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It took only the casual wandering of Commander Alexios' home away from home to note that it was in need of a woman's presence. Or rather, that it was lacking one. The requirement of it, was an assumption and extension of logic that Hypatia's mother liked to make and remark upon on a regular basis since their arrival in Judea just over a week ago. Whilst the servants that roamed the corridors, hurrying about their business were of either gender, it was clear that the men outnumbered the ladies by a significant portion. For there was no need for female slaves to tend to an almost entirely male residency. But even the few female members of the domestic staff would not be enough to add a feminine aesthetic to the solid stone and plastered walls of the estate within the Grecian barracks.
With a home decor of shields, lances, spears and swords, the corridors were a constant reminder of the occupation of the master of the house. Along the walls were tapestries of fine stories and military tales, paintings of Taengea and waterscapes of the ocean. There were no fresh flowers in the chambers, nor silken cushions and throws of the latest fashion. Everything was finely crafted and looked after with an attention to detail that spoke of a close monitoring of his cleaning staff, but generally the furniture would be considered practical if it was thought upon at all. Far from the fashionable interiors that Europe had constructed in their homestead back in Taengea and was happy to exuberantly describe to the Commander during the evening repasts, assuring him that Hypatia had learnt at her mother’s knee what did and did not constitute as a noble and stylish home keeping.
Not that the lack of female intervention saw the home at a loss. Flawlessly clean and ruthlessly efficient in its upkeep, Hypatia had often thought of the limited responsibilities required of any wife the lord took for his own; that the Commander needed little in the way of help to manage his staff. Which seemed to energise and enthuse her mother all the more. For Europa was entirely certain that Hypatia had all the elegant grace of a wife and none of the application. A pretty thing to be witnessed and shown off. Never to be allowed a free thought or particularly significant role or duty.
As she was her mother, Hypatia thought the woman to most likely be right. She had never found it within herself to take great joy in her lessons or in practical activities to the point where she might master them, instead, losing interest after initial bursts of curiosity and struggling with commitment unless it was to her peaceful life of irresponsibility. Whilst she did not consider herself stupid or vapid, Hypatia had been made fully aware from a young age that her existence would amount to very little of great importance; that she was to live it, enjoy it and aid others (mostly her future husband) wherever she could. And that was to be her purpose.
With a curious eye and a free spirit - for the Commander had assured Hypatia that she could travel anywhere within the estate that was not specifically locked and barred to entry - Hypatia noted that the lack of feminine touches around the home might have had something to do with the women who served within it. Not only limited in number against their male counterparts, the female servants of the Commander did little to exalt or recommend their features. Some might have looked dignified and even pretty had they taken the time to appeal to their own beauty as Hypatia did for several hours each morning. A little coloured powder to the cheek of one, a darkening of the eyes with another. A third had hair that was in desperate need of tonic oils to stem the dry frizz that lifted from the top of her head like steam from a boiling pot.
Yet none of them sought to beautify themselves in the way that Hypatia and her sisters had always been taught to do. The Judeans in particular were very bland, with clothing that hid their figures rather than flattered them, making her own attire seem almost scandalous by contrast.
Whilst double-shouldered, Hypatia's chiton was sleeveless and backless, fastening around the neck and dipping at her chest to offer the delicacy of her collarbone to full view. Her gown was cinched at the waist with gold, wrapped over and over between breast and hip to emphasise the fragility of her waist and the skirts were long, falling in a thousand layers of the palest chiffon. The gown was perfectly white against the gold of her brocade and of the twisting spiral that wrapped around the entirety of one of her upper arms. Her hands were decorated in fine golden bands, several all the way from base to tip, whilst her ankle sported a golden chain above small and delicate sandals. Whilst her dress was so pale, it brought out the singular elements of colour in her features; the blue of her eyes and the tawny hue of her hair, sparking it to look more copper than blonde.
In comparison to the Judean woman who wore layers of clothing to diminish their shape, Hypatia looked excessive in the extreme.
But, taking a steady inhale not to be off-put, Hypatia reminded herself that she was not Judean. She was Greek. As was the man she was here to wed - as her mother constantly tried to point out to both parties. How she appeared in comparison to the native people was, by definition, entirely moot.
The reasoning was sound, but it didn't halt the curling, lingering sensation of unease in Hypatia's belly; a sensation that was proof of her naturally compassionate and empathetic heart.
Apparently, Hypatia's choice of timing for wandering the halls of the estate, however, was poor. Not only was her presence not particularly wanted by all or any around the house but given the number of times she was needing to avoid the rushing footsteps of servants and slaves, she realised that her existences in their paths was specifically unwanted. In an attempt to be careful not to cause trouble but also walk with the cool and calm elegance she had been raised to always exude, Hypatia moved slowly around the house, hoping to find a chamber in which she could sit and be removed from any and all difficulties, obstructions or expectations from her mother.
No matter her care, however, the inevitable soon happened and Hypatia collided with a young Jewish woman who took a corner too fast and had her journey abrupted brought to a stop when the large vase she was holding was shoved into Hypatia's hip and the wine within sloshed from its rim all the way down the side of her dress.
In the moment of collision - as a strangled sort of cry escaped Hypatia's lips - the young woman muttered a hasty apology and (clearly terrified that she was about to be scolded by a scary Greek) made the fastest beeline for the nearest doorway, Hypatia had ever seen, keeping her head down and her identity hidden.
Distracted by the way in which blood-red wine was blossoming across her middle and running down her skirts, seeping through the fabric until she could feel the cold, dampness upon her own skin, Hypatia had not the skill in that moment of shock to call her back and admonish her for her clumsiness, nor warn her to be more careful when carrying something so large and cumbersome.
Looking about herself, her mouth working like a landstuck fish, Hypatia held up the side of her chiton in an effort to keep the wine from seeping further down her leg, shivering as cool air slipped beneath her gown and smarted over the wet upon her skin.
What in the name of Hera was she to do now?
Having decided to explore the estate with no retainer or guard, Hypatia was now entirely unable to seek their aid in escorting her back to her rooms in the opposing wing of the house, so that she might re-dress and find something to wear that looked less like she had been run through with a sword. And yet, she remembered the admonishments from her mother time and again that any gown that was coated in the staining liquid of wine had to be immediately washed - for fear of rendering the dress forever unusable, or destined to be dyed red.
Looking around herself and remembering that, a little way down the corridor had been a doorway out into the courtyard by the kitchens - one that sported a well at its centre - Hypatia was struck with the idea that she could perhaps simple wash the gown? It was a bright and sunny day... a little cleaning of the wine would simply leave the skirts like new yet wet and a half hour wandering the grounds in the sunlight would have it back to normal, surely?
Heading immediately in that direction, for the challenge of laundry seemed far less tiresome than returning to her rooms to hear her mother's chastisements over clumsiness and lectures on beauty, Hypatia found her memory to be true and stepped out into the sunshine of the courtyard to beyond a larger well than she recalled, its polished, wooden bucket gleaming in the daylight as it hung from its tightly wound pulley.
Hypatia hadn't washed a piece of clothing in her life.
Born of a wealthy merchant and his distant nobility wife, she was one of the younger of seven siblings and had never been permitted to do anything for herself. Which meant, of course, that she had no logical concept that water was never going to rinse clean red wine from a beautiful white chiton gown. Nor that the extraction of that water from the well would be far more taxing than her inexperienced arms might be able to manage.
Determined, however, to regain her previously angelic appearance (minus the morbid addition of an apparent stab wound), Hypatia grabbed ahold of the chain that was - she knew - attached to the little bucket that hung above the well and unhooked it from a lynchpin that had been hammered into the ground. As soon as it was free, the weight of the bucket was in her own hands and she steadily allowed the chain to slip between her hands and lower the container down into the belly of the well.
Feeling pleased with herself when she heard a soft splash of wooden bucket meeting the surface of the water within, Hypatia gave it a moment to fill and then started to pull back on the chain once more, intent on drawing the water up to use upon her dress.
Despite throwing all of the strength she had into the chain, Hypatia discovered quickly that she had little of such a thing to give. Born and raised in the pampered lifestyle of the wealthy, her body was just not built for any form of labour and despite bracing her foot on the wall of the well in a manner that her mother would have scolded her ear off for, Hypatia was still unable to get the bucket the entire way up.
Just how could such a thing be so much heavier, just from the addition of water?
Opening her eyes from where they had squeezed shut in effort, Hypatia looked over towards the gaping hole of the well and was surprised that she could in fact see the bucket - just peeking over the rim of the brick wall and glistening with water across its top.
And yet she had no more upper body strength to keep pulling upon the weight and get it up over the final hurdle. Frustrated, Hypatia pulled the chain down by her leg, held it there as best she could with one hand and, in what she assumed was a totally logical act of ingenuity, leaned her body over the rim of the well and started reaching for the bucket, one foot in the air and all elegance out the window. If she could just reach a little further, she would be able to get the damn thing... she thought as she felt herself wobble...
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Nov 27, 2019 16:30:31 GMT
Posted In Fates Sealed on Nov 27, 2019 16:30:31 GMT
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It took only the casual wandering of Commander Alexios' home away from home to note that it was in need of a woman's presence. Or rather, that it was lacking one. The requirement of it, was an assumption and extension of logic that Hypatia's mother liked to make and remark upon on a regular basis since their arrival in Judea just over a week ago. Whilst the servants that roamed the corridors, hurrying about their business were of either gender, it was clear that the men outnumbered the ladies by a significant portion. For there was no need for female slaves to tend to an almost entirely male residency. But even the few female members of the domestic staff would not be enough to add a feminine aesthetic to the solid stone and plastered walls of the estate within the Grecian barracks.
With a home decor of shields, lances, spears and swords, the corridors were a constant reminder of the occupation of the master of the house. Along the walls were tapestries of fine stories and military tales, paintings of Taengea and waterscapes of the ocean. There were no fresh flowers in the chambers, nor silken cushions and throws of the latest fashion. Everything was finely crafted and looked after with an attention to detail that spoke of a close monitoring of his cleaning staff, but generally the furniture would be considered practical if it was thought upon at all. Far from the fashionable interiors that Europe had constructed in their homestead back in Taengea and was happy to exuberantly describe to the Commander during the evening repasts, assuring him that Hypatia had learnt at her mother’s knee what did and did not constitute as a noble and stylish home keeping.
Not that the lack of female intervention saw the home at a loss. Flawlessly clean and ruthlessly efficient in its upkeep, Hypatia had often thought of the limited responsibilities required of any wife the lord took for his own; that the Commander needed little in the way of help to manage his staff. Which seemed to energise and enthuse her mother all the more. For Europa was entirely certain that Hypatia had all the elegant grace of a wife and none of the application. A pretty thing to be witnessed and shown off. Never to be allowed a free thought or particularly significant role or duty.
As she was her mother, Hypatia thought the woman to most likely be right. She had never found it within herself to take great joy in her lessons or in practical activities to the point where she might master them, instead, losing interest after initial bursts of curiosity and struggling with commitment unless it was to her peaceful life of irresponsibility. Whilst she did not consider herself stupid or vapid, Hypatia had been made fully aware from a young age that her existence would amount to very little of great importance; that she was to live it, enjoy it and aid others (mostly her future husband) wherever she could. And that was to be her purpose.
With a curious eye and a free spirit - for the Commander had assured Hypatia that she could travel anywhere within the estate that was not specifically locked and barred to entry - Hypatia noted that the lack of feminine touches around the home might have had something to do with the women who served within it. Not only limited in number against their male counterparts, the female servants of the Commander did little to exalt or recommend their features. Some might have looked dignified and even pretty had they taken the time to appeal to their own beauty as Hypatia did for several hours each morning. A little coloured powder to the cheek of one, a darkening of the eyes with another. A third had hair that was in desperate need of tonic oils to stem the dry frizz that lifted from the top of her head like steam from a boiling pot.
Yet none of them sought to beautify themselves in the way that Hypatia and her sisters had always been taught to do. The Judeans in particular were very bland, with clothing that hid their figures rather than flattered them, making her own attire seem almost scandalous by contrast.
Whilst double-shouldered, Hypatia's chiton was sleeveless and backless, fastening around the neck and dipping at her chest to offer the delicacy of her collarbone to full view. Her gown was cinched at the waist with gold, wrapped over and over between breast and hip to emphasise the fragility of her waist and the skirts were long, falling in a thousand layers of the palest chiffon. The gown was perfectly white against the gold of her brocade and of the twisting spiral that wrapped around the entirety of one of her upper arms. Her hands were decorated in fine golden bands, several all the way from base to tip, whilst her ankle sported a golden chain above small and delicate sandals. Whilst her dress was so pale, it brought out the singular elements of colour in her features; the blue of her eyes and the tawny hue of her hair, sparking it to look more copper than blonde.
In comparison to the Judean woman who wore layers of clothing to diminish their shape, Hypatia looked excessive in the extreme.
But, taking a steady inhale not to be off-put, Hypatia reminded herself that she was not Judean. She was Greek. As was the man she was here to wed - as her mother constantly tried to point out to both parties. How she appeared in comparison to the native people was, by definition, entirely moot.
The reasoning was sound, but it didn't halt the curling, lingering sensation of unease in Hypatia's belly; a sensation that was proof of her naturally compassionate and empathetic heart.
Apparently, Hypatia's choice of timing for wandering the halls of the estate, however, was poor. Not only was her presence not particularly wanted by all or any around the house but given the number of times she was needing to avoid the rushing footsteps of servants and slaves, she realised that her existences in their paths was specifically unwanted. In an attempt to be careful not to cause trouble but also walk with the cool and calm elegance she had been raised to always exude, Hypatia moved slowly around the house, hoping to find a chamber in which she could sit and be removed from any and all difficulties, obstructions or expectations from her mother.
No matter her care, however, the inevitable soon happened and Hypatia collided with a young Jewish woman who took a corner too fast and had her journey abrupted brought to a stop when the large vase she was holding was shoved into Hypatia's hip and the wine within sloshed from its rim all the way down the side of her dress.
In the moment of collision - as a strangled sort of cry escaped Hypatia's lips - the young woman muttered a hasty apology and (clearly terrified that she was about to be scolded by a scary Greek) made the fastest beeline for the nearest doorway, Hypatia had ever seen, keeping her head down and her identity hidden.
Distracted by the way in which blood-red wine was blossoming across her middle and running down her skirts, seeping through the fabric until she could feel the cold, dampness upon her own skin, Hypatia had not the skill in that moment of shock to call her back and admonish her for her clumsiness, nor warn her to be more careful when carrying something so large and cumbersome.
Looking about herself, her mouth working like a landstuck fish, Hypatia held up the side of her chiton in an effort to keep the wine from seeping further down her leg, shivering as cool air slipped beneath her gown and smarted over the wet upon her skin.
What in the name of Hera was she to do now?
Having decided to explore the estate with no retainer or guard, Hypatia was now entirely unable to seek their aid in escorting her back to her rooms in the opposing wing of the house, so that she might re-dress and find something to wear that looked less like she had been run through with a sword. And yet, she remembered the admonishments from her mother time and again that any gown that was coated in the staining liquid of wine had to be immediately washed - for fear of rendering the dress forever unusable, or destined to be dyed red.
Looking around herself and remembering that, a little way down the corridor had been a doorway out into the courtyard by the kitchens - one that sported a well at its centre - Hypatia was struck with the idea that she could perhaps simple wash the gown? It was a bright and sunny day... a little cleaning of the wine would simply leave the skirts like new yet wet and a half hour wandering the grounds in the sunlight would have it back to normal, surely?
Heading immediately in that direction, for the challenge of laundry seemed far less tiresome than returning to her rooms to hear her mother's chastisements over clumsiness and lectures on beauty, Hypatia found her memory to be true and stepped out into the sunshine of the courtyard to beyond a larger well than she recalled, its polished, wooden bucket gleaming in the daylight as it hung from its tightly wound pulley.
Hypatia hadn't washed a piece of clothing in her life.
Born of a wealthy merchant and his distant nobility wife, she was one of the younger of seven siblings and had never been permitted to do anything for herself. Which meant, of course, that she had no logical concept that water was never going to rinse clean red wine from a beautiful white chiton gown. Nor that the extraction of that water from the well would be far more taxing than her inexperienced arms might be able to manage.
Determined, however, to regain her previously angelic appearance (minus the morbid addition of an apparent stab wound), Hypatia grabbed ahold of the chain that was - she knew - attached to the little bucket that hung above the well and unhooked it from a lynchpin that had been hammered into the ground. As soon as it was free, the weight of the bucket was in her own hands and she steadily allowed the chain to slip between her hands and lower the container down into the belly of the well.
Feeling pleased with herself when she heard a soft splash of wooden bucket meeting the surface of the water within, Hypatia gave it a moment to fill and then started to pull back on the chain once more, intent on drawing the water up to use upon her dress.
Despite throwing all of the strength she had into the chain, Hypatia discovered quickly that she had little of such a thing to give. Born and raised in the pampered lifestyle of the wealthy, her body was just not built for any form of labour and despite bracing her foot on the wall of the well in a manner that her mother would have scolded her ear off for, Hypatia was still unable to get the bucket the entire way up.
Just how could such a thing be so much heavier, just from the addition of water?
Opening her eyes from where they had squeezed shut in effort, Hypatia looked over towards the gaping hole of the well and was surprised that she could in fact see the bucket - just peeking over the rim of the brick wall and glistening with water across its top.
And yet she had no more upper body strength to keep pulling upon the weight and get it up over the final hurdle. Frustrated, Hypatia pulled the chain down by her leg, held it there as best she could with one hand and, in what she assumed was a totally logical act of ingenuity, leaned her body over the rim of the well and started reaching for the bucket, one foot in the air and all elegance out the window. If she could just reach a little further, she would be able to get the damn thing... she thought as she felt herself wobble...
It took only the casual wandering of Commander Alexios' home away from home to note that it was in need of a woman's presence. Or rather, that it was lacking one. The requirement of it, was an assumption and extension of logic that Hypatia's mother liked to make and remark upon on a regular basis since their arrival in Judea just over a week ago. Whilst the servants that roamed the corridors, hurrying about their business were of either gender, it was clear that the men outnumbered the ladies by a significant portion. For there was no need for female slaves to tend to an almost entirely male residency. But even the few female members of the domestic staff would not be enough to add a feminine aesthetic to the solid stone and plastered walls of the estate within the Grecian barracks.
With a home decor of shields, lances, spears and swords, the corridors were a constant reminder of the occupation of the master of the house. Along the walls were tapestries of fine stories and military tales, paintings of Taengea and waterscapes of the ocean. There were no fresh flowers in the chambers, nor silken cushions and throws of the latest fashion. Everything was finely crafted and looked after with an attention to detail that spoke of a close monitoring of his cleaning staff, but generally the furniture would be considered practical if it was thought upon at all. Far from the fashionable interiors that Europe had constructed in their homestead back in Taengea and was happy to exuberantly describe to the Commander during the evening repasts, assuring him that Hypatia had learnt at her mother’s knee what did and did not constitute as a noble and stylish home keeping.
Not that the lack of female intervention saw the home at a loss. Flawlessly clean and ruthlessly efficient in its upkeep, Hypatia had often thought of the limited responsibilities required of any wife the lord took for his own; that the Commander needed little in the way of help to manage his staff. Which seemed to energise and enthuse her mother all the more. For Europa was entirely certain that Hypatia had all the elegant grace of a wife and none of the application. A pretty thing to be witnessed and shown off. Never to be allowed a free thought or particularly significant role or duty.
As she was her mother, Hypatia thought the woman to most likely be right. She had never found it within herself to take great joy in her lessons or in practical activities to the point where she might master them, instead, losing interest after initial bursts of curiosity and struggling with commitment unless it was to her peaceful life of irresponsibility. Whilst she did not consider herself stupid or vapid, Hypatia had been made fully aware from a young age that her existence would amount to very little of great importance; that she was to live it, enjoy it and aid others (mostly her future husband) wherever she could. And that was to be her purpose.
