Warning: NSFW

After she finished scrubbing the floor, Nesiara came down to see Raviathan working at the stove. On the table was his herbalist kit. Various bottles were open and laid out next to his pestle. The pot on the stove had what looked like warm cream simmering below a boil. "What are you making?"

He turned to smile up at her with glowing eyes. A light flushed warmed her cheeks, but she was pleased by the looks she always got from him. He went to her and lifted her off the ladder and into his arms. She giggled a little at his enthusiasm as they kissed, and he set her down. "It's an ointment. I have a standing delivery for this once a month."

"What's it for?"

He didn't say at first as he went back to stirring the mixture then placing three large glass jars on the table. "No lies between us, Ness. Don't think less of me for doing this."

She looked at him with solemn curiosity. "Okay." At least she had some warning.

"I know a few boys who were exiled." The consequences of that were known to all elves. Exile for most was like a death sentence. It was almost never revoked without full proof of the elf's innocence, which was next to impossible. In addition to exile, the offending elves would be shunned by all the alienage elves. Even family would no longer talk to them in part because of the ruling but also because of the shame it brought upon the family to have an exiled member. Basic survival with few resources or skills left young elves in a precarious position with few choices.

It was nearly impossible for them to secure work as a servant without family connections. If an elf was able to find decent work, which was unlikely, there were humans to beware of. Even with the poverty and poor maintenance, the pressure to stay inside an alienage was great. They were subject to the capricious and violent nature of humans if they left. Elves who lived outside the alienage often had their homes broken into and trashed if not outright burned. With so little left for them, it was an almost certainty that the elves Raviathan was talking about were prostitutes.

"Okay," Nesiara said carefully. "What's the ointment do?"

"A few months after this boy I knew was exiled, one of the dock workers, his uncle, asked me to go meet with him." Raviathan added a yellow paste that made the ointment smell musky. "He had started working at a brothel. He was getting sickly. And there was pain." Raviathan's eyes were tight as he stirred in the mix. "I made some inquiries at one of the higher end brothels where they take care of their workers. They said he was having a reaction to the men. It's rough on men. To have sex that way. They, um, it takes more preparation for them to become wet, and since they're prostitutes, no one cares enough about them to do that. It also… being with shems damages their lining. This ointment kills the seed and makes it easier for them. So, once a month I prepare this and give it to him. One of the other boys who work there requested it as well."

Before she reacted, Nesiara took a moment, folding her hands in her lap as she did so. Exile was never handed down easily. Those elves had done harm to their fellows in order to get that sentence. "Does anyone know about this?"

"No one. They think I'm getting supplies. Sometimes I am."

"I'm not sure I'm okay with this." Nesiara nibbled the inside of her lip. Raviathan put his head down and turned back to the stove. If anyone did know it would make him look bad, a traitor to the alienage. He wouldn't be exiled, but the other elves would turn cold. The young men might try to fight him for betraying the alienage. Valendrian was a fair man, and wise, but even he would have some harsh words for her husband. He was already having problems. They didn't need to complicate it. Still, he was trusting her. "Were you friends?"

"No. We knew each other. That's about all." Raviathan lifted off the pot and poured the hot ointment in the three jars, scraping out as much as he could with a spatula that was set aside for his specialized brews. "They need to cool before I can seal them." He put the pot and spatula in the tub for washing before returning to caress her cheek. "Don't think less of me."

Nesiara took his hand, and he sat next to her. "Why were they exiled?"

"The boy who contacted me beat his father once. Almost killed him. The other boy was caught having sex and hitting the girl for cheating on him. The two of them were both exiled. Everyone was sure she had a second, but the boy she named denied it and was sent to another alienage. I don't know what happened to her." He looked at Nesiara sorrowfully. "I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't help him, but he looked so bad, Ness. He was humiliated and suffering. His life was already turning into a nightmare. I just… it was bad enough as it was."

He was risking too much by helping them. Should she tell him to stop? If he were caught, it would risk her, their father, and future children. His cousins too. Everyone who cared about him. Nesiara looked down at his graceful hand in her thick, calloused ones. "Don't get caught."

