Chapter Fifteen
“It was nothing you did,” Ashenivir said.
“But the way I approached you, I must have seemed so aggressive! I never wanted to pressure you.” Xalin looked as anxious as he felt as the two of them walked through the overgrown gardens of the Dancing Haven. Sunlight filtered through the trees, painting the lush greenery with dappled patterns.
“No, you were as welcoming as Eilistraee could want.” Ashenivir tapped nervous fingers on his thigh. “It was the ceremony.”
“The changedance?” Xalin frowned, then her voice sharpened. “You’re not one of those who think it unnatural, are you? Because—”
“Nothing like that,” he assured her. “It reminded me of some upset around my own, that’s all. It wasn’t your fault.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Please don’t worry about it,” Ashenivir said. “I just wanted to tell you I am grateful to you for inviting me. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt comfortable in a shrine, but I think…I think I could be comfortable here.”
He wasn’t certain if it was true, even as he said it. He hoped it was—the Haven truly was a beautiful place.
Somewhere back inside the villa, someone started singing. Another voice caught on the song, then another and another until one of them substituted a rude word and the whole thing collapsed into laughter. Xalin took his arm.
“I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear that. There are no ceremonies today—I can tell you when there are, if it would help?”
“It would, thank you.”
The sunlit quiet of rustling leaves, birdsong, and the faint hum of the city surrounded them, and some of the tension finally left his shoulders. It had been hard to make himself come back, but talking to Xalin made him happy he had. He glanced at her, small and smiling—she still reminded him of Nilaena. Or rather, Nilaena as she might be, without their mother’s hand crushing the light out of her. When he got home, he’d…he would…
He sighed under his breath. He had no idea what he’d do. For one thing, he didn’t want to go home. He wanted to stay here, with Rizeth—at least until he could work out a way to tell him how he felt. The moment they were back in Mythen Thaelas, he’d lose all chance to do that; probably he’d never see Rizeth again, knowing his mother. Hells, even if he came back married she’d find a way to take it from him.
Up on the altar, Lady Alvanriel was talking with the other drow who’d gone to help with the changedance. Her accent was the same as Rizeth’s, Ashenivir noticed.
“Is she from Menzoberranzan?” he asked.
“Zelka? Yes. It’s been hard for her, coming into the light. She used to be a priestess of the cult.” Xalin shuddered. “She’s so much happier now she’s in Eilistraee’s care.”
Ashenivir thought of the Hot Springs. The priestess there had been so casually callous, as though the way she’d harassed him were normal, appropriate. Zelka didn’t seem that way at all. She laughed freely with Lady Alvanriel, offering a wave to him and Xalin as they passed. Xalin returned it, then turned to him.
“So, will you be coming to the solstice celebration next tenday?”
The solstice was so soon? It couldn’t have been a year since he’d graduated the Arcanum already—where had the time gone?
“I might,” he said. Visiting the Haven was one thing, but the solstice, its dances…Ashenivir touched his collar. “May I bring someone?”
“Of course! Everyone’s welcome.”
He could face anything if he had his Master at his side. And he didn’t have to dance himself; though if he did, he’d be sorely out of practice. Maybe he could try a little at the apartment first, in private, just to see how it felt. But if he did dance, and he did stumble, it hardly mattered. Perfection wasn’t what Eilistraee asked for, after all. Just joy.
“I’ll see you at the solstice then,” he said. “I’d best get going, though. I’m supposed to be meeting my…my friend. For lunch.”
Xalin bid him farewell, and he managed to slip past the cats in the entry without inciting harassment, pausing a moment at the door to let his eyes adjust to the brightness of the busy afternoon streets. The solstice. A celebration at a shrine. A year ago, he never would have imagined himself agreeing to such a thing. He could still change his mind, he was under no obligation, but the thought of bringing Rizeth with him brought a giddy smile to his face. Taking his Master to a dance. It was almost like—
It is not a date. He couldn’t start thinking like that. Caring about Rizeth and serving his Master were two different things; a moonlit love confession at a solstice dance was not a good idea. There was no need to make things awkward between them—or worse—by blurting out his half-baked feelings. He got to spend time with Rizeth, study with him, fuck him, submit to him nearly as often as he wanted, and wasn’t that almost love anyway? Enough to take its place, surely. What difference did saying one little word aloud make?
