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81st of Ashan 718

A settlement east of Rynmere across a stretch of water called 'the eastern trench' broken into three regions: Welles, Oakleigh, and Berwick.
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Alistair
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81st of Ashan, Arc 718

The power. A true portal was a compelling thing -- a demonstration of the width of magic's scope, rending through the fabric of reality itself to fulfill a magister's will. It only took... focus. Seeing the pockets of ether lain throughout the air, grabbing onto them with the Rupturer's second set of hands, the ethereal faded fingertips that stroked and smoothed around the corners of space. And there were corners, everywhere - seen, felt, even heard. A Rupturer made every centimeter of Idalos, even among plain air, into a doorway with a frame and ridges.

He loved his craft. For more than just the feeling of power. It was true freedom - the ability to go anywhere you desired, to escape abuse, dissatisfaction or the pain of death; it was a magic of liberation, through and through.

The first portal opened, glimmering before their mutual eyes, Alistair's nebulous irises shifting to display a brighter violet shade; glowing in response to the portal before him. He could see through it, to the other side... a beautiful meadow beyond the hill, in an even more secluded section of Oakleigh. Alistair, at the point he was at now, did not have immense difficulty in keeping such portals open as a matter of ambience. The ether expenditures were minimal if not unnoticeable, though of course this was but one portal. To sustain the amount of portals he'd opened in Scalvoris, during the riot, for a long period of time... would have been immensely more difficult.

"Doran," he called out to the younger man, waving his raw fingertips before the black blot of an entity; it looked almost sinister, a pure vantablack void in the center with nothing to be envisioned on the other side... unless you were Alistair. He understood that the appearance of his portals were not necessarily inviting - but they were based not on him, but wholly on the shade that his spark was keen on manifesting. It was an arbitrary thing.

"Other portals are different," he said. "I've seen whirlpools of blue, and shifting storms of purple and a sunset shade of red. I've seen green portals, portals that look like jagged spires of ice... it's all variable. Mine, are as you see now," he whispered. Around the edges of the portal were flame-shaded plumes, inward, a fiery appearance but without the heat to match. "Black. The same as the one who initiated me; I share her spark. And the same as Reyard's, the man I told you about. I was initiated by his student, who was initiated by him. So, inside of me, I share a part of his spark... given to him by his master. Magic is a generational phenomena, with so much history inside of it. And as the spark touches the soul, so has my soul touched Reyard's. It's a wondrous thing," the mage remarked, eyes gleaming at the magical construct.

The two men, in the basement of Alistair's home, stood as his fingers danced around the edges of the portal, twisting and shifting it as much as he could. His structures were all phenomenal things; objects of wonder. He loved them, and he hoped Doran would too.
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Sleep had evaded him for most of the night prior. While Doran would have preferred his restlessness was the result of Alistair's alluring invitation to spend the night with him, he had found that once he had been able to clear his head in the open air, much of the temptation had faded. Not to the point where it was non-existent; merely manageable, more as if he were in control of himself and his desires. In truth, he preferred it that way, able to think without the haze of his overwhelming desires in the heat of the moment - especially when the other man was touching him, in any way.

Rather than giddy excitement to keep his from falling into restful sleep, Doran had found himself wracked with anxiousness. Alistair's explanations had been extremely elucidating. Their debate over the moral nature of magic - and mages - had provide him revolutionary ideas about its place in the world, and how he view those who used it. It wasn't immediate, and, while he still couldn't think of magic without some measure of trepidation, the greater majority of his thoughts reminded him that it wasn't something nearly so black and white as to be a reasonable source of fear without context.

But knowing something wasn't inherently terrifying or malicious didn't make it any less frightening in practice. He had spent most of the night bouncing into and out of nightmares, primarily those involving his limbs being spread to the far reaches of Idalos - separately, of course. Each time he had jerked himself awake, the rational part of his brain reprimanded him: his body, if the portal was unstable, would simply be torn to shreds, not scattered like some fleshy handful of seeds into the void-winds of Alistair's impossibly-black portals. The thoughts had hardly been comforting, and Doran had found himself a bit worse for wear upon finally dragging himself out of bed.

In such a state, a bath had been necessary, sweat stained as he was, and so he had arrived at Cappola in set of borrowed clothing. His cousin was much more muscular than he, and the shirt he had borrowed - a fine green silk with floral brocade that was the least extravagant he could find on short notice - was too large in the shoulders, hanging off of his more compact musculature like an expensive sack. He'd tried to tuck it into his belt, but it had seemed to only make it seem all the more frumpy. His pants were cut for knee-high boots, dark leather that was also a bit too large, though it wasn't nearly as noticeable. His cheeks had colored a sleep-deprived pink before he'd even knocked on the door, but when Alistair had greeted him with his warm smile and appraising eyes, much of his own discomfort was forgotten.

The basement wasn't where he had expected them to start, and, though there was a small twinge of doubt in the back of his mind when he'd been bid to follow the other man down the stairs, Doran supposed trusting the mage with something so simple as a mundane decent into a cellar was a good first step in preparing him for portals. What he hadn't expected, while he watched Alistiar... craft the dimensional door, was how beautiful it would be.

