[Flashback] The Tower Room (Ha'na)

[Ifran]

69th Summer, 502 A.V. In production, his body was oiled and painted, a work of art in and of itself even before he began to move and brought a whole new layer of artistry to the endeavor. In practice, the sheen of perspiration was the only thing bespangling his skin, gleaming in the bronze light of the setting sun. This tower room had been converted into a training room for him, and recently a couch had been brought up for the woman who liked to watch him at his practice. He wore a short linen kilt and a loincloth underneath, and currently his six arms were splayed, the two middle arms pointing bronze khopeshes in opposite directions, one leg raised and extended perpendicular to the rest of him down to a pointed toe. Slowly his foot flexed, his knee rose, and the weight of hid body rose up onto the ball of his bare foot, its arch strong and elegant. At that small zenith, his whole body began to torque around an invisible axis, blades, limbs, and leg turning in a corkscrew as his standing leg bent. With both feet on the ground, he began to turn in earnest. At full speed, it might be deadly, but in art it was suspended and statuesque. The course of his sword-dance was one man's battle against all odds, one khopesh stabbing, then the other. Slash, extend, turn. Catching an imagined sword with the hooked side of both his khopeshes, pulled an imagined foe off imagined balance, willingly throwing himself off his center. This was where the speed of the exercise was meant to speed up, and this was where his discipline failed him. The sudden shift was too quick, and he landed hard on his knee, sure to bruise. He uttered no curse, but merely stopped, breathing.

[Hana]

The woman sitting on the couch was lying lazily across it. Her cheek was resting against a tucked hand. Blue eyes never left the man in front of her. In fact, the gaze she held was nothing short of revenant – A silent form of worship. She may not have thought him a god, but anyone looking at her watching him wouldn’t have believed she didn’t. When he fell, she winced as if she felt what he did. She pushed from the couch, approaching him slowly. Crouching down, a black hand extended out to him in an offer of support in standing. “Are you okay?” She didn’t fuss or demand he do one thing or another. The uneasiness had started to fade away when in his company. What was left was a smooth-edged dedication. She was still eager to please, but the confidence behind her actions was starting to shine through as she learned what he wanted and needed from her. “Come sit for a moment with me,” she offered quietly. “I’ll get you something to drink so you may cool off.”

[Ifran]

"A bruise would be inconvenient, but I will be fine," he said, allowing her to help him up. He put weight on his leg, nodded, and gingerly followed her to the couch, his khopeshes resting on his shoulders. There would be ample time to practice, and hydration was important in the desert. Ha'na was pleasing to him now in a different way than before. Her growing confidence in her abilities was like watching a girl reach maturity, and this was endearing, though Eypharian nobles were infamous for finding something endearing one moment and irritating the next. "What have you brought us to drink?" he asked.

[Hana]

“I will see to it that a poultice is made to put on it once you are done practicing.” While she didn’t help him to the couch for fear of wounding his pride, she did hover slightly in the event he needed assistance sitting down. The girl had a tendency to fuss, though she kept the outward signs of it down to a minimum. She remembered all too well the artist’s wife reclining on cushions, her shrill voice explaining to Ha’na about the nature of this work she was to do. The role of a concubine depended on the need for companionship above all else. Displease your patron, upset him or her in any manner, and you would be quickly replaced. Aspiring concubines were a copper-a-dozen. Much time would be spent worrying, but the truth was that the worry was likely what would keep a person on their toes – That the anticipation for every want and desire, the stress of knowing your patron so well that you knew what they wanted before they did, was what would keep a roof over your head. It was a lesson that, while she was not as skilled as she should have been considering the house she was in, she had taken to heart. Her attention turned back to Ifran as she moved to the door to fetch the tray from one of the slaves. In his presence, she wouldn’t make eye-contact with the servant, but she had made friends with the woman when not attending to the young lord. There would be no spoken thanks between the two women, but the unspoken gratitude lingered in the air. “This is a reviving mixture of herbs,” she explained in her quiet, mild manner. Taking the tray, she moved to sit at Ifran’s feet. A bowl of honey was poured into a pitcher lined with leaves. She took a halved piece of citrus fruit and squeezed it in next. Then finally she took a carafe of watered down wine and mixed it into the container. A long spoon was picked up and she carefully worked on crushing the leaves to release some of their oils. “One of the cooks and I have been working on this for you. It’s not only good for hydration, but for smoothing the voice.” She poured him a cup and held it out to him with both hands.

