Rising Ch.3

Ahma knelt back on her heels as she finished and looked up to him, with no embarrassment in her eyes. “Is there anything else you wish?”

Methaniel shook his head and reached up to brush back his damp copper locks. He eased back in the tub and closed his eyes. Ahma ran her eyes unconsciously along his body, watching it gleam wetly in the light cast from the hearth. His chest quivered slightly, the huge corded muscle swelling and rippling periodically. His body remained tense, the muscles knotted up thickly, with great cords bunching against his smooth skin.

The Wingling girl wiped the soap from her small hands and waited, not speaking for fear of disturbing what was doubtless the longest moment of peace her Master had experienced in a very long time.

“It has been ages since I’ve had a proper bath,” Methaniel spoke up. His words were distracted, almost sleepy, and the lids of his eyes had sagged nearly shut. “On the front the best we can do for bathing is a splash in an icy, half frozen river, or a hand-basin full of similarly cold water. We do it more out of a desire to avoid being unpleasant than any sort of comfort or relaxation. A hot bath. It has been one of the things I have missed the most about home.”

“I’m glad you enjoy it, my Lord,” Ahma replied. She gazed at him, her hands folded patiently in her lap. She had expected the whole business of bathing him to be unpleasant. It was not. “Would you like me to wash you again?”

Methaniel shook his head and fell silent again. He let out a long, heavy sigh and sank deeper, his body relaxing further. The water rose up to his chin and the lower half of his thick mane of copper dangled in the water.

“Tell me,” said the Master, his words breaking the silence. “This…ill treatment that the Steward heaps upon you and the other servants…how long has it been going? How badly has it gotten?”

He sat up, his torso dripping water down into the tub and his muscles flexing powerfully. He watched her, his eyes questioning, as he brought a hand to his left shoulder, rubbing it slowly where the scar began.

“Shortly after the estate was fully signed to you and you returned to the front,” Ahma replied. “One servant has died of malnourishment, three more of sickness. Sickness curable by a few blankets, extra rest, food, and simple medicine and treatment.”

He nodded grimly, a hint of the hard edge creeping back into his eyes. “He will pay,” he whispered, his voice so quiet that Ahma did not hear him.

Methaniel cleared his throat and spoke up. “ As I said downstairs, many changes will be made, of that I assure you. You and every other worker and servant will be well cared and provided for, as you ever should have been. Had I known of this mistreatment I would have had it corrected long ago.”

Ahma knelt at his left side. She reached up with her hand and boldly pushed his away, replacing it with hers. Methaniel glanced at her, his eyes registering surprise, but he remained silent as she began to rub and massage at the spot he had been idly worrying at. Her fingers were not nearly as strong as his, but her touch immediately proved more effective than his own.

“Things could’ve been worse,” Ahma said softly. “No one was sold. We worked hard together and did our best to keep the Steward happy, so beatings were avoided. Our harshest punishment has been cuts to our rations, which we’ve survived, somehow. To say something positive, the Steward kept your fathers hunting dogs quite well. He seemed to like them.”

Methaniel submitted himself to her small hands, feeling her cool fingertips pressing against the taut muscle. He closed his eyes once more while her slender fingers worked at the hardness of his muscles, rubbing in slow, steady circles.

“I’m confounded as to how one can treat hounds with more decency than hardworking and good people. There is too much of the mind of a Nobleman in the Steward. Our nobility hasn’t the proper respect for the very people who hold them up.”

His head shook, and a length of coppery silk brushed her hands as they worked along the thick corded flesh of his shoulders. The knotted muscles slowly eased under her soothing fingers. She hesitated slightly then, steeling her nerve, moved her caressing fingertips to his broad chest. When he didn’t open his eyes or offer any complaint, she began to rub more firmly. The muscle bunched and shifted under her hands.

“Speak to me. Tell me of happenings. Tell me of yourself,” the Master spoke

Ahma considered for a moment, her hands becoming still for a moment. “I came to the house at eight. I trained as a maid and cook until I was eleven. Then I suppose I became your father’s attendant. A strange job for a little girl, but I grew into it. He never really let me care for him fully until after the accident anyway. And by then it was…it was too late.”

His muscles tensed for half a moment under her hands, hardening and jumping wildly before settling back into a relaxed state. It was the only sign that the mention of his father’s hunting accident caused him any kind of distress. He buried it deep.

“How old are you?”

“Nineteen. My mother used to say I was born on the first full moon of spring. It meant something in the religion of my people but I…I don’t remember what.”

Her fingers caressed his chest, rubbing in quick circles. Now it was her turn to feel tense and bite her tongue regarding the past.

