Adeia's Atrium

L'Affaire: The Eternal Frederic Post

2009-01-13T17:06:00.000-08:00

Frédéric gazed at the softening greyish mauve of the encroaching dawn resentfully, blaming it, at least in part, for his present troubles. The inevitability of sunrise had spurred him into bitterness – why must it be so insistently stubborn in spreading across the sky in that sparkling peach hue, dispelling cool blue-grey for mauve and orange and yellow? And what had he done to deserve such misfortune as to fall asleep at so inopportune a moment? All for a paltry three hours of slumber – even though he knew that a bolder voice inside him objected to those three hours being labelled ‘paltry’ at all. His eyes closed themselves to the spectacle of the blooming dawn as he remembered his dreamless sleep, and the unearthly contentment he felt as he had gently stirred into consciousness, just before peace was wrested from him by the recognition of dawn, and the guilt which immediately followed.

He opened his eyes, returning himself forcefully to the present – the reality and difficulty of which struck him like the cold wind momentarily forcing itself against their faces. Walking two paces ahead of him, Giselle shuddered, and barely contained her lithe legs from breaking out into a run. He noticed that every few steps her feet would take a seemingly involuntary skip forward. Frédéric frowned, attaching his inability to match her pace to the long list of his failings.

The few times he had attempted to speak had ended with a muffled cough, the apologies catching in his throat. As they cut across the corner of an empty, shuttered cafe, the necessary words again seemed to well up within him, but yet again failed, scarcely after he had managed to stutter her name.

It had no other effect than to cause her to turn back her head, and Frédéric observed with a pang that her eyebrows were knotted together in the middle dolefully. The faint glow on her cheeks matched the dawn in hue, and it bloomed deeper still as she met his eyes.

He attempted again to gaze blankly at the dawn, hoping to forget his discomfort for even the briefest of moments; but he found that the sweeping mauve which gathered itself gradually over every direction reminded him too much of her – the delicate balance between cool and warm, and light and dusk. It was too inconvenient that his artist’s mind had long ago dreamed up a colour palette characteristic of Giselle; and most inconvenient of all was that it had been composed of all the colours of dawn. Frédéric almost groaned in his frustration, though stifled it in fear of provoking the danseuse further. There could be no escape from the guilt – best to suffer it gallantly.

And yet there was, again, that bolder part of his mind which argued that such an innocent mistake need not be equated with shame, nor, even, should any intimacy cause such scandal. Still gripped by the naive throes of the hope kindled last night, he believed himself so near the success which he needed to secure at least the beginning to financial stability that he allowed himself a concession that he had scarce dreamed of before: that this ‘distraction’, as Henri would have put it, would not end in the agony of untimely separation for him, and shame, or perhaps even boredom, for her.

By the time he had decided to withstand his shame nobly, the Opéra was in view, and he realised, too late, that he dreaded being parted from her after so many hours consecutively spent together. Instead of walking down Rue le Pelletier to reach the entrance through the foyer which Frédéric knew, she turned quickly down a narrow lane that ran, as he soon observed, beside the same cafe that housed last night's party -- the very locale that had set them on the course of near-disaster had occurred the night before. His eyes fell on the empty crates lining the peeling walls – the same ones, he did not doubt, that had once housed the bottles of wine which last night’s revellers had dutifully emptied.

He soon observed the reason for Giselle’s detour through the lane: a door set into the dead end before them, unmarked except for a fading brass plate upon which the Opéra’s archaic name, ‘Théâtre de l’Académie Royale de Musique’, was engraved. Nearing her destination, Giselle’s hurried gait faltered, and Frédéric fell into place beside her, gasping for shallow breaths. He feared leaving her to gather her dignity and prepare for the day ahead with no resolution to their error. The thought that their parting might further be tainted by their shared guilt left him with a considerable burden. He knew he could not bear it – something had to be done to bridge the distance which he had imagined multiplying between them since they had left the studio. His fevered mind viewed the two paces of cobbled ground which separated them as a vast chasm of which he was on the wrong side.

Impulsively, Frédéric reached for her hand and tugged her into a corner, into the gap between two sombre buildings which lined the lane. They breathed the faint waft of the mud underfoot, the damp odour of rainwater, decomposing leaves and wet stone. An unpleasant place for a parting, he thought, wishing he had chosen more wisely, rather than acting upon a sudden and persistent impulse.

Frédéric watched her face carefully, noting the soft, scarlet flush lingering beneath her skin. Her toe circled an arch on the ground, a movement which appeared to require much concentration on her behalf, as she kept her gaze lowered to the earthy floor. Frédéric, not as skilled in the art of reading her discomfort as he believed himself to be, was certain that she was anxiously anticipating the untruths she might have to make to explain her early arrival to the other girls. Frédéric could not contain himself from pressing her cautiously into his chest, whispering the long-delayed apology into the dark curls on her temple. But bafflingly, it had no effect at all. Lifting his head a little, he came to the perplexing realisation that she was shaking her head. He assessed her face with greater care than he had before, noting that despite the same lingering flush, no trace of the shame remained which had so marked her furrowed brow and grimacing lower lip before.

Ah, he thought, but she was not guilty at all! She showed him a reassuring smile, though a new glint in her eye proved that she recognised the daring progression of their outings. But now the rosy hue in her cheek seemed no longer a discrediting mark of shame, but merely the natural consequence of a walk from Montmartre to Rue le Pelletier during a crisp dawn. The guilt which he had imposed on himself was lifted so easily that it should have caused him to worry anew, but he found his unrepentant eyes followed Giselle slipping away from him with a confident, fluid grace towards the plain door, lifting the latch quickly and disappearing from view. Now filled with the knowledge that he had been deceived by the scarlet of her cheeks, his newfound calm was quickly replaced by the giddy realisation. There had been something almost gleeful about their frantic dash towards the Opéra which reminded him of the mischievous dealings of his childhood – though now the threat loomed more severe than a stern scolding from Henri.

The only thing which marked the moments as they slid by was the rhythmic ticking of Henri’s old watch in his breast pocket. The moments which ticked by were marked by the rhythmic scolding of Henri’s old watch in his breast pocket. Tch, tch, it chided him for every second he delayed before the closed door. Tch, tch. Frédéric lifted the annoying thing from its nest, gazing at his partial reflection on its scuffed and battered surface. Its brassy lid glared back at him accusingly. Was he so far gone a Bohemian that he would stoop to such depravity, that, had circumstances been altered but slightly, his actions might have guaranteed a burden of shame for them both? He smiled a little wryly, and let the chain, and its watch, slip through his fingers. It landed on a muddy patch with a satisfying plop.

He wondered, with a tinge of grim amusement, whether he had been in Antoine’s company so long that he had acquired the same brazen disregard for ‘decency’; and he was aware that his barefaced glee at having so narrowly avoided disaster reflected too strongly his friend’s bold accounts of his own close calls. But an even bolder voice reminded him that it was only true if he indeed did brag on his exploits – which he, with respect both to his unblemished name and Giselle’s, had no intention of doing so.

A faint anxiety troubled him as his eyes caught the gold glimmer of the pocket watch, lying in damp repose. Few people could manage their lives without a little device that ticked away passing moments, and in the days when he had worked on commissioned, mind-numbingly simple portraits, Frédéric had found a timekeeper indispensable. His brow furrowed, and he stepped towards the ticking object, which, for so long, had been the solitary voice of conformity in his disordered life. His back turned to the silent theatre door, he bent to pick it up.

His purpose was thwarted, however, by the quiet swing of the stage door. Forgetting the pocket watch, he straightened cautiously, but a faint hope dawned in his eyes. He was not as surprised as might be expected to find a pair of arms wrapped around him, and soft lips pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck. Within the fluid passing of a moment, whether by his movement or hers, those lips had trailed across to his mouth. The warm kiss of those lips made him forget his original purpose entirely.

Their wordless farewell spanned a few, gloriously guiltless moments. He cared not now that the sun had almost crested the roofline, and at any moment would cast its golden, mocking rays over them. It mattered not that the pocket watch, gleaming amidst the wet puddle, ticked on disapprovingly. Frédéric was vaguely aware that he had transcended something, which had before been an invisible barrier, the existence of which he had never acknowledged. He had transcended shame and guilt, and it left him with the glowing impression of newborn innocence.

He pressed a final kiss to Giselle’s forehead, and her arms, if reluctantly, unwound themselves from his. When she turned, and flitted back towards the half-open door, Frédéric too turned towards the main street, and walked, with steady purpose, in the direction of Montmartre.

And, forgotten amidst the events of the dawning day, Henri’s watch languished in its damp seat in the now-empty alley, waiting for the next opportunistic beggar, or curious child, to pick it up.

Vices: Lady Huntingdon's Vanity

2008-12-04T19:57:00.000-08:00

A chambermaid had slid quietly into the fourth bedroom on the upper floor of no. 14 Queen’s Square, in the misconceived notion that its resident was at that moment taking luncheon downstairs. The silence in the room was such that she could not have deemed it possible that an occupant was seated just out of view, on the little window seat which showed a rather unattractive view of the pavement below. She breathed a quiet sigh of relief. The early arrival of Miss Lyttleton and Miss Harriet, and of Sir Edmund and Lady Margaret, had seen the household staff in its entirety plunged into a frenzy which had barely been contained to the servant’s level on the lowermost floor – a silent, empty room was a welcome change.

It was this particular young woman’s habit to sing as she worked, in her clear-pitched Welsh lilt; there was seldom any pleasure to be had in domestic drudgery unless it was eased by musical accompaniment. She consoled herself as she ran a white dustcloth over the already irreproachably clean surface of a handsome chest of drawers by humming a soft tune, almost under her breath. But ah, her emotions were so swelled by the time she reached the familiar refrain that she could not help a little line from slipping out, trilling sweetly across the luxuriant expanse of space.

“Mae'i gwallt yn felyn aur –”

But a disgruntled sound, coming from the window seat just out of view, compelled her to cut her aria short. An angry noise, rather like a heavy book being dropped on the floor, followed it like an echo.

A ruddy flush rose to the chambermaid’s cheeks, and she quickly turned to the vanity table to busy herself with the array of objects scattered impatiently over it. But how odd: besides all the expensive powders, rouges and perfumes, lay three plain sheets of paper and a cast-iron inkwell. Her wary hand lifted the inkwell, examining the curiosity carefully.

“Leave that where it is,” clipped an imperious tongue. Lady Huntingdon had emerged from her reading seat, and held her golden head at a regal height as she approached the chambermaid. Her nose wrinkled in derision at the sight of the thin, dark girl who, if given the chance, seemed likely to cower in the nearest corner.

“I thought domestics were taught never to be seen nor heard.”

With a shaky hand, the maid set down the seemingly misplaced inkwell immediately. Georgiana watched as the chambermaid dusted the cluttered surface half-heartedly, before curtseying and hurrying away quickly.

The young lady of circumstance inflated a sigh. Evidently the witless girl could see no reason that a table which had the primary function of reassuring a lady’s vanity by stocking her every cosmetic need should bear the instruments of letter writing. It seemed the lack of a genuine writing desk in the room had slipped past her feeble mind completely.

It was not unheard of, even in these days, for a woman’s room to be lacking a writing desk, but it was almost universally deemed a notion most backward, a situation to be avoided if financial means made it at all possible.

But Georgiana had refused to take up the complaint with Henry. She stepped quickly into the void left by the maid’s hurried departure, seated herself on the linen-covered stool, and took up the pen. Hunched between the feminine paraphernalia which cluttered three edges of the vanity, she began to write.

She had tolerated a multitude of grievances from this dismally under-furnished house, but she would not, could not, tolerate the absence of a writing desk.

Her mouth became more resolutely set in its characteristic childish moue as her pen scratched the most eloquent complaint to Lord Torrington that she could devise, given her fourteen years of literacy. Her education had been modest, in that Sir Edmund could only afford a tutor of a rather humble reputation, but she had tried to express interest in all the ‘great’ literature of which Sir Edmund spoke with all the solid articulacy of an academic. As such, she had read many a great work without truly understanding it, or whatever meaning she did derive was only in relation to her own (deeply limited) experience. That Georgiana could only relate to poets who spoke of the pleasure that could be found in material possessions, and perhaps of the dignified splendour of the English countryside, was a flaw which was known to her tutors, though seldom remarked upon.

***
By the time Mrs Boyle had returned from the quick repast which Georgiana had refused, she was almost finished with her complaint. As the young lady set about ending the letter with the usual empty pleasantries, of how Bath was so diverting, and how there was always something to be said and done, Mrs Boyle ‘indulged’ her in details of the casual meal which she had missed.

“You truly ought to have joined us. Cook served the nicest cold luncheon in the world – cold beef and mustard, sandwiches and cake. It was all very excellent. I have always said I prefer such simple fare to the most elaborate of banquets.”

“I do not take luncheon,” declared Georgiana lightly, still bent over her letter. “We are not farmers that we should need to take sustenance between breakfast and dinner!”

Blithely, Mrs Boyle ignored her charge’s sour mood, shutting the door behind her and seating herself with little effort upon the low pouffe by the foot of the bed. Admittedly, the bed was rather narrower than she might have expected of a house at Queen Square, but Georgiana was not all that wide herself, and would have no difficulty with a narrow bed. And the poor girl’s snappishness was no doubt due to nerves; unfortunate enough to have been raised at the very edge of Dartmoor, she had never attended a gathering as large and grand as the assembly which had been scheduled for the evening.

Mrs Boyle knew, of course, that good society was a principle means of curing a young lady of self-centred pride, and to aid in the formation of manners which became such a lofty station in life. She hoped that the sheltered childhood which had marked such a (dare she conceive it?) conceited spirit in Georgiana would, in its absence, bring about a profound change in her conduct.

Consequentially, she was extremely glad that the Duke of Argyll was hosting the Assembly – and somehow had seen it fit that Lady Huntingdon should be invited. Mrs Boyle, who could only aspire to the company of country gentry, could not understand the obscure substratum workings of Bath’s more eminent, pedigreed society. She suspected, her uncomplicated mind grasping at these mysterious ways, that news of the Earl of Torrington’s niece’s first season at Bath had preceded their arrival.

Thus lost in all the usual concerns of a chaperone leading her charge to her debut, Mrs Boyle did not hear a knock and an impatient cough at the door until Georgiana spoke.

“Oh! If it is that ridiculous chambermaid, I shall send her away at once,” she announced impatiently.

“I’ll see who it is,” said the elder lady as Georgiana made to get up. The chaperone easily guessed the nature of the letter without making any inquiries, and she would not have such an imperative correspondence interrupted so easily – particularly as it was so near completion.

Logically, Mrs Boyle expected that it was indeed the parlour maid at the door, or perhaps the Lyttleton sisters. Instead, when she pulled it open by a sliver, her soft grey eye was met by a deep brown one. And that deep brown eye blinked once.