Not the portal itself - the absolute black was completely unnerving and filled him with an un-supressable feeling of dread - but the act in which it was created. Primarily, it was in Alistair's eyes, and Doran had focused solely on them as the man had moved his hands through the air, slowly and deliberately, to shape what was not a tear but clearly a tenderly constructed door, even if it didn't share in the same structural similarities. But his eyes. They light up with a sort of fascination and wonder. It caught at Doran's heart, threatening to pull him closer, to stare directly into his intense, almost loving gaze. He had never seen anyone look at anything the way Alistair did with his portal, and that, alone, filled him with confidence in the man's abilities, more so than any words would have been able to do.

But words were still welcome.

"Y-yes?" He stumbled from his seat, the heavy barrel unmoving as he bumped back into it, finding his footing before easing his way to stand next to Alistair, making a point to look only at the man's for the moment. At his gesture, Doran took a slow, steadying breath and turned to look at Alistair's handiwork. Up close, it was even more foreboding, but there was a subtle beauty to it, one that he imagined had - in large part - to do with what he had witnessed during its creation.

He nodded, motions both attentive and tentative, as the other colors were listed, and he couldn't help but to murmur a gentle, "Blue would have been pleasant..." as he stared into the endless black. It wasn't even darkness - it was just... nothing. As Alistair continued, Doran turned to look at him, his skin covered in goosebumps and a fair amount of apprehension in both his eyes and posture. Still, what the mage shared with him, especially with the brief history of the first rupturer easily recalled, sparked more interest than fear in Doran's eyes. He hadn't been aware that the "spark" was something passed down - a part of whomever "initiated" the student passing on from the master. It was fascinating, and a quiet voice in the back of his mind whispered gently, It's not so different from what she passed on to you.

Quietly, in a voice more airy and distant than usual, Doran gently nodded his agreement. "Wondrous indeed..." Reminiscence, however, would serve neither of them well for what it was Doran needed to do. Unaware of what strain the portal might put upon him, he didn't want to force Alistair into any sort of discomfort - and certainly not exhaustion - so he turned with a resolute set of his shoulders, though his hands did shake at his sides, even balled into fists as they were. "Do I..." He cleared his throat, drawing quick breath through his nose and trying to speak a bit louder, if for nothing else than to boost his own wavering confidence. "Do I just step through? W-where does it... go?" If he had meant to sound confident, his near-whisper hardly conveyed it.



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Alistair
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Alistair found himself mistaking Doran's... acknowledgement of his wonder, for his own wonder, and as he glanced back to the smaller man his eyes caught the astounded staring with a subtle rejoice. He was glad - Doran seemed interested, perhaps even excited by the events unfolding before him, and the alluring utilization of Alistair's magic. He was confident that seeing a portal, stepping through one... feeling the freedom of it, would change things for both of them. Confident, if not certain.

Of course, Doran did have his apprehensions - particularly in the appearance of Alistair's portals, which was always a sticking point for many. He did not have gentle, attractive tones. He had raw darkness, surrounded by the spiral of a flame. It was powerful, but violent and aggressive. Doran did not enjoy the aspects of magic that were as such... he preferred to imagine that it would be used as a craft, a tool of betterment, rather than a weapon with which to decimate or sabotage.

Alistair's rupturing was just that - a weapon of murder, beyond the surface. He utilized it primarily for the sake of freedom, but long-distance Compression portals were... simple in nature. There was little to innovate in that area. Alistair's innovations had been ones of combat and killing, inventing the concept of intentional destabilization as a method of disintegrating foes. And more than that; so many things. He'd contemplated acts of terror, dropping alchemical flasks of fire or poison through portal, or spreading disease through a mixture of medicine and Necromantic fantasy.

He was an explorer, a freedom fighter... but still a fighter nonetheless, and that - most of all - reflected in his spark.

"I'm glad you think so," he stated, pulling away from the quiet acknowledgment of his own... profane intentions for magic. He supposed it would set a poor example for mages if he delved into his own individual magical theory and application, so Alistair decided to stay away from conversations about Rupturing that did not directly involve freedom, mobility and liberation.

Doran's voice was quiet and restrained; worrisome, even, but he continued to speak. He wanted to know... how to approach the portal, and Alistair nodded in response, stepping back and rubbing the other man's shoulder gently.

"You can step through right now, if you'd like. But first, I'll explain how it works so that you can get a clearer picture," the noble stated, beginning. "All portals work with two sides. I create them at roughly the same time, in a collaborative process between my mind, ether, will, memory and action. The mind starts it all: I picture a spot, a theme, an idea. My memory drags me to a location I've seen or been to that fits this description. My will makes that memory into the destination of my 'exit' portal, a complicated process to describe but easy to enact. Then, I put my ether into that will, and make a movement with one of my hands. For me, at my level, I can even simply twitch my finger; it doesn't need to be intricate," Alistair stated, looking upon the black vortex as he spoke.

