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Saoirse's blood dances with iron and trickery, a secret she has managed to sheathe from all faery alike.
Until now, that is.
When Saoirse's cunning and charade is shredded to bits by the malevolent interfering of fa...
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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
SAOIRSE'S EYES TRAVELED THE LENGTH OF THE ALDER KING, flitting about his figure, from her perch on the wooden stool before him.
He wore his simple copper circlet of branches, nestled amongst his autumnal-hued hair that very nearly swallowed it whole, wild and full of life. His great cloak of raven feathers tumbled over his shoulders, sweeping his throne, copper velvet encircling his shoulders. His features bore a grave expression, his mouth curled as though her presence troubled him greatly. Saoirse's eyes boldly clashed with his gaze of ebon. A chill was chased through her lungs, rattling her very bones at the coldness in their depths. There was something baleful written upon his countenance, something that graced his lithic features, and she couldn't help but marvel at the thought that something about her presence disturbed the Great King so.
Was it the fact that she was a mortal? Saoirse queried silently, schooling her features, and glancing away so as to not invoke his ire. Impossible, she nearly scoffed. He was surrounded by them too often, and of his own handiwork, to be disturbed by them. It couldn't be that she had asked him to sit still for the portrait, either. Was it that she was painting him?
"Have you ever sat for a portrait, my King?" Saoirse mused, fingers wrapping around the stick of charcoal before her.
Jaw fluttering, "I don't know why that matters," the Alder King spoke gratingly.
Saoirse met his gaze with a hint of audacity and resisted a reaction as those cold eyes bore into her once more. "I only wish to know if you have any knowledge of the process—Of how a portrait is done."
Mouth hewn into a jagged line, "Somehow, I think it is not I that should have an understanding of how to paint, but rather you, thus, I do not see why I should care for such knowledge," He spoke curtly.
Saoirse's lips very nearly twitched. His wit was intriguing, and further piqued her interest. She doubted she had ever considered the Alder King to be anything more than a cruel faery—someone, something, distant and far enough away that she could consider him a figment of fables, nothing more than smoke. But he was real. And like she, apparently, he had a dry and witty tongue. She didn't voice those thoughts, however. She kept quiet and inclined her head in a respectful, agreeable nod.
Instead, "I only thought to wonder if you were aware how ... tedious the process is. It will require several days and sessions, My King."
"Make it un-tedious then." He glowered.
"I shall do my very best, My King." Saoirse murmured.
Her fingers rolled about the length of the charcoal before her, slim fingers picking it up with ease. And with detailed focus, she began to sketch his portrait. Flakes of black scraped off the charcoal with her vigorous wielding, dusting the edge of the paper, falling to her lap. Her hand rounded the paper as she drew a circle, loose enough not to be constricting. Then she sculpted it further, darkening it, smoothening it, until a very rough outline of the planes of the Alder King's face peered back at her, featureless and remote.
