What I Want, What I Need

House Zauvym was no different under the rule of Ashenivir’s mother. Matron Illiavra had turned the narrow structure into a thing of delicate beauty and glittering wonder, at great expense and expenditure of effort by the current Zauvym wizard—Ashenivir’s brother, Dirius. A fence like spun silver surrounded the modest courtyard and grounds, imbued with beautifully crafted protective runes; unnecessary windows of coloured crystal winked in the blue fungal light; and pearls of silvery continual flame ran in a waterfall sheet down the western side, twinkling prettily as Ashenivir approached.

The giant lizards that carried his mother’s palanquin lazed in the courtyard, and one lifted its emerald-frilled head as he approached. Ashenivir smiled and went to scratch at its jaw.

“Remember me?” he murmured. The reptile’s eyes half-lidded in enjoyment at the attention, tail twitching.

“Ashenivir!”

Ashenivir’s smile widened at the sight of his sister flinging herself across the courtyard towards him. Her great cloud of snowy white hair floated behind her, barely held back by the silver circlet at her brow. She hurled herself into his arms.

“Nilaena, it’s good to see you again.” He hugged her, realising just how much he’d missed his little sister. She was still so small, such a wisp of a thing. She looked up at him, beaming; the crescent moon in the centre of her circlet glimmered with tiny moonstones.

“Mother said you were coming to visit, but I wasn’t sure,” she said, and squeezed him tighter. “I’m really glad you did.”

“I…I’m happy to see you,” Ashenivir said, because that was true and he hated to lie to her. Nilaena released him and took his hand, and together they went slowly towards the great zurkhwood front doors. House Zauvym had no crest, at least not yet, so they bore instead a large and stylised Z. Ripples of permanent faerie fire danced across the letter; purple, then blue, then pink, then back around again.

“Mother is with Dirius, in her office,” Nilaena said, adding as they stepped inside, “I have to tell her you’re here.”

“You don’t need to interrupt her.” The longer he could put off that meeting, the better, even if he couldn’t go back to the Arcanum until he’d had it. Nilaena shrank in on herself once the doors closed behind them, and scuffed her foot against the tiles. Matron Illiavra had redone the entry hall, since last he’d had been here; it had used to be plain, and now patterned tiles swirled in blue and silver waves across the entire floor, set with golden eight-pointed stars at regular intervals.

“I was watching for you, so I could tell her you’d arrived.” Nilaena’s voice had dropped to a whisper now, and Ashenivir’s heart clenched. If there was one thing he did regret about leaving for the Arcanum, it was abandoning Nilaena to their mother. Matron Zauvym had not let her go to live at the Shrine, the way Ashenivir had. Afraid of a repeat of the last time, no doubt. Too lonely to let her only daughter out of her sight for too long.

“Alright, you go.” He gave her the most encouraging smile he could manage. “I’ll be in the library.”

Nilaena nodded and almost smiled back, then dashed lightly up the stairs. Her movements had grown even more graceful than the last time he’d seen her, which was hardly surprising—she had gone to the Shrine of the Dark Maiden as an acolyte around the same time as he had left for the Arcanum as an apprentice. Clearly, Eilistraee’s grace favoured her.

Ashenivir watched her go, then sighed and turned in the direction of the library. A few more minutes of solitude, if he was lucky. His hand went to his neck, feeling the links of his collar hidden beneath his shirt. He drew a breath—he could do this.

And at least now he wasn’t trapped in the estate, he could return to the Arcanum whenever he wished. Tonight, even! His mother could not keep him here whilst he had studies to return to. She had no hold over him, not anymore.

Or so he tried to tell himself.

Dinner that night was a stilted, awful thing of polite inanities and meaningless questions about the Arcanum. Those from Dirius were tolerable; those from his mother were more concerned with the speed at which he was progressing through his studies. Ashenivir would happily have talked to Dirius in more detail, perhaps gotten his advice on a few things, but Matron Illiavra overruled any talk that was not answering her immediate needs, as always.

