Chapter Seventeen
Deep in the Trades Ward, the crush of the crowd and the early Flamerule heat had Ashenivir unpleasantly damp with sweat in a matter of minutes. Stallholders called from every side, whilst above, on the many balconies, a multitude of midday parties were already underway. He skipped sideways to avoid the headlong rush of a quartet of shrieking halfling boys and rubbed his ringing ears. Someone ought to tell the surfacers about sound baffles.
“If it’s your birthday, why are you getting him a gift?” River asked.
“I think it’s cute!” Mara said, half-skipping along at Ashenivir’s other side. “It’s ’cause you’re going to tell him, right?”
He avoided meeting her eyes. “I just want to thank him for the shrine.”
She and River groaned in unison.
“Why do you keep putting this off?” River shook his head. “What are you so scared of? You already told him about your changedance and everything was fine; why is this any different?”
“It…it just is.”
He’d told them both about the solstice—about all of it—and it hadn’t been nearly as awful as he’d expected. Though they’d both been as frustrated then as they were now that he’d backed out of telling Rizeth how he felt at the last second. Mara especially was furious that he’d ruined his chance to have a ‘perfect serial moment’, confessing at a dance in a moonlit grove. Ashenivir had pointed out that his life was not, in fact, a Varric Tethras novel, to which she’d replied that no, it wasn’t, because he was a coward.
“When are you going to tell him, then?” Mara demanded.
“I don’t know,” Ashenivir said. “Look, can you two just help me find a gift? This is hard enough as it is.”
“Alright, alright. I suppose someone has to be the stupidest friend now Verin’s gone,” River said, huffing. “Come on, this way’s nicer.”
They ducked into a less-crowded alley shaded over with brightly striped canvas. Smaller shops lined the narrow street, their displays all equally enticing to Mara, who had to be dragged bodily along.
“So, what are you going to get? Something new to play with?” She squealed and flung herself at a storefront, nearly knocking over the dwarven woman trying to leave it. “Oh, look how lovely these dresses are! Does he like you in that kind of thing? Though if you want a dress, you should talk to the lady who made my High Coin gown, she’s a marvel.”
“No, no dresses, thank you.” Dancing he might be able to get back into, but the thought of putting on a dress again made his insides curl up.
“Mara.” River slung an arm around her shoulder. “Princess. Do you remember what Ashenivir told us two minutes ago about why he’s getting Rizeth a gift?”
“To thank him for the shrine stuff.”
“And why is he thanking him for the ‘shrine stuff’?”
“Because he couldn’t go for ages because of the change…dance…” Mara’s eyes went wide, and she hurled herself at Ashenivir, wrapping him in a tight hug. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry, that was a dumb thing to suggest, are you okay?”
“I’m fine, it’s fine,” Ashenivir said, laughing. “But no dresses, please. Let’s find something else.”
They reached the end of the alley and rejoined another sweltering street. Even the regular collection of Trades Ward buskers were lacklustre, idly plucking slow tunes on their lutes or picking out lazy drum-beats. Ashenivir raised a hand to ward off the glare—despite the months on the surface, the summer brightness was still hard to handle.
“You could get him what I got Cain for his last birthday,” River suggested. “Would he wear cuffs like that?”
Ashenivir thought of the metal bands that always adorned Cain’s wrists, and transposed them to Rizeth’s. Silver to match his collar, glinting in the candlelight of the bedroom as the hands that wore them held him down and—
He cleared his throat. “I think so.”
River grinned. “Even if he doesn’t like them, he’ll wear them just to make you look like that. Alright then, follow me.”
Despite taking as many shaded shortcuts as they could, it was a sweaty, exhausted trio that finally arrived at the jeweller’s shop. It was tiny, tucked away in an awkward corner without much foot traffic, the sign over the door faded and flaking. The one small window was clean, though, with a neat display of necklaces and rings whose shelves, Ashenivir noted, all had subtly carved abjuration runes along their edges. Unassuming maybe, but whoever owned this place took their business seriously.
“She knows Kelran, so don’t worry about what you say,” River said, as he pushed open the door. “Hey, Seisheira!”
