|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 Posted: Sun Oct 03, 2010 10:22 pm
[1] page 3 navigation
[2] of honor and duty[SRP]
[3] bonds forged [PRP]
[4] troupe de panymium [ORP]
[5] within the fold [PRP]
[6] the bath [RP]
[7] the excited bells [PRP]
[8] imisus mornings [RP]
[9] a lord's loyalties [PRP]
[10] the garden [RP]
[11] of grimms and illusions [SRP]
[12] history unearthed [RP]
[13] earthquake [SRP]
[14] poetic instrusions [RP]
[15] the marking of territory [RP]
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Oct 05, 2010 11:10 am
[2] of honor and duty
Yizhaq's head was heavy in his hands, pale green eyes blinking wearily at the text before him. It was late into the night, now early morning, and still he was here, searching... Searching. The room was silent, until he spoke, his small companion apparently tireless.
"I cannot do this alone, Hayat. My father's work shall consume the life of me." They spoke quietly in the candle-lit study, the gryfalcon moving to their most comfortable position, she just below his ear, where she could whisper upon his heart and mind.
"You are not alone, mi'lord. Feed me as I feed you, and when I am whole, I will serve you as none other."
It was more than tempting, and the private conversation had the air of one parlaying their soul. "I will give you what you desire, if only you guide me." He closed his eyes as she began to speak again, her whispery, dry voice now as familiar to him as his own.
"I shall, mi'lord, and be the only confidant you need. Give unto me your secrets, your hidden truths and emotions, and I will make them into strength anew."
As if given already, he felt a new burst of energy, sitting up from his slump to reach for a new journal. This particular entry concerned the House.
"Yes, you are my closest of hearts, Hayat, if your airy body contains such a thing." It was said with the slightest of smiles, bemusement over their strange bond.
"If I am capable of such things, mi'lord, I feel only for you and yours."
Running his eyes over the well-known mask, his voice lowered, serious once more. "That is enough, for now. I will require much of you in the coming years. We all will."
He could not see the smile that graced her small face as she spoke, her tone as neutral as ever.
"I will be ready."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Oct 05, 2010 11:12 am
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Oct 05, 2010 11:15 am
[4] troupe de panymiumWho: A Large Crowd of Individuals, namely, Lord Yizhaq, Hayat, Misters Chauhn and Clurie, Sir Sloane and his Lady's Doppleganger, Bietrix [accompanied by the hidden Cassandra], the Lady's assistant, Jin-ho, with Young Blaithe, Misters Georgie and Adal, and a priest with his ring, Ophelia. When: In the evening. Where: Clowe, Shyregoad Why: The troupe de panymium's final performance. Weather: Clear, with snow melted by a recent rain, chilly. ]http://www.gaiaonline.com/guilds/viewtopic.php?t=20008197
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Oct 05, 2010 11:16 am
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Oct 05, 2010 11:47 am
[6] the bath
The last twenty-four hours had been exhausting for Yizhaq, and he was glad to have the brief respite from obligation that the carriage ride back to his Shyregoad home brought him. As the door was closed by the driver, he settled back into his seat, closing his eyes and abandoning Al to her private thoughts.
Without the pretense of masculinity and duty to preoccupy her, without work to be done, Al could not be at rest. Her pale eyes opened, haunted from what she saw when she let them shut. They were nothing new, the lingering affects of her abilities, and yet, it disturbed her more than she liked. Perhaps it was due to the quiet, solemn presence on her shoulder, the devotion they shared, and the depths of the despair she had felt from the bell boy. His horror and sense of betrayal as his 'sister,' his Locos, was slaughtered.
Her hand reached up to her own shoulder, fingertips gently touched by the palms of her Servos.
"They will pay." Hayat's cryptic, whispery voice was comforting, easing some of the stress in Al's shoulders as the 'lord' sighed. It seemed that Bhakti's fussiness was opportune, as Al would thank whatever powers that be that neither her wife, nor young son, had seen the carnage at the festival those long hours past.
Despite the weariness in her face and posture, Al was mostly untouched by the events. The only thing ravaged was her mind and heart, her clothing only somewhat dingy and stained by the blood and grime she'd picked up upon the stage.
The slowing of the carriage signalled their arrival, and almost before it had stopped, Al was out of it, her heavy strides taking her directly into what had once been her father's study, shutting the door almost completely behind herself.
Hayat separated from her master to find one text in particular, scanning the scripture with her sharp eyes as Al began to discard the layers she'd worn with formality in the cold.
The heavy, hooded cloak was left hanging over a chair, drying by the fire. Her jacket soon followed.
Slim fingers went to the snaps of her high-collared shirt, yanking them apart in an uncharacteristically rough, absent-minded movement, the sleeves rolled to her elbow, and exposing the tight bindings underneath. Her short hair was tousled, and her gloves removed.
Sitting heavily at her desk, she pulled a stack of journals close, eyes hunting for her father's secrets. A trip east was due, and soon.
Al's time with Hayat would stretch out for a while. The realization that her husband (of theory) had once again stepped foot on the estate did not reach her until much later when she persisted to ask if he had returned home yet. It was the uncharacteristic nature of his skipping visiting her altogether that made her both aggravated and suspicious.
Predicting a fight, as she planned in some sense to start one, Altair was very carefully put into the care of another. They were left with several sharp instructions, and a clear vision of a strict, perturbed woman who had her mind set and would take no other answer.
At the time, she had been reading to the young child. They had both already eaten in very different fashions, and Bhakti still wore her clothes from dinner. Her hair was wound tight to the base of her skull in two separate rounds and the dark red dress fit her tightly. She had not bothered to wear jewelry today, and she fidgeted with idea of putting some in before going to hunt down her husband.
Eventually the idea was abandoned as a flurry of condescending remarks swept through her mind. Refusing to waste them, she made her way down the halls, feet bare, and the nails of her fingers clicking together in slightly worried agitation. What worry that was, however, seemed to be ultimately masked by a calm sharpness that held her figure straight.
The door that Al had pushed behind her was opened, not harshly, not softly, but with a distinct purpose. Her first expression was a narrowing of brows as Bhatki's vision caught on Hyatt. The next was coupled with a puff of breath through her nose and mouth at the sight of Al's disarray.
"Did you forget you are not the only one living in this house? I expected at least a word from you by now." A note, a letter, even "Steward" in his detestable nature bearing a message would have been preferred. The woman's eyes scanned Yizhaq over quickly, her jaw set firm. "Why is your hair in such disarray? If you have gotten into a fight. . ."
Al's quick glance up was startled, intruded upon, and she straightened, fingers still holding the sheet of worn parchment she'd been reading. Quickly regaining some measure of composure, Al's jaw tightened.
Instead of some sort of snippy reply, a low, defeated sigh came from the lord of the house, one hand moving from the parchment to hold his head as he answered his wife, gaze moving away, toward yet another stack of books.
"No," a low, strange laugh, "I have not forgotten. Forgive my manners, Bhakti, my mind seems to have deserted my tonight." The apology seemed sincere, and he sat back, voice tired.
"Did you desire something from me? I apologize if I have inconvenienced you by not asking upon my arrival." He did not comment on his disheveled appearance.
Bhakti's eyes narrowed at the 'no' she received in return, her right hand moving to the edge of the desk. Her fingers pushed into the wood as she kept quiet. Whatever Al was saying was of little importance to her. Even while angry, perhaps arguably moreso when angry, she was careful to watch her surroundings. Though Hayat's presence always proved to make this task more difficult, it did not blind her completely.
"Yes, I do." Although Yizhaq was clearly tired and had some sort of mental hindrance, Bhakti would not let her rest. She had chosen to take on the role of a husband and continue to play it. Bhakti required that she keep this.
"I want you stripped and in a bath immediately. I will go tell the servants to put one on. You are a mess. Then, you will tell me what is going on." A long exhale of breath followed as she straightened herself. "Bring books with you if you must."
"Bhakti...." Yizhaq's protests died on his lips as the woman continued and he simply watched her, quiet confusion in his eyes. Was she concerned for him? Simply nosy? Perhaps she just didn't like seeing him so unpolished. He was usually so perfectly groomed....
He nodded. A bath was probably for the best. He wouldn't bring a book, as one couldn't chance getting such things wet, nor did he want to stay in for long.
Pushing back his chair, it took palms planted on the desk to get him to his feet, Hayat moving to touch his wrist with a surprising amount of tenderness. Glancing to the servos, he instructed her to continue with their work, before turning his attention to Bhakti.
"Very well," A hand rubbed the back of his neck, "I will take it in my quarters."
There was a brief pause while he tried to decide if he should wait for Bhakti to leave before heading toward the door and his quarters, or walk with her, and in the end he strode around the desk, holding the door open for her and following her out into the hallway.
"... Thank you," was the quiet, soft gratitude.
The nod received a long, softening look from his wife. There was very little motion from her as he pulled himself together, even Hayat's motion only received a quick glance. She chose to ignore it. It was easier, sometimes, to completely deny the existence of such a creature. It was a demure thing towards Yizhaq, but Bhakti did not like its attention to her husband, nor the stale, absent look in its eyes. Absent was perhaps not even the word for it. Lacking was perhaps better.
"Good," she answered. She did not bother to look back at Yizhaq as he opened the door and she moved through. The unhindered speed with which the servants were commanded spoke of a great deal of practice. To her, they scurried about like flies to receive her orders. Her patience with them to day was far less than limited.