He stood and pulled her into a fierce hug. "Thank you, Ness."

"Are you going today?"

"Yes," he said, holding her close. "Just after lunch."

Time to let the heavy subject go. Eolas had told her to laugh instead of spending days in tears. He would be careful. He trusted her, so she would trust him. "So," she said suggestively, "we have until lunch. Whatever shall we do with the time?"

"No idea," he teased back. "Does my lovely wife have some task that she requires of me?"

"Task? I wouldn't want to over work you. Be awful if I was called a nag or shrew this early on."

He kissed her, pressing their bodies even closer. "Not a task then. A favor? Certainly no chore."

"How about activity? Does that sound more pleasant?"

"Activity," he mused. "Sounds like an appropriate use of our time."

Grinning, she led the way back up the ladder. As she was climbing his hand slid up inside her dress to caress her thigh, making her blood thrum pleasantly in anticipation. She hoped he would never get tired of her. As she tried to go up the next step, her dress pulled. "Rav, what are you…?"

Oh Maker no. He was under her dress, his mouth at the back of her knee just above her stocking. What had been pleasant anticipation turned almost painfully tight as his mouth travelled slowly up her thigh. "No. Rav, no." He paid her no mind, his kisses wet, sensuous, and slowly rising. "Not here. Please."

"The door is locked," he said, nibbling at the back of her thigh. He reached up, both hands caressing up her legs, and very slowly pulled down her small clothes. Oh please Maker not this. What's he doing? Her dress, caught on his shoulders, rumpled and climbed, exposing more of her legs. He lifted one of her legs, her small clothes slipping off, then let her calf rest against his chest. It felt strange to be almost fully clothed, too confining, as if her skin was caged and wanting freedom. His breath on the back of her thighs was the only freedom her body had from her clinging dress. How far was he going to go?

"Rav," she moaned, moving her thigh wide to give him more room.

"Yes, my dearest wife?" Though she couldn't hear it, she knew he was laughing by the shaking of his chest.

"If you're laughing at me…" she warned as her back arched involuntarily. He had seen her most hidden parts many times, but not like this. Never like this.

He was just past midway. "What, my dearest? What will happen?" he asked, his lips brushing her inner thigh as he spoke. He nuzzled her there, his teeth grazing her skin, before continuing in further with slow kisses. The silk of his hair was as much a caress as his lips.

"I'll… I'll squeeze your head."

"Oooh. That might not be so bad." His tongue flicked out high on her upper thigh, and her knuckles went white gripping the ladder. "I can think of worse fates than to be smothered between your legs." He bit her gently on the cleft of her bottom. The ache was becoming painful. His kissed her, licked her, nibbled her burning skin. "By the flames, Ness," he said letting his tongue roam high on her inner thigh, "your skin is so sweet."

"And you call me the tease," she whispered. "Brute." She wanted to feel him slide inside her. The blood in her groin was throbbing for it. She could feel her speeding pulse calling out for him. She wanted out of her clothes and have him spread her legs apart and take his pleasure hard.

He shifted, his cool hair slipping like silk along her thighs, as he turned around. She cried out as the throbbing got worse, and then he licked her. There. She clenched tight, her breathing ragged. What had he just done? What in the Maker's name had he just done? It was even worse now with his tongue sliding up and down her sex. She cried out in a mix of panic, embarrassment, and shock, and clutched the ladder rungs. His mouth was sucking at her, his tongue squeezing in between her tightened lips, coaxing her to open to him again. Oh no, oh no-no-no-no, what would he think of her? She cried out again, pained and wanting him.

One of his hands moved from holding her buttock to feeling inside the folds of her sex. She couldn't stay tight, and when she was forced open, his tongue wiggled back and forth, tasting her. Please, Rav please don't be disgusted with me. His fingers penetrated her, moving up and down, pressing her forward. His tongue was so strong as he tasted every inch of her.

All at once the tight throbbing all moved away as if pulled into another world, and a warmth spread from her groin down her legs and up her body in pulsing waves. She could feel it flush into her chest and stiffen her nipples, and down to the back of her knees as if steaming hot water were pouring down her legs. She wondered if she had lost control of her bladder. She couldn't tell. His tongue continued to lick at her, so a part of her guessed she hadn't.

