In Sickness and In Health

The first time Master Velkon’yss coughed during the class, Ashenivir thought nothing of it. The second time was also hardly noteworthy, but when he had to pause in his lecture to catch his breath from a third that shook his shoulders, Ashenivir sat up a little straighter.

Some of the other apprentices glanced at each other, but no-one said anything. Master Velkon’yss did not appreciate commentary during his lessons, and would appreciate even less any commentary on his person. Ashenivir, who paid close attention in all of his classes but especially so in Rizeth’s, noted with dismay how drained Master Velkon’yss looked as the hours drew to their close. He stood by his desk as the class dismissed, rubbing his forehead.

The departing apprentices chattered quietly among themselves, reserving their exuberance for when they would be out of earshot of the strict Master. Ashenivir hung back as the others gathered their things and scattered off into the Arcanum, until only he and Master Velkon’yss remained. He stood before Rizeth’s desk and waited for his Master to look up from his papers at him—which he did, frowning.

“Is there something you want, apprentice?” he said, voice more clipped than usual.

“I believe you are growing sick, Master,” Ashenivir kept his eyes down and his hands behind his back, as much deference as was appropriate here. “You should rest.”

“Nonsense.”

Master Velkon’yss continued organising his papers, stopping only when another cough wracked his body. He pressed his fist to his mouth, huffed out a breath.

“You will be late for the rest of your classes, apprentice Zauvym.”

Ashenivir chewed the inside of his lip for a moment, then nodded.

“Of course, Master Velkon’yss.”

His chest constricted at the sound of Rizeth still coughing as he left, and he had to force himself not to look back. Rizeth’s health was none of his concern—their arrangement was a meeting of needs, that was all. It was not for him to involve himself in anything outside of that.

It was harder to keep telling himself that three days later when Master Velkon’yss was greyer than stone at the front of the classroom, clearly holding himself together by sheer force of will alone. The coughs had become like punctuation, and he leaned heavily on the desk throughout the lecture, making far more use than usual of a mage hand to scratch notes on the blackboard.

Still no-one dared to say anything. Everyone knew what Master Velkon’yss was like, and he would not take kindly to any attempts at coddling from students.

His was Ashenivir’s final class of that day, and this time Ashenivir did not hang back when it was done. Instead, he waited down the hallway, hidden on a bench in a small alcove, and counted out the painfully slow minutes. Each wracking cough that echoed out from Rizeth’s classroom made him wince.

When Master Velkon’yss finally left, Ashenivir slipped along behind him, following him to one of the great spiral staircases that pierced the ring of the Arcanum’s many floors. Rizeth did not, as was usual, drop into the central well to levitate down to his quarters. Ashenivir watched him descend the stairs until the traffic in the well cleared out as apprentices dispersed to other floors, then dropped into it himself, touching his Arcanum insignia and activating its levitation.

He went slowly, and eventually drew alongside Master Velkon’yss a few floors above the level of the teachers’ quarters. Rizeth had paused to lean against the wall, one hand pressed to his forehead, breathing heavily. It was no wonder he wasn’t levitating, Ashenivir thought. Descending in that fashion would likely make a headache worse—not that walking down a dozen or more flights of stairs wouldn’t have the same effect.

The two of them were the only ones present on this floor of the staircase. There was no reason for any students to be here, they would all have headed back to their rooms or to the recreation floor—or to the library, if they were anything like Ashenivir. The appearance of privacy gave him the confidence he needed. Ashenivir caught the side rail and lightly dropped onto the stairway, a few steps down from Master Velkon’yss.

“Master,” he said, voice echoing off the stone. Rizeth looked up sharply, blinking rapidly to focus eyes that were the wrong side of glassy. He straightened up on seeing who it was.

“Apprentice Zauvym,” he said, shortly. “I am afraid I do not have the time for any additional tutoring toda—” he broke off, coughing into his fist. Ashenivir bowed his head.

“You should not be working in such a state, Master.”

Rizeth laughed and that, too, became a rasping cough. Goddess, just how sick is he?

“Are you to now play nursemaid, apprentice?” he shook his head. “Ridiculous.”

He started down the stairs again, and this time Ashenivir followed behind. They descended to the level of the teachers’ quarters, and now they really were alone. As Rizeth headed for the southern corridor that would take him to his rooms, Ashenivir caught at his sleeve, pulling him to a halt. He shouldn’t have done it, he knew that, but he had to. Master Velkon’yss turned angry eyes on him, snatching his arm away.