With a curious eye and a free spirit - for the Commander had assured Hypatia that she could travel anywhere within the estate that was not specifically locked and barred to entry - Hypatia noted that the lack of feminine touches around the home might have had something to do with the women who served within it. Not only limited in number against their male counterparts, the female servants of the Commander did little to exalt or recommend their features. Some might have looked dignified and even pretty had they taken the time to appeal to their own beauty as Hypatia did for several hours each morning. A little coloured powder to the cheek of one, a darkening of the eyes with another. A third had hair that was in desperate need of tonic oils to stem the dry frizz that lifted from the top of her head like steam from a boiling pot.
Yet none of them sought to beautify themselves in the way that Hypatia and her sisters had always been taught to do. The Judeans in particular were very bland, with clothing that hid their figures rather than flattered them, making her own attire seem almost scandalous by contrast.
Whilst double-shouldered, Hypatia's chiton was sleeveless and backless, fastening around the neck and dipping at her chest to offer the delicacy of her collarbone to full view. Her gown was cinched at the waist with gold, wrapped over and over between breast and hip to emphasise the fragility of her waist and the skirts were long, falling in a thousand layers of the palest chiffon. The gown was perfectly white against the gold of her brocade and of the twisting spiral that wrapped around the entirety of one of her upper arms. Her hands were decorated in fine golden bands, several all the way from base to tip, whilst her ankle sported a golden chain above small and delicate sandals. Whilst her dress was so pale, it brought out the singular elements of colour in her features; the blue of her eyes and the tawny hue of her hair, sparking it to look more copper than blonde.
In comparison to the Judean woman who wore layers of clothing to diminish their shape, Hypatia looked excessive in the extreme.
But, taking a steady inhale not to be off-put, Hypatia reminded herself that she was not Judean. She was Greek. As was the man she was here to wed - as her mother constantly tried to point out to both parties. How she appeared in comparison to the native people was, by definition, entirely moot.
The reasoning was sound, but it didn't halt the curling, lingering sensation of unease in Hypatia's belly; a sensation that was proof of her naturally compassionate and empathetic heart.
Apparently, Hypatia's choice of timing for wandering the halls of the estate, however, was poor. Not only was her presence not particularly wanted by all or any around the house but given the number of times she was needing to avoid the rushing footsteps of servants and slaves, she realised that her existences in their paths was specifically unwanted. In an attempt to be careful not to cause trouble but also walk with the cool and calm elegance she had been raised to always exude, Hypatia moved slowly around the house, hoping to find a chamber in which she could sit and be removed from any and all difficulties, obstructions or expectations from her mother.
No matter her care, however, the inevitable soon happened and Hypatia collided with a young Jewish woman who took a corner too fast and had her journey abrupted brought to a stop when the large vase she was holding was shoved into Hypatia's hip and the wine within sloshed from its rim all the way down the side of her dress.
In the moment of collision - as a strangled sort of cry escaped Hypatia's lips - the young woman muttered a hasty apology and (clearly terrified that she was about to be scolded by a scary Greek) made the fastest beeline for the nearest doorway, Hypatia had ever seen, keeping her head down and her identity hidden.
Distracted by the way in which blood-red wine was blossoming across her middle and running down her skirts, seeping through the fabric until she could feel the cold, dampness upon her own skin, Hypatia had not the skill in that moment of shock to call her back and admonish her for her clumsiness, nor warn her to be more careful when carrying something so large and cumbersome.
Looking about herself, her mouth working like a landstuck fish, Hypatia held up the side of her chiton in an effort to keep the wine from seeping further down her leg, shivering as cool air slipped beneath her gown and smarted over the wet upon her skin.
What in the name of Hera was she to do now?
Having decided to explore the estate with no retainer or guard, Hypatia was now entirely unable to seek their aid in escorting her back to her rooms in the opposing wing of the house, so that she might re-dress and find something to wear that looked less like she had been run through with a sword. And yet, she remembered the admonishments from her mother time and again that any gown that was coated in the staining liquid of wine had to be immediately washed - for fear of rendering the dress forever unusable, or destined to be dyed red.
Looking around herself and remembering that, a little way down the corridor had been a doorway out into the courtyard by the kitchens - one that sported a well at its centre - Hypatia was struck with the idea that she could perhaps simple wash the gown? It was a bright and sunny day... a little cleaning of the wine would simply leave the skirts like new yet wet and a half hour wandering the grounds in the sunlight would have it back to normal, surely?
Heading immediately in that direction, for the challenge of laundry seemed far less tiresome than returning to her rooms to hear her mother's chastisements over clumsiness and lectures on beauty, Hypatia found her memory to be true and stepped out into the sunshine of the courtyard to beyond a larger well than she recalled, its polished, wooden bucket gleaming in the daylight as it hung from its tightly wound pulley.
Hypatia hadn't washed a piece of clothing in her life.
Born of a wealthy merchant and his distant nobility wife, she was one of the younger of seven siblings and had never been permitted to do anything for herself. Which meant, of course, that she had no logical concept that water was never going to rinse clean red wine from a beautiful white chiton gown. Nor that the extraction of that water from the well would be far more taxing than her inexperienced arms might be able to manage.
Determined, however, to regain her previously angelic appearance (minus the morbid addition of an apparent stab wound), Hypatia grabbed ahold of the chain that was - she knew - attached to the little bucket that hung above the well and unhooked it from a lynchpin that had been hammered into the ground. As soon as it was free, the weight of the bucket was in her own hands and she steadily allowed the chain to slip between her hands and lower the container down into the belly of the well.
Feeling pleased with herself when she heard a soft splash of wooden bucket meeting the surface of the water within, Hypatia gave it a moment to fill and then started to pull back on the chain once more, intent on drawing the water up to use upon her dress.
Despite throwing all of the strength she had into the chain, Hypatia discovered quickly that she had little of such a thing to give. Born and raised in the pampered lifestyle of the wealthy, her body was just not built for any form of labour and despite bracing her foot on the wall of the well in a manner that her mother would have scolded her ear off for, Hypatia was still unable to get the bucket the entire way up.
Just how could such a thing be so much heavier, just from the addition of water?
Opening her eyes from where they had squeezed shut in effort, Hypatia looked over towards the gaping hole of the well and was surprised that she could in fact see the bucket - just peeking over the rim of the brick wall and glistening with water across its top.
And yet she had no more upper body strength to keep pulling upon the weight and get it up over the final hurdle. Frustrated, Hypatia pulled the chain down by her leg, held it there as best she could with one hand and, in what she assumed was a totally logical act of ingenuity, leaned her body over the rim of the well and started reaching for the bucket, one foot in the air and all elegance out the window. If she could just reach a little further, she would be able to get the damn thing... she thought as she felt herself wobble...
His little nephew had been born the very night that his sister in law predicted. The celebrations they’d had for the baby were second to none and tomorrow, he would be unable to bring oil because the baby’s circumcision would be performed by the priest, as was custom eight days after birth. Isaiah wasn’t exactly jumping to attend the ceremony, but he wouldn’t dream of ignoring it, either. Thus, he and his brother were making their rounds today, rather than tomorrow, for their greek customers, anyway. All of their jewish brethren already either knew or would understand.
Benjamin had helped him lug the jar in, this time and though Isaiah’s head had been on a swivel the whole time, there was no sign of the angel of a girl. His brother kept snapping at him to pay attention and once they got to the kitchens and there was still no sign of her, Isaiah gave up. Obviously a woman like that didn’t frequent the kitchen. He stood with his hands behind his back, watching Benjamin haggle with the cook for the price, when he felt an itching, scratching in the back of his throat. How long had it been since they’d had water?
Being a desert people, it was not rude to ask someone for a drink. What was rude, would be to deny that request, and so Isaiah had no issue flat out breaking into the haggling. He put up his hand, forcing Benjamin’s down in the process. “Excuse me,” he said in his unobtrusive voice. “I need to trouble you for water, for my brother and myself before long.”
”Trouble me?” the cook frowned at him. ”Get it yourself, lad. We’re busy here. Cup’s over there.” The cook gestured behind himself with a rough thumb toward the counters, where there was a stack of wooden cups. These were obviously not for the family that the cook served. These were for the servants, who wouldn’t ever dare to drink from the fine, earthen vessels that their Greek masters used. Leaving the two men to their deal, Isaiah swerved around them and grabbed two of the cups. The sides were smooth from so many hands using them nearly constantly. Hardly the first time in this house, he knew his way around well enough and shouldered his way out into the courtyard. There were two in this house, one that mainly housed the animals that the Commander used, and the other for the well and the doing of laundry and other cleaning.
Isaiah stopped short as soon as he stepped into the shadowed yard. The door snapped closed behind him and he stared, hands still grasping the cups, watching the very girl he’d hoped he’d find struggling with the well. From where he stood, he couldn’t see the wine staining her dress. She kept being in the most unusual places and he quirked his brows as more questions formed. First the kitchens, now in the courtyard? Perhaps she wasn’t the mistress at all. Perhaps she was some plaything of the Commander’s and no one liked her in this house? If that was the case, Isaiah couldn’t pretend his initial infatuation with her would disappear entirely, but it’d put a serious bucket of cold water on it, which was what it appeared she was struggling with.
“That’s-” he started but remembered she didn’t speak Hebrew and wouldn’t understand his cautioning her anyhow. Glancing around for just a moment, as though a table would appear for him to set the cups on, he gave up on that and strode forward, but broke into a run as soon as he saw her stretching herself over the lip of the well. It happened within seconds. No sooner had she extended her body, than she was wobbling. He clearly saw her gorgeous body tumbling down the cold, dark hole of the well, slamming into the water below, and lying there, broken, having to be fished out and never drawing another breath again.
In one smooth motion, he dropped both cups, darted forward, slid his arm around her waist, and yanked her back. The metal chain screamed as the bucket plummeted with the sudden release of tension. Isaiah’s next thought was that it would be him being forced to climb down the ladder to flounder around for the chain and, while still holding Hypatia, he leaned, grabbed the end of the chain before it could snake out of his reach, and held fast. The force of the heavy bucket of water made him stumble back, his hold on Hypatia tightened, and all he could think was that he couldn’t let go of either one, even though, now that she was on level ground, with his body between her and the well, he likely should have unhanded her.
“Are you trying to get hurt?” he grunted and then looked for the peg on which the end of the chain was normally hooked. Finding it, he secured the links, and then turned to look at the woman he still hadn’t released. Any moment, the Commander, or a servant, or his brother, or Yahweh, or someone would come out and find them this way, and he didn’t know if he could rationally explain his arm about her waist. And so, with the greatest of difficulties, he forced himself to step back and move around her to pick up the cups that were still spinning slowly around.
In truth, he hadn’t held onto her for more than a few seconds. It had all happened so quickly, and yet so slowly, that he was trying to process this whole thing, but he was already looking forward to whatever disaster was going to befall her next week that he could potentially save her from. He blinked to clear that horrible thought. What was the matter with him? Any time spent in this girl’s presence made him lose his ever living mind. It was easier to focus on scooping up the cups and tucking one between his forearm and his body, while he dusted the first one off and then traded them out, dusting off the second.
“Do…” he wasn’t really looking at her and rather spoke to the bottom of the empty cup. “Do you want me to draw the water for you? Since I have to anyway?” He knew she wouldn’t understand but he half gestured back at the well and held up the cup, wiggling it a little bit to indicate he was going to fill it and hadn’t been here just to oggle her.
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Dec 9, 2019 23:13:28 GMT
Posted In Fates Sealed on Dec 9, 2019 23:13:28 GMT
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His little nephew had been born the very night that his sister in law predicted. The celebrations they’d had for the baby were second to none and tomorrow, he would be unable to bring oil because the baby’s circumcision would be performed by the priest, as was custom eight days after birth. Isaiah wasn’t exactly jumping to attend the ceremony, but he wouldn’t dream of ignoring it, either. Thus, he and his brother were making their rounds today, rather than tomorrow, for their greek customers, anyway. All of their jewish brethren already either knew or would understand.
Benjamin had helped him lug the jar in, this time and though Isaiah’s head had been on a swivel the whole time, there was no sign of the angel of a girl. His brother kept snapping at him to pay attention and once they got to the kitchens and there was still no sign of her, Isaiah gave up. Obviously a woman like that didn’t frequent the kitchen. He stood with his hands behind his back, watching Benjamin haggle with the cook for the price, when he felt an itching, scratching in the back of his throat. How long had it been since they’d had water?
Being a desert people, it was not rude to ask someone for a drink. What was rude, would be to deny that request, and so Isaiah had no issue flat out breaking into the haggling. He put up his hand, forcing Benjamin’s down in the process. “Excuse me,” he said in his unobtrusive voice. “I need to trouble you for water, for my brother and myself before long.”
”Trouble me?” the cook frowned at him. ”Get it yourself, lad. We’re busy here. Cup’s over there.” The cook gestured behind himself with a rough thumb toward the counters, where there was a stack of wooden cups. These were obviously not for the family that the cook served. These were for the servants, who wouldn’t ever dare to drink from the fine, earthen vessels that their Greek masters used. Leaving the two men to their deal, Isaiah swerved around them and grabbed two of the cups. The sides were smooth from so many hands using them nearly constantly. Hardly the first time in this house, he knew his way around well enough and shouldered his way out into the courtyard. There were two in this house, one that mainly housed the animals that the Commander used, and the other for the well and the doing of laundry and other cleaning.
Isaiah stopped short as soon as he stepped into the shadowed yard. The door snapped closed behind him and he stared, hands still grasping the cups, watching the very girl he’d hoped he’d find struggling with the well. From where he stood, he couldn’t see the wine staining her dress. She kept being in the most unusual places and he quirked his brows as more questions formed. First the kitchens, now in the courtyard? Perhaps she wasn’t the mistress at all. Perhaps she was some plaything of the Commander’s and no one liked her in this house? If that was the case, Isaiah couldn’t pretend his initial infatuation with her would disappear entirely, but it’d put a serious bucket of cold water on it, which was what it appeared she was struggling with.
“That’s-” he started but remembered she didn’t speak Hebrew and wouldn’t understand his cautioning her anyhow. Glancing around for just a moment, as though a table would appear for him to set the cups on, he gave up on that and strode forward, but broke into a run as soon as he saw her stretching herself over the lip of the well. It happened within seconds. No sooner had she extended her body, than she was wobbling. He clearly saw her gorgeous body tumbling down the cold, dark hole of the well, slamming into the water below, and lying there, broken, having to be fished out and never drawing another breath again.
In one smooth motion, he dropped both cups, darted forward, slid his arm around her waist, and yanked her back. The metal chain screamed as the bucket plummeted with the sudden release of tension. Isaiah’s next thought was that it would be him being forced to climb down the ladder to flounder around for the chain and, while still holding Hypatia, he leaned, grabbed the end of the chain before it could snake out of his reach, and held fast. The force of the heavy bucket of water made him stumble back, his hold on Hypatia tightened, and all he could think was that he couldn’t let go of either one, even though, now that she was on level ground, with his body between her and the well, he likely should have unhanded her.
“Are you trying to get hurt?” he grunted and then looked for the peg on which the end of the chain was normally hooked. Finding it, he secured the links, and then turned to look at the woman he still hadn’t released. Any moment, the Commander, or a servant, or his brother, or Yahweh, or someone would come out and find them this way, and he didn’t know if he could rationally explain his arm about her waist. And so, with the greatest of difficulties, he forced himself to step back and move around her to pick up the cups that were still spinning slowly around.
In truth, he hadn’t held onto her for more than a few seconds. It had all happened so quickly, and yet so slowly, that he was trying to process this whole thing, but he was already looking forward to whatever disaster was going to befall her next week that he could potentially save her from. He blinked to clear that horrible thought. What was the matter with him? Any time spent in this girl’s presence made him lose his ever living mind. It was easier to focus on scooping up the cups and tucking one between his forearm and his body, while he dusted the first one off and then traded them out, dusting off the second.
“Do…” he wasn’t really looking at her and rather spoke to the bottom of the empty cup. “Do you want me to draw the water for you? Since I have to anyway?” He knew she wouldn’t understand but he half gestured back at the well and held up the cup, wiggling it a little bit to indicate he was going to fill it and hadn’t been here just to oggle her.
His little nephew had been born the very night that his sister in law predicted. The celebrations they’d had for the baby were second to none and tomorrow, he would be unable to bring oil because the baby’s circumcision would be performed by the priest, as was custom eight days after birth. Isaiah wasn’t exactly jumping to attend the ceremony, but he wouldn’t dream of ignoring it, either. Thus, he and his brother were making their rounds today, rather than tomorrow, for their greek customers, anyway. All of their jewish brethren already either knew or would understand.
Benjamin had helped him lug the jar in, this time and though Isaiah’s head had been on a swivel the whole time, there was no sign of the angel of a girl. His brother kept snapping at him to pay attention and once they got to the kitchens and there was still no sign of her, Isaiah gave up. Obviously a woman like that didn’t frequent the kitchen. He stood with his hands behind his back, watching Benjamin haggle with the cook for the price, when he felt an itching, scratching in the back of his throat. How long had it been since they’d had water?
Being a desert people, it was not rude to ask someone for a drink. What was rude, would be to deny that request, and so Isaiah had no issue flat out breaking into the haggling. He put up his hand, forcing Benjamin’s down in the process. “Excuse me,” he said in his unobtrusive voice. “I need to trouble you for water, for my brother and myself before long.”
”Trouble me?” the cook frowned at him. ”Get it yourself, lad. We’re busy here. Cup’s over there.” The cook gestured behind himself with a rough thumb toward the counters, where there was a stack of wooden cups. These were obviously not for the family that the cook served. These were for the servants, who wouldn’t ever dare to drink from the fine, earthen vessels that their Greek masters used. Leaving the two men to their deal, Isaiah swerved around them and grabbed two of the cups. The sides were smooth from so many hands using them nearly constantly. Hardly the first time in this house, he knew his way around well enough and shouldered his way out into the courtyard. There were two in this house, one that mainly housed the animals that the Commander used, and the other for the well and the doing of laundry and other cleaning.
Isaiah stopped short as soon as he stepped into the shadowed yard. The door snapped closed behind him and he stared, hands still grasping the cups, watching the very girl he’d hoped he’d find struggling with the well. From where he stood, he couldn’t see the wine staining her dress. She kept being in the most unusual places and he quirked his brows as more questions formed. First the kitchens, now in the courtyard? Perhaps she wasn’t the mistress at all. Perhaps she was some plaything of the Commander’s and no one liked her in this house? If that was the case, Isaiah couldn’t pretend his initial infatuation with her would disappear entirely, but it’d put a serious bucket of cold water on it, which was what it appeared she was struggling with.
“That’s-” he started but remembered she didn’t speak Hebrew and wouldn’t understand his cautioning her anyhow. Glancing around for just a moment, as though a table would appear for him to set the cups on, he gave up on that and strode forward, but broke into a run as soon as he saw her stretching herself over the lip of the well. It happened within seconds. No sooner had she extended her body, than she was wobbling. He clearly saw her gorgeous body tumbling down the cold, dark hole of the well, slamming into the water below, and lying there, broken, having to be fished out and never drawing another breath again.
In one smooth motion, he dropped both cups, darted forward, slid his arm around her waist, and yanked her back. The metal chain screamed as the bucket plummeted with the sudden release of tension. Isaiah’s next thought was that it would be him being forced to climb down the ladder to flounder around for the chain and, while still holding Hypatia, he leaned, grabbed the end of the chain before it could snake out of his reach, and held fast. The force of the heavy bucket of water made him stumble back, his hold on Hypatia tightened, and all he could think was that he couldn’t let go of either one, even though, now that she was on level ground, with his body between her and the well, he likely should have unhanded her.
“Are you trying to get hurt?” he grunted and then looked for the peg on which the end of the chain was normally hooked. Finding it, he secured the links, and then turned to look at the woman he still hadn’t released. Any moment, the Commander, or a servant, or his brother, or Yahweh, or someone would come out and find them this way, and he didn’t know if he could rationally explain his arm about her waist. And so, with the greatest of difficulties, he forced himself to step back and move around her to pick up the cups that were still spinning slowly around.
