Scream For Me

“How’s my favourite overachiever?”

Ashenivir nearly leapt out of his skin as Pellanue draped her arms over his shoulders. She laughed loudly and ruffled his hair before letting him go. “You’re jumpy today. Exams?”

He managed an awkward smile. “Sort of.”

“You’ll be fine. I don’t think I know anyone smarter than you.”

“That isn’t hard, given who we associate with.”

“You are getting sassier by the day, Ashenivir Zauvym.” She shoved his shoulder and he staggered halfway across the corridor before regaining his balance. “I like all this new confidence—you always were far too shy.”

“Everyone looks shy compared to you and Dresvan.”

She drew to a stop and caught his arm, a rare look of sincerity on her face. “No, but seriously. Even before you had that teensy little breakdown, you seemed like you were getting your shit together. Like you liked yourself more.” She flicked his collar, and Ashenivir restrained himself from slapping her hand away. “Since you started with the jewellery, I think it was. And Vuzree is right, by the way—silver looks better on you than gold.”

“Thanks, Pella.” Ashenivir smiled and adjusted his collar to lie smooth again. “That means a lot, coming from you.” She socked him in the arm.

“Yeah, well, just don’t tell Dresvan I got all touchy feely.”

The dining hall resounded with the late afternoon cacophony of Arcanum students at dinner. The long tables were thronged with apprentices, and Ashenivir paused, searching for his friends among the crowd. Pellanue elbowed him.

“You’re not going to have another breakdown though, right?”

He almost had to shout to be heard over the din. “I wasn’t planning on it, no!”

“Good! Keszriin might kill you if you did.”

He finally spotted said potential murderer, who had climbed up onto a table on the far side of the hall and was presently waving her arms wildly. Ashenivir waved back—then winced when she lost her balance and toppled out of sight.

He really was feeling much better about the exams this time around. Without the pressure of his mother’s demands weighing quite so heavily, he found he was actually enjoying just being able to prepare to show how much he’d learned. He still wasn’t looking forward to leaving afterwards, though.

His hand went to the back of his neck as he and Pella made their way across the hall. And tomorrow night there was that. Forget the exams, that was the real source of his nerves. Yes, he was excited—every time he thought about the mark, a wild maelstrom of moths took up residence inside his chest, fluttering hot around his heart—but it was an unknown. Something new, something important, both to him and to his Master. Painful too, though he’d dealt with pain before, and he trusted Rizeth to carry him through it.

He’d be fine as soon as it began. It was only the waiting that was putting him on edge, and he hadn’t had a scene in over a tenday—with the exams so close, Rizeth wanted him to concentrate. Ashenivir was of the opinion he would concentrate much better if he was tied up and spanked within an inch of his life every other evening, but his Master disagreed.

Yes, once Rizeth began he’d be fine. He took his seat and, across from him, Keszriin and Dresvan immediately launched into an extravagantly embellished retelling of the dramatics of their alchemy class. Ashenivir fingered the links of his collar absently while they chattered on. Just one more night to go.

He could hardly wait.

---

Everything was as ready as it could be. The sanctum was clean, physically and magically. He had pored over the ritual so many times he saw the spell flickering before him every time he closed his eyes. He had checked, and double-checked, and triple-checked the sound-proofing spells on his quarters; reinforced them anyway, just in case.

Rizeth straightened the spell components again, trailing his fingers over the delicate eggshells in their silver dishes: speckled brown from a riding lizard, and deep, iridescent turquoise from a diatryma. The type of shell didn’t matter, their appearance even less, but…

His hand lingered over the diatryma shell. Not exactly rare, but pricey to come by in such intact pieces. The colours were so beautifully vibrant they were often in high demand by artisans more than wizards—why waste the foundation of such fine pigment on a simple spell?

Rizeth didn’t think it a waste on this occasion. Not for Ashenivir.

“Why do you want to brand me?”

His fingers curled tight into his palm. Elian’la’s voice had been louder than ever since Ashenivir had accepted his offer, and he wished he had the magic to drown out memories. It had been more than half a century, wasn’t that enough?

“You don’t own me, I’m not a thing!”