"I have to do something as a wife," was her only response to Yizhaq's mention of thanks. "I will make sure they make the water hot enough and fetch you when they have left. Don't keep me waiting, husband." One last glance at the way his clothes did not lie perfectly on his body and then she was off to his chamber quickly, strides long and headed for the baths.
If he had been in a more present state, Yizhaq would've taken more note of the ease with which Bhakti commanded the staff. In the time they had spent in the estate, she had grown to become its true commander, as any proper head wife should. It would not surprise him to learn that she knew more of the strengths and weaknesses of his staff than he, as well as the day-to-day operation of the estate.
Instead, he allowed himself to relax slightly, as her control let him give some of his up. A simple, mute nod was his response to her curt, yet far from unkind, orders, and he soon found himself alone in his dressing room for the next half hour.
The private portion of his chambers allowed him to breath, further loosen the ties of his shirt, and strip it from his body. Next were the careful, familiar wraps that hid the pale, thin scars on his tan, athletic body.
Soon he was left with only his short, disarrayed hair and the undergarments that he always wore, no matter the circumstance. A towel was selected from a pile by the door between the bathing and changing room, and he wrapped it around his slim hips, mind focused on the pleasingly simple task. It was better than the other things that could be found in his mind.
Bhakti's mood was a good deal less cutthroat by the time she fetched Yizhaq. Those working for them had proved effective and useful and it had improved her mood to see them successful with very little prodding.
If it applied to her husband, perhaps this change in attitude would stay. She gave him as much warning as he deserved, a sharp knock on the closed doors. She did not attempt to see if it was locked or not, not wishing to discover if there were places in this house she was barred from. She would simply assume it was unlocked and she was merely being polite.
"I hope you are done in there by now," she explained instead. "They are gone." She stepped away from the door, taking a seat instead at a stool she'd pulled into the bathing rooms. Her eyes were very focused on Yizhaq as he entered, although she would not admit to her curiosity.
It was rare she caught him not already painted and manipulated for the public eye. A public eye that was also hers, in some sense of the word. Most of her was thankful for it, but the rest of her wanted Yizhaq's secrets that he kept most close. They were leverage, in some ways, against her and she wanted to know them all.
His pale gaze met hers only briefly as he opened the door, having only taken a moment to respond to her summons. It was sort of ingrained, his response, the fear he retained in the back of his mind that stopped him from wanting to see her reaction to his presence.
Instead, his steps were surprisingly strong, confident as he moved into the room, a sort of surprised pleasure flashing onto his face at the sight of the steam. It was strange, how one rarely realized how much they wanted something, until it was before them.
Now that the bath was ready, his reluctance to agree before had dissipated, leaving only an intense desire to sink into the hot water and let his worries slip away.
Had Bhakti known that would happen? Most days, he couldn't fathom her, and he knew that she felt the same in return. In that, the wary fascination they had for one another, they were united.
Unclenching the fist that had held his towel in place, he let it drop to the floor before sitting on the edge of the large tiled bath and slipping his feet the water. A slight hiss as he sucked in air through his teeth let her know that it was hot enough for his tastes and he used his upper body to slowly lower himself into the water. Closing his eyes, he let his arms rest on the sides of the bath, silent for a long moment.
"You were wise to not join me at the capitol, wife..." His voice was quiet, trailing off in bemusement.
Al's quick glance away distracted Bhakti from him for a moment. She preoccupied herself with hiding the smile at the submissive glance away Yizhaq no doubt had subconsciously.
It was as if to spite him that she then made sure to watch every step he took. She found herself swallowing the cotton growing in a dry mouth at him. Even his figure was surprisingly lacking a feminine grace. Cloth had allowed her imagination to grow dry, and she was not unnerved by the sight so much as how it had not matched her own perceptions.
There was very little, she was finding, about Al that made her physically a woman. For a brief moment, it made her feel her place. It made her desire to remove those undergarments and shame her "wife" back to status.
Yizhaq's words brought her back to reality. What wild claw for power had her mind in the moment before was gone. Even with a husband, she did not need it.
The stool was brought closer, and she lay an arm over the side of the bath, her fingers draping in and toying with the temperature of the water. She could not stop herself, of course, from watching his chest, flat. Not even a hint, and with the water and her lack of knowledge, not even the scars were evident to her mind.
"Are you toying with me, Yizhaq?" Her voice was light, not upset. It was an almost playful question. "Tell me what happened."
It was hard to stay relaxed, with Bhakti so close, her attention so focused, but Yizhaq made an admirable attempt, not shifting away at her approach or giving any other indication that her presence affected him than the way his gaze focused on her fingers stirring the water nearby.
Bhakti's musings on his appearance were accurate, and really, without previous knowledge, none would suspect he was not what he seemed. Years of muscle building, sword-fighting, and modification had given him a muscular, apparently masculine body. The most feminine aspects, such as a relative lack of body hair, and slim figure, didn't take away from his appearance as an aristocrat.
The near flirtatious, playful tone of her voice caused him to remain silent, mouth dry as he sought some sort of response that wouldn't make him seem curt, or taken in by her.
Instead, he focused on the second part of her statement. The, somehow, easier part to respond to. He did not confide in her regularly, and he wanted to spare her of the atrocities he'd witnessed. Still, he was never one to lie, directly. He went with simplicity.
"The cultists made a public attack, and the fellowship required my services. It was extremely unpleasant."
She knew, loosely, of the assassination attempt upon Lady Estratus only months prior, which had resulted in his last trip to the Fellowship's Headquarters.
The water continued to drift past her fingers even as her own motions stopped. While she had been unabashedly looking Al over, for her curiosity more than her desire, everything else required a cease for her mind to take over and think.
And it was thinking. The silence that followed were not due to a lack of words, but rather that there were too many. "And you were, at the time, a part of the public," she stated quite bluntly. It explained that disheveled look, no matter how mild compared to the circumstances, and although the threat of dislike, poisoning, and death to the rich was not a new one, rarely did she get a chance to hear it so bluntly and in such a way that it could have been easily avoided.
"I have no interest in preparing for your funeral, husband." She withdrew her hand from the water and smoothed out the crinkles that had formed in her clothes. They would inevitably form again. "And that is what you were doing in the study, looking like a greased and uncooked hog? Serving the fellowship?" While she did not like it, there was certainly nothing to say against a whole organization. They were as a part of her life as Yizhaq himself was, and they, too, had the power to make her husbandless with just a mistake.
Yizhaq carefully held back the grin that threatened to take over, feeling the tug at the corner of his mouth. It was unbidden, a surprise to him, the upwelling of humor. Perhaps what he had needed, in the solemn aftershocks of the past day.
"I am pleased to hear you are not so eager to be rid of me, quite yet." Perhaps she would think him crazy, not that she didn't already. As for the fellowship, his smile faded slightly, though the hollowness that had been haunting his voice for the past few hours was noticeably missing when he spoke next.
"In a sense, my dear, yes. However, it was upon the stage where they carried out their performance that I was most useful." He left it at that, for they had not talked about his abilities before this and they were quite unusual among mages. "After reporting my findings, I was tasked to follow my trace. I believe it shall take me back to Imisus... My father has left many things for me to do."
Though, really, he was serving his father, far more than the Fellowship.
Bhakti's response was a quick hiss of breath between her teeth. It was obviously a purposely made motion, one of distaste. The flush of her face, her cheeks growing rich with color, told quite another story. Although she could feel the heat, she ignored it. Yizhaq could comment on it if he desired, but she would not give him the delight.
"The stage," she repeated. The contempt was impossible to leave from her voice. It faded as she swallowed and closed her eyes. Gradually, the moment that she had lacked control faded, replaced by the familiar calm, command of emotions that only fluctuated as far from normal as she told them.
"Forced is the word you are looking for, husband, not left." Yizhaq was not bitter about it, and Bhakti could not fathom why. She would be bitter for him, at him. Perhaps she would understand. "When are we leaving?" She did not even bother to ask if Yizhaq desired her presence. She would be going.
And it was clear that he expected nothing less of her, to join him. It had been awhile since they had last been to Imisus, and this time, he did not think they would be inviting his relatives to dinner. No, Yizhaq did not want to draw any blood that could be avoided. The thought briefly darkened his face, but he did not comment upon it, as he chose not to comment upon the 'legacy' his father had shaped and left to him. If anyone understood duty, it was Bhakti, yet another way in which they were united.
"I shall make the arrangements in the morning, however, it shall be at least another month."
His eyes now, were on her face, that had been so warm before and now was so cool. She was as good as he at hiding emotion and thought, though between the two of them, the smallest flicker of emotion might as well have been a shouted profession.
Remembering, quite suddenly, that the purpose of a bath was to clean one's self, Yizhaq's gaze was torn from Bhakti, in search of soap.
"And what of you and my son? I have not heard of your day."
"Our son," she corrected him very quickly. Even now, she would not give up her command over the boy.
Letting him retrieve his soap, Bhakti instead moved her position. The stool was pushed away as she returned to her feet, stepping towards the door, but not leaving. A check, at a mirror that lined the bathroom hall before she finally turned to survey Yizhaq from behind. Just his neck and the ruffle of his hair was visible. Perhaps she simply did not want him to see her face.