In truth, he hadn’t held onto her for more than a few seconds. It had all happened so quickly, and yet so slowly, that he was trying to process this whole thing, but he was already looking forward to whatever disaster was going to befall her next week that he could potentially save her from. He blinked to clear that horrible thought. What was the matter with him? Any time spent in this girl’s presence made him lose his ever living mind. It was easier to focus on scooping up the cups and tucking one between his forearm and his body, while he dusted the first one off and then traded them out, dusting off the second.
“Do…” he wasn’t really looking at her and rather spoke to the bottom of the empty cup. “Do you want me to draw the water for you? Since I have to anyway?” He knew she wouldn’t understand but he half gestured back at the well and held up the cup, wiggling it a little bit to indicate he was going to fill it and hadn’t been here just to oggle her.
Hypatia did not hear the initial word that left the young oil merchant's lips as he stepped out into the courtyard. Too tense in attempting to reach the bucket that persisted in being just a hair's breadth too far away, her muscles taut and the soft whooshing of strain in her ears, not to mention the shallow little catches of her breath in her throat as she tried to elongate her chest and inhale at the same time, it was impossible for her to make out the single utterance. The clanking of the chain, squeaked and the dusty ground beneath her sandaled foot created a rough noise of frisson against her soles... Her fingers brushed, caught and then lost the very edge of the bucket's lip.
She almost had it.
It was in that moment that Hypatia learnt her weight further forward, realising that her frame would not stretch any further and that she needed a momentary boost up against the well's edge and towards the container if she was to be able to latch her fingertips over its wooden rim. Her theory on distance was correct but her estimation of balance off but the tiniest and most significant of margins. Just a handful too much of her own weight over the edge of the well and Hypatia lost her comrade of gravity and her sandals suddenly lifted from the ground. Her body wobbled and shook, as she attempted to correct herself, but the motion only worked like a pendulum, ensuring that she pushed herself further over the edge through her attempts to do the opposite.
With a sharp inhale of fear and shock, Hypatia didn't scream or yelp but, instead, closed her eyes and flattened her lips into a bracing line, a ridge forming between her thin and prettily curtailed brows as she feared and succumbed to the worst - falling down in the fathoms of the well below and never seeing the sun once more. For, even with her own limited experience of the dangers of like, Hypatia was well aware that a head-first tumble down into the belly of the watering hole would only see to it that she would either die on impact or drown in the water, unable to right herself with the small diameter offered.
Her stomach rising over her heart and the cowardice within the first falling to steal around the second, Hypatia prayed in the Gods in that heartbeat of time where she thought herself on the precipice of an ugly demise.
Only, her prayers were immediately answered when a warm pressure stole around her waist. The arm that had been flung around her middle, caught upon her skirts and sent the chiffon layers twisting around her body and over its own sleeve, the hand at the end of it finding instinctive purchase in the fabric on her hip. Hypatia felt fingers scratch upon her skin, dulled by the silken folds of her gown, as her saviour took a strong hold - the only kind that would have saved her from a head-long meeting with Poseidon's smallest domain.
She had little other moment to process the force of the arm that took hold of her for, the next moment, she was being pulled backwards. Her vision of the approaching, dark heart of the well, twisted down and away as her eyeline was sent up and back. The wall was suddenly forefront in her view and then the sky and then the sun, as she was twisted up and away from the well.
In the kerfuffle, she had lost her hold on the chain of the bucket, and the clanking, clattering of the little wooden container falling its way down the inside of the well, losing its contents upon the way down, was a harsh and disjointed melody that had Hypatia startle and shudder.
When her rescuer - whom she now saw to be the same man who had saved her not so long ago from a dangerous burn - grabbed ahold of the chain to rescue the bucket in turn, his arms tensed with the force of holding on and rebelling against its fall. Naturally, Hypatia was pulled in closer to his frame, any air that she had managed to take in since her near fall leaving her lungs before she was ready, with the shock of being so close to another. The noise came out as a breathy yelp of surprise that was masked in the clattering havoc that the bucket made as the oil merchant secured his weight upon the chain.
His voice was harsh as he grunted at her in Hebrew. The lessons that she had been painstakingly attempting to learn in the last week to improve the very minimal conversation she had mastered previous picked out the familiar words, the fact that it was a question, the fact that it was applied to her... and the words "try" and "hurt". Her intelligence and the context gave her the rest and she picked up the meaning well enough.
Whilst her lips were rounded and opulent enough to be considered pouting at least half the time, Hypatia refused to ever make the expression with deliberacy. She had seen her sister Eurydice make such a feature of herself on more than one occasion and had never seen the elegance or attractiveness in it. Instead, her mouth simply opened a moment with the possible intention to reply back and yet not the moment needed to recall how to do so from her limited Hebrew vocabulary.
Witnessing that he was struggling with the chain, Hypatia wished to lean over and help but two things prevented her. One was the fact that one of her arms was pinned in close to this man's side and unable to be of any use. And the other would have had to reach across his own body - as if she were to embrace him - in order to aid and she suspected that such a barrier would be more of a hindrance than a help. Therefore, she was unable to reach over and support him as he hooked the bucket's chain secure once more and turned to look at her.
Surprised at how she had to tilt her head back so far in order to meet his gaze - for she had never, in their singular meeting, thought him to be a tall and imposing man, as her future betrothed was - Hypatia's large eyes widened further at their closeness, large orbs of blue flickered to almost hazel in the sunlight as she swallowed. His arm around her waist had not moved and she could feel its heat seeping through the silks of her gown.
Never having been so close to a man besides her father and brothers - all of whom followed the popular Grecian habit of remaining clean shaven, Hypatia found her gaze caught by the hairs upon the trader's chin and jawline... how they emphasised the shadows and contours of his lower face and how they moved as he swallowed and breathed. She spotted the point at which his pulse flickered beneath his skin, sun-darkened (she assumed) to a pretty shade of tan ochre.
At that moment, Hypatia finally inhaled the breath her body had rejected in the moments of shock that had brought them to this position. She felt her chest inflate, pressing against the gown that had been twisted to her bodice by this man's hold and her thin middle expand against the fingers of his hand, where they curled around her waist. Shocked at how intimate such a moment could be - from a single breath - Hypatia felt her skin raise into gooseflesh upon her arms and was about to hasten backwards when the man let her go.
Blinking at his sudden departure, she watched as he turned to pick up cups that she hadn't previously notices. They rolled with their narrower ends becoming the pivot and their round and empty mouths spinning as if to call for help.
It was a good job that their owner was very skilled at delivering such help at just the right moments...
Hypatia felt her cheeks heat as she wondered what the man must think of her. Likely, that she was some, simpering dimwit who was not able to understand the most basic of dangers and threats in her life. That, without aid, she would be unable to place a foot in front of the other without taking a tumble in the most catastrophic fashion. She felt shame burn in her cheeks and she hastened to look down at herself and reset her gown to rights. Regardless of the stain that had now seeped through to her skin and become warm with her own body heat, her embarrassment at being caught unawares for the second time had her seeking a moment of self-validation. And her life's lessons had taught her that such assurances came from the way you were presented.
The little plucks and adjustments that she was making to her garb in order to feel more put together in front of this man, were interrupted by the subject himself speaking once more.
His Hebrew words, flowing in a soft lilt - could a language sound charming if you did not know the words spoken? she wondered... - reminded her that she had not answered his last question, yet perhaps it had been rhetorical.
This time, the words led to a pausing of action and an expectant look, appearing much more like an answer was required.
Concentrating, Hypatia tried to remember the sounds of what he had said. It had been another question and he had used the word for 'water'. The last of it went completely by her but he had used the word for 'I' and had referred to himself for some reason. And now he indicated with the cup he held towards the well.
Hoping she had the interpretation correct, Hypatia smiled kindly, her lips forming a pretty cupid's bow and nodded her head in a regal and sedate manner, in the hopes of regrouping some of her dignity after the spectacle she had just made of herself.
"Yes." She said, in Hebrew. "Please. You are kind." Her smile faltered a little and she swallowed. When she spoke, it came out far more stunted and much less melodic than his... She hoped that she was getting this right... Gesturing down to her dress that still looked as if someone had taken offence at her poor language skills and stabbed her, Hypatia raised one of her shoulders and tilted her head in an awkward but graceful motion. "I would like water to..." Oh no... she didn't know the word for 'wash'... It wasn't exactly a verb she thought herself likely to need in her position as a Commander's wife. "...to see dress clean." She wasn't certain that that was right at all but perhaps it would get her message across.
Not sure what else to say on the matter of why she had been foolishly ready to fall into a well at his serendipitous arrival, Hypatia instead turned to perhaps simply thanking him for his timing and well-intentioned help. She gestured towards the well that she now stood firmly several feet away from.
"I thank you." She said with another smile, hoping the expression would moderate how meagre she could make her words of gratitude. "You help me more." - she didn't know the word for 'again'. "I would like..." - she gestured to him - "you know" - she gestured to herself - "I am intelligent." Hypatia took a moment to move her hand in the direction of the well once more. "Bad..." Moment? Timing? Example? Choice? She didn't know the word for any of those things. Her brow furrowed a little, a crease forming between them as she tried to make herself clear. "Not me." She said, her hand still pointed at the well.
She had no idea if she was getting her message across clearly or not, regardless of the fact that it certainly didn't sound as fluid as his did. But she was attempting to communicate that she was not an idiot - that the man had simply had the misfortune to come upon her in moments of vulnerable inexperience. And whilst she was unfeasibly grateful that he had helped her each time, she also wanted to save some of her own feelings of worth and assure him that she was not, in fact, a simpleton. Although, she wasn’t at all certain that her poor attempts at Hebrew were doing such an assurance any favours…
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Dec 14, 2019 19:33:23 GMT
Posted In Fates Sealed on Dec 14, 2019 19:33:23 GMT
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Hypatia did not hear the initial word that left the young oil merchant's lips as he stepped out into the courtyard. Too tense in attempting to reach the bucket that persisted in being just a hair's breadth too far away, her muscles taut and the soft whooshing of strain in her ears, not to mention the shallow little catches of her breath in her throat as she tried to elongate her chest and inhale at the same time, it was impossible for her to make out the single utterance. The clanking of the chain, squeaked and the dusty ground beneath her sandaled foot created a rough noise of frisson against her soles... Her fingers brushed, caught and then lost the very edge of the bucket's lip.
She almost had it.
It was in that moment that Hypatia learnt her weight further forward, realising that her frame would not stretch any further and that she needed a momentary boost up against the well's edge and towards the container if she was to be able to latch her fingertips over its wooden rim. Her theory on distance was correct but her estimation of balance off but the tiniest and most significant of margins. Just a handful too much of her own weight over the edge of the well and Hypatia lost her comrade of gravity and her sandals suddenly lifted from the ground. Her body wobbled and shook, as she attempted to correct herself, but the motion only worked like a pendulum, ensuring that she pushed herself further over the edge through her attempts to do the opposite.
With a sharp inhale of fear and shock, Hypatia didn't scream or yelp but, instead, closed her eyes and flattened her lips into a bracing line, a ridge forming between her thin and prettily curtailed brows as she feared and succumbed to the worst - falling down in the fathoms of the well below and never seeing the sun once more. For, even with her own limited experience of the dangers of like, Hypatia was well aware that a head-first tumble down into the belly of the watering hole would only see to it that she would either die on impact or drown in the water, unable to right herself with the small diameter offered.
Her stomach rising over her heart and the cowardice within the first falling to steal around the second, Hypatia prayed in the Gods in that heartbeat of time where she thought herself on the precipice of an ugly demise.
Only, her prayers were immediately answered when a warm pressure stole around her waist. The arm that had been flung around her middle, caught upon her skirts and sent the chiffon layers twisting around her body and over its own sleeve, the hand at the end of it finding instinctive purchase in the fabric on her hip. Hypatia felt fingers scratch upon her skin, dulled by the silken folds of her gown, as her saviour took a strong hold - the only kind that would have saved her from a head-long meeting with Poseidon's smallest domain.
She had little other moment to process the force of the arm that took hold of her for, the next moment, she was being pulled backwards. Her vision of the approaching, dark heart of the well, twisted down and away as her eyeline was sent up and back. The wall was suddenly forefront in her view and then the sky and then the sun, as she was twisted up and away from the well.
In the kerfuffle, she had lost her hold on the chain of the bucket, and the clanking, clattering of the little wooden container falling its way down the inside of the well, losing its contents upon the way down, was a harsh and disjointed melody that had Hypatia startle and shudder.
When her rescuer - whom she now saw to be the same man who had saved her not so long ago from a dangerous burn - grabbed ahold of the chain to rescue the bucket in turn, his arms tensed with the force of holding on and rebelling against its fall. Naturally, Hypatia was pulled in closer to his frame, any air that she had managed to take in since her near fall leaving her lungs before she was ready, with the shock of being so close to another. The noise came out as a breathy yelp of surprise that was masked in the clattering havoc that the bucket made as the oil merchant secured his weight upon the chain.
His voice was harsh as he grunted at her in Hebrew. The lessons that she had been painstakingly attempting to learn in the last week to improve the very minimal conversation she had mastered previous picked out the familiar words, the fact that it was a question, the fact that it was applied to her... and the words "try" and "hurt". Her intelligence and the context gave her the rest and she picked up the meaning well enough.
Whilst her lips were rounded and opulent enough to be considered pouting at least half the time, Hypatia refused to ever make the expression with deliberacy. She had seen her sister Eurydice make such a feature of herself on more than one occasion and had never seen the elegance or attractiveness in it. Instead, her mouth simply opened a moment with the possible intention to reply back and yet not the moment needed to recall how to do so from her limited Hebrew vocabulary.
Witnessing that he was struggling with the chain, Hypatia wished to lean over and help but two things prevented her. One was the fact that one of her arms was pinned in close to this man's side and unable to be of any use. And the other would have had to reach across his own body - as if she were to embrace him - in order to aid and she suspected that such a barrier would be more of a hindrance than a help. Therefore, she was unable to reach over and support him as he hooked the bucket's chain secure once more and turned to look at her.
Surprised at how she had to tilt her head back so far in order to meet his gaze - for she had never, in their singular meeting, thought him to be a tall and imposing man, as her future betrothed was - Hypatia's large eyes widened further at their closeness, large orbs of blue flickered to almost hazel in the sunlight as she swallowed. His arm around her waist had not moved and she could feel its heat seeping through the silks of her gown.
Never having been so close to a man besides her father and brothers - all of whom followed the popular Grecian habit of remaining clean shaven, Hypatia found her gaze caught by the hairs upon the trader's chin and jawline... how they emphasised the shadows and contours of his lower face and how they moved as he swallowed and breathed. She spotted the point at which his pulse flickered beneath his skin, sun-darkened (she assumed) to a pretty shade of tan ochre.
At that moment, Hypatia finally inhaled the breath her body had rejected in the moments of shock that had brought them to this position. She felt her chest inflate, pressing against the gown that had been twisted to her bodice by this man's hold and her thin middle expand against the fingers of his hand, where they curled around her waist. Shocked at how intimate such a moment could be - from a single breath - Hypatia felt her skin raise into gooseflesh upon her arms and was about to hasten backwards when the man let her go.
Blinking at his sudden departure, she watched as he turned to pick up cups that she hadn't previously notices. They rolled with their narrower ends becoming the pivot and their round and empty mouths spinning as if to call for help.
It was a good job that their owner was very skilled at delivering such help at just the right moments...
Hypatia felt her cheeks heat as she wondered what the man must think of her. Likely, that she was some, simpering dimwit who was not able to understand the most basic of dangers and threats in her life. That, without aid, she would be unable to place a foot in front of the other without taking a tumble in the most catastrophic fashion. She felt shame burn in her cheeks and she hastened to look down at herself and reset her gown to rights. Regardless of the stain that had now seeped through to her skin and become warm with her own body heat, her embarrassment at being caught unawares for the second time had her seeking a moment of self-validation. And her life's lessons had taught her that such assurances came from the way you were presented.
The little plucks and adjustments that she was making to her garb in order to feel more put together in front of this man, were interrupted by the subject himself speaking once more.
His Hebrew words, flowing in a soft lilt - could a language sound charming if you did not know the words spoken? she wondered... - reminded her that she had not answered his last question, yet perhaps it had been rhetorical.
This time, the words led to a pausing of action and an expectant look, appearing much more like an answer was required.
Concentrating, Hypatia tried to remember the sounds of what he had said. It had been another question and he had used the word for 'water'. The last of it went completely by her but he had used the word for 'I' and had referred to himself for some reason. And now he indicated with the cup he held towards the well.
Hoping she had the interpretation correct, Hypatia smiled kindly, her lips forming a pretty cupid's bow and nodded her head in a regal and sedate manner, in the hopes of regrouping some of her dignity after the spectacle she had just made of herself.
"Yes." She said, in Hebrew. "Please. You are kind." Her smile faltered a little and she swallowed. When she spoke, it came out far more stunted and much less melodic than his... She hoped that she was getting this right... Gesturing down to her dress that still looked as if someone had taken offence at her poor language skills and stabbed her, Hypatia raised one of her shoulders and tilted her head in an awkward but graceful motion. "I would like water to..." Oh no... she didn't know the word for 'wash'... It wasn't exactly a verb she thought herself likely to need in her position as a Commander's wife. "...to see dress clean." She wasn't certain that that was right at all but perhaps it would get her message across.
Not sure what else to say on the matter of why she had been foolishly ready to fall into a well at his serendipitous arrival, Hypatia instead turned to perhaps simply thanking him for his timing and well-intentioned help. She gestured towards the well that she now stood firmly several feet away from.
"I thank you." She said with another smile, hoping the expression would moderate how meagre she could make her words of gratitude. "You help me more." - she didn't know the word for 'again'. "I would like..." - she gestured to him - "you know" - she gestured to herself - "I am intelligent." Hypatia took a moment to move her hand in the direction of the well once more. "Bad..." Moment? Timing? Example? Choice? She didn't know the word for any of those things. Her brow furrowed a little, a crease forming between them as she tried to make herself clear. "Not me." She said, her hand still pointed at the well.
She had no idea if she was getting her message across clearly or not, regardless of the fact that it certainly didn't sound as fluid as his did. But she was attempting to communicate that she was not an idiot - that the man had simply had the misfortune to come upon her in moments of vulnerable inexperience. And whilst she was unfeasibly grateful that he had helped her each time, she also wanted to save some of her own feelings of worth and assure him that she was not, in fact, a simpleton. Although, she wasn’t at all certain that her poor attempts at Hebrew were doing such an assurance any favours…
Hypatia did not hear the initial word that left the young oil merchant's lips as he stepped out into the courtyard. Too tense in attempting to reach the bucket that persisted in being just a hair's breadth too far away, her muscles taut and the soft whooshing of strain in her ears, not to mention the shallow little catches of her breath in her throat as she tried to elongate her chest and inhale at the same time, it was impossible for her to make out the single utterance. The clanking of the chain, squeaked and the dusty ground beneath her sandaled foot created a rough noise of frisson against her soles... Her fingers brushed, caught and then lost the very edge of the bucket's lip.
She almost had it.
It was in that moment that Hypatia learnt her weight further forward, realising that her frame would not stretch any further and that she needed a momentary boost up against the well's edge and towards the container if she was to be able to latch her fingertips over its wooden rim. Her theory on distance was correct but her estimation of balance off but the tiniest and most significant of margins. Just a handful too much of her own weight over the edge of the well and Hypatia lost her comrade of gravity and her sandals suddenly lifted from the ground. Her body wobbled and shook, as she attempted to correct herself, but the motion only worked like a pendulum, ensuring that she pushed herself further over the edge through her attempts to do the opposite.