That wasn’t what he was doing, that wasn’t what this was about. Perhaps he was still being selfish, but only because he wanted Ashenivir happy. That was all this was, a reward for the time he’d dedicated to his service, the effort he’d poured into his submission. He was just giving Ashenivir what he’d asked for over and over and over, almost since they’d first begun, even if this particular mark might not have been what he’d been thinking of.

And he wants it, Rizeth told himself, though he still scarcely believed it. He glared down at the eggshells, forced his hand to unclench. He knows what it is, and he still wants it.

With a flick of his wrist, he extinguished the sconces in the sanctum and headed for the bathing room. He needed to settle his thoughts—tomorrow night would require a clear head, with no room for clinging memories or pointless desires. Rizeth touched the rune to fill the bath and soon sank into water hot enough to fill the room with steam. He lay his head back against the cool, tiled edge and let his eyes fall closed.

When Ashenivir left the Arcanum, he would lose a submissive, nothing more. There was nothing else that could ever exist between them—Ashenivir belonged to him for now, yes, but he was not Rizeth’s to keep.

It was a nice fantasy, though. Keeping him. How sweet, the idea of Ashenivir continuing to attend his summons even after graduation, coming all the way to the Arcanum just for him. Or even—a more dangerous thought—coming to his estate. He could move back there, it wasn’t as if it were far from the Arcanum. Ashenivir, the powerful wizard of House Zauvym, however minor it might be, coming to his door to go to his knees in service of his true Master.

Coming to his door and never leaving. Coming to his rooms, to his bed, never returning to some far-off quarters ever again. What did he look like, in the mornings?

“All you know is how to order someone around and make them think you care!”

Rizeth’s eyes snapped open.

“He is not you, and he does not need me to care for him.” The words echoed off the tile, mocking him. Rizeth rubbed a hand over his face. “He doesn’t want affection from me. Just ownership.”

He rose, dismissing the enchanted water, and watched steam coil from his damp skin. Master and Ra’soltha, that was all they were. If he went looking for more, it would only end badly for all involved, and Ashenivir didn’t deserve to be subjected to his selfish whims.

He would not repeat his mistakes. No matter how much he wanted to.

---

All their most intense spellcasting had taken place in Rizeth’s sanctum, and tonight was to be no different. Ashenivir knelt by the workbench while Rizeth checked over his preparations—his Master’s hands were far steadier than his, which trembled where they clasped his elbows behind his back. Try as he might, he could neither slow his breathing nor calm his racing heart.

“You still have the power to change your decision, Ra’soltha.” Rizeth glanced down at him.

“I don’t want to, Master,” Ashenivir said. “I’m just nervous. It’s the anticipation, I think, more than anything else.”

“Let me hear you say it.”

He lifted his chin, meeting Rizeth’s gaze as he forced determination into his voice.

“I want you to mark me, Master. I want l’Ehmtua’s anzzar.”

Rizeth came to him and slid a hand into his hair, pressing a hot, firm kiss to his mouth. The tightness of his grip, the swipe of his tongue, the brief scrape of his teeth; all left Ashenivir breathless. “Good, Ra’soltha. I like to hear you so certain.”

“Thank you, Master.”

Moths thundered in his chest again—such nerves now as he didn’t even have when he thought about the exams! He’d tried not to place tonight higher in his mind than his graduation exams, but it was hard going. Those were simply magic, recitation and recall; this was—or at least felt—so much more than that.

Rizeth bid him stand, and directed him to the cushioned stool he’d placed in the centre of the room. No summoning circle tonight, no preparations for some vast and incredible spell. Just the tidy sanctum, the low flicker of violet flame from the sconces, and the presence of his Master and all the promise that held. Rizeth tilted Ashenivir’s head up, searching his face. Confident, that ruby stare, in control—yet Ashenivir could still see a hint of uncertainty, as he’d seen both when Rizeth had offered the mark, and when he’d given his answer.

“I trust you, Master.” He held Rizeth’s gaze, willing his conviction to show through. “I know it will hurt. It has to, otherwise it wouldn’t mean as much.”

“It will hurt me as much as it will hurt you,” Rizeth said. Ashenivir frowned. None of the notes had mentioned that. “You know of Rary’s bond?”

“The telepathy? Yes, Master, but why—?”

“Because you are mine and I would know how it feels for my Ra’soltha to take his Master’s mark.”

The words hollowed him out inside, an emptying rush of heat that made his skin prickle. He swallowed. Hard.

