The king rouses himself at dawn, no matter how sleep he has or has not gotten the previous evening. There are matters to handle, not the least of which is making himself presentable. By the time most others are just waking, he has already bathed, been briefed on his day's schedule, and looking to the following day's schedule. With a bride-to-be in town, his schedule is even more compact.
     A servant was already waiting for you by the time you rose. He is an attendant of the high king, a quite handsome creature from an island duchy. You have seen him before, with his cerulean hair and his green eyes. His bronze skin, his graceful stride and voice that of a gentle people. 'The Angel Zafirah wishes to meet with you in the private garden,' Agapios spoke softly to you, as he handed you a robe to clothe yourself. 'His Majesty will meet you both for brunch at the appointed hour.'
     There was a slight smile for you as he turned. Agapios would say that the king has good taste, by that look.
     The garden seems to have unfolded, blooming for her attention. On the same level of the palace as the atrium is the High King's private garden, a paradise reserved for his own meditation, reflection, or dalliance. Between the columns, artfully broken and gloriously whole alike, wisteria and other flowers flourish, and the grass that has been planted cushions the feet as gently as air. Vines and grapes hang lusciously from the various awnings, and statues rescued from Oblivion dot the garden's landscape.
     She is as alone as she can be, with several maiden angels upon the periphery of the garden. They are brightly clothed in pinks and bronzes and violets, like primroses and poppies. Their wings are hard to see at first, for all the vividly colored veils, but they have two pair -- in corresponding pinks, bronzes and violets. Their voices are more clear, more lovely than any bird's. Their faces are veiled but their eyes may be seen, bright and dark like rich pooling coffee, their complexion blushed mocha.
     The bride-to-be stands in the garden's center. She is not looking off in the distance or singing sweet songs like her handful of attendants. She is waiting for you. Zafirah is clothed in white, her own double set of small and slender wings are likewise white. Her complexion is of the same mocha tone as the others, but her eyes are violet, the color of morning glories. Her hair is gathered in several braids, the braids interwoven with flowers most likely plucked from this very garden. Her face is veiled from the nose down, but unlike her attendants the cloth that covers her is not transparent. It is more for your safety than for hers.

     He awoke more slowly than is his usual. Ordinarily, he has trained himself to wake at a moment's notice; and waking, be ready for anything the day might bring. Of late he has been sleeping more heavily than he used to, for it has taken all these many years for the unconscious part of his brain to readily believe, even accept that here he is safe.
     Here there are no shadows, yes?
     Sitting up, Tiernan rubs a hand over his eyes. He has not slept in this long in years - even though it is still early by some people's clock. "Good morning," he greets Agapios sleepily. He rises with some awkward modesty; it has been a long time now since he had personal attendants, and it is not common, after all, for most to know that he shares the High King's bed. The robe is taken with a subdued smile. "The private garden? Ah - of course. I will be there - please convey to her my apologies for making her wait."
     He cannot help but notice the hair, the eyes; it is reminiscent of another encounter, although here there are no wings. Despite himself, the thought makes colour rise in his face, and he turns with sudden brisk stride to depart. Bathing, yes. Must bathe before meeting future brides of the High King.
     It has been some time since Tiernan has been flustered; blame it on the morning hour, and the o'er heavy sleep...
     He has selected his clothing almost automatically. If he once allows his brain to begin to work it will go on thinking too much - anticipating too much. And so, Tiernan wills himself into quietness; he makes himself wait. Time enough to panic and run in circles later. Black trousers, white shirt, blue and gold doublet - why bother with jeweled touches when meeting with a future queen? He dresses in quiet taste, discreet enough to fade back into the woodwork if and when he must. And then he heads down the layered steps, heads to the garden with stately tread. It is as he walks that he allows his brain some small room to think. How does one address an angel? Highness seems almost insulting; majesty, jumping the gun. He wrestles with this sticky problem of etiquette; it is a convenient bone upon which he can chew. By the time he enters your presence, he hasn't decided on a thing, even as he bows to you.
     "Your Radiance," Tiernan greets, some distant aspect of his brain coming up with it at the last moment, even as he straightens from his bow. "Good morning. I am sorry to keep you waiting. How may I be of assistance?" His dark hair is slightly mussed; he'd brushed it, but it only did a bit of good. But his blue gaze is calm and stoic, the mouth offering a small smile that tugs at one side. Is it to be politics? He has not yet caught wind of the tune, and politics always give him an upset stomach.