With a sharp inhale of fear and shock, Hypatia didn't scream or yelp but, instead, closed her eyes and flattened her lips into a bracing line, a ridge forming between her thin and prettily curtailed brows as she feared and succumbed to the worst - falling down in the fathoms of the well below and never seeing the sun once more. For, even with her own limited experience of the dangers of like, Hypatia was well aware that a head-first tumble down into the belly of the watering hole would only see to it that she would either die on impact or drown in the water, unable to right herself with the small diameter offered.
Her stomach rising over her heart and the cowardice within the first falling to steal around the second, Hypatia prayed in the Gods in that heartbeat of time where she thought herself on the precipice of an ugly demise.
Only, her prayers were immediately answered when a warm pressure stole around her waist. The arm that had been flung around her middle, caught upon her skirts and sent the chiffon layers twisting around her body and over its own sleeve, the hand at the end of it finding instinctive purchase in the fabric on her hip. Hypatia felt fingers scratch upon her skin, dulled by the silken folds of her gown, as her saviour took a strong hold - the only kind that would have saved her from a head-long meeting with Poseidon's smallest domain.
She had little other moment to process the force of the arm that took hold of her for, the next moment, she was being pulled backwards. Her vision of the approaching, dark heart of the well, twisted down and away as her eyeline was sent up and back. The wall was suddenly forefront in her view and then the sky and then the sun, as she was twisted up and away from the well.
In the kerfuffle, she had lost her hold on the chain of the bucket, and the clanking, clattering of the little wooden container falling its way down the inside of the well, losing its contents upon the way down, was a harsh and disjointed melody that had Hypatia startle and shudder.
When her rescuer - whom she now saw to be the same man who had saved her not so long ago from a dangerous burn - grabbed ahold of the chain to rescue the bucket in turn, his arms tensed with the force of holding on and rebelling against its fall. Naturally, Hypatia was pulled in closer to his frame, any air that she had managed to take in since her near fall leaving her lungs before she was ready, with the shock of being so close to another. The noise came out as a breathy yelp of surprise that was masked in the clattering havoc that the bucket made as the oil merchant secured his weight upon the chain.
His voice was harsh as he grunted at her in Hebrew. The lessons that she had been painstakingly attempting to learn in the last week to improve the very minimal conversation she had mastered previous picked out the familiar words, the fact that it was a question, the fact that it was applied to her... and the words "try" and "hurt". Her intelligence and the context gave her the rest and she picked up the meaning well enough.
Whilst her lips were rounded and opulent enough to be considered pouting at least half the time, Hypatia refused to ever make the expression with deliberacy. She had seen her sister Eurydice make such a feature of herself on more than one occasion and had never seen the elegance or attractiveness in it. Instead, her mouth simply opened a moment with the possible intention to reply back and yet not the moment needed to recall how to do so from her limited Hebrew vocabulary.
Witnessing that he was struggling with the chain, Hypatia wished to lean over and help but two things prevented her. One was the fact that one of her arms was pinned in close to this man's side and unable to be of any use. And the other would have had to reach across his own body - as if she were to embrace him - in order to aid and she suspected that such a barrier would be more of a hindrance than a help. Therefore, she was unable to reach over and support him as he hooked the bucket's chain secure once more and turned to look at her.
Surprised at how she had to tilt her head back so far in order to meet his gaze - for she had never, in their singular meeting, thought him to be a tall and imposing man, as her future betrothed was - Hypatia's large eyes widened further at their closeness, large orbs of blue flickered to almost hazel in the sunlight as she swallowed. His arm around her waist had not moved and she could feel its heat seeping through the silks of her gown.
Never having been so close to a man besides her father and brothers - all of whom followed the popular Grecian habit of remaining clean shaven, Hypatia found her gaze caught by the hairs upon the trader's chin and jawline... how they emphasised the shadows and contours of his lower face and how they moved as he swallowed and breathed. She spotted the point at which his pulse flickered beneath his skin, sun-darkened (she assumed) to a pretty shade of tan ochre.
At that moment, Hypatia finally inhaled the breath her body had rejected in the moments of shock that had brought them to this position. She felt her chest inflate, pressing against the gown that had been twisted to her bodice by this man's hold and her thin middle expand against the fingers of his hand, where they curled around her waist. Shocked at how intimate such a moment could be - from a single breath - Hypatia felt her skin raise into gooseflesh upon her arms and was about to hasten backwards when the man let her go.
Blinking at his sudden departure, she watched as he turned to pick up cups that she hadn't previously notices. They rolled with their narrower ends becoming the pivot and their round and empty mouths spinning as if to call for help.
It was a good job that their owner was very skilled at delivering such help at just the right moments...
Hypatia felt her cheeks heat as she wondered what the man must think of her. Likely, that she was some, simpering dimwit who was not able to understand the most basic of dangers and threats in her life. That, without aid, she would be unable to place a foot in front of the other without taking a tumble in the most catastrophic fashion. She felt shame burn in her cheeks and she hastened to look down at herself and reset her gown to rights. Regardless of the stain that had now seeped through to her skin and become warm with her own body heat, her embarrassment at being caught unawares for the second time had her seeking a moment of self-validation. And her life's lessons had taught her that such assurances came from the way you were presented.
The little plucks and adjustments that she was making to her garb in order to feel more put together in front of this man, were interrupted by the subject himself speaking once more.
His Hebrew words, flowing in a soft lilt - could a language sound charming if you did not know the words spoken? she wondered... - reminded her that she had not answered his last question, yet perhaps it had been rhetorical.
This time, the words led to a pausing of action and an expectant look, appearing much more like an answer was required.
Concentrating, Hypatia tried to remember the sounds of what he had said. It had been another question and he had used the word for 'water'. The last of it went completely by her but he had used the word for 'I' and had referred to himself for some reason. And now he indicated with the cup he held towards the well.
Hoping she had the interpretation correct, Hypatia smiled kindly, her lips forming a pretty cupid's bow and nodded her head in a regal and sedate manner, in the hopes of regrouping some of her dignity after the spectacle she had just made of herself.
"Yes." She said, in Hebrew. "Please. You are kind." Her smile faltered a little and she swallowed. When she spoke, it came out far more stunted and much less melodic than his... She hoped that she was getting this right... Gesturing down to her dress that still looked as if someone had taken offence at her poor language skills and stabbed her, Hypatia raised one of her shoulders and tilted her head in an awkward but graceful motion. "I would like water to..." Oh no... she didn't know the word for 'wash'... It wasn't exactly a verb she thought herself likely to need in her position as a Commander's wife. "...to see dress clean." She wasn't certain that that was right at all but perhaps it would get her message across.
Not sure what else to say on the matter of why she had been foolishly ready to fall into a well at his serendipitous arrival, Hypatia instead turned to perhaps simply thanking him for his timing and well-intentioned help. She gestured towards the well that she now stood firmly several feet away from.
"I thank you." She said with another smile, hoping the expression would moderate how meagre she could make her words of gratitude. "You help me more." - she didn't know the word for 'again'. "I would like..." - she gestured to him - "you know" - she gestured to herself - "I am intelligent." Hypatia took a moment to move her hand in the direction of the well once more. "Bad..." Moment? Timing? Example? Choice? She didn't know the word for any of those things. Her brow furrowed a little, a crease forming between them as she tried to make herself clear. "Not me." She said, her hand still pointed at the well.
She had no idea if she was getting her message across clearly or not, regardless of the fact that it certainly didn't sound as fluid as his did. But she was attempting to communicate that she was not an idiot - that the man had simply had the misfortune to come upon her in moments of vulnerable inexperience. And whilst she was unfeasibly grateful that he had helped her each time, she also wanted to save some of her own feelings of worth and assure him that she was not, in fact, a simpleton. Although, she wasn’t at all certain that her poor attempts at Hebrew were doing such an assurance any favours…
The moment she looked up at him, time stopped. In that moment, with the blue of her eyes as all encompassing as the ocean, he noticed the beams of sunlight turning her translucent skin gold. It shimmered against the pink flush of her cheeks, and her parted, full lips unfurled like the petals of a rose, just as red and lush in color. The air in the courtyard pressed against him, warm and comforting. It perfectly held the scent of her perfume in a delicate cloud that messed with his senses as though she was a siren calling him to dash himself against the rocks. Releasing her was every bit as difficult as turning away from a siren’s song, but once he had, he came to himself again. The courtyard lost its softened glow and he dropped straight back into reality with a jolt.
They parted and he’d stooped to gather the cups, but even as he found himself able to form words in a half decent manner, he found he was unable to retain his good sense. This girl, whose name was still unknown to him, was giving him such a look of fierce concentration. A little crease between her brows, the slightest hint of confusion about her mouth, her body statue still as she focused entirely on him. Or his question, more to the point, but he’d have given anything in that moment to have her look at him that way. He knew full well it was because she was listening and attempting to piece together what he was saying, rather than anything to do with him as a person.
Her sudden smile, small in its politeness, brightened her entire being and he found himself giving her a half dazed smile in return. Like he’d been hit on the head. He half wished someone would hit him. Just a pop against his skull, rattle his brain a bit, give him back his ability to not be a fool in front of her. She made him unsure which way was up and which was down; such an entirely new and completely idiotic position he’d never found himself in before. If he was Greek, he’d have called her Blessed. If he’d known what pheromones were, he’d have blamed those. Whatever it was about her, magic or biology, she was able to render him entirely unable to function correctly in her presence. He felt like he’d had too much wine and desperately wished the feeling would go away.
"Yes,” she answered in response to his question of if she wanted water. "Please. You are kind."
Isaiah found himself nodded along, his own brows coming together as he listened to her halting Hebrew, half impressed and half trying to sift through the accent. Then, he realized, he was outwardly agreeing with her about being kind. Like some sort of arrogant man who liked being praised. He did like being praised, of course he did, but he didn’t hold with bragging and so he shook his head, an embarrassed smile overtaking his features and he turned from her easily enough, then.
“Not half so kind as I should be,” he assured her, thinking of his sister in law. He’d been staring at Rebekah at breakfast, thinking she was a nightmare made into reality, and wondering why his brother had ever chosen her. He’d mentally kicked himself, but the thought had occurred all the same. Glancing back over, Isaiah half looked when she gestured down at the stain in her clothes that he hadn’t noticed before. The stain was more purple than red, especially now that it had seeped into the gown, and he realized that the fruity part of what he’d taken as perfume was from her dress.
"I would like water to..." she paused and Isaiah took that moment to set down both cups and take hold of the chain again from its peg. The rest of what she was saying was lost in the jangling, clanking, metallic clinking of the chainlinks as he lowered the bucket into the base of the well. The bucket landed with a wooden thud against the water, slowly submerging in a horrid slurping sound that echoed up from the depths. Isaiah frowned down at it, checking it was deep enough, before bracing his feet shoulder width apart, and pulling on the chain. The first part was the hardest and the sleeve of his black striped robe slid up his forearm, exposing his skin to the sunlight filtering over the lip of the building surrounded them. Hand over hand, he drew up the bucket, ignoring the cacophony of the chain and the drip of water splashing back down from the bucket jostling its way into view.
Now he reached out, one knee on the lip of the well, holding the chain far out with his left hand, pulling the bucket to him with his right, and settling it down for her. “There,” he said, situating it far enough from the edge so that it didn’t topple over. Dipping the cups into the water, he handed her the first one while he took the second. Turning, he about sat down on the well’s edge, but thought better of it. What if she did the same and toppled backwards? She’d already proven twice over that she didn’t know not to do silly things.
"I thank you,” she said, and then, as though she’d read his mind, she gestured to herself and said, "I would like...you know...I am intelligent."
Mortification bloomed in his cheeks, and he set the cup down on the well’s edge. Dipping down just a bit so he could be a little more level with her, he shook his head, frowning. “No, no, of course you are,” he agreed quickly, realizing he must have said something aloud without meaning to. “You’re perfect,” he kept going, attempting to somehow fix this offense she’d taken. “More than perfect, you’re beautiful and, and intelligent, and-” He clamped his mouth shut, realizing he’d been talking over her as she struggled with more Hebrew. He’d caught the words ‘bad’ and ‘not me’. The urge to reach for her hand was so powerful that he’d brought his up and nearly did it, but didn’t quite make it, and so he was left with his hand as an offering instead, as he said, “No, you’re not bad. You’re fine. Accident prone, but fine.”
Swallowing, he looked down at his hand and then at her. “I’m Isaiah,” he realized he’d left off who his father was but she wasn’t Hebrew. It likely didn’t matter to her and wouldn’t have given her any clarity as to who he was in relation to anyone else in the city.
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Dec 31, 2019 20:03:47 GMT
Posted In Fates Sealed on Dec 31, 2019 20:03:47 GMT
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The moment she looked up at him, time stopped. In that moment, with the blue of her eyes as all encompassing as the ocean, he noticed the beams of sunlight turning her translucent skin gold. It shimmered against the pink flush of her cheeks, and her parted, full lips unfurled like the petals of a rose, just as red and lush in color. The air in the courtyard pressed against him, warm and comforting. It perfectly held the scent of her perfume in a delicate cloud that messed with his senses as though she was a siren calling him to dash himself against the rocks. Releasing her was every bit as difficult as turning away from a siren’s song, but once he had, he came to himself again. The courtyard lost its softened glow and he dropped straight back into reality with a jolt.
They parted and he’d stooped to gather the cups, but even as he found himself able to form words in a half decent manner, he found he was unable to retain his good sense. This girl, whose name was still unknown to him, was giving him such a look of fierce concentration. A little crease between her brows, the slightest hint of confusion about her mouth, her body statue still as she focused entirely on him. Or his question, more to the point, but he’d have given anything in that moment to have her look at him that way. He knew full well it was because she was listening and attempting to piece together what he was saying, rather than anything to do with him as a person.
Her sudden smile, small in its politeness, brightened her entire being and he found himself giving her a half dazed smile in return. Like he’d been hit on the head. He half wished someone would hit him. Just a pop against his skull, rattle his brain a bit, give him back his ability to not be a fool in front of her. She made him unsure which way was up and which was down; such an entirely new and completely idiotic position he’d never found himself in before. If he was Greek, he’d have called her Blessed. If he’d known what pheromones were, he’d have blamed those. Whatever it was about her, magic or biology, she was able to render him entirely unable to function correctly in her presence. He felt like he’d had too much wine and desperately wished the feeling would go away.
"Yes,” she answered in response to his question of if she wanted water. "Please. You are kind."
Isaiah found himself nodded along, his own brows coming together as he listened to her halting Hebrew, half impressed and half trying to sift through the accent. Then, he realized, he was outwardly agreeing with her about being kind. Like some sort of arrogant man who liked being praised. He did like being praised, of course he did, but he didn’t hold with bragging and so he shook his head, an embarrassed smile overtaking his features and he turned from her easily enough, then.
“Not half so kind as I should be,” he assured her, thinking of his sister in law. He’d been staring at Rebekah at breakfast, thinking she was a nightmare made into reality, and wondering why his brother had ever chosen her. He’d mentally kicked himself, but the thought had occurred all the same. Glancing back over, Isaiah half looked when she gestured down at the stain in her clothes that he hadn’t noticed before. The stain was more purple than red, especially now that it had seeped into the gown, and he realized that the fruity part of what he’d taken as perfume was from her dress.
"I would like water to..." she paused and Isaiah took that moment to set down both cups and take hold of the chain again from its peg. The rest of what she was saying was lost in the jangling, clanking, metallic clinking of the chainlinks as he lowered the bucket into the base of the well. The bucket landed with a wooden thud against the water, slowly submerging in a horrid slurping sound that echoed up from the depths. Isaiah frowned down at it, checking it was deep enough, before bracing his feet shoulder width apart, and pulling on the chain. The first part was the hardest and the sleeve of his black striped robe slid up his forearm, exposing his skin to the sunlight filtering over the lip of the building surrounded them. Hand over hand, he drew up the bucket, ignoring the cacophony of the chain and the drip of water splashing back down from the bucket jostling its way into view.
Now he reached out, one knee on the lip of the well, holding the chain far out with his left hand, pulling the bucket to him with his right, and settling it down for her. “There,” he said, situating it far enough from the edge so that it didn’t topple over. Dipping the cups into the water, he handed her the first one while he took the second. Turning, he about sat down on the well’s edge, but thought better of it. What if she did the same and toppled backwards? She’d already proven twice over that she didn’t know not to do silly things.
"I thank you,” she said, and then, as though she’d read his mind, she gestured to herself and said, "I would like...you know...I am intelligent."
Mortification bloomed in his cheeks, and he set the cup down on the well’s edge. Dipping down just a bit so he could be a little more level with her, he shook his head, frowning. “No, no, of course you are,” he agreed quickly, realizing he must have said something aloud without meaning to. “You’re perfect,” he kept going, attempting to somehow fix this offense she’d taken. “More than perfect, you’re beautiful and, and intelligent, and-” He clamped his mouth shut, realizing he’d been talking over her as she struggled with more Hebrew. He’d caught the words ‘bad’ and ‘not me’. The urge to reach for her hand was so powerful that he’d brought his up and nearly did it, but didn’t quite make it, and so he was left with his hand as an offering instead, as he said, “No, you’re not bad. You’re fine. Accident prone, but fine.”
Swallowing, he looked down at his hand and then at her. “I’m Isaiah,” he realized he’d left off who his father was but she wasn’t Hebrew. It likely didn’t matter to her and wouldn’t have given her any clarity as to who he was in relation to anyone else in the city.
The moment she looked up at him, time stopped. In that moment, with the blue of her eyes as all encompassing as the ocean, he noticed the beams of sunlight turning her translucent skin gold. It shimmered against the pink flush of her cheeks, and her parted, full lips unfurled like the petals of a rose, just as red and lush in color. The air in the courtyard pressed against him, warm and comforting. It perfectly held the scent of her perfume in a delicate cloud that messed with his senses as though she was a siren calling him to dash himself against the rocks. Releasing her was every bit as difficult as turning away from a siren’s song, but once he had, he came to himself again. The courtyard lost its softened glow and he dropped straight back into reality with a jolt.
They parted and he’d stooped to gather the cups, but even as he found himself able to form words in a half decent manner, he found he was unable to retain his good sense. This girl, whose name was still unknown to him, was giving him such a look of fierce concentration. A little crease between her brows, the slightest hint of confusion about her mouth, her body statue still as she focused entirely on him. Or his question, more to the point, but he’d have given anything in that moment to have her look at him that way. He knew full well it was because she was listening and attempting to piece together what he was saying, rather than anything to do with him as a person.
Her sudden smile, small in its politeness, brightened her entire being and he found himself giving her a half dazed smile in return. Like he’d been hit on the head. He half wished someone would hit him. Just a pop against his skull, rattle his brain a bit, give him back his ability to not be a fool in front of her. She made him unsure which way was up and which was down; such an entirely new and completely idiotic position he’d never found himself in before. If he was Greek, he’d have called her Blessed. If he’d known what pheromones were, he’d have blamed those. Whatever it was about her, magic or biology, she was able to render him entirely unable to function correctly in her presence. He felt like he’d had too much wine and desperately wished the feeling would go away.
"Yes,” she answered in response to his question of if she wanted water. "Please. You are kind."
Isaiah found himself nodded along, his own brows coming together as he listened to her halting Hebrew, half impressed and half trying to sift through the accent. Then, he realized, he was outwardly agreeing with her about being kind. Like some sort of arrogant man who liked being praised. He did like being praised, of course he did, but he didn’t hold with bragging and so he shook his head, an embarrassed smile overtaking his features and he turned from her easily enough, then.
“Not half so kind as I should be,” he assured her, thinking of his sister in law. He’d been staring at Rebekah at breakfast, thinking she was a nightmare made into reality, and wondering why his brother had ever chosen her. He’d mentally kicked himself, but the thought had occurred all the same. Glancing back over, Isaiah half looked when she gestured down at the stain in her clothes that he hadn’t noticed before. The stain was more purple than red, especially now that it had seeped into the gown, and he realized that the fruity part of what he’d taken as perfume was from her dress.
