[Flashback] The Concubine-in-Training (ha'na & ifran)

[Ifran]

21st Summer, 502 A.V. look, how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold: There’s not the smallest orb which thou behold’st But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins; Such harmony is in immortal souls; But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. His voice faded theatrically on the last note, the rich timbre of his voice leaving an electric buzz in its wake, like the sensation of lightning about to strike. The theater was closed, but he sang to the empty auditorium with only a ghost light to keep him company on the bare stage. While his formal education was complete and he was, to all intents and purposes, a man grown, they still said of him that his voice had not matured to its potential and that some training only came with decades of professional work. But what training he had was excellent training, and his voice throbbed with sheer talent. The training would come, all were certain. The lyrical qualities of his voice, improve with age like the fine Benshiran wines many Eypharians disdained on principle. The aria spoke to him, though, and so he gave it life in the darkness, practicing when everyone save the night watchmen had gone home. This was the reward he allowed himself after hours of painstaking vocal exercises ranging from the vocal fry to the whistle register, arpeggios both legato and staccato, increasing his vocal agility by tiny increments day by day and night by night. After all, he was a perfectionist both in this art and the one he hoped to master in the years to come. quoted, The Merchant of Venice Act V, Scene 1, 67-74, William Shakespeare

[Hana]

She had not seen the Lord Ifran since the painting had been completed to the point that the artist had no need for models anymore. She had thought about him endlessly since that point. Sometimes she got the strange sensation that perhaps she dreamt of him at night, though the dreams were never left behind for her to remember. There had been no to even hope that she’d get a chance to see him again. Yet there she was lingering in the dark, the finally dried painting wrapped and held in her arms. Her eyes had gone wide at the sound of his voice. She’d never heard anything like it before. It caused her vision to blur and become wet, and she found herself teetering towards crying in the shadows. She didn’t interrupt him. Instead she edged into the corner of his vision slowly, like some delicate night moth fluttering its wings. She waited patiently, eyes peering at him with a strange worshipping expression to them. She swallowed. The young woman, it seemed, was in fact getting at least part of the education that had been talked about for her. She was groomed to the point of impeccability from the gold dust on her face to the crystals in her hair to the gauze of cotton colored much like a summer moon. Had she had even two more arms, she would have been absolutely stunning.

[Ifran]

Chin down, he just breathed. His lips parted, his tongue curled back, the incoming air stole moisture from his tongue to maintain the hydration of his vocal apparatus. The heat of Eyktol was dry, and theaters accumulated the dust of years, construction, and lives. After assessing his aria in a few moments of this contemplation, he reached for his twinned bronze khopeshes to practice his forms, exhausting him to the point where he would be able to sleep peacefully for a few hours. But as the well-worn leather pommels came into his hands, he caught the sight of a spirit manifesting in the periphery of the ghost light. He didn't freeze immediately, but followed through with his movements until they could come naturally to a rest. When he could make out a face, an unarmed hand rose, palm up, to invite her presence. "You needn't lurk in the shadows, Ha'na," he said in Common for her benefit, "unless your mistress is training you in the arts of covertcy, in which case withdraw into the shadows and I will pretend I don't know you are observing my regimen."

[Hana]

“If my mistress is training me in it, she is doing a rather poor job, Lord Ifran,” she said in her quiet way as she stepped closer to him. “Even I know to stay out of the light if you’re trying to sneak about.” The smile she gave him was pretty, though her eyes stayed off of him. Yes, she knew all too well about wandering dark hallways and being unheard – That was a skill that had gotten her in trouble. She wasn’t as good at it as she’d thought herself to be a one point. Her eyes flickered up to him. There seemed to be a calm confidence about her that had not been there before. The next words she spoke were in Arumenic, though clumsy and such a far cry from the High Arumenic the nobility was so practiced in speaking. She was trying, though. Some would find it charming. Some would frown upon it. But she was trying as she humbly said, “My master sends me with a gift for the lord.”

