An Offer of Ownership

“You mean to tell me you have mastered High Drow, Elvish, Draconic, Gnomish, and Dwarven, yet Common eludes you?”

Ashenivir passed the unreadable book back to Rizeth, ducking his head in embarrassment.

“I never saw any use in learning it,” he protested. “It’s not as if I’m ever likely to go to the surface.”

“That as may be, you can make an effort to learn the fundamentals before you graduate.” Rizeth set the book between them on the desk, resting the tips of his fingers on the cover. “Do not try and tell me you can’t—you were fluent in High Drow after six months when you set your mind to it. You can be conversational in Common in four.”

“Yes, Master,” Ashenivir sighed.

Four months, that was all he had left at the Arcanum. It had taken until the end of the year to fully recover from his disastrous attempt at modifying a sleep spell. The relief he’d felt at being able to access the Weave again after a tenday—even if he’d been forbidden from casting anything more powerful than a cantrip—had been phenomenal. He hadn’t said a word to anybody, especially not Rizeth, but a part of him had been terrified he’d permanently damaged his connection to it. Even now, every time he reached for it, he worried it wasn’t going to be there.

Anxiety notwithstanding, he had recovered now, and had returned to his studies shortly after the new year had begun. It felt good to be back doing the thing he loved most, even if his stomach still churned every time he thought about graduating.

“Apprentice,” Rizeth called his attention back, and Ashenivir realised he’d been staring blankly across the empty classroom. His Master looked faintly amused, an expression so subtle most would miss it—not him, not anymore. It gave him a warm thrill to know he was able to decipher Rizeth’s nuances where most could not.

“Yes, Master Velkon’yss?”

“By all accounts you are on track to take the solstice examinations,” Rizeth said. “I hope you are not feeling the urge to start dabbling in spell modifications again.”

Ashenivir shook his head. “I’m nervous, Master, but I think I’ll be fine. There is less to… overwhelm me this time.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

His mother had, predictably, not been happy at the delay. To his surprise, Dirius had been the one to stand up for him, arguing—as Rizeth had—that his health was more important than anything else. And besides, he’d pointed out, Ashenivir could easily learn his position as House wizard after he’d graduated. It wasn’t as if Dirius would be leaving the city after his wedding. He wasn’t even leaving Draix’ress.

So Ashenivir had been left blissfully alone. No helping with the wedding, no meetings with his brother; nothing but recovering and studying for his exams. And serving his Master, of course.

“However,” Rizeth continued, and the shift in his tone straightened Ashenivir’s spine. “I would like to be certain your mind is in the right place. You will attend tomorrow evening.”

“At once, Master?” Ashenivir asked, though he already knew the answer. Rizeth inclined his head.

“At once, apprentice. Now, there is little further use in your studying here tonight, since you cannot parse this tome. I want to see you with an understanding of the grammar basics this time next tenday.”

“I’ll try, Master.”

“You will succeed,” Rizeth corrected. Ashenivir warmed—sometimes Rizeth seemed more convinced of his abilities than he was, and it pleased him very much to meet his Master’s approval. He liked to please all his teachers, but Rizeth…

It was different with Rizeth.

Ashenivir hummed happily as he made his way up to his quarters. The ‘once a month’ rule had evaporated along with the old year, and he’d already had more than the six scenes he’d anticipated. It was almost exactly as it had been before he’d gone to Sshamath—he’d even started taking care of Rizeth’s component preparation again.

And, he remembered with a smile, he’d noticed right away when Rizeth had winced at the light after one of their scenes. He’d made him take something for the headaches that same evening, and ensured his Master took the next few days to rest. He’d felt strangely powerful, doing that—been a little bit dizzy from it afterwards, if truth be told. Rizeth was his Master, and Ashenivir had never stopped taking that responsibility seriously.

He was a good Ra’soltha, at least as good of one as he was a wizard, and it was such a shame it would all be wasted when he left.

His smile faded as he stepped into his room. He leaned against the door, wishing—as he often found himself doing lately—that he didn’t have to leave. He tangled his fingers into his collar. At least with the more frequent scenes he’d be leaving with plentiful memories of his Master.

Hopefully they would be enough to bridge the gap between missing him, and getting used to being without him.

---

After Ashenivir left, Rizeth sat at his desk, chin resting on his clasped hands, and thought. A few more months, that was it. The miracle of extra time he’d gained still hadn’t bolstered him against the reality of the fact that Ashenivir would soon be gone. He could have taught him forever—he didn’t think he’d ever tire of the way Ashenivir soaked up knowledge, of his endless eagerness to learn. He was so curious, so determined to master all that was set before him. He wanted to know how everything worked; know it, understand it, make it his own, and even with that irritating insecure streak around his casting, he was the brightest thing in the Arcanum. Lyzira was right, he’d be absolutely wasted as a House wizard.

