The artist’s brush feverishly raced across the canvas, leaving behind a trail of crimson. His hand, splattered with drops of the painting’s lifeblood, trembled. Was there enough paint left? It had never taken this many paintings to find her before. 

He finished the stroke and took a step back, staring deep into the eyes which stared right back. The woman on the canvas was a striking beauty, with long hair dark as a raven’s wing and almond-shaped eyes as clear blue as the skies. Her cheekbones were sharp and her jaw was slender, and her scarlet lips parted oh so slightly. 

“I wonder what they call you today,” he whispered, running his speckled fingers along the edge of the canvas. 

He replaced the lids on the paint pots and swished the brush through the water as murky as his thoughts. The scene he painted looked nothing like the landscape he’d known for centuries. He longed to press his palm to the surface and engage his magic, but knew it wouldn’t work until the painting was complete and dry. 

“Where are you, my dearest love?”