“Return to your studies,” he snapped.

Ashenivir went to his knees.

“No, Master,” he said. “You are sick, and getting worse. You need to rest.”

“I do not take orders from you, Ra’soltha,” Master Velkon’yss said, voice thickly burred with sickness as much as irritation.

“I would never presume to give them, Master.” Ashenivir looked up at him, knowing that his worry would be clear on his face. He’d never been much good at concealing his emotions, for better or for worse. Rizeth blinked, briefly surprised, then his frown reasserted itself.

“I only ask that you let me serve you,” Ashenivir continued.

“Apprentice Zauvym, I am in no mood for—”

“Not like that,” Ashenivir cut him off, knowing he’d probably pay for it later, accepting it, needing to do this more than he needed to maintain his perfect obedience. “I can do more for you than sex, Master.”

Above them, the faint sound of the Arcanum filtered down. A brief spurt of laughter echoed; apprentices on an upper level. None of them would come down here. Barely anyone came down here, even the few other Masters who chose to take residence in the Arcanum. It was just him and Rizeth and the empty hallway and his own pounding heart. He gazed up at his Master, waiting.

“What,” Rizeth said, at last, “do you propose?”

“May I rise?”

Master Velkon’yss nodded, and Ashenivir got to his feet, hesitated for just a moment—what am I doing ?—then took his Master’s arm.

“Come, Master. I know the way to your quarters well enough.”

Master Velkon’yss was stiff beneath his hand, and Ashenivir was not surprised. Rizeth’s touch was skilled, and brought him great pleasure, but his Master had never exactly been soft. Not in any way that was not a tease or a torment, at least, and right now he was in no state to be administering either. Another fit of coughing took him as they reached the door to his rooms, but he waved Ashenivir away, spitting out the command word for the arcane lock between coughs. His face was tight with pain and it made Ashenivir’s stomach twist to see him that way.

Ashenivir helped him inside, feeling strangely unsettled at not disrobing and taking to his knees the moment the door closed. He did not like to break the ritual, but there was no help for it—he could better serve his Master clothed right now.

He guided Master Velkon’yss to the bed, and knelt before him as he sat at the end of it, shoulders trembling at the effort it took to maintain his posture.

“Have you spoken with the priestesses yet, Master?” he asked.

“What for?” Rizeth said, massaging his temple.

“Master,” Ashenivir said, exasperated, “if you are sick, they can help. Even if it is not a disease to be cured with a prayer, they have more than enough remedies for any illness. You ought to have gone to them when first you knew you were unwell.”

“I have no need for such things. It will pass in time.”

“As do most illnesses, Master, but why must you suffer undue pains?” Ashenivir shook his head. “Please, will you rest if I go to the infirmary and fetch something for you?”

For a moment it seemed as though Master Velkon’yss would protest, forbid him from doing any such thing. Then he winced, pressing his fingers harder into his temple, a wave of pain clearly visible on his face. Ashenivir twisted his hands in his lap, wondering just how bad his Master had allowed it to get, how much pain he was really in. How could he be so foolish?

“Very well, apprentice—you shall have it your way, I suppose,” Rizeth said. He made a shooing motion. “Go, then.”

Ashenivir bowed his head, then scrambled to his feet and hurried away, levitating back up through the Arcanum to the infirmary as fast as he could. He did not precisely trust his Master to rest as asked whilst he was gone, and did not wish for him to sicken himself any further than he already had.

---

The Arcanum college sat within the Seat of Arcanum; the great, kilometre-high pillar of stone whose towering presence rose as a mighty spine in the centre of Mythen Thaelas. Aside from the college, it also had the benefit of holding one temple and being a close neighbour to another, meaning that its infirmary was always well-stocked with both medicines and clerics to administer them.

Most of the healing came courtesy of the Shrine of the Dark Maiden, Eilistraee’s temple. Even though the Hall of Mysteries, sacred to Mystra, was the one contained within the Seat itself, those that pledged themselves to the lady of magic tended to run more wizard than cleric, and wizards, it had to be said, were not well-renowned for their stable and well-crafted healing magics.

The infirmary was usually fairly busy, for where there are wizards there are bound to be accidents, but when Ashenivir arrived it was surprisingly quiet. He was met by one of the clerics as he stepped through into the cool, light-tiled antechamber.

“Cleric Miz’rena, at your service, apprentice. What may I do for you?” she asked.

“Not for me, my lady—one of the Masters is sick,” he said. She rolled her eyes and motioned him to follow her.