“Hey, puppy!” The woman at the counter was dark-skinned, Calishite most likely, with broad shoulders and a scar slitting her eyebrow. She set down the necklace she’d been working on. “Long time no see. What’re you hunting for this time?”
“He’s getting his Master a present.” River pushed Ashenivir forwards. “You remember what I got Cain last year?”
“He still wearing them?”
“Hardly ever takes them off.”
Seisheira chuckled. “Good thing they’re enchanted, then. Here, come pick some out.”
She directed Ashenivir to a shelf of wide cuffs, maybe two or three inches long, wrought in silver and gold. He lifted a silver set, wondering, not for the first time, if this was a good idea. No object in all the world could possibly thank Rizeth properly for all he’d done, and giving him something like this might give away too much.
“They’re all enchanted like Cain’s are,” Seisheira said. “Just pick the ones you like and they’ll fit. I’ll engrave them too, if you want. If I recall rightly, puppy over there got something grossly sentimental on his.”
“Oh, you have to get something!” Mara spun around, a necklace in each hand. “You have that special title, right? The drow one?”
“That’s mine, not his,” Ashenivir said. “And I don’t know, he’s not one for elaborate things. Maybe I should just forget it…”
“Don’t you dare.” River took one of the cuffs and whapped him on the head with it. “Commit to something. You’re both wizards, get Mystra’s mark. That’s not too ostentatious.”
Mystra’s mark. The symbol of the Arcanum, the same eight-pointed star that was burned into the back of his neck. He turned the cuff over in his hands, chewing his lip. He thought of his reason for doing this in the first place and knew then what he needed.
“What about Mystra’s star inside a crescent moon?” he asked. “Would that be possible?”
“Give me half an hour,” Seisheira said.
Ashenivir restrained himself from casting divinations at her backroom workshop—what glimpses he caught of her process were thoroughly fascinating. Her engraving tools were clearly magical, though so far as he could tell she herself was not. Maybe he’d come back another time and ask her—politely and very normally—about them. When she was done and he held the cuffs in his hands, a small sunrise spread through his chest, little moths fluttering between his ribs.
“Oh, he’s going to love them, I just know it!” Mara clapped her hands in delight. “Seisheira, you’re amazing!”
“They do look good,” River agreed. Seisheira smirked.
“I am a professional, puppy. Keep telling your friends.”
With the cuffs wrapped, the three of them headed back out into the Trades Ward. They did look amazing, and they’d look even better on Rizeth’s arms—Ashenivir could hardly wait to see it.
This had been, he felt, one of his better ideas.
Oh Goddess, this was a terrible idea. Ashenivir woke on the morning of his birthday sick to his stomach—what had he been thinking, getting something like that for Rizeth of all people? He didn’t even know when Rizeth’s own birthday was; they didn’t celebrate such events together!
He spent the entire day bouncing around like a lost moth, jumping from book to book, unable to focus for more than a page at a time; then scribbling half-hearted notes in an attempt at studying that lasted five minutes; then tidying the entire apartment in a frenzy of distraction that at the very least appeared productive. He knew Rizeth could tell something was wrong, and that if he was asked, he’d have to explain it.
He’d have to explain anyway when he gave him the cuffs.
“Are you unwell?” Rizeth asked at last, over dinner. Ashenivir had scarcely been able to choke it down, even though the vibrantly spiced lamb and fragrant rice were everything he liked. There wasn’t room in his stomach for anything but dread.
“No.” He gnawed the inside of his lip. Now or never. “I have something I want to give you.”
“It is your birthday, if I am not mistaken,” Rizeth said, as Ashenivir set the package before him. “Traditionally, you are meant to be the one receiving a gift.”
“I know, Master, but I…I wanted to thank you. For the shrine and…and everything.”
He hovered at the edge of the table, fingers hooked into his collar, as Rizeth unwrapped the cuffs and lifted one up to examine it. Ashenivir held his breath. That pure and perfect silver still looked good, the etching as spectacular as the day it had been done—as an object it was lovely, but as a gift? For his Master? The room seemed to sway around him.