"The entry portal can be anywhere near me. Right in front of me, ten feet away, a hundred. If I can see it, even better. If not, I can use the same process of memory, so that even if I'm blinded I can still open a portal as long as I can picture my surroundings. Rupturing is... oddly visual. It's an incredibly visual magic, in fact, if you'll recall how it was first discovered - by seeing constellations within air. Perhaps it's simply Reyard's visual nature that built it as such, and if it was developed by another man, it could've been based on sound... or smell. I don't know, but that's the way it works, and that's the way I like to use it," he said. Alistair was a visual man; he lusted and longed with his eyes. His goals were built on imagery, too - never a man so much for music or illucid imagination.

Regardless, he was satisfied in how he explained the portal. All that was left was convincing Doran to step into it.

"The other side is a meadow," he informed him. "Quiet. Lots of sunflowers and... sunshine. I picked the most pleasant exit destination I possibly could. However, I will warn you that the first few times you step through a portal, you'll feel a discomfort as you do so. A nausea of sorts. It is not an actual onset of illness, merely a dizzy reaction; the human mind is not typically used to shifting landscape, scene and surroundings in a mere instant. The nausea is a reaction to your mind feeling disoriented and confused... but over time it passes with more and more uses. Now, I feel nothing when I step through a portal. It's an extension of my feet."
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Where were they alone, Alistair's hands might have brought with them a mix of desire and uneasiness, all Doran felt was relief and comfort. Human touch of any kind, by anyone, was reassuring in the face of... pure absence. He leaned into Alistair, grateful the mage had given him at least another few bits of reprieve. His smooth confidence and gentle, low voice helped to ease the disquiet that roiled within him. Though he would have preferred to let his eyes close as he listened to and tried to draw strength from the calm in his companion's voice, Doran instead chose to continue staring into the portal, letting Alistair's words help to shape his thoughts.

The process itself, though a bit confusing as to exactly how, was straightforward enough in basic concept that Doran had little trouble following along. It made sense to him that both the beginning and the end needed to be created, though he hadn't imagined it might be done separately. The matter of memories and ether were much more difficult for him to grasp. He imagined it was something like picturing where one wanted to go, only instead of recalling it as completely as one could, one also added the extra element of the portal. Beyond that, Doran couldn't even begin to guess how ether worked - he wasn't entirely sure he even understood what it actually was, beyond the concept of it being the wood to fire as ether to magic.

Alistair's not so subtle reminder that he was quite proficient at his craft was rewarded a slight grin on Doran's part, though he kept his eyes focused on the portal and face turned away by association. That smile quickly faded into a thoughtful, slightly curved line as the lesson continued, and he found himself, as he was beginning to realize was fast becoming a habit, surprised at the versatility and range of Alistair's capabilities. Though he spoke of the magic as being visual, there was clearly a heavy reliance upon recall and emotion - as Doran had very few memories of any location that was not tied to some sort of feeling, good or bad or anywhere in between. It was a bit poetic, and though it only helped to make the portal seem all the more worthy of his wariness, as its partner had been constructed purely out of memory, he found himself wondering even more where it was Alistair meant to take him and what memories he had of their destination.

As if listening to his thoughts, the mage came to the second question he'd asked. Sunflowers. During the harvest season, after the brunt of Ymiden's heat had faded, Lily had always enjoyed collecting the seeds of the massive, yellow beasts of flowers that grew wild along one of the paths that lead from their home to the local village. His aunt would bake them in the oven and when they were cooled, both he and Lily would spend breaks on end chewing through the fibrous shells to pry the prize of the nutty seed from its cradle. He had warm memories of such things, and his shoulders noticeably relaxed at their mention.

Alistair's caution was both informative, and, oddly enough, heartening. That dizziness and some disorientation were all that awaited him in the sunny meadow that the mage had described, Doran found it far less a sinister thing. After have stared into the empty black, he noticed that the portal had taken on an ethereal sort of allure. Not the kind that drew him in, beckoning him closer, but much like the night sky when there were no stars nor moon to illuminate it. Dark and empty, yes, but a testament to the sheer vastness of the world.

Drawing a deep, centering breath, Doran gently removed Alistair's hands from his shoulders, tenderly squeezing to reassure the other man that he would, somehow, be fine. He knew Alistair had no doubt that his portal was safe, and he imagined the mage might even have thought his trepidation a bit childish - especially with everything he'd already explained and all that he knew that he had yet to share of his experiences with such things. He needed to walk through the portal alone. It wasn't a matter of pride or desire to impress the dark eyes that watched him. He wanted to prove to himself that everything he'd been mulling over, the nature of magic, the morality of mages, the qualities of what made something good or evil... all of it was acceptable. If he, a completely mundane, wholly unmagical being could utilize another's spell, then it was something that could clearly be used as a tool.

He knew, even as he took a slow, determined step towards the darkness, that magic could also be a weapon. The nature of portals, especially after Alistair's explanation on how they were created in the first place, did not escape him. Armies could travel the world in a moment; poison could be delivered without detection; fires could ravage cities without a single spark being struck. Yet, Alistair wished to take him to a meadow. The thought was the last one he had before he stepped through, a brave smile on his lips, but eyes firmly shut tight.