Absolutely none, he decided. He would simply keep serving Rizeth, exactly as he had been. No love, just obedience. Simple as that.
He quickened his pace. Perhaps if he walked fast enough, he could leave the reckless urge to declare his feelings behind.
Sat at a street-side table, Rizeth tapped a finger against his coffee and pretended he wasn’t anxiously watching the midday crowd for Ashenivir. He would get here when he got here, and cast a sending if there was any trouble. That was what he’d promised this morning, when he’d said he was going back to the Haven, and he wouldn’t break a promise—especially not one he’d made on his knees.
Rizeth couldn’t help but worry. It had been a scant few days since Ashenivir had confided in him, and a visit to the Haven had precipitated his collapse in the first place. Was it really a good idea to return there so soon? Rizeth ticked his nail over the rim of his mug and scanned the street again. He didn’t want to be overbearing, do anything to break the trust Ashenivir had placed in him by sharing that part of his past. Seeing him like that had been unbearable—gods, but Matron Zauvym infuriated him. To treat Ashenivir so poorly and still have the audacity to call herself his mother!
If I ever meet that woman, I am going to—
“Fancy seeing you here.” Kelran dropped into the seat across from him, smiling broadly. “Shopping for your boy again? Haven’t you run out of money yet?”
Rizeth kicked his latest package further beneath his chair. He’d thought himself safe in the North Ward, far from Kelran’s usual overpriced haunts. Evidently, he’d been mistaken.
“Haven’t you got trade negotiations to oversee?”
“Lunch break. This is a nice little place—almost romantic, I’m tempted to say.” He tipped his chair back on two legs. “Are you going to enlighten me as to why you ran off like half the Hells were after you the last time we spoke? Your boy’s not dead, is he?”
“He is fine. The rest is none of your business.”
“Truly, poets could not wax more lyrical than you.” Kelran rolled his eyes. “Him still having a pulse, then, have you told him?”
“No. Stop meddling.”
“If I don’t meddle, you’re going to sit there until your boy shows up to this perfectly platonic luncheon and pine yourself away into a miserable puddle of ooze some poor street cleaner’s going to have to mop up.” Kelran dropped his chair back down with a thunk. “Tell him.”
Rizeth glared at him. “Or you will?”
“I’d never be so crass. But I swear to Corellon, I’m going to tie the both of you up and lock you in a playroom until you’re dead or engaged if you don’t get your—Ashenivir! How lovely to see you!”
“Lord Stillgleam,” Ashenivir acknowledged. “I didn’t know you were joining us.”
“Oh, I’m not. I was just passing by.” Kelran stood, allowing Ashenivir to take his chair. “Are you stopping by the House later? I believe it’s Verin’s last night in Waterdeep.”
“We’re going out to celebrate, yes.”
“Do take care not to injure yourself again. Your Master worries ever so much.”
Rizeth could quite cheerfully have throttled him for that remark, a fact Kelran’s smirk seemed well aware of. He bid them both good-day and strolled away, humming cheerfully to himself. The bustle of the afternoon crowds had died to a low, occasional murmur, a faint salt-breeze stirring the bright blooms in the window-boxes across the way. Rizeth glanced at Ashenivir, found himself wholly devoid of language, and motioned a waiter over with as little desperation as he could manage. He ordered some sweet thing or other, only remembering afterwards that this was meant to be lunch.
“May I go to the House tonight?” Ashenivir asked when the waiter was gone.
“You do not need my permission to visit your friends.”
“I know, it was more…going to the House without you.”
“I trust you not to get into mischief without me around.”
“And if I did get into mischief?” A teasing smile flickered at the corners of his mouth. He was so much more himself now, the light back in his eyes, the life back in his voice.
“Then you know the outcome,” Rizeth said.
The smile became a full-blown grin, and Ashenivir ducked his head, biting his lip in a hopeless attempt to restrain it. Blessedly, the waiter returned then, giving him something to devour other than Ashenivir’s delight. They ate in comfortable silence until Ashenivir’s glances at his plate became too overt, and he gave in, offering up a forkful of coffee cake.
“Open your mouth.”
