There was something disturbing; about the way the young girl’s eyes seemed to stare out through the paintings. He did not believe in the thought that paintings had souls, never the less that they could communicate with the viewer. Merely that there were some he preferred over others. Still, he could not walk away, and for a moment he stood there, captivated by the picture on the wall.

 

“She’s stunning, isn’t she?” a voice murmured from the side, and as he turned, he recognized the sharply dressed woman as the gallery owner. Dark brown eyes blinked through a pair of sharp, almost old-fashioned glasses with thick frames. He smiled. She was a very plain looking woman, dressed in her long black skirt and the modest white shirt- and yet she had passion as she watched the painting.

 

“She’s disturbing.” He corrected, his soft accent coming through only because the whole process disturbed him.

 

The woman merely smiled, the almost soft, condescending smile he had begun to associate with gallery owners. “She’s my favorite piece.” The owner confessed, and he merely nodded, tilting his head slightly to one side in response to something that seemed almost frivolous.

 

“Who is she?” he never had long conversations with people. He didn’t like standing there and speaking to someone who didn’t know him, and yet out of courtesy and something else, he found himself standing there, asking questions.

 

The woman shrugged. He could not see the movement, but he felt it, the slight disturbance in the air next to him as she moved her shoulders slightly, gracefully. He was surprised that she was graceful, surprised that she merely stared, quiet. He had presumed her to be the talkative type, the kind of woman who had experience solitude for so long, it had become loneliness.

 

“Some say she was the mistress of the young artist.” She smiled, a quirk of the lips and he only caught it because he had turned to stare. The smile changed her features, added color to the other wise average skin. They also lit her eyes as well, brown eyes that matched the shade of dark brown of her hair. “Who knows? It was painted in his earlier career, before he began to associate himself with the more subtle arts of impressionism.”

 

The man shrugged, having already lost interest in the story. Perhaps he would buy this painting…

 

“She’s been sold.” Almost as if she was reading his mind, she replied, softly as if afraid to disturb the peace surrounding the portrait. “A man brought her yesterday, for a exuberant price.”

 

The man smiled, changing his mind and nodded. “A pity.” He said softly. “I merely wish the owner will appreciate her…” he paused. He did not know the words he was looking for.

 

“Stillness?” she offered softly, appearing braver than he had thought.

 

He nodded, acknowledging her words with a slight tilt of his head. He found himself growing annoyed now, because he didn’t like to sit there and speak to people for so long. Looking down at his watch, and deciding he had spent enough time with this woman he was about to move on when a soft pale hand stopped him.

 

“My name is Amanda Beckett.” She said softly, and he looked up, to see something close to puzzlement in her eyes, as if she could not quite believe she had touched him. He watched her, silent and felt a flush overcome her face as she hurriedly removed her arm. Still, before she could turn away in embarrassment, he nodded again.

 

“Charles Monroe.” He said simply.

 

Her eyes widened, almost in recognition and smiled. “The great art collector?” she asked almost in disbelief. “Is it true that you actually bought the paintings at the Louvre?” she asked, incredulous in a way only an art lover could be. “A public master piece?”

 

He was bored now. People made such a big deal. He had the money, so he spent in on things and people he wanted. There had been a piece with a woman at the Louvre, and he had bought it, not to keep but to know that it was his forever. It had cost him half his fortune, but he was satisfied, knowing that her secret smile was his forever.

 

“It is getting late.” With clipped words, he nodded his farewell. “Good day, Ms. Beckett.”

 

She nodded. “Please, call me Amanda.” The words left her mouth before she could stop herself, and he paused, assessing.

 

Maybe she wasn’t so plain after all.

 

He smiled, his first smile of the day and it was a pleasing sight. “Amanda.” He said softly, and left, making his way to where the Rolls Royce waited with the driver in tow.

 

He didn’t expect to see her again, which is probably why he didn’t recognize her, at first. Sitting in a café and having a cappuccino for break fast, she had been busy looking over the figures for the first quarter when he heard that laughter. The laughter, so feminine in sound distracted him for a moment and he looked up to see a young woman in a pair of pale khaki trousers and a white sweater watching the antics of the gypsies. Not everyone paid the gypsies any attention any more, and he was refreshed by her naivety.  Sitting there, watching her he was surprised when dark brown eyes turned to meet his, and warm in recognition.

 

“Charles.” She said, and he heard her over the din of others and watched as she got up lightly, picking up her white tote and walked over to sit in front of him. He would have been annoyed, except he was still trying to figure out who she was. Did he know her from some other meeting place?

 

Then it hit him, just as she sat down.

 

“Amanda.” He said simply, watching her and tucking the palm away because it wasn’t polite. “Are you meeting someone?”

 

She shook her head, dark curls that were surprisingly vibrant dancing over plain shoulders. She was different from what he had seen, and he found it slightly… disconcerting.

 

“I just enjoy spending time here, before going to work.” She smiled, and saw something in his eyes that seemed to speak of his thoughts. “Are you surprised to see me?” she wasn’t wearing her glasses, which made her eyes look larger and womanlier. He nodded. He had no need to lie to her, to pretend and to try to win her over.

 

“You look different.”

 

She paused, blinked and laughed, again that peal of laughter. “I don’t know whether to be complimented or insulted.”

 

“Complimented.” He said frankly, being too serious to see it as a joke. She paused then, and smiled.

 

“Okay then.” Taking this all into stride, she watched him. “The owner is coming to collect the piece today.”

 

He paused from taking a sip, and looked up. “Oh?” it was polite talk again, but not quite. He liked this one, liked spending time with her.

 

She nodded. “I thought… you’d like to meet him.” As the plain one had been bolder, the bold one seemed to be shyer.

 

He nodded, feeling generous but also a sense of curiosity.

