Megan

In the village of Cainly nestled between the mountains and the forest, there lived a reclusive artist named Megan. Her small cottage stood at the edge of the village, hidden beneath the wild growth of ivy and vines, its walls adorned with canvases and frames, each more mesmerizing than the last. The villagers whispered about her, calling her the 'Painter of Dreams.' Few had ever seen her, but those who had were often left speechless, struck by the impossible beauty and strange power that radiated from her work.

It was said that Megan’s creations were not just art they were windows to other worlds. Those who stood before one of her paintings could hear the wind rustling through distant trees, feel the sun’s warmth on their skin, or even smell the fragrance of the flowers she had painted. Yet, there was a deeper magic to her work that only a few truly understood.

Megan’s talent had always been with her, a gift or curse, depending on the day since childhood. From the moment she picked up a brush, the world around her seemed to fade, and all that mattered was the canvas. But the paintings she created had never been normal. The figures she painted could move, the skies she captured could shift with the time of day, and the landscapes seemed to breathe with life. No one truly understood why, and Megan never asked. It was simply the way it had always been.

It was also said that Megan had crossed old June and had upset the old woman so much that a curse was enacted that very day and Megan was doomed to only exist, pinned forever to her paintings, tied unmercilessly to the enchanted power they possessed and cursed to this power until old June died. Old June was considered a witch by the villagers.

As she grew older, Megan realized something unsettling: every time she painted, a piece of herself was lost. It was as if her soul was tied to the art, and the more vibrant, more alive her creations became, the further away she drifted from herself. She found it harder and harder to remember her own thoughts, her own desires. Her paintings were full of dreams and wishes, but they weren’t hers anymore. They belonged to the world she had created with her brushes.

One day, a drifter named Frederick arrived in Cainly. He had heard the rumours of Megan’s enchanted works and, as an artist himself, he was drawn to the mystery. His own work had always felt stagnant, uninspired, as though he was merely copying what he had seen before, never creating anything truly new. Megan’s legend spoke to him, he wanted to understand how her paintings breathed, how they carried with them such immense power.

Frederick made his way to Megan’s cottage, his heart pounding in his chest. He had no idea what he would find inside, but he couldn’t turn back now.

When he stepped into her studio, the world seemed to stop. The paintings surrounding him seemed to vibrate with an energy that made his breath catch. A massive canvas in the corner depicted a waterfall, its water glittering, reflecting light in a way that made it look like it could pour out of the frame at any moment. Another piece showed a forest so lush and vivid that he could almost hear the rustling of the leaves.

'What is this place?' Frederick whispered, stepping deeper into the room, barely able to believe his eyes.

Megan stood in the shadow of one of her works, observing him quietly. Her long hair was tangled, her clothes faded and worn, as though she had long since stopped caring for such things. Her face, however, was still striking, framed by the soft light from the canvas before her.

'It is where the worlds within me live,' Megan answered softly, her voice distant and almost ethereal.

Frederick’s eyes widened as he turned to face her. 'But... how do you do it? How do you create such... life?'

Megan didn’t answer immediately. She walked over to a nearby canvas, a simple portrait of a young woman standing in a meadow. The figure’s eyes blinked slowly, and the wind in the painting ruffled her hair.

'I don’t choose the art,' Megan said, her voice barely audible now. 'The art chooses me.'

Frederick felt a shiver run down his spine. There was something in her words that unsettled him, something he couldn’t quite grasp. He was drawn to her, not just as an artist, but as a woman who seemed to understand the deep, aching need to create that also burned within him.

Over the next few days, Frederick visited Megan’s cottage, coming to understand more about the enigmatic artist and her strange creations. Each time he watched Megan work, he saw the toll it took on her. She would pour hours into a single piece, lost in its depths, only to emerge hours later, exhausted, as though she had been away from herself. Her paintings seemed to grow more vibrant, more alive with each stroke, but Megan’s own light grew dimmer.

One night, after he had spent hours watching her work on a new piece, a painting of a dark forest with glowing eyes hidden in the shadows Frederick could no longer contain his curiosity.

'Why do you do it?' he asked, his voice thick with emotion. 'Why do you keep painting when it’s so clear it’s taking everything from you?'

Megan paused, her hand hovering over the canvas, as if considering the question. 'Because if I stop, I lose something even worse,' she said quietly. 'I lose my connection to the world I’ve created. I lose the only part of me that still feels alive.'

Frederick felt very sorry for her. He understood now. Megan wasn’t just painting for the sake of art. She was painting to keep herself tethered to something, to preserve the last shred of herself that hadn’t been consumed by the magic. Her art wasn’t just an act of creation, it was an act of survival.

The next morning, Frederick woke with a sense of urgency. He couldn’t just watch Megan wither away. He had to find a way to help her, to free her from this cycle of creation and loss. But how could he, an artist with no magic of his own, ever hope to undo something so deeply ingrained in her soul?

He decided to ask Megan the question that had been burning in his mind for days: What does she truly want? Not what the paintings wanted, not what the magic demanded, but what Megan herself desired.

When he asked her, Megan was silent for a long time. At first, she didn’t know how to answer, as if the question itself had never occurred to her. But then, with a quiet sadness in her voice, she whispered, 'I want to live freely... to paint without losing myself. To create for the joy of creation, not because I have to.'

Frederick knew then that her wish wasn’t just a dream, it was a beacon, a way forward. He realized that in order for Megan to be free, she needed to learn to let go of the magic. She needed to stop using her art to control the world and start using it to express herself, freely, without fear of what it might take from her.

With this understanding, Frederick and Megan began to work together. They didn’t try to replicate her earlier pieces, the enchanted works that had consumed her. Instead, they focused on new paintings, ones that could capture emotions, simple moments, without the enchantment overpowering them.

It wasn’t easy. At first, Megan struggled to break free of the enchantment in her art. But over time, with Frederick’s support, she learned to create without the overwhelming need to infuse every piece with magic. And as she did, she felt herself slowly returning to the person she had once been.

Frederick made his excuses one day and left but he told Megan that he would return in a day or two as he had some business to attend to in the next village.

He returned with blood on his shirt and trousers. Megan enquired what had happened to which he replied that he had been set upon by a group of hooligans and roughed up. Megan accepted his story and continued painting.

She found a well of energy that she never had before and threw herself into her paintings like never before, it was like a curse had been lifted and she revelled in her newly discovered freedom.  

The next piece Megan painted was not an image of another world, but of the one around her: a portrait of the Cainly, with sunlight pouring through the trees, children playing in the fields, and the mountains looming in the distance. The colours were vibrant, but this time, they were her colours, raw and real, captured without the weight of enchantment.

When the painting was finished, Megan stepped back, her heart lighter than it had been in years. The magic that once consumed her had faded, replaced by a newfound freedom. And in that moment, she realized that the true magic of art wasn’t in the worlds it could create—but in the way it allowed the artist to express their own truth, to touch the world with their own soul.

Frederick, standing beside her, saw the change in her. The transformation had been slow, but it had been profound. Megan was no longer the prisoner of her art. She had learned to set herself free.

And so, as the seasons changed and Cainly came alive with the colours of spring, Megan found her place in the world once more: not as the 'Painter of Dreams', but as an artist who had learned to live and create for herself.