Inner Sanctum - Temple of Khalid Atar - Atesh-Gah - Haven:
      Sweeping, majestic arches dance courtly waltzes amongst the high ceiling, grand domes spacially created with simplistic, artistic values. Towering to their full heights and supporting such enormously extravagant architecture are golden columns, their girths tickled with feathered etchings. Central to the entirety of the temple is a shrine of offering, risen upon a marbled dias and laden with treasures and incense.
      Sleek, hand-crafted tiles spread their glimmering rainbows of fantastic imagery as a uniform compilation to create each wall within this lavish temple. A veritable history unfolds from one brilliant grouping to the next, figurines created with an assortment of florid hues to ultimately depict Khalid Atar, from babe to God-King full grown, and the tales of His triumphs thereafter.
      In a deep enclave just to the right of the entrance, nested beneath an miniature archway boasting of vibrant flame etchings, are two typical items for daily worship. Lined in perfection and upon a hip-high table of mahogany is an array of prayer bells, their shiny, silver surfaces untarnished and well-defined with tiny lettered blessings. Filling the remaining space are mounds of woven, patterned pillows devised so as to aide in healthier joints. A veritable heaven is not complete without the lush cultivation of thriving plants, those which clamber and sprout forth, wrapping with caressing leaf for a resoundingly peaceful conclusion.

A soft, melodic chanting fills the temple, almost musical in nature. Its rhythm, pitch and tone flows like the rolling hills of the Varati homeland itself, and emanates from a bowed figure. It's a liturgy as old as time, and as the drops of rain fall outside, so Abbas rises and falls in prayer in the early morning -- facing east. Always east.

A woman enters the temple. Head bowed in penitence, hair covered in humility, she crosses the threshold, and she stands silently in this place of worship. The chanting flows over her like water, and instinctively, she seeks the source, as a newly-opening bud would seek nourishment. Dark eyes fix upon the bowed figure. Careful, she is, not to interrupt the litany, as she moves on silent feet toward the mounds of pillows where worshippers may kneel to offer up their prayers or thanks.

The figure falls back unto his haunches, his legs tucked underneath his body, has he tilts his head upwards. His palms, too, face heaven, and as the chant slowly comes to an end, the man too draws himself back to the temporal realm. Abbas' eyes open, a faint look of surprise overtaking his features as he catches the sound of rain... and... the presence of another. He turns and looks upon the women, bowing his head in eminent politeness. "May His greatness smile upon you, this morning."

The woman hesitates in mid-step, like a deer caught frozen upon a forest path. But at those polite words, she relaxes, and greets in return, "Namaste, imphadi." Eyes diffidently lowered, she bows her head over folded hands, and adds, "and may His mother favor you and keep you ever in her light."

She smooths the folds of her sari; perhaps a habitual gesture when she is mildly discomfited, and she apologizes, "Forgive the interruption, imphadi. Your words were soothing. I came to listen." And to slip out of the rain, it seems; her clothing is spattered with droplets.

Abbas rises to his feet, calling sharply to a servant at the door, "Sahib! Bring us something warm to drink." The gray-haired Kaimakam moves with surprising grace, fetching a length of warm, silken cloth. "If you would, imphada..." he kneels upon a pillow, offering the blanket, "... Atar-al would frown upon me a thousand times over if I let you shiver. If my words soothe, then perhaps this may warm you as well?"

If she was skittish before, the woman seems doubly so now, as the Kaimakam kneels and offers that warm, soft blanket. "Im-imphadi," she stammers, nonplused, "I fear you are mistaking me for someone of greater rank. I am a vaisya." She manages a smile, mustering calm like a defense. "It is I who should be serving you."

Carefully, she approaches, dark eyes curious and probing. "Would you do me the honor of telling me your name, imphadi?" Again, she smooths her rain-dampened sari, and adjusts the folds of her leyang across her shoulders, careful that it does not slip back to expose her hair within the temple of the God-King. With one hand, she reaches for the offered blanket, so that she might warm herself.

Abbas offers a low, pleasured grunt from the depths of his being, again folding his legs underneath himself as he sits. "The imam of my youth would say that 'In his temple, Atar-al blesses only the prayer that is spoken the loudest.'" His eyes seek yours momentarily, as if trying to see if the meaning was caught, but his interest passes like the clouds above. "Besides, the rain always lightens my soul... it is a gift of life to the earth from Atar himself. I am Abbas al-Rais ibn Sajid... and who do I have the pleasure to address?" His manners are impeccable, if from a different time, and a sweeping gesture before him beckons you to join.

