10 Ash, 121
After the bath, Rivin had been given a new set of clothes, trousers that were tight at waist and ankles but loose elsewhere and a tunic shirt that hugged his body nowhere. When he had dressed he was led down the halls, which were dark paneled wood and silken looking wallpaper. The architecture and decoration were darker and closer than that he'd grown used to in the Imperium. He didn't like it better than the large sweeping rooms of marble and whites or greys that were the old palaces, but he didn't like it less either. It would be much easier to move unseen in these rooms than it would in his homeland.
They released him into a sleeping chamber of similar architecture. It wasn't the finest room in the house, certainly, but it had been made for a guest, not a servant, and he was content in this. Flopping down on the bed, a massive thing with four thick wooden poles, one at each corner, carved all over with swirls and leaves and acorns, he let himself sink into the mattress. Laying still, face down, and not moving for a significant amount of time, he wondered if there were beds in the house soft enough that he would drown in them if he fell asleep thus. He suspected it was so, as this one was almost thick enough to suffocate him. Pushing himself up on his arms at last, when he could stand the lowered level of oxygen intake no longer, he sighed and flopped over onto his back. The covers were slick and patterned, fine woven cloth of what he believed was satin. Fabric types were something he'd only ever heard about in the vaguest of passing conversations. It was not something he intended to pursue, a subject that, in a growing category of similar things, was not considered, by him, worth his time. Most of his life he had absorbed all information with nearly the same level of intensity, but now that he was both an adult, and stable in his place in life, the minutia of life for free people did not concern him as much as it once had. If they had more things, or different things, than he did, it made no difference. He was content. More things would not make him more content, nor would different things. Knowing about what fabrics were currently in fashion could neither add to his position nor detract from it.
Lifting his head enough that he could glance back over at the door he saw a pull cord near it and settled back. His meals would not be brought to him on a schedule, he could call for them when, and if, he wanted. If he did not eat for too long a period it would be reported to Ilex, of course, but there was no chance of that. He suspected that his body had stopped growing taller, but his chest was still filling out slowly, shoulders widening, and he was still thin from his spirts of growth through his teenage years. Refusing food was as far from his mind as the insensible idea of drowning himself. He needed to be strong, healthy, perfectly capable. A perfect specimen.
He considered ringing for food already, but he had eaten breakfast in the cell and it wasn't even yet noon. His run would make him ravenous soon enough, but for the moment, he decided, he wanted a nap.
Wriggling around and making himself more comfortable he let his limbs so lax and settle. His mind drifted back to the first time he'd slept in a bed, the first time he'd known that there were levels of luxury to be gained, or lost.
~~~~
His mother had been correct, as she, at that point always had been. So, it was not a surprise when one day the guard opened the door and told them to gather anything they wanted to take with them. When the child had attempted to gather up their blankets his mother had shaken her head, explained that they would get new ones where they were going. Understanding this Rivin took only the little bowl he'd been given after passing the first test (that he had known of). Holding it out in front of himself, careful in two hands. The word, Glass etched into one side had been traced by his little fingers so many times he could have written it, though he did not understand what letters were, or anything else to do with visual language. It was just a shape, a shape that meant he had succeeded and been rewarded. His mother had explained that if he were to drop the bowl, or knock it against anything too hard, it would break, so he was attentive in his awareness of where it was at all times. His mother brought nothing with her, except her son, who she walked beside and half a step behind, where she could see him.
The twists and turns they were led down were far too many and too new for the boy to remember the way back to the cell, particularly when most of his attention was on not dropping the bowl or tripping and smashing it along the way. The door they eventually stopped at was not the thick, crude type of the cells, it was thinner, better made, and, while still sturdy, not banded in metal. There was also no slot at the bottom to allow in light, food, or water. This concerned Rivin but he had learned to keep hold of his questions until he was alone with his mother, so he just watched what she did and tried to do the same. She opened the door and stepped inside, the room was more than twice the size of their cell, with two bench line platforms, which he almost immediately realized were beds, meant to sleep on. Why there were two he also did not understand, but would have to wait for an answer.
