In which Rizeth reflects on a significant date.
The rope of entanglement fell from Ashenivir’s still trembling body with a sound like a sigh. Ashenivir started to sit up, struggling with the movement—Rizeth tapped his shoulder, silently ordering him back down. He was barely verbal yet; he was in no fit state for anything other than recovering.
“Good, Ra’soltha,” he murmured, as Ashenivir obediently lay still and closed his eyes. He checked over him with light hands, pleased to find no damage. A few light marks from the rope here and there, nothing that would cause any problems; even with all his Arcanum work, Rizeth always made the time to manage the upkeep on the rope’s enchantments.
He checked it over now, making sure there were no frays in the rope or its magic, and carefully wound it up into his hands. As he did so, his gaze drifted to Ashenivir.
It had been a year since he’d titled him.
Rizeth set the rope away in its drawer. He doubted Ashenivir paid much mind to the date—he liked his title, enjoyed it greatly, took its meaning quite seriously, but this was his first foray into games like this, and Rizeth…Rizeth put more weight on the word. Baggage, it might be called, but not any kind he would ever laden Ashenivir with. Still, a year was a long time for him to have played with anyone consistently, and he was still unsure how he felt about it.
On the bed, Ashenivir made a soft noise of wakefulness. Rizeth turned back to see him sitting up, slow movements, still settling back into himself. He blinked a few times, ran a hand through his tangled hair—still a touch of haze around his eyes, caught in the corners of his smile.
“Welcome back, Ra’soltha,” Rizeth said. Ashenivir rubbed his wrists, massaging at rope-ghosts, and the pleased flush still on his cheeks made some dangerous element of enjoyment hum in Rizeth’s chest. He clasped his hands behind his back.
“Thank you, Master,” Ashenivir said. “May I dress?”
“You may.”
A year. Rizeth glanced at the empty place on the bed where Ashenivir had lain. Unplanned as it had been, his titling, he found he had no desire to take it back, no urge to break the arrangement off. Ra’soltha fit Ashenivir well—he was moulded to its contours, fit with perfect obedience within its demands. Rizeth squeezed his wrists. Ashenivir gave up his power so beautifully.
“Master?”
Ashenivir hovered in the doorway, dressed now, a hand resting lightly on the frame.
“Yes, Ra’soltha, you may go.”
“I…that wasn’t…” Ashenivir hooked a finger into his collar and Rizeth watched him take a breath, relax on touching it. “I wanted to thank you again. For tonight, and for allowing me to serve as Ra’soltha for the past year. I appreciate you making so much time for me.”
He had marked the date. Rizeth ignored the pleased leap in his chest, and did not allow anything at all to show on his face.
“You fulfil your duties admirably.”
Ashenivir ducked his head. “I try my best, Master.”
Rizeth crossed to him and tipped his head up. That lovely flush still tinged his face, a pretty indigo stain over smooth, deep violet. His lips parted softly at Rizeth’s touch, his eyes going hazy again, ears twitching ever so slightly—waiting for orders. Ever since the first, he’d been so eager to do everything Rizeth said.
“You will attend at the year’s end,” Rizeth said. Ashenivir nodded. Rizeth tapped his lips with a thumb. He blinked.
“Yes, Master. Of course.”
When he’d gone, Rizeth went to fix the bed. He ran his palm over the messy sheets, still faintly warm. The motions were automatic—neat folds, crisp corners, a wash of cleansing magic. Scene over.
He had a tenday now to work out just what he was going to do with Ashenivir at the year’s end. Rizeth shook his head. He ought to stop being so impulsive with his summons, or he was going to start developing bad habits he couldn’t afford to maintain.
With everything as it should be, he returned to his desk and the mountain of work that never seemed to leave it. A year. He found he couldn’t keep the slight smile from crooking his mouth as he worked his way through the first stack of essays. A whole year. Well, how about that?