Rising Ch.3

Ahma stared at the imagine reflected in the mirror. Never had she even touched so fine a dress as this. It was breathtaking, beautiful and finely made. Rema had truly outdone herself this time.

When Ahma had entered the seamstress’s workroom and told Rema of the Master’s wishes, the seamstress had ushered her promptly onto a stool with hardly another word. It was clear by her face that she was pleased at having something more interesting to work at than patching the pants of the field workers.

Rema and her two little assistants began taking Ahma’s measurements, examining and inspecting her from all possible angles with tape and pins. The seamstress scribbled down the measurements on a thin leather pad with a piece of charcoal. The assistant girls stepped into a side room briefly before returning with such a variety of clothes and materials of so many colors, shades, and designs it made Ahma’s head spin. These Rema had Ahma hold up against her body. The seamstress ran a clinical eye over Ahma, judging how each fabric and material matched with the Wingling girl’s eyes, hair, shape, and complexion.

After several moments of this, Rema re-checked Ahma’s measurements before nodding in satisfaction, her narrow face set firmly to her task.

“Luckily, we got a dress that would probably suit you already made up. Steward had me make it to be sold off for some friend of his out in the city. But it’d be better suited for this, methinks,” said Rema. “Have to make some adjustments for it to fit proper like on you. Shouldn’t be too difficult, no. Go on, and come back in two hours. If we get a bit of luck on our side, the dress may be ready then. Tight squeeze it‘ll be, but the Master mustn’t be kept waiting any longer, no.”

Rema shooed Ahma from the workroom, and she and her assistants began to whirl and move around the room furiously, gathering all that they would need and setting upon their task with spirit.

Ahma went to the women’s quarters to find them empty. She quickly stripped down the front of her dress after shutting the door firmly behind her. She found the knife that one of the older servants had hidden away under a mattress and gazed at it. Her hands trembled violently as she gripped it. She reached around her back, her fingers feeling along the knotted cords that held her restraint so tightly to her, crushing her wings to her body.

She could have done this long ago. The thought made her belly pitch sickeningly. For the last six months, her birthright, the freedom, beauty, and grace of her wings, had been denied her. It was as if part of her had died, so deeply were her wings connected to the lives and souls of her people. And she could have been spared all of that, if only she had gathered her courage and cut these vile cords loose.

But for all her normally fiery spirit and defiance, Ahma had been afraid. The Steward was a cruel man and he feared her. Ever since the man had first set eyes upon Ahma’s wings, she had known he feared the inhumanness of them. Had she defied him, Ahma had little doubt the Steward would have taken her already miserable life and made it entirely hellish.

No more. Ahma brought the knife behind her and slipped it behind the tight cords. She began to slowly saw the knife back and forth, working away at the cords with the blade. She clenched her jaw and growled softly as she jerked the knife and her slow sawing became frantic and desperate. All the bitterness and resentment festering in her so long lent strength to her arms. With one final, violent jerk of the knife the cords snapped and broke away. She let out a quivering, silent sob as the leather restraint just under her breasts came free and fell to the floor.

The Wingling stood, motionless save for her trembling. For a moment, nothing happened. She couldn’t even tell that the vile restraint had come undone. Her wings were still as numb and useless as they had been while bound.

Ahma cried out sharply as the blood came rushing back into her feathery appendages. They throbbed and ached, beating as the blood finally filled them properly. She sank to her knees and sobbed aloud now, unable to hold back the tears.

Such feelings! Ahma could hardly put them in order. Overwhelming pain, more keen than any she had ever felt. It was as if her wings had been severed and then reattached, and now the nerve endings were coming back alive one at a time, all of them wailing at her for the abuse. Then came a lull in the pain, and such a sweet and natural feeling of life and wholeness filled her that she wept anew that she had ever been so crippled.

Ahma came shakily to her feet. She flexed her wings and winced. They still ached from their long imprisonment, but she would have it no other way. Such a marvel, to be able to feel her wings again! Already it felt as if the world had changed around her…her balance had been badly compromised by her wings being restrained and senseless, forcing her into displays of embarrassing clumsiness. Walking had actually become a challenge for her, for a time. Now she stood, poised, light footed, her wings slightly extended to the side, her sensitive feathers feeling the tilt of her weight and helping her to balance perfectly. How glorious would it be, to be graceful once more.

Her feathers felt the slightest of breezes and motions, allowing her to feel the very air around her in ways that she had long ago taken for granted and sorely missed once her wings had lost most of their feeling. Ahma shivered at the feeling of it. Joy spread through her so powerfully it was almost consuming.

Ahma spent an checking over her wings and preening them, reveling in the feel of them as the ache left them gradually. A few more feathers than she would have liked had been lost due to the restraint, but they would grow back, and their loss probably wouldn’t even be noticeable to any but herself, or perhaps Hannah. The Wingling girl went to the pail of water in the corner and thoroughly cleansed her wings for the first time in six months. The water was almost brown by the time she finished, and her feathers looked worlds better.

