Thankfully, Aarin had experience serving people higher than him with a strained smile on his face. He walked around the hall, pouring alcohol for anybody who called for him. Unfortunately, he didn't get much information. Small talk, whose land is bigger, who has more spirits in their name—minor matters of no importance to him. But he wasn't just going to give up; he hadn't forced himself into such a revealing outfit for nothing.
Nothing stood out to him until he got to the second floor. As he was pouring drinks for a few people, something caught his ear.
"Oh, you're lying! Yethra!?" One of the lords said and let out a loud cackle. The other nodded earnestly, trying to stifle her own laughter.
"Guess not even a patron god can defeat us," she added with a smirk. Aarin froze where he was. Yethra… wasn't that the city that'd fallen after Saila's war? It had happened so long ago, so why were they bringing it up now?
"I wonder who did it, though…" A lord trailed off.
"You would've heard of it if it were me!" Another piped up.
"Lord Arushya, perhaps." Someone giggled.
They kept listing names, some familiar to Aarin, some he hadn't heard of, just speculation, until one of them drunkenly slurred.
"It could be Lord Nirvan…"
Aarin didn't get to hear the rest of it; his ears had begun ringing. He thought he had been prepared, and he had been so incredibly foolish. He turned and began to walk away, anything to create distance between them. The locket on his chest felt too cold, and a shiver ran down his spine. He'd heard what he'd heard; he would discuss it with Niryati later, but right now he needed to get out of here-
"Is this how you serve your overlords? By running away from them?"
Aarin felt a hand grab his forearm and yank him back. He stumbled, eyes wide, and almost dropped the pot he held. He looked over his shoulder, and he was met with a giant of a ghost. He had clearly been royalty or a warrior in his day. Aarin knew this one.
Jadva, the Butcher-King of Rudhira-Bhumi, the lord of the land of bloodshed.
The lord pinned Aarin and his pot against a wall. The grip was rough, the casual manner of a man who had never been refused anything.
"You're new," Jadva said. Aarin wasn't ignorant of the hint of suspicion in his voice, so he tried for a charming smile. It wouldn't do to reveal his true form now, all this work only to cause a scene.
"This is my first time here, yes."
If Jadva recognized him, he never said it. Aarin forced his shoulders to loosen, playing up the bashfulness.
"Could I refill your cup, my lord?" Aarin cradled the pot and looked up coyly.
Instead of responding, Jadva slid his other hand up his wrist, thick fingers pausing just below the elbow.
"What's your name?" Jadva asked, the hint of a growl in his voice.
Aarin bowed his head, calculating which lie would hold. Flattery it is.
"Whatever you'd like it to be, my lord," he replied with a bashful little smile. Jadva barked a laugh and let his gaze sweep the length of Aarin's body, slow and unapologetic.
"Careful, or you'll end up with a name you regret." The hand at his wrist lingered, too tight, but Aarin had been trained by much worse. With luck, this creature would lose interest and move on to easier prey.
"How long have you served House Khannan?" The question was a clear trap. Aarin had never said which lord he served, and Khannan was a dying, old clan, obsessed with tradition. Their servants were known for being dour, and someone like him would've been banished on the first day.
"I'm not of that house, I'm afraid," Aarin chuckled, "I serve everyone for tonight, and that includes you, my lord."
Jadva laughed heartily, but he didn't let Aarin go.
"Flattery will get you places, but that doesn't quench my curiosity." The lord grinned. "Who owns you? I have a feeling that head of yours isn't as empty as you make it out to be."
Aarin wracked his brain, pulling a random lord's name from the long list in his head.
"I serve Master Nishama-"
"You dare lie?" Jadva growled as he pulled Aarin against himself. Aarin gasped, the pot smashing against the ground. No one batted an eye. Aarin looked around skittishly; he really didn't want to rip out his spear…
"How shall we punish you?" Jadva asked, almost manic, "Shall I have you tortured? Disfigured? Destroyed? Or perhaps you have more to offer."
The dancers above kept dancing, the flowers kept showering, lords kept conversing; it wasn't uncommon for servants to be taken away in this manner. Aarin had walked right into this one, but after the mention of that name, he hadn't been able to think right.
Aarin fought the hardwired instinct to swing first. Disgust and panic brewed up a storm in his chest and battled to spill forth.
"Say please," Jadva whispered, the tip of his fingernail digging lightly into the soft skin of Aarin's inner elbow.
It was laughable to Aarin; he'd been threatened by bigger bastards and haunted by worse.
"Please," he pleaded, as sweetly as he could manage, earning an amused laugh. He relaxed his shoulders and tilted his head back in a clear sign of subservience and acceptance.
"And what's that there?" Jadva smirked, and Aarin realized the lord had noticed his pendant. "Let's see what lord has such insubordinate whores serving them."
Jadva tried to yank the locket from his chest, but Aarin instinctively shot up and slapped the other's hand away. For the first time, emotion bled through on his face, and it was nothing short of mortal dread.
