The Care and Keeping of Apprentices

Rizeth’s mage hand moved the neat stack of papers to the box on the couch behind him as he drew the next pile toward him, scanning the top page with a frown. Quite why examination month required so many extra reports when he kept very exact records all year round, he could not fathom. Still, at least it kept him busy. The graduation exams were just a few days away now and, for the first time since he’d taken on the responsibility of helping administer them, Rizeth was not looking forward to seeing which apprentices passed.

Because Ashenivir would pass, of that he was certain. And that would be the end of it.

He’d hardly seen him since their last scene. He couldn’t deny his concern, given how that encounter had gone, but Ashenivir had enough to do with preparing for his exams, and it seemed best to give him space. The last thing Rizeth wanted was to cast any doubt on his results by over-associating with him. He’d already ensured he would be involved in as few of his apprentice’s practical examinations as possible—studying too closely with him this near to them was a risk he was not willing to take.

Besides, he had little need of additional tutoring at this point. Rizeth might have been more than a little biased, but Ashenivir’s abilities were undeniably above and beyond what was necessary for graduation. There were students long-graduated that did not possess half the aptitude he did.

Distracted now, Rizeth sighed and set down his pen. He leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting unbidden to the bedroom door.

He’d tried to pull away and it had backfired magnificently. He’d limited their encounters, which had only served to intensify them, and despite his best efforts had been unable to resist indulging in the dynamic outside of their scenes. Ashenivir was irresistible, magnetic, and Rizeth had given up lying to himself about how much he wanted him.

It didn’t matter. Ashenivir would be gone soon, and like the fool he was he would no doubt feel wretched about it, which was only what he deserved for getting so attached in the first place.

Rizeth took up his pen and returned his attention to the stack of student work before him. He scanned over the new report structure he was apparently intended to apply to it, and sighed. Different to the one he’d been given last year, of course; Mystra’s sake, it was going to take him hours, and it was a complete waste of—

A knock at his door.

For a half second his heart leapt, before he realised the pattern was not Ashenivir’s. It was loud, insistent. Desperate.

“Master Velkon’yss? Master Xiltael said I could find you here, please tell me you’re here!” That was Keszriin Eilist’tra, and she sounded frantic. What was she doing here?

Rizeth opened the door whilst she was mid-knock. She jumped back, startled.

“Apprentice Eilist’tra. To what do I owe this interruption?”

“It’s Ashenivir,” she said, her voice thick with barely restrained tears. “I think he’s done something stupid.”

Rizeth’s blood ran cold as she continued, twisting her hands together as she spoke.

“He’s been half-killing himself preparing for the exams, and this past tenday it’s gotten worse. He barely eats, he’s hardly spoken to me or anyone else, and now he hasn’t left his room for three days and he won’t let anyone in, and—”

“Why are you here and not at the infirmary?” He had to stop her panicking. With Ashenivir he knew what to do, it was as simple as a firm hand atop his head, or the rope if his thoughts ran excessively loud. Not things he could do with apprentice Eilist’tra. “Take a breath and tell me.”

Keszriin hauled a deep, noisy breath through her nose.

“Because he respects you, and he might actually listen to you. I don’t want to get him in trouble if he has done something stupid—I don’t want to stop him graduating, not after how hard he’s worked. You won’t stop him, will you? He always said you wanted him to reach his potential.”

He said that? Beneath the frantic creature of concern scrabbling in his ribs, Rizeth felt a small glow of pleasure. To Keszriin he simply nodded.

“Very well. Let us see what manner of trouble apprentice Zauvym has managed to get himself into.”

---

Rizeth did not often come up to the apprentice’s quarters; the levels of the Arcanum that housed its eclectic collection of wizards in training contained too much enthusiasm and not enough study for his liking. The corridors were reasonably quiet at present, though there was quite the little gathering outside Ashenivir’s door as he and Keszriin approached.

Dresvan and Pellanue Hyn glanced up guiltily from where the latter had been attempting to conceal the former’s attempts to melt through the lock. Ashenivir’s friends had gotten tired of doing things the polite way, apparently. Nearby, Vuzree Abbyn’tyth leaned against a wall, attempting a look of impassive calm that was undone by the hand fidgeting incessantly with the tangle of jewellery hanging about their neck.

“You are not renowned for your subtlety of spellcraft, apprentice Hyn—desist before you set yourself and your sister alight.”

