Serve to Live

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Blackthorn poured the last bucket of river-water into the wooden tub and sighed. She had forgotten to ask permission to use a summoned helper, and Master Cirig had already gone to sleep in that faraway city. It wouldn't do to wake him up. Besides, she was a capable woman. The river wasn't that far away from the firbolg's home.

She stepped inside, stripping off her shirt. Washing was a messy chore, and there was no point in damaging these fine clothes even more than they already were. When she was finished with Master Cirig's laundry, she would take needle and thread to these fine raimants she wore. Surely her mother's spirit would understand that her master came first.

She wrinkled her nose as she hauled one basketful of clothes outside. Master Cirig, at least, was not like His Grace Lord Venadin, who would wear clothes until they rotted from his flesh. No, Master Cirig would wear clothes until he found them too dirty and then hide them away.

At least His Grace Isliffell had understood about cleaning clothes.

She hadn't bothered to boil the water before pouring it into the tub. Glancing around subtly, she dipped one finger into the washing water and muttered a command of heat. Glamour pulsed very briefly as the water boiled. Steam rose around her, unpleasantly hot. Master Cirig didn't approve of her working without leggings, though, so she merely endured.

The clothes that she scrubbed were very dirty, unfortunately. Soon the water became too foul for her to properly clean anything else with it. Quietly, she tipped the tub over, spilling the water into the grass, and then picked up the bucket-yoke to fetch more water from the river.

Something within her rebelled. She would not break her back fetching water. Her mouth set in a firm line, Blackthorn summoned an underhill.

It took the form of a male lurikeen and quickly set about the job of refilling the tub. They never needed commands, underhills, and they were quick and strong, much stronger than the elves and lurikeens who usually summoned them. A mage needed quick hands and a clever mind, not strong muscles.

While the underhill worked, Blackthorn went to look for her sewing supplies. Master Cirig really let his clothes get into a disgraceful state. Not just dirty, but ripped and worn. He wore his clothes as hard as he wore his armor. Unlike his armor, though, he didn't bother to repair his clothes.

She noted that her cot was missing with trepidation. She hadn't had a chance to notice earlier; she hadn't been home last night, after all. His Grace Isliffell had removed her cot sometimes when he wished her to warm his bed. But Master Cirig had never commanded that of her. He had seemed honestly horrified when Her Grace Kleopatra had pointed it out as an option. The one who held the thrall-bond owned the thrall absolutely and could command anything, but he had never considered that.

Still, he had just made his final season. A celebration of some sort was in order. Perhaps he had refused a traditional siabrian celebration because he wished to do it quietly at home.

Her hands were shaking when she found her kit. Stupid, stupid woman. She couldn't refuse him anything that he commanded. She couldn't spread her legs for him, either. Not after Dubh. Never, never again, after Dubh.

She slipped into the main room and carefully laid out her sewing kit. Finish the washing first, she told herself, then begin the seamstress work. There's some of those special leaves still in your herb pouch. You can steep them in hot water, and they'll keep you awake and alert enough to do the sewing.

And when all that was done, she would go to sleep in her master's bed as he so obviously desired.

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