“Ah. Pardon for the intrusion, Mrs Boyle,” spoke Mr Henry Lyttleton. “I was hoping to have a word with Lady Georgiana.”

“Mr Lyttleton!” cried the chaperone, struck briefly by the impropriety of a gentleman showing himself at the door of a young woman’s bedroom. “You should have just sent a servant up! But of course, at once. Come, my dear, Mr Lyttleton wants a word.”

***

“Are you fond of reading?” asked Mr Lyttleton as they progressed along the short gallery which connected the hall with the library.

Georgiana’s eyes, which had been previously fixed on the series of rather gaudy paintings of Venetian scenes which adorned the walls, did not alter their focus at Mr Lyttleton’s question. She merely raised the arch of her eyebrows by an added fraction, and fixed her attention more closely on the coarsely visible brushstrokes on the sky of one particular painting of a pair of silly young women draped over the edge of a gondola, accompanied by a gentleman who evidently thought that such conduct was not at all dangerous nor in the least out of the ordinary.

She pursed her lips, wishing with the most urgent sincerity that Henry was perceptive enough to observe such an obvious sign of displeasure. “I do read sometimes.” Though not, she refrained from adding, as much as your ridiculous sisters.

Henry appeared to have missed the indifference in her voice entirely, along with the threat of her expression, for his voice was bright, and his swarthy sailor’s countenance much relieved of its previous anxiety. “Would you like to take a turn in the library? I am most curious about your taste in books, as we have not read together since we were but children.”

Georgiana’s mind, numb with the most unpalatable imaginings of the outpouring of Henry’s affection and attachment to her, could think of no reasonable excuse for refusing. Retaining a careful air of diffidence, she nodded her reply.

For all the house’s shortcomings, the library was surprisingly well-stocked, with books covering almost all four sides of a modestly sized chamber. They ambled at a ludicrously slow pace along the first shelf, as Henry ran his eye across the length of available titles, as his companion chewed her lip and wished Mrs Boyle had not been so remiss in her duties and refused to accompany them. But since her chaperone was not able to provide them with diverting small talk at the present time, Georgiana realised that she would need to take on the unpleasant task herself.

“Were all these books part of the house?”

“Yes. The house in its entirety, library, furnishings, servants, belongs to Captain Grieve. The Captain, I hear, is considered by some an arbiter of taste, but he has run into some financial misfortunes in recent times which have compelled him to lease his residence in Bath: a Scottish bank in which he had invested the greater part of his income in was forced to close without a single shilling given to any of its investors.”

“Oh! That is too vulgar to be heard. As Lord Torrington will tell you, finances are irrelevant to genteel people.”

“Yes. Yes they are indeed,” Henry acquiesced, as an uncomfortable silence descended on them again. He continued to stare at the shelves as though with great interest, though his unwavering gaze indicated that his eyes did not see the books actively, while she studied the scuffed floor with a concentration that outshone his. At length, Henry impulsively pulled out a narrow volume, the title of which Georgiana noticed was written in French. But before she could attempt to make it out, her cousin had hurriedly replaced it on the shelf, his eyes wide with alarm. As he pulled her further along the row by the arm, she wondered what on earth could be in Captain Grieve’s library that could provoke such panic in a man of three-and-twenty, who had undoubtedly witnessed great horrors at sea.

Georgiana wished that she had applied herself better to her lessons in the modern languages. But, to her credit, there had always been such a colossal burden of things to learn that it was quite unreasonable to be accomplished at all of them, and tutors were a heavy expense on Sir Edmund’s threadbare pockets.

Henry paused by the window. Owing to the regrettable fact that her arm was still held captive by his, she had no means of distancing herself.

“Your Ladyship. Georgiana.”

Lady Huntington frowned, desperate in her hope that some unlikely means of escape might reveal itself.

“I believe it is appropriate in some cases to speak with candour about one’s feelings –”

“Only the simple need be candid, Mr Lyttleton. I myself see no necessity to speak anything plainly,” she interjected quickly. Her words were met by the perplexed blinks of Henry’s dark eyelashes. His gaze flickered towards the window, and the dull view of Queen Square below, his mouth forming an anxious line.

“I am afraid I must persist. I have not been entirely truthful about my intentions in Bath. And you must know...”

Georgiana looked up as Henry’s forthcoming confession faltered, and she was relieved to see that his eyes were turned towards the doorway. The cause for the well-timed interruption was the gradual progression of eager female voices along the gallery, and before long, they were close enough for the exact words of their animated conversation to be made out easily.

“...didn’t know you were reading Udolpho again! Oh isn’t Valancourt spectacular!”
“I simply read his entrance over and over! And how he places Emily’s injuries before his own...”
“How he must love her! Could you imagine, Harry, anybody feeling the same way!”

The giggling pair halted abruptly as they entered the library (as the sight of a solitary couple standing by a window might do to anyone – whether they be related or otherwise). Harriet barely stifled the gasp that threatened to slip past her facade of composure, while Louisa’s face turned an ashen hue, and she gripped her sister by the arm. “Well I can scarce believe it...”

Georgiana granted all three of her cousins poisonous, contemptuous glares, before turning herself out of the library forthwith. She set the quickest possible course for her bedroom, intending to announce to Mrs Boyle that it was high time that they were preparing for the Assembly. Indecorousness, at times, could prove itself a necessity.

(Strange Harbors) The Goldsmith's Wife

2008-11-01T20:29:00.000-07:00

Bismuth Gilder was the sort of man who, having achieved a certain station in life, took great pleasure in being contrary. A solid confidence in his incomparably superior craft, built up over fifty or so years of his bitter life, had bestowed on him a certain arrogance which, in his belief, suited his profession so well that he would not change even if he wished to. Having achieved a distinguished age, and unmarried, he had been forced to find himself an apprentice from outside his own, highly eminent, circle. Of course, none of his peers knew that he had stooped to taking in a boy from an orphanage. Nobody but he could understand the tragedy of being forced to stoop to charity.

As she storm rolled in, he watched the precious cargo of one of the boats being offloaded, as it rocked against the sandy shore, buffeted by the rising wind. Gilder’s delicate health, apparently, was the cause of his inability to aid in the offloading process, or in any contribution which could be loosely associated with ‘manual labour’.

He winced as the Foster girl roughly picked up a sack filled with the most vital of his equipment – the bellows, tongs, hammers – which he had been forced to remove from the heavy chest in which it had travelled: in this wind, it made the journey from ship to land even more perilous for those who manned the boats, and, far more crucially to him, threatened the safety of his tools.

“Carefully!” he grunted as the journeyman’s young wife pushed past him, struggling with her load. She forced a dark glare in his direction, following the others hauling their burdens towards the caves. It had drizzled ominously for several hours, and the dark earth underfoot was turning into a gluggy quagmire. It sucked at her heels greedily. The sensation was curious, akin to a dream she had once had, years ago in the orphanage: pursued by hideous monsters, she had found her legs ineffectual, cumbersome, as she had tried to escape. The cruel difference was that her current situation was no apparition of a child’s subconscious, and that even if she could run, neither direction would bring her any nearer to safety. She consigned herself to trudge, even though she had imagined that she would never again know a life of drudgery as a journeyman goldsmith’s wife.

It was unfortunate that old Gilder had not the generosity to die before they had departed. It was not for lack of trying, on her part; she had concocted brews of every poisonous herb she had become acquainted with at the orphanage: half-starved children would eat almost anything, and she had learned quickly which ones irritated the stomach or caused unpleasant side effects, and which ones were lethal. And even an idiot knows what deadly nightshade looks like, and what it will do to the unsuspecting grazer. Opal had known several small children too young to know that the dark, slightly sweet berries posed a much direr threat than indigestion.

Her foot caught the edge of an unsteady rock, hidden beneath a layer of sludge; she was caught off balance. It was not entirely out of spite that she let her fingers unclench from the sack bearing the Gilder’s tools, though neither was it entirely an accident. The sack fell into the miry mess. She picked it up quickly, wiping the side covered with mud quickly with the skirt of her dress, before slinging it over her shoulder again. The contents rattled against each other dangerously.

The splash, splash, splosh of irregular footsteps on the mud behind her. Gilder had not missed her little accident; his craggy eye had been trained on her the whole time, waiting for a slip, a moment’s lapse of concentration. She ignored his presence, trying to trudge through the sucking mud quicker, but her short legs slowed her down, and her calves ached. Gilder caught up eventually.

Not one word as he grabbed the sack from her, cradling the muddy bundle close to his chest, tenderly as though it were a newborn infant. A silent glare, far more potent than words, was her reprimand. On some days, Gilder did not even deign to speak to Opal Pulver, wife of the prodigiously talented, but morbidly low-born, journeyman goldsmith who had once been his pupil. Gilder thought it a lamentable tragedy when great talent was bestowed on the humblest specimens of mankind, and not on those more deserving (and better bred).

(Queen’s Square) Between Awkward Silences

2008-09-08T15:55:00.001-07:00

They sat down for dinner at five o’clock, attended by wait-staff in white stockings and fancy coats. The dining room was of a good size, impeccably clean, but, like the rest of the house, rather dated. The Turkish carpet was a little worn in places, though undoubtedly it was very fine once, and Georgiana found the chairs a little uncomfortable. The table was exquisitely long, however, and could easily seat a large party. She doubted, however, that enough servants were employed to cater to such a large gathering. Mrs Boyle was highly impressed by the silverware, remarking that it was polished to an outstanding standard. She frequently held her spoon to the light, remarking that she had never seen such meticulous care devoted to the cutlery. The china, it was added, was also remarkably fine.

Once she had done complimenting every aspect of the setting, furnishings and architecture, Mrs Boyle turned her attentions to her charge. Prior to dinner, the chaperone had been insistent (rather irritatingly so) that Georgiana should thank Henry herself for accommodating her, and also make mention of Sir Edmund’s generosity in providing these ‘excellent’ lodgings. So Georgiana waited until a self-conscious silence rose during the mostly quiet meal to offer her insincere thanks.

“It’s very good of you to be here, Henry. We would be without a single acquaintance in all of Bath without you.”

Henry held his cutlery still for a moment, his eyes fixed on his plate. Georgiana found this unusual; he looked almost unsettled by her simple expression of gratitude. She wondered if it had really sounded so false.

When he failed to make any reply, she took it upon herself to continue.

“It’s so generous of dear Sir Edmund to go to such lengths for my comfort. Our lodgings are very...handsome.”

At this, Henry set his fork aside, raising his eyes towards his cousin. “My father didn’t pay for it, Georgie.”

She did not fail to notice that his mouth formed her pet name a little awkwardly. She glanced at Mrs Boyle carefully, noting that her chaperone chewed slowly, and she too had her eyes fixed suspiciously on the plate before her. Why was everyone acting so exasperatingly strange?

“Oh don’t be ridiculous, Henry. Indeed it would have been more appropriate if Lord Torrington had offered...”

She fell silent as Henry shook his head.

“I paid for it.”

Mrs Boyle choked on her veal (which was very fine, in her estimate, very much to her taste). She spluttered and took an unladylike mouthful of her wine, coughing loudly. It only served to highlight the tension which had descended upon the awkwardness already present in the dining room.

“Excuse me,” she said quietly.

Georgiana realised she could come up with nothing by way of reply, so she did not struggle against the strained silence which dropped between Henry and herself. Mrs Boyle, ever observant of the general mood of the conversation, judged that the current silence was inappropriate, and considerately took the initiative to disperse it.

“You have an excellent cook, Mr Tarlton. I’ve not tasted such an excellent mint sauce for some time. When I accompanied Miss Compton to London last year, there was not such a singularly good sauce to be found in the whole town. Very commendable, Mr Tarlton. Very commendable.”

***

Mrs Boyle’s mind was steadily making careful inferences throughout dinner, and when she retired to her charge’s chamber to consult with her after her first, and arguably eventful, day at Bath, she had already resolved something of a plan regarding the pleasant young lieutenant who clearly had a great attachment to his cousin. He must have spent a considerable portion of his prize money from the war to finance Georgiana’s debut! she realised as she helped Lady Huntingdon undress to her stays, at her particular request. It was not a task which every chaperone would accept, but Mrs Boyle considered herself a humble woman, and besides, the presence of a maidservant would have quite ruined the details which she intended to extract from Georgiana.

“Well how remarkable,” was the first thing the chaperone said, as the girl seated herself in front of the vanity, dressed in a négligée trimmed with blond lace – exquisitely becoming, in the older woman’s partial opinion. She paused, considering the order of her words carefully, weighing which would have the best effect. “One can only wonder what he meant by such generosity.”

“I’m not sure I understand your meaning, Mrs Boyle.”

“Mr Henry, unlike the elder Mr Tarlton, is still unmarried.” The chaperone paused emphatically. “I think, my dear, he means to make a proposal to you.”

Georgiana barely disguised her shock. Her reflection was dumbfounded, incensed, her mouth agape as she turned to face Mrs Boyle.

“But Henry and I grew up together...we address one another by our first names! How awkward it would be to speak to my husband so!” She paused, considering the effect. ’Henry, dearest, would you come to bed?’ ‘Not now, Georgie my love, I must write to Mother before she thinks I’ve forgotten her completely now that I’m a married man.’

The image was hysterical; she erupted in undignified sniggers.

“Besides,” she added, forcing herself to think more seriously, “What will he bring into the marriage? No title, that’s for certain, for he won’t even be a baronet. Could you imagine it in the papers: ‘4th Lieutenant Tarlton, three-and-twenty years of age, married the Lady Georgiana Lyon, Baroness Huntingdon, dowered with £120,000, on the 6th of October, 18—.”

Mrs Boyle pursed her lips. Her hopes of a love-match between her charge and the pleasing young Mr Tarlton had been dashed scarcely before she’d even begun to make all the necessary plots – how to arrange chance encounters and secret meetings for the would be lovers. And it would have been so easy, with all of them sharing the same house. How romantic it would have been! Raised together as brother and sister, united in matrimony...well, she supposed the young lady knew her own heart’s best interests.

“Well no, I suppose you’re right, my dear.” Mrs Boyle watched as Georgiana picked up the brush, running it thoughtfully through the dark gold waves over her shoulder. It troubled the older woman to think that her charge was really so unromantic, but she smoothed the furrow in her brow as she caught her reflection in the mirror, anxious lest the expression should mark its place between her eyebrows permanently. Having herself married for love, she could not comprehend those who were utterly immune to its effects, as the young Lady Huntingdon appeared to be. For someone so singularly pretty, she was appallingly practical.

Georgiana slumped forward, resting her head on her arms. “Oh now what will I do.”

Oddly, Mrs Boyle noted that her speech lacked the inflection of a question. Uncertain of how to reply, she remained silent, considering that this may very well have been the first time she’d ever been at a loss for words.

“Henry will make his intentions known soon, no doubt. It will be unbearable to stay here when I refuse him. Oh I must do something.”