"Our son has been mischievous today." There was a slight chuckle as though she found this to be more entertaining than it was bad. "He has decided that everything in the estate is his to touch and took it upon himself to attempt several escapes." A pause as she raised an eyebrow. "He'll be needing some sort of entertainment, soon. His joy of words is not as strong as I had hoped."
She could continue like this for hours to him. It was simple, easy, and it made her feel accomplished. "Soon, he will be kicking you out of your own study." A smile. It was in humor.
Yizhaq's laughter was quick to come, and he felt himself hanging onto her words as she spoke. He didn't mind her corrections, in fact, he welcomed him. One might say that part of him thrilled at her saying "our," and therefore he continued to use a possessive pronoun. Who knew what would happen if Bhakti was made aware of that!
Standing, so that the water came to his hips, he soaped himself as she continued to speak, a grin to match her tone on his face. He didn't attempt to look for her, confident that if she was to leave, she wouldn't do so without some sort of scathing remark that would signal him to her exit.
"I look forward to that day," The thought of being pulled from the study onto some sort of childish adventure pleased him, and he shook his head.
"The Steward will work with you to find a suitable set of tutors for our son. We have many at our disposal." Curiosity, in Yizhaq's mind, was a sign of intelligence.
Yizhaq did not have to worry about Bhakti's exit. She was far too intrigued and feeling far too protective to bother an exit. The baby was safe, Hayat was busy, Yizhaq was, in many parts of the word, bare to her. There was no study distracting her husband for the moment. Cleaning oneself was hardly a difficult task.
Simplicity was an unfortunate pleasantry, however. It left her to think, and Bhakti's mind entertained itself in a variety of ways. It was a mind that hungered constantly for information, facts, and often a sense of power. "He is ready," she agreed to Yizhaq's final statement. The boy would need interaction with a variety of people in his lifetime. Bhakti insisted he become well-rounded.
Leaving her position near the door, she let her feet scuff lightly as she reached the previously abandoned stool. Reaching between her thighs, she pulled it until it was close enough on which to sit. That same curiosity that was in her son was now obviously present in Bhakti.
"Did you. . .?" It was impossible for her to form the words. They were crude and difficult to say. Her tongue would not form them, for it seemed inappropriate. But the eyes that remained on Yizhaq's far too masculine chest should have given enough away. The more important question, was, perhaps, "When?"
"When I was still young enough to forgive him," his statement was calm, detached in a way that all his comments on his past were. They did not speak of it often. Her father had done her innumerable cruelties and kindnesses, often hand-in-hand, such as this. His careful work in stripping Yizhaq of femininity had stopped him from having countless identity crises while simultaneously taking away his right to have them.
It was strange for Bhakti to express curiosity that wasn't masked by disgust, and it both put Yizhaq on guard and disarmed him. It had taken place when he was quite young, and his father had a mage put him to sleep, another healing the damage over the course of the next few weeks. Yizhaq had been allowed to sleep through the entire first week, and had not been permitted to see the worst of it. It had happened so long ago, that he had no real idea of what it was like to have a female's chest at all, let alone desire for one. This was him.
Absent-mindedly, one soaped up hand touched the longest of the scars on his fit chest, and he glanced at Bhakti, only halfway surprised to find her back on the stool. She was beautiful, as always, and now that he was more relaxed, he noticed the particular allure of her current garb. Form-fitting, red, it was eye-catching. She must've worn it to dinner.
There was a reason that they did not speak of it often. It was not just Yizhaq's reluctance to speak, nor Bhakti's reluctance to ask. More, it was her reluctance to deal with the consequences of either action. No words left her mouth.
It was only with silence that she remained in her seat, eyes remaining on Yizhaq for only a time. The disgust came, as it always did, though it was of a different type, and it did not display on her face.
Yizhaq would only know it by the empty grind of the stool as she left; this time, Yizhaq would be getting no scathing exiting remarks unless he counted the click of the door behind her as one.
Regret made his heart pound as the seconds of silence ticked by, during which he pretending to be occupied with scrubbing his skin, the movements of his hands more erratic and aggressive as time went on. Finally, it came, the scrape of the stool that made him flinch, his heart dropping as he heard the click of the door.
A moment of silence as he stood, rigid, before hurling the bucket that held washcloth and soap against the wall. Dropping down hard on his knees into the hot bath, he welcomed the stinging on his face as he submerged himself, screaming into the water.
Five minutes later, he would be calm, cool, at ease as he exited the bath, toweling his body and changing his garment for a new, dry one. That in place, he exited the bath, entering his bedchamber as he rubbed at his hair with a towel.
A change of clothes and he would be back in his study.
Had she not been mentally farther away than reality at the time, the impact the wall suffered from would no doubt have reached her ears. However, Bhakti's mind desired a release, and though she had debated leaving, her legs had not moved her out the doors.
She found it easier to stay, her eyes scanning over leatherbound books, some completely lacking titles, their pages needing to be quickly scanned for ease of read, depth, and merit.
She'd already piled them up, the two stacks neat, uneven, one with four and the other five. The fifth of the stack four-high easily unfolded in her hands, bridge resting against her open palm. Because they were Yizhaq's, Bhakti felt it would inevitably tell her something about him. Whatever secret trick there was to that tale, Bhakti did not know it. She found nothing.
They did serve to keep her quiet, contained when Yizhaq did re-enter, no doubt smelling of things she found pleasing. Fresh, perhaps untainted. "Sit down." She had not yet look up, but she could hear the footsteps.
Yizhaq paused at the sight of her, his poetry within her hands, sitting on the large bed. Quietly, he rid himself of the towel, moving to her side and glancing quickly over the passage she was looking at.
A smile touched his mouth as he recognized the volume, and he spoke from its pages, voice a quiet murmur.
"The sensation of the tempestuous desire
to be joined as one
captivates my mind,"
He reached for a slime volume on the larger of the two stacks, his tone thoughtful, low. She always made the most intriguing selections.
"Your mental kiss quickens my ache
for your unbound touch--
I am captured by your will,"
He glanced up at her, scanned her face to for some hint of what she wanted, staying her after her quick exit. Perhaps she had more uncomfortable questions to ask?
"... And the scent of your smooth skin against mine."
Bhakti ceased to speak as Yizhaq began. He had, whether by coincidence or instinctively, deciphered that she had wished him to read her a portion.
The first was poor in tempo, though apt in meaning, perhaps. Had she felt the desire, she would have critiqued them, spent her time analyzing and picking away at every stroke that had no doubt gone into forming the words.
The pause just before the last line of the stanza made her crave nervous movement. She would not, however, even slightly twitch as she returned his gaze. "Do you want me to stay?" A simple question, and if he then asked her only if she desired to stay, she would leave. Bhakti had finished with her questions tonight. Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps in a moon's time she would feel it necessary to pry further. Yizhaq's answer had disturbed her too deeply to wish to pursue it. It had caused, simply by existing, gender (and therefore the roles therein) to become fragile and unsteady.
She had never directly asked him to stay, or for his presence, among other things, and yet, she was very good at making him aware of these things. While Bhakti would obey him if he demanded something, Yizhaq had found that she did not offer things of her own accord, that she did not at least want some part in. It was hard to figure her out, but when he had moments of clarity in which they found each other, it provided him with... His brow creased as he let the thought slip away, not wanting to chase his emotions for her down that twisted, confusing path.
Instead, he shifted on the bed, the book in his hand placed absently to the side as he found himself leaning in toward her. She was warm, real, and she would not back down from him.
"Yes," The words were spoken quietly, close enough for his breath to warm her ear, "Stay." It had been a very long day, and he was surprisingly glad for her company.
Folding her own poetry book closed as she could feel him move towards her, she moved it to the wood at the base of the bed. With her left hand, she easily slid the rest carefully to follow.
Eyes shutting as Yizhaq began to speak, she nodded once, a short nod as she remained where she was. It seemed ironic that it was harder now than ever to see Yizhaq as a man in her mind's eye, for the definition of whatever that was had very quickly been taken away.
She would find a new one, as if life was handing her an updated dictionary, and in the mean time, she would take how Yizhaq kissed her as what had made the girl a man.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Oct 05, 2010 11:49 am
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Oct 05, 2010 11:50 am
[8] imisus mornings
There were many things that Yizhaq enjoyed about rising early. The quiet of the morning, mingled only with the sounds of the birds in the garden. The soft, lazy quality of the light that filtered in through the window. The privacy for ones thoughts as they let their mind wander. The heavy breath of his wife, as she still slumbered, her form held closer than it would ever be when awake.
He pressed his face against her shoulder, his lips and nose brushing his neck as he breathed her in, knowing that she would stir within the hour. Bhakti had, once upon a time, spent many mornings attempting to wake up before him, and yet, she always missed the mark by at least a half hour.
In part, it due to his particular talents, the images and feelings that she gave to him with each touch, that strengthened when she was close to awakening and jolted him from his own reflections.
He could feel them now, in fact, letting his gaze move to the window. He particularly enjoyed the mornings in Imisus. It was the home he had fashioned for himself, unlike the estate in Shyregoad, and the beauty of it, the elegance of the grounds, suited his psyche. It was good to be here.
Yizhaq's scent, feeling, and that occassional sound had all long since intermingled with Bhakti's thoughts. She had always been a deep sleeper of sorts, her rest usually rythmic. It varied by only a few hours, and Yizhaq's presence merely served to add to the sensation of a dream.