“I haven’t made much use of the spell before, Master, only a handful of times to learn it. Does it not merely allow communication between minds?”

Rizeth cocked an eyebrow. “Come, apprentice, you are in my sanctum. How many spells have you cast with me in only their standard forms?”

Ashenivir flushed, then flushed deeper when Rizeth chuckled softly. How rare that laugh, and how he coveted it, even if his own foolishness was the cause. Rizeth released his chin.

“The version we make use of tonight will allow me to feel what you feel. Once I begin, I cannot stop until it is done, but I will be able to modify the intensity of the marking. I am going to hurt you, but I have no desire to harm you. Do you understand?”

Feel what I feel. A whirlwind of wings in his chest, those endless moths. Rizeth would feel it, all of it. Ashenivir took a breath.

“Yes, Master.”

“Good.” Rizeth moved behind him and carefully untied his hair, sliding it over his shoulders to expose the back of his neck. The soft brush of fingers made him shiver, then Rizeth touched the clasp of his collar. “This must come off.”

“I can keep it though, afterwards? Even when I have the mark?”

“Of course, Ra’soltha. Did you ever think you couldn’t?”

He hadn’t, not really, but the worry came nonetheless. His collar had been the only mark of his ownership for so long, even the knowledge that he would soon have a more permanent one didn’t stop him wanting to wear it. After all, no-one but he and Rizeth would ever see his new mark, and he liked having one that was visible. An open secret around his neck.

Rizeth unfastened the collar and Ashenivir gazed longingly at where he set it on the workbench, rubbing a hand over his bare throat. He hadn’t taken it off since that awful time after Sshamath, and it felt wrong to be without it. He dragged his eyes away as Rizeth brought over the components for the spell. In one hand he held the dull speckled shell of a riding lizard, and in the other…

“Do you know it?” He pressed the shell into Ashenivir’s hands. It was such a beautiful thing, Ashenivir was almost afraid he’d break it; deep turquoise, shimmering in the light so that it took on a purplish sheen as he turned it this way and that.

“I don’t recognise it, Master, no. What does it belong to? Not…not a dragon, surely?” He couldn’t think of another creature that might have an egg such as this.

“Nothing so exotic.” Rizeth stepped behind him once more, laying a hand on his head. “Diatryma.”

Ashenivir had seen one once, in the marketplace. He’d never imagined such an ungainly bird could produce such an incredible egg. He tilted it back and forth, admiring its shimmer.

“It seems a shame to waste something so beautiful.”

“Tonight is not a waste. Are you ready?” Ashenivir nodded. Rizeth’s lips brushed his ear, and excitement built within him at his Master’s whispered words. “Then cast with me, Ra’soltha.”

Their voices rose in unison, the words of the spell flooding back to Ashenivir’s mind as Rizeth recited them. He didn’t hold the spell prepared—and why would he? It held little practical use in the day-to-day—but with his Master leading him into the Weave, it settled back into his mind like it belonged there. As it did, the shell in his hand vibrated like a tuning fork, humming almost beyond audible pitch for a few seconds before shattering into purple and gold sparks. When it vanished, something slid into his head and he fought instinctively against the intrusion.

<Let me in, Ra’soltha.>

His eyes widened as Rizeth’s presence pressed into his mind, slow and steady.

<Just breathe, just like that. Good boy.>

Ashenivir whimpered and gripped his knees—hearing that inside his head made his entire spine light up. But Rary’s bond went both ways, so that meant he could…

He found a vast space, large and cold, yet somehow familiar. It welcomed him in and Ashenivir felt he could drown in that impossible place, if he wasn’t careful.

Rizeth’s hand slid down his neck, drawing him back, anchoring him. Ashenivir turned his head, experiencing a moment of strange doubling as he fell further into his Master’s mind, even as his Master flooded into his own. The sensation made him want to part his lips, spread his legs, open himself completely. He bit his lip.

<I like this version of the spell, Master.>

<I thought you might.>

Rizeth returned once more to the workbench and took up the small silver needle that would carve the mark into Ashenivir’s neck. Such a tiny thing for something so important. He didn’t bring the paper with the design, because he knew it by heart already; Ashenivir could feel it, the solid confidence of his Master, the cool certainty of his own abilities. He longed for the day when he would be that secure in his own casting.

