• Mature • What Remains

[Llyr Llywelyn]

Ashan 11, Arc 719, Evening

Continued from here.

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In the coastal village

on an island near Quacia, sunlight drifted past a corpse-littered scene. It was a long evening, in which Zarik helped clean and care for the survivors. Alongside Alistair, who took on the mantle of leader for the village, Zarik followed direction – even when it came to the nobleman’s stern command for him to eat some of the rice and fish he had cooked for a group of orphaned children. He 'd lost a great deal of his strength, his adrenaline faded, and he needed to eat. It wasn’t something he could argue with.

But Zarik ate quickly so as to get back to helping. He struggled to keep the food down, especially while he collected loose body parts from the cobbled streets. He departed from Alistair to scrub blood off the quaint cottages while the summoned thralls combed through to collect the corpses through-out the place.

At a particularly gruesome set of front steps leading into a house, Zarik retched all the food he’d managed to eat. He held onto his waist and glanced at the looming Kingfisher beside him. The creature had been following him ever since he separated from Alistair. The magister was away, helping drag out the heavier bodies to… do whatever the villagers aimed to do with their dead... he wasn’t sure.

Zarik muttered at the Kingfisher, “Don’t tell Alistair.” He didn’t want the man to worry about his inability to keep the food down. They had enough to concern themselves with. Zarik returned to his scrubbing. The torturer’s assistant proved well-practiced in the art of cleaning blood. Once he found the right kind of astringent in a slaughtered household, he brought the jars to the square. He showed the villagers how to mix it with water to use as a soaking solution so that dried blood could be stripped clean without having to scrub as hard.

He’d taken off his shirt in the course of cleaning, the fabric filthy and getting in his way due to the looseness of already being too big for him. Zarik was left in just his shorts and belt, but he didn’t mind. The sea breeze came up from the coast and over the enclosure, clearing the gruesome air with its purifying tints of salt. As evening fell, it started to get colder though. His headache had yet to go away, impairing his peripherals as black spots dappled along the edges of his vision.

Some of the villagers had set to preparing a proper meal, to be shared by everyone at the square. Some had gone through the trouble of collecting candles to start a vigil for their lost families and friends. Others busied themselves with wrapping the dead for preservation of what would soon become bloated decaying bodies. Zarik settled on a wooden bench for a short rest, dizzy and exhausted, and wondered where Alistair was. The little girl who he’d found in the cottage garden approached him with a bowl of mixed fish stew and a half-loaf of bread.

He accepted the offer. She sat next to him, watching him, and he felt shy under her gaze. The girl had calmed down, through the help of her surviving family. Most of the villagers who Zarik observed were rightfully grieved by the tragedy, still breaking into sobs or wailed shouts when they’d discover or remember what they’d just lost. Zarik forced a small smile and he asked, “What’s your name?”

“Hazel,” she answered, kicking her feet out in slight anxiousness.

Zarik took a hesitant bite of the bread. He nodded and replied, “My name’s Zarik. You know, you were very brave today, Hazel.”

Her eyes widened. He was about to say more, but the girl suddenly jumped away from the bench and went running off. Zarik blinked, watching as she returned to her uncle. He wondered if he’d said something wrong… he looked down at the stew and sighed. He really didn’t know how to relate to children, he supposed. He tried to take a couple bites of the fish broth. His nose wrinkled as his stomach bickered against the taste.

He heard footsteps approaching and looked up in hope that it would be Alistair. His eyes brightened at the thought, but then he saw it was Hazel and her uncle. He eased some, though with a confused expression for why the girl had brought the man over. Hazel tugged on the man’s bandaged hand.

“I wanted to-" started the bearded man.

“You don’t have to thank me again,” said Zarik hurriedly. His cheeks grew silvery-blue with a blush. He set the soup and bread on the seat beside him. He placed a hand on his knee and waved with the other one. “I couldn’t have left her like that. No one could have.”

“No… Well, yes, thank you, but that’s not what I wanted to say. Hazel and I would like you and your husband to stay at our family’s house to sleep. There’s three beds, comfortable ones, and a tub for warm bathing,” offered the uncle. He added, “If you wanted, that is. Hazel and I are going to stay at my place, it’s across the way east of there.”