Imisus nights could get cold, and it was the rising sun that warmed the room which first made her aware. She moved, sometimes a warning to give her space as she slept, but for today, it was closer back against the bend in her husband's body. Her legs shifted, brushing past his, unshaven, and tickling.
It was this that woke her up. A gentle sigh escaped her as she realized where she was. The first words on her mind? 'Was Yizhaq awake?' It was completely characteristic of him not to be, yet there was no motion from him, no stirring, and she pretended to be asleep herself.
There was an arm around her waist, of course their was, and she busied herself with tracing the top of his fingers (feminine though they were), attempting to fake her breathing with half-lidded eyes as she wasted away the morning in her lonely (so she assumed) persuit of a romantic notion.
Yizhaq knew that she was awake, and that was more than alright with him. Mornings like these made his days go well, with the sort of affection they could only exchange without the involvement of words.
He shifted, accommodating her movements easily. The slow, relaxed kiss pressed behind her ear was with a sleepy air, as if he was between awake and dreaming, and he hesitated to speak.
No, they would lay together for awhile, longer, he hoped, feeling her willingness to continue. Soon enough, they'd have to get up and face their 'reality'.
For once, Yizhaq's hope became that reality; the one that they lived between a state of fade and consciousness.
Bhakti allowed him a half an hour at the very least, and by the time she had faded back into sleep and woken again, the sun was growing impatient with her continued presence in bed. It was only then that she allowed her eyes to open, Yizhaq's body having grown hot, moist against her back.
She turned then, moving from one shoulder to the other, until she faced Yizhaq. The chilly change against her skin was welcome. "You're awake." It was stated without a revealing emotion. It would have been impossible to determined whether it had been said in distaste or had simply been just a neutral fact spoken between lips.
They were both awake. They were both still in bed. They had not yet come to a disagreement. Bhakti half expected someone to walk through the door.
Yizhaq's green eyes were almost amused at her observation, and perhaps that would have been more apparent if he hadn't squeezed them shut.
"No, I'm not," he mumbled, one hand skimming down her arm to rest, near-possessively, on her hip, holding her there. "And neither are you,"
So come back over here.
There was pressure on her body she did not expect to have been placed there. Al's antics only received her a furrowing of brows.
This was ultimately very silly. The word itself was the only possible way to describe such a situation. It practically demanded the light pitched laugh of a young naive blonde to say it. Silly, she repeated in her head.
"Are you four?" It was whispered as she moved her hand down to her wife's wrist - and it was wife right now - with the full intention of first removing it and then leaving the situation behind.
But she paused, straining to catch sight of the door. When it revealed nothing, Bhakti decided she could play this mental game.
"You have a quarter of an hourglass of time before I wake up."
Al couldn't help the laugh that started to bubble up in his chest at Bhakti's incredulous question, though it quickly died in response to her agreement.
The wrist that was still held by his wife's hand was tugged close, pulling the older woman in until their mouths met. Al's touches were a mix of firm and affectionate as he used his fifteen minutes to his full advantage.
He knew that the moment that internal clock of Bhakti's kicked in its alarm, she would cut things short, less he think she might actually be enjoying the attention.
"Yizha-" she started to say, lowly and firmly as she felt the pull of command change. Perhaps she had expected cuddling, for the woman to be caught off guard.
It was not to say that she denied the kiss that came, hot and sweet. At some point, she was sure, she found herself chuckling to idea of it. It may have only been an absent proclamation in her mind, or her voice could have made it known.
When he demanded her, she would pretend to submit only to her role. But, Yizhaq would know by now how readily she gave herself; how following his touches seemed almost eager.
The jolting, vibrating loud interruption of someone demanding their attention sought only to make her parting all the more violent. The hands that had worked their way around the other's body were jerked away, quickly grabbing Yizhaq's from wherever they had ventured and shoving them down from her just as quickly.
"Try not to look smug as you answer that," she hissed out quietly, slipping quickly to "her side" of the bed to retrieve her sleeping robe. She would not be found undressed by anyone if she could help it, sheets covering her or not.
Yizhaq raised an eyebrow, fighting for a neutral expression as Bhakti rushed to make herself 'decent', instead of the wide grin that threatened to take over his face.
The abrupt ending to their encounter made it all the more intense, in his mind, her flustered response, eager hands, mouth, body, and the startled way in which she reacted to the door... Guiltily, almost. And about what? Pleasure. It was a sure sign that she'd enjoyed it, drove the point home, and Yizhaq slipped from the bed, snagging a loose shirt from a dresser to tug on, with a sort of effortless grace.
He only glanced back at her, once, the smile he sent her startling in it's honest enjoyment. Too preoccupied to hide it from her, he cracked the door, brows high.
A short, quiet conversation ensued, and after a moment, Yizhaq shut the door again, looking over his shoulder at Bhakti as he did so.
"It seems I have some relatively unexpected visitors arriving."
While Yizhaq looked particularly pleased, Bhakti's eyes were narrowed in response. The sash was knotted hastily around her waist, the final pull jerked and violent. She would be reminded of this today as she read through her poetry. It would ruin, to a great degree, her ability to appreciate the literary aspects of the writ.
By the time that Yizhaq had closed the door, Bhakti had managed to become neutral, shoving frustrations to the back of her mind. "I see," she answered him, already realizing that whoever these people were, she would likely find their presence unfavorable. "Don't keep them waiting." It was her turn, once again, to leave first. After all, if they had visitors, she had to be dressed and clean, did she not?
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Oct 05, 2010 11:52 am
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Oct 05, 2010 11:53 am
[10] the garden
All it would take would be one glance to see that Bhakti was amiss. Hair unkempt, half-put up and her makeup in a similar state, she had moved down the halls, uncaring of the looks that she received as she swept past.
Her dress draped, but did not fit the curves of her body. It was something to get ready in, not to display in the public eye. It did not matter, as she had no intention of being outside of the estate for long.
She had spotted Yizhaq in the garden from her window, the woman looking much too pleased for her own good. Pleased could range anywhere from happy to the lowest of neutrals. Bhakti both craved and hated to see a frown on the smooth, soft skin of Yizhaq's brows.
It did not take her long to reach her, the grind of her teeth more than apparent as she came to a halt. There was no one else in the garden, and the estate was relatively clear for the time of day. Except, it wasn't. "My patience is worn thin, husband. I do not appreciate random visitors." She'd held her tongue for most of the morning, and it had broke the fourth time she'd been reminded of Hayat, a creature which never ceased to run shivers down her spine.
The young noble was not only feeling good, but was looking good. Perfectly groomed, in tailed, expensive clothing that suited him. He had bid his company goodbye a short time ago, and was now enjoying a late afternoon break from work, a few notes of correspondence on the table as he went through them.
Glancing up from his tea at the sound of her voice, his raised his brows at her obvious displeasure, a flash of perfect, white teeth appearing in a smile.
"There you are, wife. My guests have departed. Join me for tea? I shall have a servant fetch you a cup."
A dangerous line he was toeing, and yet, he didn't face down, knowing he'd find out, sooner or later, what was truly crawling under her skin.
Surely she was not disappointed about the interruption in their morning's activities? Now, that, he would like to hear.
As the woman continued, in all her extravagant fun and simplicities, Bhakti found it within herself to slowly cross her arms.
"Mockery, husband? I did not think you so shallow. Do I look ready for tea?" Arms dropping to her sides, she ran her fingers underneath the hem of cloth encircling her neck. "Your attempts to change the subject are poor, at best."
There was a brief pause in her words as she waited for him to make some sort of witty comment in return to anger her further, to perhaps fire her up. Or maybe he'd submit, and back down, no less well-mannered than a slightly scolded hound. A purebred one, perhaps. "Whether they are here now or not is of little importance. Accepting a variety of guests who simply waltz in, no matter what dance they are moving to, is very trying on your image as well as mine."
Yizhaq proceeded to take a drink of his tea, clearly enjoying the flavor as she condescended upon him, and eventually, as she began to wind down [looking, no doubt, for a response], he set the porcelain down gently upon his patio table.
"Do you presume, wife, to instruct me on the company I may keep, and upon their caliber?" That smile briefly lit his features again as he let his gaze run over her.
"I have been waiting, in this particular instance, to meet with this man for five years. I can assure you that such... Unannounced visits are not something you need be worried of happening often."
His eye flicked back up to hers, expression eerily collected. "As for your appearance, I find you quite appealing, and you are welcome at my table. Should we choose to continue our tea outside of our private gardens, however, I might be of a different view."
The nerve he had struck was enough to make her loose her already poor argument. It had been built primarily out of other emotions, which she had already full known, and assumed to act on them anyway. It was rare that Yizhaq did not back down. Today, someone appeared to have slip his position back into his drink. "You are distasteful, husband, when you fail to call me by my name and look at me as though I am your property."
A light snort of a laugh was given to the rest. "A comfort." To which particular statement she was referring Bhakti did not make clear. "Are you going to order me to sit, as well?"
"Isn't that what I am, to you, by existence? Distasteful?" A laugh, despite the crease that came to Yizhaq's brow, and it seemed that he wasn't in the mood to be insulted. "I have yet to hear you address me by my name, wife."
The words were some of the harshest he'd ever said, and yet, they were simply the truth, repeating her own sentiments that he'd received from her.
His brow smoothed as he took a moment to consider her last question, his tone cooling back into amusement at the thought. "Why... Yes," He caught the eye of a servant across the garden, and shortly thereafter, had another cup, the smart attendant being quick to flee once dismissed.