Dresvan shook away the spell, blowing sparks from his fingertips. Modifying his favoured firebolt most likely, and he was lucky he hadn’t burned his hand off. Rizeth strode past him and rapped firmly on the door. There was no immediate response, so he did it again. The voice that emerged was Ashenivir’s, but Rizeth knew at once something was wrong.

“Kezz’rn, no, I said I’m busy!”

“See?” Keszriin hovered at his elbow, too anxious to stay still. “He sounds sick or something.”

Or something was right. Every wizard made use of the Weave, but manipulating it, altering it, crafting new spells out of its weft and warp…that was his area of expertise. Taking theory and spinning it into subtle alterations, delicate adjustments—playing cat’s cradle, as Lyzira liked to say. Rizeth knew magical alteration better than anyone else at the Arcanum, and he knew Ashenivir’s voice in more detail than he should.

Too much vibration, pitched too high, the words just slightly slurred. Ashenivir had played cat’s cradle and gotten lost in the tangle.

Rizeth knocked again, harder this time, and raised his voice. “Apprentice Zauvym, open this door at once.”

He hoped the phrase that always predicated his summons would break through whatever state Ashenivir had worked himself into. No such luck.

“So be it.” Rizeth glanced at the anxious huddle of Ashenivir’s friends. “Cover your ears.”

He placed a palm over the lock and spoke a word of power. The knock echoed down the corridor, strong enough to crack a wall sconce. A dozen doors flew open at once, curiosity and annoyance filling the hall with complaints about the ear-splitting sound that had just disturbed them.

Rizeth was keenly aware of the many eyes on him as he stepped inside. No matter what Ashenivir had done, he had to keep his feelings under control. He was a teacher, Ashenivir an apprentice. He could allow nothing else to show.

Apprentice’s quarters—those not the shared dormitories of first-year students—were not particularly luxurious. A small bedroom with an alcove on one side in which were squeezed a desk and a narrow bookcase, and a walled off bathing area just large enough to lay down in, provided you weren’t too tall. Ashenivir’s room was no exception, though the bookcase had been moved, blocking Rizeth’s view into the alcove. Beyond it, candlelight flickered, a dim orange glow that threw up jumping, disconcerting shadows. The air was stale and unwholesome, and there were books and papers scattered across the bed, some face down with their spines cracking.

“Apprentice Zauvym, you have caused your companions a great deal of concern,” Rizeth said, moving slow, cautious.

“Tell Kez m’fine. Leave me alone.” Still that wrongness in his voice, almost like it was echoing back on itself, like there were two Ashenivirs speaking and neither of them were well.

Further in, past the shifted bookcase, and there he was, hunched over his desk. Scattered candles burned low, drooling wax that pooled about high stacks of books which threatened to topple at any moment. Ashenivir didn’t look up from the one he was studying, though he flicked the pages so fast Rizeth knew he was taking in nothing. He reached out into the Weave, assessing, and hissed in a breath at the spiked tangle of it clinging to Ashenivir’s head.

Oh, Ra’soltha, what have you done?

His hair was a mess. He ran a hand through it absently as Rizeth approached, fingers catching in the knotty remains of a braid at his temple until he yanked them free with a curse. Rizeth’s hands ached to untangle it, to pull Ashenivir into his lap and put him back together one strand at a time.

Ashenivir glanced up as he reached the desk. His eyes were bloodshot, pupils so wide there was only the barest sliver of crimson left around them. The tangle of Weave was far, far worse there, and they were utterly vacant—he had no idea at all who was standing in front of him.

If you have permanently damaged yourself, I am going to be furious.

Rizeth turned back to the door. Keszriin and the other apprentices were clustered there, as though too afraid to cross the threshold.

“Apprentice Eilist’tra,” he said, loud enough to make them jump. Behind him, Ashenivir didn’t react. Too far gone on who knew what spell. “Go to the dining hall and fetch food and water. Something with plenty of salt.” She blinked at him, until he barked, “Now, apprentice.”

She bolted away in a rustle of petticoats and Rizeth turned his attention to the rest of Ashenivir’s protective little gang of miscreants.

“Apprentices Hyn, you will remove every book and other study material from this room.”

The two of them shuffled in, still hesitant. Pellanue was uncharacteristically silent, uttering not a single word of complaint at the order. Dresvan shot a glance at Ashenivir, who was still flipping through the book, now muttering under his breath.

“Master Velkon’yss, are you sure—?” he started. Rizeth fixed him with a level stare.