"I would like water to..." she paused and Isaiah took that moment to set down both cups and take hold of the chain again from its peg. The rest of what she was saying was lost in the jangling, clanking, metallic clinking of the chainlinks as he lowered the bucket into the base of the well. The bucket landed with a wooden thud against the water, slowly submerging in a horrid slurping sound that echoed up from the depths. Isaiah frowned down at it, checking it was deep enough, before bracing his feet shoulder width apart, and pulling on the chain. The first part was the hardest and the sleeve of his black striped robe slid up his forearm, exposing his skin to the sunlight filtering over the lip of the building surrounded them. Hand over hand, he drew up the bucket, ignoring the cacophony of the chain and the drip of water splashing back down from the bucket jostling its way into view.
Now he reached out, one knee on the lip of the well, holding the chain far out with his left hand, pulling the bucket to him with his right, and settling it down for her. “There,” he said, situating it far enough from the edge so that it didn’t topple over. Dipping the cups into the water, he handed her the first one while he took the second. Turning, he about sat down on the well’s edge, but thought better of it. What if she did the same and toppled backwards? She’d already proven twice over that she didn’t know not to do silly things.
"I thank you,” she said, and then, as though she’d read his mind, she gestured to herself and said, "I would like...you know...I am intelligent."
Mortification bloomed in his cheeks, and he set the cup down on the well’s edge. Dipping down just a bit so he could be a little more level with her, he shook his head, frowning. “No, no, of course you are,” he agreed quickly, realizing he must have said something aloud without meaning to. “You’re perfect,” he kept going, attempting to somehow fix this offense she’d taken. “More than perfect, you’re beautiful and, and intelligent, and-” He clamped his mouth shut, realizing he’d been talking over her as she struggled with more Hebrew. He’d caught the words ‘bad’ and ‘not me’. The urge to reach for her hand was so powerful that he’d brought his up and nearly did it, but didn’t quite make it, and so he was left with his hand as an offering instead, as he said, “No, you’re not bad. You’re fine. Accident prone, but fine.”
Swallowing, he looked down at his hand and then at her. “I’m Isaiah,” he realized he’d left off who his father was but she wasn’t Hebrew. It likely didn’t matter to her and wouldn’t have given her any clarity as to who he was in relation to anyone else in the city.
The first words the man offered her were difficult to decipher. A repeat of the word she had used for 'kind' and a word that sounded like 'no' or 'not' - a negative either way were used within the same sentence but not understanding the context, Hypatia had to allow that particular sentiment to pass her by untranslated, unsure whether he was denying kindness in himself or accusing her of not holding any within her own heart. Yet, his manner was still as unhostile as it had always been and sweetly friendly with a touch of private dignity to it. So, regardless of what the words had meant, Hypatia was not concerned or worried as to the attitude he held towards her.
Especially when he instantly stepped forward in order to haul the bucket of water from the depths of the well and ensure that what she had sought from the beginning of this entire episode of calamity, ended up in her hands after all.
As far as Hypatia was concerned, the young man before her seemed innately programmed to wish to help. He had stepped forward in order to save her from scalded fingers despite the fact that touching her would be considered inappropriate by those dominance over him and the act might have gotten him into trouble. Then there was his patience when she had been unable to understand him over the trading of oil he had wished to attempt to make. Now, he showed the same compassion and restraint as they repeated the cycle. He had touched her, held her, warmed the skin that sloped inwards to form her waist, regardless of the cool silk that lingered between them and now he was offering her the aid she needed to complete the task at hand.
Hypatia had met servants who were willing to cater to her every need and jumped to attention when she made a request or command. But they were employed to be upon her beck and call and would react that way regardless of their internal thoughts or temperament. Then there were those who attempted to help her however she wished because they thought her to be worthy of a good acquaintance - because they wished to marry her sister, or promote a trade or professional connection with her father. Either way, such behaviour was only ever displayed by those of upper social means; those who stood a chance of making a solid connection with the family from Acharist. Not to mention the fact that such actions were always perpetrated when either or both of her parents were present. For why would there be a need to impress their gentility upon her rather than those of her family that held power and authority?
Yet this Judean man - young as far as she could tell, and therefore not aiding her through the pity that she had witnessed the elderly laud over the young - went out of his way, placed himself in a position of discrimination and chastisement, all to protect and aid her.
It was a level of generosity and selfless spirit that Hypatia was not used to, though immediately warmed to the way it inflated her chest and wrapped comforting fingers around her heart. It was the same feeling she experienced when witnessing a stranger give to those who could only sit on street corners in order to establish a home. Or those who gave coin or food to the less fortunate.
If she were in a position of poverty or inferiority to this man, the heated sensation in her lungs might have been able to be cast aside with the denouncing label of 'pity'. But the fact that she held more riches and a security of position that the man before her - from the looks of him - could not dream to achieve within his lifetime, meant that such kindness shown to her could only be candid in origin.
Hypatia hadn't realised but over the few minutes that the man had taken to lift the bucket of water from the well, she had been smiling a soft smile of certainty. Yes... she thought. This man was most assuredly, kind.
When the young man held out the cup of water for her, she took it with a slow carefulness that would ensure her not making a fool of herself yet again. Her slim and tapered fingers wrapped around the little bowl-like cup, avoiding contact with his own and immediately becoming wet with the cool and silky texture of the water from below.
It was as she took a step backwards with the cup, careful not to trip on her own skirts that Hypatia paused in her intent of cleaning the red from white and tried to assure this man before her that she was at least rational in her motivations. She had yet to offer herself as anything besides an accidental prone buffoon before him but it worried her in some oddly manner that he might think badly of her for it. And so, she sought to assure him that she was not to be considered brainless in her recent attempts to fix issues around the household.
Concerned that she had used the wrong wording or language, Hypatia was confused when her words of assurance over her own intelligence sparked a heated colour along the Judean's cheekbones. He frowned, his head shook and his words came out of his mouth faster, repeating a little in their haste so that it was difficult to make out the distinctive words. Hypatia's frown of concentration as she laboured to understand seemed to only prompt his speed of assurances faster.
She understood the word 'no' and she recognised the pronoun that applied to herself. He was talking about her and saying 'no' a lot. If she had been a cynical or mean-spirited sort of person, she might have thought that the young man was telling her that she was wrong; that intelligence was clearly not something that she possessed and that she was indeed a foolish and useless being who could not seem to stay on her own two feet without injuring herself. Yet, the entreaty in his face and the way in which his hands gesticulated out before him - as if attempting to physically breach the gap that their languages had caused between them - assured her that such words had to be those of encouragement.
Then he repeated his words over and over, the word for 'you' or something akin to it used more than once. She knew some of the words he used that followed. מושלם was a mystery to her, but 'beautiful' she understood and 'intelligent' she had used already.
The general impression of words and actions combined, told Hypatia instinctively that the man was trying to settle her, reassure her or correct some unintended slight. He affirmed that she was not brainless... and he had called her beautiful.
Perhaps it was living in the shade of her eldest sister or the means with which Europa always classified beauty. But Hypatia had not always really had that word applied to her. She was often dubbed as 'pretty' or perhaps 'a fine specimen'. She was often referred to in connection with her sister - "not a great beauty like her sister, but definitely handsomer than most". Her mother had always insisted that she was to make the most of her 'larger features' and how they could be 'quite pretty if she tried'. Else they risked looking out of sorts.
So, the open candour with which this man offered her the genuine sentiment of beauty; that she was, in fact - outside of all other connections, connotations and valuations in terms of the relations she held - a young woman that this men felt to be beautiful, had Hypatia's face instantly flood with colour.
Vulnerable to a blush at the best of times and always unable to keep her emotions from her face, Hypatia blushed warmly to the roots of her hair, her skin growing luminous and tinged a slightly warmer shade than normal and her cheeks turning a pretty pink the same shade as her lips. Her eyelashes lowered in little dark crescents against her colour, as she drew the cup of water closer to her frame, her elbows coming to her side and her gaze turned down. Regardless of any praise she had been given before, the glib compliments from this man's tongue seemed to strike a chord of nervous modesty that stole her freedom for a moment; unable to look anywhere but at the rippling surface of the water he had gifted her.
The tip of her tongue found her lower lip as Hypatia was finally able to look up in time for the man to introduce himself. At first, she thought he was applying an adjective to his own personality, the sentence referring to himself but the word that followed unfamiliar. Then, she realised that he had used the term like a name. He wasn't 'isaiah' - he was Isaiah.
Eyes bright, Hypatia repeated the word back to him - "Isaiah." - her tongue wrapping around the world in a foreign manner but one that was not unwelcome. Releasing a hand from the cup she still held, Hypatia held it out towards him, the back of her hand and fingers offered up for the appropriate kiss of protocol that was expected in Greece.
"Shalom, Isaiah. I am Hypatia of Acharist."
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Posted In Fates Sealed on Jan 1, 2020 17:10:10 GMT
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The first words the man offered her were difficult to decipher. A repeat of the word she had used for 'kind' and a word that sounded like 'no' or 'not' - a negative either way were used within the same sentence but not understanding the context, Hypatia had to allow that particular sentiment to pass her by untranslated, unsure whether he was denying kindness in himself or accusing her of not holding any within her own heart. Yet, his manner was still as unhostile as it had always been and sweetly friendly with a touch of private dignity to it. So, regardless of what the words had meant, Hypatia was not concerned or worried as to the attitude he held towards her.
Especially when he instantly stepped forward in order to haul the bucket of water from the depths of the well and ensure that what she had sought from the beginning of this entire episode of calamity, ended up in her hands after all.
As far as Hypatia was concerned, the young man before her seemed innately programmed to wish to help. He had stepped forward in order to save her from scalded fingers despite the fact that touching her would be considered inappropriate by those dominance over him and the act might have gotten him into trouble. Then there was his patience when she had been unable to understand him over the trading of oil he had wished to attempt to make. Now, he showed the same compassion and restraint as they repeated the cycle. He had touched her, held her, warmed the skin that sloped inwards to form her waist, regardless of the cool silk that lingered between them and now he was offering her the aid she needed to complete the task at hand.
Hypatia had met servants who were willing to cater to her every need and jumped to attention when she made a request or command. But they were employed to be upon her beck and call and would react that way regardless of their internal thoughts or temperament. Then there were those who attempted to help her however she wished because they thought her to be worthy of a good acquaintance - because they wished to marry her sister, or promote a trade or professional connection with her father. Either way, such behaviour was only ever displayed by those of upper social means; those who stood a chance of making a solid connection with the family from Acharist. Not to mention the fact that such actions were always perpetrated when either or both of her parents were present. For why would there be a need to impress their gentility upon her rather than those of her family that held power and authority?
Yet this Judean man - young as far as she could tell, and therefore not aiding her through the pity that she had witnessed the elderly laud over the young - went out of his way, placed himself in a position of discrimination and chastisement, all to protect and aid her.
It was a level of generosity and selfless spirit that Hypatia was not used to, though immediately warmed to the way it inflated her chest and wrapped comforting fingers around her heart. It was the same feeling she experienced when witnessing a stranger give to those who could only sit on street corners in order to establish a home. Or those who gave coin or food to the less fortunate.
If she were in a position of poverty or inferiority to this man, the heated sensation in her lungs might have been able to be cast aside with the denouncing label of 'pity'. But the fact that she held more riches and a security of position that the man before her - from the looks of him - could not dream to achieve within his lifetime, meant that such kindness shown to her could only be candid in origin.
Hypatia hadn't realised but over the few minutes that the man had taken to lift the bucket of water from the well, she had been smiling a soft smile of certainty. Yes... she thought. This man was most assuredly, kind.
When the young man held out the cup of water for her, she took it with a slow carefulness that would ensure her not making a fool of herself yet again. Her slim and tapered fingers wrapped around the little bowl-like cup, avoiding contact with his own and immediately becoming wet with the cool and silky texture of the water from below.
It was as she took a step backwards with the cup, careful not to trip on her own skirts that Hypatia paused in her intent of cleaning the red from white and tried to assure this man before her that she was at least rational in her motivations. She had yet to offer herself as anything besides an accidental prone buffoon before him but it worried her in some oddly manner that he might think badly of her for it. And so, she sought to assure him that she was not to be considered brainless in her recent attempts to fix issues around the household.
Concerned that she had used the wrong wording or language, Hypatia was confused when her words of assurance over her own intelligence sparked a heated colour along the Judean's cheekbones. He frowned, his head shook and his words came out of his mouth faster, repeating a little in their haste so that it was difficult to make out the distinctive words. Hypatia's frown of concentration as she laboured to understand seemed to only prompt his speed of assurances faster.
She understood the word 'no' and she recognised the pronoun that applied to herself. He was talking about her and saying 'no' a lot. If she had been a cynical or mean-spirited sort of person, she might have thought that the young man was telling her that she was wrong; that intelligence was clearly not something that she possessed and that she was indeed a foolish and useless being who could not seem to stay on her own two feet without injuring herself. Yet, the entreaty in his face and the way in which his hands gesticulated out before him - as if attempting to physically breach the gap that their languages had caused between them - assured her that such words had to be those of encouragement.
Then he repeated his words over and over, the word for 'you' or something akin to it used more than once. She knew some of the words he used that followed. מושלם was a mystery to her, but 'beautiful' she understood and 'intelligent' she had used already.
The general impression of words and actions combined, told Hypatia instinctively that the man was trying to settle her, reassure her or correct some unintended slight. He affirmed that she was not brainless... and he had called her beautiful.
Perhaps it was living in the shade of her eldest sister or the means with which Europa always classified beauty. But Hypatia had not always really had that word applied to her. She was often dubbed as 'pretty' or perhaps 'a fine specimen'. She was often referred to in connection with her sister - "not a great beauty like her sister, but definitely handsomer than most". Her mother had always insisted that she was to make the most of her 'larger features' and how they could be 'quite pretty if she tried'. Else they risked looking out of sorts.
So, the open candour with which this man offered her the genuine sentiment of beauty; that she was, in fact - outside of all other connections, connotations and valuations in terms of the relations she held - a young woman that this men felt to be beautiful, had Hypatia's face instantly flood with colour.
Vulnerable to a blush at the best of times and always unable to keep her emotions from her face, Hypatia blushed warmly to the roots of her hair, her skin growing luminous and tinged a slightly warmer shade than normal and her cheeks turning a pretty pink the same shade as her lips. Her eyelashes lowered in little dark crescents against her colour, as she drew the cup of water closer to her frame, her elbows coming to her side and her gaze turned down. Regardless of any praise she had been given before, the glib compliments from this man's tongue seemed to strike a chord of nervous modesty that stole her freedom for a moment; unable to look anywhere but at the rippling surface of the water he had gifted her.
The tip of her tongue found her lower lip as Hypatia was finally able to look up in time for the man to introduce himself. At first, she thought he was applying an adjective to his own personality, the sentence referring to himself but the word that followed unfamiliar. Then, she realised that he had used the term like a name. He wasn't 'isaiah' - he was Isaiah.
Eyes bright, Hypatia repeated the word back to him - "Isaiah." - her tongue wrapping around the world in a foreign manner but one that was not unwelcome. Releasing a hand from the cup she still held, Hypatia held it out towards him, the back of her hand and fingers offered up for the appropriate kiss of protocol that was expected in Greece.
"Shalom, Isaiah. I am Hypatia of Acharist."
The first words the man offered her were difficult to decipher. A repeat of the word she had used for 'kind' and a word that sounded like 'no' or 'not' - a negative either way were used within the same sentence but not understanding the context, Hypatia had to allow that particular sentiment to pass her by untranslated, unsure whether he was denying kindness in himself or accusing her of not holding any within her own heart. Yet, his manner was still as unhostile as it had always been and sweetly friendly with a touch of private dignity to it. So, regardless of what the words had meant, Hypatia was not concerned or worried as to the attitude he held towards her.
Especially when he instantly stepped forward in order to haul the bucket of water from the depths of the well and ensure that what she had sought from the beginning of this entire episode of calamity, ended up in her hands after all.
As far as Hypatia was concerned, the young man before her seemed innately programmed to wish to help. He had stepped forward in order to save her from scalded fingers despite the fact that touching her would be considered inappropriate by those dominance over him and the act might have gotten him into trouble. Then there was his patience when she had been unable to understand him over the trading of oil he had wished to attempt to make. Now, he showed the same compassion and restraint as they repeated the cycle. He had touched her, held her, warmed the skin that sloped inwards to form her waist, regardless of the cool silk that lingered between them and now he was offering her the aid she needed to complete the task at hand.
Hypatia had met servants who were willing to cater to her every need and jumped to attention when she made a request or command. But they were employed to be upon her beck and call and would react that way regardless of their internal thoughts or temperament. Then there were those who attempted to help her however she wished because they thought her to be worthy of a good acquaintance - because they wished to marry her sister, or promote a trade or professional connection with her father. Either way, such behaviour was only ever displayed by those of upper social means; those who stood a chance of making a solid connection with the family from Acharist. Not to mention the fact that such actions were always perpetrated when either or both of her parents were present. For why would there be a need to impress their gentility upon her rather than those of her family that held power and authority?
Yet this Judean man - young as far as she could tell, and therefore not aiding her through the pity that she had witnessed the elderly laud over the young - went out of his way, placed himself in a position of discrimination and chastisement, all to protect and aid her.
It was a level of generosity and selfless spirit that Hypatia was not used to, though immediately warmed to the way it inflated her chest and wrapped comforting fingers around her heart. It was the same feeling she experienced when witnessing a stranger give to those who could only sit on street corners in order to establish a home. Or those who gave coin or food to the less fortunate.
If she were in a position of poverty or inferiority to this man, the heated sensation in her lungs might have been able to be cast aside with the denouncing label of 'pity'. But the fact that she held more riches and a security of position that the man before her - from the looks of him - could not dream to achieve within his lifetime, meant that such kindness shown to her could only be candid in origin.
Hypatia hadn't realised but over the few minutes that the man had taken to lift the bucket of water from the well, she had been smiling a soft smile of certainty. Yes... she thought. This man was most assuredly, kind.
When the young man held out the cup of water for her, she took it with a slow carefulness that would ensure her not making a fool of herself yet again. Her slim and tapered fingers wrapped around the little bowl-like cup, avoiding contact with his own and immediately becoming wet with the cool and silky texture of the water from below.
It was as she took a step backwards with the cup, careful not to trip on her own skirts that Hypatia paused in her intent of cleaning the red from white and tried to assure this man before her that she was at least rational in her motivations. She had yet to offer herself as anything besides an accidental prone buffoon before him but it worried her in some oddly manner that he might think badly of her for it. And so, she sought to assure him that she was not to be considered brainless in her recent attempts to fix issues around the household.
Concerned that she had used the wrong wording or language, Hypatia was confused when her words of assurance over her own intelligence sparked a heated colour along the Judean's cheekbones. He frowned, his head shook and his words came out of his mouth faster, repeating a little in their haste so that it was difficult to make out the distinctive words. Hypatia's frown of concentration as she laboured to understand seemed to only prompt his speed of assurances faster.
She understood the word 'no' and she recognised the pronoun that applied to herself. He was talking about her and saying 'no' a lot. If she had been a cynical or mean-spirited sort of person, she might have thought that the young man was telling her that she was wrong; that intelligence was clearly not something that she possessed and that she was indeed a foolish and useless being who could not seem to stay on her own two feet without injuring herself. Yet, the entreaty in his face and the way in which his hands gesticulated out before him - as if attempting to physically breach the gap that their languages had caused between them - assured her that such words had to be those of encouragement.
Then he repeated his words over and over, the word for 'you' or something akin to it used more than once. She knew some of the words he used that followed. מושלם was a mystery to her, but 'beautiful' she understood and 'intelligent' she had used already.
The general impression of words and actions combined, told Hypatia instinctively that the man was trying to settle her, reassure her or correct some unintended slight. He affirmed that she was not brainless... and he had called her beautiful.
Perhaps it was living in the shade of her eldest sister or the means with which Europa always classified beauty. But Hypatia had not always really had that word applied to her. She was often dubbed as 'pretty' or perhaps 'a fine specimen'. She was often referred to in connection with her sister - "not a great beauty like her sister, but definitely handsomer than most". Her mother had always insisted that she was to make the most of her 'larger features' and how they could be 'quite pretty if she tried'. Else they risked looking out of sorts.