There was a little wooden table with a pitcher and washbasin, as well as a trunk at the foot of each bed. Up high in one wall there was a window. It was small, only a few inches high, but several feet across, (measurements of space were something he'd thought to ask about not long after he'd been taught about time). The latticework of metal covering it did not make him feel trapped, quite the opposite. Having a good bit of the view of the sky obscured, not to mention the metal itself standing guard between Rivin and that endless expanse, allowed him not to panic. If he did start to fall upwards he would stop at the window, not able to fit between the tiny openings in the metal that let through only light, and hints of color. The color was quite pretty, to his mind, when he wasn't imagining it swallowing him into an abyss forever. The natural light was also nice, sort of gentle and ambient compared to a lamp or a torch. Bright without seeming to have a specific source.
The guard left them, and while a lock could be heard turning, it felt like something that made them safe, not trapped. The sound meant that they would hear if someone was coming into their space, that no one could slip in silently while they slept. Rivin stood still for a moment and then held his bowl a little towards his mother. In the cell he had always left it in a specific corner, but now he was not sure what to do with it to keep it safe. His mother looked around the room and then moved to the little table with the wash things on it. She pulled open the drawer, which held several things he did not understand inside it, they looked bristly, or had hard teeth. She moved all of them over with a sweep of her hand and told him to put his bowl inside. Once he had she closed the drawer slowly. It seemed like a good solution but he kept looking back at the drawer off and on for the rest of the morning, making sure it was still closed.
His nothing then moved to the chest at the end of the bed and looked inside. At first, Rivin had thought it held more bed coverings, although the beds were both already made, but as she held up one piece and then another he realized they were body coverings, like the guards and the doctor wore. She found a set, trousers and a top, that she liked and set them on the bed that Rivin would come to realize was hers. Then she moved to the trunk at the foot of the other bed and went through it. The garments inside were much smaller, and he did not have to ask to realize they were for him. When she had chosen things for him and set them out as well she moved to the washbasin, pouring water from the pitcher into the basin she lathered soap and began washing herself. When she had done herself he came over and obediently allowed her to wash him as well. He was used to being washed, though having it done in the brighter light than he was used to was a new experience. He could see the difference between before he had been washed and after. Dark smudged coming away from his skin. The water too changed color and grew murky from both the soap and what it washed away.
There were towels in the space under the basin, under the little drawer, so they were able to dry themselves instead of having to wait to dry. Rivin liked the towels better, they were warm and felt nicer than trying not to let any straw stick to him for hours. The clothing was another matter. It felt alright at first, like being wrapped in a blanket, but as he moved around and they moved with him it kept feeling like something was brushing up against him and he jumped over and over again, causing his mother to smile, close to laughing.
When they were both dressed she carefully opened the drawer that held the odd set of tools and his bowl, taking out the tools she began to groom herself. Rivin sat on the bed and watched her, asking questions at first but not having to later when she realized he would want to know what each thing was and what she was doing with it.
She cut and cleaned her nails, hands and feet, brushed out her long hair, which she normally had to do with her fingers. Some of the knots required her to use the comb, which was for that purpose, he learned. When she was done she moved over to him and it looked like she was going to repeat the process on him before she stopped, tilted her head to one side and considered her son. When her head came to level again she began to instruct him on how to use the tools himself instead.
His arms were not used to getting to the top of his head to comb or brush out his hair, so it was awkward, but once his body learned what he wanted he was able to, slowly, work through all the tangles until she was satisfied. She held the sharper tools with him as he pared down his nails, but let him see to the cleaning of them himself. Rubbing the little brush over the soap and dipping it in the water he used it to make bubbles on his fingers and toes until he could no longer even see the nails. This was oddly entertaining and he did it again several times before his mother told him firmly that he was clean enough and should stop playing. He obeyed, and she let him put all the tools away neatly beside his little bowl.