“Was I unclear? Take every book, every scroll, every scrap of paper that might conceivably be readable—put them in my classroom for the time being.” As usual when it came to apprentices, his tone brooked no argument. He knew it made him unpopular among them, but he had never cared about that, and cared even less now. Every second that passed was another in which Ashenivir suffered. You know better than this, apprentice, what were you thinking?

“What’s wrong with him?” Vuzree asked. Ashenivir protested the removal of his books with weak hands and darting eyes—he still didn’t seem to know who was there, only that they were doing something he didn’t like.

“Some misbegotten spell born of ill-advised tinkering.” Rizeth folded his arms, digging his fingers into his bicep. “Go to the infirmary. Ask for faer’astunin dajakk afya. They will know what it is.”

Vuzree nodded, shot another worried look at Ashenivir, then hurried away. Rizeth stood aside whilst Dresvan and Pellanue finished gathering up all the books and papers from the room. They’d managed to find Ashenivir’s bag of holding, and piled the lot into it with more efficiency than Rizeth had ever seen from either of them before.

By the time they were finished, Keszriin had returned with a covered platter and a pitcher of water. She set them down with deliberately careful movements and crouched before Ashenivir, who still sat with his breath too fast and his eyes darting blankly back and forth. She took his hands and squeezed them gently.

“Master Velkon’yss, what did he do?”

“I will soon find out,” Rizeth said. “It would be better if you left, apprentice. Untangling this is not going to be particularly pleasant.”

“He’ll be alright, won’t he?”

“That remains to be seen.”

“You idiot.” This she addressed to Ashenivir, who only blinked and muttered something incoherent. “If you die, I’m going to get my mother to resurrect you so I can kill you myself.”

Vuzree arrived as she was delivering her threats, holding a small dark box and looking more concerned than ever. Rizeth took it from them and ushered the pair from the room, leaving him at last alone with Ashenivir. He did not breathe any easier for the privacy.

Now then, Ra’soltha. Let us find out what you have done.

---

Rizeth closed the door fully with a motion of a mage hand and crossed to where Ashenivir sat, feeling about his desk for books that were no longer there.

“Where did they…I just had them, where…?”

“Ashenivir,” Rizeth said, low and firm. Ashenivir blinked briefly in his direction, then his head twitched away. “Ra’soltha.” Harder now, and that did catch his attention; he sat up straight, if not still.

Rizeth laid a light hand atop his head. His scalp was fever-hot, and he cursed, his frustration a hair’s breadth from fear. Three days at least he’d been under the influence of whatever he’d tried to do, if Keszriin had been speaking the truth. Goddess only knew what kind of damage he’d done. He tilted Ashenivir’s head back, forcing him to look up.

“Ra’soltha, I need you to tell me what you did,” he said. “I am going to dispel whatever it is you crafted, but you need to tell me what you tried to do. I do not want to hurt you.”

“What I…I didn’t…not for the exams yet, they’re not for…for…”

“Not the exams, the spell. You cast one on yourself three days ago. What were you trying to do?”

“Study.” His eyes cleared, just for a moment. “I put it backwards, so it would keep me awake.”

Put it backwards?

“A sleep spell? Is that what you modified?”

Ashenivir nodded, gaze going vacant again. A sleep spell—how could he have been so reckless! Rizeth set his fingertips to Ashenivir’s temples.

“Ashenivir, look at me,” he said, and though Ashenivir stared right through him, he did at least angle his head in Rizeth’s direction. “Good, like that. This is going to be unpleasant, but you must not move. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Master.”

There, as he’d hoped—instinct. Out of his head in the worst possible way, his subconscious still followed familiar patterns. Rizeth hoped it would give him something to hold on to. He took a breath, and dispelled the magic.

Ashenivir went rigid, then his breath began to stutter, fast and uneven.

“Do not move, Ra’soltha,” Rizeth murmured, pushing harder against the Weave. The cluster of threads around Ashenivir’s head resisted him, the ill-wrought tangle making them far stronger than they had any right to be. He struggled to find the ones that made up the sleep spell, so warped had they become. Ashenivir made a pained sound, like a wounded animal, head twitching—the rest of him remained perfectly, obediently still.

Rizeth plucked at the threads, trying to untangle them, and the whimper became a cry.

“It hurts! Stop, please stop!”

He couldn’t untangle it. It had sat too long and enmeshed itself with Ashenivir’s own Weave—too many ends were blurring together, fusing into something awful. If it had been left much longer…

“Stop!”