So, the open candour with which this man offered her the genuine sentiment of beauty; that she was, in fact - outside of all other connections, connotations and valuations in terms of the relations she held - a young woman that this men felt to be beautiful, had Hypatia's face instantly flood with colour.
Vulnerable to a blush at the best of times and always unable to keep her emotions from her face, Hypatia blushed warmly to the roots of her hair, her skin growing luminous and tinged a slightly warmer shade than normal and her cheeks turning a pretty pink the same shade as her lips. Her eyelashes lowered in little dark crescents against her colour, as she drew the cup of water closer to her frame, her elbows coming to her side and her gaze turned down. Regardless of any praise she had been given before, the glib compliments from this man's tongue seemed to strike a chord of nervous modesty that stole her freedom for a moment; unable to look anywhere but at the rippling surface of the water he had gifted her.
The tip of her tongue found her lower lip as Hypatia was finally able to look up in time for the man to introduce himself. At first, she thought he was applying an adjective to his own personality, the sentence referring to himself but the word that followed unfamiliar. Then, she realised that he had used the term like a name. He wasn't 'isaiah' - he was Isaiah.
Eyes bright, Hypatia repeated the word back to him - "Isaiah." - her tongue wrapping around the world in a foreign manner but one that was not unwelcome. Releasing a hand from the cup she still held, Hypatia held it out towards him, the back of her hand and fingers offered up for the appropriate kiss of protocol that was expected in Greece.
"Shalom, Isaiah. I am Hypatia of Acharist."
He’d been half hoping that she wouldn’t understand precisely what he was saying, and half hoping she did. The blush creeping outward from her cheeks told him it was a safe bet that she at least got the gist of it. She wasn’t running from the courtyard, either, and he took that to mean that she didn’t dislike hearing him speak so. Last time they’d met, he’d assumed that she was the lady of the house, but she wasn’t truly acting like it. Now he was hoping she was a sister or niece, or even hated family friend. Someone less than important to the General. Someone who, possibly, might be interested in meeting in more favorable circumstances. Ones where she wasn’t in danger, though he couldn’t pretend to regret touching her. That part was the best part of his whole day. She was tiny. He imagined that she was probably as light as a bird and just as fragile.
While she looked down at her cup, he took the opportunity to keep looking at her, but once she glanced back up, he was obliged to look down at his cup instead. This was a strange game to be playing, and a bad one at that. She was a gentile and his people didn’t usually like to associate with them. Isaiah was less like his family in this regard because he was young and curious. Youth kept his mind more pliable to different opinions and none of the Greeks he’d met thus far had ever cast any curses or spells or anything like that on him. Aside from worshiping the wrong gods and having alabaster skin, they seemed normal enough.
By the time she introduced herself to him, he’d dropped his hand by his side. Holding it out in the air like he’d been doing was strange. Strange was the last thing he wanted to be around her. “Hypatia,” he did as she’d done, testing her name against his tongue and lips, liking the sound. It was exotic, to say the least. Like her.
Hypatia held out her hand to him, long delicate fingers poised just so. At first he thought she was trying to hand him something and then he realized what she was doing. In the marketplace, sometimes he would sit at his family’s stall, selling portions of oil to people. It was a hot, dull task, waiting for patrons to come, but it did afford him the ability to ‘people watch’. He’d look out across the crowded market, eyes always drawn to the Greeks first. Most of them were soldiers, some servants, but some of them were ladies like herself; finely dressed with exposed, beautifully light hair done up in exotic braids, affixed with eye catching woven headbands painted in gold or silver. Often times, these women would hold their hands out just the same way she was doing to one of the Greek Commanders, or Captains and the open flirting would begin with the man lightly kissing the back of the woman’s hand. A thing he’d never dream of doing, himself, to someone he knew.
Isaiah stared at her hand, trying to decide if the tension he felt in his chest was from excitement or dread. He watched his own hand cup up, his fingers taking hers in the gentlest of touches. His earth brown eyes flicked up to meet her azure blue ones only once, and then he brought her hand up to give her knuckles the merest brush of his lips. Then, he released her and took a prudent step back, finding his own cheeks hot. He was struggling to remember why he was even in this courtyard, or why he’d brought two cups with him.
Benjamin. He was here with his brother, who was haggling with the cook at this very moment in the kitchen, and he’d intended to bring water for himself and his Benjamin. However, he couldn’t do that while Hypatia was still using the cup, and because he couldn’t bring himself to hurry someone along who was so pretty and so high above himself in rank, he finally sat down on the wide lip of the well to wait. “Your Hebrew sounds good,” he said, looking for something to talk about and not knowing how much she knew and how much she didn’t.
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Jan 2, 2020 20:58:50 GMT
Posted In Fates Sealed on Jan 2, 2020 20:58:50 GMT
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He’d been half hoping that she wouldn’t understand precisely what he was saying, and half hoping she did. The blush creeping outward from her cheeks told him it was a safe bet that she at least got the gist of it. She wasn’t running from the courtyard, either, and he took that to mean that she didn’t dislike hearing him speak so. Last time they’d met, he’d assumed that she was the lady of the house, but she wasn’t truly acting like it. Now he was hoping she was a sister or niece, or even hated family friend. Someone less than important to the General. Someone who, possibly, might be interested in meeting in more favorable circumstances. Ones where she wasn’t in danger, though he couldn’t pretend to regret touching her. That part was the best part of his whole day. She was tiny. He imagined that she was probably as light as a bird and just as fragile.
While she looked down at her cup, he took the opportunity to keep looking at her, but once she glanced back up, he was obliged to look down at his cup instead. This was a strange game to be playing, and a bad one at that. She was a gentile and his people didn’t usually like to associate with them. Isaiah was less like his family in this regard because he was young and curious. Youth kept his mind more pliable to different opinions and none of the Greeks he’d met thus far had ever cast any curses or spells or anything like that on him. Aside from worshiping the wrong gods and having alabaster skin, they seemed normal enough.
By the time she introduced herself to him, he’d dropped his hand by his side. Holding it out in the air like he’d been doing was strange. Strange was the last thing he wanted to be around her. “Hypatia,” he did as she’d done, testing her name against his tongue and lips, liking the sound. It was exotic, to say the least. Like her.
Hypatia held out her hand to him, long delicate fingers poised just so. At first he thought she was trying to hand him something and then he realized what she was doing. In the marketplace, sometimes he would sit at his family’s stall, selling portions of oil to people. It was a hot, dull task, waiting for patrons to come, but it did afford him the ability to ‘people watch’. He’d look out across the crowded market, eyes always drawn to the Greeks first. Most of them were soldiers, some servants, but some of them were ladies like herself; finely dressed with exposed, beautifully light hair done up in exotic braids, affixed with eye catching woven headbands painted in gold or silver. Often times, these women would hold their hands out just the same way she was doing to one of the Greek Commanders, or Captains and the open flirting would begin with the man lightly kissing the back of the woman’s hand. A thing he’d never dream of doing, himself, to someone he knew.
Isaiah stared at her hand, trying to decide if the tension he felt in his chest was from excitement or dread. He watched his own hand cup up, his fingers taking hers in the gentlest of touches. His earth brown eyes flicked up to meet her azure blue ones only once, and then he brought her hand up to give her knuckles the merest brush of his lips. Then, he released her and took a prudent step back, finding his own cheeks hot. He was struggling to remember why he was even in this courtyard, or why he’d brought two cups with him.
Benjamin. He was here with his brother, who was haggling with the cook at this very moment in the kitchen, and he’d intended to bring water for himself and his Benjamin. However, he couldn’t do that while Hypatia was still using the cup, and because he couldn’t bring himself to hurry someone along who was so pretty and so high above himself in rank, he finally sat down on the wide lip of the well to wait. “Your Hebrew sounds good,” he said, looking for something to talk about and not knowing how much she knew and how much she didn’t.
He’d been half hoping that she wouldn’t understand precisely what he was saying, and half hoping she did. The blush creeping outward from her cheeks told him it was a safe bet that she at least got the gist of it. She wasn’t running from the courtyard, either, and he took that to mean that she didn’t dislike hearing him speak so. Last time they’d met, he’d assumed that she was the lady of the house, but she wasn’t truly acting like it. Now he was hoping she was a sister or niece, or even hated family friend. Someone less than important to the General. Someone who, possibly, might be interested in meeting in more favorable circumstances. Ones where she wasn’t in danger, though he couldn’t pretend to regret touching her. That part was the best part of his whole day. She was tiny. He imagined that she was probably as light as a bird and just as fragile.
While she looked down at her cup, he took the opportunity to keep looking at her, but once she glanced back up, he was obliged to look down at his cup instead. This was a strange game to be playing, and a bad one at that. She was a gentile and his people didn’t usually like to associate with them. Isaiah was less like his family in this regard because he was young and curious. Youth kept his mind more pliable to different opinions and none of the Greeks he’d met thus far had ever cast any curses or spells or anything like that on him. Aside from worshiping the wrong gods and having alabaster skin, they seemed normal enough.
By the time she introduced herself to him, he’d dropped his hand by his side. Holding it out in the air like he’d been doing was strange. Strange was the last thing he wanted to be around her. “Hypatia,” he did as she’d done, testing her name against his tongue and lips, liking the sound. It was exotic, to say the least. Like her.
Hypatia held out her hand to him, long delicate fingers poised just so. At first he thought she was trying to hand him something and then he realized what she was doing. In the marketplace, sometimes he would sit at his family’s stall, selling portions of oil to people. It was a hot, dull task, waiting for patrons to come, but it did afford him the ability to ‘people watch’. He’d look out across the crowded market, eyes always drawn to the Greeks first. Most of them were soldiers, some servants, but some of them were ladies like herself; finely dressed with exposed, beautifully light hair done up in exotic braids, affixed with eye catching woven headbands painted in gold or silver. Often times, these women would hold their hands out just the same way she was doing to one of the Greek Commanders, or Captains and the open flirting would begin with the man lightly kissing the back of the woman’s hand. A thing he’d never dream of doing, himself, to someone he knew.
Isaiah stared at her hand, trying to decide if the tension he felt in his chest was from excitement or dread. He watched his own hand cup up, his fingers taking hers in the gentlest of touches. His earth brown eyes flicked up to meet her azure blue ones only once, and then he brought her hand up to give her knuckles the merest brush of his lips. Then, he released her and took a prudent step back, finding his own cheeks hot. He was struggling to remember why he was even in this courtyard, or why he’d brought two cups with him.
Benjamin. He was here with his brother, who was haggling with the cook at this very moment in the kitchen, and he’d intended to bring water for himself and his Benjamin. However, he couldn’t do that while Hypatia was still using the cup, and because he couldn’t bring himself to hurry someone along who was so pretty and so high above himself in rank, he finally sat down on the wide lip of the well to wait. “Your Hebrew sounds good,” he said, looking for something to talk about and not knowing how much she knew and how much she didn’t.
When she looked up to give her name, Hypatia watched as the young man before her struggled with her language as she had his. It was a sweet sort of exchange and set her more at ease with her staggering Hebrew as he attempted her name. All the sounds and syllables were there but the melody was off and the emphasis a little out. The name sounded bizarre in its foreignness and placed him into the position of learner. It made her lashes lower in a surprised little series of blinks and her lips curl into a more confident smile. For, clearly, he would be just as upon the back foot as she, were he to learn Greek. In an odd sort of reflection, it gave her more confidence in attempting his Hebrew.
Yet, before she could try, Isaiah came forward to offer her the formal greeting expected for her rank and that she had given the opportunity for him to undertake. Given how easily he had touched her before in the moments when rescue was so required, Hypatia was surprised when the young man now broke the distance between them with a touch that softer than the merest breath. As if he thought she might be made a glass and would break under too much pressure. His lips, as the kissed upon her knuckles were just as soft and the hair upon his face tickled with the fleetingness of their appraisal to her hand.
Never a tall woman and hardly able to call herself much more than thin or petite, Hypatia had often felt small in her life, over-shadowed by more accomplished siblings and a mother of bold personality. Yet, never had she felt so delicate...
Her lips parted and the lower one drawn to beneath her teeth, the white of their colour sinking into the pink in an expression of nervous enjoyment. For it appeared to her that the young Jew might be blushing. Perhaps to mimic her own heated face.
She never had been able to hide her blushes whenever she felt even the smallest pique of emotion.
She glanced down only to remember at the flash of red down her side that she was supposed to be washing crimson wine from the side of her purest white gown. She moved the cup to her side but was distracted before she could begin the task. Not in any hurry to shoo him away, nor to end their discussion, Hypatia paused, moved the cup back before her and then blushed stronger at the compliment. She shook her head determinedly, a few loose ringlets of her hair bouncing at her temples.
"My Hebrew is a child's." She told him, her grasp of his language making her word choice limited. Two of her fingers lifted from the belly of the cup she held to gesture towards him as she spoke. "You speak and I hear a lyre." She had always thought that the Judean language sounded like a musical melody. And to make the point, she held her hands as one might a lyre and with her free one, curled and plucked the air with her fingers in a graceful ripple of digits. "I speak and I hear a lyre fall." She mimicked the instrument drop from her hands and then juddered her hands up and down, making booming crashing noises between her lips. The message, she hoped, was fairly clear. He spoke like a master of harmonies. She sounded like she had just dropped her instrument with a clatter and a thud. Both made noise, but only one was pretty.
Despite the words being unflattering to her own skills in the language, it was clear from Hypatia's smile that she was being self-deprecating with good humour. A girl who was used to never being perfect and not getting more than a basic average of tasks correct, Hypatia was open and accepting of the fact that she was mediocre at most things and had never sought to prove herself to be more than that. She might as well take some mirth from the moment, she thought, her fingers flicking at little droplets of water that had jumped from the cup to her hand as she had acted out the falling of the lyre. She brushed them from her skin, the cool moisture sweet rather than irritating and the remaining damp making her white skin glow whiter in the sunlight, as she looked up to witness Isaiah's assessment of her linguistic skills.
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Posted In Fates Sealed on Jan 20, 2020 23:37:12 GMT
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When she looked up to give her name, Hypatia watched as the young man before her struggled with her language as she had his. It was a sweet sort of exchange and set her more at ease with her staggering Hebrew as he attempted her name. All the sounds and syllables were there but the melody was off and the emphasis a little out. The name sounded bizarre in its foreignness and placed him into the position of learner. It made her lashes lower in a surprised little series of blinks and her lips curl into a more confident smile. For, clearly, he would be just as upon the back foot as she, were he to learn Greek. In an odd sort of reflection, it gave her more confidence in attempting his Hebrew.
Yet, before she could try, Isaiah came forward to offer her the formal greeting expected for her rank and that she had given the opportunity for him to undertake. Given how easily he had touched her before in the moments when rescue was so required, Hypatia was surprised when the young man now broke the distance between them with a touch that softer than the merest breath. As if he thought she might be made a glass and would break under too much pressure. His lips, as the kissed upon her knuckles were just as soft and the hair upon his face tickled with the fleetingness of their appraisal to her hand.
Never a tall woman and hardly able to call herself much more than thin or petite, Hypatia had often felt small in her life, over-shadowed by more accomplished siblings and a mother of bold personality. Yet, never had she felt so delicate...
Her lips parted and the lower one drawn to beneath her teeth, the white of their colour sinking into the pink in an expression of nervous enjoyment. For it appeared to her that the young Jew might be blushing. Perhaps to mimic her own heated face.
She never had been able to hide her blushes whenever she felt even the smallest pique of emotion.
She glanced down only to remember at the flash of red down her side that she was supposed to be washing crimson wine from the side of her purest white gown. She moved the cup to her side but was distracted before she could begin the task. Not in any hurry to shoo him away, nor to end their discussion, Hypatia paused, moved the cup back before her and then blushed stronger at the compliment. She shook her head determinedly, a few loose ringlets of her hair bouncing at her temples.
"My Hebrew is a child's." She told him, her grasp of his language making her word choice limited. Two of her fingers lifted from the belly of the cup she held to gesture towards him as she spoke. "You speak and I hear a lyre." She had always thought that the Judean language sounded like a musical melody. And to make the point, she held her hands as one might a lyre and with her free one, curled and plucked the air with her fingers in a graceful ripple of digits. "I speak and I hear a lyre fall." She mimicked the instrument drop from her hands and then juddered her hands up and down, making booming crashing noises between her lips. The message, she hoped, was fairly clear. He spoke like a master of harmonies. She sounded like she had just dropped her instrument with a clatter and a thud. Both made noise, but only one was pretty.
Despite the words being unflattering to her own skills in the language, it was clear from Hypatia's smile that she was being self-deprecating with good humour. A girl who was used to never being perfect and not getting more than a basic average of tasks correct, Hypatia was open and accepting of the fact that she was mediocre at most things and had never sought to prove herself to be more than that. She might as well take some mirth from the moment, she thought, her fingers flicking at little droplets of water that had jumped from the cup to her hand as she had acted out the falling of the lyre. She brushed them from her skin, the cool moisture sweet rather than irritating and the remaining damp making her white skin glow whiter in the sunlight, as she looked up to witness Isaiah's assessment of her linguistic skills.
When she looked up to give her name, Hypatia watched as the young man before her struggled with her language as she had his. It was a sweet sort of exchange and set her more at ease with her staggering Hebrew as he attempted her name. All the sounds and syllables were there but the melody was off and the emphasis a little out. The name sounded bizarre in its foreignness and placed him into the position of learner. It made her lashes lower in a surprised little series of blinks and her lips curl into a more confident smile. For, clearly, he would be just as upon the back foot as she, were he to learn Greek. In an odd sort of reflection, it gave her more confidence in attempting his Hebrew.
Yet, before she could try, Isaiah came forward to offer her the formal greeting expected for her rank and that she had given the opportunity for him to undertake. Given how easily he had touched her before in the moments when rescue was so required, Hypatia was surprised when the young man now broke the distance between them with a touch that softer than the merest breath. As if he thought she might be made a glass and would break under too much pressure. His lips, as the kissed upon her knuckles were just as soft and the hair upon his face tickled with the fleetingness of their appraisal to her hand.
Never a tall woman and hardly able to call herself much more than thin or petite, Hypatia had often felt small in her life, over-shadowed by more accomplished siblings and a mother of bold personality. Yet, never had she felt so delicate...
Her lips parted and the lower one drawn to beneath her teeth, the white of their colour sinking into the pink in an expression of nervous enjoyment. For it appeared to her that the young Jew might be blushing. Perhaps to mimic her own heated face.
She never had been able to hide her blushes whenever she felt even the smallest pique of emotion.
She glanced down only to remember at the flash of red down her side that she was supposed to be washing crimson wine from the side of her purest white gown. She moved the cup to her side but was distracted before she could begin the task. Not in any hurry to shoo him away, nor to end their discussion, Hypatia paused, moved the cup back before her and then blushed stronger at the compliment. She shook her head determinedly, a few loose ringlets of her hair bouncing at her temples.
"My Hebrew is a child's." She told him, her grasp of his language making her word choice limited. Two of her fingers lifted from the belly of the cup she held to gesture towards him as she spoke. "You speak and I hear a lyre." She had always thought that the Judean language sounded like a musical melody. And to make the point, she held her hands as one might a lyre and with her free one, curled and plucked the air with her fingers in a graceful ripple of digits. "I speak and I hear a lyre fall." She mimicked the instrument drop from her hands and then juddered her hands up and down, making booming crashing noises between her lips. The message, she hoped, was fairly clear. He spoke like a master of harmonies. She sounded like she had just dropped her instrument with a clatter and a thud. Both made noise, but only one was pretty.