Rizeth fitted the cuffs to his wrists, the enchantment humming at the edge of Ashenivir’s Weave-attuned hearing.
“An appropriate design,” he remarked, holding up his arms to turn them this way and that. One of those rare, soft smiles that had been less rare in Waterdeep than ever before crossed his face. “Thank you, Ra’soltha.”
The room straightened itself out. Ashenivir could still taste his heart in the back of his throat.
“However,” Rizeth continued, “it is your birthday, and as it happens, I do have a gift for you.”
“You do?”
Rizeth rose, rolling up his sleeves as he did so to keep them out of the way of the cuffs. Goddess, his arms looked good.
“Dress well, Ra’soltha,” he said. “Waterdhavian opera is not a casual affair.”
Opera, Ashenivir learned, was loud. A rather superior-faced attendant had given him a pamphlet that supposedly explained the tale currently unfolding on stage, but it hadn’t helped. Mostly because, sat there in the close heat and the near-dark, he was too busy being painfully aware of how easy it would be to reach out and take Rizeth’s hand. It was right there on the arm of the seat, and he could do nothing about it.
It was the same as always. They entered together, never touching; sat together, never touching; and they would leave together, never touching until the apartment door closed behind them.
The magical lights of the set glinted off the cuff on Rizeth’s wrist. He’s mine! Ashenivir wanted to shout. He’s wearing my gift, he’s my Master, he’s mine!
He kept his mouth shut and his hands to himself. On stage, a soprano shrieked out a lengthy run of vowels, and he winced. Did anyone really enjoy this? He snuck a glance at Rizeth, but his Master appeared wholly absorbed in the performance. If Ashenivir asked to leave, though, they would, and it wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference, because even if they went home and Rizeth fucked him senseless or covered him head to toe in fresh bruises, he still wouldn’t get what he wanted.
In the seats in front of them, a man put an arm around his partner and the two leaned close. Ashenivir swallowed down an acid surge of jealousy. Why can’t I have what I want?
He clenched his hands tight in his lap and forced himself to focus on nothing but the stage until the performance was done.
“One would think the theatre manager would have the good sense to invest in a simple cooling spell,” Rizeth remarked as they exited. He tugged at his collar—the trickle of sweat on his neck spurred Ashenivir’s relentless hunger to new heights. It was a feral thing tonight, full of anger at himself for being so cowardly at the solstice, fed by fear that if he had said something then—or did say something now—things would only be worse.
“I suppose not everyone thinks of magic for a solution,” he said, hoping he sounded normal.
“More likely he wishes to avoid the cost of upkeep on such a thing,” Rizeth grumbled.
The couple who’d been sat in front of them stood at the edge of the street, waiting for a carriage. They shared a kiss, and Ashenivir had to look away. His gaze fell on another couple hurrying past arm in arm, then two women who’d paused on the theatre steps to embrace, then a man kissing his partner’s hand as she ascended into her coach. It was everywhere, all he could see, touching and open affection, and he still stood half a foot from Rizeth, trapped by a six-inch unbreachable gap he could never, ever cross.
I can’t tell him, he doesn’t want me; if I don’t tell him, I’ll go out of my mind! I can’t lose him, I can’t, I can’t, I—
“Apprentice?”
Ashenivir prayed the darkness hid enough of his face to keep his secret. “Yes?”
“Thoughts running away with you?”
He kept his eyes on his feet.
“Just hungry.”
“We will be home soon enough,” Rizeth said. “You may eat then.”
Whatever Rizeth chose to give him tonight, Ashenivir knew he would still be starving come morning.
By the time they made it back, he couldn’t think straight. His skin was too tight, prickling feverish, his heart pounding fit to break his ribs. He wanted Rizeth so much, and it was so unfair that he only got to have him in small rooms, small doses, small scenes that no matter how many hours they took were never-never-never enough.
