I could not remember the first time I saw her. Maybe it was at an art gallery, that would explain why I always thought of her as a painting, but I visited so many places it could have been anywhere. I had dismissed her presence though, thinking she was pretty and agreeable but nothing more. I was not to fall for any beautiful stranger that crossed my path. Oh, how could I have been so foolish? Would I have had more time had I noticed her sooner? Would it have changed anything?

That day the room was so crowded I almost missed her. And yet in the dark tavern she was the only one standing out from the shadows. How could anyone miss her looking like a baroque painting? The light was hitting her with intent; the room was her still life, the drinking guests her background figures. She was the main character, every movement and shape telling a story. Not her story though; she was a quiet mystery, the brushstrokes of her long fair hair framing a melancholic expression. Later, I thought not having seen the colour of her eyes was torture but the real torture was seeing them briefly; I longed to get lost in them.

My partner at the table seemed to notice my absence, I looked back at them, focusing my energy on their speech. However, I was tempted to take a last glance at her, and to my regret, she was gone. I thought that was it, another brief encounter. But this time felt different, I wanted to uncover the hidden secrets of her painting. 

The next time I couldn’t let myself be lost in her presence. My rival would not show mercy at my distraction. The royal tournaments were a silly old tradition but I was expected to win as the heir and best swordswoman of the kingdom. 

I could not look at her dark gold skin glowing faintly in the warm winter daylight. Her strokes were softer today, she was not a baroque painting, but rather a watercolour. Some parts of her frame were richer and deeper in hue: her warm honey eyes, the red ribbon adorning her hair. Yes, watercolour mixed with gouache. 

I slipped. I had been looking at her.

That day I lost the tournament for the first time in eight years. It was worth it. As I fell in the mud, like an untrained squire, our eyes met and for a short second I felt her warmth. She was real. Who was the woman behind the painting? It seemed I had fallen twice.

The council, of course, took this as an excellent opportunity to remind me of my duties. The damned lost sword: the infamous sword from my ancestors that would defend our tiny kingdom from the conquering neighbours. We had been looking for it restlessly. Every academic was researching ancient texts, looking for any clue that may help us. But how could we find what was lost? For what we knew it could have been destroyed, or worse, it could have been just a myth.

For the next few weeks I focused solely on our impossible task. But everything seemed too real, the colours too muddy. I wanted to get lost in her bright brushstrokes, in the soft light of her skin. I wanted to caress her hair and learn the texture and pigment of it. 

I met her again in the quietness of the forest. It was close to dusk and I was riding back to the castle when a splash of colour caught my eye: a dramatic red velvet dress. That night she appeared in an emotional romantic scene. 

Close to night hours she was always a dramatic portrait. The softness of her daylight semblance was gone, as if in the night she needed to stand out more. I wanted to whisper to her that that was not necessary; I would never miss her again.

Frozen for a second I barely noticed guiding my horse to her. She did not move. Standing in that flowerless field, surrounded by tall bushes, she looked like an unkept garden. Her hair wild, chaotic traces on a green canvas.  

“I have been longing to see you” I said in a rough voice, matching the wilderness of the forest.

She did not reply, for a painting had no voice. Instead, she smiled and ran away. 

I followed. 

Her steps were impossibly fast and my horse could not keep up. Before I could stop her I was left in an empty gallery, a lake. I had been here before but it had never looked like this. By then, the sun was gone and only a shy moon illuminated faintly the dark blue water. For a moment I thought I caught a glimpse of red in the lake but it was gone, or never there. The lake was a pure prussian blue, a sophisticated oil landscape, the canvas was the forest and she was lost in the small brushstrokes of the trees. 

I would not see her again in a month.

The search for the sword was still tedious and hopeless. Some new texts indicated it was last seen two centuries ago, shortly after the magic hid from us. One of the scholars found an illuminated scroll showing the sword being held by a woman. She looked like my woman. I could only think of her. 