[Ifran]

His answering smile was bemused, like a man standing in a rose garden and taking the time to smell the flowers, enjoying what made a certain flower singular and unique. Of course, he took his time. It was his time, after all. The silence stretched out the moment of enjoyment until finally he moved again out of stillness. "You may bring it forth," he said simply, though his benevolent mode was rather generous -- not that he could expect her to understand how well she was treated in his presence. "On second thought, take it outside. You may ride in my sedan chair and show me at my home." The light was better there, of course. He turned on his heel, leaving her to the shadows and the theater ghosts, and exited the theater through the stage exit where his litter was waiting. The house slaves were more impressively muscled than he, at least so far as size and sheer lifting power, but they were kept loyal by several means. He climbed gracefully to his seat and ordered them around to the front of the theater. The ornate sedan chair could easily seat two, and of course he expected Ha'na to be waiting as he bade her.

[Hana]

“Very well,” she nearly whispered to his retreating figure. She pulled the parcel in her arms closer to her, hugging it tightly. She’d walked there. She wasn’t a slave… No one would want to account for her if she was later than was expected… But his home? She was going to his home? Her mouth opened a little as she tried to wrap her mind about it. Then quickly, she scrambled to get out of the building, snapping out of whatever hypnotic little daze he seemed to unwittingly put her in. There was a little glance to the night guard of the theater as she scurried past. She mumbled, “Thank you.” And then outside. To see this sedan chair. She nearly tripped over herself.

[Ifran]

The brawny slaves carried the sedan chair to her, not even bothering to set it down. The gilt door opened and a hand was offered to her, helping her in and shutting the world away once she was seated. The warm desert breezes flowed through tessellated designs cut out of the wood, and the light dappled the man inside. As soon as the door was shut, they began to move. He was silent for a time, and then spoke. "How progresses your training?"

[Hana]

She only spoke when she’d gotten settled in. There was that dazed, dazzled look on her face again. She was not a child of wealth, and the beauty of nobility in the city caused her to be utterly seduced. It was a timeless tale… One she tried to forget. Her attention turned to him. It would have seemed that her training had taught her the perfect balance of focus and humble distraction, but the girl had shown a talent in it well before her education had begun. “Very well, thank you. My mistress is quite pleased with most of my progress… Save that of the harp. I’m afraid I may have no talent in it.”

[Ifran]

"She can hardly expect the same dexterity from ten lovely fingers than she does from twenty or thirty," he said. "The next time she scolds you, ask her if she would like you to play with your feet as well. I am sure the look she gives you will be worth whatever punishment she might mete out." The interior of the sedan chair was dark, as was his languid chuckle. His voice in the dark hinted at smoky brothels and sweet summer sweat. It reached out to caress her like a fourth set of hands, teasing its way toward compliance and complicity. Laugh with me, it seemed to say. Share this jest at the shrew's ridiculousness. "That is the painting, isn't it?"

[Hana]

She put her blushing cheek to her bare shoulder as her eyes lifted up to look at him again. Any other woman would have made it look coy, but not this one. She seemed to be the genuine thing, pure devotion and desire to please. Nothing more. Nothing less. It wasn’t done out of fear as was so easy to assume. It was there despite her obvious lack of uneasiness. She smiled a radiant smile at him, offering a tiny chuckle for him to hear. She then looked down to the painting, too gracious of her mistress’ generosity towards her to say anything unkind, though her actions somehow hinted at it. “The Artist Rabat,” she said softly, “wishes for your lordship to have it as a gift. He feels that your generous presence in the painting has heightened it to his greatest work – Quite possibly making it his masterpiece. True beauty is priceless… A treasure. It would have been wrong for him to attempt to sell it. Better to be in a king’s ownership where it can be truly appreciated…” The artist, this Rabat, did not have such smooth, metered words. Another talent of the girl's suddenly shined, but for those assuming little of her would easily write it off on her simply echoing something that the daft artist had told her to say.