His nightmares had painted a plethora of horrors for his anxious viewing pleasure. From spiraling through dark, empty space, unable to breathe, panicking endlessly to his body being ripped apart only to be reconstructed again, each moment both horrifying and painful, what he hadn't imagined was it being very much like stepping through a doorway. As warm sunshine cascaded down upon his skin, lighting the darkness behind his eyelids into a pleasant mix of red and orange, Doran, who's hands had been clenched tightly enough that his short nails had dug into the skin of his palms deep enough to draw just a small spot of blood, found himself blinking rapidly, confused but certainly unharmed. Even before he was able to take in his surroundings, Doran found the whole situation entirely amusing: there really had been nothing to worry about.

Laughter bubbled up from his chest as his fingers finally relaxed. Alistair had spared no detail in what it was Doran would feel, and he stumbled over to a large stone that sat only a few steps away from the portal's fiery edge. Carefully, he lowered himself onto it, his brain rushing to understand what was happening, while his heart beat fervently in his chest as he continued to laugh. Wherever he'd ended up, he could scarcely believe it. The grasses swayed beneath a cool, refreshing breeze that washed over the open space, relieving some of his discomfort that had begun to settle in the pit of his stomach, only aggravated by his uncontrollable laughter.

Slowly, his mirth calmed, and he breathed in and out, the sweet scent of grasses and dirt filling his nose. Speckled throughout the meadow were, indeed, the sturdy green stalks of sunflowers, their dark faces and radiant petals turned towards their namesake, as if in worship. It was peaceful and quiet and... "Amazing." The word slipped breathlessly from his lips as he stared at everything around him, still not quite certain he'd actually left the basement but unable to refute the evidence of the world laid out before him. As Alistair crossed over, Doran pushed himself from his seat, still a bit uncertain on his feet, and gripped the other man's hand with a warm smile, his eyes only softly reflected the slight nausea and disorientation he still suffered from. "Alistair."

His grin widened, and he eyed the portal, peering around Alistair's wide, muscular frame with an excited chuckle. He stepped back, fingers intertwining with the other man's, while his free hand rose to gently press against the side of the mage's face, beckoning him closer. "You are, truly, astounding." In thanks, Doran tenderly pressed his lips against Alistair's for a trill before he pulled away, turning back to face the meadow. "Why here?" There was nothing but blithe curiosity in his voice, all fear having been stripped away the moment he'd passed through unharmed. While he wasn't certain how to feel about magic in general - and the portal was still unnerving to look at - he no longer doubted Alistair's words when it came to the stability of his portals. To leave one place and, in the next moment, appear in an entirely different area was exciting, no matter the way in which it was achieved.



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Alistair
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Though it may have been seen as insulting to think so, Alistair was inexorably surprised by the steady descent of Doran into the black vortex that stood before them; humming and buzzing ominously, keeping space apart like a fist shoved through thin parchment. He understood why it was intimidating, and though Doran was intelligent and eloquent, he wasn't particularly brave. That perception was certainly challenged, as the mage stared down upon the gentle man before him and watched Doran step forward. He allowed a mixture of wonder and apprehension to fight it out, and Alistair could tell that even in the last instants before he stepped through, that apprehension still remained.

But he did, in fact, go through. Doran's features lit bright for but a moment as his face was half consumed by the portal, one half remaining in the dimly lit basement and one overwhelmed by light and the scent of flowers. He could see the sun on his face, the brightness of his eyes from the other side. This, was why Alistair loved Rupturing. It was a magic of such immense beauty, such fascination. He imagined that if only everyone could have this experience - they would know. But nevertheless, he could rest on his laurels for the moment as the task he'd set for himself had been accomplished. He wanted to garner Doran's trust, even if only for a moment, and for one singular action.

This changed everything, and he was solidified in that perception as he stepped through, quickly following the other man to ensure that he was available to him if Doran had been struck with dizziness too severe, or any other manner of unfortunate consequence that might have come.

He was... fine, though. Half ready to collapse, and leaning into a stone, but laughing and smiling and enjoying the view. He looked all around him, wondering in the realness of it all, as if somehow it could've been a painting or an illusion. It made sense to feel that way. Sometimes, Alistair too had imagined that he stepped through the physical world into that of an artist's conception... amazed at what picturesque beauty one could submerge themselves into with a mere step.

Amazing, he called it. The mage smiled jovially, and shortly afterwards, Doran interlaced their fingers. He felt his heart swell, for but a moment, a feeling he hadn't imagined himself capable of undergoing. Not for so many trials, so many seasons. That swelling was strong, overwhelming, and warm. He felt his eyes water momentarily before he batted his eyes together, attempting to cease his eyes from going even remotely glossy. But somehow, in this moment, he was so... happy. To have someone else see, and really understand, his passion. To know that the thing he had loved with all of his heart, the craft he'd lost his name and nobility for, could be loved... it brought him a satisfaction that no one and nothing could dispute.