<None of that.> Rizeth caressed the back of his neck, palm warm against the skin. <You are here tonight to be mine, and my Ra’soltha is not insecure—he is powerful.>

<Yes, Master.>

“You are going to scream for me,” Rizeth spoke aloud this time, and the thought and the words twined together inside Ashenivir’s head, wrapping around his mind like a hand around his cock. He couldn’t help a small moan—then couldn’t help wondering what that felt like for Rizeth, feeling his pleasure. Trying to parse it threatened to send him over some edge of insanity, so he squared his shoulders, sat up straight, and took a breath.

<How loud, Master?>

<As loud as you want.>

---

The needle presses into his skin and the first prick of blood ignites the spell. Rizeth’s hand is steady. Ashenivir’s breath catches.

Fire on the back of his neck, bright lines of it, radiating magic and power. No, the lines are on Ashenivir’s neck, not his. It feels as though they’re on both, and that’s good, that means the spell is working.

The needle draws down, beginning the eight-pointed star; the binding mark, the centre of it all, the lynchpin of the spell. Ashenivir’s breath comes hard through his nose, draws even through Rizeth’s mouth. He knows his Master can feel his racing heart and prays he will not slow, not yet. He likes the way it hurts.

Blood trickles down his neck, warm, just like the swell in his chest whenever he thinks about this very thing. He wants it so badly Rizeth’s hands shake.

<Oh, Goddess!>

Ashenivir opens his mouth and screams as the needle presses in and up, lines crossing over as the star forms. Magic burns into his skin, sliding into his veins in a sweet caress that he chases with an arch of his back. Weave meets Weave; his blood and Rizeth’s magic, his body and his Master’s mind. Ashenivir screams again and the sound echoes from Rizeth’s mouth.

His hand does not waver, it will never waver. He is a Master—apprentice—and he knows what he’s doing this time (he hasn’t graduated yet, he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t want to leave.)

Ashenivir screams again and Rizeth slows on the final line, stilling the magic without stopping it, holding the needle half in, half out. Ashenivir wants to push back against it, knows he shouldn’t, but (there are a lot of things I shouldn’t want) he can’t help himself.

<I can take it, Master, keep going.>

The star completes. Ashenivir gasps for breath in the brief moment the needle leaves his skin completely. His neck burns in the space between exhales. Then the needle penetrates him once more, and Rizeth screams.

Abjuration, mark here and here and here, so my Master will always know if his Ra’soltha is hurt. Divination, mark there and there and there, so I can always find you. In concert they ensure protection, so you cannot hide if I go too far (why do I always have to push), so you can hurt me but never break me.

Sometimes he wants to be broken. Sometimes he already is and this, only this, can put him back together.

Ashenivir fights for breath now, steals it from Rizeth’s lungs as the runes are finished, encircling the star.

<Almost there, Ra’soltha. Keep on screaming, just like that, you sound so beautiful when you hurt for me.>

One of them is crying and he thinks it’s him but he can’t be sure. One of them is screaming with the other’s mouth and a needle swirls against blood-slick skin to embed the last part, the part that has nothing to do with the magic and everything to do with what matters.

Ulu uk vel’uss zhah ussta Ehmtua (to he who is my Master)—

Rizeth owns him now, Ashenivir is his most precious possession, he wants this, he asked for this, he is not—no, not there, apprentice, do not go there, I’m sorry, please, I didn’t mean to, I can’t!

—ori’gato uns’aa tlu natha belbol (let me be a gift)—

He offers himself, has offered himself from the beginning, bold and terrified and not knowing how much he needed (this, you, Master, Rizeth, please don’t make me go, I want to stay.)

—duul’ssoen belbaunin (freely given)

It’s a choice. It was always a choice and why couldn’t she understand that and I understand it, Master. You own me and (when I am on my knees I know who I am at last, at last) I want you to stay with (for) me.

The spell sparks and he screams. The magic hooks into the centre of his mind with tender claws, pierces him and makes him cry for more, thanks spilling from a mouth that has lost all sense of ownership.

<Who do you (I) belong to?>

The spell sparks and the blood burns away and there it sits, his mark, in burning lines on Ashenivir’s skin and Rizeth wants far more than is safe because he can’t have this he doesn’t deserve this and (none of that, my Master is not insecure, he is powerful).