“We cannot very well find new lodgings, my dear. So either you must tolerate any awkwardness, or accept his offer.”

Lady Huntingdon paused, raising her head an inch higher so that her light eyes met their clear reflection in the mirror. “You’re wrong, Mrs Boyle. We can. Do you have any writing paper with you? I need to send a letter.”

Vices: Queen's Square

2008-09-05T20:38:00.000-07:00

They arrived at Bath quite punctually, despite the unexpected rain and terrible roads, by about four o’clock. The rain had ceased to hinder their journey by the time they had driven past Glastonbury, and Georgiana’s first sight of Bath was a dry one, which was most remarkable, given the rains in the rest of Somerset. Erratic weather was nothing at all out of the ordinary for people of the West Country, and Lady Georgiana, having grown up on the edge of the Dartmoor heath, was not much disturbed by it.

Sir Edmund’s second son, Henry, had been waiting at no. 10 Queen’s Square for the arrival of his cousin. Since they had last seen one another several years ago, Henry had been promoted, and now was properly styled 4th Lt. Henry Tarlton of His Majesty’s Ship the Ionia, and was duly proud of his station, being only five years older than the Lady Huntingdon, who presently arrived at Bath.

Mrs Boyle was the first to remove herself, rather stiffly, from the carriage, and a footman helped Georgiana down. Sir Edmund, much against what one would expect of a man who, for fifteen years, had been obliged to accommodate, educate and tolerate his wife’s imperious little niece, had spared no expense for her first season at Bath.

“Lady Huntingdon,” spoke Henry in his amused monotone. “I do believe you have at last grown into your title.”

“Hush, Henry.” Georgiana felt a little flustered as she adjusted her bonnet. Admittedly, she felt a great deal less buoyant now that she had arrived at her destination than she had expected to. Lady Huntingdon decided, now that she had experienced it, that lengthy travel was really a most unpleasant thing and to be avoided if at all possible.

The young baroness sighed lightly, and cast an eye towards the civilised little park at the midst of the Square, the obelisk rising in its midst, the uniform, stately terraces encircling this patch of artificial greenery. She thought, following this quick assessment, that, really, Bath was a little bland, with its buildings hewn of the same, pale gold stone, its roads neat and grey, and even a little bleak, as the afternoon sun lit the dark slate roofline of Queen’s Square.

She finished fiddling with the ribbons at her chin, and smiled at her cousin distantly. Next to her, Mrs Boyle was heard to cough pointedly as the carriage drew away.

As they followed Mr Tarlton towards Sir Edmund’s impressive residence... (going inside and gratuitous building description)

Looping her arm around her chaperone’s elbow, Georgiana remembered to make the proper introductions. “You do remember Mrs Boyle, Henry?”

“Ah yes. How do you do, Mrs Boyle? I hope Mr Boyle is well?”

The younger lady cast her eyes down, even as her chaperone seemed quite unperturbed by the enquiry.

“He’s quite dead, Mr Tarlton, quite dead.” Mrs Boyle offered a resilient smile as she observed the young lieutenant fumbling for words. “Oh it’s been some time, sir, as you can see I no longer wear black for my husband.”

“M-most sorry, Mrs Boyle. I...um...I suppose you are both very tired and should like to be seen to your rooms immediately.”

“I would be most agreeable to the idea, Mr Tarlton, most agreeable. Come my dear,” she said, patting her charge’s forearm lightly.

TLT: Right of Inheritance

2008-08-12T23:17:00.000-07:00

Amasis whinnied after me as I took a step away from the stable door. Snorting, she tugged on the lead which secured her to her temporary lodgings, as I glanced back at her. She was an old animal, much used to the habits she had kept, back when she was nothing but a shepherd’s horse, grazed well, but unaccustomed to any strenuous travel. My father had kept her for their seasonal migrations, leading the sheep to the plateau in summer, and back to the milder coast in winter. The dim stables of this Trojan inn did not agree with her at all, accustomed as she was to resting in the open air, uninhibited by mud-brick walls and the din of the other horses’ neighing.

“Shh,” I said, knowing well enough that you could say nothing to a horse which would comfort it in strange surroundings. But Amasis would be comfortable enough in this stable: the straw was fresh, and the feed more plentiful than any of the tough grasses she’d been forced to chew on for the most of the journey. “I’ll be back soon enough.” I rubbed her muzzle before stepping away, gathering my travelling cloak around me. It was not mine, actually; it had been my mother’s, or, my foster mother’s, as I should say. It was wool, lined with fur, probably jackal, I’d judged from the look of it. It was a little heavy for summer, but it had been necessary for the journey. At night, central Anatolia was cold no matter the season. The sun was nearing the horizon by the time I’d found lodgings for us, and now, my first experience of Troy would be during a greyish twilight. It felt awkward to have smooth, cool stones beneath my feet, instead of earth and grass, and walking between buildings closely bunched together, as though they had huddled together against a bitter winter. I sighed, and stepped on through the streets.

There were still a number of people around, despite the hour growing late: traders packing up their carts, loading unsold goods upon the backs of weary-legged donkeys, townspeople carrying water to their homes, prostitutes emerging periodically from the dark spaces between houses, calling for customers. I hurried along, not wishing to stay until it was too dark, and finding my way back to the lodgings too difficult.

Presently, there was still enough light to last for a while at least, enough that I could clearly see the faces of the people who passed me by; strange, unfamiliar faces that did not pay me a second glance. I supposed I wasn’t the first scraggly traveller they’d seen, making her way towards the citadel which loomed ahead. But scarcely had I made that observation, it was proved wrong. A tall, pale haired woman’s eyes were fixed on me, the expression on her fair face bewildered. I self-consciously wondered if I had offended some local custom here, and my brow knitted in uncertainty as I discreetly studied the woman’s appearance. She was dressed in a rich tunic that was somehow barbaric in its style and shape, though I only based this assumption on what the townspeople had been wearing, knowing too little about these things to make a solid judgement. It was, however, more luxurious by far than anything I had seen on a commoner’s back. I felt a little ashamed at being seen in my brother’s simple shepherd’s tunic, and increased my pace a little.

“Wait,” called a voice from behind me. I halted and turned warily, to see that it was the fair woman who had addressed me. She approached me, smiling ruefully. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to keep you. But you reminded me of someone, someone who died many years ago. And anyway, you cannot be her...”

I held my breath, as things began to click into place. There was no doubt in my mind now that she was an Amazon; that much was proved by her unusual dress. And she had guessed, or at least had some inkling, as to who I was. Frowning slightly, I wondered if I really looked so much like my mother.

Unable to say anything, I held my silence as she continued to look at me, her eyes betraying none of the thoughts that were clearly rampant in her mind. “No, it couldn’t be,” she repeated again, and I wondered if she meant that I couldn’t be the dead Penthesilea, or her lost child.

“I am sorry to disappoint you,” I said softly, keeping my eyes on the ground.

The tall woman smiled. “No, please. It is just my imagination, it runs away with me sometimes! But I would be grateful if you did tell me who you are, just so I can rest at ease.”

“Meli...Melanippe of Halys,” I answered, remembering to use my full name. The woman’s expression altered again for a moment, taking on some of its previous air of suspicion, before settling back into a smile.

“That is an Amazon name. I am an Amazon, though my name is not,” she responded proudly. “I’m Camane.”

“You are Queen!” I breathed quickly, almost dismayed at my infernal luck at having met the one person who might have recognised my right of inheritance.

“I am one of the Queens, yes.” She seemed thoughtful for a few moments. “The River Halys is a long way from Troy. What brings you here, and alone by the looks of it?”

I bit my lip, deciding to admit a small part of the truth, rather than lying outright to the Queen who had almost discovered that which I would rather keep hidden. “I discovered recently that the man I knew as my father was given me by an Amazon, to raise as his own. It was my family’s wish that I find my true kinswomen and fulfil my...potential.”

Queen Camane looked somewhat doubtful at my words. “We do not normally give away our girl-children, but raise them ourselves. Your mother must have had a good reason to give you to a foster family.”

“I do not even know who my mother is,” I lied back calmly, hoping my nonchalance would disguise the dread of discovery which I kept hidden in my heart. “She did not reveal her name to my family, only her instructions.”

“And these were?”

I sighed. “To find my kin once I have reached maturity.”

She studied my face for a moment, before returning her smile – a knowing smile, I dreaded to think. “You had best come with me, then. I am sure we will solve the mystery of your parentage together.”

Nodding, I accepted her offer, following behind Camane, by rights my co-ruler, towards the palace, where my inheritance awaited me in vain.

TLT: Suspicion

2008-08-01T01:58:00.000-07:00

It was of no great surprise to anyone that Helenus, once prince of Troy, rarely attended the lavish banquets which the Mycenaean rulers had made into nightly occurrences. The Trojan seer was known to be somewhat reclusive, and most of the reverence which the Achaeans held for him was borne out of fear, in place of respect. He avoided attendance at court if at all possible.

He strode into the great hall, winged on each side with colossal, gaudily decorated columns, all knowing eyes upon him. Amidst the golden splendour of Mycenae’s noblest and wealthiest, he looked painfully conspicuous in his plain tunic and his startling green eyes. Whispers fluttered around the rectangular room like trapped flies among the crowd, following his deliberate steps to the dais upon which the King’s table was set. Helenus seldom felt awkwardness: he was a foreign prince in Achaean lands, a man who neither looked nor spoke like them; awkwardness was too commonplace to be taken heed of now.

And those few who did not recognise him at sight saw a dark-haired man, his tunic so simple that it was almost rustic, striding purposefully through the hall, and they might have wondered why his green gaze was fixed so unwaveringly on the dowager Queen, seated at the young King’s right. Those who knew did not wonder: they knew of the bloody past that ran between them both.

Helenus lowered himself to his knees before their table, bowing his head. When he rose, he found himself glaring at Clytemnestra in a way that was none too prudent; she did, after all, wield more power than any woman in all the Aegean. Two young women who were unfamiliar to him were seated next to Princess Chrysothemis, both so alike in looks and manner that they could only be sisters. He waited to be addressed.

“Wise Helenus, to what do we owe the pleasure of your attendance? Come, sit with us, and explain.”

Still silent, he ascended the dais, taking his seat on the long bench beside Clytemnestra. She flashed him her crocodile smile, remarking on his non-attendance with marked civility – so marked that Helenus understood at once that it was false. But yet she smiled, and even as she turned to whisper a word to her son, he watched her long, bare neck, thinking how easy it would be to take it in his hands and hold until her breath came no more.

He only really got to his purpose in attending the banquet after the first course had been and gone, and the low murmur of conversation in the hall was amplified as the first and second cups of wine were drained.

“I saw something troubling last night, my Queen.” His words caught and held her attention immediately. Clytemnestra knew first hand that his prophecies had never been proven false – he’d seen Aegisthus’ death long before she had ever thought to imagine it, and when the day came, she could do nothing but watch, knowing what was to come.

Helenus was no great judge of a person’s thoughts, but even he could see the mistrust reflected in her eyes. They were as wary of one another as a lion and a wolf that quarrelled over the same carcass.

Her hand shook as she set her cup down; Helenus revelled in the weakness which that minute gesture betrayed. She closed her eyes, her lips pressed tightly together. “What was it?” Her whisper broke.

“An earthquake in Sparta. All the buildings were destroyed, the palace lying in a pile of rubble.”

She seemed quite relieved as her eyes opened, looking directly into Helenus’ own. Perhaps, he thought, there was more glee in those eyes at this news than he should have expected.

“Such unfortunate tidings,” she said half-heartedly: he could still see the smile hidden at the corners of her eyes. “We must send word to King Menelaus at once.”

“I would advise so,” replied Helenus levelly. “Though by the time a messenger is found, it may be too late.”

Clytemnestra repeated her cold smile as he gazed down at the cedar table, doing his best to keep his arms still.

“Why so tense, Trojan? We are all friends here, and I have much to thank you for. Besides, you might have married my sister, they tell me, and then we would have been brother and sister-in-law.”

He had wondered since what may have happened if he’d accepted marriage to Helen. He still remembered, as though it was a wound only half-healed, the time he had gone to tell his niece, Arynthya, that Deiphobus had won Helen, and not he. The pain he had inflicted on the young woman still stabbed at his conscience from time to time; sometimes her pale, listless body haunted his true dreams. His decision to pass the hand of Helen to his brother had caused her an unfathomable amount of pain. But Helenus had never had a choice in the matter, despite the fact that his father had offered him the Spartan princess first. It was his vision that decided for him: there would be no future for him with Helen of Sparta.

“Had I married Helen, my Queen, I would probably have been dead. Perhaps even by the hand of the King of Sparta.”

“Oh, Helenus. Don’t be so glum.” She batted his shoulder playfully, but this only drew a suspicious look in return.

“I should go,” he said, rising slightly in his seat.

“No.” The Queen stopped him, pinning his hand to the table none too gently. “Stay, enjoy the rest of the meal. Gods know you could use some company.”

Planeshift: The Griffin Ride

2008-07-28T17:15:00.000-07:00

As each beat of the creature’s wings pulled them higher above the park, Petra did as she’d been told, clinging to Axel’s back while gripping the griffin’s flanks with her knees. She looked along the span of his wings; fully extended, they appeared almost twice the length of his body. So powerful were they that the griffin did not need to exert himself to keep them gliding at a great speed. Petra’s hair had been blown out of the collar of her blouse, where she’d tucked it, and trailed behind.

When she braved a glance down, she saw that they had long cleared the treetops, and were ascending to the height of the taller buildings. Below, the green lawn fringe of the park looked even more unnaturally and uniformly lush than it had at ground level; the children frolicking upon it looked like porcelain dolls on a backdrop of make-believe grass. Slanting his wings elegantly, the griffin took them above the thickly wooded forest. Its canopy was consistently thick, but had none of that artificial uniformity which had been imposed on the grasses surrounding it. Some trees, more ambitious than their neighbours, broke past the canopy and reached gnarled, leafy fingers towards the sun; others, choked by vines and stunted by disease, could not compete with the more aggressive of their kind, and shrank back.

They glided at this height over the park a few times, tilting with the griffin every time he turned. The sensation of being compelled upwards and forwards eventually grew exhilarating instead of alarming. She felt a new buoyancy wash over her as the griffin swooped right, turning the riders nearly to their sides. She knew their combined weight must be staggering, two young humans and one griffin, but they manoeuvred as easily as if they’d been wisps of cloud.

Closing her eyes for a moment, she was content simply to feel the wind in her face. She smirked a little at the thought of Rowena at her tedious tea house, sipping at a cup of lukewarm brew. Feeling the updraft beneath them again, Petra wondered if Axel would be attending class tomorrow, and if he would reply truthfully when Mr. Arterberry asked where he had been. She vaguely contemplated whether it would be worth going to lessons if he intended to be there.

