Rising Ch. 03

Ahma stared at the imagine reflected in the mirror. Never had she even touched so fine a dress as this. It was breathtaking, beautiful and finely made. Rema had truly outdone herself this time.

When Ahma had entered the seamstress's workroom and told Rema of the Master's wishes, the seamstress had ushered her promptly onto a stool with hardly another word. It was clear by her face that she was pleased at having something more interesting to work at than patching the pants of the field workers.

Rema and her two little assistants began taking Ahma's measurements, examining and inspecting her from all possible angles with tape and pins. The seamstress scribbled down the measurements on a thin leather pad with a piece of charcoal. The assistant girls stepped into a side room briefly before returning with such a variety of clothes and materials of so many colors, shades, and designs it made Ahma's head spin. These Rema had Ahma hold up against her body. The seamstress ran a clinical eye over Ahma, judging how each fabric and material matched with the Wingling girl's eyes, hair, shape, and complexion.

After several moments of this, Rema re-checked Ahma's measurements before nodding in satisfaction, her narrow face set firmly to her task.

"Luckily, we got a dress that would probably suit you already made up. Steward had me make it to be sold off for some friend of his out in the city. But it'd be better suited for this, methinks," said Rema. "Have to make some adjustments for it to fit proper like on you. Shouldn't be too difficult, no. Go on, and come back in two hours. If we get a bit of luck on our side, the dress may be ready then. Tight squeeze it'll be, but the Master mustn't be kept waiting any longer, no."

Rema shooed Ahma from the workroom, and she and her assistants began to whirl and move around the room furiously, gathering all that they would need and setting upon their task with spirit.

Ahma went to the women's quarters to find them empty. She quickly stripped down the front of her dress after shutting the door firmly behind her. She found the knife that one of the older servants had hidden away under a mattress and gazed at it. Her hands trembled violently as she gripped it. She reached around her back, her fingers feeling along the knotted cords that held her restraint so tightly to her, crushing her wings to her body.

She could have done this long ago. The thought made her belly pitch sickeningly. For the last six months, her birthright, the freedom, beauty, and grace of her wings, had been denied her. It was as if part of her had died, so deeply were her wings connected to the lives and souls of her people. And she could have been spared all of that, if only she had gathered her courage and cut these vile cords loose.

But for all her normally fiery spirit and defiance, Ahma had been afraid. The Steward was a cruel man and he feared her. Ever since the man had first set eyes upon Ahma's wings, she had known he feared the inhumanness of them. Had she defied him, Ahma had little doubt the Steward would have taken her already miserable life and made it entirely hellish.

No more. Ahma brought the knife behind her and slipped it behind the tight cords. She began to slowly saw the knife back and forth, working away at the cords with the blade. She clenched her jaw and growled softly as she jerked the knife and her slow sawing became frantic and desperate. All the bitterness and resentment festering in her so long lent strength to her arms. With one final, violent jerk of the knife the cords snapped and broke away. She let out a quivering, silent sob as the leather restraint just under her breasts came free and fell to the floor.

The Wingling stood, motionless save for her trembling. For a moment, nothing happened. She couldn't even tell that the vile restraint had come undone. Her wings were still as numb and useless as they had been while bound.

Ahma cried out sharply as the blood came rushing back into her feathery appendages. They throbbed and ached, beating as the blood finally filled them properly. She sank to her knees and sobbed aloud now, unable to hold back the tears.

Such feelings! Ahma could hardly put them in order. Overwhelming pain, more keen than any she had ever felt. It was as if her wings had been severed and then reattached, and now the nerve endings were coming back alive one at a time, all of them wailing at her for the abuse. Then came a lull in the pain, and such a sweet and natural feeling of life and wholeness filled her that she wept anew that she had ever been so crippled.

Ahma came shakily to her feet. She flexed her wings and winced. They still ached from their long imprisonment, but she would have it no other way. Such a marvel, to be able to feel her wings again! Already it felt as if the world had changed around her...her balance had been badly compromised by her wings being restrained and senseless, forcing her into displays of embarrassing clumsiness. Walking had actually become a challenge for her, for a time. Now she stood, poised, light footed, her wings slightly extended to the side, her sensitive feathers feeling the tilt of her weight and helping her to balance perfectly. How glorious would it be, to be graceful once more.

