Work Text:
The sun was starting to set over the small town you called home. All over, people were winding down for the evening, lighting candles, shuttering windows, gathering in close against the quickly falling night.
But not you. You were busy packing a wooden case with a fresh canvas, tubes of paint and weathered brushes. Everything you needed to capture a moment in time. Shoes on, case in one hand and easel in the other, you set out. And you knew exactly where you were going.
Down the main road and out into the wilderness. Turning off onto a narrow path that wound its way into the forest. Even in the darkness, the route was familiar under your feet. There was no need for a lantern; the moon was full and bright enough to illuminate your way, especially with the accompanying stars in their twinkling constellations.
You soon arrived at the inspiration for your next piece of art: a slow flowing river that rolled over a bed of smooth stones, carving a meandering path through the trees. Standing there, even just for a moment, you felt a wash of peace settle over you. It was a timeless place. A place where you felt your spirit lighten and where you almost felt that you could reach out and touch your ancestors, no matter where they lay on the earth and in history. The thought brought a melancholy smile to your face that stayed with you while you set up. You were by no means a professional painter, had never taken a class or learned from a master. But what you lacked in technique, you made up for in passion.
It didn’t take you long to roughly sketch the scene onto your canvas. Ready to start, you prepared your palette, filled a tin with water from the river, and began to work. Time unravelled before you as the process took over. Your hands and dress were quickly stained with paint but you didn’t care. It would wash out. And, if it didn’t, it would serve as a memory.
As you worked, you began to hum. Stray notes found their way to an old song your father had sung to you in your childhood. The humming slipped into singing and your sweet voice rose amongst the trees, tinged with an accent that never otherwise emerged from your lips:
Speed, bonnie boat, lik’ a bird on the wing
Onward, the sailors cry
Carry the lad was born tae be King
O’er the sea to Skye
Unbeknownst to you, you were not alone in the woods. Yes, there were nocturnal creatures prowling, birds looming from their perches, insects whirring their strange music. None of these were any bother to you. They were as much a part of the scene as the trees and the river, as the sky above and the earth below. But something more sinister lurked in the darkness. He had caught your scent from the minute you’d stepped outside of the protection of civilisation. From that moment, you were his. But the lilting sound of your voice made him pause. Curiosity overtaking hunger upon hearing that old song that had no place here. The sounds of life fell silent in his wake as he approached.
There you were, bathed in moonlight, practically glowing.
Unaware of the creature watching you, your song came to a close. Only then did you notice the unnatural quiet that surrounded you. You looked around as if you would be able to find some cause or reason. But there was nothing out of place. Your watcher stood silent and unmoving, blending into the shadows; hidden so well that even when you looked in his direction, your eyes brushed over him as though he wasn’t there at all.
You shivered and turned back to the canvas, searching your mind for another song to lift your spirits and ward away the chill.
Remmick moved forward, preparing to strike. But your voice began again and he stumbled, the familiar song like a punch to the gut:
Oh, the summer time has come
And the trees are sweetly blooming
An’ the wild mountain thyme
Grows around the blooming heather
It sounded different coming from your lips. He couldn’t fully describe it but you had transformed the song into something almost like a lullaby. It washed over him like the river before you and soothed the thoughts of violence from his mind. Moving slower this time, he stepped out into the moonlight, leaning against the closest tree to watch and listen to you begin the chorus. Overcome, Remmick couldn’t stop his voice from joining yours in a quiet harmony.
Caught up in the moment, you didn’t initially notice the second voice. Though the hairs at the back of your neck prickled with the sensation of being watched, you steadfastly ignored them.
But as the chorus ended and your voice fell silent, you heard another, low and rough, continuing the song. Time slowed. You lifted your head, the brush in your hand starting to tremble, and looked over your shoulder. You yelped at the sight of the strange man watching you with and leapt back, crashing into your easel and almost falling into the river. Strong hands caught you and set you upright before quickly retreating.
‘My apologies. I- I really didn’t mean to frighten you.’ The words surprised Remmick even as he spoke them. Just minutes before he had been intent on draining you dry. Now, all he wanted was to hear more of your voice.
‘I’d hate to see what you’d do to someone you were trying to frighten!’ Even though you were shouting at him and brandishing your brush like a weapon, Remmick relished in the lilt of your voice. There was a quiet strength behind it. Now that you weren’t singing, the broad accent had slipped away into something more neutral and controlled that fit the town and its people better. He could still feel the resonance of it underneath. Warm and brusk and genuine. It wasn’t quite the same as his but it was the closest he’d heard from any tongue other than his own in countless years. ‘You’ve put the absolute fear in me.’ Your hand was on your chest, heart pounding underneath. ‘What are you even doing out here? Stalking in the shadows, watching me. Who are you?’