Rizeth grit his teeth and plunged the arcane knife of his mind into the spell. He couldn’t pick it apart, so he’d have to cut it. Too fast, and he risked severing Ashenivir’s connection to the Weave permanently; too slow, and the spell would reattach itself, insidious little tendrils clinging to the power that had formed them.

Ashenivir’s hand came up and tapped at his arm. Three times, again, again, again, and Rizeth’s soul ached at ignoring the plea.

I’m so sorry, xi’hum. It’s almost done.

Magic fell away under his will, Ashenivir’s spell crumbling apart in jagged pieces. Sparks flooded his vision as he severed the last of it, and Ashenivir collapsed in his chair, head lolling. Rizeth darted forwards to catch him before he could fall to the floor.

“Easy, Ra’soltha. I have you.”

Ashenivir was a limp weight in his arms. Rizeth set him on the bed, and even in what remained of the dim candlelight he looked ill, an ashen cast to his violet skin, his eyes sunk in deep shadows. His breathing was much better now though; calmer, more even. Without thinking about it, Rizeth smoothed his hair back from his forehead—the fever-heat had cooled, and he sighed in relief.

The spell was gone. Ashenivir would be alright.

---

The Arcanum was no stranger to apprentices—and on occasion Masters—making a mess of their spells, either on themselves or others. Removing such castings was unpleasant, though rarely fatal, and tended to leave the subject of the dispel weakened and drained. It took time for the body’s connection to the Weave to stabilise, for their arcane energy to resettle.

From what it had taken to fix Ashenivir’s casting, he needed all the help the faer’astunin could provide.

Rizeth sat at Ashenivir’s desk, measuring components carefully into a cup. It was perhaps one of the foulest concoctions ever conceived, but it was effective. As he mixed in the last of the powdered drathir root, he couldn’t help but think back to the time Ashenivir had done similar for him.

Not quite a year into their arrangement, he had gotten horribly sick. As usual, he’d ignored it for far too long—Lyzira had been furious with his refusal to rest, and the pounding migraine had made him less than patient with her. He’d been too sharp, too cruel, and the guilt of it mixed with the illness had blurred the days into an endless, nauseating nightmare.

Then had come Ashenivir, begging on his knees to serve his Master in a way so far beyond what their agreement entailed that Rizeth had been knocked sideways by it. With the strength of his submission, he had forced Rizeth to rest, and to take the medicine he’d been stubbornly avoiding. And then, when Ashenivir had gotten that same sickness—no doubt from helping him—he’d surprised himself with how willing he was to assist his Ra’soltha.

Now here he was, doing it again, and far less surprised by his willingness.

He glanced at where Ashenivir lay, peaceful, on the bed. Despite how new to all of this he was, how inexperienced, he had instinctively understood one of the more important parts of their exchange of power. Being Ra’soltha meant more than just giving up control of his body, his pleasure; it meant taking care of his Master’s needs, whatever they were, however bone-headed about them his Master might be.

And being a good Master, Rizeth knew, meant keeping his Ra’soltha safe. Even from himself.

What in the world am I going to do when you leave?

He dropped a spark of arcane power into the cup to activate the mixture—it fizzed alarmingly for a moment, then settled. He could wallow in self-inflicted misery later. Right now, Ashenivir needed him.

“Ashenivir,” he called softly. Ashenivir stirred, a slight frown creasing his brow. “Time for you to come back, xi’hum.”

Ashenivir blinked slowly awake. His eyes were clear now, pupils back to normal, though they were still horribly bloodshot. He sat up, pressing a hand to his head. “Master Velkon’yss? What are you doing here?”

Rizeth handed him the cup.

“You decided to try to reverse a sleep spell and locked yourself in your room for three days. Keszriin Eilist’tra had to come and fetch me to remedy the situation.”

“Oh.”

“Do you remember doing it?”

“Yes,” Ashenivir said quietly. He frowned down at the drink in his hands. “What is this?”

“I dispelled your broken reversal, and the process takes a toll. Your spell was particularly strong and heavily enmeshed with your Weave—that restorative will help resettle your magic and speed your recovery, though you should not cast anything for a tenday at least.”

“A tenday?” Ashenivir’s head snapped up, horrified. “But the graduation exams are in three days!”

“Drink,” Rizeth ordered. “Then we need to have a talk.”

“Yes, Master.” Ashenivir took a sip, immediately pulling a face.

“All of it, Ra’soltha.”