Tears poured out of her eyes, and then her body tightened as if everything was pulled to a line running up her center. There was no controlling her voice, and her deep uncensored moan filled the room. The painful tightening loosened, unwinding inside her, and she would have collapse if her dearest, loving husband hadn't been holding her up. "Ra-av?" It sounded like his name had been wrung from her throat.

Still that tongue. Was he sucking at her? She could feel his lips fastened on her, his hand rubbing at a spot that felt like all the nerves of her body were connected to, and his glorious tongue. Her back arched, her butt sticking out ungracefully, and she wailed as her body seemed to twist inside her, driving her to his tongue. Her stomach and legs quivered, and her arms trembled as she tried to hold on. Oh Maker please, and her tears continued to pour out.

Her body had never felt so heavy before. Raviathan, always protective of her, took care to get her legs back on the ladder. Once he was out from under her skirt, he pulled her back so she fell in his arms. There was no way she would have been able to stand let alone climb up. She kept noticing the subtle shifts of her dress against her butt and hips. Without her small clothes on she felt that much nearer to him even though she was otherwise fully dressed. So odd. He put her on the one of the comfortable chairs, but she didn't want to let go. Ever.

"Just let me get cleaned up."

"Mmmph," Nesiara said. She wanted to curl up and sleep on him. Instead she watched him wash his face and rinse out his mouth. His hair was tussled. When finished, he put a mint leaf in his mouth to chew, pulled her out of the chair then had her sit in his lap. "Did I taste bad?"

"You taste like raspberries mashed with honey. I didn't think you would kiss me unless I cleaned up, and I need to kiss you right now."

She gave an inarticulate murmur and pulled him down for a mint flavored kiss. She was so loose she didn't think she'd ever be able to walk again. He'd have to carry her everywhere or the wind would float her away. She would spiral hither and thither, tossed about like a leaf carried off to sea. "I wonder what you taste like."

"I wouldn't know," he said with a quiet laugh.

"What about you, my love? Don't you need to…?"

"You scrubbed the top floor?" She nodded. "Well, there's a few spots you might need to get on the bottom floor."

Her neck twisted about, and she saw wet spots darkening the wood around the white of his seed. Her small clothes were hanging like a guilty secret on the ladder. "Ah well. As long as you're happy."

"Maker bless you, Ness," he whispered next to her ear. "My heart is yours." He squeezed her close and nuzzled her. "I am yours."

~o~O~o~

He left Nesiara with some tea to help refresh her. He had never thought of doing that to another girl before, but when she was on the ladder with her legs trembling, he would have done anything for her pleasure. Anything to make her happy. For the first time that thought troubled him. He still had no idea what he was going to do for his wedding gift to her. Maybe he could find something at the Market, some pretty combs for her hair. He did not want 'pretty'. He wanted something as extraordinary as her gift was to him. That would cost a fortune though. There was always getting a job to pay for a gift, but there was nothing that would pay enough and finding a job was difficult. He'd need to get one soon anyway, but he wanted to spend as much time as he could with her before that happened.

The city outside the alienage never felt right to him. It was too big, for one. Not enough that he couldn't move around with ease of course, but just enough to make him feel like an outsider. Noise seemed sharper on stone streets, and with no vhenadahl, he felt disconnected. There was a sterility that marked the shems, and not just in their city. They were as cold to each other as the rest of the city was to him. The man and woman walking down the street could be strangers as easily as a married couple. The two teenagers following them could be servants as easily as children. It always took him a few minutes to get use to their flat eyes and their thick, clumsy gaits.

Their odd manners and ways did more than just make him feel like an outsider. There was always a creeping paranoia that seemed to quietly but insistently hound him. A dirty look from the fishmonger could be disgust because he was looking at an elf or just the simple fact that the man was having a bad day. The former could spell trouble if he didn't keep his eyes down and moving forward. There was no way to tell when violence would follow him out here.