“Master Velkon’yss, I assume?” she called over her shoulder, the tiny bells in her long, white braids tinkling as she strode through the halls. Ashenivir hurried after her, trying to keep out of the way of the other clerics they passed.

“Yes. How did you know?”

She did not answer right away, and he followed her into one of the storerooms where she proceeded to vanish among the shelves. It looked much like the spell-component storage rooms he was used to on the Arcanum levels, lined with shelves filled with all manner of jars and boxes and pots holding herbs, pastes, unguents, and the thousand other things necessary for keeping the occupants of the Seat of Arcanum in good health.

Ashenivir gazed around curiously as Miz’rena sought what she needed—he recognised a few things, but he could not begin to pretend he understood even one hundredth of the healing arts. It was a wholly different school of magic.

“Because you can hear that man coughing all the way to the top of the Arcanum,” Miz’rena finally answered, appearing in front of him holding a large jar. “Hold this.”

She pressed the jar into his hands, then went off to rummage among the shelves once more.

“But you can’t force him,” she continued. “Trust me, we’ve tried that before. Qillistrin was in tears, poor thing. You’d think he’d learn just a little more tact, living here as long as he has. Aha!”

She came back around the shelves and handed him a small box of what appeared to be tea packets. She tapped the jar.

“This goes on the chest, three times a day for at least a tenday. It’ll work with less, but I don’t trust him to do it enough if you tell him that. Tea goes—well, I’m certain you know how tea works,” Miz’rena ushered him out of the storeroom and locked up behind her. “Both will help with that cough, and the infusion in the tea should calm the splitting migraines he’s no doubt barrelling through like a damned stone-headed dwarf.”

The two of them made their way back through the infirmary, having to press themselves against the wall to avoid being knocked down by a trio of clerics rushing past, carrying a wailing apprentice between them.

“Evocation studies strike again,” Miz’rena muttered, wincing. Then, as they continued on, “I have to say, apprentice, it’s very kind of you to make the effort. Most of you are too scared of Master Velkon’yss to try.”

“I prefer it when my teachers are well enough to teach me,” Ashenivir said, ducking his head, embarrassed. He wasn’t going too far beyond the bounds of appropriate behaviour here, was he? He raised the jar, pushing the thought aside. “Thank you for this, my lady.”

“Thank me if you can get him to use any of it,” she said. “And if you’re feeling brave enough, tell him to take a hot bath. It will help immensely.”

Ashenivir managed a mostly normal farewell as he was assailed by a flood of images involving himself, Master Velkon’yss, and a large bath. He shook them away as he hurried back down through the Arcanum. Master Velkon’yss was, it seemed, a historically difficult patient.

Too bad for him that Ashenivir was a historically determined apprentice.

---

The door had been left unlocked, no arcane seal in place this time, so Ashenivir had no trouble entering when he returned to Rizeth’s quarters.

“Master!”

Rizeth glanced up from the paperwork on his desk.

“My responsibilities do not evaporate because of a cough, apprentice,” he started, and was almost immediately doubled over in his chair at an onslaught of said cough. His shoulders shook violently and Ashenivir felt a flash of panic—what if this was worse than he’d thought? Should he have brought a priestess with him, made cleric Miz’rena come down to check Master Velkon’yss over?

Pushing down the spiralling concern, he set the jar and the box of tea on Rizeth’s desk, and knelt at his feet.

“Master,” he said, once the coughing had subsided, “if you work yourself to death by refusing to rest, who am I to serve?”

“I am certain you would find someone else to bother fairly swiftly,” Master Velkon’yss snapped. Ashenivir drew a sharp breath and tried not to take it to heart. Illness and exhaustion had a tendency to warp one’s words.

“Master,” he began again, “I have responsibilities as well as you. Ensuring my Master is well is one of them.”

He raised his head, seeing Rizeth glaring down at him, but Ashenivir thought there was more of frustration than anger in his face.

“You made me your Ra’soltha,” he continued. “I do not take that title lightly. Please, let me fulfil my role.”

The silence that followed pressed into him, and Ashenivir wondered if he was about to lose everything he had gained over the past months. Rizeth closed his eyes and heaved a great, rattling sigh, and nodded.

Ashenivir bit his lip over the smile that threatened, and waited to be motioned to his feet.

“I will return shortly, Master. Please don’t try to work any further.”