<I (you) am (are) yours (mine)>

The spell sparks and Rary’s only lasts an hour, it’s been an hour already?

<I don’t want it to be over>

The Weave settles. Screams fade, mouths close. There’s nothing but breath now; nothing but the thunder of a heartbeat and the flicker of a moth’s wings.

<Just breathe with me, like this, like this, like this.>

Just stay with me, like this, like this, like this.

---

Huge, wracking sobs shook Ashenivir’s body. His neck throbbed, burning bright with pain that pulsed in time with his—or was it Rizeth’s?—heartbeat. He thought it was his. Maybe. The telepathic bond was fading, pulling him out of his Master and his Master out of him, and a bleak, miserable loss invaded in its place.

Rizeth was before him, kneeling, taking his hands.

“Are you alright?”

<Oh, Goddess, don’t let me have harmed him, please.>

The thought was so faint, Ashenivir wasn’t sure he’d even really heard it. It was too panicked to belong to Rizeth anyway. He managed a smile through his tears.

“I’m fine, Master, really. I’m happy. Can’t you feel that still?”

Rizeth’s hand went to his face, swiped away tears with a gentle thumb. Ashenivir’s throat was tight, and he whimpered as another throb of pain pulsed in his neck. Rizeth winced at the same time, the last vestiges of the telepathy clinging to their minds. All memory of the deeper bond was tangled confusion, a wash of swirling emotions and thoughts he could neither hold on to nor understand.

“Just breathe,” he said, at the same time as Rizeth did, and the two of them stared at each other. Ashenivir coughed a laugh between sobs, then hissed in a sharp breath at a fresh surge of pain. A flicker of what might have been fear crossed Rizeth’s face, but he was gone before Ashenivir could be certain. He brought a pair of small mirrors from the workbench, and handed one to Ashenivir, who blinked away tears as Rizeth angled the reflections so he could see the back of his neck. He let out a shaky breath.

“Oh.”

Faintly glowing lines formed the mark, exactly as Rizeth had drawn it. The eight-pointed star, surrounded by a circle of small, perfect runes, and in the gap between them, ringing the star like a tangle of Weave, went the words of his ownership. Hot pride swelled in his chest.

“It’s beautiful, Master,” he managed, still staring at his blood-slick skin, at the magic burned into his flesh. It was even better than he had imagined. Then Rizeth set aside the mirror and it was gone, though he didn’t need to see it to feel it, and feeling it was what mattered.

No prestidigitation cleaned him today; it was all his Master with soft cloth and slow hands. He bit his lip on a whimper when Rizeth carefully worked a healing salve into his neck—new magic now, softer magic, to knit him back together, and in no time at all the raw wound became a settled brand. It throbbed with the pounding of his heart, and would continue to do so for some time whilst the magic was still fresh.

By the time Rizeth was done, the telepathy had faded completely. The misery of its loss intensified, and even with the pain down to a low, dull ache, Ashenivir couldn’t stop crying. Rizeth helped him to his feet and, when he stumbled after two steps, lifted him into his arms. The bed creaked softly beneath their weight and, though he wasn’t sure why, Ashenivir’s heart still thundered relentlessly. He pressed his face to Rizeth’s shoulder and clung to him.

“Come, xi’hum, you need to rest. I do not need telepathy to know you are exhausted.” Rizeth plucked his hands from their death grip on his robes and started to lay him down—Ashenivir at once crawled into his lap. He couldn’t be apart from him, not now, not right now. His Master’s hand hovered a moment, then soft fingers stroked his hair; carefully, so as not to come near the burning mark.

Ashenivir sighed as with each stroke his breath levelled out, though tears still slipped from his eyes. They were like aftershocks; uncontrolled but not unpleasant, intense but earned—the raw consequence of release.

“Don’t send me back to my quarters.” His voice was rough-edged and ragged. “Please, Master, don’t.”

I want to stay with you.

“You may stay tonight,” Rizeth said, and relief rolled through him, warm and welcome. Rizeth’s free hand rested loosely on his knee, and Ashenivir reached up to take it. He wasn’t thinking of anything more than needing an anchor, but when their fingers slid together, he was overfull of moth wings again, the sound of them in his pulse almost deafening.

I don’t want it to be over.