Taking out the bowl he held it to the light, seeing the word cut into the side well for the first time. He still marveled at a substance that he could see through like water but which he could also feel, solid and hard in his hands. It felt impossible. When his stomach told him it was time for the next meal he looked again at the lack of slot in the door and began to worry. His anxiety did not last long, however, as the lock in the door was turned and a female entered. It was the first female he'd seen, other than his mother and he started without shame. The clothing she wore was huge, coving her torso in the same way most males' clothing seemed to, but her lower half was swathed in so much that he couldn't see the shape of her at all. Unless... she was shaped like that. The idea was too much and he pushed it away. She must have legs like everyone else. His mother would have told him in his lessons which included people with wings and horns; if human females were shaped so differently.
The woman set the tray he had barely noticed she was carrying down on one of the bed, gave the Lysanrin woman and her child a look which Rivin would soon learn meant disapproval, and then left without a word. The door was shut and locked again. The smells coming from the tray were new but they were still food smells.
His mother moved and began to pull the cloth covering from the tray. Under it were cups and bowls and plates. One cup contained water, the other something white that looked thicker. His mother told him the names of the foods as they moved to sit on the floor together and eat. There was cheese, which he did not like, it was sharp and tangy, and warm bread, which he had eaten before but never so fresh. The thicker liquid was milk, and though he could see how it was related to the cheese when his mother told him, he did like it. She took a sip but then let him have the rest of it, saying she would eat the cheese instead. There were also two thick slices of a white meat, which his mother said was a bird. His mouth was too full to ask what a bird was, and he forgot by the time they were done eating.
He'd never felt so full by the time all the food was gone. Looking down he could see the bulge of his little belly and would have laughed if it hadn't made him worry that he'd damaged himself somehow. His mother had laughed at him when he'd asked her if it would go back to normal. Gathering him up in her arms she pulled him onto her bed and told him that, while he would be expected to sleep in his own bed from now on, for that night, he could share hers.
It wasn't night, only a little past the middle of the day cycle, but the food had made the little boy sleepy enough that he didn't even whine at the idea of having to sleep alone later, only closed his eyes, pressed his face into his mother's neck and fell asleep.
After the bath, Rivin had been given a new set of clothes, trousers that were tight at waist and ankles but loose elsewhere and a tunic shirt that hugged his body nowhere. When he had dressed he was led down the halls, which were dark paneled wood and silken looking wallpaper. The architecture and decoration were darker and closer than that he'd grown used to in the Imperium. He didn't like it better than the large sweeping rooms of marble and whites or greys that were the old palaces, but he didn't like it less either. It would be much easier to move unseen in these rooms than it would in his homeland.
They released him into a sleeping chamber of similar architecture. It wasn't the finest room in the house, certainly, but it had been made for a guest, not a servant, and he was content in this. Flopping down on the bed, a massive thing with four thick wooden poles, one at each corner, carved all over with swirls and leaves and acorns, he let himself sink into the mattress. Laying still, face down, and not moving for a significant amount of time, he wondered if there were beds in the house soft enough that he would drown in them if he fell asleep thus. He suspected it was so, as this one was almost thick enough to suffocate him. Pushing himself up on his arms at last, when he could stand the lowered level of oxygen intake no longer, he sighed and flopped over onto his back. The covers were slick and patterned, fine woven cloth of what he believed was satin. Fabric types were something he'd only ever heard about in the vaguest of passing conversations. It was not something he intended to pursue, a subject that, in a growing category of similar things, was not considered, by him, worth his time. Most of his life he had absorbed all information with nearly the same level of intensity, but now that he was both an adult, and stable in his place in life, the minutia of life for free people did not concern him as much as it once had. If they had more things, or different things, than he did, it made no difference. He was content. More things would not make him more content, nor would different things. Knowing about what fabrics were currently in fashion could neither add to his position nor detract from it.
Lifting his head enough that he could glance back over at the door he saw a pull cord near it and settled back. His meals would not be brought to him on a schedule, he could call for them when, and if, he wanted. If he did not eat for too long a period it would be reported to Ilex, of course, but there was no chance of that. He suspected that his body had stopped growing taller, but his chest was still filling out slowly, shoulders widening, and he was still thin from his spirts of growth through his teenage years. Refusing food was as far from his mind as the insensible idea of drowning himself. He needed to be strong, healthy, perfectly capable. A perfect specimen.
