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Immediately it strikes him as an intimate sort of encounter; the portrait of a young girl titled ‘Big Sister’. Painted by a mostly forgotten artist in the Victorian period. Although the painter has his landscapes and sketches that are esoteric and thought-provoking , Moriarty has been observing this particular piece for who knows how long now. Time, sharply captured in his mind, passes like the birds of prey leaving for the winter as he relinquishes himself in the emerald gaze of the woman long gone.
Her hair is like the bark of trees and the vitriol of fresh soil; the connection to nature that is pure and majestic, tinged with what could be amber rays when he observes the faintest brushstroke indicating a lightsource closely. Curling faintly and falling over her shoulders like waves and framing her face, beyond words, lovingly. In the shaded backdrop of an opulent house though the wallpaper indicates an old, declining sort of atmosphere, he sees the emerald ribbon that matches her gown. A lovely silk gown. Perhaps a little old fashioned, even for the time period, maybe not glamorous enough. But ‘Richard’ cannot see a single flaw in the composition of this portrait. Oh, if only the painter had captured her head to toe, then he would even see the perfect body of a true princess.
A commission it is, according to all that was recovered alongside this portrait in relation to the artist. He thinks that a woman with such a worldly, yet somewhat mercurial expression, her faintly darkened eyes looking beyond the veil of oil on canvas to the viewer. A mysterious beauty, a ghost of haunting elegance. Who could this be? Who could she have been? Already, he knows that his contacts are taking the precious time off their own work to research the origin of this portrait and the girl depicted in such an odd light that she might be still herself. Already, those contacts and his own employees are searching high and low to appease the sudden turn of desires from a cunning master. They matter not. From the moment his eyes laid on this girl, truly, he fell in love.
With the girl in oil; her eyes tell everything there is to know about her. As he stands at night solitary in a room of gracious chivalry, she seems to delicately step out of her frame, and Richard helps her land her delicate feet onto his hardwood floor, as she holds her skirts so regally with one pale hand. On her hand, he sees a silver band encrusted with one emerald. It is not an engagement ring. She is certainly old enough to be a bride. A bride… yes, all the princes in the world must have fought for the hand of this nameless noble lady in the time she was alive centuries ago, with her fair skin like the reflection of the moon in the ocean, soft skin stretching across the thin bones in her small hand as Richard presses a kiss of reverence to her knuckles.
How long did he dream of meeting her? Every night may not be an exaggeration. Dancing with the lady of the castle atop the hill in her green dress. And each day, every other painting seemed to lose its color. And he knew that the entire world would become an unsymphonous, dreary backdrop, if he did not find her again and save her once more ; how could he be still, even the Moriarty of illusions, when a fair girl with a pure heart is kept in her tower with none to save her?
And he knew, the second he saw her in person, the mystic and elusive her , he knew that she was the princess all boys have dreamed of from the moment they became princes; Moriarty has little time for that anymore, but in his heart of hearts wrapped in a snake’s nest is the emerald knight of years long past. Of course, ‘she’ was not a perfect replica, but she was still beautiful beyond belief. Her eyes dazzling with stars on onyx and her hair flowing in lively waves about her shoulders. Though she grinned widely with her friends, completely different from the solemn, knowing look of the portrait. That’s because she's just so happy to be alive again, isn’t it? She smiled politely upon being approached by the one who had hunted her for months just to find her mere days away, and she curtsied neatly.
Not that she’s acting so politely now. Yes, he understands.
“Your heart is so tender, dear heart, that I know you miss your home.” He massages her soft shoulder through her silk gown; brand new, but fits just as perfectly as all her old clothes. She wore yellow in her youth and emerald at the apex of her beauty– that is, now, that she has been saved by her prince. No, prince is such a heavy word. Moriarty is not one to be shackled with words when they are the modern sword in his hands, handled as expertly as he swings them in his free time, secretly still hoping for a day he will brandish it in front of his princess and the dragon. “But it is better, no? If you still have that home to miss…”
She just about spits in his face, with that expression of hers. Knitted eyebrows, frowning red lips. Still, she looks devastating. Especially now, with all those little specks of black and brown covered up on her ravishing complexion; some blemishes are still discernible to an eye such as his own, but he is satisfied when the pearl has already returned to her beautiful sea in aquamarine and emerald abysses fathoms below what any human could imagine.
“You know nothing about me, ‘Richard’, don’t even try.” She hisses, and it’s Richard’s turn to frown deeply in disappointment. It’s such an unsightly way of speaking that he pauses worshiping the delicacy of her nape and grips her chin with the tips of two long fingers– though gently enough that his nails wouldn’t dig in and leave ugly scars. Elsewhere does a handprint bloom, but when she’s just finally been coerced to put on makeup and when she’s so volatile (only for now), he considers himself a gentleman to treat her carefully. “Don’t touch me!”
Tilting her face to one side, he only lowers his gaze that softens infinitesimally for his one and only muse. In the corner of his peripheral vision, “Big Sister” is watching him from a girlish wall of something that maybe Marie Antoinette’s chambers would adorn in lovely flowers as she’s framed in delicate royal gold.
“My dear, have we not already discussed? No matter, I am infinitely patient for you.” Stroking her cheek as he resists the urge to slap the powdered cheek. “A princess shouldn’t raise her voice, especially not at her knight… I am sure you know this. You must be trying to irritate me on purpose. And I will forgive you.”