The Avenger's soulmate

Chapter ten: Gallery greetings

It was quiet. Ophelia's heels clicked harmoniously on the marble flooring, her coat flowing in her wake. The gallery was grand, high arches adorned in golden decorations stretched down the hall, their centers curling around a skylight. The skylight was a simple dome of glass but its frame was not: Tentacles of plaster divided and twisted from their arches, molding around it. Designs followed those curls, etched in gold within that angel white frame. It was a Victorian build, maybe, Ophelia could not pinpoint a date. It was fancy so it was old. Modern things were never as elegant as this skylight she gazed towards was now; A column of sun cascaded from it, flooding the room, a mist of golden hues. Paintings carpeted the walls, abstract and elegant. Women draped antique sofas in the nude, dressed in slips of diverse silks that overall, covered nothing. Other images: Shapes and circles clustered into chaotic compositions, nude forms splaying across men, other women, each other, and a painful amount of dogs all grinning at their masters as they clutch a rifle to their chest. It was what one could expect. Nothing too extraordinary to her. 

Lydia was ahead, marching towards a pair of doors at the end of this entrance hall. They were set in a similar frame to the skylight like a writhing octopus attempting to pluck away its hinges. As they opened and the blonde trotted through, they creaked indignantly. Ophelia craned her neck to those darkened panels, pausing to study the pictures drawn within. Masks glared back, smiling and sobbing, their skin marked with gentle waves and curves, like ritualistic symbols. Hm. Certainly not human, she thought, shuffling to where Lydia was beckoning her. "Hurry up Ophelia."
"Sorry," she called.

The next room was full of her paintings. Unfortunately like those simpler images behind her, these were less elegant, more disturbing. Her art was her escape; Her metaphorical escape from the ones that captured her; her literal escape from sanity. The most disturbing ones, she had at home, slipped underneath her mattress, some were stuck in the backrooms of this gallery. Probably. The nicer ones stood proud on the walls here.

Abstract pieces darkened the room with crimson streaks and bleak colors, she usually drew those in a rage.
Sharp streaks. Handprints. Perfect circles. Grim composition.
A monotone palette of paints, greys, and blacks, overlayed with more disturbing tones. Blood reds. Deep forest greens. Ocean blues–not the sweet glaze of a cyan sea can get over those idyllic beaches, it was dark like those depths no one can reach nor should even dream too.
If they did, the pressure would make sure they'd never make it back. In a way, Ophelia had thought of as her mind, if her soulmates had dived within. That lightless abyss would swallow them, her shadows crushing them.
Looking at this work and recalling the memories pummelled into it was painful.

Luckily, they'd placed more of her calmer ones up. The ballerina dancing, those gun raisers cropped out, (the picture was a lot bigger before), and the other one, that woman. That woman: short stubs for hair, a teary smile peeled across her lips as she danced, arms up, body relaxed, shadows flowing to the same tune around her; Black forms seemingly swaying, arms raised with hers, some clutched glasses of whisky, protruding from their shrouded hands. It was nice. Ophelia had to admit. That one was the most fun to paint. The idea had popped into her skull the day she got drunk, drunk for the first time. She'd been alone, downing whisky and vodka like it was water, hoping to drown in it. Her shadows had come out screeching, clawing from her wrists, and her skin; they wanted blood. She was too drunk to stop them.

The detail she'd left out of this peculiar scene was their proper dance floor: the ton of enemy corpses strewn below their feet.
The scene it showed was the drunken aftermath; The moment after the slaughter. In truth, she couldn't feel guilty even in her sober state, they'd come crashing through the door. Her shadows only responded with the same vigor.
Dead agents. Guns still clasped in crimson gloves. Pools clustering at that girl's feet. It was the most fun to paint. It was the pinnacle of her life; the moment she finally felt free.
They stopped sending troops after that–Too many casualties and too little staff.

Ophelia sighed. Lydia was off buying a catalog to put in her memory box leaving her friend alone. As she scanned the small crowds her heart dropped. A new masterpiece stood in the center of the room.
The man was like a statue, poised in elegance. Veined hands flicked through the catalog, manicured fingers slowly turning the page. A curtain of raven hair hid his eyes, the dark curls slipping down to his collarbone. This specimen–this god was clad in a suit of black and green, golden rings slipped across those carved fingertips. He was elegant, something straight from the depths of these canvases. Ophelia lowered onto a bench, eyes glued to the man's alabaster features.
Hell, he was hot.

That is when his emerald gaze met hers and sank, softening with a realization. Her breath immediately hitched, staggering through her lips as the world faded. It was only him she saw. In her head, her shadows began to chatter. A sensation crawled up her wrist, pulsing where a mark would be. Oh.
The man seemed to understand too. Every soulmark acts differently when a connection is ignited. Now, bugs crawled under her skin, it made her want to puke. Ophelia rose. This divine creature opposing her couldn't be her soulmate. It's impossible. Improperbale. And yet, her feet didn't carry her towards the door, instead, they glued to the floor. What is she doing? Her soulmate was moving towards her, his pace hurried. The world seemed so still. People weren't moving. Sunlight spattered through the windows above. Ophelia was frozen, her heart hammering her chest, a feeling sinking into her gut. Panic. This is foreign. What should she do? Run? Move to him? Before her brain could process these questions, arms snaked around her waist, pulling her into him. Electricity sparked between them. A gasp flooded from her lips. This was new. The rage in her heart died away. Warmth radiated across her body. Was it unwanted? No. Something foreign came over her. She sank into his embrace, her arms slipping around his body.

There was quiet.
Comforting quiet until the exception: Until that single word spilled from his lips, low and husked, 
"Darling,"