The Commission (Althesia)

[Omnia Munda]

The serving girl had kept a close eye on the young weyrleader from the corner of her eye while she placed the flowers beside his chair on the little table there. She'd unloaded plates, carafe and glasses from the trays already, setting them out in their proper places; the girls before her had done a fine job of providing pillows, cloths for the tables and everything else needed to make the weyr's previously spartan, mannish chairs and sidetables feel luxuriant and inviting.

During most of that, J'fel had been absent. That he'd returned while Onsha was finishing up horrified her somewhat: she had ideas about what happened when a girl was sent to perform such strange special services in a bronzerider's weyr, and she was still waiting to find out what 'bring a vase of daisies' might have been a euphemism for when the young weyrleader unfolded like some graceful beast from his deep chair and thanked her for her help.

Fifteen minutes later the graceful beast was pacing the newly beautified main room of his weyr. The curtain to the bedchamber was drawn back; he walked to it, let it down from the gathering, and walked away to regard it thus. Dissatisfied, he returned and gathered the curtain back up and tucked it back into the hook. Like the chairs, the bed had been dressed up, pillows and a silvery mink throw blanket making this surface as inviting as the others. Was it too much? Too pointed? She wouldn't think it looked like this all the time.

But it didn't have to, J'fel reminded himself. It only had to look like this until she was in it, and perhaps she'd be flattered by the effort. Even if it wasn't his effort.

Satisfied, J'fel left the curtain drawn and returned to his chair, leaning forward with elbows on knees to pour himself a glass of wine. He hoped she liked cheese and fruit - they were arty food, right? - and assumed she'd like wine.

The door was open, and the harper artist was due any time to learn the details of her commission. Sipping his wine and envisioning a scene quite different from the one he'd ask her to paint, J'fel waited.

[anhydrous]

It was possible that she was late simply to keep J’fel waiting. That wouldn’t be improbable given the artist’s passive-aggressive nature, each reunion a tango of words and carefully managed expressions. Then again, Althesia was new to the weyr. She couldn’t be expected to know the corridors yet, each twist in the path little more to her than a new and exciting adventure.

The harper kept the real reason to herself, idly running one hand along to cool stone of the wall as she picked her way down increasingly more prestigious-looking halls. There were portraits hanging in the corridors now, all corners thoroughly swept out and glows fresh. It was a far cry from the paths surrounding the lower caverns, so certainly she had to be getting close.

She was quite pleased, really, that the weyrleader had called for an audience with her. If one waited long enough, any undesirable chore could turn favorable. Now he was calling for her and she didn’t look quite so desperate to be in his company again. A spry smile tugged at her lips, full skirts rustling amusedly at the notion that this meeting might be one purely of business.

Down the numerous hallways she walked, finding herself quite suddenly before a wooden door whose prestige towered over any of its contemporaries. And it was open? Knuckles rapping lightly against the smooth grain, she paused for a mere moment before taking a few tentative steps into the room.

Spotting J’fel instantly, Althesia offered him the slightest of satisfied smiles. “Hello, Weyrleader,” she greeted, carefully closing the heavy door behind her with a soft suggestive sound. Inwardly her smile deepened, eyes darting around the carefully laid chambers. How impressive. While someone had spent a great deal of time preparing for her visit, it certainly wasn’t the harper herself.

Althesia had done little in the way of making herself up, a genuine nonchalance gracing her every curve. From the way her hair fell in loose waves down her back to the gentle way she held her sketchbook, everything screamed a sort of natural indifference that only someone so talented could pull off. Personality be damned, it was irrelevant when you were good at what you did. She was certainly good at it.

The artist had a way of making the plainest of clothes look wholly inappropriate, a tasteful cotton shirt transformed into a frame for the none-too subtle curves of her chest. If only she had closed the top few buttons and thought to include an undershirt in her ensemble, she would be a picture of innocence. Instead she left the clasps open, the cream fabric loose and yet tight in all of the right places. With her sleeves rolled up to her elbows and a sliver of graphite tucked behind one ear, she almost looked professional. Well, not in the traditional sense, but at least ready to get something done.

