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"What is wrong?"
Deret Beshelar looked up sharply, horrified to realise that Cala had approached unnoticed. "Nothing!" he snapped, straightening his shoulders. “Nothing is wrong!”
Undeterred, Cala took a seat opposite him at the table. They were, as they often were after finishing a shift guarding the Emperor, in the kitchens of the Alcethmeret. This was a custom begun by Kiru Athmaza: before her, nohecharei always ate in isolated splendour in one of the lesser dining rooms. But Kiru had declared that she would rather spend her mealtimes in company, and incidentally did any of the staff have any burns, or cuts, that they had acquired while working - ?
The other nohecharei had followed suit, mostly at Beshelar's urging. If they all did it, after all, then Kiru could not be said to be lowering herself.
Right now he felt completely lowered, though. In fact, the bustle of the lesser servants felt far too good even for such as him ...
"Deret!"
Damn. His thoughts had been wandering again. "What?" Cala threw him an apple, and he caught it instinctively. "Stop annoying me, fool of a maza!"
"Hast been even more stone-faced than usual since Winternight," said Cala, tracing an idle finger through a spill of ale, ears flicking. "I thought thy arm had been declared healed. And why hast thy appetite faded to that of a dying elder?"
"My arm is as good as before." Beshelar threw the apple back, as proof. His arm had indeed healed well, and he was back to rigorous hours of training when not on duty. "And I already ate." Lie. Lie. Lie. No, it was nothing of the body that ailed him. He stood abruptly, and stalked towards the door, nearly knocking over a rushing scullion with a bowl of dried chamomile. The boy looked even more terrified at his barked apology than at the inciting event.
He headed for his room, a neat, windowless, sliver of space - a nohecharis needed only a bed and a wardrobe, after all. But he was too restless to sleep. Having shed his weapons, he paced around the small square of floor over and over, almost choking on feelings he could not quite name.
"Spit it out, Beshelar." Ah! The damn maza again, sliding silent as a cat through the door. "What bothers thee?"
"We are perfectly well!" he snarled, resorting to the formal construction in an attempt to drive away this intrusion. But, like a surgeon scraping at a tooth, Cala kept creeping closer to Beshelar's hidden shame.
"Nonsense," said Cala easily. "Guilt, is it?"
"What?" Beshelar drew himself upright and clenched his fists. "Guilt? I have done nothing wrong!"
"Of course thou hast not, but thy mind is rather overwarped in the direction of honour,” was the calm response. "Let me hazard a guess: thy thought is that since thou didst not catch Tethimar before he sprang, thou failed his Serenity?"
His heart froze. "That would be stupid.” Damn, his voice shook.
"And," said Cala, propping his shoulders against the door, "I daresay thou also think'st that the wound thou received is thy just punishment." Behind the spectacles his blue eyes were tranquil as a summer sky, a peace and friendship that invited confidences.
Beshelar swallowed. "No," he said. "No. I - I would take a thousand injuries for the emperor, thou knows't that. It is just that I do not feel I have been ... punished enough." His voice shook. Abruptly he sat down on the floor, not caring that this let Cala tower over him. "Thou guard'st his spirit, I guard his body, that is the bargain, and while thou succeeded, I came so close to failing - " His head sank into his hands. Now he was finally speaking of it, a tangle of feeling rose in his chest, intense as sickness.
"Ah," said the maza quietly, and then fell quiet. Beshelar found his sight swimming, and squeezed his eyes shut. Too late, though, for wetness streaked his cheeks. His throat felt choked. He was plunged again into that awful moment when he thought he had leapt too late -
"I try to punish myself," he croaked. "I feel sick with disapproval for my weakness. I train harder than before. I cannot eat, I do not deserve to stay alive, or remain a nohecharis - "
He nearly swallowed his tongue when he felt Cala's hand grip his topknot. He tried to look up, but Cala held tight and did not let his head move. "Deret," said the maza. The use of his given name made his stomach lurch. "Deret, punishing oneself is a terrible strategy. Who has a good sense of restraint and judgement in regards to their own perceived transgressions?"
"I do," protested Beshelar, but despite his verbal resistance he remained immobile under the firm grip. To his bewilderment, it gave him the same sense of reassurance as being under orders from a respected superior officer, the burden of choice resting with another for a change.
"You do not," said Cala, slipping into a more formal mode of address, like a magistrate passing sentence. Beshelar shivered. "Deret, will you let us judge you and decree your punishment? Then you may be free of this shadow on your spirit.”
“Cala … if only I could be cleansed so easily.”
“Deret.” The fingers tightened a little on his topknot. Beshelar opened his eyes, looking down at the maza's leather shoes – predictably, scuffed and wrinkled. “Deret, we do not offer a game. Mazei receive training in matters of the soul as well as in magic. Agree to our offer, obey our orders, and you will be cleansed.”
