The Alchemist’s Last Portrait

Fiction iNthacity Network December 18, 2024 0 Comments

The Alchemist's Last Portrait

The heavy oak door groaned as Elira pushed it open, her fingertips trembling from chilblains wrought by the biting winter night. The air inside the atelier was thick with the sharp tang of mercury and the faint floral bitterness of crushed lapis lazuli. Elira clasped the folds of her woolen cloak closer to her chest, her breath clouding in the dim candlelight that illuminated racks of dried herbs, glass beakers, and endless vials of pigments stored in ceramic jars. Her heart raced—a collision of fear and determination. Tonight, she had one chance to escape her pact, to break free from the masterpiece that would otherwise cost her life.

She adjusted the weight of her satchel, woven reeds lined with silk, slung over her shoulder. Inside, she carried a bundle wrapped in linen—a canvas stretched tight over a wooden frame, its surface alive with the colors she had teased from elements more feared than revered. Poisons turned into beauty. A trade learned from her master, Madrigal, whose shadow still lingered in the room despite his death two years ago. This was his final lesson: that perfection came at a cost most steep.

The Price of Beauty

Elira’s russet hair, neatly braided and tucked beneath a fur-lined cap, framed her pale, freckled face that bore a resolute determination, though it was pallid from days of fever. Her hands, callused yet precise from years of grinding, mixing, and painting, ran across her patched brown gown—a modest attire save for the few copper brooches she had stitched to the hem. It was all she could afford after Madrigal’s demise, having taken up commissions in secret to fund her escape from the court of Duke Osterhelm.

Two weeks ago, Duke Osterhelm, her patron, had made his demand: to complete a portrait that would immortalize his soon-to-be bride, Lady Roja. Yet his intentions were far from romantic. The pigments he had ordered—minium orange, cinnabar, and arsenic-hued Scheele’s Green—were a recipe for death. Rumors whispered through the court’s halls told of how the pigments, when mixed with tinctures of mercury and oils, would leach a slow poison into the skin. The Duke had no desire to preserve beauty; he sought to own it, even in death. He wanted her to craft not a portrait, but a hushed execution.

A Deal with the Shadows

Her hands slid over the cold wood of her master’s old workbench as she hunted through the clutter. She didn’t have much time. The moon outside hung heavy in the sky, its silver light seeping through the frost-coated windowpanes. If she were caught here, in the heart of Osterhelm’s estate, there would be no mercy.

The Masterpiece Unveiled

Hours passed. The wind outside howled against the stone walls as the candles burned low. Eventually, the final stroke was placed onto the canvas. Elira straightened, stepping back to examine her work. The portrait was stunning—Lady Roja seated atop a throne carved of emerald, her gown a cascade of molten copper and gold. Her eyes, so vibrant a green they seemed alive themselves, stared back with unsettling intensity. It was a masterpiece to rival even the great Luminarov talent from the east.

But Elira shuddered. She felt its pull—the faint vibration beneath her skin, as though the painting had taken root in her veins. Her knees buckled, and she clutched the edge of the workbench to stay upright. She had expected it to claim her strength, even her will. Instead, it demanded something far deeper—her very essence, siphoning it to illuminate the colors she had so carefully crafted. Her pulse weakened, her breath shallow.

“Not yet,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “Not yet.”

Summoning her resolve, she wrapped the portrait tightly in linen and secured it in her satchel. She had completed the Duke’s commission, but she would not deliver it. Her fingers touched the small amulet hidden beneath her cloak, a charm she had bought in the marketplace—a supposed ward against the dark powers of creation. If the amulet failed, her plan would still suffice. The pigments wouldn’t simply poison the Duke’s bride; they would turn against him, painting his doom with every breath Lady Roja took.

The Escape

Elira slipped through the service corridors, her breath measured and quiet. Her reflection flashed in the polished bronze of a candelabra as she passed—a flicker of a figure cloaked in desperation and dark resolve. She had traded her usual oils for pigments that stung the lungs and painted ideas that burned the soul. The satchel weighed heavier with each step.

The Final Strokes

The pursuit ended when sunrise painted the sky in hues that rivaled her pigments. Somewhere deep within the woods, Elira collapsed beneath a towering oak, her fingers still clutching the satchel. She had escaped, but she knew her time was shortening. Her strength was spent, her soul too entwined with the masterpiece she carried. Yet, as her vision blurred, she smiled—she had left behind more than a portrait. She had left behind a lesson, a warning sealed in color and canvas.

Beauty came at a price. And, for now, it would claim its most ruthless patron.

Her final breath released into the world as the light of dawn transformed the toxins on the canvas into an unearthly glow, a beauty unmatched—and untouched by mortal greed ever again.

Genre: Historical Fantasy

The Source...check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: The Most Dangerously Poisonous Paints Ever

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