[Omnia Munda]

J'fel would be sympathetic to the idea that if one was simply good at a thing, one needn't try too hard. It was the same philosophy that, unconsciously at least, lent him the animal grace and casual apathy with which he met each day, most challenges and, especially, all women. Having proven himself of some value to Aderes - of whom there was no sign in the Weyrleader's chambers, unless one were so hasty as to make the assumption that she were responsible for the flowers and the food - had done nothing to lessen the boy weyrleader's wolfish ego.

He poured himself out of the chair, each limb a lazy symphony played half-time and out of key, lovely in their indifference, and set his glass down before he even troubled to speak to her. The close of the door behind her had been all the greeting he could want. "Hello, Althesia," he did say, nonetheless, voice droll and dropped low for her benefit, while he took up the bottle and poured the second glass.

It was a white almost as bright as water and chilled in the ice Telgar brought down by dragonback from the wastes. It had a name and a hold and a history and J'fel had been told all of these, but all he told the harper as he held the glass for her to receive from his hand was, "I hope it's not too soon to ask you to discuss the work."

She'd have to come to him to get the wine; he made no effort to move toward her. The deep chairs flanked him, awaiting her by the hearth with their assortment of end tables and things to nibble arrayed there.

There was something rich and knowing in his tone. "I did want you to have a few days to settle in, first."

[anhydrous]

Oh, she had settled herself. One might account the vaguely dreamy look in her eye to such settling, but it was doubtful that the weyrleader would come to that particular conclusion. Like most men with the ability to blind themselves with their egos, he would probably misread her. That said, J’fel was hardly to blame considering that Althesia would do absolutely nothing to correct him.

Closing the gap between them promptly and accepting the glass, she nodded none-too graciously at his considerate sentiments. “I appreciate the thought.” It wasn’t a lie, nor did sound like one.

Nothing about her expression or posture would mark this moment an inappropriate one, the mood remaining distinctly proper as she opted for a chair by the hearth rather than jump immediately from the door to the bed.

Folding herself into the deep chair with one leg tucked up under her, the artist laid her sketchbook across her lap and took a small sip of the wine she had been provided. Any appreciation she should have felt was lost on the artist, not one to drink for prestige, but rather for pleasure. Copious amounts of wine could get your drunk, but quite bluntly, liquor was quicker.

Setting the wine beside a small tray of cheeses, Althesia turned to J’fel and searched out his molten stare. As their eyes met, her smile deepened. “What can I do for you?” Paired with the shape of her full lips, that had a hint, but only the smallest hint, of an inappropriate undertone.

[Omnia Munda]

J'fel did not, indeed, take the dreamy look - if he saw it at all - in Althesia's eye to be sign of such 'settling,' but when he said, "Good. I'm glad," his tone was still too rich, too clear. The conclusion had been foregone, and posed no threat to the weyrleader. He had no doubt that the harper artist took other names on her dance card.

He regretted, of course, making no more of Althesia's company after taking Salina back to the barracks than another tantalizing dance. But he'd found his weyrwoman - the Weyrwoman, of course - at last and shared her company for their long-delayed dinner, and walked another goldrider to her home later. Nonetheless, the young weyrleader wasn't thinking of Aderes now. He was thinking of a prolonged artistic process and much time spent in the harper's company instead.

Oh, being Weyrleader was rich.

He lowered himself into the other of the chairs, leaning forward and lacing his fingers between his knees as though he intended to have a very serious and professional conversation. Only the heated curve of his smile, seductive in its gracelessness, and the desirous fix of his gaze held hints of what might come in the wake of 'business.'

"I wrote the Hall for a portraitist," he told her, each syllable aflame with interest, as though he were questioning her most intimately about another subject - one they had not yet directly addressed. "And while you work, I have a feeling we'll discover what we can do for each other."

The inappropriate undertone in J'fel's voice was not just a hint.

[anhydrous]

If Althesia was irked that the weyrleader had never fulfilled his promise of a second dance, nothing of her outward appearance would show it. Privately there might have been the smallest flicker of jealousy, or perhaps a stiffness attributed to the sensation that one had been slighted.

Either way, that was hardly the dominant thought in her mind now. She eyed him with the same intensity they had shared during their waltz, another halfassed sip of wine serving to break the gaze.

