Surrounded by snowy owls, the great eagle descended onto the lawn of the castle.
Sylas leapt down from Thorondor's back and caught sight of Arwen, who had been waiting for him. A bright, gentle smile spread across his face.
"I'm back."
Her eyes curved like crescent moons, stars glimring within them, her lips lifting in a radiant smile.
"Welco ho."
They needed no further words. Their gaze lingered, drinking in each other's presence, quietly sketching one another's outlines with their eyes. At last, they smiled together, joined hands, and walked side by side into the castle.
That evening, Sylas sat at table, savoring the dishes Arwen had prepared, while he chattered endlessly about his travels. Arwen, graceful at his side, listened with quiet delight, her eyes never leaving him.
"Oh, Arwen," he said suddenly, a mischievous spark in his eyes. "I've been learning painting from a Sindarin master. How about I make a portrait of you tonight?"
Arwen's laughter was soft as falling leaves. She nodded gently. "Very well."
After dinner, Sylas wasted no ti in pulling her into the garden. He set her upon a chair woven of living vines, flowers blooming all around, with the White Tree and the Silver Tree standing tall behind her.
Arwen allowed him to fuss with her posture and angles, amusent dancing in her eyes.
Sylas then drew out his easel and paints from his satchel. With furrowed brow and careful strokes, he began to capture her on canvas.
The garden lay wrapped in a tranquil hush. The golden and silver leaves above whispered softly in the breeze, drifting down to carpet the grass with shimring light. Arwen, half-reclined among blossoms of purple, white, and gold, alfirin and elanor that never faded, with bright entepë flowers scattered nearby, seed herself like the heart of the garden. She sat patiently, a faint smile curving her lips, gazing fondly at the man painting her with such earnest focus.
Ti passed, but she never wearied. Her calm beauty only deepened, her smile steady, as if she could have remained there forever.
At last, Sylas lowered his brush. "Finished!"
Arwen rose gracefully. "May I see?"
"Of course." He waved her over eagerly.
She stepped forward and beheld her likeness. The portrait glowed with life, her gentle smile, the light in her eyes, even the cascade of blossoms around her faithfully rendered. Behind her, the White and Silver Trees rose in gleaming majesty.
Arwen's breath caught. The technique might still be unpolished, but the warmth in her painted eyes, the tenderness, the love, was unmistakable. 'So this is how he sees …' Sweetness welled within her heart.
"Well? Do you like it?" Sylas asked, almost boyishly. "If not, I'll paint you again, and again! I've morized every detail already; you won't need to sit long."
Arwen shook her head with a smile as radiant as dawn. "No, it is perfect. I love it. May I keep it?"
Sylas's eyes twinkled with mischief. "Not just yet. The painting isn't truly finished, it still needs one last step."
Puzzled, Arwen tilted her head. But Sylas offered no explanation, only led her gently back into the castle with the portrait in hand.
In the potion chamber, he set up a silver crucible, drew out his vials and herbs, and began to brew. Arwen sat nearby, watching in silence as he worked with deft precision.
The brew shimred and slowly turned to a soft shade of lavender. At that mont, Sylas lifted his gaze to her.
"Arwen," he said quietly, "may I have a single strand of your hair?"
Arwen looked puzzled, but she gently cut off a single strand of her dark hair and handed it to him.
"Is one enough? If not, I can give you more."
Sylas quickly shook his head. "No, just one is more than enough."
Though Arwen would have given more without hesitation, he cherished even this single strand as if it were treasure.
He dropped the hair into the potion bubbling in the silver crucible. At once, the mixture shifted from lavender to a pale, shimring blue, filling the chamber with the fresh scent of rain after a storm.
He quenched the fla, lifted the crucible from the stand, and let the brew cool completely. Then, before Arwen's astonished eyes, Sylas used a dropper to let a few drops fall onto the portrait.
The canvas absorbed the potion as though it were thirsty. Slowly, impossibly, the still painting began to stir. Leaves and flowers swayed as if in a living breeze. The painted Arwen's hair moved, strands catching in an unseen wind.
But though she seed alive, her painted eyes were blank, empty as glass, without soul or thought.
Arwen's lips parted in wonder. "Sylas… what's happening?"
He smiled reassuringly. "It's a magical portrait. Unlike an ordinary painting, this one will move, and speak."
"Then why does she not respond?" Arwen asked softly, watching her double with a faint ache.
"Because she has no mories yet. Right now, she is like a newborn child, alive, but with a mind utterly blank."
Sylas patiently showed Arwen the magic of drawing out a thought. At his urging, she pressed her wand to her temple and pulled forth a wisp of mory, then gently guided it into the painting.
The change was instant. Light blood in the portrait's eyes, warm and gentle, as if a soul had been kindled within. The painted Arwen blinked, then turned her gaze outward, her voice clear and soft:
"Greetings, Sylas, and greetings, my other self."
Sylas leaned forward in awe. "Arwen… tell , what does the world within the painting look like to you?"