The houses and shops turned from plaster to wood the closer he got to the docks. The buildings were more cramped here, and Raviathan felt more comfortable away from stone and plaster. But that was merely shifting one form of worry for another as these areas were not safe, especially for an elf. The only time he went into a back alley was when he was at The Huntsman, a two story brothel that catered to sailors and dock working shems.

He knocked on the window, and after a moment, Bron came to let him in. Raviathan gave the other elf his hard case then slipped through himself. "Hey Bron. I brought three jars."

Bron sighed heavily as he sunk down on the large mattress. The only light in the room came from the window facing the dark ally, but there was no hiding the bruises that covered the other elf. The most obvious was a black eye and large purple contusion on his jaw, but there were others on his arms. "Thank the Maker."

Raviathan grabbed his healing kit and did a cursory examination of the elf. Bron pulled off his shirt so Raviathan could see the rest. Every rib was visible, and Bron's already sharp shoulders looked as severe as the exposed bones of a sparrow's wing. "Andraste's ass. How many were there?"

"Three shems. Is there anything you can do about them?" he asked looking at his bruises.

"If I can sneak up on them, sure." Bron chuckled, and Raviathan examined the skin to make sure it was not broken. "Any problems breathing?"

"No."

"I'll make a cream with concentrated arnica. Use it three times a day but stop if your skin gets irritated. Don't use it around your eye and wash your hands afterwards." Raviathan went to work, but this was an easy mixture: vegetable oil, arnica oil, and pressed cinemer root. If only he could afford cinemer oil. It was too expensive compared to the roots, but a little went a long way.

"Thanks," Bron said quietly as he watched Raviathan work. There was a fascination in the elf's pale blue eyes as if Raviathan was recreating the lost magic of their long past ancestors. "Pauler is getting worse."

Raviathan's hands hesitated at the name. "Bad?"

"Lesions. Losing a lot of weight. He can't get out of bed for more than an hour a day. Melville wanted to throw him out. Not good for morale when we can all see him get sicker."

"Turn around," Raviathan said. "I can at least get your back." He tried to be gentle as he rubbed in the oil. If it hurt him, Bron didn't say. Raviathan wondered again just how close he had been to exile.

"They needed the ointment," Bron said, his shoulders hunched and back curved to receive the oil.

"Huh?"

"The shems. They're not half as flexible as we are. Sometimes they bleed," Bron whispered as if it were a horrible secret he would be punished for sharing. Raviathan winced. From what Solyn had told him, shems were incredibly filthy. An open wound with all that bacteria in the anal cavity was begging for infection. There would be permanent scars too.

"Does that happen often?"

Bron leaned forward to give a better angle for his back. "Depends. When they can afford oil, they use that. There are a few who put a plug up themselves an hour before they start work. Gives them time to stretch. But this stuff works the best, 'cause they get sick too without it. They thought I had more hidden than I did."

Raviathan chewed his lip. "Bron. I've got some news."

"Yeah?"

"I'm married."

Bron turned around in a sudden panic and grabbed Raviathan's wrists. "Please Rav, don't stop coming. Please, whatever you want me to do, if it's money or anything, please…"

"Bron wait…"

"Oh Maker please I don't want to end up like Pauler please I'll do whatever you want Rav you can't…"

"Stop!" Raviathan couldn't blame him for panicking, but he did not want anyone to find out he was here either. An elf in a whorehouse like this was asking for trouble. "Bron, I've written down the formula for you. It isn't that hard to make."

"Me? But I don't know anything about that stuff."

"It isn't hard. I promise. Here, just take a look." Raviathan pulled out the paper with each step written in painstaking detail. "Pretend you're in front of a stove, and we're going to go through each step."

Bron shook his head as hopelessness settled into him. He pulled away and into himself as if he had just been given a death sentence. "I don't know how. Rav, if you stop, it's only going to be worse than if you hadn't come here at all. The shems will come after me."

"Bron, I swear to you, this isn't that hard. Look, here are the ingredients. You're going to take your base," Raviathan said pointing at the list. He read through the instructions once, and after a few minutes of patient explanation, Bron straightened enough to look over at the recipe. "Okay, so now we're going to pretend you're at a stove. It's hot enough. How do you tell?"

Bron read the instructions carefully. "I can hold my hand over the open stove for a count of three. What does that mean?"