“Mmm,” she agreed from behind the glass, her finger running absently across the binding of her sketchbook as she set the distractive drink back in its place. “Lucky for us it takes quite a while to paint a portrait.” While her words were marked with the same coy suggestion that the weyrleader himself had led with, they also served another, more professional, purpose.

Something told her that J’fel would already be aware of the length of time this task would require, but it was always best to inform her commissioners that her stay would be extended. She had dealt with far too many unpleasantly surprised Lord Holders to assume anything anymore.

Attempting to turn the meeting back towards its true purpose, Althesia flipped open her sketchbook and took the sliver of graphite from behind her ear. “I’m just dieing to know,” she said without any indication of real urgency, “Who am I painting?” With her hand poised over a mostly blank page so that she might record the details of her task, the artist glanced towards J’fel with a raised eyebrow.

[Omnia Munda]

Lucky, thought J'fel in a snort that was in no way reflected on his face. No: those sweet young man's features remained smooth and wry, delighted for the harper's indulgence, intrigued and desirous. If there was anything harder in the weyrleader's countenance, it was nothing more than that animal hunger that wine and cheese could not address. It made his endlessly blue eyes bright.

Nonetheless, he was deeply amused that she used that word, 'lucky.' He was so underestimated - except, he reflected, by Aderes. She knew his potential, obviously.

But it wasn't Aderes before him. It was Althesia, her posture slightly altered to make her ready to take notes. Or draw. J'fel couldn't presume to guess which she'd do, but no matter: he busied himself admiring her curves and answering her question.

It would, of course, be normal - de rigueur, in fact - for a portrait to be commissioned of a new Weyrleader. It would be hung, eventually, in the hall where the faces of all the rest of Telgar's leaders stared down upon those who walked by; when he died it would look over the funerary celebrations in the living cavern. Typically the weyrwoman, unless she were very inexperienced, would make the commission - but it was not unheard of for the vainer weyrleaders to commission their own and oversee the work.

But J'fel said, "Jordeth and Pelegaoth." The delivery was smooth, unhurried and pleasant. There was a smirk in there somewhere; it warmed his voice and his eyes, too, making him seem sharper-toothed and brighter-eyed. Hungry.

"I believe they will be pleased to pose on my ledge as much as you like, at whatever time of day or night you best like the light." Not that there was much for light at night - perhaps the weyrleader innocently meant that a glowlit portrait would be fine, if the artist preferred it. But J'fel rarely meant much in innocence.

It was his turn to change his posture now. He leaned forward, draping himself deeply in the chair, his gaze upturned beneath long lashes. "Will that do?"

[anhydrous]

The artist was expecting J’fel to answer tritely with the name of his weyrwoman, or perhaps, although it was certainly in poor taste, his own name. Nodding unconsciously as he spoke, Althesia copied his short reply into her sketchbook in a slanted disorderly scrawl. It was only after she had written the names did she bother to interpret them, eyes glazing over the unmistakable endings of both.

She glanced up with one eyebrow perched ever so slightly higher than the other one. “You want me to paint dragons?” She asked quietly, more to get her head around the idea than to actually question his motives.

Of all the commissions she had been sent on, Althesia had never been asked to paint anything other than a person. For a moment it seemed a silly request to make of the harper hall, it certainly hadn’t been easy arranging for her to be sent here, but she wasn’t about to place her judgment of the matter out on the table. The weyrleader was the one paying for the portrait, after all. His desires were the only ones that mattered.

Settling her features and pulling a handful of loose sketches from the back of her book, Althesia moved a plate of cheeses out of the way and spread them on the table between the weyrleader and herself. “That will do fine. Although, you’ll want to make sure my style suits your purposes.” She didn’t bother to add, whatever those purposes might be, but her brisk tone might have said it for her.

Between them lay dozens and dozens of dragons, each sketch having been completed so far during her stay at the weyr. Their poses were varied, size and rank equally diverse, some in groups, others with their riders close by, each at a different state of completeness. A few even had basic colors laid down, shadows in technically incorrect shades conveying a sense of movement as each little two dimensional beast strode across the page.