‘Just a wanderer, enjoying a nighttime stroll. I would have never bothered you, trust me, but then I heard you singing. And I ain’t heard those songs in a long time. I have to say, I was enchanted. Couldn’t have moved from this spot if I tried.’
You looked him over, letting your guard down slightly and allowing yourself to stand slightly further up the bank, closer to him. ‘You’re from…?’
‘Ireland.’
‘My father was from Scotland.’
‘“Was”?’ He tilted his head.
‘He died when I was a girl. Left me nothing but songs and bittersweet dreams.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it. I wish…’ He stopped himself from continuing. He didn’t want to scare you off by coming on too strong. ‘I wish you could have had more time with him.’
‘Aye. Me too.’
‘What brought him here, if I may ask?’
‘The Clearances. What else? Drove him and his own da’ from their home to the South, then they were sent here for the profit of richer men.’ Your jaw tensed in anger at the memory of things you had never experienced but that you carried with you in your blood. Burning beneath your skin. Remmick could smell it. ‘And you?’
‘It’s a long story. I’ve lost count of the homes I’ve had to flee, or been chased out of.’
‘You’re too young for that.’
He chuckled. ‘You flatter me. But life doesn’t put a limit on grief for no one.’
‘That’s true enough.’ A melancholic air settled over the clearing. An understanding had passed between the two of you now. Your fear ebbed away, replaced by an intrigue for this strange man. There was something about him. Something ancient and alluring that drew you in. A hunger in his eyes, a yearning that went more than skin deep. But you didn’t know what else to say. What else to keep him talking, to keep him looking at you like you were something more than just a girl in the forest with paint on your dress. Fortunately, he could talk enough for the both of you.
‘You’re a painter?’ He took a hesitant step forward and, when you didn’t flinch back, he cautiously crossed the short distance to stand beside you, examining the half-finished painting closely.
‘I paint. I wouldn’t call myself a painter.’
‘You should.’ He murmured. ‘This is excellent.’
‘It’s not even finished yet.’ You laughed bashfully.
‘Good bones though. Can’t get anywhere without a good foundation.’
‘S’pose you’re right.’
‘I usually am.’ You laughed properly at that — a joyous laugh that rang through the clearing, bringing back the life that Remmick’s presence had frightened off. Finally, he had you at ease. ‘Name’s Remmick.’ He offered you a hand which you shook as you introduced yourself. His skin was cold against yours but it didn’t bother you. What did bother you was the paint stains that you left behind on his calloused skin.
‘Shit, I’m sorry.’ You wiped your hand on your dress and grabbed a rag from the open case. ‘Painter’s touch. Everything in my house gets the same.’ You handed him the cloth and he paused before wiping his hand clean. He almost didn’t want to. It was an imprint of you that would have lasted longer than the brief warmth of your touch.
‘It’s alright. No harm, no foul.’ He smiled, a crooked, toothy grin with a boyish charm. ‘Lil’ bit of paint never hurt no one.’ He passed the rag back and you tossed it over your shoulder. ‘Pretty name ye’ got.’
‘Thank you. I didn’t pick it.’ You grinned.
‘Well, don’t let me interrupt you.’ He gestured to the painting still in progress and drying slowly in the humid night air.
‘You’re not interrupting. Stay as long as you like.’ Something stuttered inside him. Not his heart — that had stopped beating over a thousand years ago — but the lingering fragments of his soul. He couldn’t bring himself to speak. Instead, he just nodded. You smiled again, that bright and easy smile, and he knew he’d do anything to keep seeing that smile on your face. His usual endless stream of chatter was dammed up and so the two of you existed in amiable silence, you continuing to paint while he watched. Occasionally his curiosity would get the better of him and he’d ask a question. Questions about the painting, about the town, about you and your life. You answered each and every one of them patiently and with that same smile. You’d never had an audience before. You had always assumed someone watching you work would be uncomfortable, but Remmick’s presence was oddly soothing. He was strange and inquiring and could have been an absolute pest except for the charm of his smile and the way careful way in which he chose his words.
You were well past midnight when you made your final brushstroke with a flourish.
‘There. All done.’ Remmick almost looked disappointed. ‘What do you think?’
He sucked in a thoughtful breath as he examined the completed piece. There was something miraculous about it. A freedom of movement, an impressionistic shift that captured not only the appearance of the scene but the feel of it: the dance of the moonlight on the water, the breeze brushing through the branches, the subtle haze of clouds dusting the sky. He was near enough lost for words.
‘It’s beautiful. Feels real enough to touch.’ You blushed, glancing down at your feet.
‘You’re too kind.’ You looked at the painting again, this time with Remmick’s awestruck eyes. ‘I am pretty happy with it though.’