"I... do not know that name," the woman admits, and she comes closer and lowers herself decorously to kneel upon the pillows, hands coming to rest in her lap, folded one atop the other. Fading henna patterns adorn her dusky flesh; complex designs as graceful and sweeping as a calligrapher's stroke. Her hands are not soft and slender like a maiden's; they have known labor and toil -- proof enough of her rank. But she still decorates them, even if the time for attracting a mate is long past.

"I am Saadiya Nimat al'Ghanim," she responds, gaze lowered. "And I have only recently journeyed here to Haven." She tilts her head, risking a glance upward. "Forgive my impertinence, imphadi, but are you one of the Atarvani? You speak like one."

A servant enters, carrying a covered silver platter. As he kneels before Abbas, he lifts the silver dome to reveal a bubbling pot of thick, sweet Varati kaffe, a small bowl of sugar cubes and a number of small cups. As he excuses himself and exits, the dusky-skinned man returns his attention to you. "I am not, my words are too crass for their poetry -- the poetry of our god. Instead I serve his will on earth and carry his retribution. I am a Kaimakam of the Agni-Haidar." For such a title, his expression is remarkably humble. He examines the henna admiringly, "You've skill as an artist. Such fanciful patterns suit you, I think. Perhaps you'll share some kaffe with me, imphada, and tell me more of yourself... for I have only recently arrived in 'Haven' as well." His lips merely hint at a smile, but his tone is pleasant enough.

Saadiya seems mildly startled at this revelation about your status; her eyes widen and her strong black brows arch inquiringly. "Agni-Haidar?" she echoes unwittingly. "But you do not--" She falters, then, and trails off, murmuring, "forgive me, imphadi. I meant no disrespect." Her henna-patterned hands have clenched in her lap, though, and she is no longer quite so relaxed. The reputation of the Agni-Haidar is not one to inspire calm, it seems.

Still seated, Saadiya clears her throat, watching as the kaffe is revealed and the servant withdraws. Hastily, she reaches over to pour two frothy cups, finding solace in busying her hands. "I fear there is not much to tell, imphadi," she hazards. "Your adventures must certainly be more exciting. Would you do me the honor of telling me one of them?"

Abbas watches the woman curiously, "My adventures...?" His words are cut off, though, as the drink is served. He offers Saadiya a thankful nod, then sits up and plucks a single sugar cube from the bowl, and draws the cup to his lips. He drinks long and slow, straining the thick, syrupy kaffe through the cube itself. The mixed tastes must be to his liking, as his eyes open once more with a renewed shine.

"Truly, a man may have every jewel from the earth, yet will never be as satisfied as when he drinks from a simple, hot cup, on a simple, cold day." He focuses on the vaisya woman once more, gesturing for her to drink as well, "Please. Now... my adventures? I fear that they're not stories as romantic as one a story-teller might weave... but I have seen things, in my... admittedly many... years. What would you like to hear about?"

The raindrops are drying from Saadiya's sari, and the flowing leyang draped over her shoulders and hair is completely dry; it is decorated with a subtle pattern of ivy leaves, mirroring the fading designs upon her hands. These are pressed on either side of the mug as she draws warmth from the strong brew. Slowly, she smiles -- a curious, bemused smile, but a smile nonetheless.

"It is for these simple things that I thank Ushas and Atar daily," she murmurs. "These simple things that nourish the spirit, as well as the body." She takes a sip of the hot kaffe, savoring it. "But I must confess, I have never heard an Agni-Haidar speak thus. In truth, I have rarely heard an Agni-Haidar speak." She continues to watch Abbas curiously, head tilted to one side, manner diffident, as ever. "You have seen things a woman such as myself could never see," she muses. A moment of silence follows, and the next words are quiet, as if she hardly dares speak them. "And you have dealt death in the name of Atar. Is it proud or humbling, to watch a man die?"

Abbas relaxes, his eyes wandering to the gilded ceiling in thought. After a pause, he speaks. "The years that have sought me out, that have turned my hair gray, and brought wrinkles to my eyes... these years bring with them both life and death. It is perhaps one of Atar-al's greatest ironies... no... his lessons, that wisdom only comes with age, when it is so needed in youth. The greatest gift He gave me was not my body... but my mind."