The way in which the artist ruffled through the sketches almost signaled urgency, her words chosen without much thought as she became increasingly distracted thinking about the task at hand. “They’ll be in oils,” she said absently, picking three of the pages and straightening them against her knee, “So the depth of color will be much more life-like and vibrant, keep that in mind.” Her mind was spinning delightfully now, quite beside itself conjuring up poses and wondering curiously how large she would be allowed to work.

Pushing aside such thoughts, Althesia managed a polite smile as she handed the three sketches for J’fel to view objectively. “Jordeth and Pelegaoth?” The artist repeated curiously.

The queen had been difficult to miss, and Althesia had sketched her on her very first day at the weyr. Jordeth had been harder to distinguish, but the ever-observant artist had caught sight of a particular bronze with darkened extremities lounging near the gold more often than not, and had just assumed. Both looked quite regal in their singular sketches, so it was only fitting to have the last be more tender. The third page was a scene of the two dragons together, quite darling really, lounging near the lake in a particularly fond moment.

One might think it were a wonder that she had amassed so much so quickly, but the thought didn't even cross Althesia's mind. Dragons were a new and exciting subject matter, and sketching was simply what she did. It was much like breathing, or in J'fel's case, flirting.

[Omnia Munda]

It was, admittedly, not often done - the representation of dragons on canvas, or in any other medium. It was an almost superstitious aspect of culture, Weyr, Craft and Hold alike, that dragons should not be represented as art. But most forbidden was the dragon as motif. J'fel felt that portraiture, which honored the individuals and recorded them for history, was hardly the same as reducing the general shape of 'dragon' to a wallpaper pattern.

The request he'd made of Harper, simply, was done out of respect. Mostly.

"I certainly shall." There was nothing brisk in J'fel's tone. He very much wanted to be sure Althesia's style suited his purposes, and while she'd for a moment settled her focus on the work - crisp and professional - the weyrleader had not given up double entendre and heated intonation.

But then he was looking at her sketches and, for a moment, even the youthful weyrleader was taken up in the business of their business.

Something to illustrate that we are here to stay,[/i] Jordeth had said when he'd first suggested to his rider that something to keep him and his mate paired in the minds of all Telgari was called for. Something grand but warm - and it must present us as a mated pair.[/i]

And J'fel had, at that time, said a portrait would be just the thing. Now, he would use Jordeth's words to explain his hopes for the work further to Althesia.

He took the sketches she offered, leaning forward to do so, and smiled widely at the poses she'd captured. "Grand," he murmured while he moved from the first sketch to the next. "But warm," he added, as he turned past to the last. One hand, the skin fine and soft from oiling dragon hide, held the three pieces while delicate fingertips of the other caressed details of the scene by the lake: a smoky tip on Jordeth here, a lengthy curve of Pelegaoth there.

"I like these," he said, and leaned forward more to place them amongst the other sketches of dragons that now littered the little table. "You've got them just right, together. They enjoy one another so much."

J'fel withdrew his hand slowly, perching the palm on his knee. His eyes were sparkling again, ocean deep. "Jordeth and Pelegaoth," he agreed, and then straightened so that he might reach for his wine and, watching the artist with those dancing eyes all the while over the rim of the glass, take a sip.

[anhydrous]

Althesia’s skin pricked under the weyrleader’s heated stare, lips twitching at the none-too-subtle implications lacing his words. It was comforting to be in familiar waters again, where words never meant what they seemed and suggestive tones were the native tongue. Taking a sip of wine, the artist smiled coyly into her glass.

She was happy that he liked her sketches, but it didn’t really surprise or invigorate her. Most everyone looked upon the pages fondly, and while she appreciated the kindness they exuded, it grew old quickly. A negative word would have earned a response, but an addition to the overflowing mountain of praise barely registered. “They lounge better naturally than I could ever pose them,” the harper agreed with a polite nod, eyes widening slightly at the pride that had infused J’fel’s words of the pair.