"Sit." He poured her a cup. "It is a rooibos. I know how you enjoy them."
There was no answer from Bhakti to start. The calm settled over her, and the chair was pulled slowly back. The patio grouched its displeasure, ceasing only when Bhakti was able to sit in her chair.
She watched him pour the cup and her expression did not change. She waited, until the servant had left her sight before pushing the chair back.
"No." Pulling whatever remained in her hair that kept it up, no matter how much of a mess, she tossed it out behind her and headed back in the direction she had come.
Yizhaq hardly hesitated. The tea and his mail was left abandoned as he stood, swift on Bhakti's heels. He caught up with her within seconds, his hand finding her wrist to pull her up short, turn her to face him.
While the movements contained what one might think of as anger, as he pulled her to him, one hand holding the back of her head still, his expression didn't quite match. It looked almost surprised at his own response, as he kissed her, hard.
What use was a private garden if one did not do private things within it, after all? If she slapped him, so be it, there was no one here to see it, and he was past the point of caring about their power games.
While Bhakti's reaction was inevitably violent, it did not involve a slap.
Her nails had instead instinctively gripped his arm, the one that had kept her head still, and she found no mercy digging them in. Her teeth snapped together in apprehension, catching her own lip as she jerked away.
Never had Bhakti's brows been so tightly furrowed. Mouth slightly bloody from where she'd pinched its edge, she had no sooner received a minute space than she had reached forwards.
Yizhaq's manners were less than appropriate, and Bhakti had lost the desire to have hers. They snatched his belt, and it was with her own strong motion that she jerked his hips to her. "Sick of having to ask, are you?" She did not want an answer. That much was clear when she returned his "request", her mouth finding that of her husbands and leaving little to the imagination.
The bite of her nails into his skin was the only encouragement he needed, a reminder of late-night aggressions and non-verbal responses dug into his back.
A low groan was his only verbal response as their hipbones jammed together, his touch rough as it moved over her, pulling at the loose garment. Mouth and body hungry, her now-coppery taste didn't bother him as he backed her against the garden wall, hands finding their way down her body.
The surface of the garden wall had been unforgiving against her back. Though her garment was ruined, it had saved the chafe against her skin, and it was of no concern to her.
She had been quick to undo his belt and everything else that had hindered her from what they wanted. It was not a day for sitting back, when she wanted his hands to touch her, she had guided them, and when that had ceased to be enough, Bhakti had all but demanded she feel him inside her, the only other words she had spoken the entire time.
It was only now, as her breath relaxed, that she could taste the hint of spice from the tea he had been drinking and a small, unamused laugh escaped her lips as she sighed against his neck, her hands still on him, claiming possession.
She persisted, however, to avoid his eyes, no matter what action he took. He could make her stay, she supposed, back against the wall. He could rally her up again, if he wished. At the moment, she would have even re-accepted his request for tea. What a laugh that would have been to see. Or, he could let her go, and they would stare at each other from across the table when they ate, waiting for the other to break again. "Your choice," she said out loud, though it was not necessarily intelligible.
They'd taken several long moments of simply breathing hard, leaning into each other as they recovered wit and words. It was with quiet care that he lowered her down from where she'd been held, until her feet touched the ground, his hands now gentle at her waist, her own still around his neck.
Her laugh, and meaning, did not escape him as she mumbled against his skin. Briefly allowing himself to breath in the scent of her hair, he nodded.
"Stay," with me, he didn't finish the request, though it was clear. They could both use a bit of clean up, of course, and then they had many things to attend to. Perhaps a bath was in order, first.
For most, this would be a time for loving pleasantries, however, for them, the lack of insults served a similar purpose.
"... Bhakti," he searched for the words, then let them go, pulling away slightly and choosing to let his speech go a different route. "Come inside with me."
Though it was worthless to her now, Bhakti leaned over to pull the garment down over her thighs. The cloth fell down, leaving her with some display of modesty. Perhaps it could forget the moment she had just taken so quickly, but she would not be able to. Incorrigible thing the intimate object was.
She still ached, though it was different this time as she raised her eyes slowly, letting him regain some sort of dignity before continuing to appease his voice. Would she make it inside before she changed her mind?
Hands sliding back through her hair as she once again watched the ground, Bhakti could only nod. The dampness of her skin amused her for a moment, the sheen an idle distraction to her thoughts. Only a few more seconds passed before she looked at him, his face, unsure of what the expression there was. "Why that choice?" She made it clear the answer would not change her decision to follow, she waited there, as though by his side, expecting an order.
Yizhaq was fairing a bit better than she in the appearance department, putting his clothing back in order fairly quickly. Only mussed hair, an untucked shirt, and missing button called attention to his appearance, along with a healthy flush, and equally damp skin.
"You make me feel." It was a simple, complex, ambiguous answer. One that could be the start of a sentence, or its entirety. While Yizhaq didn't want to get into the specifics of how he felt, it was true. The gamut of emotions that Bhakti evoked in him were better than the numb existence he'd had, simply serving his father's well-intended lies.
His arm was offered to her, in such an automatic reaction that it was clear there was no mockery involved, no humor, as he led her inside, toward both of their respective quarters, where they would be able to bathe and dress appropriately for the rest of the evening.
Bhakti's hand came to a rest on Yizhaq's arm, and she found she was too tired to pry further. A numbness would have been an apt feeling. The walk back to her quarters felt no more than a drift.
Before Yizhaq could leave her alone, she had caught his gaze and let out a long, heavy breath that seemed to release whatever tension she had been letting it. "It will happen again." She felt absolutely certainty in this fact and she wasn't sure she wished to discuss the matter then.
"Find me when you are ready." While she meant the inevitable discussion for what they were going to do, or if they had to do anything at all, Yizhaq would be allowed to interpret it in whatever way he desired.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Oct 05, 2010 11:54 am
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Oct 05, 2010 11:56 am
[12] history unearthed
Bhakti found the wind more obnoxious than an ornery child, its constant moaning and thrashing against the windows more than distracting. It had already put her in a foul mood. She itched to get out of her clothes, out of the house, and away from the symbolic pressure of capture that pushed down on her skull. Perhaps it could have been attributed to just a normal headache, but to Bhakti it simply represented her imprisonment here.
Poetry's light-hearted phrases and passages were too much of an uplift, while its darker imagery left her feeling more pent up inside than when she had begun. As it was, the wife decided to ignore such literary escapades, instead searching out writ of more honesty in nature. It had eventually led her to do something she should have done ages ago, something she was amazed that she had not thought of before.
It was merely a matter of looking up histories, but the death of this younger "sister" of Yizhaq's would no doubt have been recorded, and as in tradition, there would be a name. A name that belonged not to the dead boy it kept under shrouds, but to a girl who ran an estate. It would be an easy card to pull, the name, most likely in private, and imagining the look on Yizhaq's face had already left her in slightly better spirits. She would not be tied down, even if the weather wished it to be so.
It had been there that her subconscious had eventually alighted her to items that did not match, or connected strangely. She had brought a tablet with her, and an ink well with which to stain dates and names she felt were important. The better, of course, that she understood Yizhaq's affairs, the more apt she would be able to shield herself against them, or use them to her advantage.
By now, she must have done the math ten times, sure that she was doing it wrong. Even without carefully double checking each subtraction of numerical representation, her mind could see the gap was too large. Her writing had become careless, the wisps of her numbers and notes sometimes teetering off the page. And by now she was frustrated. Leaving the books wide open, a stack still on the desk in that study, she took only the tablet and left.
Surprisingly, she did not first go to anyone for confirmation. Or, no one that could speak. Altair was the first to know of his mother's aggravation, and she picked him up from where he'd been dozing and carried him with her throughout the house, tablet still in hand.
But Yizhaq had been busy and Bhakti did not have the desire to storm in. Instead, she waited for him, outside the cages of gruesome birds that he raised, their needs still having to be met even in the rain. She was dry, though chilled in the awning of the outdoors and it wasn't until he crossed her path that she pushed what she had been writing on at him.
He would know - the instant he saw the name she had recorded - what she had been doing, and the familiarity of other relatives and dates would follow. She watched him, her gaze neutral, whispering only now and then to keep their son from crying.
"... Bhakti?" Yizhaq's voice was muffled, his high collar shielding him from the wind as he opened the door into the warmth of the estate, one hand moving without a thought to guide Bhakti inside by the small of her back. Outdoors was nowhere for their son to be, in this weather, and the boy seemed perturbed by his mother's absent-minded attentions.
Reaching for both the boy and the tablet, he didn't look to it for a moment, brushing a kiss across the top of Altair's head, instead. The handsome little fellow quieted at the attention, though he squirmed, clearly eager to be free to run about. Yizhaq continued to hold him, leading the way into the nearby sitting room, and soon deposited the child on a cushioned seat, brows knitting together as he finally gave the tablet a good look.
"What is this?" His voice was neutral, measured. It would make sense for her to be examining his history, though one was to be sure that she had some sort of manipulative, ulterior motives in doing so.
"I'm sure the Steward can help you find any document you're looking for. Is there something in particular I can elaborate on?" It was scrawling, messy, unclear... What was she trying to deduce through equation? His eyes skimmed over the name he hadn't been called in twenty-one years, as if it belong to another. And it did.