Her feathers felt the slightest of breezes and motions, allowing her to feel the very air around her in ways that she had long ago taken for granted and sorely missed once her wings had lost most of their feeling. Ahma shivered at the feeling of it. Joy spread through her so powerfully it was almost consuming.

Ahma spent an checking over her wings and preening them, reveling in the feel of them as the ache left them gradually. A few more feathers than she would have liked had been lost due to the restraint, but they would grow back, and their loss probably wouldn't even be noticeable to any but herself, or perhaps Hannah. The Wingling girl went to the pail of water in the corner and thoroughly cleansed her wings for the first time in six months. The water was almost brown by the time she finished, and her feathers looked worlds better.

After drawing a new pail of water to wash her face and body with, Ahma quickly returned to the Seamstress, just in time to find this amazing dress completed for her. Ahma still couldn't believe all that had happened in just the span of the last few hours. The morning had been entirely life changing.

Ahma's attention focused once more on the mirror and the image staring back at her. The dress was cut from fine, soft fabric, far better than any she had ever worn. While not the silks and satins of a noblewoman, it was beyond anything of her experience. The fabric was a quiet, soft blue that, though pale, seemed lustrous and dark against the pale milk of her skin. It swept down her body, hugging tightly to her curvaceous form and dropping from her rounded hips to hang about her legs to the floor. The fabric stretched tightly around her generous bust. It pulled her breasts inward, pressing them tightly to her chest and making them look even fuller than they already were.

The neckline swooped in a low arc from the tip of one shoulder to the next. It sat on the edge of her shoulder, leaving the length of her graceful, delicate collarbone bare to the eyes. The neckline showed the top of her breasts and upper reaches of her cleavage, but was not as revealing as was currently popular among the ladies of court, for which Ahma was grateful.

The dress had full-length sleeves, ending just over her wrist. They puffed out a bit on the end, giving her wrist room to breath and work should she need to go about tasks with her hands. The dress clung to her narrow waist, showing the flatness of her tight belly between the swells of her breasts and hips. Rema had even been thoughtful enough to cut slits into the back of the dress, allowing Ahma's wings to fit through the openings and providing a comfortable range of movement.

Ahma turned to face Rema and smiled softly. Her dark eyes sparkled. "I can't believe this is for me, Rema. I've never seen such a beautiful dress."

Rema gave a crooked grin and nodded her thanks for the praise. "Isn't nothing. My girls and me had more time, we could've done better. But the Master can't be waiting for the likes of us. Wouldn't be proper, no."

The seamstress leaned back and studied Ahma, her eyes sliding along the dress and appraising her work. "Still, was a pleasure, it was. Something of a challenge, too. Never have tailored for the winged folk."

Ahma nodded and smiled softly. "Did the wing slits give you a problem?"

"Oh, that was trouble all right," Rema grinned, showing a missing tooth on the side. "But that wasn't the worst of it, no. The bust was what gave us such trouble, yes." She clucked softly to herself and didn't seem to notice Ahma's blush. "Most of the dress fit well with your measurements. But of course, it hadn't been made to fit such a blessed lass as yourself, no. Not that I've had a lot of experience, but you winged girls do tend to fill out so."

Ahma blushed softly and stepped away from the mirror. She nodded to Rema and her two girls. "I should go. I'll be sure to tell the Master what good work you did."

Rema thanked her, and Ahma stepped out into the halls. She walked carefully at first. The hem of her skirts were all the way to the floor, longer than the familiar dress she had worn for the past two months, which hung just above her ankles. She adjusted to the length quickly and was able to avoid stepping on the hem and stumbling like an oaf. She quickly came to the front foyer of the Manor and started up the stairs leading to the Master's room. Her footsteps were silent on the blue stair lining, but patted softly on the fine marble floor when she reached the second floor. By the time she reached the door, the windows of the Manor showed the sun beginning to set. Time had flown in a blur since the violent events of the morning.

