Rising Ch. 03

His eyes rose to fix Ahma in his once more steady gaze.

"You are certain?" The Master asked one last time.

She made a curious face, wondering at this consideration from him. "Of course, my Lord. I find the thought of a female servant bathing a man much more acceptable than the thought of a male servant bathing one."

Ahma nearly jumped as the Master's deep, rich laughter filled the room. He smiled at her, his eyes finally losing the hard glint they so often carried to be replaced by a warmth and humor that made Ahma's breath catch in her throat.

"An interesting point. You've a fine spirit."

With that said, he undid the bindings of his trousers and dropped them to the floor.

Despite her greatest efforts, Ahma couldn't help herself. She looked.

Between the Master's thighs, which were thick and wide with hard muscles bulging across the surface, hung his cock. It was already fat and lengthy and larger than the Steward's fully erect member and it only showed the smallest hint of hardness. The head, a soft purple-pink at the moment, was thick and heavy looking, shaped vaguely like a bulbous mushroom. The shaft was pale and long, and quite thick.

Ahma worked hard to keep any facial contortions from her face, although she felt a slight blush creep into her cheeks. Methaniel didn't seem very interested in her reaction, though, and stepped directly into the tub. He sank down into the warm water. As his huge form lowered into the tub, the water sloshed over the side a bit. Ahma immediately placed a towel on the floor, cursing silently. She glanced at the Master to see if he was displeased, but he apparently hadn't noticed. Ahma pressed the towel into the small wet spot, then once she was finished she retrieved a small lump of scrubbing soap and a washrag from the box in the corner. Kneeling down beside the bath, she took the bar of white soap and the rag and wet both in the water. She swallowed softly, reminded herself firmly of her duty, and began to lather his arms. His arms were by far the most solid she had ever touched. The muscles were very firm. They had the natural give and warmth of flesh to them over the unbudging hardness underneath. They felt nice, healthy.

Willing herself away from distraction, Ahma lathered her rag again and began to wash her masters chest. She washed around for only a few moments, softly rubbing the cloth against him.

Leaning over the tub further to reach his far arm, Ahma extended her wings slightly to balance herself. After that she washed his back. Ahma scrubbed gently in tight circles, slightly massaging the stiff, tense muscles on his upper back and neck.

She cleaned his back for several minutes before moving on. She washed under his arms without pause. Then she slid down to the end of the bath. She reached into the tub and pulled out one of his feet. Ahma scrubbed it with great care, lathering down even his toes. After she finished with his foot, she massaged his large, toned calf with the washrag. She repeated with the second leg.

All the while Methaniel watched her silently, his eyes never leaving her, studying her with such intensity that, had Ahma noticed, would have surely made her blush. Normally he did not allow anyone to bath him, but she had not asked. That alone struck him as quite odd; most servants did not even move without asking it first, something that Methaniel had always been uncomfortable with. She, however, acted on her own accord. She showed no shame or hesitance while bathing him. Though Methaniel had not been bathed by a woman in many years, he did not recall them ever being so calm about the whole process.

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."

Master Methaniel nodded and returned her smile. They ate in easy silence, with the Master taking a second helping. Ahma surprised herself by eating a healthy bit more than she had anticipated. Still, after she had finished the Master piled more food onto the plate. Ahma's dark eyes widened.

"I couldn't possibly..." she began. Methaniel held up a huge hand, smiling softly.

"Fore the servants."

He leaned back in his seat, folding his hands together as he considered her.

"Tell me. What do you need? What can I do to improve your life? And I don't just mean the servants in general, though that will of course be taken care of. But I mean you, specifically. I want my servants well cared for, and my personal attendant needs to be especially tended to."

"All I lack are some decent dresses and dye...for my feathers. And more rations."

Methaniel nodded, his eyes still trained upon her, intense, piercing, their silvery gaze seeming to bore into her. "And what do you think needs to change in my house? What steps need to be taken to make this place the happy home my father once enjoyed?"

Ahma looked down. She could not understand why he asked something like this of her. "I wouldn't dream of offering my Lord counsel," she replied. It was what she expected he wanted to hear. Even his father had rarely asked her for counsel on matters so important.

But Methaniel surprised her. "Nonsense," he replied, his smile radiant and warm once more. Ahma nearly drowned in the intensity of it. "You are the very person I need counsel from most. I ask to know what needs to be done to make you and the other folk under me comfortable and happy, and no one but you or another of them would truly know. Now tell me what can be done."

Ahma hesitated a moment more, but when she looked up to meet Master Methaniel's gaze, her eyes were steady and strong. "I don't believe the steward will care for the people here, no matter how you punish him. He's become very comfortable. He's used to wanting for nothing, and doing whatever he wants to sate his ego and arrogance. People rarely change unless they want to."

Methaniel was silent for several moments, and his eyes settled upon her with such intensity and focus that it almost made her uncomfortable. At last he leaned back in his seat and smiled softly. One huge hand absently stroked his chin. "You are very wise, Ahma. I understand now why my father favored you so."

Ahma blushed more deeply than usual at his words. She rose, gripping her plate tightly. She was glad that her hands did not shake where they gripped the small platter. Night had fallen long ago outside the covered window, and Ahma was beginning to feel exhaustion tug at her from the many events of the day. "If you don't mind, my Lord, may I be excused?"

Master Methaniel nodded and stood up, his enormous frame towering high above her. "Of course. Tell the maids they can wait until morning to get the dishes and drain the tub."

"Yes, my Lord. Good night, Master," Ahma answered. She curtsied awkwardly, careful not to drop the contents of the tray, then quickly fled from the room, her heart pounding heavily in her chest.

Methaniel was more than Ahma had expected, quite different than she had envisioned. He was quiet, almost brooding, but not unkind as she had thought he would be. He bore many things in common with his father, and had obviously inherited his sire's humanity and kindness, though it was hidden under a rough exterior.

Ahma carried the food down to the servants quarters and wondered at what her life would hold in store for her now. In a day, things had changed exponentially. She prayed to Father Sky things would stay on such a positive course.

***

Methaniel stared at the door after it closed behind Ahma. His lips curled into a slight smile. She was unlike any servant he had ever met, respectful yet bold and self-motivated. She acted of her own accord. He could tell she did her best to keep herself restrained, but her spirit and will came through despite her efforts. He found himself wishing more servants were as bright and willful as her. It made things much more interesting, and he valued those who knew what they were about.

He rose and put the plates and utensils in a neat pile upon the table. He had decided Ahma's words were wise indeed; the Steward would have to be replaced. Most certainly immediately. He would speak with the Steward and tell him exactly why he was being dismissed before sending him out to the street with as paltry a sum of funds to live off of as he could justify.

Methaniel stood before the hearth, basking in the warmth of the flames. He tossed a thick split of wood onto the fire and the flames shifted and danced higher. His mind drifted to the war. His muscles bunched. Already he wished to rejoin his men.

But of course, that wouldn't be possible, not for some time. His mind wandered to Arthas, who had taken the arrow for him in the last battle against the Naemer legion. And to the strange men who had come so boldly into his home, intent on assassinating him. By now the city guard would be watching his home closely, keeping it safe and secure from without. He would be sure to keep it safe from within.

Something was not right. Someone was most certainly trying to assassinate him, but he did not believe it was anyone from Naemer. The entire business did not feel like a plot from those straight forward and simple people. This reeked of conspiracy and subterfuge. Things were not as they seemed. He knew it as sure as he had ever known anything, though it was just an inkling tugging at the edges of his perception.