After drawing a new pail of water to wash her face and body with, Ahma quickly returned to the Seamstress, just in time to find this amazing dress completed for her. Ahma still couldn’t believe all that had happened in just the span of the last few hours. The morning had been entirely life changing.

Ahma’s attention focused once more on the mirror and the image staring back at her. The dress was cut from fine, soft fabric, far better than any she had ever worn. While not the silks and satins of a noblewoman, it was beyond anything of her experience. The fabric was a quiet, soft blue that, though pale, seemed lustrous and dark against the pale milk of her skin. It swept down her body, hugging tightly to her curvaceous form and dropping from her rounded hips to hang about her legs to the floor. The fabric stretched tightly around her generous bust. It pulled her breasts inward, pressing them tightly to her chest and making them look even fuller than they already were.

The neckline swooped in a low arc from the tip of one shoulder to the next. It sat on the edge of her shoulder, leaving the length of her graceful, delicate collarbone bare to the eyes. The neckline showed the top of her breasts and upper reaches of her cleavage, but was not as revealing as was currently popular among the ladies of court, for which Ahma was grateful.

The dress had full-length sleeves, ending just over her wrist. They puffed out a bit on the end, giving her wrist room to breath and work should she need to go about tasks with her hands. The dress clung to her narrow waist, showing the flatness of her tight belly between the swells of her breasts and hips. Rema had even been thoughtful enough to cut slits into the back of the dress, allowing Ahma’s wings to fit through the openings and providing a comfortable range of movement.

Ahma turned to face Rema and smiled softly. Her dark eyes sparkled. “I can’t believe this is for me, Rema. I’ve never seen such a beautiful dress.”

Rema gave a crooked grin and nodded her thanks for the praise. “Isn’t nothing. My girls and me had more time, we could’ve done better. But the Master can’t be waiting for the likes of us. Wouldn’t be proper, no.”

The seamstress leaned back and studied Ahma, her eyes sliding along the dress and appraising her work. “Still, was a pleasure, it was. Something of a challenge, too. Never have tailored for the winged folk.”

Ahma nodded and smiled softly. “Did the wing slits give you a problem?”

“Oh, that was trouble all right,” Rema grinned, showing a missing tooth on the side. “But that wasn’t the worst of it, no. The bust was what gave us such trouble, yes.” She clucked softly to herself and didn’t seem to notice Ahma’s blush. “Most of the dress fit well with your measurements. But of course, it hadn’t been made to fit such a blessed lass as yourself, no. Not that I’ve had a lot of experience, but you winged girls do tend to fill out so.”

Ahma blushed softly and stepped away from the mirror. She nodded to Rema and her two girls. “I should go. I’ll be sure to tell the Master what good work you did.”

Rema thanked her, and Ahma stepped out into the halls. She walked carefully at first. The hem of her skirts were all the way to the floor, longer than the familiar dress she had worn for the past two months, which hung just above her ankles. She adjusted to the length quickly and was able to avoid stepping on the hem and stumbling like an oaf. She quickly came to the front foyer of the Manor and started up the stairs leading to the Master’s room. Her footsteps were silent on the blue stair lining, but patted softly on the fine marble floor when she reached the second floor. By the time she reached the door, the windows of the Manor showed the sun beginning to set. Time had flown in a blur since the violent events of the morning.

Three times Ahma knocked softly on the massive pinewood door that guarded the Master’s quarters. A large dragon was carved upon the surface, sitting nobly and staring outward, its great wings folded to its back. Ahma had never gotten tired of examining this marvelous door.

“Enter,” the words called from inside the Masters chambered, muffled by the door. Ahma reached a shaky hand and pushed the massive door inward.

Never before had Ahma needed to enter Master Methaniel’s room. It was not what she had been expecting. The walls were bare, hard stone, and there was only a plain blue wall-hangings upon each wall to lessen drafts. A single dresser stood against one wall, squat and wide, and beside it was a rack for armor and weaponry. The Masters sword already sat upon it. The Master’s bed was large but simple and there was only a single pillow and two rough woolen blankets adorning it. Nowhere to be seen were the silk and satin bed things that Ahma had expected to find on the bed of a noble. A sizable chest sat at the foot of the bed, closed and plain looking. A large hearth across from the bed, a small fire burning softly in its opening. Thick blue drapes drawn heavily over the rooms single window, making the fire the sole source of light in the room. A small but sturdy square table was against the wall opposite the window and two chairs were drawn up to it. A large tub crafted from iron or tin by the look of it in another corner, along with several bathing supplies in a small box. The room was otherwise bare and humble. The Master apparently liked to live far more simply than the average nobleman. Ahma was somewhat confused by his lack of excess.