows kissed it like devoted followers of a goddess. Her long hair as black as midnight, highlights a warm purple the color of which he had spent days mixing pigments to get the perfect tone. And her eyes—oh, her eyes. Never in his life had he seen a more glorious color. He rarely found anything worthy of his precious vermillion pigment but for her, he would paint the world in it.
She had become his muse, her image behind his eyelids as he slept, a goddess worthy of worship far greater than what he could give with his paintbrush. She was simply intoxicating.
The letter had surprised him upon his receiving it. He had been in a bit of a slump, having just returned from travel abroad, searching for inspiration he had been unsuccessful in finding. He normally turned down requests for portraits, after all, there was only so much inspiration a human face could provide, but this particular invitation had intrigued him.
“I would highly advise against it,” dear old Thomas, his sponsor, had warned him. “Lady Ariadne is…well, there are rumors about her.”
“I’ve heard them,” Rafayel admitted. “Don’t tell me you believe in ghost stories, Thomas.”
“Of course not, but I believe in ruining reputations and rumor is rumor no matter how ridiculous a form it takes.”
Rafayel had laughed flippantly. “Please, as a young rake of the bohemian lifestyle, society would say I have no reputation to ruin.”
Thomas had not been pleased, but if nothing else, he would accept anything that might awaken Rafayel’s inspiration again. “Very well,” he had reluctantly agreed. “But do be careful, Rafayel. Rumors or not, there is something odd going on in that house.”
Rafayel would be lying if the thought didn’t send a certain thrill through him. Being a worldly sort, he was well acquainted with superstition and knew that many old tales bore some truth. And yet, the idea of potentially playing the hero in some gothic novel admittedly enticed him more than he would ever admit to Thomas.
Having spent a goodly amount of time with the lady in question, he could certainly say that there were definitely oddities about her.
He had been rather shocked upon arrival to see there were no servants in the house save a single maid who didn’t live in, and only seemed to be there to prepare meals for Rafayel. Not only that, but he was given free rein of the mansion—aside from the lady’s bedchambers—and almost never met with Lady Ariadne until evening. She never joined him for meals, she only showed up to their sessions where she sat for him and they talked while he painted.
Talked of what? Any number of things. She seemed intrigued with hearing the stories of his travels, and to his surprise, always seemed to have something to add about the history of the places he’s been.
“You seem to be well traveled yourself, my lady,” he commented.
She had smiled. “I’ve been around a few times.”
Her answers were always vague and cryptic, causing him only more intrigue. Everything about Lady Ariadne was intriguing. Everything about her pointed to the circulating rumors being true. Rafayel was determined to discover that truth before he left.
That evening found him mixing his paints for the next session. The sun had set, leaving behind a gloamy twilight past the heavy curtains. He would normally prefer natural sunlight to the candles and gas lamps that he was forced to paint by due to Lady Ariadne’s preference, but he had to admit that she was much more suited to the dim lighting. The dramatic shadows and, occasionally, the moonlight under which she seemed to glow with a particularly fatal beauty.
“How many more sessions do you think the portrait will take?” she asked curiously as she took her seat that night. As usual, she wore her blood red dress, the color of claret. He had helped her choose it for the portrait, seeing how well it would complement her eyes and moonkissed skin.
“An artist never likes to promise, my lady,” he said with a slightly teasing tone. “After all, I could hate what I paint tonight in the morning and be inclined to redo it all.”
“I see,” she replied, looking out the window to the misty fields surrounding the grounds. “I suppose I cannot rush you, can I, Rafayel?”
“My lady, are you so eager to be rid of me?” he asked, pressing a hand to his heart in mock hurt.
She smiled. “Never. I only think of you, Rafayel; surely you cannot enjoy living in seclusion like this? I cannot make the best host. I’m sure you’re used to much livelier stays with more hospitable people.”
“On the contrary,” Rafayel replied as he began to put brush to canvas yet again. “You are a most gracious host, my lady. I have enjoyed my stay very much.”
“That is very kind of you to say.”
“I am being sincere. It is a joy to be uninterrupted in my work, with no extramural engagements.”
He frowned at the strokes he had made, and went to blend them. The last few sessions had been…difficult. He felt like he was getting nowhere. He was so nearly done, and yet he couldn’t help but feel like he was missing something vital. Something that would make the portrait truly her. The truest form for his muse, Lady Ariadne.
“I must ask,” he ventured as he tried again, mixing a slightly different shade for the shadows of her face. “Do you enjoy living in such seclusion, my lady?”
She blinked, seeming a bit surprised by his question. “What do you mean?”
He frowned. “Why, you’re all alone here—aside from me, of course. You don’t even have a house full of servants. Doesn’t it get lonely?”
“Well, yes, occasionally, I do feel lonely, but it is enough for me to have people come and go. Sometimes a single impactful meeting is worth more than a lifetime of companionship.”