It was far too public, out in the street like this, but Ashenivir took the bite as though nothing could be more natural than eating from his Master’s hand, made a pleased sound at the taste, and immediately asked for another. Rizeth let him have one, because he could never deny him anything.
He’d asked for permission. Was there anything better than being able to give it?
Ashenivir was saying something, asking him about going to some solstice event at the Dancing Haven. Rizeth agreed to whatever it was without a thought; if it made him happy, nothing else mattered.
“I’m alright,” Ashenivir said, when their plates were empty. “You didn’t have to switch lunch for dessert, the shrine was fine.”
“Perhaps I wanted to keep you hungry.” It was the safe thing to say, a Master’s comment, and it had the desired effect—Ashenivir flushed immediately. The reaction only served to highlight the beauty of his face, and to kindle an urge to kiss the darkened skin, to deepen the colour with affection; to picture such a move reciprocated. His heart cried out for it, and, before they could show on his face, Rizeth bound the too-soft thoughts tight, manacled them in iron, steel, adamantine, and stood, alone behind his mask.
“Fetch the package from beneath my chair,” he said. “Do not open it until we reach the apartment.”
Ashenivir almost knocked his chair over, easily guessing what he might be forbidden to look at. He hugged the package to his chest, and Rizeth could see him trying to feel the contents through the wrapping, subtly working his fingers in the hopes his Master wouldn’t notice. Rizeth let him. Anticipation was a particularly potent aphrodisiac.
The sun stayed bright all the way back to the Southern Ward, the two of them walking side by side as always, never touching. Not where anyone might see. He swallowed a sigh. Kelran was right, yet how could he act other than this? They had a few months left—he couldn’t justify more—and he wanted all of it, untainted by the inevitably painful consequences of exposing his feelings. It was suffer in silence, or lose Ashenivir before he had to.
Rizeth knew which he’d rather endure.
The moment the apartment door closed, he was Ra’soltha. These rooms, this quiet space; here he belonged to his Master, whether he was reading or resting or serving, and given he’d been forbidden to look at Rizeth’s latest acquisition, he suspected he’d be serving in short order. But his Master had said he could open the package here, so he did, examining his new toys with an exclamation of delight.
“Eager boy.” Rizeth fetched his leash from its hook in the entryway, and clipped it to his collar. “Put them down and strip.”
Ashenivir set the paddle—black leather, solid, with his Master’s initials burned into the handle—and the metal rod—also black, and magical, he was sure of it—on the table. They ought to have looked out of place among the stacks of books and research notes and the shamefully unwashed collection of mugs, but they didn’t. They looked already as if they belonged there, and it made his heart skip a beat.
Rizeth kept tight hold of his leash, keeping his head up at an awkward angle as he undressed. Fumbling with his boots and belt made him flush; his Master’s eyes on him as he did it made him hard.
“Put your hair up,” Rizeth ordered. Ashenivir obeyed, twisting his braid into a messy knot that left his mark exposed. He let his hand fall slowly, fingers skirting the edge of the words of ownership branded into his skin.
“Does it still please you, Master?”
In response, Rizeth yanked him close and pressed his mouth to the mark, dragging his tongue over the lines of Mystra’s star. Magic buzzed through Ashenivir’s veins, calling to its maker; calling to his owner. At said owner’s bidding, he went to the bedroom and then to his knees, dropping smoothly into position with his arms behind his back. Rizeth tapped the end-loop of the leash against his lips.
“Open.” He set the loop between Ashenivir’s teeth. “Bite, since you like to.” The corner of his mouth twitched when Ashenivir did so. “Good boy.”
Ashenivir savoured the taste of the leather as he waited for Rizeth to fetch their new toys. He mapped the lines of the embossing with his tongue, tracing his Master’s initials, which now were on the handle of the paddle, too. He’d have liked it more if they were embossed like his leash on the paddle itself, so his Master could imprint them on his skin.
When Rizeth returned, he took back the leash and tapped Ashenivir’s shoulder with the black rod.
“Hands.” He laid the rod in Ashenivir’s upturned palms—it weighed far more than he’d expected, given the size of it. “Identify the item, apprentice.”
