One does not fail to notice the man standing amidst the irregular-sized paintings, which were arranged in such a chaotic manner that there seem to be a subtle order to them. From the dull, golden gilding of the frames that clasp the works of various ancient artists in their places to the layers of dust that ludicrously bring a new feature on the now dried colours, one could indistinctly tell that the masterpieces, hung so stiffly against the faded castle-white wall, were age-worn. So old that it makes the man look out of place, as well as, naturally, out of time.
Yet, one does not fail to observe the man who stood as still as an oak tree, transfixed upon the paintings that blatantly blast an array of colours into the still, quiet atmosphere. At a glance, his gaze seemed to be fastened to one particular illustration, though upon a second one, the angle of his face obscures the exact painting he appears to be admiring and in a Mona Lisa way, one could only wonder where his eyes followed.
But there was one painting that stood out.
It was as though the motionless figures in it materialized within the confinement of its spell-bounding shade of colours. The whiteness of the fresh, still-falling snow, the way the red screams 'BLOOD', the rusty silver of the armours that seemed to conceal the hard-trained muscles lying taut and ready on two deadly warriors that were locked in an embrace of death and that brilliant orange in the background which uncovers the time of the day, dusk and along with it, the coming of night.
And if one delved deeper, like how the man might have been elusively doing, one could almost hear the clang of metal against metal, see the sparks that were elicited and feel the strength behind the blows of the swords with the whooshing sound of the wind that followed closely. How parry after parry, strike after strike, neither presented an opening for the other to exploit. How effortless and elegant their movements were that it was as though a dance was taking place, only that here, if either faltered, it would have meant a swift death.
That is when time stops and everything halts in their tracks except for the occasional draft of wind which precipitates into the rustles of the leaves. Only then would one notice the grimness that showed on both faces, one, a handsome, stoic face which held features fit for a prince, the fire in his bright blue eyes shining as fiercely as the flame-shaped emblem on his breastplate that was full of dents and scratches, the stance he carried, his long sword up high and the crimson red cape that rippled behind him; and the other, whose face was partially shadowed by the dark veil he wore, his jet-black hair tied neatly behind, his dark silver-coloured armour which silently creaked with every of his movement and the gait he held that showed nothing but malice and anger...
A shoulder-shake jerked me out of my daze.
" Sir, I saw that you've been standing here staring at Sir Luke Pfifer's work of art, like what that man in the painting is doing, for the past half an hour," with a giggle, she continued, " You must have been in awe. I don't blame you, this one does have its charms. It's my favourite." A toothy smile lighted up on her face with that last word. A smile that revealed dimples I realized countless men must have fallen for.
And as I went on staring blankly, still in confusion, sieving reality from imagination, she leaned in close till I could catch the waft of her seductive perfume, which till today I have not been able to identify, and whispered to my right ear, " Let me show you something you'd never take your eyes off." With that, she slided away from me. All I could do was follow and smile because I could have sworn I saw dimples too, on that princely warrior that I, deep in my heart, hoped would win the battle.
p/s how i wish i could live in the knight era. i feel like i don't fit in this current world. anyway nothing much seem to change. however, i think i might be experiencing slightly heightened sensations. let's hope for more? :D
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