“Prince Legolas!”

The young man wiped his hands on his paint-stained smock. “The Master is—er—he is resting. Please, come through…”

He ushered Legolas into an elegantly-furnished reception room. “Please, your Highness, take a seat. I will tell the Master you are here.” He shuffled backwards through the door, in a semi-bowing posture.

Legolas smiled at the sudden sound of running feet, the footfalls changing subtly as they flew along the tiled corridor, over a rug, and into a room with a wooden floor—the studio, no doubt. There was a rustle of fabric, then some urgent whispering. And, if Legolas allowed himself to listen, he could just hear what was being said…

But men make no allowance for elven hearing, he thought, and it is impolite to eavesdrop.

To occupy himself, he looked around the room. This is where Master Halmir deals with his customers, he thought, the great and good of Minas Tirith. The painter was clearly a successful man. The walls were hung with tapestries, the furniture upholstered in velvet, the floor covered with a rug from Near Harad.

The room was arranged for a viewing—its furniture clustered around a decorative easel bearing a small, rectangular object hidden under a velvet cover—evidently the Master's most recent painting.

Legolas reached for the corner of the cloth—

“Good morning, your Highness!”

Guiltily, Legolas drew back his hand and turned to face the painter—a short, balding libertine: unwashed, unshaven and smelling strongly of ale. “Master Halmir—”

Halmir bowed, unsteadily. “What may I do for you, your Highness?”

“I would like to commission a painting,” said Legolas. “A double portrait.”

“I see. Please—take a seat.”

“I would need it finished in less than three months,” continued Legolas. “Could that be done?”

“Three months. The painting can be ready—though it would require additional time to dry thoroughly. And the couple must, of course, make themselves available—”

“They cannot,” said Legolas. “The portrait is a surprise gift. They cannot know it is being painted.”

“Your Highness,” said Halmir, very clearly, as though speaking to a child, “that is not possible. I paint from the life.”

“I can arrange for you to see them,” said Legolas, “at a public function.”

“That is not acceptable.”

“What if I were to obtain other likenesses of them? Of him, at least—”

“Who are these people?” asked Halmir.

“The Prince of Ithilien and his betrothed.”

Without a word, Master Halmir rose to his feet, walked over to the easel and raised the velvet cover.

Legolas’ heart missed a beat. “It is so very like her…” he whispered.

She gazed out of the painting at him, her golden hair framing her face, her grey eyes smiling, her generous lips slightly parted, a light blush on her porcelain cheeks.

“I must confess,” said Halmir, “I believe it to be my finest work.”

“She is about to speak,” said Legolas. She is about to say, I love you.

“To Prince Faramir—he was sitting beside me… On reflection,” said Halmir, “I think I can do what you ask. Though my fee must reflect the difficulty of the task.”

“The fee is immaterial, Master Halmir; and I have every confidence in your skills. Perhaps you will draw up a contract and have it brought to the King’s House? And perhaps,” he added, suddenly diffident, “you would allow me to visit you occasionally, to see the work as it progresses?”

“You may call at any time, your Highness.”

“Thank you.” Legolas rose, placed his hand over his heart and bowed his head. “Good day, Master Halmir.”

The apprentice came forward to see him out.

But as he reached the door, the elf suddenly paused and, without turning back, said, “Would you be willing to make a copy of the lady’s portrait for me, Master Halmir? A copy by your own hand—you may name any price.”