Rizeth flipped idly through the papers on his desk, shaking his head to see Ashenivir had forgotten a few pages of his notes. Abysmal handwriting, but flawless spell notations, as always. And among them, scribbled theories on modifications which briefly gave him cause for concern, before he realised they were notes from one of his own classes.

Even if Ashenivir had no interest in teaching, there was plenty of opportunity in research and spell development. He’d expressed curiosity at the idea of cross-field arcane study before, and if anyone was going to make meaningful discoveries in that area, Rizeth thought Ashenivir could be the one to do it. And he himself would enjoy devoting a little more time to research. Teaching was his main focus now, true, but he was a theorist at heart, and he could take an assistant in such matters, couldn’t he?

Look at you, grasping for excuses to make him stay. He’s not going to. Not for you.

Rizeth rubbed his face, suddenly exhausted. It was better for both of them for Ashenivir to graduate sooner rather than later. He would return to House Zauvym—for better or for worse—where he would be out of sight and out of mind. Out of range of Rizeth’s foolish desires.

And speaking of foolish desires….

He glared down at the page of Ashenivir’s notes, where his traitorous hand had started idly sketching in line with his traitorous thoughts. An eight-pointed star, marked all around with the scribbled shapes of runes, space left between the two, a deliberately blank place whose purpose he knew very well. It was to be filled with words, in High Drow.

Ulu uk vel’uss zhah ussta Ehmtua, ori’gato uns’aa tlu natha belbol duul’ssoen belbaunin.

They whispered in his mind, and he realised his lips were forming them silently. With a curse, he snatched up the paper and crumpled it into his hand, calling a cantrip to burn it to ash. Idiot.

He’d been thinking, hadn’t he, that it had been too long since he’d visited the surface. He’d been making plans to go when Ashenivir graduated, and then Ashenivir had not graduated and he had immediately discarded any notion of leaving Mythen Thaelas whilst he still had time with his Ra’soltha.

He should have gone, if this was where his mind was turning to.

Why do you always have to push? You already have more than you deserve with him!

The moment Ashenivir graduated, he would go. There would be no protest, he was owed time away—Hells, most of his colleagues would cheer at his taking time for himself for once. They all thought he worked too hard and played not enough.

The problem was, of course, that he played too much.

Rizeth dusted ash from his hand with a sigh. And he’d called Ashenivir to another scene tomorrow night. His ‘once a month’ rule had gone to pieces with the turning of the year, and he didn’t have the strength to put it back in place. Ashenivir was leaving anyway, what did it matter if he overindulged now?

All he could do was enjoy what he had whilst he still had it, and try not to dwell on how much it would hurt when it was gone.

---

Rope, tight around him, binding his arms to the bed and his shins to his thighs. Criss-cross patterns of pale gold encircled his chest, looking, he knew, utterly perfect against his deep violet skin. He strained to feel the enchanted rope tighten, the pressure almost unbearably good, the blindfold across his eyes lending every touch of his Master’s hands an intense, electric quality.

Rizeth fucked into him, hard enough to smack the bedposts against the wall. Ashenivir moaned around the gag in his mouth, still pulling at his bonds because half the game at times like this was pretending he might actually want to get away. Rizeth knew he didn’t want to. They both knew there was nowhere he’d rather be than here.

His Master’s hand brushed his cock, and Ashenivir gasped at the feel of delicate fingers sweeping over the tip, drawing slick circles for a too-brief moment before pulling away. Then suddenly the gag was gone—it dropped, wet, against his neck. Drool slicked his chin.

“Open wide,” Rizeth said, and pushed two fingers into his mouth. “There, xi’hum, see how good you taste for me?”

Ashenivir obediently licked at Rizeth’s fingers, then bit at his knuckles for the reward of a punishing snap of hips. The fingers were withdrawn, quickly replaced with a deep, delicious kiss.

“You taste better, Master,” he panted, as Rizeth pulled away.

“Is that flattery you are attempting, Ra’soltha?” Rizeth’s hand found his throat, a light pressure that made his skin prickle with anticipation.

“Just the truth.”

Rizeth rocked deep into him and Ashenivir tipped his head back, mouth wide on a low moan. He canted his hips up as much as he could, wanting more, wanting his Master closer, deeper, harder. Rizeth’s lips found his ear, breath hot against his neck.

“Tell your Master what you want,” he purred. “You have been very good, Ra’soltha, he might even give it to you.”

Ashenivir strained once more against the rope, not wanting to be free, but wanting so badly to touch.

“I want you to come inside me,” he begged, breathless. “Please, Master, show me who I belong to!”

Rizeth bit his ear.

“As my Ra’soltha wishes.”

He snapped his hips harder, turning Ashenivir’s cries into staccato sounds of pleasure. He lost himself in the dark of the blindfold, the bind of the rope, the all-consuming touch of his Master. Whatever marks were left tonight would be healed away, every trace erased, but the feeling of his Master claiming him would never fade.

