The Eyes of a Muse by Rhapsody

The Eyes of a Muse

The sound of a rooster crowing echoed through the cold chamber where Maedhros sat still, posing for the young woman who, in her turn, stared at the canvas with a desperate look. The fire in the fireplace died hours ago, something that she had not paid attention to. Whatever move he made, was something she did notice. ‘Please sit still, Maedhros’ or ‘ah ah ah don’t you dare move now that I found a way to capture your nose and ear’ were phrases he heard often the past several hours. Whatever she was working on, it caused her a distress he could not place.

“How much longer do I have to sit here?” Maedhros broke the silence and she looked up at him with a distracted stare. The elf watched with mild amusement when she looked around with her pencil shaking in her hand as if the stress of sitting in one pose finally caught up with her.

“Oh, I give up!” She suddenly rose to her feet, “I can’t get your eyes right. I don’t know why or how, but they just don’t speak to me!”

Maedhros tried not to reply sarcastically: did he hear her right? Did she make him sit so long because of his eyes? He had other, more pressing, duties to perform!

“You ordered me to sit here because of my eyes?” he asked crossly. He, Lord of the Himring! “What was your name again?”

“Sirielle, my lord. Look, you have to understand that an artist needs a muse who speaks to her and shows her things.” Once she finished her words, she took a wary step back once Maedhros rose to his full length, making the room suddenly very small.

“I will burn the painting then, my lord.” Sirielle answered quickly under his intimidating glare.

“No. No, you shan’t.” Maedhros pitied her. How often did his brother entrust page after page into the fire after he worked on a story for hours? Sometimes, he managed to intercept one, read it, and discovered that artists were most often their own worst critics. “Let me have a look at it.”

Sirielle backed away more as he neared the wooden easel to study his portrait. What he saw amazed him. As he stood there, he studied the image of him and was amazed by the flair she painted him. Especially his lips, turned up in a slight smile that reminded him of more blissful days in Valinor, where laughter was more commonly heard than the hiss of a long sword clearing its sheath. Without hesitation, he touched the canvas and wondered why his eyes were not yet drawn. After so many battles and losses, did he scare people so much that they no longer dared to look him in the eyes?

“I think,” he turned his head to look at her standing there in the corner: her hands clutched and gaze lowered, “I have a solution to your problem. Come here.” Maedhros ordered her and sat down on the nearby stool. He added, “Please.”

Sirielle responded to his command, but her posture was rigid from tension. Maedhros knew he had been too harsh with her and gently pulled her onto his lap. Once she settled down upon his thighs, he secured her with his right arm. With his left hand, he lifted her chin to brush away a tear that escaped from her eyes, but the sheen of those tears worried him. “I don’t want you to be scared of me, Sirielle. You are a great artist. Look into my eyes after this.”

With utmost care, his hand lightly touched her cheek and his lips followed in its wake before he kissed her. Sirielle’s mouth was soft and warm under his and Maedhros read her sigh as an invitation for more. His tongue played lightly over her lips, and waited for her to answer. A jolt of excitement coursed through him once her lips parted slowly, welcoming him tentatively inside, and their tongues met and tangled together. Maedhros led the teasing dance, encouraging her to either become bolder or to subdue to his lead. Ah Illuvatar, he wanted more, but sensed her doubt about his unexpected behaviour. It only took her a few seconds and she returned the favour of sweet, fiery passion, enthusiastically exploring his mouth as he did hers. Then, much later, he pulled back quickly, but not abruptly, effectively ending their arduous interlude.

Sirielle’s eyes studied his, as he had suggested, and then she smiled and quickly bent toward the canvas to pick a piece of charcoal. His hand steadied her beautiful body while she sketched, and he wondered if their kiss could be a prelude, a promise, to something more. Alas, that did not matter since he had achieved his goal. Maedhros watched her add a few finishing touches his eyes. As both exchanged a glance, Maedhros was pleased to see her overcome her moment of artistical doubt to succeed in greatness.