"Your history." Bhakti's voice also did not fluctuate with emotion. It did not take much energy to deduce what it was, or why.
Agitation had already begun to grow strong, though she held it down very carefully, unwilling to let it command her words. He was looking at it as though it meant nothing to him.
"The spacing," she pointed out, glancing back to make sure her son was safe and not in trouble before stepping forwards and pointing out the passage. "The years." She gave him very little else of what she meant in that moment, instead focusing on his face, the way his jaw was set.
"Yizhaq, he died when you were four." This was supposed to mean something to her. The lack of response left Bhakti frustrated inside, not for herself, but for this Al. She had not seen even a twitch of resentment. Was that human? It couldn't possibly be.
"So did she." Despite his calm, matter-of-fact tone, they both knew that he wasn't speaking of his mother. It would, perhaps, enlighten Bhakti as to why Yizhaq was the way he was. Twenty-one years of this 'lie'. Who was to say what was the more vivid reality? The four years prior? No, they almost didn't count.
Yizhaq set the tablet aside, walking over to the nearby spirits cabinet and opening it. His movements were steady, despite the fact that he was looking for a brandy. After all, such things were not improper in weather such as this.
"May I offer you a drink?" This, from over his shoulder.
Another look to their child, this time for her own comfort. It would not be long until he was four.
The staleness in her mouth caused her to nod. Though they did not waver as she sat, Bhakti felt she could sense the weakness in them. The day had made her tired; this subject was years too long and it had hardly been discussed.
"Yes," was her answer as she sank down into her seat. Her eyes remained on Yizhaq's back as he spoke, unwilling to accept that it had just been a fact unlike Yizhaq.
"You cannot possibly be okay with this." Could not. "You were four," she repeated, the strain heavy on her voice as she reached the age. A child that could not comprehend, that had walked into it with the innocence of trusting her father. A father that had no less than mutilated her, there were no other words.
Yizhaq paused at the cabinet, the drinks freshly poured as he stared at his own reflection in the glass. His jaw tightened, briefly, before he rearranged his thoughts, smoothed his brow, came back to the calm acceptance that had kept him alive.
"You take what you are given. You know this." The words were quiet as the drink was placed into her hands, the brief eye contact distant.
What would Bhakti have suggested he do? Expose his dark history to the world? No, that would not do for the comfortable life she wanted, for their own child. Nor would it do for Yizhaq, who stood to lose everything.
Should he have fought back? It happened too young. A child with no real concept of self, eager to please a sad, lonely father. Confused, but happy to take on the role of her other half.
Soon, it was too late. At what point should that young boy have betrayed his father? Exposed him and ruined both of their lives? No. There was nothing to be done. Bhakti had to know that.
A slow swallow of the liquor gave Yizhaq a steadying warmth that he needed, and he leaned against a desk, eyes watching Bhakti's hands.
Though she had noted the liquor, it remained in its solitude, full and unused.
Several times, the woman opened her mouth, but the shock had marred the use of her tongue and she eventually closed her mouth, defeated. It had not been given. It had not been a choice. It was unfathomable to think that Yizhaq believed it had been some sort of choice.
"Do you not care? You cannot possibly think it was right, what he did. Yizhaq, your body, even. He offered you no choice." This time she did reach for the glass, fingertips pale against its surface. "At least have some emotion."
"What do you want, Bhakti?" Yizhaq sounded tired, but in a resigned way, rather than an emotional one. His gaze moved to his own son, idly wondering what it had been like, to be that young. He did not remember.
His strongest memory from those years was the earthquake, and the last time he had been called her name. Blinking, he was brought to the present, to the strangeness of his own silence, and his brow knit together.
Why was she asking these things? Couldn't she decide what she wanted him to be? It was not out of kindness that she had sought his secrets, he knew.
"Right and wrong had nothing to do with this."
"I want you to be angry." She had been asked, and she knew exactly why she was here. Though there was a calm, numb portion to the moment, she was suppressing an emotion that she knew well. "So that I don't have to be."
Why she was angry was a complex list of things that all had to do with one another, and at the same time, were completely separate trains of thoughts. Upset that he had taken the moment to look to his son, she rose, quieting her own self and moving closer to the boy in nothing less than a protective stance.
"What would you do," and she used his feminine name here, "If it was your own daughter?"
"Do not call me by her name!"
The angry, loud voice that came from Yizhaq was unexpected, tearing its way from his chest, his throat, burning hot. Shaking as he set his glass upon the desk, now standing straight, rigid as his eyes seared into hers. He looked away, after only a moment, composing himself.
His usual, quiet tone came next, the anger dying on his tongue. "I am not my father." No, his father had been grief stricken, maddened, even, when he made his decision, only choosing to make it real in the weeks that followed.
He did not look at them, his 'family', instead clenching his jaw in silence.
It would have been a lie to say Bhakti did not tremor. It was the furniture which allowed her to keep her composure as her muscles tensed and the adrenaline of fear rushed through her body.
"You are angry, somewhere." She sought to hush the child after, no matter his state after the outburst, paying him far more attention than she gave Yizhaq.
"You cannot be . . . what he asked you to. Please stop trying." It was not to say that Bhakti wished him to throw his life's work to the wind; he was certainly no woman and Bhakti wished him to be that even less than a man no more than forced into a role. "I need you to be something else."
"I don't know how," the admission hurt, weakened him, and Yizhaq found that he couldn't move, watching Bhakti as she tended to their son. Altair had given him a wide-eyed look at the shout, not used to such things from his good-natured father, but made no sound. He was observant, creative, smart, and far too young to comprehend what was going on.
What would he be, without the tasks left to him by his father? Without the long hours of research and travel? He might have to deal with himself, then, and he didn't want that.
"I am not... Her." His brows furrowed, needing to make that clear. She was dead, Al Takiyah, though remnants of a private Al remained. No, Yizhaq was male, or, more male than female. It wasn't something he wanted to delve into. The chest he had, it felt natural, so did his role.
"No," Bhakti agreed. A long breath was taken in, the scent of the room helping to calm her senses. She stepped forwards carefully, the young child carefully cradled underneath one arm and she offered him to Yizhaq when she was close, her voice whispering soft encouragement for both father and son.
"But you are not a dead son, either. Here, take him. He needs to know his father is not angry with him."
It was a kindness, as complex and dark as it was, her words and her offer. Yizhaq hesitated only a moment before motioning for Bhakti to set the child down. Kneeling to his height, both so that they were on eye-level, and also to create a small amount of privacy, He put his forehead against the boy's, speaking to him quietly.
"You are a good son, to both your mother and I," a slight pause as he glanced to Bhakti and back to the boy, "Would you like to play with your tutors now? You've been quite patient, today."
"Yes," The simple word was articulate for his age, and Yizhaq felt a smile flicker onto his face, lifting the boy into his arms. He stopped, before heading to the door, to give the boy to the Steward, wanting Bhakti's permission. He would not force her to be alone with him, today.
That done, he turned to face her, the door shutting softly behind him, and he nodded, resigned. "No, I am what has been left alive." Mostly.
Bhakti's acceptance was in a nod meant only for Yizhaq. It was quick, given only when he glanced back to her, and she brushed her fingers against her face when he did.
"I will stay with you today," she eventually decided. He had already, in his own way, invited her to do so, and she felt the need to confirm it. Though she had no desire to talk further over the matter unless Yizhaq felt it necessary, she had no desire to leave.
As if to confirm this fact, she returned to the seat she had taken before and waited. She could read here, or follow some other task he may delegate.
The time for speaking was over, tonight, and the spent the evening reading, keeping each other in close company.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Oct 05, 2010 11:58 am
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Oct 05, 2010 12:08 pm
[14] poetic intrusions
It was not often that Bhakti permitted herself to receive visitors. They were relatively close by to the Imisus estate, and their stay was shortened to days instead of the typical weeks and months of a long distance travel. Under some degree, she considered it a formality. While she did find herself missing the company of a few of them on an empty day, she was not close enough to any of them to call them more than acquaintances. Since Yizhaq had come into her life, after his secrets had been divulged, there were none that she found she could consider much more. Seeing them had created an emptiness of sorts.
They were gathered, saying their goodbyes after a last round of what should have been called brunch. Dressed with enough flamboyance to make a King's crown look ill-decorated, the troupe was certainly a sight to stumble across. With flashes of gold, silver, and a vibrant variance of color adorning all areas of the body, they seemed nothing more than posturing peacocks with no opposite gender to display to.
Bhakti was now busy ushering them out, promising nothing but a safe return home and was urgent to relieve herself of the heavy earrings that pulled down her ears. After, she would linger, drinking the remainder of the tea, very much expecting to see a few faces again. They all inevitably forgot something, and it had become a cultural habit to greet them again and fetch a servant, as though you waited upon them hands and foot regardless of the difference in status.
The walk down the halls was relatively quiet. The hired were all in a rush securing themselves for the evening meal and cleaning up from the extravagant brunch. Nevermind that bed-sheets had to be changed and floors had to be swept in guest rooms. She was thankful for this solitude when she reached her bedroom door, already stripping off necklaces and heavy metals as she opened it, shifting her way inside to put them away.
It was on the bedside table, the folded letter, on top of one of her favorite volumes to read before bed. The cream stationary would catch the observant woman's eye, with her name emblazoned across it, the elegant calligraphy now something familiar to her eyes. Inside, the slanted cursive inked across the sheet would also be recognizable.