The mage pressed himself into his companion, their two bodies leaning into one another as he acted as Doran's support. The portal closed, having done its duty, with Alistair not wanting it to be seen.

Doran complimented him, only adding to his current overwhelming joy, if only because it added another word to his portalwork: astounding. He liked to think of it that way, and he laughed as Doran concurred with him, almost surprised by the kiss before weaving into it, responding with his own kisses as his passions played out onto Doran's lips.

Why here? he finally asked, separating the two as he stared out into the meadow, the sun being swallowed by the clouds for but a moment, offering them the perfect reprieve.

"I thought it would be your element," he stated, an almost embarrassing expression covering his features. He seemed... so dopey and young, and naive. Romantic, a thing he'd never truly been. "This place resembles you. Naturally beautiful, untouched, bright. One of life's wonders," he said, not unlike here. And that was ultimately the point - placing Doran into a place natural to him, the sort of scenery he belonged with, if he were to be painted on an easel. "Ridiculous semantics, I know," the mage stated, twiddling his fingers together behind his back. "Also," he added nervously, his eyes almost woozy from the worry filling him. Doran... had a habit of rejecting him, and so he allowed the other to take the mantle in any advances. He waited for him, patiently, and followed his lead when it came to their partnership.

But right now, he needed to be honest. The last time he'd even spoke such a thing, he was lying - and perhaps Doran caught that. But right now, it felt honest. It felt right.

"I love you," he said, forcing the words out violently; it almost sounded like he were commanding Doran to do something in response. His face went red. "I know we've only known one another for... four trials, but... um. The statement I made is still factually accurate, and I want you to know that. As ridiculous as it might seem," he spoke, hands going into fists at his back as he stared at the ground nervously. He felt ridiculous - as if he were ten trials younger, or more. Doran had a power over him that was vast and merciless. He knew this, but still he indulged, because still he did feel - as much as he could - that he really loved him.
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As the clouds lazily passed overhead, the meadow's rich hues of saturated greens and yellows found a softer sigh, the sunlight obscured and diffused. Doran, who had been content to revel in the strange sensation of his first magical journey, turned to gaze curiously at Alistair as the mage answered his question. "My element?" His amused grin softened as he noticed Alistair's own expression - something caught between youth-like bashfulness and tender consideration. What the man's face wore cast his features in more handsome an appearance than any bare body or lust-filled desire; he was beautiful, in the most delicate and tragic way. He had brought Doran to the field using a memory not of his past, but of his present. Of Doran himself.

There was a faint twist in his heart as Alistair continued. The words he spoke were genuine, filled with such earnesty; he couldn't refute them, not when Alistair seemed so affectionately sincere. It was a touching sentiment, and had he been all those things, truly and without reservation, he might have laughed and kissed him. But he was not, and he would never be. A gradual, gossamer sadness crept into his eyes.

"They're not ridiculous." His airy voice was little more than whisper. He now knew what Alistair thought of him, what he believed him to be, and it was almost as painful as if he would have sent him back to Rynmere, never to see him again. "One of life's wonders" he'd said. The words echoed through his mind, almost mocking. He was hardly such, merely a man seeking that which he could never have for the sake of one who would never know.

Alistair's "also" was almost missed by Doran's musings, and, thoughts jarred by what it was that the other man had to add, he spoke without thinking, his brows knitting in confusion. "Excuse me?" For a moment, he was completely disoriented, far more than when he had first stepped through the portal, uncertain what it was Alistair had said exactly; assuredly not what he thought he had heard. But he continued, and Doran could see it in his eyes. It was the same in all but physical appearance as the looks he had given Lily and she had returned to him.

Only now, Doran could do little more than stare blankly back in reply. "You..." The sunshine once more filled the meadow, the clouds having passed along, drifting with the gentle breezes, but where before everything had been cast in so serene and halcyon an aura, now it was far too bright, harsh. He blinked several times, his face a clear mix of uncertainty and bewilderment. "You... love me?" The words sounded strange to his ears, so much so that he frowned immediately after he said them.

When Lily had died, she had taken his love with her. He had never once imagined that he would hear such a thing spoken to him again with so much unabashed honesty. Questions flooded his mind, paralyzing him with their insistence that each needed to be addressed, all in that moment. Why had he come back to Alistair in the first place? What was it about him that he had been so drawn to? His body? His terrifying power? His desperate desire for redemption? ...Did he feel the same way?

"I-" His tongue fumbled over the words, failing him and stretching out his blunder ever longer. The correct answer, what he should have said, was that he loved him as well. He knew that - it was obvious in the way that Alistair had looked at him, with the yearning expectation of reciprocation. But tender replies wouldn't come to him. They had known each other for less time than he'd known the local village's new baker, and he still didn't know what to think of the strange, portly man. He understood the situation he now found himself in was entirely incomparable, but it was the first thing he could think of clearly.

It was all so fast. Where Alistair burned like the suns of Saun, hot and impossibly bright, Doran was soft and gradual, the quiet snowfall of Zi'da. He barely understood Alistair - he wanted to know more, so much more, but what he did know was so complicated a mix of wonder, lust, fear, and sadness, he could make little sense of it. He knew his hesitation wounded the other man, but there was nothing for it. Professing one's love... it was something so vulnerable that there was no way for him to soothe the sting of his own irresolution.