As Ashenivir grimaced his way through the concoction, Rizeth sat by him on the bed.

“Why did you do this to yourself?” he asked, softer now. He wanted to put a comforting hand on Ashenivir’s knee, take him in his arms—if they’d been in his quarters, he knew he would have done it, and damn what it meant. “We both know you could have passed the exams with both hands tied behind your back. What made you feel the need to do something so dangerous?”

Ashenivir stared into the now empty cup, looking thoroughly lost.

“I just wanted…if I focused on the exams, I didn’t have to think about…about all the other things.”

“What other things?”

“Leaving.” He raised his head, and with the sleepless shadows around his eyes, the tangle of his hair, his ashen skin—he looked haunted. “My brother’s wedding, being House wizard, all of it. My Matron, she…” His eyes flicked to his desk, now bereft of any papers. “There’s so much she needs me to do, to help with the wedding, arrange things with my brother to take his place, I…I couldn’t…I just didn’t want to think about any of it anymore.”

Then why didn’t you come to me?

Rizeth took the cup from Ashenivir’s trembling grasp. “What have you eaten these past three days?”

“Conjured things,” Ashenivir said. “You showed me how to access other types of magic and that…that seemed simplest.”

“So not only did you alter a spell that should not by rights affect you at all, you also decided that it would be a good idea to, in your altered state, access parts of the Weave you are not attuned to.” Rizeth raised an eyebrow, pleased to see Ashenivir flushing. He hoped it meant he was coming back to himself. “Well, apprentice, you never have done things by halves, I suppose.”

“No, Master. I’m sorry, Master, I…I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“I can see that. Now come and eat something.”

Rizeth helped him up and over to his desk, where the food Keszriin had brought still waited, magically warmed beneath its cover. He found himself glad that Ashenivir had someone like her in his life, someone who would aggressively care for him when he needed it. Watching him pick his way first cautiously, then ravenously, through his food, Rizeth knew that by rights he should leave now. Let him recover on his own, give him some privacy to rest. I just need to ensure he’s alright, that I dispelled everything correctly. That’s all.

Right. He suppressed a snort of derision. And rothé have wings.

“Master, are you certain I can’t use the Weave for a tenday?” Ashenivir set his fork down and turned to him. “Maybe if I just used it for the exams and nothing else, it would be alright?”

Time for that talk, then.

“You are not taking those exams.”

Ashenivir shook his head, the frantic edge coming back to his movements. “No, no, I have to, I—”

“There will be other opportunities to graduate. You need to recover, and if you start casting now, you risk damaging your connection to the Weave permanently. You will delay until the solstice graduation at the very least.”

“But that’s more than six months from now! My Matron, Dirius’ wedding, they—”

“If your family values you only for your arcane potential and as a method to ensure a marriage, then they frankly do not deserve you,” Rizeth snapped, more forcefully than he’d intended. “Is your health not their foremost concern?”

“My graduation isn’t just about me. Dirius has been waiting for years to marry Fellanistra, it isn’t fair for me to make him keep waiting. And our mother still won’t let Nilaena stay at the Shrine, I can’t just leave her, I…” he trailed off, as though he’d said too much. His hands curled into weak fists atop his knees. “I can’t let them all down. Not again.”

“Your graduation is only about you,” Rizeth said. “It is the culmination of your hard work, your dedication, your skill. Your family are entitled to celebrate it—they are not entitled to claim ownership of it.”

“I came here to be what my House needs,” Ashenivir said. “That I happen to enjoy it is a nice benefit, but I did this for my Matron.”

“Come here,” Rizeth said, before he could think better of it. Ashenivir stared at him. He cocked his head, raised an eyebrow, and a moment later Ashenivir was in his lap—a place he absolutely should not have been in this part of the Arcanum. Rizeth didn’t care. He took Ashenivir’s face in his hands.

“You are my Ra’soltha. Do you think it pleases your Master, for his Ra’soltha to disregard his own needs like this? To be so careless with his well-being for the sake of what others want?”

“No,” Ashenivir whispered.

“And do you remember when I asked you to think about what it was that you wanted?” Ashenivir nodded. “Did you do as I asked?”

“I…yes, but…”

“But what? What do you want?”

“I want…” Ashenivir took an unsteady breath. He leaned forward, pressed his forehead to Rizeth’s. “I want to stay here, at the Arcanum. I don’t even really care about graduating, I just want to keep studying. And I want—” his voice caught. “I want to stay and serve you.”