Little cramped words scrawling all over
the paper
Like draggled fly's legs,
What can you tell of the flaring moon
Through the oak leaves?
Or of my uncertain window and the
bare floor
Spattered with moonlight?
Your silly quirks and twists have nothing
in them
Of blossoming hawthorns,
And this paper is dull, crisp, smooth,
virgin of loveliness
Beneath my hand.
I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart
against
The want of you;
Of squeezing it into little inkdrops,
And posting it.
And I scald alone, here, under the fire
Of the great moon.
It was unsigned.
No sooner had the door creaked its way to a rest than had Bhakti stopped. Gold dropped into the palm of her hand, and she wound up the necklace as she changed direction. They clicked together sweetly as she sent them to rest against cold wood.
Her eyes had long ago left them; they wandered instead over the smooth, uncrinkled paper, expensive in its own ways. Oh, she recognized the twist and turn, the thickness and the frail portion of every letter. Her mind had memorized it, even if her conscious had not, and she reached which delicate fingers to raise the paper to her eyes.
Her eyes flicked quickly to the window, leaving the page for just a moment. She had half imagined that the moon would greet her, had wanted it to in a sense. It would be something to read again when the white glow was full.
A glance this time to the door as she finished. Was Yizhaq in her study? Had she known she would be pausing here? Taking it carefully and slipping it under the pillow of her already made bed, Bhakti let it stay there with a shake of her head. It had, already, relaxed her, as only poetry could. Even after she had set the parchment aside, the words still drizzled on in her mind, humming her to thought.
She debated, for a moment, taking it back out, reading it again. Instead, she grasped the jewelry once more in her hand and made her way to the cabinet her bathroom.
Though she held a key in hand, it never quite found the lock it was looking for. What last bit off attention she had was diverted instead to her mirror. Tucked within its wooden frame, back reflected on the clear surface behind and swaying lightly with her footsteps, was a twin to the other. Her interest was tickled, though she waited a moment before retrieving this, savoring the time as she relocked the jewelry in its place.
Identical in every way, only the words therein differed. It had been carefully folded, each letter perfect, no shake in the lines of poetry, no deviation in the straightness of line. It was no rough draft, no hastily scrawled passage.
When you came, you were like red wine and honey,
And the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.
Now you are like morning bread,
Smooth and pleasant.
I hardly taste you at all for I know your savour,
But I am completely nourished.
The words did not describe the only burn Bhakti's mind had thought to experience. It had its own crudeness, for those that were dark of mind, and a gentleness for those who did not.
She found herself laughing with the near irony of the last few lines. This one, she read over several times, her fingers skimming over 'Now you are like morning bread' as she refolded it, careful to keep the folds as crisp and perfect as she had found them.
How many books had Yizhaq gone through attempting to find these passages? They were lost somewhere among the great collections spread throughout the Imisus house. It would be doubtful that she would find them again, save by chance. While she had remained calm before, she was now growing excited with the sense of chase that came with it. Were there more?
The question quickly became: where would Yizhaq hide such things? The morning pattern had occurred to her quite quickly, and the dresser soon became the obvious choice. Imagination left her with the idea of searching through armoire and drawer for that familiar color of cream.
And yet, she found nothing. Yizhaq was not the type to go through her things, prying even as he hid a gift. No, her search was in vain.
Still, she could catch a hint of cream, when she turned, against the dark wood of the door from her private chambers into the rest of the house. There, affixed by a small bit of red stationary wax to the back of the door she had entered, was a third such note.
Opening the sharp crease would reveal another poem, even more revealing of he who copied it onto the paper.
As I would free the white almond from the green husk
So I would strip your trappings off,
Beloved.
And fingering the smooth and polished kernel
I should see that in my hands glittered a gem beyond counting.
Bhakti had become disheartened in the time it had taken to pour through her drawers. It was a bittersweet disappointment that told her to savor what two she had been given, until the third had graced her eyes.
It seemed an invitation, hanging on the door as it did. It drew her out, to it, and as she closed the door behind her, she was in the hall.
Simple, far shorter than the previous two, it held perhaps more intellectual quality. Bhakti had left one hand on the door, and she now leaned against it as she read. When she had finished, the far wall became her muse. The patterned walls pushed her on further. She was outside for a reason.
Heart thumping gently, almost audible in the quiet, she walked her way slowly through the estate. What purpose she had, she was not sure, more than likely to find somewhere else to go. There was the breakfast table, some morning Yizhaq's estate. Some days the garden, but, no, it would not be there in the rain.
The last one on the door must have meant to make her leave her room, but where now? Was that done? Did the adventure end when the door closed.
A heavy sigh; an estate was a large space to cover. It would be best, instead to find where Yizhaq himself was stationed.
Yizhaq was, of course, in his study, sitting at his desk. Instead of his usual work, of large tomes with ancient writing, journals, maps, or even correspondence, he had a single piece of stationary.
A steady hand putting the final strokes on the missive, having just taken a moment to press a firm fold into the paper. A name was written across the front, the pen replaced even as he heard footsteps in the hall.
A slight knit of the brow at the unexpected intrusion and he stood as he heard the approach to the door. It would not be a lost guest, he knew, as a servant had informed him of their final departure only two hours prior.
Perhaps it was yet another, though he usually went undisturbed by all except the Steward and Bhakti, when within his study.
It certainly would not be his wife. She had tended to company for quite a few days, and would be enjoying her privacy, one could presume, leaving him with time to complete his latest project.
He was still next to the desk, the pale, rich poem held gently between slim fingers as he contemplated its last location. It would have to wait for the early morning, when he could see how the weather would hold.
Whether or not the weather outside would hold, it would not be holding inside, metaphorically speaking, of course. Presumptions, as Bhakti had found this morning when making a mess of her wardrobe, rarely turned out successfully.
The only certainty today had given her was that Yizhaq was, as was typical, present within her study. Unable to hold the smile that turned up the very edges of her lips, Bhakti did not even pause at the door as the hallway end. It creaked open softly, the woman close behind.
As it closed, she shifted the parchment between her fingers, delighting in how soft it was. The room's decor flooded her mind instantly, and she noticed Yizhaq and his pen in the same moment. Part of her actually believed he had staged this.
And it showed in the humorous, lighthearted way she teased the situation they had found themselves in. "What would you have me do for that one?" Both brows raised at her husband, and she tapped the other paper against her lips in thought as she waited.
"... Do?" The blank look on Yizhaq's face gave away the lack of guile he'd had in arranging this, that he had planned on hiding this note, like the others. In fact, in the face of her amusement, the paper touching her her mouth, and the way she moved into the room clearly put him off his usual prepared, collected ways.
He'd started something he was unaware of, another game for them to play, and she had a one up. Almost protectively, the hand holding the last of the poems slipped behind his back.
Out of sight, out of mind, no?
"Bhakti," His smile was real, if a bit sheepish. "I did not expect to see you so soon. Did you enjoy your guests?"
It was worth an attempt, a redirect away from his embarrassment in being caught.
Yizhaq's face caused one brow to fall, and his continued motions left her shifting her weight to other hip, arms folding tight against her chest and then relaxing.
It was easy for her eyes to follow the motion, her breath releasing as the paper slipped from view. Only then did her eyes return to Yizhaq's. The smile remained. Mischievous was her word for the day.
"You didn't?" It was an brief urge to let him have the upper hand, one that she quickly shot down. "And here I was just beginning to find you brilliant." Her arms un-crossed and she took in a slow breath, allowing herself to lean forwards, the poem placed flat against the wood, her palms following suit. "Hand it over if you want me to stay."
A flash of color heated Yizhaq's face, subtle, and completely unheard of, as Bhakti moved closer, her quiet ultimatum making his heart pound.
Sure that it could be heard, he couldn't even bring himself to be offended, not with her intent look and the tone of her voice.
"I assure you, I am not," Brilliant, that is. It was self amused, and he stood a moment, that hand tucked against the small of his own back as he watched her.
Wordlessly, the stationary was offered to her, held out as his pale gaze flicked to the paper on his desk.
You glow in my heart
Like the flames of uncontrolled candles.
But when I go to warm my hands,
My clumsiness overturns the light,
and then I stumble
Against the tables and chairs.
Thought it was politely taken, and unfolded slowly, Bhakti's eyes were hungry, and it was everything she had not to snatch it up and devour the words. Mentally, she forced herself to slow, letting the cadence of the words guide the speed and flow instead of her own interest.
She looked up to watch him for a moment as she had finished the first three lines. It delighted her to see him uncomfortable, squirming like an untrained child nervous for approval. Sweet, almost, like honey and red wine, perhaps?
"A truthful selection." A pause, as she pondered the merit of the poem, the meaning for Yizhaq. "How Al T-" she ceased there, correcting herself, "womanly, of you to find something so open." She had began again quickly enough that the slip may not have been heard, at least in her hope.
Unused to being able to see passion in her gaze, as such moments were usually shrouded in dark for him, he was fascinated, starting at sudden eye contact as she cast her gaze up to catch him watching.
Frowning slightly at her words, and unsure of her meaning, he paused a moment, to consider. An insult, or not? She tended to say 'woman,' when she meant 'weak,' which was altogether another issue.
He was not too slow to catch the syllables on her tongue, the start of something that made his chest tight, his heart beat in his ears. It had stopped and he... Felt no anger. It was nothing he had been called before.
