[Flashback] The Artist's Model, ii (ifran and ha'na)

[Ifran]

With nary a movement of muscle, he included the artist's wife in the tableau. Nothing changed, but unabashed humor flickered in his eyes for only Ha'na to see, including her into one of the outer circles of his being, one of the outer circles of her newfound heaven.

"Useful traits in Ahnatep," he said simply in Arumenic, tone deadpan, but in a humorous mode, which set the artist to laughing.

Then, in Common, "Are you comfortable, Ha'na?"

It was the first time he had called her by name, aspirating slightly more than necessary as if it were the breath of life.

[Hana]

For once the fact that she had no idea what was being said didn’t seem to bother her too much. She was hypnotized, a creature caught in the sway of a snake. Her lips barely moved when she whispered, “Yes.”

Comfortable. All too comfortable. She did her best to keep the arch in her back as her breath caught.

The artist’s wife smiled slyly and chuckled. She nodded in approval before mildly saying, “I have much to teach her.”

[Ifran]

"What will you teach her?" he asked, taking the baited question in order to keep things pleasant.

Many thought him merely an artist, unused to the play of politics, but he was still a member of the august Northwinds, and anyone who thought a theater company was devoid of vicious politics had another thing coming. If he found the artist's wife tiresome, she would never know it from his bearing and treatment of her.

But Ha'na would, because their eyes were locked and he wasn't hiding his amusement from her.

[Hana]

Ha’na continued to peer at him with the worshipping expression that came all too naturally to her. She wasn’t an actress. She simply felt what she experienced and was too naïve to keep from acting upon it. The very edge of her lips twitched up into a smirk.

“Many things… Dancing, the art of beauty. I am having a harp made for her, though she’ll never be truly gifted at it due to her nature.” She blathered on, “I plan on giving her a regular concubine education.”

Her husband looked over his shoulder at his wife, narrowing his eyes. “Will you shut up for once?”

[Ifran]

"Yes, sir," Ifran said dryly in Common, trading the sophistication of his own language for the intonation of the other that would be recognizable by the Benshira in the room.

His face, however, remained the omniscient love of a creator for his creation, a god for his adoring devotee. Meanwhile, he and Ha'na would share the joke at the artist's expense with a glee no less childlike for the necessity of hiding it behind their masks.

[Hana]

“I-i-I didn’t mean you, Lord Ifran. Please forgive me,” responded the artist in Common before he could stop himself. “My-my precious wife, she doesn’t always seem to understand such trivial things do not interest others.”

“I find it very interesting,” she said blandly.

“No one else does. Will you excuse us for a moment? You can move freely. I will have a servant bring you something to eat and drink.” With that said, he was grabbing his wife by the elbow and forcing her out of the room with him.

It was only after she knew that they would be out of hearing range that Ha’na burst into a fit of youthful giggles, picking up her hand to cover her eyes.

[Ifran]

Ifran released her hand by hand, gently setting her aright. That done, there came a smile, the fastest, boldest expression she had yet seen from him. He had learned the power of stillness and that of striking at speed from stillness, something drilled into him by his trainers. His khopesh could kill a man or bring a story to life. Few new about its ability to kill a man in his hands, though.

He stood and walked to a window, gazing out at the view of Ahnatep, stretching languidly with practiced ease to keep his body limber and strong for however long the artist required his presence. By the time the servants arrived with the promised refreshments, he was still again by the window, and those servants wondered if the girl had displeased the Northwinder lord or if she was merely beneath his notice.

In any event, they fled the scene, leaving the food and drink there. Perhaps it was a kindness, thinking she might curry his favor by serving him with her own black hands.

[Hana]

Something about his smile made her bolder, less afraid to approach him. No one was there to speak harshly to her save him. And while she feared that, she was willing to risk it momentarily, thinking perhaps the situation would change again the minute the artist’s wife decided to make a fool of herself.

When the food was delivered, she looked to the tray and then to the man at the window. She pushed from the floor, slipping over to him. She pivoted on the balls of her feet until she could stand a little taller and look up at him. Very softly, smiling sweeter than honey, she said, “Come… Let me feed you?”

[Ifran]

Turning again, he took her in with his gaze, no longer hiding the measuring quality. No longer, apparently, was she beneath his notice. The way he walked was a work of art in itself, careful of his clothing and his balance; not dainty, but somehow strong and purposeful, economical and exact. Taking his place upon the divan, he waited, watchful as a serpent, for her to feed him. Perhaps she had some grace of her own that might make her worthwhile in another manner, or perhaps she was merely a way to while away the boring hours with the boring, though talented artist and his plotting wife.

[Hana]

The thought of him being around her had sprung her into action. The thought of him leaving was a fate she could not suffer through. She kneeled once again next to him, pulling the tray closer to her. Looking over it, she realized that they’d brought the very best they had.

She carefully wiggled the cork out of the bottle, moving to pour him a glass of the honeyed drink the household so enjoyed. She felt rather fortunate for it, because she had quickly discovered that she could care less for the beer so many drank in the city.

She was sure to wipe her hands down with the warm towel that had been brought in. For a moment she seemed to hesitate, catching sight of her own hands. She glanced up at him to steel her will before picking up a piece of ripe fruit. She had no idea what kind it was, but she vaguely recognized the sweet smell coming from it.

Between a careful thumb and forefinger, she picked it up. She’d never actually fed anyone in her life. The idea had come from watching servant women feed the plump artist. She tried to remember how the women did it, how they moved and what they did.

Her cheeks flushed. She wondered what was compelling her to do such a thing even as her hand slipped out to rest coolly upon his chest, feeling out for a heartbeat. Her other hand lifted the fruit up to his mouth, juice sliding down her thin wrist towards her elbow. She bowed her head slightly, looking up at him with unintentional demureness, as she waited to see what he would do.