"It just means that after you go 'one, two, three' you can't stand to have your hand over it anymore. Trust me, once you're doing it, it makes a lot more sense."

"But what if I can take the heat longer? Or I count too fast? Or something?"

Raviathan smiled. "Everyone is like that. Alright. Next step."

"Fill a pot with a quart of my base oil."

"That's right," Raviathan said and took him step by step twice more until Bron was familiar with it.

"You really think I can do this?"

"Who knows," Raviathan said with a grin. "You might go into business and start selling it to the shems."

Bron gave a reluctant sort of chuckle. "I'll need a bodyguard."

"Maybe," Raviathan said hoping that this would work. He laid a hand on an unbruised portion of Bron's shoulder, and the other elf squirmed and pushed back into his hand. The beaten elf closed his eyes, his hands trembling slightly. "If anything goes seriously wrong, let your uncle know, and I'll see what I can do. Okay?"

"How am I going to pay for this?"

Raviathan looked at the three jars. "Sell one of them. They can have it for a sovereign. At that point, you can make ten for every one you sell."

Looking over at the jar, Bron slowly started to nod. He took the paper in both hands and read it over. "Yeah. I can do this," he said trying to convince himself. He looked up at Raviathan, the pale blue of his eyes catching in the dim light. "Are you going to visit Pauler?"

Raviathan bit his lip. "There's nothing I can do for him." Bron didn't say anything. He looked down then back at the paper to study it. "Same bed?" Bron nodded. Raviathan put the three jars on the side table along with the arnica mix and closed his bag. "Don't forget to treat the rest of your bruises."

"I will. Thanks, Rav."

There was a very narrow back stairway to the private sleeping rooms of the whores. In the afternoon when patrons started to arrive the door would be locked from the inside, and that was the only security they had. Most of the staff were still sleeping or out front, so no one spotted him as he slinked through the halls. He knocked lightly at the door and entered when he heard a grunt. Pauler had once been big for an elf, and strong. When he was young, they teased him saying he must have shem blood to be so big. He was probably still tall, but that was it.

"Rav," he croaked and struggled to sit up. Sickness clung to the air making it seem too close and claustrophobic.

"Shh," Raviathan warned and closed the door. "Easy. Easy there big guy."

Pauler snorted and gave up the struggle. "Don't suppose you've got some medicine." His once deep voice was a sandpaper like rasp that labored through each word.

Raviathan looked him over. The raised lesions looked like long blood clots. They weren't too bad on his neck and arms, but when Raviathan raised the blanket and night shirt, he saw Pauler was covered by a multitude of small leach like lesions from chest to legs. His genitals had shriveled like old fruit where the pit of the disease rested. Crusty moss-like patches with scaled skin stained the inside of Pauler's thighs and over his withered penis, and slender lines of mold criss crossed as if a spider had been weaving its nest there. Raviathan didn't breathe in until he re-covered Pauler. He couldn't get this disease from breathing, he knew that, but it bothered him nonetheless. Pauler started to laugh, a cackling, bitter sort of sound. "Well. By the look on your face, they should start building my pyre."

"I'm sorry. I can leave some painkillers," Raviathan offered. There wasn't anything for this. Diseases were hard to heal to begin with. He could cure the common rashes people contracted through sex along with a few of the more serious diseases, but this was a killer. People sometimes called it 'spider tracks' because of the mold or 'witch kisses' for the lesions, or some variation on those two names. Both terms had colorful myths of how the disease got started though nobody really knew. Spider tracks was one of the few sexual diseases that no one knew how to cure. The only good thing about it was that the disease had early warning marks and was hard to contract. Likely Pauler was bleeding where the semen touched him.

"Painkillers," he snorted. Pauler lay back, and there was a faint rattle to his breathing. "Melville wants to kick me out." Raviathan didn't know what to say. Saying 'sorry' again seemed trite. He couldn't talk to Melville. Once the owner saw him, he'd have a hard enough time trying to get out of the brothel with his ass intact. "Maybe he should. I'd say don't bother to wait for me to die before the dustmen take me to the commoners' pyre."