But her expression soured when she remembered that ‘Park Boy’ had outwitted her attempts to taunt him, and had not even allowed her the satisfaction of returning her quips. She’d been somewhat shamed by the boy’s refusal to treat her with the contempt that, in all likelihood, she deserved.

Distantly, just above the whip of the wind, she heard Axel speaking. Petra’s eyes opened to see his head craned back, a self-assured smile on his face. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she replied quickly, hoping her breathlessness didn’t sound like nerves. Glancing over his shoulder with a little difficulty, she wondered whether Axel was steering, or if the griffin could guide himself. She could see no bridle, or anything else for that matter that could be used to direct the creature, unless Axel was guiding him with his body. “How do you guide him?” she yelled, her voice competing with the rushing wind.

“You don’t need to speak so loud. You’re right in my ear.”

“Oh,” she said, her tone lowered to its usual volume. “Sorry.”

“I can guide him with a little pressure on the shoulders, just to tell him where to turn. Other than that, he does most of the work.”

When Petra next caught a glimpse of the ground, she saw no longer saw the green expanse of the park, but instead the rooftops of buildings and neatly paved squares of the metropolis. And she realised they were descending rapidly, as the griffin navigated the channels of air between narrow streets, scarcely wider than his wingspan, plunging around corners in a way which left certain townspeople below much shaken. Petra grinned as she saw one mature, well-dressed woman (on later reflection, Petra realised it had been Mrs. Desselles, a wealthy, widowed acquaintance) brandishing her parasol as they swooped past. A quick dive towards a market stall left both riders laughing mischievously as the griffin glided over the sellers and their expensive wares (this was the Archadean Square after all), close enough to cause shoppers alarm.

Planeshift: Petra and Axel (Untitled)

2008-07-24T23:39:00.000-07:00

Breckenridge’s Flora and Fauna lay closed on the grassy bank beside Petra as she reclined, legs stretched out gracelessly, watching the shadow cast by the stone minotaur set at the fork of two neatly paved paths dwindling as the sun rose to its zenith. Her bonnet had been discarded long before, stuffed irreverently into the brown book bag, only its blue ribbons protruding as a reminder that a young lady should always wear her bonnet to avoid a ruddy complexion. Petra’s complexion was a little darker than fitted a young lady of fortune, as that bonnet rarely remained on her head when she made her visits to the park. Neither did she care a shred that her mother would be off at her again upon seeing her reddened cheeks and nose, with the hard remark that she looked like a common labourer. Petra was not a vain girl, for all her pride.

Presently, her half meditative, half vegetative state taxed very little on her mind; as such, she was perilously near the precarious edge of Boredom. She briefly considered unwrapping the vegetable pastries which Clovis (her minotauress nursemaid) had packed for her lunch, but she had no appetite to sate, at present. Besides, crushed as they were by the several books which she had stuffed into the bag after them, they could hardly be particularly appealing.

She sat up to survey the park, tucking her legs beneath her. Her eyes trailed towards the greenish charcoal of the dense forest, scanning the line of trees for any sign of movement, of anything different. But the trees were as motionless as always, and Petra had begun to suspect that the stories about children devoured by predatory beasts who lurked under the thick canopy were the sort of falsehoods parents would tell their offspring to keep them from straying. Petra turned her disinterested gaze away from the ragged edge of the forest, watching the shops across the street.

There was something about the posture of a student evading lessons that gave an observer the distinct impression of their guilt. As Petra glanced along the perimeter of the park, she noticed just one such posture amongst the people lingering around the low stone wall which attempted to fence the last vestiges of nature within.

Petra recognised the boy who leaned against the pillar housing the gate mechanism, gazing back towards the park distantly, eyes focused with a peculiar intensity on the tidy green which stretched out behind him. She was surprised to see Axel – ‘Park Boy’ as he was better known by his classmates – skipping lessons. But then again, Petra’s own attendance record was so scant that she really didn’t know what kind of student he was. She observed his static figure with a dispassionate little frown, winding a blade of grass around her finger.

Without glancing at the time piece in her pocket, Petra decided she’d had enough of the park for one afternoon. Clovis would be waiting around to pick her up; and besides, there was no need to steal Park Boy’s title from him.

Had she cared more about what her parents thought of her schooling (or lack thereof), Petra might have considered what lie she might tell them concerning the test she’d supposedly sat today. But as either parent cared less for their eldest daughter’s education than they did for their own, more pressing, matters, Petra was rarely asked how her day went. No big deal to her, her father and mother’s indifference.

Her expression was just a little petulant as she passed through the park gates, stuffing her head into the crumpled hat irritably. She paused a step outside the gate, fastening the buckle of the shoulder bag as she considered which route to take back to Mr. Arterberry’s. Right would take her past the row of dressmakers, and the bakery she sometimes visited when Clovis’ provisions proved either too little or too spoiled. And left would take her past Park Boy.

Petra realised she had a mind to ask him why he was missing lessons.

So left it was; but as she approached him, she found her curiosity was outweighed by her reluctance to make conversation. Resolving merely to pass by, with a doubtful glance at his defensive posture, arms crossed over his chest, Petra noticed as his gaze shifted towards her. After it had lingered for a moment, she paused in her tracks, a cross frown marring her face. “What are you staring at?”

His eyes narrowed slightly as he seemed to ponder for a moment. “You’re the No-Show Girl.”

Petra’s outward breath formed a sound of exasperation. “Well, yeah. Don’t think your attendance record is exactly golden either if you’re standing here.”

“Better than some. Not as good as others. Nothing vitally important going on today anyway.” Axel shrugged and returned his gaze to the park, falling silent for several moments as he simply looked into the shadowy depths. “You usually drag friends along when you skip lessons, don't you?”

Petra faintly quirked an eyebrow as she remembered reluctant Rowena’s departure from today’s plans, leaving her to the boredom of solitude. “She left. Not much of a park person...Unlike yourself, Mr. Axel,” she added mockingly.

"Usually works better if you know my last name, Ms. Lyon." He shrugged himself off the wall and dug his hands into his pockets. "Question now becomes what you intend to do with the next hour. Unless that minotauress has stopped picking you up from classes."

“I was just going home,” she replied, ignoring his impudence in correcting her. What was he, 14? Nothing more than a vexing little boy. She bit back the insults she might have thrown back at him, remembering the advantage of her years. “But now that I think of it, how come you’re forever lingering around the gate but never going in?” She left a small pause for emphasis. “You’re not afraid of it are you?”

Axel froze visibly, his confident turn toward the street interrupted by her words. "You ever hear of a Skynight by the name of Revan Cloudrunner?" He looked at her, his eyes so narrow it seemed a marvel of muscular control that they were still somehow open and his jaw clenched tight.

Petra blinked at the familiar name. “Might have. So what?”

“He died in that very park over ten years ago. He'd been on a walk with his only son. The boy got away from him and was attacked by a wild giant.” Axel paused and glared into her eyes for a brief moment before continuing. “Ever since his father died, that boy hasn't been able to go into the park. Nobody really knows why; he just won't go.”

“Oh...” she found herself staring at her boots in shame. So that was the uncomfortable truth of Park Boy’s strange habit. She felt a little mortified of the insensitivity of her comment earlier, but her pride would not let her admit her tactlessness for long. She was nearly ready to return the grave revelation with some remark of wit, when she was stopped short.

Axel turned and began to walk away, hands still in his pockets. He glanced back when he noticed she wasn't following and called out to her. "Hey, No-Show! You coming?"

He was heading through the gate, back towards the park. Stuck to her place by wide-eyed shock, she had to make an effort to move to follow after him.

“But...where are you going?” she asked, jogging a few steps forward to catch up.

“Well, one of us has to come up with a plan for the rest of the afternoon. And I'm the only one who has an idea. You'll see in a few minutes.” He didn't even bother to turn his head back to look at her, focusing intently on the ground in front of him as the trees loomed closer.

Petra frowned, watching as the long shadows of the woods began to cross their path. She would have called him insane, had she been any less curious as to what Master Axel had planned.

Finally, they reached the edge of the trees and he stopped, staring into the murky depths. "Have you ever wondered what happens to a Skyknight's mount when he dies?" Axel turned to face Petra with a slight smirk on his face.

Petra looked at him a little uneasily. “Never crossed my mind.”

“Well, I know the answer, whether you've thought on it or not.” He gave a loud, sharp whistle and crossed his arms. For a few seconds, nothing happened, until a loud screech echoed from within the forest itself, followed shortly by the flapping of wings. “Oftentimes they're released, though they still have something of a bond with their old partner's family. Some naturalists think it has to do with the scent the rider, and by extension his family, produce.”

Before long, a griffin soared high overhead before circling down towards them, crying happily as it approached the ground, trotting slowly toward Axel. “I never really bothered wondering why it was, though. I just have a friend who knew Dad better than I did.”

The appearance of this fine-feathered creature startled Petra, and she took an involuntary step backward. But the animal was beautiful, with its graceful head and sleek beak, and possessed a nobility which the ink drawings on the pages of a book could scarcely replicate. And those of them she had seen from afar during the parades, she realised, had been encumbered by their legionary regalia; seeing one quite close now, she was able to see how the soft feathers varied in colour and texture across the griffin’s body, downy near its chest but sharp and elongated as it stretched along the colossal wings.

Petra watched bewilderedly as the creature lowered the smooth beak and nudged Axel’s side affectionately, apparently requesting that he ruffle the feathers on his crown. It gave her a distinct impression that griffins were quite affectionate creatures, though looking at the cruel, almost serrated edge of that beak gave her second thoughts.

“Hey, boy.” Axel ran a hand through the feathers of the creature's neck as he spoke softly to it. “Sorry I haven't been around lately.” It snapped its beak happily and rubbed its muzzle against him once more before moving to test regally on its knees, tossing its head. Running a hand along its wing, he looked back at Petra. “You coming?”

“What??” Petra looked back at Axel, her eyes wide at his offer. “You mean ride? On him?” For a moment she could think of nothing but her grip slipping from those smooth feathers, and plummeting through the sky to meet a messy death on some market stall.

"Well… yeah, that's the general notion. He likes when people ride him." He ran a hand along the griffin's beak. "If you want, you can ride in front and I'll… er…" he paused, seeming to realize what it was that was being offered. "Um… If you're worried about falling, it's perfectly safe…."

Petra glared at him; the mere accusation of cowardice was enough to assuage her fears. “I most certainly am not afraid! I’m coming.”

He smirked and swung his leg over the creature. "You wanna ride in front or back?" The creature shifted slightly as his weight fell upon it and crowed with excitement, its wings stretching out in anticipation.

It was easier to settle her nerves once she saw the griffin’s eagerness; she took a few tentative steps forward. “I dunno...” she considered, in response to his question. “Which is easiest for you?”

Planeshift: Petra's Intro

2008-07-12T20:22:00.000-07:00

Mr Arterberry, a tutor of natural science and geography in the wealthier districts in the Archadean Square, watched the timepiece strike twelve noon. His students awaited further instruction anxiously, their soft, unworked hands resting hesitantly on their desks, eager to turn the pages of the test paper before them. The tutor rapped the desk sharply with the end of his cane, clearing his throat. He pushed the spectacles up on his nose, clearing his throat in a manner which bespoke his irritation.

“It seems that Miss Lyon has chosen not to grace us with her presence this afternoon, students,” he said, looking at the group of five before him. No, four...he counted again, certain his eyes were deceiving him. But no, young Axel’s seat was distinctly empty, and he did not know him to be a truant like Miss Lyon. He set the cane on the desk, drawing the chair out.

“The examination will commence as normal,” he said tersely. “You have until two-thirty. Begin!”

Scarcely had the order been given that pages began to fly, and quills scratched out hasty answers. Mr Arterberry took his seat. Petronilla’s truancy was something he had been prepared for. But Axel? No, that boy’s absences were rare, and he had never missed an examination before. The tutor muffled a sigh in the sleeve of his coat. This did not bode well at all.

***
Petra was laughing as she stepped off the kerb, followed by a less enthusiastic Rowena. Both girls were in their last year of schooling, though Rowena did not share many of her friend’s classes. The silent but acknowledged truth was, they shared very little at all. Rowena’s father was an associate of Petra’s, and apart from that, all they could confidently claim to have in common was the year of their birth. Rowena was as dull as Petra was unruly. And unless it was for her disobedient friend’s interference, she nearly always abided by the rules set by her superiors.

“Your parents will find out, you know,” she called righteously from behind, as Petra kept up her rapid pace. She felt the lace of one of her fine leather boots was undone, and she ignored its annoying dragging as well as she could. There would be no time to slow down to fasten it, not until they had cleared the immediate vicinity of Cloudreach.

“Don’t care,” Petra replied monosyllabically. Frowning, Rowena tried to keep up with her fiercely-paced walk, feeling the low heel of her boots hit the pavement with painful repercussions for her ankles. She had to jog forward a few steps to bring herself in line with the other girl.

“Where are we going anyway?” she asked tetchily. Petra wondered, not for the first time, why she’d dragged tedious, submissive Rowena along.

“The park.”

Rowena’s eyes looked ready to pop out of her head. “The park! Oh Petra, can’t we find somewhere nicer? How about those beautiful new tea rooms near the—”

“What, that silly little place your mother took us to last week?” she cut in impatiently, leaving Rowena astounded at her friend’s disregard for the most basic social etiquette. “The tea was so insipid there.”

“I thought it was a very pretty place,” replied a cross Rowena, who was genuinely fond of the establishment in question.

“If you don’t like it, don’t come,” said Petra coolly.

Rowena halted suddenly, her brow furrowed in disbelief. It took a few moments for Petra to realise that she had fallen back. “Well you know what? I think I won’t.”

Petra shrugged. “Fine with me.”

TLT: Dreams

2008-06-16T15:58:00.000-07:00

He was walking as usual through his dreams, the uneventful, normal sort. They were dreams like any other man might have, rooted in memories, hidden fears and secret desires. Dreams which signified nothing, portended no doom. When Helenus had normal dreams, he usually dreamed of Troy, of his father, mother, brothers and sisters. He dreamed of Cassandra, of Hector and Andromache’s wedding, of Deiphobus defeating him at swordplay, of his mother taking him into her lap. He dreamed memories; a fact that always seemed ironic to him, since he never thought of the past during his waking hours. Usually, memories disturbed him even more than prophecies, and those were disturbing enough.

So he was almost relieved when he felt himself being pulled from these dreams, drawn away into shadows, shifting, dark, indistinct around him. They turned him within a gyre of shade, disorientating him completely, wrenching all recollections of the previous dreams from his mind. When the gyre gave way, he found firm ground beneath his body. He opened his eyes, wondering what terrifying vision he would find before them.