Ashenivir shouted as Rizeth came, rapid and incoherent thanks spilling from his lips. Goddess, he felt so full! Not just physically—what Rizeth did for him was so much more than that. Rizeth stroked him to release, and he shuddered beneath his Master’s hand, collapsing into a boneless, voiceless thing beneath the rope.

The past month of scenes had all been so intense. Ashenivir didn’t know if the stress of his approaching graduation had him strung higher than usual, or if it was just that, after four years and counting, he and his Master were simply better at this now. Certainly Rizeth read him like no other, knew exactly how to tease him, where to touch him, how to play him like a delicate instrument.

Rizeth murmured the command word and the rope fell away in a soft slither. Ashenivir blinked as the blindfold was removed, and caught his breath while Rizeth carefully unfolded his legs, running gentle fingers over his knees. He checked him over, cleaned him up, and gave no reprimand when Ashenivir climbed into his lap and clung to him, loose-limbed and buzzing and happy.

“You are not getting any more tonight, xi’hum,” he warned. That title, meant to make him a plaything and a toy—the way Rizeth said it these days simply made him feel wanted.

“I know, Master.” Ashenivir laid his head against Rizeth’s shoulder and looped his arms around his neck. He smelt so good, so warm. “I don’t have to leave just yet though, do I?”

“Soon.”

Rizeth’s hand settled on the small of his back, holding him close. Ashenivir basked in the pleasant silence for a moment, then said, hesitantly, “Master? May I ask for something?”

“You already had what you wanted,” Rizeth replied, but his tone was indulgent. “Ask.”

“It’s almost the end of Ches, Master. There’s only three months till the solstice.”

“I am aware of the passage of time, apprentice, come to your point.”

“I know…I know you always say you can’t mark me, because of the Arcanum and what people would think,” Ashenivir spoke quickly, before he could lose his nerve. “But if I’m leaving, surely that won’t matter, just the once? In our last scene could you…would you…I want to keep something, even if it’s only a bitemark. Please?”

Rizeth went completely still, and Ashenivir immediately regretted saying anything. Then he sighed and slid his hand over the back of Ashenivir’s neck.

“I will consider it.”

Ashenivir smiled into his shoulder.

“Thank you, Master.”

---

“I like it when you mark me.”

“I might own my magic, but you own me.”

“Show me who I belong to!”

Rizeth stared down at the book. He should have thrown it out decades ago, cast all memory of it from his mind. He traced over the illustration with fingers he refused to acknowledge were shaking; an eight-pointed star in clean black lines, the runic circle around it annotated with instructions for personal modifications.

L’Ehmtua’s anzzar. The Master’s mark.

He asked for it! He keeps asking for it, he wants you to mark him, to own him—

“He wants to keep a few bites and bruises,” Rizeth muttered, cutting off his over-eager thoughts. “This is not the same thing.”

But he had asked to be marked. Even if he didn’t know what thoughts he conjured in Rizeth when he said such things, he had asked for it, over and over again.

Rizeth gnawed the inside of his lip. He could offer it as a gift, with no expectations on either side of anything else. It could serve as a reward for all Ashenivir’s hard work and service these past years.

It was a bad idea. It was a terrible, selfish, bad idea, and he shouldn’t even be considering it.

He drew an old sheet to him, with a long-faded sketch upon it. It had remained in the book since he’d crafted it so painstakingly all those years ago, a design that, despite everything, he still loved. It would fit perfectly in that place on the back of Ashenivir’s neck where his hand always strayed; it would be hidden there, since he always wore his hair in a way that would cover it.

It would look good.

It won’t make him stay, but it might make him happy.

Rizeth wanted him to be happy, and that simple desire terrified him more than anything else. Ashenivir didn’t know what the mark meant, just as she had not, but Rizeth could explain it to him; what it was, how it worked, what it meant. It would be Ashenivir’s choice to take it or not. He wasn’t going to make the same mistakes again, wasn’t going to force the issue just because he wanted it so badly.

He took a breath. Then he drew a clean sheet of paper to him, and began to write.

---

His Common was coming along, as Rizeth had said it would, and Ashenivir found himself wondering why he’d avoided the language for so long. Just because he was unlikely ever to visit the surface didn’t mean it wasn’t useful. At any rate, it served as a productive means of calming his mind between preparations for the exams in two months’ time.

He thought he’d be conversational—barely—before he graduated, though he wouldn’t like to try his skills with an actual surfacer. He made another note and reached for the next book, cursing when he knocked the whole stack from the table. A hand caught the toppling books, and Ashenivir looked up, expecting an irate librarian.

“How do you fare in the tongue of the surface, apprentice?” Rizeth asked, his Common fluid and perfectly enunciated. He set the books straight as Ashenivir struggled to translate fast enough to parse the question.

“I can ask if it has rained, or where the nearest tavern is,” he said, then scowled when he realised he had no idea what the Common word for ‘Master’ was.