 

Charles Monroe was a rich man who had grown up as a single child, spoilt by his father and coddled by his mother to a point where he had perfected the art of arrogance, to a point where it was a part of him, as was his pale blonde hair and ebon eyes. He had grown up spoilt, rich but on his eighteenth birthday, the massacre of his family had changed him, twisted him.

 

Now, he knew how important it was to be polite, to pretend to be nice and as he returned to the gallery with this woman, he was both.

 

“Have you met the owner?” he asked, watching her, and for a moment admiring the way she seemed to disappear into her outfit. She had changed, coming out into the worm she was and he found it amusing. He was a man of plenty of masks, except he felt rather out of his league around her.

 

“Only once.”

 

Amanda Beckett was a normal girl who had excelled in drama but had found her passion in the arts. By playing a double role, by owning her own gallery she had been able to dabble in both of her arts. No one knew who she was, really. But that didn’t matter because to her, the entire world was her stage.

 

Amanda and Charles were having too good a time waiting for the owner, exchanging stories of their lives. Amanda had never known that Charles’ parents had been murdered by a crazy house cleaner, or that he had made it his life mission to collect the best art in the world, because they all reminded him of his mother. Likewise, he had never known what a sweetheart Amanda was, nor that she was supposed to be a killer cook.

 

“I’d like to try some of your cooking, something.” He said softly, almost shyly and she looked up, surprised and her cheeks darkened with pleasure.

 

“I’d like you to try it as well.” She giggled lightly. “We sound like eight year olds.”

 

Charles, slightly amused because he wasn’t being as smooth as he wanted to smiled ruefully. “It seems we’re far too comfortable, with each other.” He said simply.

 

It was then, that they decided to go for an ice cream together, him vanilla and her some odd flavor such as shooting stars. Standing there, making sure that their ice creams did not drip and looking silly because it was almost autumn now, they almost missed the sight of the dragon landing in the park.

 

A dragon.

 

Charles looked incredulous as he looked at the creature in front of him. “What are you?” he asked, skeptically. Had someone put hallucinating drugs into his drink, again?”

 

The search rider snapped. “Dragon rider. I’m here to search you.”

 

Amanda looked wary, but at the sound of dragons her eyes lit up. “I love dragons, they look so beautiful in paintings.” She blushed. “I sound like a bimbo, don’t I?”

 

Charles looked over, feeling rather tender towards the girl. “Not too much.” He assured her. He paused. “What are you talking about, being searched?” he asked the rider.

 

The search rider watched them with blank, almost confused eyes. “You know.” He waved one hand around as if it explained everything. “Searched. Dragons?”

 

“Dragons?” Charles repeated.

 

Amanda looked over at him, frowning. “It’s not nice to say that, and I know you’re not stupid.” She reminded him.

 

The search rider rolled his eyes. Was he on some sort of comedy program? Why were these people so dense?

 

Amanda glared at him. “You know, we’re from Earth.”

 

Ah, that explained everything. Even though they searched millions of earthlings every year, none of them ever got the clue that the people were not missing person cases, but candidates who usually became riders.

 

“Here, let me start at the beginning.” He hated telling this story.

 

Charles looked away, bored already and Amanda rolled her eyes. “Couldn’t you tell us when we get there?” she suggested.

 

Charles looked at her sharply. “He could be dangerous, you know.” He reminded her, and she merely grinned.

 

“I have you to protect me, don’t I?” she quipped, earning a blank, disconcerting look.

 

The search rider shrugged. “Simply, I take you away, parade you in front of a large dragon with eggs and one day, one of those eggs might hatch and you might find yourself bonded to a dragon.”

 

Charles blinked. “Bonded?” he was starting to sound like a parrot.

 

The search rider nodded. “You’re minds kind of merge…”

 

Charles looked horrified. “I’m going to be possessed by a reptile?”

 

Amanda looked offended. “I thought it was a great idea until you started to talk about being possessed.” She snapped.

 

Charles looked at her, apologetic. “Do you want to be possessed?”

 

Amanda shrugged. “Wouldn’t it be fun, though?”

 

Charles, thoughtful nodded. “This one doesn’t seem to be too crazy yet, and I suppose I don’t have a dragon yet.”

 

The rider snorted. “I hope not.” But his patience was wearing thing. “Are you coming with me, or not?” he demanded.

 

Charles, watched him for a moment and shrugged. “Weren’t we supposed to meet the owner?” Charles asked almost blankly, looking up and meeting the dragon’s eyes and feeling just a tiny bit of fear.

 

Amanda, while having only met him just these two moments laughed, understanding him in a way he understood her. “We could always do that later.” Taking his hand into hers, she squeezed reassuringly.

Charles did not know what to do, with the dragon. Yes, he was meant to ride it for it was a creature of noble origins, but what else? Standing there and looking slighlty bemused as he tilted up his head to stare into the frank eyes of the adult brown, he looked over at Amanda. "Do you think, we can go back now?" he asked. Both dragons were old enough to be considered adults, but young enough that they were still in their prime.

"Do you want to go back?" Amanda, busy oiling the hide of the dragon, something she found fascinating looked over. Her skin had darkened in the three years toiling under the sun, and both had hardened. "I quite like it here."

I would have thought, that you liked it here as well. Charles, used to this now, the way dragons spoke in the mind, smiled. Porfidith was an average brown, suiting his rider in a somehow paradoxical fashion.

"Of course I do." he assured the dragon. He felt free. While he was seen as an equal to all, and while he enjoyed this, some part of him missed the.. well...

"Civilization?" Amanda offered. "Not that this world isn't, both the kind of civiliation we're used to?"

Charles looked over, grateful. They were close now, closer. In a way, they could finish each ther's sentences and speak in a way that confused everyone else.

 

 

Standing at Darkling Dawn Weyr