Nilaena sat through the whole thing in silence. Ashenivir wanted to ask how she was faring at the Shrine, but he couldn’t bring that up in front of their mother, not after what had happened. His resolve to find and speak with his sister after dinner evaporated when on escaping the dining room he was overcome with a sudden wave of exhaustion. He had forgotten just how much energy engaging with his mother took.

Ashenivir took reverie in his old room, breathing far easier in the dark, private space. Still no lock on the door, but he was a wizard now and did not need keys to ensure his privacy. Feeling somewhat more secure as the arcane lock sank into the door, he stripped out of his clothes and fell face down on the bed with a groan. He didn’t even bother lighting the sconces, just lay there in the gloom and wished he was back at the Arcanum.

Why did he always end up agreeing to what his mother wanted? He should have just said he had classes to get to and left that evening, but no, he had let her convince him to stay the night. It would make her happy, she’d said, to have her long-away son back under her roof for just one night. And it was better for everyone if she was happy.

At least she couldn’t keep him here, because then it would take even longer to finish his studies, and that would not make her happy. She wanted him as skilled as possible as fast as possible, to take his brother’s place so that Dirius could at last start a family of his own. If there was one thing Matron Zauvym wanted more than her children where she could control them, it was grandchildren where she could control them. The more Zauvyms she had access to, the better. After all, one could not have a dynasty without heirs.

Ashenivir rolled over, toying with his collar. What he wouldn’t give to be tied up right now, mind as far away as it was possible to get from all of this. Out of her control, out of all control save his Master’s. He would ask Rizeth for it when he returned, he decided. Asking for what he wanted was still tricky sometimes, but he was getting better at it.

He smiled, and sank into reverie, memory-dreams of rope lightening his thoughts to pass him through the night.

The clatter of a wagon in the courtyard woke him. Ashenivir rose and pulled his robe over his shoulders as he padded barefoot to the window. He smiled when he recognised the patterns painted on the wagon’s cover.

Koros Despett hopped down from the driver’s bench and slapped the flank of his riding lizard, then tossed his cloak back over his shoulder and strode towards the entrance. Ashenivir had copper wire in his pocket and couldn’t resist raising it to his lips.

<Fancy seeing you here. Did you miss me?>

The merchant’s head snapped up, hand going to the knife at his belt. He relaxed only slightly when he saw Ashenivir at the window. Ashenivir raised a hand in greeting and got a brief nod in return as Koros replied to the message spell.

<Do my eyes deceive me, or are you half-naked up there?>

Ashenivir drew back from the window and bit his lip over a grin. Then he peeked back out, tapping the wire to his lips again.

<Come up and find out.>

His morning decidedly brightened by the arrival of one of his favourite bedmates, Ashenivir retreated from the window. Koros was here to meet with his mother, not him, and Matron Illiavra was never kept waiting. Fortunately, there were still a few books on his shelves—he hadn’t taken all of his things to the Arcanum—and Ashenivir plucked one down at random and curled up in the chair by the door to leaf through it.

He hadn’t seen Koros since he’d gone to the Arcanum, though the merchant had doubtless come and gone from the Zauvym estate many times whilst Ashenivir had been away. He was sure Koros always hoped to find him there and take his enjoyment, but Ashenivir knew he would not have cared overmuch to find him absent. Their relationship, such as it was, was purely physical. Koros had been the first person who had been properly rough with him and, up until Rizeth, had been the one to come closest to what Ashenivir now knew he wanted.

Care, though? Affection? That had never entered into it. Koros simply traded with his family and paid him a visit if he was interested. He usually was—the trade routes through the Underdark were long, dangerous, and lonesome, and Ashenivir was happy to offer himself as compensation at their end. It was just as transactional as his arrangement with Master Velkon’yss.

He paused in turning a page. Was it like that, with Master Velkon’yss? Certainly it had begun that way, trading his body for tutelage, even though it was the act of giving up his body that he had wanted in the first place. And still he offered his service now, still he received his payment in the form of tutoring that had him racing years ahead in his studies, but…

It was not as shallow with Rizeth as it was with Koros, Ashenivir thought, if shallow was the right word. He chewed on his lip, thinking, and was still mulling it over when there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” he called, glad for the distraction. He tossed the book aside and adjusted his robe to hide just enough of himself to be enticing. Koros stepped in and kicked the door shut behind him. His short hair was attractively mussed, his muscular arms bare beneath a close-fit vest, and his knee-high boots were still dusty from travel.