“Your pronunciation needs work, but you appear to be making excellent progress.” Rizeth spoke softly, but his presence nonetheless commanded all of Ashenivir’s attention, as it always did. He seemed off, though, something about his expression sparking concern in the back of Ashenivir’s mind. Some subtle tension sat about his shoulders, and if they hadn’t been in the library, Ashenivir would have offered to relieve it.

“I have something for you.” Rizeth set a slim roll of papers atop his notes. “Related to what you asked about the other day.”

Ashenivir unrolled the papers, eager to see what his Master had given him. There were three sheets altogether, two crammed full of Rizeth’s neat handwriting, and the third…

“What is it?” He spread the drawing out before him. It looked like a spell notation, though not one he’d ever come across before.

“The notes should provide ample explanation,” Rizeth said. The tension in his shoulders grew more pronounced. He clasped his hands behind his back. “Read them carefully before you make your decision. You…you have until you graduate.”

Ashenivir frowned after him as he left. Rizeth never stuttered like that—hopefully it wasn’t a sign of some illness he’d have to strong-arm his Master into dealing with properly. Resolving to keep a careful eye on him in their next scene, Ashenivir returned his attention to the drawing.

An eight-pointed star—Mystra’s mark—set within a circle of runes he quickly identified as an alternating sequence of abjuration and divination sigils. It would take further study to discern their purpose, though perhaps the notes Rizeth had left would explain them. Inside the circle, around the star, were words. They were High Drow, he could tell that much, though the script was so tangled and elaborate he couldn’t easily make out what they said. What he could make out were the ones titling Rizeth’s notes, and those made his heart skip a beat.

L’Ehmtua’s anzzar.

The owner’s mark. Or rather, if he were less literal in translation, the Master’s mark. Ehmtua was a Master’s title, the way Ra’soltha was his.

Trying to control his excitement, Ashenivir skimmed through the notes. Explanation of the runes, yes, that was in there. Some long passage about where it went, what it did, how it would be applied; another about the history of it or some such dry piece. He scarcely cared just then.

He wants to mark me!

His hand went to the back of his neck, the place the notes said it would go. Rizeth’s hand often sat there after a scene, the warm weight of it a calming anchor. Ashenivir flexed his fingers. A few bites, some rope marks, maybe a handful of bruises, that was all he’d hoped for. This was far more than he’d ever dreamed of, and he wanted to leap up and run after Rizeth, tell him yes, yes, of course he wanted it!

His Master had told him to read carefully. Given him until his graduation to decide. Rizeth didn’t want him to rush, and Ashenivir knew he shouldn’t, not for something like this. This was permanent, this was important, this was…

Ownership.

He carefully tucked the notes into his pocket. He’d read them over in detail in private, make an informed choice, a responsible one—one that showed he was as good a Ra’soltha as Rizeth thought him. That he was deserving of such a mark.

He traced over the star with light fingers. Had Rizeth designed this himself? Just for him?

“What are you working on?”

Ashenivir nearly jumped out of his skin. Keszriin dropped into the chair across from him and reached for the drawing. He slapped his palm over it, covering the mark.

“Nothing.”

“Oh, now I have to know.” She tugged the paper away from him and he didn’t dare resist too much—he didn’t want to tear it. “Ugh, your spell notations are always so much nicer than mine. Doesn’t look like any spell I know, though. Is it something too advanced for mere mortals?” She gave him a hard look as she slid the paper back to him. “It better not be another messed up sleep spell.”

“It’s not, I promise.” His hand strayed again to the back of his neck, and he pretended to scratch. “It’s not a spell, anyway. It’s…I was thinking of getting a…a tattoo.”

It was close enough to the truth, and it was a perfect distraction—Keszriin had to smother her snorted laugh with a hand, her giggles drawing annoyed looks from apprentices at a nearby table. She sunk down in her chair, still snickering.

“First piercings and holding essays hostage from the Archbastard, then messing with spells you shouldn’t, and now a tattoo?” She pressed her hands to her heart, pulling a wide-eyed face at him. “Is my little Shen finally growing up into someone interesting?”

“Ha, ha.” He glared at her.

“Nice to see you acknowledging my superior sense of humour at last. But I guess a tattoo,” she smothered more giggles behind her hand, “is as good a graduation present to yourself as any. Mine’ll be better, though.”

“Oh, Goddess, what have you done?”

“Nothing you don’t deserve. Anyway, hysterical as this all is, I only came to tell you Master Tasen’tek’s class is cancelled. Someone sealed the door to the alchemy lab with sovereign glue and no-one can find the universal solvent.”

“Is he stuck in there?”

“Apparently. He didn’t have any teleportations prepared, and Master Xiltael is stopping anyone going in to get him because she thinks it’s funny.”

Ashenivir sighed. “Sometimes I wonder how this college functions at all.”

“We’re wizards, what do you expect?” Keszriin stood, and tapped a finger on the drawing, on a section of the High Drow tangle. “By the way, you should put jabbuk not ehmtua if you want the personal title, otherwise it’ll look like you own yourself. And write it neater, I can hardly read it.”