The lord looked startled for a moment before his features twisted with rage.
"You dare?" The ghost growled, and Aarin prepared for impact. He closed his eyes as he felt the rushing wind of a fist coming at his face, but it never hit.
"Let him go."
A familiar fragrance of jasmine and cloves greeted Aarin, and he couldn't move. He couldn't even look; he didn't want to. Jadva stepped away from him, but Aarin remained plastered to the wall, wishing he'd phase through it. Gently, petals touched his skin. He hesitantly opened his eyes, only to realize that jasmines had begun raining from the roof, covering the floor in white instead of disappearing like before.
Aarin righted his posture and looked down at the spilled alcohol. He didn't risk a glance at his savior until a shadow eclipsed his feet.
He prayed to Niryati, and all that was holy that he wouldn't break, before daring a glance through the periphery.
Silk as black as the void was draped over dark arms. Golden arm cuffs and jewelry adorned him. He could see the sword's sheath hanging on the other's waist, and a single anklet on his bare feet peeked through his dhoti.
Nirvan was there, after all this time; he was right there.
Jadva's voice droned somewhere behind Aarin, the words dissolving before he could process them. That snapped him out of it, and he finally found it in him to breathe.
Aarin clung to the show of subservience, but Nirvan's voice split through again.
"You poor thing. You're trembling."
Trying to find his voice and failing miserably, Aarin shook his head hesitantly. He couldn't even trust the structure of his own limbs. He wanted to drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness, he wanted to turn away, he wanted to draw his spear and stab himself in the chest in hopes that'd dissipate his soul-
Nirvan spoke once again, and it breached the thin surface of Aarin's self-loathing.
"My lord Jadva, perhaps you'd prefer different entertainment. This one's already broken."
Jadva huffed, but did not fight back. He snatched up a different servant, one with a flatter stare, and stalked off to the nearest table. The crowd absorbed them with indifferent hunger.
Aarin knelt to collect the shards of the broken pot. Sharp edges, sticky with the syrup and alcohol, bit his fingers. The earthen clay, rich and red, snapped in his palm as the edges dug into his skin. It drew out dark, sluggish blood.
He didn't flinch, grateful for the pain, a useful distraction from the complicated little gift he'd been given of the past.
Despite the scar running down his torso, Aarin gently removed the scarf, leaving the mark on his skin bare. There was no point hiding it anymore; the one who knew of it had already found him.
He placed the shards into the fabric, pressing the sharpest bit into the meat of his palm. The pain took him away from thought and kept him in the present.
"Leave it," Nirvan said, and Aarin couldn't help the discomfort and confusion. It'd been centuries; that voice should've changed. Aarin's sure had, hoarser, deeper, more tired. But Nirvan's was the same, sweet, bright, and far too confident.
Nirvan's hand closed around his wrist—right where Jadva's had been, as if that would erase all trace of the prior contact. His thumb pressed to the inside of the joint and stilled the tremor there
Aarin bit his tongue; it took all his strength not to melt into the touch, it took even more strength not to violently wrench himself away.
Was this his punishment? Would Nirvan be cruel enough to get him to lower his guard before twisting the blade? If so, Aarin would still take it.
He deserved it.
"Thank you, my lord," Aarin muttered and looked away, the honorific heavy on his tongue.
"Don't insult us both with that title." Nirvan chided quietly. His grip was a thing of certainty, like the claim of a king over a coin, but when he pulled, it was gently.
Aarin realized, belatedly, that he hadn't let go of the ceramic shard. Nirvan's hand closed gently over his fist, parted his fingers, and plucked the shard away as easily as one might unyoke a child from a toy.
Just in time, a sharp sensation ran through his head. He flinched, stumbling back, and felt an arm immediately wrap around his shoulders to support him.
"Master Aarin!" came Lina's frantic voice in his head. For her to try to establish a mental bond with him, something must have gone wrong. It was clear she wasn't experienced; if it hurt him, he couldn't imagine the pain she must be in.
"We- we ran! Ghost! Curse! Chasing! HELP!"
And she was gone.
His juniors were in trouble, and the feeling in his limbs had returned with that knowledge.
"Na," Nirvan said quietly, and the word was old—it meant no, but it was more of a plea than a command. "I can't let you go, not so soon."
Aarin reached up with his shaking hand and held Nirvan's wrist. He shook his head.
He felt disgusted with himself; he had no right to tell Nirvan what to do, he had no claim on the other now, not after all he'd done. He was lucky he hadn't been torn apart and thrown to the lowest of ghosts already. He knew he deserved it and much worse.
Despite it, Nirvan listened, his grip loosening.
"Will you disappear again?" he asked, voice shaking, scared.
Aarin staggered back, curling his bleeding palm into a fist.
"I have duties to attend to, but when the time comes, I won't fight back."
And he made a run for it.