There was a glimmer in his eyes, half tease, half recollection, and Ashenivir fought back his own amusement, determined to stay in his role. How long had it been since they’d played out this scenario? He cast the divination as instructed, and the rod burst into life, arcane information flooding his mind.
“An immovable rod, Master.”
“Correct.” Rizeth took it back and slapped it against his palm. The solid thwack sent a jolt of heat up Ashenivir’s spine. “Bed. All fours. Head down.”
He chose, as he always did, Rizeth’s bed. The sheets smelt like them both, heady with the lingering sex of the previous evening. It would smell even better, it occurred to him then, if he could wake up in it, with Rizeth’s arms around him. He shoved the idea away. Thoughts like that had been incessant since the other night, burblings of desire that sex sated only as long as it took for the afterglow to wear off. It was becoming distracting.
He knelt facing the headboard, but Rizeth moved him—and how good it was to simply be moved—so his shins were off the side of the bed, setting him across it sideways. Familiar leather wrapped around his ankles, the slow slide of buckles cinching the manacles tight. Hot anticipation sparked beneath his skin as Rizeth ran the immovable rod down his spine, then tapped his ass once, twice, before setting it between his legs. It expanded at a word, and was quickly attached to his ankle cuffs.
“Arms between your legs.”
Rizeth slid a hand up his thigh as he reached for the other set of manacles; they’d been left, again, dangling from the headboard. Ashenivir pressed into the light touch and got a stilling slap for his troubles. A few moments later, his wrists were also fastened to the bar, and Rizeth took hold of it to pull him back and up until he hung half off the bed, angled so that the blood rushed pleasantly to his head. A faint twist of magic tugged at his senses, and he knew the rod was now locked in place in mid-air, and he hadn’t the slightest power to move it.
“How good you look, Ra’soltha.” Rizeth trailed a hand over his back, pressing briefly to the faint bruises scattered over his hip before caressing the curve of his ass. “But I believe we can make you look better.”
The measured enunciation of the cantrip was unbearably erotic. Slick fingers circled, teasing; he was helplessly exposed like this, unable even to press into the touch. Ashenivir whined and rocked back and forth in desperation anyway, clutching at the bar as if he could climb it to what he needed.
“Please, Master, I want you inside me,” he begged, and Rizeth chuckled.
“So you do remember how to get what you want.”
One finger at last slid into him, and Ashenivir moaned—too loudly for such a simple touch, but he wanted so badly he couldn’t help it. A second finger joined the first, sweet and steady and not nearly enough. Long, elastic minutes turned him dizzy, melted his voice to gasps and needy whimpers. He forgot all about the paddle until Rizeth said, “Shall we warm you up properly, Ra’soltha?”
His hand withdrew, leaving Ashenivir whining pitifully, his body thrumming with a need for touch far stronger than usual. A moment later, the hard, flat face of the paddle ran across his ass, and all his complaints ceased. Rizeth tapped him lightly, first one side, then the other, continuing at an even pace until he stung with a pleasant buzz. He flexed his hands around the immovable rod, then yelped at a sudden, much harder pair of hits. The blows eased off, and he shook his head as best he could.
“Don’t stop, Master.”
A brief shiver on the back of his neck, then the blows resumed at the same steady pace, only harder now. The thud of each hit lit him head to toe, but it was a stuttering sort of light; flickering, uncertain. He buried his face in the sheets and breathed in Rizeth and reminded himself he was Ra’soltha, nothing more. The thought made him hollow.
“Harder.”
Rizeth grabbed the leash and yanked his head up, so sharply he cried out. “Harder, Master,” he growled. “With a please in there if you can be bothered to remember your manners.”
“Harder, Master, please! ”
His head dropped to the sheets as a rush of blows ignited him, the smack of leather on flesh filling the room, filling his head. Deep, warm, perfect pain radiated through his body, strengthened by his inability to get away from any of it. With each hit, the light nearly caught, and he wanted to cry for more, but his tongue had stopped working altogether. A strangled, incoherent noise spilled from him instead, and then Rizeth was running a soothing palm over his ass.
“Good boy, you take your blows so well.” His fingers moved to tease along Ashenivir’s cock, which was so hot and so hard it was almost unbearable. “You are enjoying yourself, I see.”