Then with a wave and a smile and a flounce of petticoats she was gone, and Ashenivir returned his attention to the drawing. Slowly, he managed to tease out the words from Rizeth’s elaborate script, so unlike his usual writing.

Ulu uk vel’uss zhah ussta Ehmtua, ori’gato uns’aa tlu natha belbol duul’ssoen belbaunin.

To he who is my Master, let me be a gift freely given.

Ashenivir’s breath caught as he finished the translation. He carefully folded up the drawing and tucked it away with the explanatory notes. He was going to think about it, because Rizeth had asked him to. He was going to take his time, and understand every part of this, and not rush into anything just because the thought of it made him want to scream with joy.

And if the thinking about it was mostly going to be fantasising about having it, well, that was nobody’s business but his.

---

Rizeth did not take reverie that night. He couldn’t slip into the trance, couldn’t silence his mind for even a few moments, and he didn’t have a Master to set a hand on his head and calm his racing thoughts with a well-placed word.

He was an idiot. He was a selfish idiot, and he’d ruined everything again. Why had he made the offer, why even let Ashenivir know such a mark existed! Why couldn’t he just be satisfied that he’d had something good for once without trying to strangle it in his obsessive need for control?

Since the moment he’d left the library, he hadn’t been able to stem the tide of memories that dredged themselves up. Six Abyss-damned decades and still they littered his mind, waiting with sharp teeth and bitter tongues to remind him of all his mistakes.

He is not Elian’la. This is not the same thing.

No matter how much he tried to tell himself that, he couldn’t make himself believe it. Unable to rest, he’d left the Arcanum and spent the night wandering Qu’ellor’harl, until eventually his steps brought him to the edge of the district’s rocky plateau, where he stood gazing down at the wild forest of Chataurvvin to the east. Wide mushroom caps pulsed with faint light.

“I won’t be your slave!”

“I am not trying to make you one! Will you just let me—”

“Then why do you want to brand me?”

He hugged his elbows tight, pressing his lips together. The echoes of her voice were still so clear. Shouldn’t he be over this by now? After so long? He’d been an idiot then, he knew that with painful clarity. A possessive, controlling idiot who’d had no idea what he was doing, and she’d been right to leave him. Goddess only knew what she’d ever seen in him in the first place.

A cluster of stirges took wing, startled by something unseen beneath the mushroom caps. Their screeching cries echoed in the still cavern, and Rizeth watched them until their small forms vanished into the shadows.

He knew what he was doing now, didn’t he? He’d given Ashenivir all the knowledge he needed, explained everything in the notes; given him a choice, the way he should have given Elian’la one. If he’d explained better back then, perhaps she would have…perhaps they would have…

His thoughts chased themselves in pointless circles until the blue glimmerings of a new day began on the cavern ceiling, the bioluminescent fungus beginning its cycle anew. As close to dawn as the Underdark could get. Rizeth rubbed at his stiff neck—he hadn’t intended to be out here all night, and his body was doubtless going to make him pay for the error. The night-glow of Chataurvvin faded away as the cavern brightened, movement visible in the far streets of Lyurdrin to the south as the day’s work began.

When Ashenivir graduated, he’d go to the surface, he was decided on that now. He could join on with one of the trade caravans heading to the outpost at Neverwinter, make his way south to Waterdeep from there. He had some associates in the city it had been too many years since he’d seen; avenues of research he could take up again in the city’s arcane circles. Yes, it had been entirely too long since he’d paid a visit to the World Above.

And what if he says yes? What if he takes the mark and you just leave? How is that any better than what you did last time?

It was better because Ashenivir owed him nothing. They weren’t…attached, the way he and Elian’la had been, which was why the quicker Rizeth got over the ill-advised affection he held for his apprentice, the better. Even if he was marked, Ashenivir was just a submissive, Rizeth just his Master. However enjoyable their arrangement was, Ashenivir would soon forget him when it was over.

Rizeth headed back towards the Arcanum as the cavern continued to brighten. He had classes to teach, essays to mark, exams to prepare for. He didn’t have time to dwell on a past he couldn’t change, or a future he couldn’t have.

And besides, if he stayed busy enough, he could avoid Ashenivir until he graduated, and never have to hear his answer.

---

Days later, Ashenivir lay on his bed, staring at the mark. He’d folded and unfolded it so many times the paper was starting to tear, and the only reason the other notes weren’t in the same state was because he’d committed them to memory. He cast his eyes over the runes for about the thousandth time.

Abjuration and divination in conjunction, to allow his Master to know if he was harmed—physically, magically, emotionally. To find him, wherever he was, whatever trouble he might be in. The abjuration was stronger; it would tell his Master if he was concealing damage during a scene, if he was pushing past his limits. The divination could be suppressed, if he wanted.

Ashenivir found he liked the idea of Rizeth knowing where to find him. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t scry his Master right back easily enough.