He considered ringing for food already, but he had eaten breakfast in the cell and it wasn't even yet noon. His run would make him ravenous soon enough, but for the moment, he decided, he wanted a nap.
Wriggling around and making himself more comfortable he let his limbs so lax and settle. His mind drifted back to the first time he'd slept in a bed, the first time he'd known that there were levels of luxury to be gained, or lost.
~~~~
His mother had been correct, as she, at that point always had been. So, it was not a surprise when one day the guard opened the door and told them to gather anything they wanted to take with them. When the child had attempted to gather up their blankets his mother had shaken her head, explained that they would get new ones where they were going. Understanding this Rivin took only the little bowl he'd been given after passing the first test (that he had known of). Holding it out in front of himself, careful in two hands. The word, Glass etched into one side had been traced by his little fingers so many times he could have written it, though he did not understand what letters were, or anything else to do with visual language. It was just a shape, a shape that meant he had succeeded and been rewarded. His mother had explained that if he were to drop the bowl, or knock it against anything too hard, it would break, so he was attentive in his awareness of where it was at all times. His mother brought nothing with her, except her son, who she walked beside and half a step behind, where she could see him.
The twists and turns they were led down were far too many and too new for the boy to remember the way back to the cell, particularly when most of his attention was on not dropping the bowl or tripping and smashing it along the way. The door they eventually stopped at was not the thick, crude type of the cells, it was thinner, better made, and, while still sturdy, not banded in metal. There was also no slot at the bottom to allow in light, food, or water. This concerned Rivin but he had learned to keep hold of his questions until he was alone with his mother, so he just watched what she did and tried to do the same. She opened the door and stepped inside, the room was more than twice the size of their cell, with two bench line platforms, which he almost immediately realized were beds, meant to sleep on. Why there were two he also did not understand, but would have to wait for an answer.
There was a little wooden table with a pitcher and washbasin, as well as a trunk at the foot of each bed. Up high in one wall there was a window. It was small, only a few inches high, but several feet across, (measurements of space were something he'd thought to ask about not long after he'd been taught about time). The latticework of metal covering it did not make him feel trapped, quite the opposite. Having a good bit of the view of the sky obscured, not to mention the metal itself standing guard between Rivin and that endless expanse, allowed him not to panic. If he did start to fall upwards he would stop at the window, not able to fit between the tiny openings in the metal that let through only light, and hints of color. The color was quite pretty, to his mind, when he wasn't imagining it swallowing him into an abyss forever. The natural light was also nice, sort of gentle and ambient compared to a lamp or a torch. Bright without seeming to have a specific source.
The guard left them, and while a lock could be heard turning, it felt like something that made them safe, not trapped. The sound meant that they would hear if someone was coming into their space, that no one could slip in silently while they slept. Rivin stood still for a moment and then held his bowl a little towards his mother. In the cell he had always left it in a specific corner, but now he was not sure what to do with it to keep it safe. His mother looked around the room and then moved to the little table with the wash things on it. She pulled open the drawer, which held several things he did not understand inside it, they looked bristly, or had hard teeth. She moved all of them over with a sweep of her hand and told him to put his bowl inside. Once he had she closed the drawer slowly. It seemed like a good solution but he kept looking back at the drawer off and on for the rest of the morning, making sure it was still closed.
His nothing then moved to the chest at the end of the bed and looked inside. At first, Rivin had thought it held more bed coverings, although the beds were both already made, but as she held up one piece and then another he realized they were body coverings, like the guards and the doctor wore. She found a set, trousers and a top, that she liked and set them on the bed that Rivin would come to realize was hers. Then she moved to the trunk at the foot of the other bed and went through it. The garments inside were much smaller, and he did not have to ask to realize they were for him. When she had chosen things for him and set them out as well she moved to the washbasin, pouring water from the pitcher into the basin she lathered soap and began washing herself. When she had done herself he came over and obediently allowed her to wash him as well. He was used to being washed, though having it done in the brighter light than he was used to was a new experience. He could see the difference between before he had been washed and after. Dark smudged coming away from his skin. The water too changed color and grew murky from both the soap and what it washed away.