Meanwhile our borders were in danger of invasion and not even our ancient barriers would hold. I was starting to think I could not protect my people. My mother, the queen, grew weaker everyday, reminding me of my duty as her heir. I would soon have to lead, even though I was already doing so unofficially. I would not even have time to mourn the last member of my family. As the last of my lineage I was expected to raise a kid: either have it myself or adopt an orphan. I did not feel ready for any of that.

Being so overwhelmed by my duties I once again almost missed her. But my body felt her presence and when I looked up from my desk she was just there in my study looking calmly at me. The servant gave no name, they introduced her as a citizen with a request and left promptly at my gesture. 

At that moment she did not look like a painting. She was so close and real I almost reached out to touch her. My hands twitched and she looked at them, expectant. When I didn’t move again she looked back at my face and said: “I know where you can find her”.

I was speechless. She could talk! Her voice was soft but strong, like a deep red watercolour. Even if watercolours are not the boldest choice for an intense painting you can’t miss a vibrant red. She wanted to be noticed. I must have stayed silent for too long as she clarified “The sword”. 

I got up in a rush and approached her, I almost touched her arm but she stepped back. She was diluting, turning back into a watercolour. Her dress today was a light flowy yellow, matching her gold skin and amber eyes. 

“You must show it to me” I replied with intensity, commanding, trying to hide my excitement. Was I excited about the sword or by the sound of her voice? Or was it just her presence, even as surreal as it felt?

“Meet me tonight at the lake” And with that she left, and I knew this time there was no point in following her as she would be gone as soon I stepped out of the door.

That night I dressed in my finest ornamental armour. It was not battle armour but as I was not going to war I wanted to match her beauty. I asked for no help to get ready; the meeting felt like a treasure hunt, and I wanted to keep the secret for myself. I braided my short hair, which soon ran loose, and mounted my loyal horse.

While I rode through the forest I wondered which version of her I would find. The bold and dramatic painting? The light watercolour? Or would I see the real frame of her again?

However, when I got to the lake she was not there. The vast surface of water was empty; nested among the tall forest trees it looked lonely and full of sorrow. I felt tempted to sit by the water and let my worries sink in the deep blue lake. That was when I noticed something different. Something new. 

Shining faintly on a tiny island in the middle of the lake was a sword. I felt a rush of uneasiness as if I was trapped in a dream or in a surreal painting. The trees warped, the lake melted. I could almost see myself as an outsider, a visitor in a gallery. I saw the shiny figure, myself, taking off the useless armour and jumping into the icy water; a strong tall woman swimming towards the small island sketched between the brushstrokes of the lake’s water. The trees casted deep shadows, almost hiding the moonlight, but a tiny wild ray was illuminating the lost sword and I allowed myself to feel a bit of euphoria. 

A splash of water made me lose vision for a moment and when I glanced back the island was empty. It felt as elusive as her. I kept swimming desperately, not letting myself lose hope now that I was so close.

When I finally reached the small spot of land I learned I was wrong. It was not empty. She was sitting next to the water, letting her feet get wet, the rest of her figure was completely dry.

She felt more like a painting than ever. Her hair was all loose wild traces, her face a delicate sketch. Only her eyes were as clear as ever. When I looked at them I could not mistake the harsh gold. I approached her knowing this was my last chance. 

“Please, stay.”

She stared back, understanding my intention and with a sliver of voice, as if she had no words left, she whispered “I wish I could stay as you want. But I will still stay”.

I did not reply. I approached her, a bit bewildered and absolutely terrified, and before her watercolours diluted in the water, I kissed her, finally tasting the pigments of her mouth. She kissed me back and I felt her last whisper, her last stroke of reality melting in my tongue.

When I opened my eyes she was gone and in my hands laid a gold sword adorned with honey coloured gems.

It was a good thing I was already in love with that sword, or what she had been, as for the years to come she never left my side. I protected my kingdom with her. I painted the sword red. And when I was finally allowed to rest I spent my time at the lake painting over and over again the memory of her, trying to bring back her likeness. 

I never succeeded.*

*Note from the editor: when the last queen died the legendary sword was gone. Next to her in bed was another body; a woman with dark gold skin and fair light hair. They were buried together.