Ashenivir managed a nod.
“Do you want me to fuck you?”
He wanted Rizeth to keep hitting him. Wanted that light to catch, spiral him out and away from the terrible new want that clamoured in his chest.
He nodded again, frantically.
Rizeth took hold of the immovable rod and hauled him further back. He felt as though he’d fall any moment, his upper body hardly on the bed at all, and all he could do was scrabble at the rod between his ankles, fighting for breath that wouldn’t come. Rizeth stroked his side, squeezed his thigh.
He wouldn’t fall. His Master would never let him.
Words returned to him then, as Rizeth buried his cock deep inside him—yes and thank you and Master and please. He shook his head frantically, and it wasn’t no, it wasn’t stop, and Rizeth knew it, so he didn’t. At as hard a pace as his blows had fallen, he fucked Ashenivir into the bed and grabbed his hair, yanking it out of its tie so it spilled across his shoulders. He loved it when his Master did that, loved the flash of pain and the mess it became; loved the afterwards when Rizeth put it back together, put him back together.
His ass throbbed, a heartbeat out of time with Rizeth’s thrusts. Ashenivir’s legs trembled, heat and weight and want flooding his limbs, words once again dissolving into nothing. Rizeth’s lips brushed his ear.
“Come for me, Ra’soltha.”
He screamed it and finally, finally, the light caught. For a moment, in that brief impossibility of pleasure that shorted out everything else, he had what he wanted. He let it spiral him out into oblivion and was faded to nearly nothing when Rizeth came, just lucid enough to hear him say good boy and well done, xi’hum. He whimpered as the manacles were released; his body didn’t want to return to its natural posture, wanted to stay like this, at his Master’s mercy, Rizeth’s to be moved and used and touched and touched and touched.
Rizeth unfolded him with an infinity of care, massaging his arms, his legs, his shoulders; checking his wrists and ankles. The light touch made him ache more than the paddling had, and he made himself stay vacant, floating. This was duty, nothing more—he was Ra’soltha, nothing more, never would be, and he could do that, be that; had been doing it, being it, for years.
Rizeth drew him into his lap to untangle his hair, fingers gentle as they first took apart the ruin, then slowly began to braid it back together. Ashenivir swallowed past the tightness that had claimed his throat and squeezed his eyes shut. I can’t do this.
He could. He would. He had to, because if he didn’t, he’d lose everything.
Three drinks in, the raucous buzz of Trollskull Manor had become enjoyably overwhelming. Ashenivir’s tolerance hadn’t exactly increased in all his excursions with Mara and the others, but tonight he had no intention of pacing himself. He wanted to get lost in the drink and the noise and the company until he was too far gone to still have feelings. It was Verin’s last night, and so he could indulge without anyone thinking anything of it.
Mara had gone off to get another round some minutes ago and hadn’t yet returned, so he was currently stretching out the last few mouthfuls of his fourth ale. On the far side of the room, loud booing chased the current bard into a squeal of strings and running footsteps. New tunes replaced the old in short order, more rowdy and much ruder, which were received with great delight by many of the patrons, who joined in at high volume.
Next to him, River rolled his eyes, though Ashenivir could see him tapping his foot in time. Another few drinks and he’d join in. Across from them, Verin was busy frowning in great concentration as she tried to balance a copper piece on its edge. It toppled over a third time, and she cursed.
“So, where’re you headed?” Ashenivir asked.
She shrugged. “Luskan, probably. Got some friends up there this time of year I’d like to see before they screw off elsewhere.”
“You’re leaving tomorrow and you don’t even know where you’re going yet?”
“That’s half the fun of it. Gotta get going if you wanna see what happens.”
“Verin’s a wild soul,” River said, and she gave one of her toothy grins.
“Ain’t a single person on the Sword Coast can tie me down. Well,” she amended, “not unless I ask them to first.”
“All hail your angel of ale!” Mara set a tray of foaming tankards on the table with a triumphant thunk. “Two each, because I love you all so much.”
She dropped into the seat next to Verin. Her strawberry blonde curls had begun the night immaculately arranged, but had since gotten unruly. Verin ruffled them worse, ignoring her squeal of protest.
“Gonna miss me, princess?”