Much to his surprise, there was nothing. He felt the smooth stones of a city street under his palms as he raised himself to his feet, looking around warily. But scarcely had he straightened his back as a tremor ran underneath his feet, and he felt a deep rumble coming from the earth itself. And as he looked up, he saw the very buildings around him tremble, as some shuddered and toppled over, as easily as children’s toys would collapse if built too high. Helenus could feel the tremors, but knew he was not affected by them: calm as the ocean on a fine day, he watched as the great city quavered, rock shifting on rock, mortarless bricks crumbling as, around him, Sparta collapsed. Helenus closed his eyes. He had experienced hundreds of prophecies, but they seldom grew any easier to endure.

When he awoke to find himself in his bedchamber in Mycenae, Helenus felt his ears ringing, and he winced in pain. He held his hands to his ears, trying to still the throbbing of his head. And then he heard the voice in his head, as he had come to expect after every one of his prophetic dreams, speaking low in his ear...

The ground will quake beneath all
Beware, you kings of Lacedaemon, even the mightiest will fall
Beware, for Poseidon will take his due
As this prophecy comes true

The words burned themselves into his memory: he would have no need for writing them down now. Every prophecy he had made was as clear to him now as they had been on the day he had first heard them.

Rome: Deia's Character Profile

2008-06-02T14:40:00.000-07:00

Character Profile

Full Name: Adeia Eurydike.
Meaning of Name: from Greek adea meaning “fearless; unfearing”.
Birth Date: 21 April.
Birth Place: Thessalonica, Macedon.
Age: 19
Race: Caucasian (Greek and Macedonian).
Hair Color: Dark Auburn.
Hair Style: Kept simple, the Greek way. Avoids the elaborate coiffures some of her fellow courtesans wear.
Shape and Features of Face: Large, expressive eyes, soft, sensual lips.
Eye Color: Blue-grey.
Skin Tone: Porcelain with a light dusting of pale-golden freckles.
Any Scars or Distinguishing Marks: A small birthmark on her back.
Build or Body Type: Slender, soft curves and shapely buttocks.
Height: 5'4”
Weight: Approx. 120 lb

Family and Childhood

Father: Antipatros, a wealthy Greek trader.
Mother: Eleni, a well-bred woman of Greek ancestry.
Family Finances: Comfortable.
Brothers: Antipatros had two sons, though one was born sickly and exposed as an infant. The elder, Kassandros, grew up healthy.
Sisters: Three elder: Tryphaina, Ligeia and Ptolemais.
Birth Order: Fifth and youngest.
Best Friend: Eidyia, an accomplished hetaira and her tutor.
Pets: Her father owned a stable of horses, and kept an old, tame mare for her riding.
Home Life During Childhood: Was allowed the headstrong upbringing of a youngest child.
Popular or Loner: Well-loved by all her father’s friends and relatives.
Important Experiences or Events: The beginning of her education under Eidyia.
Health Problems: Of reasonably good health.
Culture: Greek immigrants in Macedon.
Religion: Greek pantheon, particularly Aphrodite and Hecate.

Your Character's Character

Bad Habits: Too liberal with her trust; self-indulgent, obstinate.
Strong Points: Thorough, resourceful, quick-witted.
Temperament: Usually even-tempered, though has been known to make rash decisions when feeling threatened or stirred to anger.
Fears: Losing her charms with age, and growing old in poverty.
Weakness: ...
Secrets: Few of her clients have known that she began her career in Rome working in a brothel, under the guidance of a lena, Lamia.
Regrets: Having been listed as a meretrix, a registered prostitute, as it prevents her from attaining even the most basic level of respectability for the duration of her life.
Feels Vulnerability When: Without the power in a relationship.
Pet Peeves: Courtesans who dress and behave like common whores, and any woman who uses her sexual charms above her intellectual ones.
Conflicts: Her natural ambition and her weariness with the life of the courtesan are frequently at odds.
Motivation: To make enough money to keep her home and slaves, and lead a comfortable life. She is only interested in meddling with the political lives of her clients insofar as the benefits it may bring for her.
Goals and Hopes: To attain once more the wealth and reputation she possessed at the height of the dictatorship.

Sexuality: Heterosexual.
Speech: Trained in the Greek style of speaking, Adeia possesses a rich, clear voice, and is eloquent. Her Latin is lightly Greek accented.
Day or Night Person: Night.
Introvert or Extrovert: Naturally social, and thrives on attention.
Optimist or Pessimist: Pessimist.

Likes and Styles

Music: Is accomplished with both the lyre, and the auloi, a flute-like instrument.
Books: Has a wide knowledge of the Greek classics, Homer and Euripides being favourites.
Foods: Sweet fruits, like grapes, dates and figs.
Drinks: Mulsum, or honeyed wine. Overall, however, she is careful to avoid drinking excessively, as it does not become a woman.
Animals: Is not particularly fond of animals, but tolerates horses.
Colour: Yellow is her particular favourite, but blues, purples, reds and oranges also suit her.
Clothing: Prefers simplicity and elegance in her garments, rather than tasteless gaudiness.
Jewellery: Is partial to gold jewellery, particularly with turquoises and amethysts.

Where and How Does Your Character Live Now

Home: A small but comfortable domus near the city’s boundaries, towards the lower slopes of the Aventine Hill.
Favourite Possession: Does not attach herself to possessions as many other women do.
Married Before: Never, and her fame as a courtesan will most likely prevent her from ever doing so in the future, unless a man will stoop so far to marry her.
Children: None.
Relationship with Family: Her father was reluctant to associate himself with his hetaira daughter, and so her relations with her family were distant even when they were not separated by a vast distance.
Best Friend: Biblys, her Theban slave, harshest critic and confidante.
Career: Courtesan or hetaira.
Dream Career: Is perfectly happy with her career, despite its instabilities and uncertain future.
Hobbies: Has very little time for leisure activities.
Talents: Her faultless ability to attract men and her wit.
Finances: Good enough for now, but she cannot go without a protector too long.

Your Character's Life…Before Your Story

Past Careers:Meretrix.
Past Lovers: Numerous, though all were customers and clients.
Biggest Mistakes: Choosing her clients from the supporters of the dictator.
Biggest Achievements: Isn’t being one of the best known courtesans in Rome an achievement in itself?

A Pragmatic Gesture

2008-05-16T16:10:00.000-07:00

A passing trader’s cart sprayed the sidewalk with mud and worse. Feeling a splatter on her hem, Adeia lifted the trailing edge of her tunica a little higher as she crossed the street, and continued on her way, only a little further frustrated that the Fortuna had burdened her with more than her fair share of bad luck for the day. A malodorous breeze stirred her skirts, and pushed her palla off her head. Frowning, she lifted it back into place.

Pushing her way through the busy street, she mindlessly stepped from stone to stone, aware vaguely of her general direction. She had not considered at length where she was headed to. So far, she had followed an impulse which seemed to be leading her to Publius’ house; it was only when she had travelled nearly half the way there that it struck her that it would be unwise to pay him a visit, given the company of soldiers who had shown up at her door barely an hour before, requesting her audience. She thought back to the fears Publius had confided in her about the Legate investigating the senators under suspicion of loyalty to the fallen dictator; men such as those Publius had entertained in his own home. They had expressed their concerns about being next on the Legate’s list, though despite all their apparent foresight, they had not foreseen that he would choose to approach their women first. Courtesans were notoriously fickle in their allegiances after all; even the best women among them would eagerly sell her loyalty to the highest bidder. Adeia, always the sensible pragmatist, did not deny for a moment that she would do the same.

Given this, it troubled her deeply that, in a moment of uncharacteristic trust in her flighty slave’s advice, she had eluded the rare opportunity which had presented itself at her doorstep earlier this day. How foolish she had been to overlook the benefits of ingratiating herself with the restorers of the Republic!

In her anger, her errant path had taken her past the turn into her usual route through the cattle market to the Palatine. She found herself in a part of the city which she had visited only rarely in the last few years, an area near the Circus Maximus, which was the address to a number of brothels which catered specifically for wealthier clients. It was in one of these that Adeia, newly arrived in Rome, had begun her career. As she ventured into the street which led to her former workplace, she thought that perhaps it would not be unwise to wait out the rest of the day before returning home. In the meantime, she could pay a visit to an old friend.

***
Lamia had aged in the few years since Adeia had last seen her. The furrow between her brows had deepened, and her haughty smile had etched lines around her mouth, though the formidable brothel-mistress was as impeccably groomed as ever, and not a single white hair showed in her vibrant reddish mane, though this was more to Lamia’s excellent knowledge of the best dyes than to natural preservation. She had been very hospitable to Adeia on hearing of her troubles, and offered her a seat and refreshments.

“My dear, it has been entirely too long! And look how you’ve bloomed as I have withered...I can hardly recognise the skinny little Macedonian girl you were!” Ushering her towards a comfortable seat, Lamia pinched the flesh on the younger woman’s buttocks as she used to once, to gauge how much weight she needed to gain to be more palatable to customers. Adeia felt the complacency of the brothel in her own movements as she allowed herself to be manoeuvred, puppet-like, to her seat.

Adeia took her place, refusing the wine which a handsome young boy offered her on a tray. She felt a stab of discomfort as she watched him recede back down the corridor lined with doors to the cubicles, one of which had once been her own. Trained for an art higher than mere harlotry, her expectations had been dashed when the first step forward in her career had been as a meretrix, rather than a hetaira. But what did Romans know of hetairai? Even Lamia, who claimed to have read the works of the Greeks widely, could not make the distinction. When she had come from Macedon as a soft girl, bearing a letter from her tutor Eidyia that she was to work in the brothel for a year, Lamia had promptly set her to work.

“How has business been?” Adeia asked aloofly, arranging and rearranging her palla, in a way that quietly spoke of her unease.

Lamia smiled like a crocodile. The glint in her bright eyes was mocking. “Excellent! I daresay my house has never been better off, nor my girls ever this plump. But what about you, my sweet one?”

“I do well enough,” Adeia answered quickly. “Though I suffered too at the dictator’s demise. I had many clients in his favour. It is unfortunate but I do hope to rebuild my reputation.”

“I am sure that will come in time,” Lamia assured her, and Adeia perceived that her honeyed tone was layered with genuine pity. “Now tell me: what was it that brought you here?”

Adeia recounted the story in full, while her former mistress listened on intently, her face betraying the same fusion of pity and disapproval as it had when she had first learned that her most valuable girl was leaving the brothel to pursue a ‘career’ of companionship to powerful men.

“...it was my slave who forced me outside from some irrational fear for my safety,” finished Adeia, eyes still fixed on the dim corridor. “I had nowhere better to go, so I came to you.”

Lamia twisted the rings on her fingers thoughtfully. “If you will allow me to be quite frank, my dear child, I will say that I think you made a grave mistake in escaping. Co-operation might have placed you in a very unique position indeed...and this Legate of whom you spoke? If you seek a way back into the respectability, that man may be your only chance.”

Adeia nodded. However bitter Lamia may have been about the parting of their ways, her advice was still as sound as ever. She forced herself to admit that no-one knew the ways of men as well as Lamia did.

“I see that now,” replied the younger woman. “I have resolved to co-operate, should I be offered a second chance.”

“I am glad we agree, my dear. Now, I think the time is ripe to settle a matter which has plagued me for years. I have an apology I wish to offer you.”

Adeia’s face was pure bewilderment. “What ever for?”

“When you came to my house, bearing that letter from Eidyia, about how I was to take you under my wing, I thought it was a terrible imposition on your behalf to have free board and food, with no benefit for me. The letter, Adeia, it gave no instruction that I should make you work as a meretrix as long as you lived with me: those terms I made up on my own, to satisfy my own greed.”

Only a heavy silence followed. Adeia’s face did not move a fraction, blank as marble. Unable to bring forth words, she merely nodded. Lamia reached for her hand; she did not recoil from the touch. Instead, she placed her other hand on Lamia’s in a gentle gesture of forgiveness. “If I was in your position, I would have done the same.”

The words were said easily, and after the crime was forgiven, Adeia was left to ponder on the words she had said last. As she took her leave of Lamia and the brothel, retracing her way past the Circus Maximus, and across the cattle market, she reached the uncomfortable conclusion that she had lied to Lamia when she said she would have done the same. Lamia’s practicality was so great that it transcended moral boundaries; regretfully, Adeia recognised that she could only aspire to such pragmatism: achieving it was altogether beyond her moral limitations.

As she neared her house, however, she drew her thoughts away from Lamia and fixed them to the task that called her attention most urgently. She did not know when, or if, the soldiers would visit her home again, but she could only hope it would be soon

Kaif's Original Character Profile

2008-04-24T01:10:00.000-07:00

Meaning of Name: In Arabic; “pleasure, high spirits”
Titles: al-Sayyid al-Halabi (Lord of Aleppo)
Nickname: al-Dimashqi (the Damascene)
Birth Date: April 13th, 1153
Birth Place: Damascus, Syria
Age: 30 years
Race: Persian
Hair Color: Dark brown.
Hair Style: Short and curly.
Shape and Features of Face: Handsome, strong features.
Eye Color: Warm brown.
Skin Tone: Tanned
Any Scars or Distinguishing Marks: None.
Build or Body Type: Medium build.
Height: 5’ 11”

Family and Childhood

Father: Yusuf ibn Shirkuh
Mother: Nilüfar al-Isfahani
Family Finances: Comfortable
Brothers: None
Sisters: One half-sister; Sultana Suhailah bint Yusuf, wife of Salah al-Din.
Birth Order: 1st; Kaif, Suhailah.
Pets: Horses
Home Life During Childhood: Spoiled, doted upon.
Popular or Loner: Popular.
Important Experiences or Events: Initiation as a spy into the Hashashin; the marriage of his sister to the Sultan.
Culture: Syrian
Religion: Atheist

Your Character's Character

Bad Habits: Was self-centred and somewhat conceited in his youth; the worst of his habits now is his mistrustfulness.
Strong Points: Loyal, intelligent, beguiling, determined.
Temperament: Relaxed, not taken to outbursts.
Attitude: Open to change and accepts difficulties. Humanistic in his outlook.
Fears: Loyalty to Salah al-Din being discovered.
Weakness: His inability to resist protecting the weak, even if it means defying orders.
Secrets: Keeps his task an utmost secret.
Regrets: The weight of the duty the Sultan has asked of him, even though he had no choice but to accept.
Feels Vulnerability When: Forced to do something against his principles; in threat of being discovered.
Pet Peeves: People who are narrow-minded; guarded individuals who don’t reveal much about themselves; unresponsive conversations.
Conflicts: The conflict of his personal philosophy and the restrictions of religion.
Motivation: Outwardly, to protect and serve the Sultan. In truth, he is unsure of what motivates him.
Goals and Hopes: To do what he wants, rather than what is expected of him.
Sexuality: Heterosexual.
Speech: Speaks persuasively and forcefully.
Day or Night Person: Night Person
Introvert or Extrovert: Extrovert
Optimist or Pessimist: Pessimist, at present.