Hoping that this time Rizeth would listen, he hurried away into the bathing room that adjoined the bedroom—a wide, cool space of dim continual flame sconces in blues and deep turquoise. He set the magic in the low-sunk well in the floor to work filling the tiled depression with gently steaming water, then went to find something to brew the tea in.

A soft, warm joy infused him as the leaves did the water, a low rolling boil bringing out a fragrance quite delicately pleasant for a medicine. He had been telling the truth when he told Master Velkon’yss he took the role of Ra’soltha seriously. He might never have performed it before but he had studied what it meant, so far as he could, and he was pleased to discover that serving this way, with these mundane tasks, was as fulfilling as any other.

He could indeed do more for his Master than simply sex.

With the tea close to done, by his estimation, he checked on the bath and found it ready. Tucking his nervousness away behind the strength of his submission, he went to fetch his Master.

Rizeth had, thankfully, not picked up his work again. He instead had his head in his hands on the desk, pressing his fingers into his temples.

“Master,” Ashenivir said, softly. He took Rizeth’s arm but did not pull, just waited.

After a moment, Master Velkon’yss lifted his head, blinked bleary eyes at him, then rose. Ashenivir tried not to dwell on how much of his Master’s weight he was supporting as he led him into the bathroom. With gentle, reverent hands he undressed him, folding each layer carefully and setting it on the low stone bench by the wall. When it was done, he helped Master Velkon’yss into the steaming bath and left him reclining against the edge whilst he poured the tea.

“This is utterly ridiculous,” Master Velkon’yss grumbled as a cup of steaming tea was pressed into his hands. He drank regardless, and Ashenivir was pleased to see that after a few minutes the pained frown began to ease a little. He knelt at the edge of the bath, and was content.

“I hate it when clerics are right,” Rizeth muttered as he drained the mug. “They are self-righteous enough as it is.”

“They know what they’re doing, Master.”

“That does not mean they ought to be so smug about it.” He set the mug by Ashenivir’s knee. “I shall be dealing with self-satisfied looks for tendays after this.”

“They were concerned about you,” Ashenivir told him. “You are respected at the Arcanum, Master. There are others beside myself who would wish you to remain in good health.”

Rizeth made a scoffing noise, which was swallowed shortly by a hacking cough. He batted away Ashenivir’s concerned hands, shaking his head and getting to his feet. He swayed for a moment but did not fall.

“That is quite enough of that. Bring the other wretched concoction they wish you to inflict upon me,” Master Velkon’yss instructed. “Let us have done with this endeavour.”

It dawned on him, as they left the bathing room, that this was the first time he had been in the bedroom with Master Velkon’yss without doing anything sexual. The satisfaction of earlier continued as he knelt before Rizeth where he sat on the edge of the bed, reaching up to apply the strange paste from the jar cleric Miz’rena had given him.

Naked, Rizeth was as attractive as ever, yet no lust rose within Ashenivir at that moment, even kneeling as he was. He felt only the strong desire to be of service and, strangely, even a little of the float that usually only came with submission. He was still present, still there, but his thoughts had flattened out in that pleasant way they did when all there was, was to serve.

Thus adorned with medicine and complaining about it all the way in a curt, cold fashion, Master Velkon’yss allowed Ashenivir to lay him down and set him all over with blankets.

“You make a fine nursemaid, apprentice,” he commented, and Ashenivir flushed. To hide it, he knelt at the side of the bed and was pleasantly surprised when Master Velkon’yss reached out to lay a hand on the back of his neck.

“Rest, Master,” he said. “If you require anything, I am at your service.”

“Good, Ra’soltha. Very good,” Rizeth murmured. A few moments later he had drifted into a much-needed reverie, his hand still on Ashenivir’s neck. Ashenivir let the tension fall from his shoulders with a sigh, and closed his eyes.

He had not realised quite how much work serving his Master was going to be.

---

Just over a tenday later, Master Velkon’yss was entirely recovered and Ashenivir was once more naked on his knees before him, awaiting instruction. The back of his throat tickled, and he swallowed the cough before it could disrupt the scene.

He swallowed three more like that before one finally broke free, interrupting his Master’s words. Ashenivir covered his mouth with a hand.

“I apologise, Master.”

Rizeth tipped Ashenivir’s head up to look at him, and he winced—the tilt had sent a flash of pain through his head.

“On your feet, Ra’soltha,” Master Velkon’yss said. He took Ashenivir by the arm and led him into the bathing room. “There is still plenty of tea left—and I am reliably informed that a hot bath is a suitable remedy for this affliction.”