tenderness

Rizeth Velkon’yss is Menzoberranyr. There is a legacy of cruelty embedded in his bones, ancestral venom in his veins—you can hear it in the whip-crack of his voice, see it in the ice of his eyes. There is no softness in him, no sliver of tenderness beneath that dark, unfeeling glass.

His hands brush like moth-wings along Ashenivir’s legs. Thighs littered with bruises; follow that trail up his back, along scratches and bite marks, the sheet music inscribed on his flesh that brought the symphony of his desire to life. Rizeth counts each mark and finds for each the correct salve to soothe the damage. He knows by heart which balm for which bruise, could perform this healing blindfold—he never would, because he would not risk any mistake in this.

Rizeth Velkon’yss tolerates no disrespect. He has no sense of humour nor lightness of heart, he will not abide foolishness, no matter how innocent the act or intent. Things are important or they are irrelevant. There is no in between. You keep your mouth shut in his class because the snap-call of apprentice, do you have something you wish to share? churns your gut with guilt you have no reason to feel.

Thus goes the whisper Archbastard, mage and monster.

He returns Ashenivir’s voice to him one deft, delicate touch at a time. He slides the gag from his mouth slow and careful, unfastens each buckle with the same deliberation as it was set in place. Gentle go his fingers over jaw and cheek and throat, and is it tender, this methodical motion? Can such rote repetition be an act of care?

Perhaps only this need be known; Rizeth Velkon’yss never does anything without thought.

Rizeth Velkon’yss is an antisocial outcast of a drow, a poor excuse for a Mythen Thaelan; he just doesn’t integrate. He doesn’t even try, he simply refuses to fit in. Those who have tried over the years to involve him find it not worth the effort, to always be dragging him into things he won’t even have the decency to pretend to enjoy. Lyzira’s the only one who keeps trying.

“You’re wasting your time,” they tell her. “He just doesn’t care.”

He pays Zietta Oreeyes double the item’s cost because he knows the artificer has been undercharging him. Some foolish notion of ‘friendly discounts’, the deep gnome has; Rizeth pays what a thing is worth, he will not abide unfair compensation for services rendered.

An apprentice comes to him in tears—they cannot think, they cannot work, they are three essays behind and falling further, they are so sorry. Rizeth sends them to the Shrine of the Dark Maiden, and extends their deadlines in every class by six months.

Ashenivir gets sick and comes to the scene anyway. Rizeth orders him to the infirmary and to bed, with threat of punishment if he does not go—he knows Ashenivir will avoid resting without it. He will not let his apprentice work himself to tragedy. He’s seen it happen too many times before.

Rizeth Velkon’yss is alone by choice, an outsider by design. Rizeth Velkon’yss is a stoic bastard who would rather break than bend, and who in their right mind could stand to be around him for any length of time?

Rizeth Velkon’yss would not know tenderness if it leapt up and bit him in the face.

He sets Ashenivir’s collar smooth as they catch their breath. He kisses Ashenivir’s throat, tastes the gratitude in his pulse. The sconce light is low, they’re shadows together in the bed.

“Well done, Ra’soltha,” he murmurs, the words a ritual.

“Thank you, Master,” Ashenivir sighs, his half of their spell.

Rizeth lets him rest, brings him back to himself in careful intervals. Sometimes this part is swift, Ashenivir’s quick mind all too ready to reassemble itself. Other times, as now, it takes longer, as Ashenivir struggles to find his way back to reality.

He has endless Arcanum work to get back to. He’ll be up far too late getting it finished if he does not wrap up this scene soon.

It’s another two hours before he makes it to his desk.

Rizeth Velkon’yss knows exactly what people think of him. He knows he could change it if he tried—he does not care enough to do so. He saves his care for the places it matters, the places it is necessary. Sometimes a thing does not look the way one expects it to, and just because it is not obvious does not mean it is not there.

Rizeth Velkon’yss grew up in a place where tenderness was death.

He chose it anyway.