‘You should be.’ A yawn interrupted any answer you could have given. ‘Think you ought to be gettin’ back now.’
‘You’re right.’ You looked over your scattered supplies and back up to Remmick. ‘Any chance you can offer a girl in need some help carrying things?
‘It would be my pleasure.’ You took the still-wet canvas as Remmick tossed your things haphazardly into the case, closed it and picked it up. Both of you went to grab the easel and your hands brushed. Heat immediately rose to your cheeks at the contact. ‘I’ll take it. Don’t want to risk you smudging all your hard work.’ You released the easel to him and watched as he lifted it like it weighed nothing, not even throwing his balance for a moment.
Remmick led the way out of the forest and back to the main road. He was even surer-footed than you; it was almost as if the darkness had no effect on him. You brushed the speculation away into that corner of your mind where you had put every other strange thing about him and carried on. Side by side, the two of you walked down the road back towards town. The sky was starting to lighten into that pearly grey that preceded dawn. In this new light, you couldn’t help but examine his features in what you would almost call admiration. Cornflower blue eyes almost hidden under a heavy brow that knit together in concentration. Chapped lips that seemed to move with every thought he had. The bump and curve of his nose and the breadth of his neck. You took all of it in and, on instinct, began to build the composition in your mind. You imagined him in the bright light of day, contrasts of light and shadow, the sun glinting in those enchanting eyes.
Coming to your front door, you unlocked it and went inside, propping the canvas up against the table before turning back to Remmick. Ever the gentleman, he waited outside and handed over your things for you to set aside. Returning to the door once more, you were suddenly reluctant to let him go.
‘I’m sorry if this is too forward, but I was wondering: have you ever been painted?’
Remmick practically flinched at the question. In all honesty, he couldn’t remember. Probably at some point in his long existence, some person somewhere had drawn or painted or otherwise illustrated him. But, if they had, it was too long ago to remember. His own appearance was a muddied memory to him. He couldn’t say any of that, of course. So he just shook his head. ‘Reckon I’m not the kind of face people tend to want to keep a hold on.’
‘I reckon you’re wrong about that.’ You murmured. A moment passed between you, each transfixed by the other. ‘I could do it.’
‘Do what?’
‘Paint you.’
He chuckled, dismissing himself from the very idea. ‘You don’t have to do that.’
‘I know I don’t have to. I’d like to. Before you move on from here.’ Remmick was speechless. He wanted to accept. Wanted to accept just as badly as he wanted to sink his teeth into your throat. ‘How long do you think you’ll be around for? You could come round one afternoon. I swear, I will do you justice. Hard not to with a face like that.’ The last bit slipped out without you intending it to. Remmick smiled sharply. An image of a cat cornering a mouse flickered through your mind.
‘Well, when you say such sweet things, how can a man say no. But I… I work all day. Sunup to sundown, or near enough.’
‘Daylight would be better.’ You mused. ‘But I don’t mind the dark. I can make it work. So, tomorrow?’
Remmick thought on it for a moment. The night had not played out as he had planned but there was no time to rectify it. Even if he could convince you to let him in now, there was no guarantee he could drain you and find shelter before the dawn came calling. But he could go hungry for a day with the promise that he would return that night and you would willingly let him in. ‘Why not. I guess by now it’ll be tonight.’ He chuckled.
You laughed with him and nodded. ‘You’re right, you’re right. I really must get some sleep now. Just come round whenever. I’ll be here, or I won’t be far.’
‘Soon as that sun’s down, I’ll be on your doorstep.’
‘Careful, Remmick. I might start thinking you’re keen on me.’
‘Would that be so bad?’
You shook your head with a smile. ‘Not at all. Now go. I’m ‘bout to fall down where I stand.’
‘Sleep well.’ Remmick turned and hurried the few steps down from the porch before he glanced back. ‘Y’know, I am so glad to have met you.’
‘Likewise. I’ll see you tonight.’ You waved before closing the door. Exhaustion hit you like a tidal wave and it was all you could do to unlace your boots and collapse on top of your bed, happy and satisfied. The painting was just how you’d imagined it. But you could barely think on it for picturing that strange man who had emerged from the shadows with a song on his lips and a wink in his eye. You were mad, you knew that. He could be anyone. But he had known your music and he hadn’t threatened you once. In this world, that was good enough.
Remmick fled the rising sun for the pitch black of a hollowed out tree in the forest. It was no featherbed or kingly mansion but it would do. His body began to shut down in response to the rising day and he had no problem letting it; it would only bring the night to him faster. He had to admit, he was curious to let you paint his portrait. To see what he looked like through your artist’s eyes and your pure human mind. He would, of course, feed from you after. And then you — with your songs and your paintings and your hesitant smile and your broad laughter — you would be his, just as he had planned.