     Though a veil covers her mouth, her smile cannot be missed or mistaken. She bows her head as you come to her, her hands lifted and folded together in an Eastern greeting. "Please," her voice is warm, effluent. "Call me Zafirah. Those who shall be close should not have titles. Would you care to walk with me for a time? I should like to get to know you. I have heard so many good things about you." She holds her hands out to you, to take one of your arms.
     Her feet are bare, her toes painted with gold leaf, and bells are wrapped around her ankles, also golden, with bell-tipped strands draping over the top of her foot. Such adornment is held in place by rings around her shapely toes. Apart from her hands, and the area of her face around her eyes, it is the only skin visible.
     "I wish to speak to the one my future husband loves, for you are the Companion to my Companion. It is my desire, I wish you to know, that we all become close, a family. That you and I have our own relationship. For you are the most treasured of my future treasure, so are you not also my treasure?" She smiles again, her violet eyes simmering. Her touch is gentle, beyond soft. It is airy.
     "And so, first, I wished to tell you this. To convey it to you, so that you would know from me my intent, my wish, my hope. I understand you and His Majesty have been together for many years. He loves you very much, my dear friend."

     He approaches a bit cautiously, as if not sure what to make of you. And in truth, he isn't; he is aware of what his lover has told him, of course, and aware, too, of what it could mean. But his mind cannot easily absorb these things today. "If it would please you," Tiernan agrees, slipping automatically into courtly courtesy. An arm is offered gallantly for you to take.
     But he goes ruddy with your next words, cheeks flushing with colour and embarrassment. "I will endeavor to live up to the kind words which you have been told," Tiernan murmurs, "undeserving though I surely am of them. I must confess that this is - difficult for me."
     Difficult, in so many ways; it is held back by a dam of confusion and novelty. His muscles are firm beneath his clothes, indicating a life spent in work of one sort or another. They belie nothing of his inner turmoil, though his eyes have always been more eloquent than his speech. "It is ... very kind of you," he manages, "and of him as well. I am sorry; you have me at a disadvantage. You are asking me to talk."

     Where you touch, her hand upon your arm, there is a gentle connection, and an instantaneous soothing, spiritual balm. Zafirah wanders with you, content to walk in silence for a few moments. "I wish only to allay your fears, if you have them." Turning her head, she looks at you -- her smile is visible in her eyes, in the movement of her cheeks, visible above the veil. "There are those who need to speak. There are others who merely need to feel and have others... understand."
     She communes with you in silence. There is no pressure from her to speak. The views from here are breathtaking. And she fits her, in her simplicity, her purity, her spirit. But for all her purity there is a sense of adventure, of play. While virginal, Vestal Virginal, she has the warmth of a fiery being, resined and exotic.
     It is no wonder Iowerth wandered in a haze upon meeting her.
     Her hands rest lightly upon you as you and she meander among the trailing vines and boughs of flowering wisteria, thick with blossoms, pregnant with the pollen of Possibilities. "You have a very gentle soul," Zafirah whispers. "Very intelligent, caring. I am glad that the King has someone in his life like you. It is important. For though he may come to love me, and I may come to love him, our love will be a deep, but Platonic love. He will need someone to whom he can give himself fully, freely." She is quiet for several moments again. "Is there anything you wish to know? Anything that troubles you, my friend?"

     He is quiet, cautious as he regards you. You are a strange creature to him; he who has known a very different life from even his king. He is observing you as much as listening. "I have doubts of my own gentleness," Tiernan answers you, smiling slightly and turning his gaze downwards. "But thank you all the same. He is ... important to me."
     It is the gift of understatement that he makes you. When he thinks of Iowerth, there is that almost tangible reaction that takes place within him, a chain reaction of complexity and emotion. It has all been turned within, closed behind doors and walls so that none might see it, none might even guess. How many times have they stood before the many, shoulder to shoulder? And he has veiled his eyes and closed his lips.
     Unveiling is the hardest thing, perhaps.
     "I don't know what to ask you," Tiernan answers honestly. He glances at you sidelong, then back to the garden. "I admit that I had been ... confused, last night." Again, understatement - but how could he reveal to you the labyrinth of his own thoughts in which he'd been mired? That Iowerth saw it so clearly, expected it, was almost shocking in and of itself. "I am still only half-awake, drifting in it."