Likes and Styles

Music: Appreciates music despite not being able to play any instruments.
Books: Prefers poetry to longer books; only picks up a Qur’an when forced to.
Foods: Favours meat dishes.
Drinks: Wine, when it can be found.
Animals: Horses, birds of prey, dogs.
Sports: Horseriding, archery.
Social Issues: A humanist at heart, he believes in the dignity and worth of all people. He also questions the validity of religion, and doesn’t believe that forcing people to follow strict rules will encourage morality.

Where and How Does Your Character Live Now

Home: Damascus.
Favorite Possession: Does not value possessions.
Married Before: No.
Children: Atiya, a seven year old bastard daughter. Her mother, an Armenian slave, passed away while Kaif was in the East.
Relationship with Family: His father is deceased; maintains a distant relationship with his widowed mother and his half-sister, Suhailah.
Best Friend: el-Tawil, a Damascene soldier
Other Friends: Acquaintances at the Syrian camp.
Career: Soldier in the Sultan’s army and Hashashin double-agent.
Dream Career: To be his own man, not an agent of others.
Hobbies: Reading and writing poetry.
Talents: Deceiving, extracting information, strategising and otherwise being charming.
Finances: Has little money of his own due to excessive spending, but lives on the Sultan’s generosity.
Health Problems: of robust health

Your Character's Life…Before Your Story

Past Careers: Son and heir of Yusuf ibn Shirkuh.
Past Lovers: Numerous; among them is Nazani, an Armenian slave.
Biggest Mistakes: None.
Biggest Achievements: Earning the Sultan’s trust.

The Whims of Fortuna

2008-03-02T03:49:00.000-08:00

Senator Publius Scribonius Curio had left the shutter on his bedroom window open overnight, and as morning approached, the chill from the street outside slowly crept into the darkened chamber. Adeia sat up in bed, her bare arms prickling with the cold. Shifting her weight gingerly, so as not to awaken her sleeping client, she leaned across his supine body, to hazard a look at the sky outside. It was still dark, but being a poor judge of the time, she could not tell for how long. As she carefully pulled away, she felt Publius stirring beside her. She stopped, watching as he rolled over, after which the stillness reclaimed him. So, he was still asleep. Adeia would have it that way, for another few hours at least. She did not know what more he might want on awakening.

Adeia was often intensely critical of her clients. Publius, for example, was weak-willed, and consequently too fearful to ever commit to any one side of an argument. In general, he was swayed by the opinions of the majority, having too little opinion of his own. In Adeia’s own opinion, this was a grave shortcoming for a senator. Yet it was Publius’ reluctant nature which had led her back to him, after several years of serving far more illustrious and powerful patrons. Many of her benefactors, in later years especially, had been men who had gained their influence by backing the Dictator. Once the old regime had collapsed, and those loyal to the dictatorship fled, Adeia had been left stranded. As a hetaira, much of her reputation was built upon the names of her previous clients. Now that their names had been sullied, so was hers.

She had sought out Publius soon after the Dictator’s demise. It had been greatly wounding to her pride to return to this insignificant and ineffective fool, but her lifestyle was an expensive one, and it was crucial that she found herself new allies. And Publius, ironically, had been one of the few among her clientele who had not evaporated after the balance of power swung in the opposite direction. Adeia had accepted some time ago that even she, the most adaptable of women, might never recover from this whim of Fortuna’s.

She lay back down, shutting her eyes and waiting for sleep to return impatiently. But it did not come. Adeia gritted her teeth, trying to clear her mind of fearful thoughts...such as being attached to Publius for the rest of eternity. The most appalling part of the situation was that he was perfectly aware of the seriousness of her state, quite conscious of the extent to which she was dependent on him. He must have been bitter that she had spurned him, though politely, a little over a year ago. There had been more illustrious men waiting on her company then. Did he think that Fortuna had done justice by turning the scales on her?

Adeia glanced at Publius disparagingly. No, he was too great a fool to remain angry with her. Ordinarily, she would have encouraged a client’s affections as much as she could, but Publius was besotted with her. It was so easy to lead him that she hardly thought it worth her time—she longed for a more challenging man, one who was more accustomed to having his way.

As she forced the thoughts away, she realised that she had sat up again. She had not been so careful to keep her movements shallow this time, and she saw the senator stir again, but this time into wakefulness.

“You are awake?” he asked redundantly, his voice raspy with sleep.

Adeia, feeling her spine rigid with irritation, shut her eyes and tried to compose herself. Publius was a forbearing fool, but still she could not take any chances with terse behaviour. After barely a moment, she leaned towards him, taking his bony hand in hers. She heaved an affected sigh.

“Dearest, I have been unable to sleep all night,” she complained, knowing that Publius liked to comfort her. Adeia knew it was born of his desire to exert his influence over something, anything, even if it was nothing more than an unhappy woman.

It was too dark to be certain, but Adeia was sure that his face fell with pity. He moved her hand to his lips, before stroking it devotedly. “My poor girl. Come, I will hold you until you fall asleep.”

Knowing that he could not see her, Adeia narrowed her eyes. This was really the last thing she wanted, but she would indulge Publius, if he wished it. “Thank you, dearest. I know I will sleep better with your arms around me.”

As they lay together, Adeia wondered if he was truly so naive to think that she, one of the most desired hetairai in Rome, could possibly be honest when she called him her dearest.

KoC: Untitled Kaif & AoD

2008-02-21T18:03:00.000-08:00

Kaif rose early the next morning, listening to the relative quiet of the camp outside. As he moved quietly through the tent, dressing himself without waking the slave girl, he heard only the soft footsteps of servants as they picked their way through the camp, preparing for the day ahead, and the snorting of tired horses in the distance. Fastening the buttons of his tunic of light silk, he thought that it was much too early yet to be making his preparations. The interior of the tent was still dark, and the camp would stir only in time to meet the first prayer of the day, Fajr, at dawn. But Kaif felt the dark tent, which had been his home for weeks now, oddly restrictive, a shadowy and silent prison cell. He turned his head to look at the girl sleeping on the opposite side. She, too, was a prisoner here. Both of them were inmates at the siege of Kerak.

He judged, from a quick glance outside, that it would be another hour yet until Fajr. He could not sleep now, but it was much too early to report to the Sultan’s pavilion for duty. Furthermore, the dark, late-autumn morning outside was chilly, and he did not wish to brave the sting of it before the sun had risen. He thought of what he had spoken to the Sultan about the day before, when he had told him the news that his cousin, the Amira of Damascus, had arrived at the camp by night. Kaif had been surprised that she had not taken an active role in the command of the siege since then; he sensed that something about the nature of her detainment troubled her. He looked again to his sleeping slave. Surely, there could be no harm in making an early visit to the Amira’s tent?

***

There was no sound which came from the tent given to Amira Arynthya, and this troubled Kaif somewhat. He had come here under the assumption that she would be awake, but as he stood close to the fastened entrance, listening anxiously for any noise from inside, he realised what a flawed presumption it had been. Additionally, he was increasingly aware of the looks given to him by a number of servants who silently attended to their duties, who were all aware that this tent belonged to the Amira. Kaif frowned. She was his kinswoman, but he did not think that might prevent the emergence of an unsavoury rumour.

He leaned towards the tent, listening closely once more. Hearing no sound, he said quietly, barely above a whisper, “Amira...Amira, it is your cousin, Kaif.”

For a few anxious moments, nothing happened. But then he heard the faint shuffling of paper, and the rustling of silk on silk, as gentle footsteps approached the tent opening. It was unfastened and the unveiled face of Arynthya peered out. She smiled before beckoning him inside.

“I had not known you to rise so early, cousin,” she said quietly as she fastened the opening shut again.

Kaif kept his laugh at his cousin’s words subdued. “No, indeed, consciousness at this hour is a very new thing to me.” He watched as Arynthya sat back down and offered him a seat at her writing desk, opposite her. As she tidied her materials, Kaif thought that she had not seen her face since they were both children. The memories were mostly unpleasant, however, and he pushed them away as she looked up again.

“And what is it that brings you here so early in the morning, cousin?” asked Arynthya.

“I wished to speak with you before the day began,” he answered carefully. “Since I heard about your return from Kerak, I admit I have been concerned about you. It is not the Arynthya I know who would avoid the side of the Sultan at the siege to remain in her tent instead.”

She looked away, acknowledging the truth in his words.

Kaif persisted. “I know it is difficult for you, Arynthya, to be trapped between these two worlds. But to abandon them both does neither of them good.”

The Amira looked at him incredulously. “When did you grow to be so wise, cousin?”

He smiled, but continued, undaunted. “Is it that you fear you betray your mother’s lineage by aiding the siege?”

“I suppose that may be some part of it.”

“Arynthya,” he began, “The Sultan’s quarrel is not with your kinsmen; it is with Reynald de Chatillon. Would it not be just as good for the King of Jerusalem to be rid of this tyrant as it would be for your uncle?”

“Yes, it would,” she responded, and Kaif thought she looked then more as he remembered her: his wise, formidable young cousin. “I will attend the siege today.”

Scarcely before she had finished her words, Kaif felt a memory of the distant past emerging from the depths of his mind; a memory he had thought was long forgotten.

***

Four students sat with their tutor under a shady cypress in the courtyard of the palace at Damascus. Three of them were nearly young men, and had grown taller and broader over the last summer, their voices deepening. The youngest pupil, however, was a girl of nine, who sat close by the tutor, absorbing his every word. Another of the young men sat a little further back with a companion, resting against the low stone wall which hedged the garden beds, checking a few of his notes studiously. The third student was the furthest removed from the tutor, leaning lazily against the cypress, more interested in the shapes formed by the hazy clouds overhead than in the lesson being given.

“Kaif, you are not listening,” chided the tutor, noting his pupil’s waning interest.

“I am,” he replied in his own defence. “I can listen without looking at you.”

“We shall see how well that strategy works when I begin asking you questions, won’t we Kaif?”

The young man groaned, turning to face the tutor. Satisfied, the teacher continued. “We been learning about the scientific advancements made in the areas of mathematics and astronomy by the Ummayads this week. As the first dynasty following the life and death of the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him), they were responsible for much of our culture as we know it today—for it was they who transformed the petty pagan tribes of Arabia into an organised and efficient empire, and created an army so effective that their conquests were the fastest since the days of Alexander the Great. And this was remarkable, seeing as a few short generations earlier they were backwater villagers, answering to no-one but themselves.”

Jamil, the student who glanced frequently down to his notes, saw this as an opportunity to speak his mind. “Is this not true evidence of the greatness of our faith, that it would turn a nomad into a King?”

Kaif rolled his eyes. “It was that same faith that caused thousands of deaths, not so many generations ago. Fools like yourself, Jamil, kill because they think they do right. What use is religion other than making sane men fight over this God and that God?”

Their tutor, always tolerant of Kaif’s strong opinions, was about to qualify Jamil’s remarks when the little girl by his feet spoke up.

“But, cousin,” interjected Arynthya, turning to look at him, “Did we not just learn that the advancements made in the fields of astronomy and geography arose from the concern our ancestors had with the precise time and direction for prayer? So you see that in the pursuit of faith, we have added to the knowledge of the world, knowledge that will still be used generations from now, regardless of faith or religion. Is that not admirable, Kaif?”

The tutor placed his hand on the child’s head. “You are a very clever girl,” he said, smiling fondly at the youngest of his pupils. Her older cousin looked at her with his brows knitted tightly. How could this precocious little girl child know so much, and be so well-loved by everyone? As ridiculous as he felt being envious of his little cousin, he could not deny being jealous that she, and not he, was the rising star of Shirkuh’s heirs.

KoC: Untitled Laila & Kaif

2008-02-18T14:23:00.000-08:00

As evening approached, and began to cast its shadow over the quieting camp, Kaif lit the lamps, so that they would have a little light until the weariness of the day won over their resolve to stay awake. His slave had risen with him, attempting to aid the lighting of the lamps, but the bronze lights were unlike any she had been accustomed to, and it proved a difficult task for her. Kaif smiled, watching her as she apprehensively lifted the lid of one of the lamps. The naked flame inside cast a warm glow to her cheeks, and he appreciated fully, perhaps for the first time, just how beautiful she was.

Once there was sufficient light inside the tent, they reclaimed their previous positions; master seated by the foot of his bed, and slave near the opposite corner. But he thought that this time she positioned herself a little nearer to the centre of the space, tucking her legs beneath her demurely as before. They had spent much of the late afternoon in light conversation, while Kaif washed and dressed. Words did not come so easily now to him, now that they were seated again as before. Kaif had opened his mouth to speak when heard soft footsteps outside the tent, and turned to look towards the entrance, unsure of who it could be. He glanced at Laila in warning, and she withdrew again into her corner, her expression anxious.

“My Lord Kaif, it is I, Shaadiya,” spoke a woman’s voice from outside, and Laila looked relieved.

“You may enter,” said Kaif, feeling irritated at himself for forgetting that the Sultan’s slave often brought him his evening meals. The woman entered, bearing a large silver tray laden with a variety of dishes.

The woman looked at Laila with a kind eye before setting the tray upon the low table in the middle of the tent. “The Sultan hopes you will enjoy your supper,” she said, and backed out of the room quietly.

After a few moments passed, Kaif looked at his slave mildly. “You must be hungry. Come and eat.”

Laila stood fully up and smooth her wrinkly clothing. It was the same clothing she wore the night before and slept in. She smoothed her hair down as much as she could and slowly walked to the table her master sat at. She was not used to eating at the same table with her master and she felt unsure of herself.

She slowly and gingerly sat down across from Kaif. Wondering if she should serve him the strange food or if he was going to serve her. In a normal situation the slave always served the master. But Laila didn’t know the food well here or how to serve it. She frowned as she slowly reached for the bowl of rice that was in front of her and held up a spoon to server her master.

“No,” said Kaif, gently pushing away Laila’s hand. “Serve yourself first. I am capable of eating without your help,” he jested, smiling a little.

Laila ducked her head and blushed slightly at his jest. Then, lifting the spoon into the bowl and lifting the rice out, she dumped a small portion on her plate. Unsure of how to eat it or what to eat it with. She frowned and looked at her master for guidance. When she was with Saladin, Shaadiya always served her ad she was to frightened to watch the older woman in guidance.

Kaif, noting her apprehension about these unfamiliar eating customs, took a smaller spoon and offered it to her. “You eat it with this.” Her cheeks colored slightly as she took the spoon from his hand. The girl’s awkwardness was amusing to Kaif, who had never seen anyone quite so anxious over dining etiquette before. He took some of the rice in his bowl, along with the plain stew of mutton and vegetables, which had been the staple diet for the soldiers. The tray also bore fresh fish from the Red Sea , a rare luxury for those at the siege, as well as flat bread of fine white flour, and a variety of the fruit native to the region. Kaif saw her looking at the fruit inquisitively. No doubt she had never seen anything like it in her homeland.