The portrait-Arwen smiled tenderly. "It is no different from your world. I sit still within the garden; I can sll the flowers, feel the wind on my cheek. I see the Black Lake and Hogsade below, even the distant peaks on the horizon.
The only difference… is that I am alone. There are no people here, no you, no Thorondor, no Smaug, no villagers in the valley below."
Sylas was struck speechless. He had expected a static background, little more than colors and lines. Instead, the magic had ford a complete realm, an entire mirror of the real world.
'A portrait that holds a world of its own… this isn't just magic—it's a taverse,' he thought in disbelief.
Arwen, hearing her painted self describe that lonely existence, felt her heart clench. Her eyes softened with compassion. "Sylas, could you paint yourself into her world as well? Otherwise… she will be too lonely."
He squeezed her hand and smiled. "Of course. Not just , Thorondor, Smaug, even the folk of Hogsade. I'll make sure the painted world is as full of life as the real one."
But then he added playfully, "Still, I think it would be far better if you painted . What do you say?"
Arwen's laughter was bright and musical. "Very well. But I warn you, I'll make you even more handso than you deserve."
The next morning, they returned to the garden. This ti Sylas took Arwen's seat, while she set up the easel. She did not keep him posed for long, her mory was flawless. With a few loving glances, she had already captured him perfectly in her mind.
Curious, Sylas leaned over to peek at her canvas. What he saw left him utterly amazed.
In Arwen's painting, Sylas appeared tall and straight-backed, his stern features softened by a gentle expression. Through her brush, it seed as though a faint halo surrounded him, so flawless that he hardly looked mortal at all.
'Is this truly how she sees ?' Sylas thought, a sweet warmth blooming in his chest.
He had not expected Arwen's artistry to be so extraordinary. His likeness on the canvas was not only lifelike, but every blade of grass, every leaf upon the trees, even the towers of the castle behind him were rendered with such precision that they seed to breathe.
Compared with her work, the portrait he had drawn for her felt like the scribbles of a schoolchild beside the masterpiece of a true master. Yet Arwen had treasured his clumsy attempt, keeping it as though it were the rarest jewel.
When she finally laid down her brush, Sylas looked at the painting of himself and teased with a crooked smile:
"Arwen, you've painted so perfectly, I scarcely dare to admit it's supposed to be !"
He drew out the potion he had prepared beforehand and sprinkled it carefully across the canvas. The paint shimred as it absorbed the liquid, and the entire scene seed to breathe to life. Trees swayed in an unseen wind, light glistened on stone, and the figure of Sylas in the painting shifted slightly, as though it were a reflection, yet brighter, sharper, more dreamlike than reality itself.
Though the eyes in the portrait were still vacant, every strand of hair, every detail of skin and clothing was vivid, carrying the vitality of life.
Pressing his wand to his temple, Sylas drew forth a silver thread of mory. He guided it gently into the painted figure. Slowly, the once-empty eyes cleared, brightened, and the painted Sylas smiled, lifting his head to look directly into Sylas's gaze.
"Well now, hello, original body!"
He gave a jaunty wave, then looked about with wide-eyed wonder.
"Just as Arwen said, this world is exactly like the real one. If I didn't know better, I'd swear this was Middle-earth!"
Then he laughed, boyish mischief in his voice.
"Oi, , don't forget to draw a broomstick next ti! And while you're at it, bring in Smaug and Thorondor. I want to see if this painted world has any edges, or if it goes on forever!"
His eyes shifted, landing on Arwen standing by Sylas's side. A rueful smile touched his lips as he lifted a hand in greeting.
"Hello, Arwen. What a pity that it isn't standing beside you. Though we're one and the sa, I confess, I'm terribly jealous of the other !"
But his grin quickly returned.
"Still, I've Arwen here to keep company too, so I can hardly complain."
Suddenly his head turned, as though spotting soone in the painted world. His eyes lit up with delight.
"Ah! I see Arwen! I must go to her, farewell for now!"
Before either Sylas or Arwen could respond, the painted Sylas bolted away, vanishing from the canvas entirely.
The garden scene in the painting stilled once more. Arwen covered her lips with a laugh, her eyes twinkling as she looked at Sylas.
"I never realized you had quite so much mischief in you, Sylas."
Sylas groaned, covering his forehead with one hand, utterly mortified.
This painted self was little more than a personality shaped by the fragnts of mory he had given it. In ti, with the steady gift of more mories, the figure would grow fuller, thoughts and feelings taking shape until it was nearly indistinguishable from the real him.
That was, in truth, the purpose of magical portraits: to preserve the voice, spirit, and knowledge of a person even after death. By the end, such a portrait might truly be the person in every way that mattered.
Of course, Sylas had no intention of waiting until his own death to see that happen.
Still, if he wished to avoid his painted self forever blurting out foolishness, he knew he would need to be… a little more disciplined in what mories he chose to share.
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