He gave up. He hurled himself at Rizeth, slamming the door closed with his Master’s body, grabbing fistfuls of shirt and pressing his whole body to him, as though if he tried hard enough he could crawl inside his skin. He had to tell him. He couldn’t tell him. The truth of it lay hidden in his kiss where Rizeth couldn’t read it, and for a moment, one glorious moment, Rizeth kissed him back. The slide of their mouths together was a drop in the ocean of his want—he tried to make it deeper, and Rizeth caught him by the hair, dragging him back.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Ashenivir dove forwards, trying to kiss him again. He didn’t want to talk, he wanted Rizeth. Rizeth tightened his grip, keeping him away.
“Answer me, Ra’soltha.”
He shook his head. Rizeth held him, searching his no doubt wild face for a moment, then in one hard, swift motion, reversed their position. He held Ashenivir to the door with all the solid weight of his body, a hand at his throat and a shiver of magic on the back of his neck. Elated, he fought against the hold, clawing at Rizeth’s arm.
“Behave yourself,” Rizeth growled, and Ashenivir stared at him, at everything he’d ever wanted and was still too afraid to ask for, and said the only thing he could.
“Make me.”
Rizeth hauled him from the door, no hesitation, no restriction of strength, and fairly flung him into the bedroom, with such force he almost fell to his knees. He shoved him again whilst he was regaining his balance and this time he did go to the floor, sprawling on hands and knees in the too-wide space between their beds.
“Take off your clothes.”
Ashenivir threw his hair back out of his face, defiant, and did not obey.
“Take off your clothes, Ra’soltha. Now.”
He shook his head, and Rizeth’s hand shot out. The stinging slap made him gasp—it met the feral hunger where it raged beneath his skin, and though it didn’t calm it, it certainly fed it.
“I am going to count to ten.” Rizeth’s voice was cold, hard iron. “One.”
Ashenivir didn’t move.
“Two.”
But punishment tonight might not mean a spanking, it might mean stopping altogether.
“Three.”
He was naked a breath before ten, knelt in the worst posture he’d ever displayed; Rizeth tipped his head up gently, only to slap him again, harder this time. The blow sang through his veins, and all he could do was turn to Rizeth with a ragged, “More.”
Another slap rocked his head back, and a breathless moan escaped him.
“Manners, Ra’soltha. Remember them, or keep your mouth shut.”
White-hot lust ignited in Ashenivir’s stomach. That hard expression, those fierce eyes that expected—no, demanded—obedience; he loved it. He loved it, and he loved the person behind it, and he couldn’t feel that right now, he wouldn’t lose his Master to it, he couldn’t, he couldn’t—!
Rizeth’s hand cupped his cheek. Gentle, thumb stroking his cheekbone; a reward for his obedient silence. Carefully, he tucked Ashenivir’s hair behind his ear, a deliberate motion that made him shiver.
The slap made him cry out, and his cock jumped in response.
“Up,” Rizeth ordered. “Bend over the bed.”
This time, Ashenivir didn’t make him start counting. Rizeth twisted his arms tight behind his back to hold him still as he delivered a series of punishing blows to his ass. Lightning pain joined the sting ringing in his head, nearly enough to cancel out all his thoughts entirely.
“Beg.” Rizeth hit him again, and he shouted a moan, fighting against the hands that held him to make them hold tighter. “Beg, or I will tie you to this bed and leave you here all night.”
“Hit me, Master, please hit me harder.”
A flicker of magic in his mark again, and what did Rizeth read there tonight? Could he see through the lust and the need and the dreadful hunger to the swarming moths that caused it? His hand snapped up, catching the sensitive place right at the top of Ashenivir’s thigh, and he cried out, straining his arms, rocking his hips against the sheets, fighting anything and everything because maybe if he fought his body hard enough his mind would leave it alone.
Rizeth spanked him until he couldn’t breathe, and when he stopped, Ashenivir whined so much that he started again, turning him into a thing of raw, red pain. Each blow only made the emptiness inside him scream to be filled in the only way it was ever allowed to be.
He didn’t want to ask. He was sick and tired of asking. Don’t you know what I want, Master? Don’t you know it’s you?
So he squirmed his way free instead, twisting and writhing with all his strength so Rizeth was forced to release him before he hurt himself.