Despite the words being unflattering to her own skills in the language, it was clear from Hypatia's smile that she was being self-deprecating with good humour. A girl who was used to never being perfect and not getting more than a basic average of tasks correct, Hypatia was open and accepting of the fact that she was mediocre at most things and had never sought to prove herself to be more than that. She might as well take some mirth from the moment, she thought, her fingers flicking at little droplets of water that had jumped from the cup to her hand as she had acted out the falling of the lyre. She brushed them from her skin, the cool moisture sweet rather than irritating and the remaining damp making her white skin glow whiter in the sunlight, as she looked up to witness Isaiah's assessment of her linguistic skills.
She was enchanting and entrancing all at once. Even the action she took in looking down at the stain in her dress captured his attention as thoroughly as though she was reciting a lyrical poem. Her body language betrayed each thought as it came to her and he watched her realization of what she’d come into the courtyard for, realizing she’d forgotten, and then her decision to not bother with it for the moment. She was treating him like he was more important than her errand which he found blatantly confusing and flattering. He liked being the center of her focus. The blush in her cheeks drew a smile to his lips and he flashed her a vision of white, straight, perfect teeth; his one true physical virtue. Isaiah did not imagine himself ugly, but he knew himself to be nothing spectacular. No girls stopped in the streets to turn and give him a second look. Yet, he was too busy most of the time to have the ability of entertaining any of these women who might have given him the same blushing attention she was giving him now.
"My Hebrew is a child's,” she said and he didn’t remark on it. While she was technically correct, it didn’t bear comment. After all, she was learning and far from a child to his summation. "You speak and I hear a lyre."
“No!” he laughed, holding his cup close to his chest as he did so while covering his mouth with the back of his free hand. His chuckle continued as she plucked away at an imaginary instrument, fixing the immediate question he’d had of if she’d meant to use that particular word. Apparently she had and he raised his eyebrows when she pantomimed her own voice as a crashing lyre. His lips parted, his eyebrows drew downwards, and he shook his head, stating “No” for a second time in the conversation. If he hadn’t been so surprised by her comparison to a horrid noise, he’d have remembered not to contradict someone of her rank. Twice.
“No, your voice is angelic,” he countered. “I could listen forever.” Nevermind that it was hard to understand most of what she said and he had to concentrate pretty hard to make out the words over her accent. What he did do for her was try to use shorter sentences and to keep his language simple. Bringing the cup down, he glanced down into its wooden depths, thinking suddenly that he wouldn’t listen to her forever. He’d have to leave her within a few minutes, and yet this second meeting gave him the slight hope that he could speak to her again. Possibly as soon as next week.
“Hypatia,” he said, his eyes still on the shadowed interior of the cup. “Are you the Commander’s wife?” Isaiah did not bring his gaze up. If she said yes, he’d rather hear that while looking down so that he could better hide the disappointment he knew would be there. The question was bold, but she’d been nothing except sweet and timid with him. Though he found her to be elegant and aristocratic, she did not strike him as a fearsome great lady of wealth and power. Perhaps someday she might be that, but for now, she was an approachable girl in a courtyard and he wanted to take advantage of his momentary courage to pry into her personal life.
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Posted In Fates Sealed on Jan 21, 2020 0:00:32 GMT
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She was enchanting and entrancing all at once. Even the action she took in looking down at the stain in her dress captured his attention as thoroughly as though she was reciting a lyrical poem. Her body language betrayed each thought as it came to her and he watched her realization of what she’d come into the courtyard for, realizing she’d forgotten, and then her decision to not bother with it for the moment. She was treating him like he was more important than her errand which he found blatantly confusing and flattering. He liked being the center of her focus. The blush in her cheeks drew a smile to his lips and he flashed her a vision of white, straight, perfect teeth; his one true physical virtue. Isaiah did not imagine himself ugly, but he knew himself to be nothing spectacular. No girls stopped in the streets to turn and give him a second look. Yet, he was too busy most of the time to have the ability of entertaining any of these women who might have given him the same blushing attention she was giving him now.
"My Hebrew is a child's,” she said and he didn’t remark on it. While she was technically correct, it didn’t bear comment. After all, she was learning and far from a child to his summation. "You speak and I hear a lyre."
“No!” he laughed, holding his cup close to his chest as he did so while covering his mouth with the back of his free hand. His chuckle continued as she plucked away at an imaginary instrument, fixing the immediate question he’d had of if she’d meant to use that particular word. Apparently she had and he raised his eyebrows when she pantomimed her own voice as a crashing lyre. His lips parted, his eyebrows drew downwards, and he shook his head, stating “No” for a second time in the conversation. If he hadn’t been so surprised by her comparison to a horrid noise, he’d have remembered not to contradict someone of her rank. Twice.
“No, your voice is angelic,” he countered. “I could listen forever.” Nevermind that it was hard to understand most of what she said and he had to concentrate pretty hard to make out the words over her accent. What he did do for her was try to use shorter sentences and to keep his language simple. Bringing the cup down, he glanced down into its wooden depths, thinking suddenly that he wouldn’t listen to her forever. He’d have to leave her within a few minutes, and yet this second meeting gave him the slight hope that he could speak to her again. Possibly as soon as next week.
“Hypatia,” he said, his eyes still on the shadowed interior of the cup. “Are you the Commander’s wife?” Isaiah did not bring his gaze up. If she said yes, he’d rather hear that while looking down so that he could better hide the disappointment he knew would be there. The question was bold, but she’d been nothing except sweet and timid with him. Though he found her to be elegant and aristocratic, she did not strike him as a fearsome great lady of wealth and power. Perhaps someday she might be that, but for now, she was an approachable girl in a courtyard and he wanted to take advantage of his momentary courage to pry into her personal life.
She was enchanting and entrancing all at once. Even the action she took in looking down at the stain in her dress captured his attention as thoroughly as though she was reciting a lyrical poem. Her body language betrayed each thought as it came to her and he watched her realization of what she’d come into the courtyard for, realizing she’d forgotten, and then her decision to not bother with it for the moment. She was treating him like he was more important than her errand which he found blatantly confusing and flattering. He liked being the center of her focus. The blush in her cheeks drew a smile to his lips and he flashed her a vision of white, straight, perfect teeth; his one true physical virtue. Isaiah did not imagine himself ugly, but he knew himself to be nothing spectacular. No girls stopped in the streets to turn and give him a second look. Yet, he was too busy most of the time to have the ability of entertaining any of these women who might have given him the same blushing attention she was giving him now.
"My Hebrew is a child's,” she said and he didn’t remark on it. While she was technically correct, it didn’t bear comment. After all, she was learning and far from a child to his summation. "You speak and I hear a lyre."
“No!” he laughed, holding his cup close to his chest as he did so while covering his mouth with the back of his free hand. His chuckle continued as she plucked away at an imaginary instrument, fixing the immediate question he’d had of if she’d meant to use that particular word. Apparently she had and he raised his eyebrows when she pantomimed her own voice as a crashing lyre. His lips parted, his eyebrows drew downwards, and he shook his head, stating “No” for a second time in the conversation. If he hadn’t been so surprised by her comparison to a horrid noise, he’d have remembered not to contradict someone of her rank. Twice.
“No, your voice is angelic,” he countered. “I could listen forever.” Nevermind that it was hard to understand most of what she said and he had to concentrate pretty hard to make out the words over her accent. What he did do for her was try to use shorter sentences and to keep his language simple. Bringing the cup down, he glanced down into its wooden depths, thinking suddenly that he wouldn’t listen to her forever. He’d have to leave her within a few minutes, and yet this second meeting gave him the slight hope that he could speak to her again. Possibly as soon as next week.
“Hypatia,” he said, his eyes still on the shadowed interior of the cup. “Are you the Commander’s wife?” Isaiah did not bring his gaze up. If she said yes, he’d rather hear that while looking down so that he could better hide the disappointment he knew would be there. The question was bold, but she’d been nothing except sweet and timid with him. Though he found her to be elegant and aristocratic, she did not strike him as a fearsome great lady of wealth and power. Perhaps someday she might be that, but for now, she was an approachable girl in a courtyard and he wanted to take advantage of his momentary courage to pry into her personal life.
Hypatia felt a warmth in her chest that she was more than a little unfamiliar with. Though, had she had the time to analyse such a feeling, she might have realised it to be something as simple as pride. Whilst she had never considered herself to come from an overbearing or unkind family tree, it was only when this man denied her self-flagellation so vehemently; to suggest that her skills in his language were more than she had given herself credit for and worthy of some kind of praise, that she realised how rare it was for her to feel proud of herself for something.
She was sure her mother and father had always praised her. Hadn't they? Commented on her appearance, or her tasks and abilities? But she could only summon to mind the words they had used in comparison. That she had done well - for her age. That she was almost as good as Eurydice at that age. That she had done very well - considering. They were small and almost insignificant comments that had, over the course of her childhood, led her to accept the kind words that were as mediocre as her own efforts were dubbed and be content with that. Yet, this man indefatigably denied her any such mediocrity and spent the next few moments assuring her in words she did not understand that she was well-spoken. Whilst she might not have understood any of the words he had used besides knowing that he spoke of her and her voice, she could tell enough from his blushes and his refusal to accept criticism of her attempts at bilingualism that he was offering her something more than the balanced and conditional determinations of skill that she had always received elsewhere. Thus, the blooming warmth of self-assurance and pride that now heated her from the inside out.
Including her face. Dear Gods but she had to stop blushing! She placed the back of her hand to her cheek, the temperature high against her touch and she hoped perhaps that the cooler fingers might leech some of the colour from her face but admitted that it was likely a fool's errand. Every time the man before her smiled, she felt her face flood with colour. For whilst she had never thought him to be a man that one might create a fine stature or painting of, there was something sweetly alluring about that smile. The way he smiled with his whole face, instantly turned him into a man she could not claim to have seen any handsomer than. And it set her face flushing every time.
Turning back when she was addressed by name in that interesting foreign tongue that was spoken with a deep but pleasant tone, Hypatia frowned for a moment at his question, repeating the last word back to him with a confused and high-pitched query in her voice. She understood the question, but not the last word. Was she the Commander's what? Impossible the answer the query with a guess - he could have said sister (except she knew the word for that), or servant (she knew the word for that too). Wait...
"Marriage?" Hypatia asked, not sure if she had the question correct. "Commander Alexios-" She gestured to the house behind them- "and I-" She gestured to herself. "are marriage?" She said, before belatedly remembering to add the final suffix that would turn the word into a question, to establish if it was his question. Goodness but this language learning was difficult...
Once she was certain in the query he had asked and been reassured of the truth of her own answer, Hypatia nodded to show she understood the question and then shook her head.
"No." She stated with a firmness of confidence in the word. "I am not the Commander's wife." She said, trying to use the word in context so that she might remember it for next time.
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Jan 21, 2020 0:18:53 GMT
Posted In Fates Sealed on Jan 21, 2020 0:18:53 GMT
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Hypatia felt a warmth in her chest that she was more than a little unfamiliar with. Though, had she had the time to analyse such a feeling, she might have realised it to be something as simple as pride. Whilst she had never considered herself to come from an overbearing or unkind family tree, it was only when this man denied her self-flagellation so vehemently; to suggest that her skills in his language were more than she had given herself credit for and worthy of some kind of praise, that she realised how rare it was for her to feel proud of herself for something.
She was sure her mother and father had always praised her. Hadn't they? Commented on her appearance, or her tasks and abilities? But she could only summon to mind the words they had used in comparison. That she had done well - for her age. That she was almost as good as Eurydice at that age. That she had done very well - considering. They were small and almost insignificant comments that had, over the course of her childhood, led her to accept the kind words that were as mediocre as her own efforts were dubbed and be content with that. Yet, this man indefatigably denied her any such mediocrity and spent the next few moments assuring her in words she did not understand that she was well-spoken. Whilst she might not have understood any of the words he had used besides knowing that he spoke of her and her voice, she could tell enough from his blushes and his refusal to accept criticism of her attempts at bilingualism that he was offering her something more than the balanced and conditional determinations of skill that she had always received elsewhere. Thus, the blooming warmth of self-assurance and pride that now heated her from the inside out.
Including her face. Dear Gods but she had to stop blushing! She placed the back of her hand to her cheek, the temperature high against her touch and she hoped perhaps that the cooler fingers might leech some of the colour from her face but admitted that it was likely a fool's errand. Every time the man before her smiled, she felt her face flood with colour. For whilst she had never thought him to be a man that one might create a fine stature or painting of, there was something sweetly alluring about that smile. The way he smiled with his whole face, instantly turned him into a man she could not claim to have seen any handsomer than. And it set her face flushing every time.
Turning back when she was addressed by name in that interesting foreign tongue that was spoken with a deep but pleasant tone, Hypatia frowned for a moment at his question, repeating the last word back to him with a confused and high-pitched query in her voice. She understood the question, but not the last word. Was she the Commander's what? Impossible the answer the query with a guess - he could have said sister (except she knew the word for that), or servant (she knew the word for that too). Wait...
"Marriage?" Hypatia asked, not sure if she had the question correct. "Commander Alexios-" She gestured to the house behind them- "and I-" She gestured to herself. "are marriage?" She said, before belatedly remembering to add the final suffix that would turn the word into a question, to establish if it was his question. Goodness but this language learning was difficult...
Once she was certain in the query he had asked and been reassured of the truth of her own answer, Hypatia nodded to show she understood the question and then shook her head.
"No." She stated with a firmness of confidence in the word. "I am not the Commander's wife." She said, trying to use the word in context so that she might remember it for next time.
Hypatia felt a warmth in her chest that she was more than a little unfamiliar with. Though, had she had the time to analyse such a feeling, she might have realised it to be something as simple as pride. Whilst she had never considered herself to come from an overbearing or unkind family tree, it was only when this man denied her self-flagellation so vehemently; to suggest that her skills in his language were more than she had given herself credit for and worthy of some kind of praise, that she realised how rare it was for her to feel proud of herself for something.
She was sure her mother and father had always praised her. Hadn't they? Commented on her appearance, or her tasks and abilities? But she could only summon to mind the words they had used in comparison. That she had done well - for her age. That she was almost as good as Eurydice at that age. That she had done very well - considering. They were small and almost insignificant comments that had, over the course of her childhood, led her to accept the kind words that were as mediocre as her own efforts were dubbed and be content with that. Yet, this man indefatigably denied her any such mediocrity and spent the next few moments assuring her in words she did not understand that she was well-spoken. Whilst she might not have understood any of the words he had used besides knowing that he spoke of her and her voice, she could tell enough from his blushes and his refusal to accept criticism of her attempts at bilingualism that he was offering her something more than the balanced and conditional determinations of skill that she had always received elsewhere. Thus, the blooming warmth of self-assurance and pride that now heated her from the inside out.
Including her face. Dear Gods but she had to stop blushing! She placed the back of her hand to her cheek, the temperature high against her touch and she hoped perhaps that the cooler fingers might leech some of the colour from her face but admitted that it was likely a fool's errand. Every time the man before her smiled, she felt her face flood with colour. For whilst she had never thought him to be a man that one might create a fine stature or painting of, there was something sweetly alluring about that smile. The way he smiled with his whole face, instantly turned him into a man she could not claim to have seen any handsomer than. And it set her face flushing every time.
Turning back when she was addressed by name in that interesting foreign tongue that was spoken with a deep but pleasant tone, Hypatia frowned for a moment at his question, repeating the last word back to him with a confused and high-pitched query in her voice. She understood the question, but not the last word. Was she the Commander's what? Impossible the answer the query with a guess - he could have said sister (except she knew the word for that), or servant (she knew the word for that too). Wait...
"Marriage?" Hypatia asked, not sure if she had the question correct. "Commander Alexios-" She gestured to the house behind them- "and I-" She gestured to herself. "are marriage?" She said, before belatedly remembering to add the final suffix that would turn the word into a question, to establish if it was his question. Goodness but this language learning was difficult...
Once she was certain in the query he had asked and been reassured of the truth of her own answer, Hypatia nodded to show she understood the question and then shook her head.
"No." She stated with a firmness of confidence in the word. "I am not the Commander's wife." She said, trying to use the word in context so that she might remember it for next time.
Isaiah wondered if she blushed because of things he said or did, or if this was natural to her. With her Greek skin being so smooth and pale, it was no wonder that every flush of embarrassment or pleasure showed up in her cheeks like a rose nestled in snow. Despite his internal insistence to himself that he would not look at her while she gave him her answer, his eyes did not obey. Like the other day, when he’d willed himself not to do more than stare at the ground, his eyes took on a life of their own. Sweeping up from the cup’s depths, they rested on the wine stained fabric of her dress while she struggled with the word ‘wife’.
The cup slipped a little in his lax fingers and he looked down at his slick palm, only to wipe it against his knee. Sweaty hands for a simple question? Had he ever been this silly? Or had he always been this silly with no outlet? Or was he silly at all? He wasn’t sure about anything around Hypatia anymore, though he did feel his sense of otherworldly floating ebbing away. She was, at last, becoming a person to him, rather than some ethereal, untouchable, holy being.
"Marriage?" The wine stain could no longer hold his attention. His gaze swept up her hips, along her abdomen, over her breasts, her neck, her chin, her mouth, coming to rest on her eyes. He never wavered from the wide blue depths as she named Commander Alexios and gave him the answer he’d assumed she would. Once her hand gestured to herself, attracting his eyes with the movement, his shoulders slumped a little and he nodded. Of course they were married. How could they not be? She evidently lived here, after all. They were ‘marriage’. In his mind’s eye, she and the Commander looked ideal together. The Commander with his piercing blue eyes and large frame and then her; her with her lithe, graceful form. A perfect combination of beauty and elegance between them, each framing what it was to be perfect in their own sex. Ideal, even.
Isaiah wanted to hate the image more than he did. Rather, he accepted it. What did he really think would have happened anyway? A few words and she’d be out the door, coming with him to sit on his mule cart and deliver olive oil? Hardly. Besides, she wasn’t suited to a life like that. She belonged here, with graceful columns and servants, in fine dresses where her only real concern was wine, staining the dress. He stood, now able to look away from her and back down into the cup. The cup he was supposed to be filling for himself and Benjamin. A brother he needed to get back to.
"No." He jerked his head up, frowning at her. No? She didn’t like him standing? He half crouched to sit, realized that would be too doglike, and remained standing, straightening back up to his full height. She wasn’t his mistress and, sadly, he wasn’t her slave. Isaiah bit the inside of his cheek. Sadly he wasn’t her slave? There was something seriously wrong with him if he was lamenting that.
"I am not the Commander's wife."
“Oh,” Isaiah clutched the cup, staring at her, working his tongue against his back teeth. “I see,” he said faintly, his gaze giving her another quick once over. Drawing his hands behind his back, he realized he’d been silly. This was the Commander’s sister. Obviously. They were, after all, each a pinnacle of human perfection. Of course they were related. A situation far more ideal for him. Gone were the compunctions of not seeing her riding on the wagon with him. Now, he wanted it more than anything.
“Do you go to market?” he asked, and then, slowly so that she might understand, “I will be there tomorrow. Will you come? We could walk?” Now that she was the Commander’s sister, now that he understood her nature to be meek and not haughty, he felt even more bold in asking her for something he shouldn’t. His cheeks flamed but he didn’t take it back. Fortune favored the bold. He wasn’t asking for her to marry him. This wasn’t too wrong. Just being near her would be enough. A few minutes not in the Commander’s courtyard...perhaps in a noisy market place where they would be seen but not heard by random servants. Somewhere his hands would be busy and he wouldn’t look like a dolt fawning at her.
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Jan 21, 2020 1:39:35 GMT
Posted In Fates Sealed on Jan 21, 2020 1:39:35 GMT
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Isaiah wondered if she blushed because of things he said or did, or if this was natural to her. With her Greek skin being so smooth and pale, it was no wonder that every flush of embarrassment or pleasure showed up in her cheeks like a rose nestled in snow. Despite his internal insistence to himself that he would not look at her while she gave him her answer, his eyes did not obey. Like the other day, when he’d willed himself not to do more than stare at the ground, his eyes took on a life of their own. Sweeping up from the cup’s depths, they rested on the wine stained fabric of her dress while she struggled with the word ‘wife’.