Three times Ahma knocked softly on the massive pinewood door that guarded the Master's quarters. A large dragon was carved upon the surface, sitting nobly and staring outward, its great wings folded to its back. Ahma had never gotten tired of examining this marvelous door.

"Enter," the words called from inside the Masters chambered, muffled by the door. Ahma reached a shaky hand and pushed the massive door inward.

Never before had Ahma needed to enter Master Methaniel's room. It was not what she had been expecting. The walls were bare, hard stone, and there was only a plain blue wall-hangings upon each wall to lessen drafts. A single dresser stood against one wall, squat and wide, and beside it was a rack for armor and weaponry. The Masters sword already sat upon it. The Master's bed was large but simple and there was only a single pillow and two rough woolen blankets adorning it. Nowhere to be seen were the silk and satin bed things that Ahma had expected to find on the bed of a noble. A sizable chest sat at the foot of the bed, closed and plain looking. A large hearth across from the bed, a small fire burning softly in its opening. Thick blue drapes drawn heavily over the rooms single window, making the fire the sole source of light in the room. A small but sturdy square table was against the wall opposite the window and two chairs were drawn up to it. A large tub crafted from iron or tin by the look of it in another corner, along with several bathing supplies in a small box. The room was otherwise bare and humble. The Master apparently liked to live far more simply than the average nobleman. Ahma was somewhat confused by his lack of excess.

Methaniel stood by his rack of armor and was currently removing his right shoulder pauldron. He glanced up briefly as Ahma entered and placed the piece of armor upon the armor rack before turning to face her fully.

"I remember you. My father favored you, did he not? You have been with the house for some time."

"Yes, my lord. I mourned your father when he departed to the hereafter," Ahma said. She was not sure if it was something that he would want to hear, but she felt it was the right thing to say.

"Indeed. Many did." His words were simple, short, but Ahma could somehow feel a rich depth of emotions behind them. Silence settled between them, but it was not so uncomfortable and horrible as Ahma would have thought.

For the first time since his return, Ahma noted his face was bereft of a scowl. His eyes still danced with an edgy displeasure at the happenings of the morning, or perhaps something else, but she could tell his aggravated mood had brightened. He pulled his leather riding gloves from his enormous hands, placing them distractedly on the mantle above the fireplace. Ahma waited patiently, her hands folded before her as she studied this man whom she had scarcely laid eyes upon for more than an hour in all her years serving at the Manor. He seemed so strange, so different. He was not what she had expected, and he did not carry himself in the manner of any noble she had ever known. He was quiet, even more so than his father had been. Doubtless, he was a private, close man. But he was not arrogant or unkind as many nobles were. Ahma saw much of his father in him.

Methaniel shrugged one shaggy, gleaming lock from where it dangled across his forehead. His hands undid a buckle at his side, and Ahma suddenly jumped, remembering her new station as an attendant.

Before she could move to assist him, however, he had already slipped the heavy hauberk from his body, the last of his light battle armor. He did not wear a full suit, probably because of the traveling he had been doing. He stood in his trousers and undershirt, and turned to face her. His arms were naked before her eyes, thick and bulging with powerfully corded muscle. She couldn't help but stare at them. They were the largest arms she had ever seen, yet somehow did not seem so clunky and bulky as such arms normally appeared. They fit just right on the Master's large body.

His silver gaze turned on her. "I would like a bath, if you shall draw one for me. If I recall, down the hall is a water pump, and the tub is in the corner with bathing goods. I will light the fire and warm the stones."

"Yes, Master," she agreed with a short bow. She exited the room and entered another smaller room down the hall. The room housed a unique and useful water pump. Its pipes ran along the ever burning kitchen fires so the water kept from freezing in the lines. The pump made drawing a bath an easier endeavor, cutting the hauling buckets of water from the well outside and up the stairs out of the process entirely.

The old metal lever hung on the wall. Ahma took a firm grip on the handle. It had stuck in place from disuse. Ahma flexed the powerful flight muscles in her back and chest, straining them and pulling with them. She yanked the lever down with all her might. It shifted and gave a loud protest to its first use in over six months.