Rafayel felt her words resonate deep within him. “That’s a beautiful way to put it, my lady. I dare say you have an artist’s soul.”
She smiled. “Do you think? I’ve never heard anyone say that to me before.”
Rafayel gave her an adoring look. “Well, I have an ability to see into people’s souls. It helps me to capture them more accurately on the canvas.”
Except hers. Because as hard as he tried, there was still a piece of her soul he wasn’t able to truly see.
He began to see her shift restlessly as the night wore on, an odd occurrence as she was usually very patient. It made it rather difficult to get the proper tones when she kept moving.
“Are you uncomfortable, my lady? Perhaps we should take a break. I could use a cup of tea.”
She took a small sigh, but nodded. “Yes…perhaps that’s best.”
To his surprise, she fetched the pot herself, pouring two cups as they retired to the sofa on the far side of the conservatory that had become the room where Rafayel worked. He sipped his tea as he watched her hold her own cup without drinking.
Her restlessness seemed to ignite his own and he finally blurted out what was on his mind.
“May I confess something to you, my lady?”
She glanced over at him, eyebrows raised. “Of course.”
He looked toward the table that held the paints and his other supplies. “I fear that…I am unsure of how to continue.”
“What do you mean?”
He sighed. “The portrait, I feel I am unable to fully capture your true essence. There’s something missing that I am not entirely sure of. It is leading me toward hysterics.”
“It is not a fair likeness?”
“It’s not that—How can I explain it…” he mused. “I can replicate anyone’s likeness, that’s the easy part, but truly capturing someone on canvas—especially someone as enchanting and rare as you…” He trailed off, shaking his head and leaning back against the sofa dramatically. “I fear that I may not be able to do it, and that I will forever be forced to live with my own dissatisfaction.”
“I see.”
“This has never happened before, it’s extremely distressing,” he moaned, throwing an arm hopelessly over his eyes.
Lady Ariadne was silent for a moment and he heard her set her cup and saucer down. “May I tell you a story, Rafayel?”
He perked up and looked over at her. “Of course, I would love to hear a story. Perhaps it shall calm my mind.”
She turned to stare into the crackling fire in the hearth. “Once upon a time, there was a girl. She wasn’t like most other people. She never knew her parents, but she grew up with an old woman who was very kind to her. It wasn’t until after the woman’s death that she realized a secret had been kept from her for her entire childhood: that she was not like anyone else in the world. That, because of that secret, most people who met her would fear her, or hate her, or, perhaps even wish to use her for their own nefarious purposes.”
Rafayel listened intently, wondering at her choice of story that seemed to have nothing to do with the previous topic of conversation.
“Because of that, she learned to live alone, to trust only herself, and those weaker than her. She learned that there were few people who were good for more than basic necessity. It was a lonely existence, for eternity is not as beautiful a concept as those longing for it seem to think.”
Rafayel frowned, an odd feeling creeping through his insides and up his spine as she told the story.
“How did this girl’s story end?” he asked.
Lady Ariadne shook her head. “I do not know. Perhaps someday an artist came to paint her portrait and she was able to discover what she looked like in someone else’s eyes.”
Before he could reply, she stood. “I believe I will retire for the night. Perhaps you too will find the inspiration you seek in the morning, Rafayel. Sleep well.”
He found himself incredibly confused as she walked away, mouth slightly open on the question he never had the chance to ask.
***
He did not sleep. He tossed and turned as the hours stretched on, before finally getting up to go contemplate the portrait for the umpteenth time. Perhaps this time inspiration would come.
He slid his silken robe and slippers on to return downstairs to the conservatory. He struck a match, and lit several candles around his work area, standing in front of the easel.
The painting looked even more dull than it had earlier. Despite the precious vermillion he had used, her eyes held no warmth.
He had the brief thought to cast the entire thing into the dying embers of the hearth and start anew, but the slightest breeze through the room brought him back to the present as something instinctive made the hair stand up on the back of his neck.
“I thought I told you to go to bed.”
Rafayel spun, heart jumping into his throat as he saw Lady Ariadne standing directly behind him.
“M-My lady,” he gasped, hand clutching his chest. “You startled me. How did you get in here so quietly?”
She didn’t reply, her eyes, instead, were glued to the throbbing pulse on Rafayel’s neck. He swore her eyes glowed in the shadows of the candlelight and the image caught his breath in his throat at its mesmerizing perfection.
“My lady?”
“You were foolish for coming here,” she whispered almost to herself.
Rafayel stood frozen as her delicate fingers reached up to caress his throat. His lips parted on a silent breath, trembling in both terror and exhilaration.
But as soon as he felt his body might crumple under the intense confusion, she pulled away, a shudder going through her own body, rose red lips closing before he could truly focus on the glint they hid behind them.
“I’m sorry, I am…out of sorts,” she said, turning toward the window which was still open, the moonlight spilling in.
She was enthralling, otherworldly. Rafayel took a shuddering breath to compose himself as he reached a trembling hand toward the silver pallet knife on the table by the easel.
