When her Master climbed out of bed the next morning, Aithne was on her feet, posed and ready to do things right this time. Whatever that might look like.

 

Her Master yawned and rubbed his eyes. His cock strained against the silk breeches – he had awoken with an erection, one thing, at least, he and Borkul had in common. Her new Master turned, then froze when he saw her.

 

“Ah. It wasn’t a dream.” A big sigh, then, as Aithne waited. Had it been Borkul, she would have already been on her knees, his cock in her mouth, but her new Master, orc or not, clearly had different rules. Though his eager cock seemed to prefer the former’s mindset. “Fine. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it right. First, you need a bath. You smell like you haven’t bathed in…well, ever. Follow me.”

 

Aithne had thought that during the long sleepless night she had gone through every request her Master might make of her that morning. Dozens of possibilities had sprang to mind, some of them probable, some of them unlikely to the extreme (although she had already learned her definitions of “probable” and “unlikely” were cross-purposed to her understanding). She had gone over each of them, no matter how miniscule she thought their chances, plotting how best to respond, extrapolating probable reactions and the proper responses to them, until her head practically swam with ever-evolving solutions to imagined situations.

 

All of it was swept away in an instant. Given a million years, a bath ( for her, at least – she had come up with at least a dozen variations on him wanting a bath) would never have made her list. She followed him back through the room with the table (she was certain no one had walked by her during the night, yet someone had cleared the plates and food from the night before, somehow) and into a chamber beyond.

 

Of all the wonders of this place, what greeted her was second only to the impossible number of books in spectacle – the room, several stories in the air, held a giant stone basin filled with steaming, clear water. A wall portioned off the far end, and her Master pointed toward it.

 

“I do not know your history. Where you originated, where you have travelled, what you have seen, so take no offense when I assume you have not seen an interior toilet before. On the other side of that wall, you will find one. Use it when you need to. You do not need to ask anyone’s permission to do so, not mine, not anyone’s – the last thing I need is to be interrupted in the middle of research by an adult asking to use the bathroom like a child. Do you understand?”

 

It seemed a simple question, but to Aithne it felt rife with danger and, though she nodded automatically because it would not do to fail to respond,  it took several heartbeats to wind her way through everything he had just said. Those five sentences were filled with so many potentially ruinous statements, she barely knew how to begin processing them.

 

The miracle of a toilet indoors, something that would have taken her entire brain to wrap around in nearly any other context, was barely noticed in this. Take no offense? How could she take offense? It was not her place to be offended by anything her Master said. Like the “dears” her short-term Mistress had called her, it was simply not the sort of way a Master spoke to his slave.

 

Even more outlandish was the notion that she could use the so-rare-she-would-never-even-imagined-it-existed indoor toilet at all, let alone without asking permission. What, she was just supposed to walk away from her Master when the urge to pee hit her? Preposterous! And yet, she now had a direct order to do just that.

 

Her head began to pound as it tried to work out just what was going on. Her Master appeared not to notice. He pointed to objects around the giant tub.

 

“Soap. Get it wet, use these cloths to rub it on yourself, rinse off. This liquid is soap for your hair. Get your hair wet, rub this in, scrub your scalp, rinse it out. Dry off with this towel when you’re done. Understand?”

 

Aithne nodded. She did, at least, know how to bathe, though it had been…how long? Everything before Borkul felt like a dream – not real. Maybe she had only imagined bathing. Maybe…

 

“Can you talk?”

 

Aithne blinked back to attention and nodded.

 

“That’s good to know. I was beginning to wonder. Get clean. Wash yourself twice. No, three times. Meet me at the table when you’re done.” He motioned at the tub, then turned and walked away. Aithne watched him go as the latest wave of confusion crested and crashed over the broken rocks of her worldview.

 

She was left alone. To bathe…herself. She looked at the tub – more of a pool, really, almost wide enough to swim in – and then took a step toward it. Then her body reminded her of more pressing needs and she went past the pool to the miraculous toilet first, a revelation of engineering the design of which she could not begin to fathom. She expected it to stink like an outhouse, but it didn’t smell of anything but room itself, which had a hint of a flowery scent.