There were towels in the space under the basin, under the little drawer, so they were able to dry themselves instead of having to wait to dry. Rivin liked the towels better, they were warm and felt nicer than trying not to let any straw stick to him for hours. The clothing was another matter. It felt alright at first, like being wrapped in a blanket, but as he moved around and they moved with him it kept feeling like something was brushing up against him and he jumped over and over again, causing his mother to smile, close to laughing.
When they were both dressed she carefully opened the drawer that held the odd set of tools and his bowl, taking out the tools she began to groom herself. Rivin sat on the bed and watched her, asking questions at first but not having to later when she realized he would want to know what each thing was and what she was doing with it.
She cut and cleaned her nails, hands and feet, brushed out her long hair, which she normally had to do with her fingers. Some of the knots required her to use the comb, which was for that purpose, he learned. When she was done she moved over to him and it looked like she was going to repeat the process on him before she stopped, tilted her head to one side and considered her son. When her head came to level again she began to instruct him on how to use the tools himself instead.
His arms were not used to getting to the top of his head to comb or brush out his hair, so it was awkward, but once his body learned what he wanted he was able to, slowly, work through all the tangles until she was satisfied. She held the sharper tools with him as he pared down his nails, but let him see to the cleaning of them himself. Rubbing the little brush over the soap and dipping it in the water he used it to make bubbles on his fingers and toes until he could no longer even see the nails. This was oddly entertaining and he did it again several times before his mother told him firmly that he was clean enough and should stop playing. He obeyed, and she let him put all the tools away neatly beside his little bowl.
Taking out the bowl he held it to the light, seeing the word cut into the side well for the first time. He still marveled at a substance that he could see through like water but which he could also feel, solid and hard in his hands. It felt impossible. When his stomach told him it was time for the next meal he looked again at the lack of slot in the door and began to worry. His anxiety did not last long, however, as the lock in the door was turned and a female entered. It was the first female he'd seen, other than his mother and he started without shame. The clothing she wore was huge, coving her torso in the same way most males' clothing seemed to, but her lower half was swathed in so much that he couldn't see the shape of her at all. Unless... she was shaped like that. The idea was too much and he pushed it away. She must have legs like everyone else. His mother would have told him in his lessons which included people with wings and horns; if human females were shaped so differently.
The woman set the tray he had barely noticed she was carrying down on one of the bed, gave the Lysanrin woman and her child a look which Rivin would soon learn meant disapproval, and then left without a word. The door was shut and locked again. The smells coming from the tray were new but they were still food smells.
His mother moved and began to pull the cloth covering from the tray. Under it were cups and bowls and plates. One cup contained water, the other something white that looked thicker. His mother told him the names of the foods as they moved to sit on the floor together and eat. There was cheese, which he did not like, it was sharp and tangy, and warm bread, which he had eaten before but never so fresh. The thicker liquid was milk, and though he could see how it was related to the cheese when his mother told him, he did like it. She took a sip but then let him have the rest of it, saying she would eat the cheese instead. There were also two thick slices of a white meat, which his mother said was a bird. His mouth was too full to ask what a bird was, and he forgot by the time they were done eating.
He'd never felt so full by the time all the food was gone. Looking down he could see the bulge of his little belly and would have laughed if it hadn't made him worry that he'd damaged himself somehow. His mother had laughed at him when he'd asked her if it would go back to normal. Gathering him up in her arms she pulled him onto her bed and told him that, while he would be expected to sleep in his own bed from now on, for that night, he could share hers.
It wasn't night, only a little past the middle of the day cycle, but the food had made the little boy sleepy enough that he didn't even whine at the idea of having to sleep alone later, only closed his eyes, pressed his face into his mother's neck and fell asleep.