He held it up with bated breath to reflect the scene by the window.
There was the moonlight shining through the window panes, the deep purple curtains, the dark polished wood of the floor…
But there was no otherworldly enchantress in the reflection. It was like she wasn’t there at all.
The pallet knife slipped from his fingers to clatter on the ground but she didn’t even move.
“It’s true,” he managed to say. “All the stories…”
She turned to look over her shoulder at him, something alight in her eyes as she saw his trembling figure—a hunger, perhaps pity.
“Does it frighten you, Rafayel?” she asked. “Will you run from me like all the others?”
He wet his lips as he forced himself forward. “No,” he breathed. “No.”
“You’re not terrified?”
He shook his head, swallowing hard. “My Lady…I have never been more…captivated.”
She took a step toward him, the hunger in her eyes turning nearly ravenous. “Is that so?”
He let out a shuddering breath. “I want to know everything about you, my lady. Show me your hunger, tear me apart—it could only be bliss at your hands.”
She was in front of him, eyeing him curiously. “Pretty words, true, but do you know what you’re asking?”
Rafayel fell to his knee and took her hand, pressing the kiss of a devotee to her delicate fingers.
“I am yours and yours alone, my lady—my muse.”
Her fingers traced his cheek, lifting his chin to meet her mesmerizing ruby eyes. “What do you wish from me, Rafayel?”
“I wish for you to inspire me,” he breathed.
Everything after was a blur. He had barely blinked before he found himself lying on the sofa, the alluring moonkissed goddess hovering over him. Her fingers threaded through his, her other hand sliding into his wild hair, gently guiding his head back to bare his throat.
The sharp pain sent electricity down his spine, soon followed by an intoxicating bliss that had his eyes rolling back, eyelids fluttering shut on a moan.
“Please, my lady, take what you will,” he begged, as the sensations filled his veins, his very being. The exhilarating thrill, the pull of fear, his body desperately seeking to fight back yet craving surrender. And in that moment, he understood her. He saw his muse in her final form, alive on the canvas.
She pulled away, licking the twin scars on his neck. He moaned, squirming under her, clasping her hand and pulling it to his mouth, worshiping with zealous kisses.
“Don’t stop, please don’t stop,” he gasped.
She shifted, free hand sliding down his body as she pulled away his robe to expose his pale thigh. Rafayel gasped and jerked involuntarily as her fangs sank into the tender flesh.
He could feel the pull of unconsciousness drawing nearer, both a cruel and caring mistress. His heart beat frantically in his chest, telling him he should be panicking, but all Rafayel could do was swoon against the couch, staring up at the moonlight. Never had he felt such pleasure, never had he felt so inspired. He felt as if he could paint for a thousand years and never run out of motivation.
He didn’t notice when she pulled away, the hunger in her eyes satisfied. Rafayel moaned softly, his fingers falling limply from her own as she bent over him.
He barely felt the kiss she pressed to his lips, tinted with the intoxicating medley of her wine-scented breath and his own blood. His eyes slid shut and he fainted away, her parting words lost to him forever.
***
Rafayel woke with sun on his face and cotton in his mouth. He groaned and shifted, for a moment believing he had fallen asleep in his own studio.
He tried to sit, but his body was so heavy that he was barely able to make it upright enough to lean against the back of the couch.
A dull throbbing persisted in his neck and left inner thigh. His fingers slid sluggishly to his leg, pulling aside his robe to see two dainty twin marks, already closed.
Memories flooded back from the night before, disjointed in reality, but the one thing that remained was the image in his head.
Rafayel gasped, forcing himself upright. He staggered over to the easel and collapsed on the stool. Taking up a knife with a shaking hand, he sliced his palm open, blood flowing into a mixing pan.
He worked feverishly, colors exploding over his pallet as the painting finally began to take proper shape. He let the brush flow as if some entity were guiding his strokes, until it was no longer her mirror image, it was her very essence, and finally, finally, he was satisfied. Finally he had been able to truly capture her on this earthly plane.
She found him sitting there that evening, staring lovingly at the portrait, chin propped in his bandaged hand. He shamelessly flaunted the marks in his neck, wearing a loose shirt with no necktie.
“It’s done,” she said, a statement, not a question. It was obvious in the way contentment showed in his eyes.
“Yes,” he said and beckoned her with a hand and soft, satisfied smile.
She came to stand next to him, her eyes curious as she stared at the portrait for a long time without saying anything.
“Well?” he finally asked. “What do you think?”
She cocked her head to one side, still seeming to be at a loss for words. “This is how you see me?” she asked finally, her voice soft, tentative as if hopeful but not expecting the answer she wanted.
“No,” Rafayel said sincerely and reached out to take hold of her hand, bringing it to his lips with a soft kiss. “This is how you are.”
“I like it very much,” she said, satisfaction obvious.
Rafayel closed his eyes with a smile. “So do I.”