Ashenivir thought he looked delicious.

“I’m not stopping long,” he said. Koros’ voice was a low, gravelly rumble that always sent a lurch of heat straight to Ashenivir’s stomach. “I had a few things I thought your Matron would want first look at, but I must be at the Bazaar soon if I’m to claim a decent stall.”

“I won’t delay you,” Ashenivir said. Koros smirked and came over to him, pulling him to his feet by a fistful of robe.

“So you were half-naked,” he tugged the robe open and ran his palm across Ashenivir’s chest. When his hand reached the collar, he flicked the links against Ashenivir’s neck. “Pretty little handhold you have there for me.”

A flash of something like guilt darted through him—Ashenivir ignored it. He had not promised anything like exclusivity with Master Velkon’yss, had told him from the start that he had others he went with. He was doing nothing wrong. Smiling up at Koros and putting thoughts of his Master aside, Ashenivir stepped closer and twined his arms around the merchant’s neck.

Koros kissed him without preamble, shoving his tongue into Ashenivir’s mouth. Ashenivir took it eagerly and made a pleased sound when Koros squeezed his ass with both hands.

“Desperate as ever, I see,” Koros said. He pushed Ashenivir to his knees. “If I had more time, I’d fuck you before I went, but commerce never does stand still.”

“I’d hate to get in the way of your profit, sir,” Ashenivir teased. Koros rolled his eyes.

“Don’t start that shit again. Just open your mouth, why don’t you?”

Ashenivir complied, ignoring the flicker of disappointment. Koros had never enjoyed the titles Ashenivir had tried to use on him over the years—most of the time he barely cared if Ashenivir used his name. Still, it would have been nice if he played along at least a little.

It might have been six odd years, but the feel of Koros’ cock in his mouth was familiar, as was the hand that grabbed a fistful of hair to yank his head back and forth. Ashenivir suppressed a wince—he had thought Koros competent at this? The years had clearly tinted his memories. Perhaps it was rude to compare one partner to another, but having experienced Rizeth’s expert hand, the way his Master hurt with such deliberate intent, his purposeful use of precise force…this just didn’t hold up.

“Ow,” Ashenivir managed between rough jerks of Koros’ hips. He tapped at Koros’ hand. “Looser, please.”

“I thought you liked it rough?” Koros said, yanking his hair. “Wasn’t that what you were always begging me for? Don’t tell me wizard school turned you soft.” He chuckled to himself, not noticing Ashenivir’s scowl.

Ashenivir had no space to retort, only to choke when Koros fucked deeper into his mouth. It was nothing like what Master Velkon’yss treated him to, inspiring not desire but an honest urge to retch. He tapped three times on Koros’ leg, and managed a muffled noise of protest.

Koros misunderstood. He must have, because rather than stopping or even slowing, he sped up. Tears leapt to Ashenivir’s eyes at the force of it and sick fury coiled in his chest. He tried to pull back, away—Koros tightened his grip on Ashenivir’s hair and caught his shoulder with his free hand.

“Rough enough for you?” he asked, breathing hard and grinning. “I’d forgotten how nice you look, gagging on my cock. It’s barely been worth coming by this place without a chance to see it.”

He wasn’t going to stop, Ashenivir realised with horror. He didn’t even think Ashenivir wanted him to stop. Ashenivir tried to pull away again and was once more restrained by Koros’ firm hand. Koros was far stronger than he was—that muscular physique had been one of the things that had attracted Ashenivir to him when they had first met.

There was nothing appealing about it now.

Ashenivir’s mind raced. He should cast something, what was there that only needed a gesture, that would make him stop, make him realise Ashenivir wanted him to stop? There was nothing in his head but panicky static—even if he’d had the use of his mouth he wouldn’t have been able to conjure so much as a cantrip. The only thought that pierced the incoherent jumble was Rizeth wouldn’t do this.