“More than anything!” Mara wailed, flinging her arms around her neck. “Every time you leave I’m scared you’ll forget all about me and never come back, and I’ll be so lonely I’ll die!”
River snorted into his drink. “You’ve got pretty girls falling all over themselves to play with you. You won’t even notice she’s gone.”
“Yeah, maybe your perfect mistress will come along at last.” Verin extricated herself from Mara’s strangling arms, only to tangle a cluster of bracelets in her hair. She pouted, crossing her arms while Verin plucked them free.
“Don’t make fun. It’s not stupid to want one. River has Cain, Ashenivir has Rizeth—”
“No, I don’t,” Ashenivir said. The three of them stared at him and he grabbed a new ale to take a large swallow. Stupid thing to say, stupid, stupid; he was here to forget all of that.
River poked his arm. “What are you talking about?”
“He…it’s not like you and Cain, he’s just my Master, we’re not…he doesn’t…” Too much Trollskull Special Brew turned sour in his stomach, his eyes stinging. He downed the rest of the drink in one go, almost choking, and wiped his mouth. “Nothing. Forget about it. Verin, tell me about these Luskan friends of yours!”
“No, no, no.” Verin plucked the tankard from his hand. “If you’re going to cry at my leaving party, you gotta tell me why. Says so in the Code Legal.”
“M’not crying.” He forced a smile. “See?”
River frowned. “Is this about what you told me at the House?”
“No. Yes. No, it’s…it’s not anything. There’s nothing.” Ashenivir wished he’d drunk less. More. Wished he was back at the apartment on his knees with Rizeth stroking his hair and reading to him, one hand in its right place on the back of his neck; making fun of his serials, pulling his hair when he protested, and kissing him with his lips curved in that faintly indulgent smile that turned Ashenivir’s whole world upside down. He pressed a hand to his mouth.
“Hey, no, don’t throw up, you were doing so well,” River said. His words were flippant, the look on his face less so, an underlying worry Ashenivir didn’t want to see. He wanted to talk about this even less than he wanted to talk about his changedance.
“Did something happen with Rizeth?” Mara asked. “Oh, gods, did you stop playing with him? Did he do something awful?”
“Do we have to kick his ass?” Verin added, cracking her knuckles.
Ashenivir put his head in his hands.
“I’m in love with him.”
There was a horribly long silence. The new bard flung themselves into an upbeat shanty that shook Trollskull Manor to the rafters; with any luck one of the crossbeams would come loose and crush him. Why hadn’t he just kept his mouth shut?
Verin threw up her hands. “Well, why the fuck are you crying about it?”
“Because he doesn’t want that from me!” Ashenivir burst out. “We’re not…he doesn’t want a relationship, not like that, and if I say anything it’ll ruin everything, and he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I’m losing him anyway when we go home, and…and…”
He reached for another drink—River drew the tray out of his reach.
“You don’t need more ale, you need to get your shit together. Why didn’t you say anything before now? Did you only just figure this out?”
“And I thought I was the stupidest friend,” Verin muttered.
“I don’t want to get anything together,” Ashenivir said. “But you’re right, I don’t need more ale. What I need—” he fixed his eyes on Mara, and she blinked nervously, “—is fun drinks.”
He’d tried to take reverie, but his bed still smelt like Ashenivir, and rather than clean it he’d spent the better part of an hour just laying there in the gathering dark, trying not to think about anything. Now it was the middle of the night, Ashenivir still hadn’t returned, and Rizeth was on the couch reading the same paragraph for the sixth time, drumming his fingers on his knee.
He was not worried. He had no right to be worried. Ashenivir was with friends, enjoying himself—he didn’t need his Master constantly tapping his mark when the scene was long over and nothing was wrong. Rizeth glanced at the pitch-dark beyond the window and drummed his fingers faster.
‹Master.›
He was on his feet at once. The magic was off, something wrong with the sending, it was—
‹I might be lost,› the message continued, ‹Verin stole a crab and we had to leave, and there’s a lot of boats and they all look the—›
The spell cut off as its allotted words ran out. The magic was wrong, yes, but not through any panic. It had the wobbly distortion of the extremely drunk, so much so that a wash of dizziness hit Rizeth hard enough to blur his vision. He shook his head clear with a sigh, no small measure of relief tempering the frustration.