“Two women had children during your absence. Only one survived, though. The other was born too early and died. The woman was a human and her husband was a Fenrehr. He was one of the few cat-folk living here. Marta told me it’s common for half-breed children to die upon birth. I don’t know if that’s true. The couple stayed together anyway.”

Her wings fluttered involuntarily, still not quite completely under her control after being still for so long. A few small feathers of down fluttered down, landing in the water. Ahma turned bright red and started to snatch them from the bath. “I’m so sorry,” she gasped.

The Master chuckled softly, his hand plucking one of the small, sleek feathers from the waters surface. Ahma watched in embarrassment while he absently twirled the feather between his huge fingers.

“No need to apologize,” Methaniel murmured. His eyes rose, staring into hers, seeming smokier as the firelight grew dimmer for a moment.

Ahma’s redness did not fade, despite his words. Or perhaps because of them. Or maybe it was the way that he looked at her with those beautiful, wonderfully unique silver eyes. Or his way of handling himself, the gentle kindness that at once contrasted and yet complimented his quiet intensity.

She snapped back to reality as the Master nodded and gripped the edges of the tub.

“I have had enough. I am going to get out now,” he announced, then began to rise. Water poured down his heavily toned body, streaming down the groves between his solid abs.

And then it was there again, hanging just above the level of her face from her kneeling position. Her eyes locked upon the fat, shining cock. It seemed even larger than before, though she doubted it had grown any, and it obviously had not hardened.

Ahma felt heat rising in her body, making her flush a brighter red than before. The heat rose to an almost uncomfortable level between her thighs.

The Wingling girl rose hastily and retrieved a large white towel from the crate of bathing supplies in the corner. When she turned to face him, he gently took the towel from her hands and began to dry himself. She gathered up his robe, a rich piece of blue fabric with silver lining, holding it ready. He took the robe after a minute, handing her the towel back. Ahma put it in the small bag of dirty clothes to be washed beside his bed.

Methaniel grabbed the tub and lifted it, carrying it to the corner where it had originally rested without sloshing the water out. Chamber maids would come to drain it at a later time. Ahma could hardly believe he had lifted it; it had looked unbearably weighty before it had been filled, and with water in it the tub must have been painfully heavy. While Methaniel moved the tub back to the corner, two serving girls knocked at the door and then entered, carrying three trays of food. They placed the food upon the Master’s small table and curtsied to him before rushing from the room. Ahma shook her head slightly and returned to her duties, walking straight to his wardrobe. Before she opened it, Methaniel caught her gently by the shoulder. “It’s alright, I will take care of it.”

She nodded, although she was slightly confused.

“What should I do for you, Master?”

He looked around. “You can pour us something to drink,” Methaniel replied with a slight smile.

Ahma walked to the small table to do just that. The table was made out of pine as almost everything wooden in the region was but it had been stained a dark, almost reddish color that gleamed in the light. She poured a flask of wine for Methaniel, then a small mug of water for herself. She removed the brass covering from the dish when he made his way toward the table, now wearing a large woolen shirt and pants dyed black.

Methaniel nodded his thanks and took a sip of the wine. His gleaming metallic hair, still damp from the bath, was swept back and bound once more to keep his face clear. He took his seat. Ahma stood at the tableside, watching him gather some of the food onto the plate, trying to commit his apparent favorite sweet meats to memory. The Master glanced up at her with a furrowed brow.

“What is it my lord?” Ahma asked softly. “Dopes something displease you?”

Methaniel shook his head, inclining his gaze to a chair across the table from him.

“Why do you not sit?” He asked her.

Ahma lowered her gaze to the table. “It’s not my place to dine with you, Master.”

The Master chuckled and flashed her a rare, warm smile. It made her heart beat more rapidly, such was the way it lit his face. It warmed the very room.

“Nonsense. Please, sit. It isn’t often I get good company to share a quiet meal with.”

Ahma hesitated, then nodded and slowly took her seat. “I haven’t done this in a long time,” she confessed. “Eating with someone other than a servant, I mean.”

She took a deep breath, reminding herself to eat slowly. The meal won’t be taken from you after ten minutes, she told herself.

“Are you going to get anything to eat?” he asked.

She nodded and began to place a few items on her plate. Methaniel watched her, then took the plate from her hands. He piled on the meat and vegetables, along with several rolls and pieces of fruit, and handed it back to her. Her mouth hung open in shock.

“You must be starving. All the servants are thin,” Methaniel commented.

“I don’t think I can eat this much, sir,” she replied.

“Someone will have whatever you don’t. You can take leftovers to the servants quarters,” he told her.

A small smile came over Ahma’s face. “That’s most kind of you, my Lord. I will.”