The man’s ragged breathing never failed to make her smile.

She lounged on the hilltop, letting her glamour wash over him, and watching the sweat trickle down his face as he painted with shaking hands. He couldn’t see her, this strange little mortal, not really, but he could feel her – feel the awe, terror and splendor that was her true nature, her very soul. It drove him to work, his desperation to understand her beauty tearing any prayer of peace from his mind. How marvelous must it be, she mused, and how painful, to sense the majestic splendor of a being such as herself and yet be unable to comprehend what was right in front of his face.

She had to admit, however, his work almost did her justice.

Once in a while she stood, stretching her sleepy limbs, and wandered over to peek at the canvas, the spirals of color and light that *almost* captured her magnificence. Not too often – for it overwhelmed him to have her so close – even a few breaths shared between them send him trembling to his knees, breathless and gasping. It would have been wiser of her to leave proper space between them.

But, well. Wisdom was not her priority.

Some part of her thought it was a shame. Mortals were so fragile, and this little engagement would have a lasting effect on his sanity, possibly even shorten his lifespan. Humans were not meant to behold dragons, not even for a short while. True, her presence drove him on, and gave him unique insight and inspiration, but the work he created…there was something magical in it, something, she had to admit, even beyond what she herself would have thought a mortal capable of. The way the shapes moved before her eyes, the fluidity of the strokes, the vibrancy of the colors…

His weeping brought her back to the present moment, and she stepped back, giving the poor little man space to breathe. She went back to her spot and lay down, listening to his pained gasps as he gathered himself once more. After a few moments his breathing calmed, and he found the strength to rise again, his hand going to the paint brush as if it was the key to life itself.

As the sound of brush on canvas filled the air once more, a small spark of sadness cooled the selfish greed of her heart. He worked so hard, this human. He clearly loved his art, even if it was killing him. It was forbidden for her to do anything to help him while he lived, but perhaps, after his death…

…perhaps, she could do something to preserve his name… Picked for IKTR: 2