[Ifran]

The desert breezes dried the perspiration off his skin in no time, and kept his muscles relatively warm, which would keep him from stiffening up so much, though stretching and hydration would do most of that work. He sat himself down, but did not seem to mind her attentiveness. In fact, he expected it by now. He was perfectly capable of caring for himself; indeed, of caring for someone else as well. A goodly portion of his childhood had been spent as an apprentice, which was akin to slavery. The exigencies of Master Taharqa's tutelage had not broken Ifran, though his days of serving were long past. He accepted the cup when she was finished, though he had been quiet through the process, mentally processing the faults in his previous exercises, recording the smells she produced with her concoction for later recall. Taking a healthy sip, he let it settle on his palate before swallowing. "Thank you, Ha'na," he said in basic Arumenic so as not to confuse her. If she was going to tend him, though, she was going to have to learn. He didn't mind teaching her; teaching an important slave or servant was part of good housekeeping as far as he was concerned, and he had decided that Rabat's wife was correct: she had potential.

[Hana]

“You’re welcome,” she offered back in the same language, seeming unsure of her own tongue. It was not the very best pronunciation, but she wasn’t Eypharian. Most days her Common wasn’t even that great. She would not brag about how she’d been smart enough to consult both an herbalist and the cook to make the recipe, nor would she complain about how many awful-tasting concoctions she had to taste to get to the end result. Instead she moved to press her cheek against his uninjured knee. Her arms wrapped about his calf. When she spoke there was hesitation, and with the Arumenic it came out after a good amount of stuttering struggle, “May I speak freely?”

[Ifran]

He gently corrected her pronunciation, then nodded his permission to speak freely. Eventually she would learn that he would ask for silence if he required it, but generally she seemed quite content to be silent in public unless spoken to, and she didn't interrupt his work, so they had had no serious problems as yet. "Please." He sipped again from her cup.

[Hana]

“I think, perhaps, you would find strength in your training if you taught someone else,” she said without looking at him as she switched back to Common to get her thoughts better across. “It is one thing to practice all the time on your own, but your khopesh-work is meant to be in response to a person… Imaginary or not. On top of that, sparring with a person of your own skill does not allow you to fully evaluate each subtle movement.” Had she ever spoken that much to him? She closed her mouth and blinked out into the distance, afraid that she’d actually said too much… Made some little mistake that would upset him. She swallowed before leaning in to almost absently kiss his knee.

[Ifran]

"You wish to learn the khopesh?" he asked, intuiting the direction in which her thoughts were traveling, like black birds flying at night, one heard the report of their feathers without actually seeing them. It was a simple question, simply asked, and it was a long moment before his amusement began to seep out, and then his smile, brightly beaming back the light of the setting sun. "I could teach you to sword-dance," he mused. Then he nodded, deciding. "And you will teach me Shiber, and the songs and dances of your people to the best of your ability." A purist might say that Semhu was only derivative of the ancient forms, but in his apprenticeship to Master Taharqa, Ifran had studied also among the tents of the Benshira, and elsewhere as well. He knew that the future of the art lay also in assimilating other things, fusing them together for a whole greater than the sum of its parts.

[Hana]

“Of course I want to learn khopesh.” She smiled at him, leaning to press another kiss to his knee. “I want to learn everything you’re willing to teach me…” She was not a dumb girl. Well, not most of the time. She realized that keeping him entertained would keep his attention, and this man was used to being worshiped. While she was capable of that, it was in her best interest to engage him in strengthening those things he had interest in. She had no intention of going anywhere, and so she would have to make herself necessary. “And I will teach you Shiber, of course. Though… Song and dance aren’t two things I hold much talent in.”