‹Where are you?›
‹The pier! One of them, anyway. There’s a boat with a very rude name.›
Rizeth fetched his cloak and folded Ashenivir’s over his arm; it might have been summer, but it was the middle of the night, and the tail end of spring put a chill in the air. It didn’t take long to find his way to the Dock Ward, and the divinations brought him fairly directly to the pier Ashenivir had lost himself on.
He was alone, sat at the end of the pier, leaning on his hands with his head tipped to the sky. The tangled mess of his hair spilled over his shoulders, seeming almost to glow in the moonlight. He glanced back as Rizeth approached.
“Master!” He sprang up, unsteady, windmilling his arms wildly. Rizeth darted forwards the last few feet and caught him before he could go headfirst into the harbour. Ashenivir beamed at him.
“Hello!”
“Hello.”
He was shivering, though didn’t seem much aware of the fact. Rizeth tried to put his cloak on, but Ashenivir pushed his hands away, tugging him back to the edge of the pier instead.
“No, no, come look. I found…I found…” He pointed at the water. “I found all these stars here. See?” He made a grasping motion, as if he could take a handful of the starlit waves for himself. “Aren’t they beautiful?”
“Yes,” Rizeth said quietly. The moonlight silvered all the shadows of Ashenivir’s face, accentuating his delight. “Yes, I suppose they are.”
“Why do we stay underground when there’s all this?” He let his hand fall, and leaned heavily against Rizeth’s side with a sigh. “I don’t want to go home. I want to stay here.”
“Well, you need to come home for now. It’s late, and you’re freezing.”
Ashenivir blinked as Rizeth set the cloak around his shoulders.
“Oh,” he said. “It is cold. I am cold. Vith. Fuck. No, I’m allowed Drow now. That was all Drow, I think.” He frowned. “Am I in trouble?”
“No.”
He pouted. “But I want to be.”
Rizeth finished fastening his cloak. “You can be in as much trouble as you want when you are sober, Ra’soltha.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Now come along, let us get you home.”
Ashenivir kept stumbling into his side all the way to the apartment, occasionally mumbling incoherently to himself and fiddling with the clasp of his cloak. Rizeth was inclined to lay the blame with fun drinks again, and made a mental note to get up early tomorrow morning and make him some decent food. If this batch affected him anything like the last, he’d need it.
They made it up the stairs without incident, and Ashenivir left a trail of clothes from the door to Rizeth’s bed, whereupon he fell face down onto the mattress and didn’t move. Rizeth shook his head and drew the blankets over him. He allowed himself the indulgence of smoothing out Ashenivir’s hair, gently tugging the tie free from where it was caught in the tangle.
“Master…” Ashenivir mumbled. Rizeth quickly drew his hand away. “I have to tell you…tell you…”
“Tell me what, xi’hum?”
“Something, it…it…” Ashenivir tried to push himself up, got halfway, then collapsed back to the bed. “Maybe I forgot.”
“Tell me tomorrow,” Rizeth said. His words fell on unconscious ears as Ashenivir started to snore softly. He sighed. If you remember anything of tonight, that is.
He went to set the hair tie on the nightstand and found little space for it. Three books, his cufflinks, a handful of notes Ashenivir had asked him to read, an empty glass from the water he’d brought after the scene earlier. He was never this messy, liked to keep his space neat, clean—sparse, if he was being honest—but living with Ashenivir, the whole apartment had become like this.
Rizeth rolled the thin leather tie between his fingers as he went out onto the balcony, all idea of sleep gone from his mind. He’d drawn Ashenivir far too deeply into his life, allowed him closer than was safe or sensible. They were so entangled now, how could he fashion any separation that wasn’t a knife to the knot?
His knot, not Ashenivir’s. This was a mess entirely of his own making and, no matter how little he wanted to, he would have to find some way to extricate himself from it.
He re-bound his hair with the tie, made himself tea, and set himself up at the table with a candle and his neglected research. He lost the small hours to complex runes and theoretical magic, work that didn’t matter but which served as a distraction nonetheless, until early-morning sunlight woke him from where he’d passed out, like a first-year apprentice, over his own notes.