He traced the star with careful fingers, mapping out the clean black lines of Mystra’s mark. That was what would anchor the magic, bind it to him, embed it permanently into his skin. It seemed appropriate, given how he and Rizeth had met—magic bound them as much as service, and Ashenivir had earned reward in both. He knew that without having to ask.

His touch moved to the tangle of script, the woven rope of flowing High Drow, and he whispered the words aloud.

“To he who is my Master, let me be a gift freely given.”

It would hurt, the notes said. The application was more than just a marking, it was embedding magic into his flesh, burning ownership into his skin. It was not, Rizeth stressed, to be taken lightly. It was an offer, not an order.

Every time Ashenivir thought about having it, a thrill went through him. Something stronger than base lust at the idea of ownership, greater than simple glee at his Master finally agreeing to mark him. Warm, this strange thing that clattered around his ribs like a trapped moth, and he kept catching himself smiling without knowing why.

He’d never felt like this before, not about anything, and while it wasn’t unpleasant by any means, it was somewhat confusing. He put it down to excitement and graduation anxiety, and decided not to dwell on it too much. No sense trying to read more into things than was really there.

He curled his fingers around his collar. His Master was possessive, and he liked it, but beyond that, Rizeth was far more protective and caring than anyone else ever saw. How often had he stilled Ashenivir’s racing thoughts, calmed his heart, put him back together when he fell to pieces?

Koros. Sshamath. His mother, the wedding, the sleep spell—and even before all that, when he’d gotten sick after forcing Rizeth to rest when he’d been ill. Four years of serving his Master and taking care of his needs, and having his Master take care of his in turn. All part of their agreement, the dynamic they had built, and Ashenivir had never imagined it would be so wonderful, when first he’d approached the untouchable Master Velkon’yss.

He sat up. The mark drew his gaze again, sitting so innocuously on its page, as though it wasn’t the loudest siren song he’d ever heard.

This is permanent. You can’t take this back.

“I won’t want to,” he murmured, and knew as he said it how true it was. Ashenivir touched the back of his neck, and the warm thrill went through him again, a frantic thunder of moths in his chest. He got to his feet.

Time to give his Master his answer.

---

“Great Goddess, you look awful! When was the last time you took reverie?” Lyzira’s brash voice startled him from his thoughts, and Rizeth smacked his hand into his inkwell. She caught it before it could spill over his desk. “What’s got you so distracted? This isn’t like you—are you getting sick again?”

“I am perfectly fine. As you so keenly noted, I have not rested well.” Rizeth sealed the inkwell and very intently began cleaning off his pen nib so he wouldn’t have to look at her. “Reverie eludes me of late.”

She perched on the edge of his desk. “What’s on your mind? Tell your good friend Lyzira all about it, she’s great at life advice.”

“There is nothing to tell, I am simply experiencing a bout of insomnia.” Rizeth said, trying not to snap. It wasn’t her fault he couldn’t clear his head enough to sleep. “Perhaps it is time I took a break,” he added.

“You do have a penchant for overworking.” She stole one of his pens and twirled it in her fingers. “It’s been what, three decades since you took a holiday?”

“Not quite that.” He plucked the pen out of her hand, to save it joining the others pinning up her messy hair. If it made it into Lyzira’s debatable coiffure, he’d never see it again, and good stationary was a luxury at the Arcanum.

“Still too long, in my opinion, you—oh, hello apprentice Zauvym! Holding together in the face of those exams this time?”

Rizeth’s heart performed some kind of painfully complicated acrobatic manoeuvre. He’d managed to avoid Ashenivir so far since he’d given him the offer; he’d had no classes with him, and the Arcanum was vast, and he hadn’t called him for study, and oh, Hells, why does he look so serious?

“I’m very well, thank you, Master Xiltael. I just had a few things to discuss with Master Velkon’yss.”

“They will have to wait.” Rizeth shoved his chair back and very confidently did not look at Ashenivir. “I have some urgent business to take care of.”

Then—though he would never admit it, even to himself—he fled the classroom.

---

Rizeth was avoiding him. There were no two ways about it, his Master was deliberately avoiding being anywhere near him, and Ashenivir was tired of it. Oh, it wasn’t the cold way he’d been ignored after his return from Sshamath, but it was nearly as frustrating. Rizeth had given him an offer, asked for an answer, and was now apparently trying to escape having to hear it.

Something was wrong. Something was very wrong, because Rizeth wasn’t like this. He didn’t stutter, didn’t make up flimsy excuses to flee the room when Ashenivir appeared, didn’t spend half his time outside the Arcanum where Ashenivir couldn’t find him. He always explained things when Ashenivir asked; there were no lies and no secrets between them. Not for this.

It was a rule, and Ashenivir didn’t like that his Master was skirting the edge of breaking it.