Raviathan sat down on the floor and listened. He wished he had some great wisdom to impart, the way Valendrian did, but he had nothing. So he listened as Pauler talked. "All these years. Even he could tell there was something wrong with that shem. 'Nuff coins and it didn't matter. There's always someone new to replace what elves he loses. You think there's a Maker, Rav?"

"I do."

"Ha. If I ever saw the Maker, I'd want to spit in his face. Then take his bride and screw her ass, make her scream and bleed until she got this witch's ticks disease. All those fucking monsters at the alienage with their shaming and judgment. They did this. Threw me out to torture me slow. Never get out of line, don't you once step too far or get too rebellious or out you go. No family. Talk to them and it's like you're a ghost. Friends too. You're just a walking ghost they can't even see. I grew up with them. Five of us all in one room for fifteen years. Even my little brother. I protected him, Maker damn his eyes. Wouldn't even look at me.

"And shems just waiting to snatch you up like wolves. They prowl around and wait for the young ones. They don't even have to hunt us. They just have to sit by the gates and wait until we're flung out, then they take turns ripping us apart. Served up to the wolves. A banquet of baby elves.

"Where the fuck was I supposed to go? You tell me that, Rav. You sit there all quiet with your sorry. This could have been you, but you know that, don't you. The elves who were thrown out told me. Always them, never you. Why not you? Why the fuck were you so special? You sit there clean as you ever were, like tar don't stick to you, but we both know how close you came."

"Do you want me to go?"

"No, I don't want you to go," Pauler said looking at him as if he were offended. "I want you to sit there and listen." A choked cough forced Pauler to stop. A line of dark yellow phlegm splattered out to hang on his chin, ignored. Red flecks of blood spotted his lips and sheet. "Every time I pee I can see the spider tracks. It's like my body isn't mine anymore. I've got some decaying corpse's body that I'm stuck in. A ghost in a rotting cadaver. I wasn't sure about that shem. Thought there was something not right. Broke my ass like he was crazy, and yelling at me that it was my fault. Hitting me. Bit my ear too. Made it bleed. What could I do?

"There's not much worse than dying alone. Bron's the only one been keeping me here. Melville'd throw me out weeks ago, but Bron's been bribing the other whores so they'll all be against Melville. Don't know how he's been doing it, but there he is. But he can't stand to be around me anymore. None of them can stand to look at me let alone touch me. I use to like that. When my mother would hold me. I'd be bruised, and she'd sing to me. And then here, it's all turned around. After weeks you still can't walk right and hurt all the time. Everything you were gets turned against you. What I did to Desha gets done to me twice a week. They'd pay extra to punch me. If they didn't Melville would fine 'em and take the coins himself. You know what happened to her?"

"No." Raviathan wouldn't have known about Pauler except for Bron, and only about Bron through his uncle. Desha with her strange eyes was as gone as ghosts wandering the streets.

"So stupid," Pauler said tiredly. "I gave up my life. I knew what it could cost. I just… I didn't think it'd happen to me. I want to say I didn't know, but I did. That's the worst part. If I could blame someone else… It's my fault I'm here." He stopped when a coughing fit overtook him. Turning to the side, his tongue stuck out in a purplish point. Ulcer like sores covered the back of his head, stained his pillow brown and yellow.

Raviathan knew he should help. He was a healer, but he didn't want to get close. It was hard enough to stay in the same room knowing he was breathing the same air. It was cowardly and grossly insensitive to sit there and watch. Solyn would have been disappointed in him, the weight of which he could feel even though she had died almost two years ago. Pauler hacked and wheezed until blood splattered on his blanket. A small red clump sat in the blood splatter as if accusing Raviathan for escaping exile.

Pauler leaned back and wheezed, a high whistle undercutting his labored breathing. "Rav. I don't want to die. Even after all of this, seven years of getting beaten and screwed, I don't want to die. Those Chantry bitches won't see to a diseased elf whore. When I die, I'm going to be exiled all over again. The Maker isn't going to take me. I'm going to be all alone when I die, and then I'm going to be left in darkness and alone for eternity." Pauler started weeping, and Raviathan put his head between his knees.

"I'm sorry."