And nothing came out, not even a drop. Ahma set her mouth stubbornly and worked the pump again, then again, pulling down on the old lever until water began to stream out of the pump once again. She pumped the old water out, then once the water was fresh and clear, grabbed a bucket from the corner and filled it.

She carried the bucket down the hall and back into Master Methaniel's chambers, where he had moved the bathing tub into the center of the room. Though simple and unadorned, the tub looked too heavy for Ahma to possibly lift. She poured the water into the tub and glanced at Methaniel. He was poking at the stones heating in the fire pit of the hearth. He glanced up at her, catching her eye. He nodded in approval, but said nothing.

The process was repeated several times, Ahma drawing water into her bucket and hauling it back to Methaniel's room to deposit into the tub. She went about it tirelessly until the tub was nearly full.

When she returned with her last bucket full, the Master had already placed the heated stones in the bottom of the tub. Steam rose heavily from the warming water and the stones still hissed softly as their heat was forced into the water. For a tense, awkward moment, neither moved. Ahma, trying to train her gaze humbly low, glanced up at him with questioning eyes. His gaze lingered on her for a moment before he comprehended her hesitancy.

"You do not have to stay if you don't wish," he explained, his voice deep and smooth, filling his warm, simple chambers. "I will not ask you to do such a thing if it discomforts you."

"It doesn't bother me," Ahma murmured softly. "I haven't performed bathing duties in some time...but I'm not a total stranger to them."

He nodded, causing his thick hair to bob behind him. He had pulled it from its confining warrior's tail and now it spilled across his shoulders, shaggy and thick and gleaming copper in the firelight. Methaniel's hands gripped the rough woolen undershirt and tugged it off, tossing it somewhat carelessly on the ground.

Ahma stifled a gasp at the sight of him.

His body was toned and sculpted to perfection, a warriors body through and through and more powerfully built than she had imagined a man could be. His chest was broad and rippling with hard, bunching muscle. His abdominal muscles were sculpted and bulging, with defined lines between the fist-sized knots.

Ahma's attention, however, was not upon the impressive build of Master Methaniel, though it did not escape her notice. Her true attention was upon the huge, jagged scar extending from the top of his left shoulder to the bottom of his right hip. It looked as if someone had rent him open entirely, as if his body had been cleaved in two and mended back together. The flesh was upraised, a rough ridge along his chest and torso. Methaniel noticed her gaze trained upon the scar, but remained silent.

"Does it hurt?" She asked, half dazed. Methaniel shook his head.

"Does it require extra care?"

Again he shook his head.

Quickly Ahma turned toward the tub and stuck one finger in the water. "It's not quite ready yet."

Then, to Methaniel's puzzlement, Ahma walked to the small box in the corner beside where the tub had been and opened the lid. She rummaged through it for a moment and pulled out a small green flask. Ahma walked back to the tub and uncorked the bottle. She sniffed it. Methaniel still gave her an odd look, one brow arched upward questioningly.

"What is it?" He asked.

"It's yours," replied Ahma. "The spice from Mata Island in the great south seas."

He couldn't argue; it was his. His father had ordered him a full crate of the stuff years ago. It wasn't particularly pleasing to the nose , but its ability to ease tension and wear away soreness and stiffness in the body, as well as speed the recovery of minor injuries and hurts was well known among soldiers and those who knew their herbs. His father had wanted to protect him in the few small ways he could. This had been one such way.

Ahma dumped the bottles contents into the water. Methaniel watched her closely, his eyes studying her. His father had spoken once or twice of a Wingling girl during Methaniel's short visits from the Academy. He had always said the young girl possessed remarkable insight and showed a sharp intellect and consideration for things most were not attentive of. How could the girl have remembered his father buying him the spices? He had forgotten about them entirely.

Ahma checked the water again and looked respectfully up at him. "It's hot. It may not be hot enough, though. Should I heat some more stones, my Lord?"

"That's not necessary," Methaniel told her. The Nobleman paused for a brief moment, his eyes tracing the wide avenue of the scared tissue upon his chest. Ahma saw something dancing behind his carefully neutral eyes just then, some memory or feeling that she could not yet comprehend.