'Tala' was about to leave. Her horse-a gorgeous sorrel filly named 'Emerald'-was saddled and ready to go...when she heard some raucous cawing-above her. She ignored it. A few moments later, a Kraai swooped out of the sky, buzzing over her head and then pinwheeling to the top of the flagpole at the gate to glare down her with a beady, black baleful eye. Crows had always been bad luck, in Talas estimation.
She then recognized it as Hugo's bird...
Tala was still confused, when she spotted Hugo himself, hurrying toward her with a wrapped painting in hand, visibly winded. Well, he seemed in good shape anyway!
"I guess no shortcut is too perilous for a ladies favor, eh Hugo?"She laughed, plucking a chicken feather from his coat.
"Also, I'm not sure, but I think your bird tried to assassinate me...""Perhaps your nights have not been entirely unenjoyable? Forgive me for saying so, but you have the air of a woman in love. For that, I also give my congratulations."
Tala was reminded how well Hugo could read people...
"Hmm, it seems I have been found out, and by the one person I would have told in confidence. What gave me away? Unless, of course, this is your standard greeting to most people, knowing that those in love admit it happily?"She beamed.
He then proffers the wrapped painting.
"Als het uw belieft; a gift, to secure my eyesight. Perhaps it will remind you that it would be best not to suffer any injuries in the coming battles. I think you will find it an entirely unbiased piece."
"Ahh, I would not deny you to look as I open it. It is either a painting or an overlarge flattened battle shield...let's see..."Tala removed the wrapping gingerly, and gasped. It was...perfect. Like looking in a mirror. Somehow he had caught...her. The very essence of her body and soul-which was to say, it reminded Tala of her real self.
Had he looked upon her and somehow knew-that beneath the pretty dresses and posing, this was who she was?
"Hugo...it's amazing. Wonderful...How did you.."While there was no details for the answer seeker-no abstractions, tricks of vantage or color to fool the eyes-to Talas own eyes could make details of herself that she had almost forgotten.
A narrow, tiny scar, barely perceptible on her left shoulder-the point of a knife wound she had earned in a street fight at 16.
The way she liked to keep her ponytail slightly wild and uncontrolled-and yet, the longest lock that hung down her forehead was always pushed to side. He had included that detail.
Even the tilt of her head indicated she was speaking to the viewer of the painting-one of her hands was about to be raised in supplication, and her mouth was formed in such a way to suggest a small smile was about to spring up.
She couldn't speak. What could she say?