 

When she finished (and couldn’t help but watch the mechanism that cleaned the thing with water as it whisked her leavings away), she re-entered the room with the pool and, after a moment’s hesitation, stepped ginger feet into the water.

 

The water reached her knees and was as warm as a tidal pool at midday. She moved to the edge nearest the soap and eased down until her body was immersed and only her head remained above. Only once had she had such an experience, when she was twelve and her father had brought them to the hot springs at the edge of the city. Only the wealthiest families got to go there, usually, but her father had done some service to some noble and he had invited them to join him. The water had been hot, almost too much to bear at first, until her body had become used to it – then it became the most glorious of feelings, a cocoon of heat and comfort. This pool was like that, only without the lingering smell of rotting eggs. Her brother would have loved…

 

Her vision blurred without warning and she sat a little taller and wiped at her eyes. Was she weeping? She didn’t remember tears starting but they appeared to be trailing down her cheeks. Or perhaps that was just water from the pool or sweat from the heated air. She could not be crying, for what was there to be sad about? She had never felt more comfortable in her life. Weeping was akin to being ungrateful to her new Master who allowed this luxury, inexplicable as it seemed.

 

The thought of her Master cleared her head – she should not be lazing around when her duty was to serve him. She ducked under the water and rubbed at her head, then reached for the soap and cloths.

 

Despite her intention to finish as quickly as possible, it took nearly a full bell to get completely clean. Borkul had bathed her in a way before each inn they visited by pouring a few buckets of water over her head, but she had not been truly clean in what felt a lifetime. When she stepped at last out of the water (onto heated tiles, would wonders never cease), she felt ten pounds lighter. She folded the towel and set it on the edge of the pool and walked back into the room with the table.

 

Her Master sat at the table in a thick robe, reading from the same book as the night before as he chewed a piece of fruit without much apparent attention. Aithne’s mouth began to water as she noticed the food on the table – some sort of porridge, bread, fruits of several varieties, a clear pitcher of milk. In another lifetime, it would seem a simple enough affair – to Aithne, it looked like a king’s feast.

 

Her master looked up, then ducked his head a little as if embarrassed.

 

“You are done. Good. Sit and eat. As much as you want. While I take my bath.”

 

She frowned as he stood, although the confusion was less this time. It should have been her job to bathe him but she was beginning to catch on – a small part of her had expected him to say what he had said. The larger much more internally vocal part of her still wanted to protest, of course, but she kept her mouth closed as he moved past her, stepping sideways in an apparent attempt to avoid touching her. She waited until he was in the next room before moving, though even then, each step felt wrong, like she was breaking a rule. She was certain this was some sort of cruel test, that her new Master would come storming back into the room to beat her for all the things she had done even though he had said to do them.

 

The thought gave her a chill and she paused two steps away from the table. She dared not turn around to look and could only imagine the fist rushing toward her head at that very moment. So vivid was the idea that she closed her eyes and cringed in anticipation.

 

The blow never came and after a few seconds, she began to feel foolish. Then fear rushed in again because she had been ordered to sit and eat, but she was standing there instead. She took the last two steps and sat (noting as she did the utter lack of fists in her general vicinity) and, although every fiber in her being cried out against it, she served herself the most delicious meal she could ever remember eating.

 

She felt sated – itself a novel experience – by the time her Master reappeared, now dressed in a clean robe of exactly the same cut and color as the one from the previous night.

 

“You are finished, then?” At her nod, “Good. I don’t know what to do with you. Yet. Maybe the kitchen needs more help or…something. For now, just…stay out of the way. Understood?”

 

Aithne nodded and that appeared to be enough – her Master grunted and moved past her, and she followed him out of the room, through the bedroom, and back into the library. She felt…good? She felt so good, she almost wanted to skip along behind him. Some part of her still waited for the other boot to drop but, even if this was all just some cruel and twisted ruse to get her to break the rules, she would accept her punishment gladly – it was worth it for this brief period of time when she felt almost…normal.

 

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