The hope that Cala spoke truth was overpowering. “Very well,” said Beshelar hoarsely. “I agree.”
His head was suddenly released. He swayed towards Cala, seeking the firm touch again, before freezing in embarassment. He looked up, never more reminded that Cala was taller than him.
“Stand,” said the maza quietly. “Then kneel on the bed, facing the wall.”
Beshelar rose and obeyed, settling uncertainly into position on the narrow bed. What could this mean? But despite his confusion, he found his breath coming quickly. Could Cala really lift this burden from him?
Cala's hands against his back, a little cold, made him jump. Rather impersonally they untucked his shirt, and knotted the excess fabric up. Beshelar pressed his hands against the wall. Thou agreed to this, he reminded himself. And he never went back on his word. But what was Cala doing - ?
Cala reached around and found the clasp of his belt. Somewhat disbelieving, but still holding himself rigid, Beshelar looked down at the pale hands fumbling with the buckle. He couldn't – surely – be going to - ?
The belt was removed, and then Cala pulled down breeches and small-clothes in a single brisk movement.
He is.
Cool air washed over his buttocks: a shiver ran down Beshelar's spine that was not entirely related to temperature. He sank forward a little till his brow pressed against the smooth plaster of the wall. A few different thoughts tried to find purchase in his brain – exposure, shame, doubt – but they could not make a true stand amidst the overpowering sense of relief and acceptance. This, this was a true punishment to soothe his soul. Physical pain, under authority, mortification of flesh and spirit …
The first slap made him cry out into the wall, and then he clamped his teeth into his lower lip. Stinging heat blossomed over his left buttock, and he craved its increase, craved the repeated touch of Cala's hand. He could just hear the maza's breaths, so much more even than the ragged puffs which ruled his own lungs. His hands were fists as he braced himself, and fought the urge to shove himself backwards, clenched his jaw against begging for more.
The next handful of slaps were in quick succession, lighter than he wanted, lighter than he deserved, but bringing both buttocks to a burning glow. Then -
A much harder blow, with a great crack, bursting against his skin like lightning. Despite his best efforts Beshelar gasped again, his ears jerking wildly. Not a hand at all, but a belt. His belt. Yes, yes, that was right – to use his own things against him – He arched uncontrollably, pushing his backside out and pressing his fists to the wall -
More strokes. Cala's breath was a little uneven now, though nothing to match Beshelar's. The pain grew like a flood in his bruised flesh, sweeter and more welcome than a sunrise. His upper body tilted towards the wall, his lower body was thrust to the maza, and he hung in a state of yearning and despair. For a blissful moment every blow seemed to wash his soul clean, but in the moment afterwards the clouds returned, and he ached for more. Fresh tears sprang to his eyes and he began to whimper with each fall of the belt, no longer able to restrain his voice. He found himself choking the maza's name over and over. Begging. Needy. Desperate. The hits fell more and more quickly, until there was hardly a moment between them, and his soul came closer and closer to the shores of clarity.
And quite suddenly he broke, and began to cry.
He slid sideways onto the bed, shaking, curling up into the sheets. Pain poured through his heart, but it was a fresh pain, cleansing, a flood scouring away the poisonous guilt and doubt. He wept from relief and he wept from bewilderment and he wept from exhaustion.
The narrow bed dipped a little under another weight, and he felt Cala's arms come around him quite gently. “There, there,” he hummed, as if to a child. “Art well, now, Beshelar. Art safe.”
The world felt right again. Beshelar reached up to grip those beautiful, giving hands. “I thank thee,” he managed through his tears. “I thank thee.”
A light kiss brushed one ear. “If ever thou need'st such help again,” said Cala seriously, “I am at thy service. Thou can’st only serve the Emperor with a strong spirit, my friend.”
Beshelar's sobs slowly faded towards tranquillity. It was not just the world that felt right again: he felt right in himself, steady and clear and calm. Cala’s warm body at his back made him feel as if he had stepped from a stone-cold shadow into the warm sunshine. There were not many opportunities for nohecharei to experience physical touch, with their long hours on duty. But even more important than the bodily touch, Cala’s promise hung like a lamp before him. If he ever lost his way again, the maza would be there. They walked this path together.
“I want to feed thee,” said Cala after a while. There was a plaintive edge to his voice. “Hast not been eating well. But I also don’t want to leave thee.”
Beshelar found a smile blooming on his tear-damp face. “We’ll go to the kitchens together,” he said. “Soon. Let’s stay here a little longer, thou and I.”
Cala’s chin tucked in against his shoulder. “Yes, Deret.”
They lay there, two halves of a whole, in complete peace.