Althesia did not know the status of J'fel and his weyrwoman, but had assumed that it mattered little. Perhaps his pride stemmed from the fact that the queen had been claimed by his Jordeth. Any dragonrider was proud of his mount, a fact that Althesia had learned very quickly. The careful way he spoke of Pelegaoth certainly worried her, but not enough to keep her out of J'fel's stately bed. The weyrwoman wasn't here now, after all.

“Grand,” she repeated at length, mind spinning as she calculated how much canvas she had brought and how far she would be able to stretch it. One never carried pre-stretched canvas to a commission. It was simply lazy, and there were plenty of sagging portraits that could demonstrate the consequences. Over time the splints that kept the canvas taut would expand and shrink with moisture in the air, and pre-stretching only quickened the process.

“How large do you want this painting to be?” she asked between thoughts, one hand cradling her chin as she propped her elbow on her knee. A slight wrinkle creased between the artists eyebrows as she considered her supplies, eyes trained on J’fel but looking through him instead of at him. “I should have enough canvas,” she assured the man, one finger fidgeting by her lower lip, “but depending on the size I might not have brought enough wood to stretch it on.” Her face was a mask of concentration, broken only by the realization that she was questioning size and asking for the weyrleader’s wood.

Letting a smile crack though her professional deliberations, Althesia refocused her eyes on J’fel’s with an amused hint gleaming in her bright irises. She was getting caught up in the technicalities, neglecting to appreciate the fine man who was ever-so-eager to lead her deep into the chaos of an inappropriate tryst. Trapping her lip between her teeth, the harper let one thought ricochet against the boundaries of her consciousness: how delightful.

[Omnia Munda]

J'fel's praise was meant to guide Althesia to the result he wanted, but if she took it for anything else the weyrleader didn't notice. He was too entranced with the artist and, inwardly, with the art. He felt quite clever and was most satisfied with himself - and as always, when he was pleased with himself, he felt an almost gnawing intensity of hunger to be pleased with a woman, too. The harper was never more appealing than just now.

"How large." The youthful weyrleader lowered his glass, the taste of the wine still sweet on his palate; his tongue chased it from the fullness of his lips as he considered her question. "We're not short of enormous walls upon which it might hang. I can't say what history might do with it, but while I'm weyrleader I envision it in the cavern during hatching feasts," which implied he intended to preside over a number of them - bold; "and perhaps in the council room the rest of the time."

Both spaces offered enormous walls for decorative purposes, though the latter was smaller of course. Not that Althesia would know, but there was an ostentatious tapestry hung in the council room now, softening the wall behind the narrow table that, when councils of wingleaders or (rarely, for Telgar was not favored for this purpose) weyrleaders met, boasted pitchers of drinks to keep talking tongues and flaring tempers cooled. J'fel cared little for that tapestry with its symbolisms, each knot a tiny ode to the treble powers of Hold, Craft and Weyr. "The space in the council room's about a man and a half tall, I think. I guess that would be your limit." A grin caught his lips.

He'd provided the best answer he could devise, having no specific scale in mind himself aside from the word Jordeth had provided - grand - and a vague idea that a larger work would guarantee more of the harper's time in his personal quarters. J'fel gestured with his wineglass and smiled his most comely smile, gaze picking out the detail of her lip caught between her teeth before turning knowing for the depth of eye contact. "How large do you imagine it?"

[anhydrous]

Faced with her limits, the artist leaned back slightly in her seat, glass in hand, a thoughtful crease marring the smoothness of her forehead. She let her elbows rest on the back of her chair, attentively considering J’fel’s words and tactlessly offering a more impressive view of her chest. If she noticed the weyrleader’s hungry stare she was ignoring it for now, her shirtfront opened more as the fabric was pulled back at the positioning of her arms.

After a moment her eyes met his, a perfect reflection of mundane thoughts ricocheting between the two of them. Whether or not J’fel had meant something else by his question, Althesia chose not to answer in that particular way, letting her eyes do the talking while her words discussed business. “To keep the portrait out of the dangerous territory of decoration and impart instead a sense of grandeur, I do think it should be quite large, and quite…” the artist paused, searching for the right word to match the boldness in J’fel’s voice, “imposing.” She was having difficulties keeping the truly insurmountable task from overwhelming her thoughts, and by that she meant the painting, not the man.