"Alistair..." His voice was little more than helpless sigh. "You love... a part of me." There was not an ounce of patronization in his voice, only the same, open veracity that was so common to his tone, though now he could only whisper sadly, eyes reflecting the turmoil that still churned within him. "I wish-" He stoped, shaking his head, searching for the words. "I know I would say the same, were I who you believe me to be." It was no hint at some grand revelation, merely gentle fact. "There is nothing I would change about our time together." And while Doran was certain Alistair regretted their meeting, it was a part of who they were, and though he did not wish to repeat it, without it, circumstances would never have lead to meadow.

"And... if you can forgive me my hesitance, I would like to continue. I want to know more about you. I want to..." He sighed, little else but warmth in his voice as he continued. "I want to understand Alistair Venora." A small, sad smile turned his lips. "And I believe that may prove to be... an impossible feat. But, I want to try." The grasses of the meadow rustled at the behest of the wind, their soft susurrations filling the air with quiet whispers. "And I don't think there's anything ridiculous about what you feel. I merely... don't know what it is I feel for you. I'm..." His fingers twitched at his side, the instinct to reach out and touch the other man's face repressed by his own reservations. He had no idea how Alistair might respond, and he wanted to avoid any further wounds to the man's heart and pride. "I'm lost."

He had thought to say an apology, but instead a statement far more true than condolence slipped from his lips. It was simple, but it encompassed the vast, wild bedlam that Alistair had unwittingly cast his heart into. He didn't know what he felt for the other man. Even as he looked at him, the strange flutter of his chest fought against the worry of his fear, the desire of his lust, the tender warmth of his affection, and the heavy weight of his pity all warred with one another, none and neither able to claim any ground within him. He knew next to nothing about the Lord Alistair Venora, and in turn so did he know even less about Doran Cooney. They were strangers playing at passion, and though Doran didn't doubt Alistair's sincerity, neither could he accept it. Not yet.


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He'd laid his heart out, raw, and once again he'd gone unrequited. But he supposed it made sense, and in truth, he didn't feel so much of heartbreak as he did... embarrassment. Self-pity. His pride constantly swelled about and sought to be gratified, and always he failed to do so. This was, in truth, because Alistair had no control over his emotions - and he never had. He had never even really had much emotion until recently, and now he was learning to handle it all at once.

Where Doran was cool, and gradual, and patient... Alistair was once a chasm trapped within a sea. He was awoken by Syroa - and her alone - and since then, he'd been a waking battle, rebounding with himself and against all others. It seemed as if from the moment he had emotion, his emotions had always been tested, too often by his own inability to control them.

He was... so incredibly mangled, and desperately, he sought for something to unbend the indentations that had scarred and disfigured his shell. Did that person even exist? Could anything mend him? Could he seek the answer in ambition, alone? No - though he wished he could. Dealing with this... things like this... it was so exhaustive, and so straining. The warmth growing in his chest had now seared him, and Alistair could only feel that he was choking on charred lungs. Fuck. He always fucked up. This was such a nice moment - and then...

Thespian. Thespian. Thespian. Thespian.

. . .


Again. Nothing. Everything faded, the emotions vanished. That love that he felt, in that moment? He made it go away. He would dream about it, in the night, but not now. He didn't need to feel it right now - he could make his heart as cold as it needed to be, to match with the other man, who Alistair pitifully believed felt little for him. Why did he feel this way? Why did he feel so incredibly desperate? He didn't know. He should've pursued warlords or Inquisitors of the Seekers - why was he so caught by this one... man?

He liked Thespian. It allowed him to become the psychopath that he'd always been until Syroa came. It was an escape, a forced ejection from the complexity she'd woven into him. One of her first gifts, and certainly the most important. Right now, he felt once again like that deep drowned chasm . . . and everything was dark.

"I understand," he simply said... to all of that. All of it. That was his final response. "Let's continue, then, as you asked," he finalized, attempting to drift from the conversation. Thespian could only hold back so much. And he didn't want to make it even worse - if Doran knew the full tide of his emotions, then... he would surely never trust him, or feel comfortable around him, and certainly he would never love him. Alistair's portals said a great deal about who he was - a black vortex, surrounded by the whirl of flame, burning all those who neared him. And in the center, there was no rapture nor freedom. Just nothing.

He was a danger - to himself, and everyone. And he always had been.

"Would you like to return to Cappola?" he asked, quietly, staring blankly at the other. Cold as ice. Just like before.
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"You...?" The shift had been so abrupt that Doran, who had thought he might have found some semblance of sense in the whirl of his own confusion, could only blink in astonishment at Alistair's reply. Where there had been raw, real emotion before, there was now nothing - not even the barest hint of what he had professed earlier. It was as if he had simply extinguished whatever flame had been blazing so brightly only trills before, and Doran had little idea what to make of it. "Alistair?" For the first time, there was suspicion in his voice.