Nearly a month of this behaviour now, and he’d just about had enough. With the precious drawing folded in his pocket, he waited until the sconces dimmed towards their evening glow, then made his way down to Rizeth’s quarters to do something aggressively stupid.

He’d heard Rizeth speak the command word for his arcane lock often enough, and had never once abused the knowledge. His Master trusted him with it, and he hated to break that trust, but Rizeth was keeping things from him. And so, despite the flash of guilt it conjured, he spoke the word now and stepped through.

Rizeth wasn’t there. Ashenivir hadn’t expected him to be. He took his time undressing, methodically setting everything neatly in its accustomed place by the door, and took the drawing of the mark with him as he went to kneel in the centre of the room.

After a moment he got up again and fetched the flat cushion Rizeth often gave him to kneel on. He had no idea when Rizeth would be back, after all—just because he was being reckless didn’t mean he had to be uncomfortable.

Ashenivir set the drawing before him and settled into position. He bowed his head and closed his eyes, allowing his breathing to slow, his mind to float. He would stay here all night if he had to.

One way or another, Rizeth was going to listen to what he had to say.

---

Rizeth froze in his doorway.

“What do you think you’re doing?” The words snapped out, more surprise in them than anger.

“Why are you avoiding me, Master?” Ashenivir countered, raising his head. There was deference in his posture, determination in his gaze—a submissive in full control of his power. A wash of pride and terror made Rizeth’s head spin, and he gripped the doorframe so tight his nails dug crescents into the wood.

“I am busy, apprentice, I cannot always be making time for you.”

A part of him was certain Ashenivir knew him well enough by now to hear the lie in that, no matter how he tried to hide it. Ashenivir reached out and slid a familiar sheet of paper across the floor. His chest tightened.

“You do not want it.” He crossed his arms to keep his hands from shaking. “I understand, I should not have—”

“I want it.”

Rizeth blinked.

“I’ve been trying to tell you that for days now,” Ashenivir continued, “but you seem to have an aversion to being alone in a room with me lately, Master.”

“Mind your mouth, Ra’soltha.” The words came on instinct at Ashenivir’s interruption and his bold tone, but his voice was rough, not the slightest trace of command in it. He finally moved from the door, tapping it shut behind him with an absent mage hand, and picked up the drawing.

He wanted it. He wanted it, wanted it from him, had broken into his quarters to tell him he wanted it.

Rizeth’s grip tightened, the paper crumpling. Ashenivir wasn’t Elian’la, no matter how loud the incoherent tangle of memories screamed at him that this was just like last time, that he was ruining everything—

“You truly want this?” He managed to tear his eyes away from the drawing, and looked to where Ashenivir knelt so perfectly, his collar bright and beautiful around his neck.

“More than anything, Master.” Ashenivir held his gaze. “I’m honoured you think me worthy of it.”

Rizeth set the drawing on his desk, trying to control his shaking breath, his pounding heart.

“I won’t be your slave!”

He stared at the mark, at the creases in the paper, how worn it was after so short a time. He turned back to where his Ra’soltha still knelt, waiting patiently for his Master.

Oh, Goddess, please don’t let me ruin this.

---

Rizeth tipped his chin up, ran a thumb over his lips—his hand trembled, and Ashenivir’s stomach clenched. Did I do this wrong?

“It will hurt,” Rizeth said, his voice low, intense. “Do you understand that?”

“I like it when you hurt me,” Ashenivir replied.

He’d wanted to kiss Rizeth before, many times, but never had he wanted to quite so badly as he did on seeing the expression on his face at that moment. And when there was something he wanted…Ashenivir knew by now very well how to get it.

“Master,” he asked, “may I kiss you?”

Rizeth was silent for a heartbeat; two, three. Then he nodded.

Ashenivir rose and stretched up to press his lips against his Master’s. Softly, as Rizeth’s hands came to his waist and drew him close. Harder, as Rizeth’s tongue pressed into his mouth, and Ashenivir grabbed at him with suddenly desperate hands.

“Master,” he breathed between the increasingly hungry slide of lips. “Master, will you fuck me?”

Rizeth’s reply was to bite his lip hard enough to make him moan, then to haul him up into his arms. Ashenivir eagerly submitted to the rough claim of his mouth, and wrapped his legs around Rizeth’s waist as he was carried to the bedroom. They didn’t break apart until his back hit the sheets—looking up at Rizeth then, he went light-headed. My Master, mine!

No commands came, no orders; just familiar hands on his skin, a familiar weight pressing him down, a familiar warm mouth on his own. For the first time in four years, Ashenivir didn’t ask permission for anything, he just touched what he wanted, as he wanted. He tugged at Rizeth’s belt, groaning when Rizeth rocked his hips down in a clumsy friction unlike anything he was used to.

“I want…I want…” he gasped out, unable to form anything coherent. Rizeth understood. Somehow, in the messy tangle of their bodies, he managed to undress, unwilling to allow Ashenivir to go more than a breath-span without being kissed or touched in some way. Ashenivir had never known him like this, never had him like this; so hungry, so desperately his.