"... Al," the shortening was tasted, tested on the air quietly, privately as he turned it over in his mind. A word his father had never used for him, never banished him from.
Blinking himself back to the present, he raised his brows at her. "I am not," womanly, that was. It was a calm statement, rather than a defensive one, showing that he was at least moderately back on level.
The repetition of the word caused Bhakti to blink. The paper was refolded and tenderly set to join its counterpart.
"Mmm," was Bhakti's only answer to Al's strong argument that he was not womanly. There was, before, wrapped up in delightfully exquisite words, proof of a soft mentality. The ability to not only have tenderness, but a desire to explore an emotion. One that was beyond the carefully crafted perceptions of control. It seemed men were only allowed to feel anger, and Yizhaq clearly had much more to feel.
"It's a shame. You could have received so much for the words on a piece of paper." As if to protect them from Yizhaq's sharp mind, her fingers swept the two pieces off the table and she gave him and honest smile before her body signaled she was headed for the door. He had his seconds to stop her, but she still had to claim her private evening, did she not?
The hand that captured her wrist this time was gentle, a request, rather than the demand it had been the last time she'd walked away from him. It didn't pull her back, but rather, asked her to still her exit as he stood close, just behind her, his voice low and urgent.
"I would prefer for such things to be given, rather than taken," The loosely imprisoned hand was lifted to his mouth, a soft kiss skimmed across the back of it, and he did not release her.
It was strange, this mood that she was in, that was so rarely seen. The thought of her, so good-natured, and perhaps affectionate, calling him by a name not completely his. His brow knit further. Since their discussion in the sitting room, he had been doubting 'his name,' forced upon him by his father, as never before. They were not comfortable thoughts.
She would give him something, in return, would she not? Some sort of trade, in this game she was playing. The words he spoke were clearly coming from his mouth as he thought them;
"I will ask something... When we are like this," He did not specify what 'this' was, "Call me... Do not call me by my public name, I..." He stopped, realizing that he should perhaps craft his words before speaking them.
It would not do for her to see him so unsteady.
If the rest of it had not displayed a distinctly feminine side, the way that he quietly clung to her, asked her to give, rather to be taken from, certainly that was. The voice was something she could listen to, no need to watch his words or expression as her back faced him.
He seemed more confused now than ever. As he began again, she slowly turned. The smile had left her face; it had returned to neutrality as she studied him. Yizhaq did not often cease his words, certainly not over matters in which he needed a firm position. Perhaps, he did not truly need that control now.
Feeling that he needed her to aid him, at least for a moment, she completed his thought. The request did not bother her, rather it intrigued her. It would be the first secret, she assumed, that they would actually share. "Tell me what to call you."
He felt a little (more than a little) tongue-tied, at her calm acceptance and easy inquiry and just stared at her for a moment, silent, despite the name he could feel on the tip of his tongue.
She was aiding him in this, he could already feel that, feel her curiosity, and it both eased and excited him.
"... Al?"
As soon as it left his lips, he felt more relaxed, some of the tension leaving his muscles. His light eyes dropped to their joined hands as he awaited her reaction.
Whatever she had expected to come out of his mouth, it was not this. She would have chosen something far different, but its simplicity made it strikingly easy to remember. It fit the necessity.
Her thumbs shifted over the top of his hands, her fingers twitching gently as she considered. "Al," she repeated as though disbelieving at first. It was said once more with an affirmation in the tone.
"So it is." Slipping her hands from Al's, Bhakti moved them between Al's arm's instead, shuffling her feet the small space closer and resting her head against his chest. "Not terribly inventive," she began again, a soft, puffy laugh escaping her lips. "But it will do, Al."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Oct 05, 2010 12:09 pm
[15] the marking of territory
Altair was an incredibly bright child. His levels of speech and comprehension were advanced for his age, aided by frequent challenges and play guided to make him take advantage of his natural intelligence. Already he was reciting poetry [in his clumsy, toddler-tongue] to the delight of his parents, and he seemed comfortable with the myriad people that saw to his daily life.
One of those 'people' was Hayat, who often spent time apart from Yizhaq with his son. If there was another being that she cared for, it was Altair.
He delighted in her small size, always gentle with her, and the tricks she did for him, levitating his toys into the air, singing to him, and guiding him on escapee adventures throughout the halls of his home.
Now he lay on his belly his room, she before him and a book in between. She read to him from it, prompting him to chime in at the parts that he could remember. He could not read yet, of course, but soon. Already he expressed an interest in the symbols, his eyes moving over them as if they had meaning.
Bhakti had merely been taking the time to make a check-up on Altair when she had entered the room. It was perhaps not a surprise to see Hayat there, a book spread open, her son listening attentively, but its potential for happening did not make it any easier for her to handle.
It already had her mind at its limit to see Hayat near the boy, let alone reading to him. It was a private sort of endeavor, to educate the boy in language, and the small creature had very distinctly crossed the line.
"What are you doing?" The creature, no doubt, would give her some sort of straightforwards answer, expecting her to become baffled, stunned by an abruptness and "honesty" of the phrase. She refused to believe it. There was an unnatural order of events with it, in the way it seemed to have a mind and yet none at all. How it could even read, she cared not to know; it was a magic that was liable to be just as dangerous as it was powerful.
"Are you so desperate for attention that Yizhaq is not enough for you?" This was addressed, very obviously, to the Plague.
If Bhakti's harsh words bothered Hayat, it didn't show in the calm way she lifted her head, smiled just slightly.
"I do not think myself desperate, no. Though, you seem much more familiar with such a thing, so perhaps I just don't recognize it in myself?"
Her whisper-voice was not amused, in fact, it was devoid of anything but polite inquiry, and she nodded to Altair, who looked at her as if to ask permission to leave the book.
Altair blinked at his mother's tone, looking up at her curiously before clambering to his feet to toddle toward the entrance of the room.
"Mother...?" He reached out his hands to her. "'Hayat, reading." Did she want to join them? It was hard to tell with her.
"Petty, but it won't work," Bhakti simply answered. She gave another glance at Hayat before choosing instead to kneel down to eye-level with her son.
Addressing the boy was far preferred, and for the moment, she could ignore the hollow eyes reaching towards her soul and nibbling on its edges. She gave a kiss to the young boys temple and offered him a smile. "Yes, but the strange looking creature and I need a moment. May I borrow it for a short while." So she could lash into it as it deserved. She would not raise her tone or lose her temper in front of her son, and he could not understand that Hayat could have ill intentions.
Perhaps she would explain it to him later, when things had quieted down and Hayat was not there to interfere and manipulate.
He pouted a moment, furrowing his brow up at her request. A glance back to the Servos, who now calmly waited on the nearby desk, and his face clouded. She seemed to be unconcerned with their conversation.
"I like Hayat," He had wanted to play more. She had such pretty feathers and was light and whispery, like air. However, he knew better than to argue with his parents, and he liked to be a good boy. "Can play, later?"
As for now, his face brightened at a thought, and his voice became excited once more. "Can go see Father?"
While Bhakti took the moment to think on a response, Altair was already quickly giving her a way out. "You know the way?" She waited for an affirmative answer before she gave him a nod. It would be good for Yizhaq to find himself with a son to entertain. It would lighten both their spirits, and Bhakti would be at ease. The boy would be safe.
She led him out of the room, making sure he knew where he was going before she let him go unattended. Those at the estate would not let him come to harm, and Al's study was not too far.
It was now time, however, to address a far different matter, and she re-entered the room with a far different mood and tone. "You will hurt him," she began, her tongue sharp as it snapped against the roof of her mouth when she spoke. "I do not know what convoluted mess of things go through your body to speak, but you are no more than a pretty snake in the garden and while you may have my husband fooled, you do not have me. Stay away from my son."
"You know nothing of what you speak." Hayat's voice was cool, unperturbed by Bhakti's judgments. She did not back away from the lashing.
"The only poison in this home is you." If there was any doubt about Hayat's gender, it was dispelled in the quick way the two exchanged their insults, their criticisms for one another. The lines were quickly being drawn.
"All that belongs to mi'lord, belong to me, of that, make no mistake. You are but a necessity, another holding for the estate. You have no power to condemn me."
Bhakti found herself snorting softly at Hayat's interpretation of the situation.
"I will make it very clear now, that my son has not, and will never, belong to you, or my husband. He is mine, and if you seek to pursue this, I will not hesitate." What this lack of hesitation led to, of course, she would not say out loud. It was dangerous when they never knew who was walking by, but Hayat would get the message.
"One does not need power to condemn. Only words. I have given you a warning. It is more than you deserve."
"Be careful, the ideas you play with." A tilt of that eerie head as Hayat contemplated the woman, and her threat. In a way, she threatened Yizhaq, and that would not do. Bhakti had made herself an enemy of Hayat, something that was not so before.
"Things are not as you think." Was she afraid? No. She was, however, wary. Bhakti had never been trusted, and for good reason. She was completely untrustworthy, a second away from betrayal at any given moment.
"If you bring him harm, you will not survive to regret it." It was clear, and simple, and she too was unspecific, for one could never be sure of privacy.
Their 'conversation' was over.
"I have given you the rules. Only you can break them."
One last hard look was given to the distasteful mass before she took her entrance to leave. If she found Hayat snooping once more, she'd be sure to bring the matter to Yizhaq, and if nothing more could be done, she would follow whatever path was next necessary.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Reply