The cup slipped a little in his lax fingers and he looked down at his slick palm, only to wipe it against his knee. Sweaty hands for a simple question? Had he ever been this silly? Or had he always been this silly with no outlet? Or was he silly at all? He wasn’t sure about anything around Hypatia anymore, though he did feel his sense of otherworldly floating ebbing away. She was, at last, becoming a person to him, rather than some ethereal, untouchable, holy being.
"Marriage?" The wine stain could no longer hold his attention. His gaze swept up her hips, along her abdomen, over her breasts, her neck, her chin, her mouth, coming to rest on her eyes. He never wavered from the wide blue depths as she named Commander Alexios and gave him the answer he’d assumed she would. Once her hand gestured to herself, attracting his eyes with the movement, his shoulders slumped a little and he nodded. Of course they were married. How could they not be? She evidently lived here, after all. They were ‘marriage’. In his mind’s eye, she and the Commander looked ideal together. The Commander with his piercing blue eyes and large frame and then her; her with her lithe, graceful form. A perfect combination of beauty and elegance between them, each framing what it was to be perfect in their own sex. Ideal, even.
Isaiah wanted to hate the image more than he did. Rather, he accepted it. What did he really think would have happened anyway? A few words and she’d be out the door, coming with him to sit on his mule cart and deliver olive oil? Hardly. Besides, she wasn’t suited to a life like that. She belonged here, with graceful columns and servants, in fine dresses where her only real concern was wine, staining the dress. He stood, now able to look away from her and back down into the cup. The cup he was supposed to be filling for himself and Benjamin. A brother he needed to get back to.
"No." He jerked his head up, frowning at her. No? She didn’t like him standing? He half crouched to sit, realized that would be too doglike, and remained standing, straightening back up to his full height. She wasn’t his mistress and, sadly, he wasn’t her slave. Isaiah bit the inside of his cheek. Sadly he wasn’t her slave? There was something seriously wrong with him if he was lamenting that.
"I am not the Commander's wife."
“Oh,” Isaiah clutched the cup, staring at her, working his tongue against his back teeth. “I see,” he said faintly, his gaze giving her another quick once over. Drawing his hands behind his back, he realized he’d been silly. This was the Commander’s sister. Obviously. They were, after all, each a pinnacle of human perfection. Of course they were related. A situation far more ideal for him. Gone were the compunctions of not seeing her riding on the wagon with him. Now, he wanted it more than anything.
“Do you go to market?” he asked, and then, slowly so that she might understand, “I will be there tomorrow. Will you come? We could walk?” Now that she was the Commander’s sister, now that he understood her nature to be meek and not haughty, he felt even more bold in asking her for something he shouldn’t. His cheeks flamed but he didn’t take it back. Fortune favored the bold. He wasn’t asking for her to marry him. This wasn’t too wrong. Just being near her would be enough. A few minutes not in the Commander’s courtyard...perhaps in a noisy market place where they would be seen but not heard by random servants. Somewhere his hands would be busy and he wouldn’t look like a dolt fawning at her.
Isaiah wondered if she blushed because of things he said or did, or if this was natural to her. With her Greek skin being so smooth and pale, it was no wonder that every flush of embarrassment or pleasure showed up in her cheeks like a rose nestled in snow. Despite his internal insistence to himself that he would not look at her while she gave him her answer, his eyes did not obey. Like the other day, when he’d willed himself not to do more than stare at the ground, his eyes took on a life of their own. Sweeping up from the cup’s depths, they rested on the wine stained fabric of her dress while she struggled with the word ‘wife’.
The cup slipped a little in his lax fingers and he looked down at his slick palm, only to wipe it against his knee. Sweaty hands for a simple question? Had he ever been this silly? Or had he always been this silly with no outlet? Or was he silly at all? He wasn’t sure about anything around Hypatia anymore, though he did feel his sense of otherworldly floating ebbing away. She was, at last, becoming a person to him, rather than some ethereal, untouchable, holy being.
"Marriage?" The wine stain could no longer hold his attention. His gaze swept up her hips, along her abdomen, over her breasts, her neck, her chin, her mouth, coming to rest on her eyes. He never wavered from the wide blue depths as she named Commander Alexios and gave him the answer he’d assumed she would. Once her hand gestured to herself, attracting his eyes with the movement, his shoulders slumped a little and he nodded. Of course they were married. How could they not be? She evidently lived here, after all. They were ‘marriage’. In his mind’s eye, she and the Commander looked ideal together. The Commander with his piercing blue eyes and large frame and then her; her with her lithe, graceful form. A perfect combination of beauty and elegance between them, each framing what it was to be perfect in their own sex. Ideal, even.
Isaiah wanted to hate the image more than he did. Rather, he accepted it. What did he really think would have happened anyway? A few words and she’d be out the door, coming with him to sit on his mule cart and deliver olive oil? Hardly. Besides, she wasn’t suited to a life like that. She belonged here, with graceful columns and servants, in fine dresses where her only real concern was wine, staining the dress. He stood, now able to look away from her and back down into the cup. The cup he was supposed to be filling for himself and Benjamin. A brother he needed to get back to.
"No." He jerked his head up, frowning at her. No? She didn’t like him standing? He half crouched to sit, realized that would be too doglike, and remained standing, straightening back up to his full height. She wasn’t his mistress and, sadly, he wasn’t her slave. Isaiah bit the inside of his cheek. Sadly he wasn’t her slave? There was something seriously wrong with him if he was lamenting that.
"I am not the Commander's wife."
“Oh,” Isaiah clutched the cup, staring at her, working his tongue against his back teeth. “I see,” he said faintly, his gaze giving her another quick once over. Drawing his hands behind his back, he realized he’d been silly. This was the Commander’s sister. Obviously. They were, after all, each a pinnacle of human perfection. Of course they were related. A situation far more ideal for him. Gone were the compunctions of not seeing her riding on the wagon with him. Now, he wanted it more than anything.
“Do you go to market?” he asked, and then, slowly so that she might understand, “I will be there tomorrow. Will you come? We could walk?” Now that she was the Commander’s sister, now that he understood her nature to be meek and not haughty, he felt even more bold in asking her for something he shouldn’t. His cheeks flamed but he didn’t take it back. Fortune favored the bold. He wasn’t asking for her to marry him. This wasn’t too wrong. Just being near her would be enough. A few minutes not in the Commander’s courtyard...perhaps in a noisy market place where they would be seen but not heard by random servants. Somewhere his hands would be busy and he wouldn’t look like a dolt fawning at her.
Hypatia may not have been one to know the ways of the Judean peoples but she was skilled enough in the alacrity of social graces. As Isaiah appeared to go through some kind of awkward reaction to what she said - his eyes never seeming to know where to look and his position on the wall of the well, then standing, then hovering as if to sit and then standing once more - Hypatia did what was considered polite in her society and turn her gaze away and towards the easy excuse of her gown and the wine that would surely have now stained the fabric. Yet, she couldn't claim that she minded all that much. She had other gowns after all and yet, since being in Judea, no-one with whom she had been able to have so interesting an interaction with. One was a fine replacement for the other as far as she was concerned.
When the man asked if she attended the market, he spoke slowly and clearly enough, in blunt sentences that she could understand and she felt herself warm to the man all over again. Not content with rescuing her from physical injury, he seemed determined to eradicate all potential difficulties and pitfalls before her - including those of language. In Hypatia's mind she was conjuring an impression of Isaiah that was built on a foundation of true compassion. And since moving her life to Judea where the only men she interacted or spoke with were soldiers - men for whom violence was a key part of life - it felt somehow all the safer to be around an individual who seemed so removed from such things.
"I do not go to market." Hypatia said in all earnest - for she had not yet been permitted outside of the Commander's manner for she had been there not yet a month. Then she smiled shyly. "But I shall go tomorrow."
As a little moment of quiet fell between them, the both of them smiling at one another and Isaiah striking her anew with that winning feature of his, Hypatia blushed, glanced down and then realised what she held. Her lips formed a small circle of realisation and then she was taking three gracious steps forward to offer out the cup to him, recalling that it was he that had brought them to the courtyard.
When he reached out to take it, Hypatia lingered her fingertips upon the back of his tanned hand just a moment, the touch a physical manifestation of her next words.
"Thank you, Isaiah."
And with an elegant turn and about face, Hypatia removed herself from the courtyard before she could make a further fool of herself in either language or deed, fighting the desire to look back when she reached the doorway into the manor and immediately setting off to write a letter to be sent post haste to her Hebrew tutor. The gentleman would be summoned with immediate effect, for she had only a single evening to learn all that she could manage...
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Jan 21, 2020 11:30:48 GMT
Posted In Fates Sealed on Jan 21, 2020 11:30:48 GMT
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Hypatia may not have been one to know the ways of the Judean peoples but she was skilled enough in the alacrity of social graces. As Isaiah appeared to go through some kind of awkward reaction to what she said - his eyes never seeming to know where to look and his position on the wall of the well, then standing, then hovering as if to sit and then standing once more - Hypatia did what was considered polite in her society and turn her gaze away and towards the easy excuse of her gown and the wine that would surely have now stained the fabric. Yet, she couldn't claim that she minded all that much. She had other gowns after all and yet, since being in Judea, no-one with whom she had been able to have so interesting an interaction with. One was a fine replacement for the other as far as she was concerned.
When the man asked if she attended the market, he spoke slowly and clearly enough, in blunt sentences that she could understand and she felt herself warm to the man all over again. Not content with rescuing her from physical injury, he seemed determined to eradicate all potential difficulties and pitfalls before her - including those of language. In Hypatia's mind she was conjuring an impression of Isaiah that was built on a foundation of true compassion. And since moving her life to Judea where the only men she interacted or spoke with were soldiers - men for whom violence was a key part of life - it felt somehow all the safer to be around an individual who seemed so removed from such things.
"I do not go to market." Hypatia said in all earnest - for she had not yet been permitted outside of the Commander's manner for she had been there not yet a month. Then she smiled shyly. "But I shall go tomorrow."
As a little moment of quiet fell between them, the both of them smiling at one another and Isaiah striking her anew with that winning feature of his, Hypatia blushed, glanced down and then realised what she held. Her lips formed a small circle of realisation and then she was taking three gracious steps forward to offer out the cup to him, recalling that it was he that had brought them to the courtyard.
When he reached out to take it, Hypatia lingered her fingertips upon the back of his tanned hand just a moment, the touch a physical manifestation of her next words.
"Thank you, Isaiah."
And with an elegant turn and about face, Hypatia removed herself from the courtyard before she could make a further fool of herself in either language or deed, fighting the desire to look back when she reached the doorway into the manor and immediately setting off to write a letter to be sent post haste to her Hebrew tutor. The gentleman would be summoned with immediate effect, for she had only a single evening to learn all that she could manage...
Hypatia may not have been one to know the ways of the Judean peoples but she was skilled enough in the alacrity of social graces. As Isaiah appeared to go through some kind of awkward reaction to what she said - his eyes never seeming to know where to look and his position on the wall of the well, then standing, then hovering as if to sit and then standing once more - Hypatia did what was considered polite in her society and turn her gaze away and towards the easy excuse of her gown and the wine that would surely have now stained the fabric. Yet, she couldn't claim that she minded all that much. She had other gowns after all and yet, since being in Judea, no-one with whom she had been able to have so interesting an interaction with. One was a fine replacement for the other as far as she was concerned.
When the man asked if she attended the market, he spoke slowly and clearly enough, in blunt sentences that she could understand and she felt herself warm to the man all over again. Not content with rescuing her from physical injury, he seemed determined to eradicate all potential difficulties and pitfalls before her - including those of language. In Hypatia's mind she was conjuring an impression of Isaiah that was built on a foundation of true compassion. And since moving her life to Judea where the only men she interacted or spoke with were soldiers - men for whom violence was a key part of life - it felt somehow all the safer to be around an individual who seemed so removed from such things.
"I do not go to market." Hypatia said in all earnest - for she had not yet been permitted outside of the Commander's manner for she had been there not yet a month. Then she smiled shyly. "But I shall go tomorrow."
As a little moment of quiet fell between them, the both of them smiling at one another and Isaiah striking her anew with that winning feature of his, Hypatia blushed, glanced down and then realised what she held. Her lips formed a small circle of realisation and then she was taking three gracious steps forward to offer out the cup to him, recalling that it was he that had brought them to the courtyard.
When he reached out to take it, Hypatia lingered her fingertips upon the back of his tanned hand just a moment, the touch a physical manifestation of her next words.
"Thank you, Isaiah."
And with an elegant turn and about face, Hypatia removed herself from the courtyard before she could make a further fool of herself in either language or deed, fighting the desire to look back when she reached the doorway into the manor and immediately setting off to write a letter to be sent post haste to her Hebrew tutor. The gentleman would be summoned with immediate effect, for she had only a single evening to learn all that she could manage...
The lowest disappointment Hypatia put him through with her assertion that she did not go to market was only soothed by the highest hope when she promised that she would go tomorrow. He did not know how to take the rapid increase, decrease, and increase again of his pulse at every little thing she said. Not for the last time did he internally shake himself and order his mind and emotions to function properly. She was bewitching. There was no other term he could think of to describe the way the blue of her eyes so totally captivated him, preventing him from thinking straight.
Silence descended between them and he was trying to think of how to break it, when Hypatia suddenly looked up at him again. She looked like she’d been considering something and then, she moved toward him with sure, decided steps. For one wild instant, he had the impression that she was going to kiss him. Would he let her? She was Greek and they were a forward people...but before he could decide one way or another, whether to back away or to open his arms to her, he found a cup in his hand and her thanks and his name on her lips instead. And then she was gone.
Isaiah’s lips parted, he frowned, he looked down at the cup as though he’d never seen one before, and then back up to where she’d disappeared through an archway. Kiss him? He ground the heel of one hand against his temple and turned to the bucket of water, sloppily dunking both cups into it and drinking his water so fast that dribbles spilled down his chin and onto his chest. The cold droplets seeping through the cloth woke him up better and he was irritated with himself. Kiss him. Such an innocent angel like that wouldn’t have dreamed up such a scheme and he was shocked and annoyed with himself for even thinking it of her. She was too perfect. He decided then and there not to assume anything of her based on her heritage again. It was true that there were Greek girls who were moraless vessels of sin and vice. Hypatia was not one of those. Guileless, without cunning, innocent in practically everything - she was, in a word, perfect, and he could hardly wait until he could fall into bed tonight so that tomorrow would come sooner.
By the time he wandered back into the kitchen, holding the two cups, he found his brother laughing with the cook and himself wholly forgotten. How long had he been gone? Couldn’t have been that long, surely? But Benjamin did not ask where he’d been or why he’d taken as long as he had. The water was gratefully accepted and then his brother went right on talking with the cook. Isaiah meandered back to the door, glancing out into the courtyard to see if it was still empty. He closed the door slowly when he saw that other people were now using the well. Pretty servant girls who did not bear the name Hypatia, and were, therefore, uninteresting. Sighing, he leaned against the wall and waited for his brother to conclude so that they could go home, but the entire time, he thought of Hypatia’s face, bathed in the pink blush she was continuously trying to fight, and he smiled softly to himself. Tomorrow could not come soon enough.
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Jan 23, 2020 13:43:22 GMT
Posted In Fates Sealed on Jan 23, 2020 13:43:22 GMT
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The lowest disappointment Hypatia put him through with her assertion that she did not go to market was only soothed by the highest hope when she promised that she would go tomorrow. He did not know how to take the rapid increase, decrease, and increase again of his pulse at every little thing she said. Not for the last time did he internally shake himself and order his mind and emotions to function properly. She was bewitching. There was no other term he could think of to describe the way the blue of her eyes so totally captivated him, preventing him from thinking straight.
Silence descended between them and he was trying to think of how to break it, when Hypatia suddenly looked up at him again. She looked like she’d been considering something and then, she moved toward him with sure, decided steps. For one wild instant, he had the impression that she was going to kiss him. Would he let her? She was Greek and they were a forward people...but before he could decide one way or another, whether to back away or to open his arms to her, he found a cup in his hand and her thanks and his name on her lips instead. And then she was gone.
Isaiah’s lips parted, he frowned, he looked down at the cup as though he’d never seen one before, and then back up to where she’d disappeared through an archway. Kiss him? He ground the heel of one hand against his temple and turned to the bucket of water, sloppily dunking both cups into it and drinking his water so fast that dribbles spilled down his chin and onto his chest. The cold droplets seeping through the cloth woke him up better and he was irritated with himself. Kiss him. Such an innocent angel like that wouldn’t have dreamed up such a scheme and he was shocked and annoyed with himself for even thinking it of her. She was too perfect. He decided then and there not to assume anything of her based on her heritage again. It was true that there were Greek girls who were moraless vessels of sin and vice. Hypatia was not one of those. Guileless, without cunning, innocent in practically everything - she was, in a word, perfect, and he could hardly wait until he could fall into bed tonight so that tomorrow would come sooner.
By the time he wandered back into the kitchen, holding the two cups, he found his brother laughing with the cook and himself wholly forgotten. How long had he been gone? Couldn’t have been that long, surely? But Benjamin did not ask where he’d been or why he’d taken as long as he had. The water was gratefully accepted and then his brother went right on talking with the cook. Isaiah meandered back to the door, glancing out into the courtyard to see if it was still empty. He closed the door slowly when he saw that other people were now using the well. Pretty servant girls who did not bear the name Hypatia, and were, therefore, uninteresting. Sighing, he leaned against the wall and waited for his brother to conclude so that they could go home, but the entire time, he thought of Hypatia’s face, bathed in the pink blush she was continuously trying to fight, and he smiled softly to himself. Tomorrow could not come soon enough.
The lowest disappointment Hypatia put him through with her assertion that she did not go to market was only soothed by the highest hope when she promised that she would go tomorrow. He did not know how to take the rapid increase, decrease, and increase again of his pulse at every little thing she said. Not for the last time did he internally shake himself and order his mind and emotions to function properly. She was bewitching. There was no other term he could think of to describe the way the blue of her eyes so totally captivated him, preventing him from thinking straight.
Silence descended between them and he was trying to think of how to break it, when Hypatia suddenly looked up at him again. She looked like she’d been considering something and then, she moved toward him with sure, decided steps. For one wild instant, he had the impression that she was going to kiss him. Would he let her? She was Greek and they were a forward people...but before he could decide one way or another, whether to back away or to open his arms to her, he found a cup in his hand and her thanks and his name on her lips instead. And then she was gone.
Isaiah’s lips parted, he frowned, he looked down at the cup as though he’d never seen one before, and then back up to where she’d disappeared through an archway. Kiss him? He ground the heel of one hand against his temple and turned to the bucket of water, sloppily dunking both cups into it and drinking his water so fast that dribbles spilled down his chin and onto his chest. The cold droplets seeping through the cloth woke him up better and he was irritated with himself. Kiss him. Such an innocent angel like that wouldn’t have dreamed up such a scheme and he was shocked and annoyed with himself for even thinking it of her. She was too perfect. He decided then and there not to assume anything of her based on her heritage again. It was true that there were Greek girls who were moraless vessels of sin and vice. Hypatia was not one of those. Guileless, without cunning, innocent in practically everything - she was, in a word, perfect, and he could hardly wait until he could fall into bed tonight so that tomorrow would come sooner.
By the time he wandered back into the kitchen, holding the two cups, he found his brother laughing with the cook and himself wholly forgotten. How long had he been gone? Couldn’t have been that long, surely? But Benjamin did not ask where he’d been or why he’d taken as long as he had. The water was gratefully accepted and then his brother went right on talking with the cook. Isaiah meandered back to the door, glancing out into the courtyard to see if it was still empty. He closed the door slowly when he saw that other people were now using the well. Pretty servant girls who did not bear the name Hypatia, and were, therefore, uninteresting. Sighing, he leaned against the wall and waited for his brother to conclude so that they could go home, but the entire time, he thought of Hypatia’s face, bathed in the pink blush she was continuously trying to fight, and he smiled softly to himself. Tomorrow could not come soon enough.