Laila looked up at Kaif after steadying the fruit and then stared at the stew and at the fresh fish. She closed her eyes as she saw the fish and stew with mutton in it. Even when she was with Tubort she didn’t at meat. She touched the rice slightly with her spoon and then followed in Kaif’s stead and also took the stew of mutton and vegetables as well as fruit and fish onto her tray and a slice of bread.

Then she took her spoon and dipped it into the stew to slowly take a bite, but before it reached her mouth she cringed and put it down. Whipping it off as best she could she went for the rice instead.

“You don’t eat meat,” observed Kaif, his voice edged with curiosity.

Laila dropped her spoon and shook her head no. Her cheeks turning red slightly as she looked at her master hoping that this wasn’t a bad thing and that she wouldn’t have to eat meat. She cringed again at the thought of eating meat.

“ No sir.” She said softly. “ Meat clouds the mind.” She whispered frowning at the dreaded fish.

“Then you need not eat it,” he said, pulling Laila’s bowl away and replacing it with a new one. “You may eat what you like. Perhaps if these foods do not please you, I can ask for others?”

Laila stared at Kaif. Her spoon was at a stand still half way to her mouth with fruit dripping off it. She turned slightly pale for some reason and then her cheeks colored. She couldn’t believe that her new master was willing to make amends for her. He was willing to order food she liked and wanted to eat. She didn’t have to eat meat? Her dark eyes grew wide and then she shook her head. “ No, no. This is fine. I ate fruits and breads and vegitables in…” Laila stopped and stuck the spoon with the fruit on it in her mouth lowering her eyes trying not to think of home.

Kaif watched as she silenced herself once more. She was still afraid...afraid of what he, as her master, thought of her past. He looked down, suddenly losing his appetite. He had once been sure that she was a Hashshashin spy. Now, he was uncertain, and it frightened him to think that he had come so close, on several occassions, to discarding his vigilance. He remained silent, searching for words of comfort, which felt all the more forced now, after such thoughts.

She looked back up at Kaif and swallowed. She wondered what he thought of her. What was she supposed to think of him. She was not used to having so much time on her own to think of her own thoughts. To feel human again instead of an animal. She looked away. “ In Glastonbury .” She finished as she turned her eyes back towards Kaif. “ My father, was a very important man there. A pagan as you can guess. Why else would the crusaders attack us?” She whispered her eyes brimming with tears and she looked down. If he was going to hurt her, he would have, she thought. It was best to tell him right off who and what she was. She lifted her teary eyes back up towards Kaif’s searching them.

Knitting his brows, Kaif avoided her gaze. "Please, do not cry," he said, feeling his words were strained and unnatural. “Whatever was in your past is behind you now.” He stopped, watching as she composed herself a little. For the briefest of moments, he felt sorry that he had such control over her behaviour, that she would obey anything he commanded…but he was, after all, her master.

Laila sat still for a few minutes swallowing the tears and ducking her head down. She slowly laid down her spoon and lost her appetite. She needed to grieve to forgive and forget the past. Yet it seemed as if no one would let her do this. She sighed. No one wanted a teary eyed slave. The next time she looked at Kaif her eyes were clear of tears and her face was expressionless. Once again, she put up that stone wall around her so she would be whatever it was her master wanted. Growing quite, she slowly continued to eat her food. Though she was not hungry.

Disguising the guilt he felt for suppressing her emotions under a frown, Kaif fiddled childishly with the torn end of his tunic. Raising an eye discreetly as a silence descended on the tent, he noticed that she only picked at her food gingerly. It was entirely his fault…it felt as though she had been more relaxed in his company this evening, and his lack of empathy had destroyed that short-lived triumph. But why did it concern him so much whether or not this miserable slave girl was comfortable with him—especially when she was, in all likelihood, unworthy of his trust? But no…even if she was the spy whom he dreaded so anxiously, her unhappiness would not do. If it was aimed at wearing down his resolve, then so be it.

“Perhaps,” began Kaif, looking up with a pleasanter expression on his face, “Perhaps you would like to go outside tomorrow? I hate to think of you as a prisoner inside this tent all day.”

Laila’s dark eyes lit up at the prospect of going outside. When she had been a free person, she had lived outdoors. She had always been tramping all over the hillside of Glastonbury. When she had been captured by Turbert, he had never let her outside.

“I would greatly enjoy that.” She said her eyes full of hope.

Heartened by the brightness of her eyes at his suggestion, Kaif gazed at her warmly, watching as she turned her head towards the far side of the tent. She seemed to be lost in memories...but pleasant ones it seemed. So she could not take happiness from the present...that was not so remarkable. She was, after all, the belonging of a man whom she neither knew nor loved, slave to any whim he might possess. But a part of him wished that it was not so.

“Good. I will take you outside the camp tomorrow, perhaps to the hills to the east. From there, you will see Kerak and all the land around us,” replied Kaif, and she turned her gaze to meet his. When he remembered that scarcely three days ago, she could only look at him when ordered, he felt the momentarily forgotten suspicion flicker once more inside him. If she was the spy, so be it. He no longer cared what end he might meet. He was willing to let himself be charmed by this girl, and in doing so, throw caution, and perhaps his own life, into the wind.

Not feeling so great...

2008-01-25T04:17:00.000-08:00

...from an emotional perspective. My mom's just been a whole lot more unstable than normal, and while I usually get along fine with my dad, even he's causing problems for me. It's so damn tiring to deal with Mom, who's an absolute emotional leech, and Dad, who tends to be a selfish and apathetic person. Sometimes I feel like the only adult in my family.

To top it all, the neighbours are having a noisy party with music I don't approve of. Fabulous.

Might redecorate my LJ to take my mind off of things.

RIP, Heath

2008-01-22T23:50:00.000-08:00

So, I wake up today to hear that Heath Ledger has been found dead in his apartment. It always bothers me when actors die (especially young, Australian ones) because one can never really watch their movies the same way again. I keep thinking of the numerous death scenes he's been in, and whether or not they foreshadowed his tragic fate. I suppose he lived up to his namesake, in the end. A quote from Wuthering Heights to finish:

"I see a repose that neither earth nor hell can break; and I feel an assurance of the endless and shadowless hereafter - the Eternity they have entered - where life is boundless in its duration, and love in its sympathy, and joy in its fullness."

Kaif's Daemon

2008-01-14T20:32:00.000-08:00

KoC: Untitled

2008-01-13T17:56:00.000-08:00

Kaif’s tent felt strangely foreign to him when he returned. He had been absent for barely a day, having left only the previous evening. It felt like a lifetime ago. So much had happened within such a small space of time, that he felt profoundly changed. Little less than a day ago, he would have felt grateful for the tent’s generous shade, its calm interior and luxurious light furnishings. Now, it all seemed so vain and futile to have such extravagance as silk and porcelain in a tent made for war. Irritated, Kaif fastened the tent flaps shut again.

A basin of water had been prepared for him, and fresh clothes arranged on his bed. Kaif felt impatient to get out of his uncomfortable servant’s disguise, which was coarse and itchy. The light silk leggings and shirt which were laid out for him seemed more inviting than ever. Removing the heavy tunic, he splashed his face with the cool water in the basin, regretting that he did not have the time to bathe properly.

Drying his face with a towel, he heard women’s voices beyond the tent’s entrance. He paused to listen.

“Go in now,” said a gentle, older woman’s voice. “You can wait until Prince Kaif arrives.”

The flaps were unfastened, and the two women appeared at the opening. Both seemed rather taken aback that he was present. The older one, who had spoken before, wore an astonished expression.

Laila stood very still as a gentle breeze blew her silk skirts around her legs. Her hands were folded in front of her and her eyes were to the ground. She did not dare look up at her new master, especially as they were unannounced. He could easily whip her for coming unannounced and early. She felt fear pulse through her veins as she heard Shaadiya speak.

“I am terribly sorry your highness. Shall we go and come back after you have washed and rested?” Shaadiya spoke carefully.

“No, it is quite alright. It was I who was early,” explained Kaif, reaching for the silk tunic. “Please, stay.”

Laila looked up at Shaadiya as the older woman gently nodded and squeezed her hand.

“It will be alright.” Shaadiya spoke softly only for Laila to hear.

Kaif watched as the woman reached forward and pulled the silk robe away from her shoulders. Beneath it, she wore a thin shift which bared her arms and most of her legs. Silhouetted against the strong sunlight from outside, the outline of her form was plainly visible. He could see the curvature of her waist as her arms dropped awkwardly to her sides. Her eyes stared down uncomfortably.

The chaperone gently nudged her forward and, her duty done, turned on her heel and left the tent, the flaps rustling behind her.

Laila frowned and bit her lip to keep back tears. She was alone in the tent with her new master and had no one to protect her should something happen. This had all happened before and she was deathly afraid. She did not look up at Kaif nor did she move from her spot.

She stood meekly near the tent entrance, seemingly clinging to the minute freedom offered by her proximity to the only way for escape. Her large eyes were downcast, her body suspended in a pose not unlike that of a frightened gazelle, ready to flee. It was clear to Kaif that she was terrified. It puzzled him, somewhat, to see her express her apprehension so readily. He rethought his previous conviction that she was the spy, but remained vigilant, and cautiously reminded himself that there was a very real chance that this pretty girl was the Hashshashin spy sent to undermine his position.

“You may sit,” he suggested, hoping that she might raise her eyes an inch so that he could examine them. She obeyed quickly and quietly, keeping her eyes lowered.

Kaif finished dressing as discreetly as he could. Looking to his new slave again, he examined her nervous posture. “I hope you are comfortable? You look well; I assume you have been taken care of?”

Laila did not lift her eyes from the ground as she sat down. Her hands were folded in front of her. She was a bit stunned that he had yet to raise his voice or hand at her and she was ever so tempted to look at him, though she did not dare. She weighed each question he asked carefully before she spoke.

“Y...Yes master.” She replied her voice cracking. When did she become so scared and nervous? She wondered. A long time ago she would have had a firm and strong voice. Not a scared child’s voice. She chewed the bottom of her lip to keep from crying.

“Please, don’t be afraid. Look at me. What is your name?”

Laila jumped a little when her master told her not to be afraid of him. When he told her to look at him, she closed her eyes, then she opened them and took a deep breath. A slave wasn’t supposed to look at their masters. That had been drilled into her mind and her soul. However, a slave was also to obey its master’s wishes. She was did not want to break any of the rules of slavery. So, she very timidly lifted her dark eyes up towards her master’s.

“Laila,” she said in a frightened voice, half expecting him to pull the whip out on her. He returned her gaze firmly, but made no move to strike or punish her.

“Laila,” he repeated, certain that the name was given to her by a slave master; not her own. But Kaif did not press further. If she was a spy, then she was a reluctant one. If he won her confidence, he needn’t fear for his life.

“You look different,” he said, holding her gaze. “Dark of eyes yet fair of skin. How did you find yourself in the Holy Land?”

Her new master was not the only one who had noticed that she was different then most of the women in the harems and the Holy Land. She lowered her eyes back to her sandals and twisted her fingers in her lap.

“My master was a Templar Crusader who took me here with him and sold me to the slave trader.” She spoke truthfully. She was not used to speaking so much and she was a little surprised that her new master had not raised his hand at her yet.

“But you were not born a slave? Do you not yearn for freedom?” asked Kaif, hoping that the boldness of his question would not further intimidate her.

Now, Laila stared at her master with a stunned expression on her face. No one had ever asked her if she yearned for her freedom. Of course she wanted her freedom more then anything else in the world. She wanted to be home, in Glastonbury with her family and friends and her people. She wanted her life to make sense again. She knew that would never happen and once again she weighed her answer carefully before she spoke.

“I…I…I b.. Believe every slave yearns for freedom sir.” She stammered out and looked back down at the trim of her sandals. She was going to be beaten for sure now.

“I would give you freedom if I could, Laila,” said Kaif. “But it is not in my power. If I had a caged bird, who had been taken so far from her home that she had no chance of flying back to it, would it not be cruel to abandon her into the desert?” Kaif paused, watching her brown eyes widen.

“But even though you will be confined to my tent now, you are free to do as you please within it. You will find it a lonely home at worst—my duties with the siege will mostly prevent me from visiting during the day,” he finished, feeling that the less time he had with her, the less likely it was that she would gain any information which could compromise his position. But, while he wanted to distance her from himself as much as possible, he could not deny the logic of keeping her near, to watch her more closely. He doubted he could trust himself, however, not to fall prey to the girl’s fragile gaze and meek manners. He was already surprised at himself for having gone so far to comfort her. He was not so insensitive as he thought.

“The Sultan awaits my presence at the siege,” said Kaif, rising. “I must prepare, excuse me.”

As he stood up, his eyes fell upon the mantle of silk which the girl had entered wearing, lying discarded near her feet. He moved nearer, reaching for the garment, feeling it was unfair that he was fully clothed and she was not.

She seemed to draw away instinctively as he came near, but Kaif stopped, not wishing to be any nearer than necessary. He leaned down, offering her the robe. “I think you will feel more comfortable with this.”

His offer was met with a stunned expression and a moment’s inaction. Kaif had to dangle the garment before Laila gingerly reached for it. He turned around to allow her to dress herself, and to make himself ready to report for duty.

When he next turned around, he saw that she had retreated into the far corner of the tent, hiding her face behind her knees, the silk mantle of pale gold obscuring all but her uncertain eyes. He knew that those eyes had been watching him cautiously, because they had darted quickly towards the silk cushions around her, focusing on the delicate silver thread embroidery on them. The robe was wrapped tightly around her body, and she clung to it as though it might protect her from a lascivious master.

“I am not your last master,” he said, trying to adopt a comforting tone. “And whatever you experienced in his service, I doubt you ever will in mine.” He paused. “I see far too much fear every day. I would rather not see that same dread reflected in your eyes.”

It seemed to take Laila forever to work up the courage to speak. “I will try not to disappoint you, master.”

First Love

2008-01-07T19:56:00.001-08:00

Written in character as Frédéric.

I have known Regret; she is a bitter pain to bear
And Hatred too, spite without compare!
As for Sadness, we have been aquainted,
And Envy many a time has my face painted.

But Love, she had eluded me
In cobbled streets she let me be
Picking her victims among the young and old
Yet my heart she had left cold.

When my day came, she perched on my window
Took my heart and threw it on the street below
as I chased to recover that which I had lost
I discovered just what love cost.

Fickle creature, she cost me dear,
Once I saw the object of love appear.
Even in my dreams, her face is near to me,
Though I see her not, so close she seems to be.

Cold winters have left me desolate,
And your smile makes me desperate.
How can you bear to be content,
When my broken heart is nearly spent?

The Lovers

2008-01-07T19:56:00.000-08:00

A little poem inspired by and dedicated to Arynthya. Enjoy!

As I watch the lovers embrace,
No smile does light my face;
I think instead of the love I have lost
which I would regain at any cost.

As I watch the lovers sigh,
How i wish that i could pass them by!
Better to forget this pain
than relive it again and again.