His nails dug into Rizeth’s back as his Master worked cantrip-slicked fingers into him, curling up and sending stars through his head. Bold, he bit at Rizeth’s lip. He got no reprimand—Rizeth only crooked his fingers again and Ashenivir moaned into his mouth.

“Please,” he panted, tilting his head so Rizeth could kiss along his jaw to his neck, “please, Master, fuck me.”

Even as Rizeth slid inside him, he was waiting for orders—hands above your head, open your mouth, close your eyes, beg for me—yet none came. He was lost, adrift without rules to follow; this wasn’t their arrangement, he didn’t know what his place was in this. Then Rizeth was moving, kissing him again, fucking into him steady and hard, and Ashenivir found his hands in Rizeth’s hair, clutching at him as he never had.

“Ashenivir,” Rizeth’s voice burned against his ear, and a shiver rolled down his spine. “My Ra’soltha.”

“Master, please,” was all he could manage. He was on the verge of begging Rizeth to tell him what to do, just to bring some sense back to the encounter, but then Rizeth’s mouth found his neck, kissing, biting, distracting. He canted his hips up, digging his heels into Rizeth’s back, needing him closer.

Goddess, it felt good. He could hardly breathe, clawing at Rizeth’s back with desperate hands. Tangled with him like this, without a single command, it was as if they were…as if they were…

Mystra help me, I want him so badly!

But he had him, didn’t he? How could he have him more than this! A moan tore from his throat as Rizeth hit deep, his whole body aglow. He knew he was marking Rizeth’s back as he dug his nails in, but he couldn’t help himself—he had him, his Master, his own perfect Master. He was Ra’soltha and he belonged to Rizeth, only to him.

As though reading his thoughts, Rizeth growled against his neck and bit a vicious kiss over his pulse.

“Mine.” The word buzzed against Ashenivir’s skin, sinking in and flooding him with joy. Rizeth looked down at him, with those piercing eyes that could hold him in place without a single word; those eyes he had dreamed of and ached for and now, impossibly, had for himself. Head spinning, he replied in the only way he could—with the truth.

“Yours.”

Rizeth kissed him furiously again, tangling his hands in Ashenivir’s hair. The tight sparkle of pain was better, more familiar. He whined in the back of his throat as Rizeth fucked into him harder, scrambling to hold on to any remnant of sense as pleasure carried him higher.

He came undone almost at the same time Rizeth did, his Master’s breath hot and uneven against his neck, his own not much steadier. He didn’t want to let go, no matter how his arms shook; he clung even as Rizeth rolled off him, tangling their legs together and sprawling over him, pressing kisses to his neck.

“Yours, Master, yours, yours, yours.”

Rizeth made no reply, but wrapped an arm around his waist and held him close, and that was enough.

“Why did you avoid me?” Ashenivir murmured into his chest, once he’d finally caught his breath. “Did you think I would say no?”

Rizeth was silent for a moment. Then he said, haltingly, “I was concerned I had…overstepped a boundary with you.”

There was more to it than that, Ashenivir was certain, but he wasn’t about to push. Not now. He raised himself up, enough to take Rizeth’s free hand and press it to the back of his neck.

“I want it,” he said, thinking, I want you, and still not knowing why he thought it, when he’d just had Rizeth as close as one person could get to another. Rizeth linked his fingers into Ashenivir’s, drawing his hand back down to press a careful, deliberate kiss to his knuckles.

“I am glad to hear that, xi’hum.”

Ashenivir stared down at him, drinking in the sight of his Master. Lilac-grey skin flushed dark, pale lips parted as he caught his breath, he was all perfectly sculpted angles and finely carved planes in the violet shadows of the torchlight. His ruby eyes were still bright with exertion, but soft at the edges in a way Ashenivir never saw outside the bedroom and only rarely here. His hair lay tangled in a messy halo about his head, messy because Ashenivir had made it that way.

His heart thudded so loud he was certain Rizeth would be able to hear it. Why do I have to leave him?

“When, Master?” he asked softly.

“Next month.” Rizeth brushed his knuckles against Ashenivir’s cheek. His arm still shook from exertion. “Before your exams. Before you graduate.”

“I thought it was a reward for graduating.”

“You have earned it early.”

“Then thank you, Ehmtua,” Ashenivir said. Rizeth’s breath hitched, and Ashenivir wondered if he knew that was how he felt, sometimes, when Rizeth called him Ra’soltha.

Rizeth pulled him down, so that his head rested on his chest. He would have to return to his quarters soon, but he could rest here a few moments, enjoy this time with his Master whilst he still had the chance. He allowed himself the indulgence of drifting off into reverie, with his Master’s arm around him, his Master’s hand stroking his hair, and his Master’s heartbeat against his ear. He would be counting the days now until he was marked. Counting the days until, at last, he was truly owned.

Ashenivir knew it would be worth the wait.