Though he couldn't place exactly why, the sudden change in the other man's demeanor was unnerving. Not in the same way as his portals or even when he had been filled with rage and lust and hatred; he was now... distant. As if he had retreated somewhere within himself, peering through the almost vacant windows of his eyes. When he spoke, it was with Alistair's voice, but it sounded wrong, too changed from what he had been before.

The matter of the problem, however, was to determine which Alistair - the flame or the frost - was the greatest part of him. Whatever their relationship, his emotional warmth and aloof iciness, they were both "Alistair", but Doran had come to believe that the warmth was an important part of who the other man was. Now, he wasn't so certain. It could have merely been an act, all of it, and the thought wasn't so strange he could easily pass over it as reactionary paranoia. He didn't know enough about the mage to make any sort of confident evaluation, and it again left him lost for words, though in an entirely different way.

At his question, Doran stared back, his brows knit in undisguised concern. "No... no, I don't believe I do. Not yet, anyway." He remained where he stood, not quite falling into the realm of fear but neither could he claim comfort. "Let's continue." Slowly, Doran set aside his own concerns, his own struggling thoughts, to press the matter at hand. He had wanted to better understand Alistair, and clearly the man had an odd way of dealing with... whatever it was they had between them. Rejection wasn't the right word, not entirely, but it seemed to have had as similar an effect as if he had flat out rebuffed the advance.

"What is... this?" His hand moved in a deliberate gesture, placing focus on the man before him, the Alistair who was not Alistair. "Is it magic as well?" There was no accusation in his words, merely a soft seeking of even a small scrap of insight.



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It wasn't as easy as he'd wanted it to be. Doran was so... incredibly keen, with the awareness of a hawk. He could read Alistair incredibly well, dismantling his assertions and finding the truths within the lie. It was so difficult to deal with him for that particular reason, but also so incredibly heartening. He liked him because of that - because Alistair was a man of lies, but around Doran, he felt that his heart was honest. It was only when that honesty was 'punished', and he was swatted away, that the surface was once again consumed by falsehood. And right now, he simply allowed that blanket of repression to cover him, too afraid to allow his emotions to get the better of him.

Just bits ago, he was nearly prepared to cry out in joy... so happy that he'd impressed Doran so greatly. And then... for just a moment... he allowed himself to slip, and he felt the pain of it. Even though the other man was so eloquent and so wise with his words, he could only see each whispering, airy addition as another soft blanket for rejection. So that, ultimately, was why he needed to cover himself. For a man so broken, such a reprisal at such a great and sensitive moment was deeply disheartening. He wanted to cry for a trill, and that was when he decided to just... block it all.

But Doran read even that. He couldn't even take the rejection with a quiet change of subject - he needed to know. He kept poking, prodding. He even asked if Alistair's sudden shift in demeanor was magic, and stared at him with such concern, leery of his inexplicable behavior. Alistair frowned, and the barrier built by Thespian began to slowly drown. He couldn't pick and choose his emotions when there was no other emotion but dejection. It was tragic, but - he knew the limit of his own self-manipulation had been reached.

So, it oozed out. All of it.

"It just hurts, Doran, because it feels like... you don't trust me," he admitted, sniffling as tears began to trickle down his cheeks, flowing out of his eyes. From the chilling bed of ice he became a flood, melted by Doran's persistence. "You don't believe that I love you... you think that I'm just foolish, or... incompetent. Or even unstable," he frowned, covering his face with his forearm as he continued to quietly sob. He felt... pathetic.

"So, yes - that was magic, Doran," he stated, sniffling, as he wiped down his soggy cheeks with his arms. "But you don't have to be worried. I'd just rather feel nothing than... all of this," he tried to explain, uncovering his face for but a moment to reveal his pitiable expression. Doran felt pity for him, already... and he knew that. And he didn't want that to be the case. He didn't want to be pitied, and looked down on. He wanted so badly to be strong.

"It's always... piling. One thing follows into the next, and the next, and the next... and before long I have nothing left in this life," he lamented. "I want so badly to die... but there are still things that keep me here. Vengeance. And love. I just want you to respect that, Doran," Alistair whimpered, but broke his sobbing and mewling to push forward through his words.

He grimaced, staggering his breath, speaking through the instinctual need to whimper and wail. "You help me see my good again," he said. "But I constantly see such apprehension coming from you; such fear, and mistrust, and worry. Like you think I'm some monster, who's going to lash out at you and gnash my teeth on you. I'm not, Doran. I'm not that man; I've never been that man. That's what the King wants me to be, that's what everyone thinks of me, but that's not who I am. I'm loyal. And I love... so deeply. Unconditionally. I want you to see that part of me, not... this mess. I just wish I could show you. I wish I wasn't falling apart. I wish I could forget Fridgar."
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To Doran's surprise, Alistair began to cry. He wasn't certain of what he had been expecting, but tears had been low on his list - though not entirely unexpected, he supposed. It wasn't the first time he had seen the man's face wet with pain and grief, but rather than to say anything, he let Alistair speak, as it seemed the man was willing enough to do so. Though Doran was resolute in his decision to listen, it proved to be more difficult than he'd anticipated. It was not without a fair amount of internalized chagrin that he found himself reminded of how worried he'd been about stepping through the portal. Clearly he had overestimated the difficulty of conquering that fear and underestimated what it was Alistair and he shared.