Great Goddess, you should not say things like that to me.

“Well,” Rizeth said slowly, trying to control the rising urge to kiss him despite where they were. “If that is what you want, you will do as I have said and delay until the solstice. That will give you plenty of time to decide what you wish to do outside of your studies.”

“But Matron Illiavra has already planned the wedding for the end of the year!”

“You mentioned this before, and I still do not understand it. Why in the world can your brother not marry and continue to serve as House wizard?” Rizeth shook his head, and Ashenivir sat back. “Why has your Matron made that choice for him—more to the point, why has he allowed her to?”

“She…since our father died, she can’t bear to be alone,” Ashenivir said. “She needs us. Dirius loves her, he just wants…we all just want her to be happy.”

“And your happiness does not factor into hers?”

“I am happy,” Ashenivir said, the words immediate, instinctive. Rizeth, also on instinct, slid a hand into his hair and tugged. You can’t do this, anyone could walk through that door!

“You do not lie to me, Ra’soltha,” was what he said, ignoring the voice of reason screaming at him. “If you were happy, we would not be having this conversation.”

Ashenivir dropped his gaze. Rizeth relaxed his grip and ran his fingers gently through his hair, picking apart some of the tangles, softening his touch whenever Ashenivir winced.

“You will delay until the solstice,” he repeated. “You will take the time to recover properly, and if you are still not ready by then, you will delay until this time next year. I will not sit by and watch you destroy yourself and all your potential for the sake of your Matron. She does not own you or your magic.”

“Yes, Master.” Ashenivir did not entirely sound like he believed the words.

“And neither does anyone else,” Rizeth added. “Your life is yours to decide what to do with. You are the only one who gets to determine your future. Am I understood?”

“No, Master.” Ashenivir reached up and wrapped his arms around Rizeth’s neck. His face was lightly flushed, and he bit his lip in that way he did that made Rizeth’s heart ache.

“And why not, Ra’soltha?”

“Because you’re wrong,” Ashenivir said. “I might own my magic, but you own me.”

Ashenivir kissed him then, and it took Rizeth a moment to respond. He shouldn’t, not here, not where someone might see, might walk in at any moment—

His hand slid back into Ashenivir’s hair and he tilted his head, deepening the kiss. One hand went to the small of Ashenivir’s back, holding him closer, feeling the soft warmth of his body. Goddess, he tasted so good, felt so right in his arms.

Six more months! Six more months with him, at least! He shouldn’t have been happy about any of this, but he was. Deliriously happy, dizzy with the idea of having him so much longer. He had to get a handle on this, he couldn’t keep on acting like this, giving in like this when it came to Ashenivir. It wasn’t a good idea; it wasn’t safe, it wasn’t right, it—

“Master,” Ashenivir sighed into his mouth, and Rizeth realised he was out of breath, light-headed. He pulled away, putting his fingers to Ashenivir’s lips when he tried to follow.

“You need to rest,” he said, struggling to keep his voice steady.

“I’m fine.”

“You are not, you are exhausted. I can feel how unsettled your magic is from here.” Which wasn’t hard—there was scarcely an inch between them. Rizeth moved Ashenivir from his lap to the bed, whereupon he immediately stretched out, arms above his head, arching his back, and great Goddess give me strength!

Rizeth stood.

“Take reverie,” he said. “Sleep, for Mystra’s sake. I will take care of rescheduling your graduation with the Archmage.”

He started for the door—Ashenivir pushed himself up and caught his wrist.

“Stay,” he implored, gazing up at him with eyes so impossibly deep Rizeth thought he could drown in them, if he wasn’t careful. At this point, he would have been happy to. “Please, just…until I pass out?”

He should refuse. He knew he should refuse.

Ashenivir’s fingers were warm around his wrist as he sat on the edge of the bed. He lay down and closed his eyes at Rizeth’s urging, but did not relinquish his grip.

“Six months till the solstice,” he said. “Six more scenes?”

“Six more scenes,” Rizeth promised. A faint smile crossed Ashenivir’s face as he slipped fast towards a no doubt deep reverie, probably even actual sleep.

“That’s good,” he mumbled, “…that’s very good…”

Rizeth stayed until he was certain Ashenivir was asleep, then carefully freed his wrist. Even unconscious, Ashenivir clung to him.

You own me.

As he stepped back out into the Arcanum, Rizeth couldn’t help but think that sometimes it seemed to be the other way around.