As I watch the lovers kiss,
Weeping my heart does miss
love's tender touch.
Who ever knew I had loved thee so much?

Egyptian Music by Loreena McKennit

2007-12-21T17:31:00.001-08:00

Just to get me back into a KoC mood! Look out for a post or two...

L'Affaire: A Guest for Madame

2007-12-05T19:10:00.000-08:00

I was sweeping the grate in the Madame’s drawing-room. Sweeping the grate was horrid work—to be done properly, it took an inordinate amount of time—and it also made a ridiculous mess of one’s clothes. After collecting the build-up of ash with a brush, the tiles on the hearth had to be scrubbed with a dampened sponge. Then, the new firewood must be laid in place. All this while on one’s hands and knees; the task was not one I eagerly anticipated.

Madame Gagnon had specified that the pleasure of sweeping the grate was to be mine that afternoon, however, and without perceptible complaint I proceeded to the drawing-room. The drawing-room was the pride of the house, and all to Madame’s personal credit. It was a rectangular room with more or less equal sides. Each tall wall was covered in a delicately patterned silk of a muted blue, chosen to complement the gilded mirror and furniture. The settees were covered in a plaid fabric of feminine colours. The fireplace was white, and a good quantity of light came in through the two large bay windows. Yet, though impeccably tasteful, the drawing-room could not conceal the symmetry of its parts and the formality of its air. It was an intimidating space, so perfectly faultless that it felt cold despite the inviting arrangement of chaises and lounges. Madame certainly intended it to be her peaceful retreat (Monsieur would never have allowed gold gilding and plaid anywhere else in the house), but her own dauntless propriety and the uptightness of her character prevented her from achieving this object in any of her endeavours, and the design of her drawing-room reflected this shortcoming.

Kneeling by the hearth, I reflected on the curious nature of the room while Madame reclined on the chaise-longue, concentrating on her migraine. Little Fifi sat on the carpet near her mama’s feet, undressing her newest doll, Madeleine, to bring her into a similar state of dilapidation as her older dolls. Fifi was the darling of the family, born some three years ago. Madame had sworn she would be the last child, at the time of her birth, and since then I had been watching her tightly-corseted abdomen for any sign that she had reneged on her vow. As I rolled my sleeves further up my arms, leaving dark ash smudges on my white chemise, I began to ponder Madame’s curious relationship with Monsieur.

Monsieur Bisset was a solicitor of the successful variety. The nature of his work, I was led to believe, was so that he could spend only the barest minimal time of the night in the home, and on many days of the year, not at all. My only experience of his presence was late, on an occasional night, when he would walk from the library to his study, or from his study to his bedroom. As such, I could barely remember what he looked like. His wife, however, I could confidently say was a very attractive woman, in her mid-thirties, who cared very much about her face and figure. She had given me one of her old gowns the previous year, a morning gown of pink taffeta, and the alarmingly narrow waist made me more conscious of watching my own.

I was thus engaged in reflections about the Bissets, when the door was opened by Madame Gagnon. In her usual gruff tone, she heralded that “Madame Hébert has arrived to see you, Madame.”

I turned to see Madame pull herself up, a frown marring her well-formed mouth. “Allow her in please.”

At this point, Fifi too realized that their comfort and privacy was to be invaded, and she immediately took cover underneath a nearby lounge. Her retreat was ignored by Madame, who pursed her lips, awaiting the arrival of her husband’s elderly aunt.

The guest was ushered in by Madame Gagnon promptly. My presence, as it had been before the unplanned arrival, went on disregarded.
Madame Hébert ambled forward with some difficulty. I ascertained the reason for her trouble. While her left hand grasped the handle of her walking stick, her right hand struggled with a flat, rectangular parcel, which dragged along the floor.

“Tante Augustine! To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?” said Madame in greeting, with her delightful voice.

The elderly aunt held up her load, as though that would at once clarify the situation. Her effort was in vain, however, as Madame’s face remained perplexed, mine remained curious, and even Fifi under the lounge looked confused.

“I took the liberty of embarking on this visit because I have your opinion to ask upon a matter which has deeply distressed me.”

The three of us who received her words were no better enlightened. “Please make yourself at ease, Tante Augustine, and tell me what has you troubled,” she said courteously.

The old woman deposited herself on the lounge under which Fifi was hidden, and began her tale.
“I made an imprudent decision two weeks ago, to have my portrait done by an artist who a friend recommended to me, on the merit of his affordability. I received the result yesterday, and I must say that I have reasonable cause to think that I wasted my time and money!”

With this, she shook the parcel at her side. Madame’s reply was devoid of any true sentiment. “Let us see it then.”

The offending artwork was revealed. I craned my head to see it for myself. My position was such that I had to study it from an ungainly angle, but luckily the matte pastel surface repelled the glare of the two bay windows. I was able to establish that Madame Hébert’s distress was unfounded: the artist had produced a faithful likeness of her unpleasant features (I inwardly commended the bravery he must have possessed to make any study of that horrid face), and though somewhat lacking in spirit, it made up in artistic finesse.

I studied Madame’s features to perceive her reaction. Her face remained expressionless as she assessed the evidence her aunt presented. It was clear from the occasional movement in her brow that she was conflicted as to how to state the obvious truth without offending the deluded old woman. In the end, she decided not to tell the truth at all.

“Quite poor indeed, Tante Augustine, it looks nothing like you.”

“I knew it! Dearest Esmé, what do you suggest I do?”

Presented with another difficult request, Madame’s face once again became inhumanly still. “There is not much which can be done, I am afraid. Who is the artist?”

“Fantin-Latour.”

“You’re quite sure? I thought you said he was affordable?”

“Ah, you’re thinking of Monsieur Henri Fantin-Latour. It was Monsieur Frédéric who I commissioned, his younger brother.”

“Oh,” said Madame, and the conversation had reached an impasse, with neither side in any way motivated to continue it.

I continued my work, thinking about Madame Hébert’s portrait. I acknowledged to myself that I knew almost nothing about art—no, not almost nothing, plainly nothing—but Madame had observably agreed with my notion that the portrait was quite satisfactory. Soon enough, however, I became engrossed with my task, and I gave up thinking entirely.

KoC: Forewarned

2007-10-29T19:59:00.000-07:00

Jamila dismissed the maidservants as they entered her private chambers. Casting an anxious eye around her surroundings, Hayrünissa noticed the glowing lamps in the wall-sconces, which gave the room a rich, if somewhat ominous, glow in the receding light. She had seldom entered the Sultana’s rooms; Jamila preferred to spend time outdoors, seated upon an airy balcony, or managing her affairs outside the Harem. Hayrünissa was somewhat surprised to note that the room was rather lacking in the luxury which a Sultana might lavish upon her interiors: the furnishings were well-made, but simple, the decoration minimal. Damask throws of blues and browns afforded one of the few embellishments, along with silver bowls filled with rosewater.

The Sultana made a sitting gesture as she unwound the fabric binding her hair, letting her dark tresses fall loose to her shoulders. Hayrünissa obeyed immediately, dropping upon a large floor cushion, while Jamila remained standing. Her expression was not one of anger, but it exuded her displeasure at the events which she had witnessed.

“Might I explain myself?” asked Hayrünissa meekly.

Jamila seated herself, arranging her legs elegantly. “There is no need. I understood what I saw.”

Hayrünissa had to words with which to reply. She looked down, uncomfortable and embarrassed.

“I also understand what you feel. It is hard to live the life you lead now. Promised to a man who you’ve never seen, and likely won’t see for some months to come. But, for your own sake, you must be patient.”

“It is too late,” Hayrünissa replied in a monotone, avoiding eye-contact in her shame. “I have been defiled.”

She stole a glance from Jamila after a few moments of silence. The Sultana’s face betrayed nothing. “That was not what I meant. Your mistake will be easily forgiven, as long as you do not reveal his identity. But you must be more careful from now on. Others will not look upon this as forgivingly.”

Hayrünissa looked up, surprised.

“I doubt that any quantity of forewarning from me will discourage you. If you feel you must risk continuing your attachment, then be more discreet.”

“I have no intention of ever seeing him again,” replied Hayrünissa truthfully.

“I do not think that it would be wise to cut him off completely. Men make foolish decisions when they’re scorned. For the sake of your reputation, you must continue the relationship—”

“Else he will have his revenge by confessing.”

“He would not implicate himself, but he could accuse someone else of his crime. You must be careful to keep him loyal to you, at any cost.”

Hayrünissa could barely believe her ears. The thought of keeping Hassan’s affection out of fear of his retribution was absurd to her. But she knew to do otherwise would risk everything.

Rearranging herself, Jamila smiled at her. “It is not much to ask, is it?”

Hayrünissa looked down. The task would have been easier if she loved him, but she wasn’t altogether confident of that. “Of course, Sultana,” she said, and the dreadful conversation was over.

KoC: In Disguise

2007-10-29T17:35:00.000-07:00

Kaif buttoned up the grey servant’s tunic while the Teacher held up a torch so that he could see what he was doing. He fastened them with clumsy fingers, barely seeing in the dim light. To think that once he had servants to do up his buttons for him…

“You are taking too long, al-Dimashqi,” his companion stated sternly.

“Just a moment,” Kaif muttered, as he finished struggling with the last of the troublesome fastenings. “All done, sir.”

“Good,” came the murmured reply, and the Teacher turned around, taking the torch with him. Kaif’s moved almost involuntarily after him, trying to keep up with the only source of light. “We will enter now. Saniyah knows her way around the castle, but we do not. We will need to locate the woman’s room on our own, and as you know well, al-Dimashqi, I hate to be rushed.”

“Indeed you don’t,” Kaif mumbled under his breath, his voice nearly edged with malice. He checked himself in time. It wouldn’t do at all to have the Teacher suspicious of his true loyalties. Whatever those are… thought Kaif. Lately he was having trouble understanding the intricacies of his complicated position. He reminded himself to be more careful, especially around the Teacher, who reported directly to Rashid ad-Din Sinan, who had the power of life and death over all of them.

Brushing away the dust gathering on his shoulders, Kaif followed the Teacher like an obedient dog. Silently, they walked through the dark vault, keeping within an arm’s distance of the wall. The torch flickered uneasily, once or twice, at the breath of a draft.

Its light remained strong enough, however, to illuminate a winding, narrow flight of steps which led to the upper levels of the castle. Within a moment, they were ascending the stair, the sleeves of their tunics catching on the stone as they climbed around the narrow corners. The narrow stairwell grew quite warm with the heat of the torch, and Kaif struggled for breath in the stifling air.

Kaif raised his eyes, trying to see past the Teacher’s silhouette. A faint light was present beyond him, which didn’t belong to the torch. It spilled upon the steps before the teacher, signifying the end of the stair.

“We have arrived.” The Teacher stopped, addressing his younger companion without turning to face him. “Be careful what you say once we’re up there. Not a word now about our mission, do you understand?”

“Of course.”

“In fact…better you don’t speak at all.”

Kaif nodded, almost thankful that there would be no need for small-talk. Personally, he thought it would arouse greater suspicion to have a pair of mute servants walking around the palace, but he spoke nothing of his concerns. Truthfully, he had begun to think that the mission’s success mattered not at all to him.

KoC: The Task Begins in Earnest

2007-10-14T22:12:00.000-07:00

Suppressing the cough rising in his throat, Kaif stood behind the Teacher, staring inertly at the motionless cellar door. The bowels of Kerak were dusty with age and disuse, and their feet had stirred the powdery dirt into the air. The passage was narrow and dark, its ceiling so low that Kaif had to keep his head down to avoid colliding with any jutting masonry. Like the shrewd Greek soldiers before the gates of Troy, the Teacher and he were waiting for their Trojan Horse to open the door. The only difference was that their horse was a flesh-and-blood woman.

The Teacher made use of his waiting time patiently, standing still, upright and composed, unlike Kaif, who had leaned on the stone wall, fidgeting uncomfortably. Being the younger and more inexperienced of the two, had prepared himself for what he thought would be a difficult and taxing mission. Now, deprived of action for the better part of the hour, he felt his blood boil.

“How much longer?” asked Kaif, clearing his throat.

“Shh!” The Teacher leaned against the ancient, brittle wood of the door. It hardly needed to be opened, thought Kaif. The Teacher’s weight alone was enough to cause it to buckle inwards.

The older man leaned away. “She is coming,” he informed Kaif, without looking at him.

About time, Kaif almost said, but he knew that it wasn’t al-Zarqa who was late. The Teacher, always a vigilant and careful man, had insisted on their early arrival. Kaif, being merely the manpower for the mission, was in no capacity to protest.

Kaif edged forward, keeping one hand on the rough hewn wall. The door opened partway, scraping the uneven dirt floor. The light of a torch cast a yellow glow on the wall, and Kaif was able to see, for the first time, that Kerak was founded upon little more than dry earth and rocks. He noted the fragile components carefully. The Sultan would want to hear of this later.

“Assalamu Alilkum Wa Rahmatulah Wa Barakatuh,” came al-Zarqa’s soft voice, beyond the door.

The Teacher was quick to respond. “Wa’Alaikumus Salam. Saniyah, my good child, you have served us well thus far. Allah bestows his mercy on those who serve him best.”

In the dark, Kaif rolled his eyes. The Teacher had a long winded way of improving his disciples’ morale. He hoped it wouldn’t take any longer.

He looked at Saniyah, whose pretty eyes were rapt in the Teacher’s presence. The two of them were the very images of piety and dedication to their divine purpose. She pushed the door open wider and allowed them in.

Kaif breathed the stale air deeply. His task had begun in earnest.

First Rant

2007-10-05T00:31:00.000-07:00

Reeaally need to get my frustration with everything off my chest. There are three things in my life right now that cause me immense dissatisfaction. 1) My English Extension conference paper (due in three days); 2) Blogger doesn't like my dad's computer; 3) There were no decent movies at the video store today. I will address them all individually below. Prepare yourselves.

1) English Extension: When I'm writing things that even I don't understand, I'd say that's valid reason for concern. Example: "In contrast to structural semiotics, Chandler suggests that contemporary semiotics focuses on signs not in isolation but as part of larger ‘sign systems’ (Chandler, 2003), emphasising the study of how different signs communicate meaning." It took a whole essay from this Chandler fellow to define 'semiotics', and sadly, I've been learning about it for months. This situation isn't helped by the fact that Blogger, my new toy, is the perfect form of procrastination.

2) Blogger doesn't like my dad's computer: 'Dislike' seems like an understatement. They get along about as well as Hayrünissa and Maimuna--that is to say, not at all. So I can't access it from home (probably a good thing, since I need to work on my essay...)

3) Lack of good movies released on DVD right now. Probably also a good thing, this paper needs urgent help.

Back now to syntagmatic and paradigmatic analysis, signs and signifiers, and reception theory.

New blog...

2007-10-03T20:19:00.000-07:00

Seems I keep finding more and more mediums to conquer. I hope to make this look pretty eventually!