“Ra’soltha—”
More magic in his mark, and Rizeth wouldn’t read the remotest desire to stop. Ashenivir lunged at him and was thrown back; lunged again and again and again, until finally Rizeth pinned him face down with a hand on his neck and a knee on the back of his thighs. His other hand was braced by Ashenivir’s head, the cuff gleaming, Mystra’s star captive within Eilistraee’s moon, and something inside of him shattered.
“Fuck me,” he begged, out of breath and broken. Rizeth bit his shoulder, hard.
“I warned you once, Ra’soltha—do not make me do so again.”
“Yes, Master. I’m sorry, Master, I’m sorry, please hurt me, please fuck me, I’m sorry.” The words fell out in a rush until Rizeth shoved his head into the bed and muted him.
“My Ra’soltha is sorry, is he? How can I believe a word he says when he has behaved so poorly tonight?” The pressure on his neck lessened; he whined at Rizeth’s leaving, and his still-throbbing ass received another harsh blow in response. He stilled, biting the sheets so hard his jaw ached until Rizeth returned. Naked now; Ashenivir could feel the heat of his skin, and wanted to touch it, taste it, lose himself in it.
Rizeth hauled his hips up, a hand keeping his head down. Slick fingers teased at his entrance for a brief moment, before Rizeth’s cock took their place, shoving in fast and deep so that he shouted with it. He rocked back, desperate, and Rizeth pushed his face more firmly into the bed.
“I am fucking you, Ra’soltha, as you requested. You will take what you are given, and you will thank me for it.”
Ashenivir clawed at the sheets—every movement drew a shove, a spank, a slap, a yank of his hair so hard he howled. It claimed his entire body, everything pain and pleasure, so tangled the one ended deep inside the other, and through it all he kept seeing the cuffs, the stupid fucking cuffs. His heart cracked with every beat, his mind flying further and further apart each time Rizeth hit deep.
He loosed a cry that sounded half like dying, and maybe he was. Each snap of hips sent him higher, higher, falling up, plummeting out of his body, no room in him for anything but sensation and yet…and yet…
The warmth was still there. The longing was still there. The moths were still there, choking him, strangling him—his Master commanded, and he obeyed, and Goddess help me, I love him!
He hid the words in the animal screams of his pleasure, and let himself fall into that insensate place where nothing could reach him. His body wasn’t his when he came, but it went right back to being so when Rizeth did. The satisfaction of it, the fullness, so far beyond the physical it near enough touched his soul—this was what he wanted. This was what he needed.
Rizeth was what he needed.
Ashenivir loved him, and keeping those damning words locked away right then was the hardest thing he’d ever done.
“Care to explain what that was about, xi’hum?”
Careful fingers stroked through his hair. Ashenivir lay very still in Rizeth’s lap, wishing, wanting, terrified, and shook his head. The hand slowed, the back of his neck tingling for a second before it resumed its motions. He hardly knew what he felt himself in all the tangle of comedown and exhaustion, what hope did his Master have of finding anything coherent there?
“Very well. Are you feeling better now?”
He nodded, a wordless lie so Rizeth wouldn’t notice it. The gentle hand continued, setting the tangles to rights, putting him back together one strand at a time. His thoughts grew heavy, reverie tugging at his senses. If he weren’t so tired, he thought he might cry. He must have made some noise, some sign, for Rizeth took his hand where it lay curled against his knee.
Ashenivir tried to grip it tight, but he lacked the strength, too close to reverie to find any. His hand in mine, no matter who can see. That was all he wanted. For this never to end, for Rizeth never to let him go. Rizeth’s stroking hand stilled on the back of his neck; warm, safe. His anchor, always.
He couldn’t go on like this. Kelran was right; he had to say something or end this, before they returned to the Underdark and it was ended for him. He had to. It was take that chance or lose in pieces what would surely be less painful to lose all at once.
So, there in reverie-haze, he made his decision. At midsummer, he would do it. He would tell his Master everything, and, one last time, he would do as a Ra’soltha should, and ask for what he wanted.
And maybe, if he was lucky, his Master would give it to him.