“Of course it would also need to be wider than tall to account for their positioning together,” she mused, rough calculations bringing her to an actual number. “Perhaps four feet by six, give or take?” This painting would be quite stunning in its completion, the regal pair overlooking the entire room in which they would be placed.

A statement so large could either prove to be an inspiring and innovative work of art or a glaring eyesore. It would depend mostly on how successful Jordeth defended his right to fly the queen, but Althesia was thinking very little of these things. She was as brash and self-assured as her commissioner, finding the daunting task set before her an exciting excuse to spend vast amounts of time in the weyrleader’s quarters.

Picking up a bit of cheese from the table, Althesia made quite the show of delicately taking a bite before she innocently queried, "Or would that be too pretentious?"

[Omnia Munda]

The weyrleader's eyes and mind worked, for a little while, independently. While the words imposing and pretentious were turned over in his head, offered up to Jordeth for his consideration and tasted upon his thoughtful tongue, J'fel's gaze took advantage of the view Althesia's pose offered. It was not just what her poorly (or not so poorly) chosen shirt revealed that the young man savored with his stare; he took in the curves of her shoulders, the length of her neck and the fold of her legs too, assessing with pleasure the full measure of the woman as readily as though she were undressed already.

So it might have been surprising that when he spoke at last, his words were so clearly focused on the proper topic at hand. "As long as the character of the portrait contains some warmth - " He leaned forward again, stretching out a hand to indicate the sketch of the dragons in their tender moment together. "- I think that might balance any pretense its sheer size might convey?" As he drew back, J'fel lifted his gaze to Althesia's face, his own expectant. He resumed his comfort in his seat while watching her, the tip of his tongue in the corner of his mouth a visual hint of the hunterly desire that underscored his words.

[anhydrous]

Althesia glanced towards the sketch J’fel was indicating as he spoke, eyes lingering on the soft grace of his hands. “Of course,” she assured, not having meant to offend him. Any large portrait that captured dragons instead of people was bound to turn heads, a fact that she wasn’t quite sure he fully understood. Of course her name would be tied to the failure if the painting was viewed negatively, but her commissioner would be the one facing the brunt of the displeasure. She was only following orders.

Keeping such thoughts to herself, the artist jotted down the figures and the tones J’fel wished to capture, aware that she wouldn’t be the one to take the fall. She would capture Jordeth and Pelegaoth flawlessly, and she knew it. Without a hint of anxiety she traced over ‘grand’ and ‘warm’ a few times for emphasis, eyes darting up to J’fel as she finished. He was so lovely, so carefully crafted, and she wanted to see the rest of him. Soon.

Seeming satisfied with her notes, Althesia rose fluidly and tucked her graphite back behind her ear. Her papers were gathered and folded haphazardly back into the book, each movement completed with a sickening indifference that just sang as she placed the sketchbook on the table and let her hand rest over the top of it. She made no move to leave, if anything, Althesia simply suggested to her host that she was finished with talk of business.

Surely he could glean that from the way she stood, one leg bent to set her curves off-balance, the dip between her waist and hips accentuated. “Was there something else you wanted?” She asked with a wicked smile, voice low and bold as she eyed the delicious slouch of a man sitting off to her side. Perhaps some sinking guilt was slithering around in the most cleverly hidden section of her being, but Althesia suppressed it effortlessly. He was too lovely to refuse, and she planned to make good use of his obvious interest. Pfft, like she hadn’t seen him staring.

[Omnia Munda]

He liked that she stood first. It gave him a moment to regard her with a gaze that balanced cool inspection and heated, wolfish intentions, taking in the details she offered - tuck of waist, lure of hip - while making her wait to see how he'd handle her.

Or if.

"Yes." The answer, though slow in coming, was heavy with certainty: almost a command. First setting aside his glass, J'fel rose slowly and took the short steps needed to put himself at Althesia's shoulder; then he took a sideways step more, to slide behind her. He was too close, youthful heat tangible from his proximity, and his hands alighted on her arms just below her shoulders. They rested there lightly - she could not say he held her against her will - but he held her just the same, and leaned his head in beside hers.

His breath caressed her neck; his purr filled her ear. "You."