Which of them had thought that? So many thoughts, feelings, memories…all tangled together and fading, like the remnants of a dream. He hadn’t known such closeness in all his life, and now it was gone. Ashenivir closed his eyes, hitching another soft sob.

“Rest, Ra’soltha. You did very well.”

“I’m yours now.” The words were a slurred mumble, the crash coming on all at once to pull him into reverie, sped along by the soft motion of fingers carding through his hair. “Ehmtua. I belong to you. Thank you.”

“You are welcome, Ashenivir.”

---

Even after Ashenivir had fallen deep into reverie, Rizeth didn’t move. He sat there and stroked his hair and prayed that he hadn’t picked up on the unchecked emotions Rizeth had been powerless to keep locked away during the telepathic bond.

He’d known Rary’s was a risk, but it had been far more intense than he had anticipated. The power of the marking had spun his modified spell into something far stronger than he’d intended, and towards the end he’d almost lost himself, hadn’t known which thoughts were his and which Ashenivir’s. It was gone now, though, and all would fade. If something had slipped out, Ashenivir would not remember it.

Rizeth stared at the mark, still faintly glowing as the magic settled. He had to keep him here tonight, make certain the marking took properly, that there were no unforeseen side-effects, that he hadn’t made any errors in his casting. It was his responsibility to ensure Ashenivir recovered properly. That he was safe.

It was beautiful, as Ashenivir had said. Perfect pale lines in deep violet skin, clear and precise. Looking at it made his heart ache.

And you’re still planning to leave? After this?

“I have to,” he murmured. Ashenivir didn’t stir at the sound of his voice, too deep in reverie. Rizeth squeezed his hand, their fingers entwined as their minds had so recently been. “He cannot serve me and his Matron.”

The way Ashenivir spoke of Matron Illiavra, she was not the kind to endure such split loyalty. He’d never met her and already he disliked the woman—she seemed to care more about the appearance and power of her family than the children who formed it. Three times he’d had Ashenivir in tears and anguish because of the things she’d done, and how much more had she inflicted on him that he had simply borne in silence?

I’m his Master, I’m supposed to keep him safe. How could he do that if he was on the surface, if Ashenivir was gone from him, if…

He could do nothing, regardless of where he was. Ashenivir’s Matron could act as she wished; he had no right to start interfering in another family’s business.

I don’t want it to be over.

The thought kept resurfacing, an echo, a remnant. Which of them had thought it? Was it a longing for the spell to remain, to hold on to the intoxicating closeness of the merging of minds? It might just as easily have been Ashenivir’s simple wish to stay at the Arcanum, for Rizeth knew he still wanted to. More likely it had been his thought—he felt it had been stained with his longing to keep his Ra’soltha, this impossibly perfect boy who had come crashing into his life and upended all he thought he knew of himself and what he wanted.

Unless…did Ashenivir have that same longing for him? Was that what he had felt?

“Don’t be foolish, Rizeth,” he muttered. Ashenivir stirred slightly in his lap and Rizeth resumed stroking his hair where his hand had stilled, soothing him back down into reverie. “You’re just projecting.”

Why not ask him to come with you when you go?

The insidious little thought was painfully tempting. He couldn’t do that, he absolutely could not.

You could. He knows he can say no to you if he doesn’t want something. He can’t refuse his Matron, but with you he knows he has a choice. You can let him choose.

Ashenivir had already made a choice, had come to the Arcanum with it made, his future set in stone as far as he and his Matron were concerned. And he wouldn’t say yes, anyway.

Or would he? He might, he might say yes, might come with him, even if only for a short while, and then—

And then what? Have him for a few more months, a year if he was lucky? Then lose him again and do this again?

Rizeth gazed at his handiwork, his design now permanently etched into Ashenivir’s skin. He had no such visible brand upon himself, yet he didn’t need one—Ashenivir would never know how deeply he’d etched himself into Rizeth’s life. It was wretched to have the thing he wanted right in front of him and know he couldn’t have it. What a hideous trap he had placed himself into!

He sighed. Ashenivir was marked now, he couldn’t undo it. He would graduate next month, Rizeth would go to the surface, and that would be the end of it. The past four years would remain as good memories, and he would let Ashenivir go. Because if he tried to make more of their relationship than what it was, he would destroy it, and he couldn’t go through that.

Not again.