     Her hand gently touches your arm as you mention how important he is to you. "It will come to you," she speaks, her face, what you can see of it, turned toward you, and her eyes, those deep violet eyes, rest upon your features with the warmth of a grasp. There are dreams in her eyes. Not even Scheherazade could speak such dreams that show themselves there.
     There is no prying, no forcing you to find the words. It will come, they will come when they come. She pauses with you beneath a flowering bough of wisteria, the purple blossoms dripping heavily from the stems and limbs of the plant.
     "Confused... that a future wife could give such allowance?" She seems to smile behind her veil, and a delicate brow lifts, for her features are like that of a mortal woman. "Love's allowance is not mine to give nor to demand. I am already coming to care for him whom I shall call my husband. But for an Houri, affection comes easily." She laughs now, and it is a song, the sort of song heard in the desert at dawn. "But because I am resolved to remain an Houri, for the Great Work that must be done, I know that I cannot give myself to him as a wife should. He should not want from all of the expressions of love that are available in this universe. And he loves you, and he enjoys you. And such makes me happy for you both."
     She pauses a moment, looking to you among the flowers. She is intoxicating. It is easy to see why men martyr themselves for the chance of calling an Houri a bride or concubine. "Does this help your confusion..."

     He has such difficulties with this. He has few words to hide behind, few defenses other than his reserve. "It is, I think, more that I do not understand your purpose," Tiernan acknowledges. "I hope you will forgive me, lady, but I have - since meeting Iowerth - all but forsworn politics; I have had to. For his protection and mine."
     Because of his mother...
     Because of his mother's death...
     Because of the kingdom which once could have been his...
     Because of appearances - he sighs, looking suddenly tired despite the earliness of the hour. "We have had appearances to keep, illusions to build for a very long time. It is not something I like; something I am not good at by nature. And now? Now things are changing, and I do not know what to expect. Of you or of him or of myself, in this strangeness. I hope you will forgive my bluntness."
     You pause and he pauses, summer blue in his eyes turning to you with poignant earnestness. "I am glad that you do not wish me gone," Tiernan says quietly. "It is something I did fear. And I think - having met you - that if you were not steadfast in your resolve, there would come a day when it would be best for me to pack my tents and become somewhere else. I would be as a memory; an insignificant one at that. Who knows? It may happen yet. But for your forbearance and generosity, I thank you."

     "I cannot take your fear from you," she speaks it softly, gently. "Only you can do this, Tiernan. I am not of this wold, or its politics. There are politics enough in Heaven and Hell," again she seems to smile, "... I shall not seek them here. It is not my concern, nor anything I trouble myself with. I hope that you will know this for yourself, and trust it of me. I shall be here, if you ever wish to speak."
     There is a compassion in her kohl-rimmed eyes. "You do not need to thank me. As for how to live beyond a veil?" An eyebrow lifts and she musically laughs again. "I do not think I can offer you any advice, for as you see, I also live behind a veil." At least she has a sense of humor! Zafirah moves from beneath the bough, her journey through the garden continuing, returning to where the two of you started. "We shall have the opportunity to speak more," she notes. "Perhaps we can speak of our respective veils. Now, I believe it is time for me to join our mutual lord. You do not need to sit through a working breakfast if you do not wish, Tiernan. We are going to be discussing the terms of our Grand Agreement. I am happy to spare you that, if you desire. You are welcome, of course, if you wish to join us."

     He smiles halfway; but he intends to withdraw. You can feel it, perhaps. Too painful by half, such a meeting, no matter how well-intentioned, no matter how compassionate both parties involved are to his feelings. "I think I shall spare us all three that particular gallows, lady." Tiernan bows slightly. No; he is intelligent enough to see how it would go, with the both of you at pains to reassure him, and himself, the goat at the table. "Please tell him that I will see him tomorrow. For now, I will finish preparing for my own day."
     He will seclude himself, given the option. Give himself time to brood; to work it out of his system for a while.
     And it would be a little too much of a Hell for him, with his senses so keyed up as they are now; to sit and look, and be unable to touch or taste. The starving man sat at the feast, and ate none...
     "It is a pleasure to have met you," Tiernan tells you with a subdued smile. "Sometime if you wish, I will show you my business; but for now, I imagine you will have adventures enough in learning your new surroundings, and meeting everyone. There are too many people who you will have to meet, but I am sure that you will conquer them all."

     "I should very much like that," Zafirah speaks it and she bows with her fingers steepled together. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Tiernan. Many blessings to you on this day. Go well."
     She remains standing until you turn to leave. It is only after you turn to leave that the Houri herself turns. Her Houri attendants rise, their songs halted, as she approaches, and they are taken, with guard, out of the garden and into the atrium...

Posted by rowan at January 03, 2007 04:41 PM