He tapped at Koros’ leg again, hit at his hips with both hands—that got his wrists grabbed and pulled painfully up above his head.

“Feisty, aren’t we?” said Koros, and he must have known what he was doing, he had to. One large hand remained around Ashenivir’s wrists, keeping his arms up, the other returned to his hair to control his head. “You’re always fun, Ashenivir. If you’re still around when I’m leaving, I’ll try and swing by again. Fuck you properly.”

Try it and I swear to Mystra I’ll disintegrate you. Koros grunted with pleasure, still ramming into his throat, and Ashenivir was out of ideas. Well, no, actually. He had one.

Growling, Ashenivir bit down. Hard.

“Vith! You little bastard!” Koros shoved him away. “What do you think you’re playing at?”

Ashenivir scrambled to his feet, drawing his robe around himself, wishing he’d dressed now. He glared at Koros.

“I wanted you to stop,” he snapped.

“Then ask, you maniac! Don’t fucking bite me!”

“I would have if you’d stopped shoving your cock down my throat for two seconds,” Ashenivir shot back. Koros’ face twisted in a snarl, and he fastened his breeches with rough hands.

“You entice me up here, you want me to fuck you, then you don’t. You want it rough, then you don’t. Make sense, boy,” he spat. “Your Matron—”

“Please, tell Matron Zauvym you assaulted me. I’m certain that will go down well.” Ashenivir lifted his chin with far more confidence than he felt. His legs were trembling and he wasn’t certain how much longer they’d hold out. He did not seem to be entirely present in his head. “I suggest you go.”

“Oh, I’m going,” Koros yanked his cloak over his shoulders. “I’m sure your Matron will be so very pleased when her favourite merchant stops giving her special treatment.”

“She’d be less pleased to find out her favourite merchant has been fucking her youngest son.”

“You think you’re so clever.” Koros thrust a finger at him, crowding into his space, towering over him. Somehow, Ashenivir held his gaze without flinching. “All those books make you think you’re powerful? You’re nothing but a stupid child, playing stupid games.”

“Get out,” Ashenivir said, as coldly as he could. Koros flicked his eyes in one last, disdainful once-over, then spat at his feet and stormed out.

The moment the door slammed shut, Ashenivir’s knees buckled. He caught himself on the chair by the door, forcing himself not to collapse into it, not to crumple. He dressed with shaking hands; tried to braid his hair three times and gave up when clumsy fingers wouldn’t do as he wanted.

He passed his mother on the stairs on his way down—she called after him, but he didn’t look at her, couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t even really hear her, she was muffled, as though she was underwater. Something about when he was coming back.

Ashenivir didn’t know if he replied. Either way, she didn’t stop him and he fled the estate, making straight for the Arcanum.

He had meant to go to his quarters. To where he could shut everything else out, where he could pick up his books and go back to his essays and lose himself in spells and runes and theory and not think about—

About—

Ashenivir stopped with his hand half raised to knock on Master Velkon’yss’ door. He blinked, coming back to himself, left of centre and still drifting.

“What am I doing?” he whispered. This was no place for him to be, not like this. If he was looking for comfort he wouldn’t get it here, should have gone to Keszriin, to Vuzree. Hells, even Dresvan would have made more sense than coming here. His hand wavered, his knuckles just barely brushed the door before he shook his head and turned away.

He had gone two steps when the door opened behind him.

“Apprentice Zauvym,” Master Velkon’yss sounded flatly surprised. “I do not recall requesting your presence today—to what do I owe this visit?”

“I—” Ashenivir started, turning to address Rizeth more from habit than any conscious decision. “Nothing, Master, there’s nothing, I just…I didn’t…that is, I meant to…to…”

Rizeth frowned and Ashenivir wondered just how stupid he looked, standing there babbling, unable to look him in the eye.

“Ra’soltha,” Master Velkon’yss said, and Ashenivir nearly went to his knees on instinct.

“Master,” he whispered. He was twining a lock of hair around his finger, he realised, tighter and tighter until it pulled painfully at his temple.

“Why are you here, Ra’soltha?” Rizeth stepped closer—his frown deepened when Ashenivir flinched. His voice turned to cold steel. “What happened?”