The reasons given were not without their truth. He didn't trust Alistair, not in the way that the man wanted him to. Doran was fairly certain Alistair desired to do him no harm; that much was clear, even during their first encounter. But there was a vast realm of possibility wherein direct mistreatment was absent, but a plethora of other unsavory vices still roamed. There was too much mystery about him, not nearly enough known for Doran to draw any uninhibited confidence from Alistair's words, no matter how sweet or sincere. He wondered if Alistair even trusted himself, so many different parts of him all seeming to vie for some semblance of supremacy before they were suppressed and replaced. Such patchwork could only be exhausting and uncertain.

That Doran thought him foolish, however, was a galling claim and one he struggled not to outright refute. His eyes, though lit bright by the sun's warm light, sparked with repudiation. He thought no such thing, nor had he said so. The miscommunication, in that regard at least, was quite clear. He had tried his best to convey his feelings, and words had, inevitably, failed him. There was no one to blame, not really, and while he wanted to step forward, to correct him, to do what he could to explain what he had meant, what he felt even now, he forced himself to remain silent, expression pained, as he watched and listened to Alistair's raw display.

He was rewarded for his self-control, an admission of some magical severance. Though this time there was no further explanation, as Alistair was hardly in the state to fulfill the role of teacher, it was still something. Knowing that Alistair possessed an ability to cut ties with his feelings was unnerving, certainly, but it was a much more relieving an answer than that he had simply been able to shift his emotions - and so quickly - into the blank, empty canvas he'd displayed before. Though hardly healthy, it was something he used, something he did to escape, less so a part of him in that sense; though if it were a natural reaction to extreme feelings, Doran supposed it didn't really matter if it were magic or Alistair's own strength of mind. It was the same in the end.

Doran's jaw clearly clenched as Alistair continued. It was like looking into a mirror from his past, the pain and hurt, the wish for it all to end, but the ties that bound him still to the life that he had come to so abhor. For the first time, Doran's eyes seemed to resonate with Alistair's, a somber empathy swimming in his gaze, tongue still held but only just so. Alistair wasn't finished, not yet, and while it was clear his distress caused him pain, Doran knew from personal experience that what the man felt now was real, an important part of him that he shouldn't simply cut away. Though he had no idea how the severing magic worked, it seemed that if interrupted, the emotions remained. Painful as they were, they were necessary. He knew this full well.

Then came a name he'd never heard before, but the manner in which it was said caught at Doran's heart. He no longer could stand mute, not when he finally understood what it was that Alistair was haunted by. The details didn't matter, whether Fridgar was alive or dead, a past lover or father or friend. What resonated with Doran was that Fridgar was gone, and Alistair remained. It was something he understood so completely that his body moved reflexively, taking a step towards the sobbing man without thinking. His hand slapped the side of Alistair's cheek, the sharp sound of the rebuke seeming to echo in through the empty field. "Never wish for that again." His own voice shook now, hand and arm following in suit as he let them fall limp at his side.

He spoke quietly, no hint of pity in the mix of gentle, soothing warmth and deep sorrow. "If there is anything that matters in the world, it is the love we carry for those who are no longer in it." Still, his voice waved, his body instinctually aware of Alistair's overwhelmingly more powerful one, though fear was pushed out his steady gaze, no room for it amid the sharp, passionate umber gleam. "If he was special to you, if you loved him, please, Alistair," He drew a slow, steadying breath. "Never, ever wish for that."

There was much, much more he wished to say, but all he could think of was the terror of losing Lily. He almost had; he almost had allowed himself to drown in his own misery, in his own hatred of himself and the world that he had forced her out of. But Hidi had saved him. And now, it was his turn to do the same for Alistair, or at the very least to try.

He continued softly, "Sadness, pain, loss... they are a part of us, perhaps more so than any other experience. I don't think you're a monster, Alistair." As if to support his claim, Doran set a hand tenderly on the other man's chest. "Nor do I think you incompetent or foolish. When I look at you, I see a man wounded. I can't truly know the depth of your pain, but I can see it in your eyes and hear it in words." He sighed, shaking his head. "And yes, you do frighten me, because when you hide from these feelings, they don't just... disappear. They fester and rot and..."

It was clear Alistair knew what happened when such things were repressed. "Sadness is an important part of who you - of who we - are. You're not falling apart, Alistair. And this... mess?" He smiled gently, "He is the Alistair I want to know. All the pain, all the joy, all the loss and love... it's all you, Alistair. How can you expect me to love just one small part of you who are, when I want so much more than that?" The words finally began to calm, but the hand on Alistair's chest rose to gently cradle the man's cheek, the same he had slapped before, though it was clear only in memory as no mark had been left behind. "So... feel, Alistair. And know that I'm here, and I have no intention of leaving."



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