He takes another sip. "Does not an educated mind better understand his teachings? In peacetime, I am a peaceful man... able to fulfill the mercy and kindness of Atar. In wartime, I am his lion, dispatching his word, will, and way on those that would deny his place as our living God. But... I would never be so proud as to say it is I who takes life for Atar." He smiles now -- curiously. "The Creator and Destroyer of life needs no mortal messenger. Atar-al chooses those whom are to die, and takes their lives. I simply drive the sword inside them." He thinks for a moment for a suitable example. "Like childbirth... it is not something one is proud of, or humbled by... it is simply a duty you know were born to do. You see?"

Saadiya pauses wordlessly, her fingers moving around the rim of the cup before she draws another sip. Her expression is thoughtful, gaze hooded by dark lashes. Yet that last comment, about childbirth, prompts her eyes to lift, and to fix fleetingly upon yours.

"Some are chosen," she murmurs, "and some are not. But no matter the circumstances, no matter the woman, it is always a miraculous thing, to see new life brought into this world. It is at those moments that I feel closest to God."

She swallows down another sip, and clears her throat. "Forgive me, imphadi. I do not mean to dispute your words. Perhaps I am simply made humble by those things that, to others, would seem commonplace." She unlatches one hand from the mug and holds it up, palm outward, fingers spread. "Atar saw fit to gift these hands with healing." Her eyes switch over to yours, and she smiles marginally. "And yours for more rigorous work. It is as it should be. We are what we were made for."

Abbas shakes his head, looking upon your hands before outstretching one of his own and looking upon it as well. "No... no, you are closer to Atar's truth then others. Atar made the sky, the earth; the trees, the birds... your hand and mine. Atar did not create strings of pearls or ruby rings with gold filigree. These things were created by man. The pious one, the true servant of Atar, sees beauty in his creations... the prideful man... the man that embraces hubris, worships his own, temporal creations." He looks up, a look of surprise on his face, "You have the powers of healing with but a touch?"

A rueful smile perches momentarily upon her lips, and Saadiya withdraws her hand, warming it again upon the side of the mug. "I have a gift, yes," she confirms, "but it is not as powerful as most. I can soothe aches, pains, and mend small wounds. But my abilities are no greater than that. Still, it is one for which I am grateful. Another small miracle for which I give thanks."

Abbas tilts his head, again, with a look of surprise. "You are pleased with what you have, yet covet not what riches you lack? You should feel proud, and be valued most highly. There are few that are truly content. Yet I sense it in you -- perhaps that is why Atar blessed you with such a gift. Have you always had such talents?"

Only now does her expression darken with some troubling recollection. Saadiya's answer is short. "No." She fidgets with her mug, and seems to realize that so terse an answer is hardly acceptable. "That is... if I had this talent sooner, I did not know it. Some gifts do not make themselves known until they are... needed." She gaze down into the kaffe's murky depths, turning it about in her hands, as if she might glimpse the future there in the bottom of a mug. "And you?" she inquires after a few moments have trickled past. "Do you covet? Or are you content with what you have?"

Abbas smiles a little more, and sets his cup on the dish once more. "I fear that the thing I covet currently is more time to converse with you, imphada, for my time has gone by too quickly. I fear I must be returning to my duties... these small 'breaks' in my days are a source of pleasure, but you have made it all the more so."

"Ahh," she exclaims, as you remind her of the passage of time, and her eyes switch automatically to the door. Outside, the rain has stopped. She sets down her mug, still half-full, for a servant to collect, and she rises neatly from the pillows. "I, too, have my duties. But your sentiments are... mutual, imphadi." She smiles again, slow and uncertain. "Perhaps we will see one another again, Atar willing. I will listen for your chanting, when next the rains come." She bows her head, hands folded over her heart, as she wishes you farewell. "Namaste. May the Neverending Flame ever illuminate your path."

Abbas bows his head before standing, slowly, himself. "Namaste, imphada. May Atar protect you and keep you always in virtue. I, too, will listen for the rain-laden patter of your steps. Fear not to seek me out, if you see me again."

FIN

Stars were falling deep in the darkness
As prayers rose softly, petals at dawn
And as I listened, your voice seemed so clear
So calmly you were calling your god

Somewhere the sun rose, o'er dunes in the desert
Such was the stillness I ne'er felt before
Was this the question, pulling, pulling, pulling you
In your heart, in your soul, did you find peace there?

 

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