“I…you know I had to visit my…the Zauvym estate. My mother she…a friend visited. Not a friend, a merchant,” he was barely aware of what he was saying, replying because he had to, his Master had asked him to. “He’s…that is, we…he’s a partner of mine. Is. Was.”

“I see.”

Master Velkon’yss clasped his hands behind his back and Ashenivir wanted to look at him, knew he should look at him, but he couldn’t raise his head. He stared at the floor instead, lost himself in the faint patterns of the stone as the words kept spilling out.

“He was the first one who could…who would do what I wanted, he gave me what I needed before…before I came to you, only he’s not like you, not at all, but I didn’t realise until today and he likes me on my knees and I like being there so it works, it used to work.”

A faint crack in the stone went all the way to the opposite wall of the corridor and Ashenivir only knew he’d turned his head to follow it when Rizeth took his chin and turned his face back. Ashenivir blinked up at him, eyes suddenly stinging.

“He wouldn’t stop,” his voice cracked as he spoke. “He wouldn’t—I couldn’t cast, I couldn’t breathe, I forgot everything, and I had to do something and I couldn’t speak with his…with him…so I just bit him and then he left, and I left, and I don’t…I don’t…”

Master Velkon’yss cupped a hand to his cheek and Ashenivir leaned into the touch, unable to keep from crying. His throat was a pinprick, his head stuffed with crumpled parchment, and Goddess, his Master must think him such an embarrassment, such an idiot, but he was still there, and his hand was about the only thing that felt real.

“Come along, apprentice,” Master Velkon’yss said, taking him by the arm. He guided Ashenivir into his quarters and set him on his knees by the couch. Then he took up a book from his desk, seated himself so that Ashenivir could lean against his legs, and moved Ashenivir’s hair aside to settle a hand on the back of his neck. The comforting weight of it was so familiar, and it pushed the cool links of his collar into his skin—fresh tears sprang forth, even though it was the nicest thing he’d felt all day.

Ashenivir tried to speak, but all that came out was an incoherent whimper. Rizeth flexed his fingers.

“Hush, Ra’soltha,” he said. He began to read, as he had many times before, only his voice now was soft and low, and Ashenivir knew he would not be called upon for his thoughts today. His Master’s voice filled the room and Ashenivir’s head with its rich, even roll. Ashenivir rested his head against Rizeth’s thigh and closed his eyes. He could not stop crying, but his breathing eased with every passage that Rizeth completed.

He had no idea how much time had passed when Master Velkon’yss said, quietly, “Tell me his name.”

“Koros Despett,” Ashenivir murmured. He was no longer somewhere off to the left of himself, though his body was still a strange and unknown animal. It might turn on him, if he approached it too quickly.

“Good, Ra’soltha. Thank you.”

Rizeth gently massaged the back of his neck, once more pressing the links of the collar into Ashenivir’s skin. Ashenivir sighed against Rizeth’s thigh.

“Time for you to come back,” his Master said. He continued to massage Ashenivir’s neck, slow and firm, until at last Ashenivir blinked and felt his heart beating in its right place in his chest once more. He straightened up, hollow but warm, mind back where it should be—he scrubbed dried tears from his cheeks with the heels of his hands.

“I’m sorry, Master,” he said, voice still shaky. “I didn’t mean to burden you with my troubles.”

“I will be the judge of when and if you are burdening me,” Rizeth said, turning a page without looking at him. “You will remain until I complete this chapter. Then I believe I have some pressing business at the Bazaar.”

Koros would not appreciate having even one small part of the might of the Arcanum brought down on him, Ashenivir knew, but he deserved it. And if he asked for mercy, if he begged Master Velkon’yss to stop and leave him be—then Rizeth would. Because Rizeth was no cruel amateur, pretending at competence, no; Rizeth Velkon’yss was a Master of the Arcanum.

He was Ashenivir’s Master.

“Thank you,” Ashenivir whispered, and leaned his forehead against Rizeth’s knee. The hand returned to the back of his neck, an anchor.

“You are most welcome, apprentice.”