Rising Ch.3

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.

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.