Zarik smiled, a genuine expression. He said, “Oh-okay.”

The man handed him a key and offered directions for which way the house was. It was one of the same houses around the cottage garden where Zarik had found the child in distress. He glanced at Hazel, who hid behind her uncle’s leg some. The pair walked back to join the other villagers at the candlelit square.

Zarik examined the key for no reason other than his vision still was having trouble. He felt a stomach cramp, the bit of bread and soup not settling well. Zarik prepared himself to get back to work. There were houses to scrub and smaller appendages to find among the grasses and stones so they could be thrown away instead of left to rot. He stood from the bench, then finally caught sight of Alistair – whether the man had been there for a while or not, he didn’t know as Zarik had zoned out on the bench.

His eyes grew yellow as a dandelion, brightening, and he left his food behind to greet his lover. Alistair had introduced them to the people in the village as spouses. The mage had told them so much about how he'd met Zarik, and about things that Zarik didn't know yet about the man. All the while, during the recounting and sharing of stories between the villagers and the nobleman, Zarik had remained to the side - silent, observing, but not participating in the slightest. The biqaj was no leader, he had barely done anything, and required a rescue from Alistair like all the rest. Though Alistair openly called him his wife, Zarik didn't feel as if he had adequately fulfilled that role by any keen and objective measure.

So Zarik felt shy to do anything physical in the public space. He smiled though, folding his hands behind him, and he said, “You’re back. I have a place for us to rest and clean up, when we’re ready. Have you finished yet?”

He didn’t know if there were many more bodies lingering around the village or not. Zarik added, “The sun is about to set soon. Would… would extra torches be a good idea to set around the wall?” He didn’t know if fire deterred Saltfetchers or their fledglings, but it seemed like a possible idea that would add a sense of security to the traumatized villagers. Zarik wanted them to be able to calm down and not feel so… scared anymore. He recalled all of their screams and sounds of anguish, his stomach doing flips at the recent memory. His eyes faded from yellow to blue-gray as he got lost in the recollection.

I Speak ✣ I Am ✣ I Think

[Alistair]

The village's mayor, for that was what they called him, had died in the events that preceded their gathering. For the time they shared in the town square, they related stories to him of the mayor and their fallen comrades... their lovers, friends, husbands, wives, children. In some way - though only for the one night - they entrusted Alistair the role of their leader, to listen to them and inspire them, and to organize them into action. Of course, everyone was hesitant to do what needed to be done: to scour the buildings for the bodies of the dead, and to clean the streets when all they wanted to do was cry, or even leave the world behind them.

But as he listened, he related to them his own stories... of all the loss he'd felt. He told them of Zvezdana, Theodore, and even his brother who he feared might have died to the plague. He told them of Fridgar and Winston, who he'd not seen for so long a time, and all the tears he'd cried as a result. And then... he told them of Zarik, his beloved wife he called him, to several blinks and quiet laughs, though none of them were truly mocking or deriding. Most merely commented that it was a fitting title, considering their difference in masculinity, which invoked a gleaming smirk from the magister.

The point of the story remained, however; even when he'd lost all, life still offered him a new chance to live. A new love. The future still held hope in store, and to those left behind by sorrow and death, there was only ascension awaiting for them. If they did not give in.

The moral was clear, and whether or not any or all of them would take it to heart, he could not know. Some of them, he could tell, did immediately - though pain still awaited them. Some of them bit their tongues, as if to ask how he imagined that his life was anything comparable to theirs. But with the service he'd done for them, no one would speak ill of his words. Grief was a bitter thing, but it was not always blinding. At least, in this moment, they'd all come together as one people. For now.

Alistair led much of the efforts. He did not immediately clean himself, as the mucus that covered his skin was - to him - a source of pride in the moment, revealing to the townspeople that he was their leader for the night, a role they delegated to him eagerly. All efforts were organized and fulfilled by him and whoever was willing to provide assistance, which largely ended up being men who'd not lost too many in the massacre. For some of them, he could tell that the night was - if anything - a blessing, as they would have the option now to acquire the hearts of the widows or widowers left behind. They were eager for their journey into this... puzzling new world.

The work was done quickly. Alistair brought his Revenants into the picture, and automated much of it, leaving an entire third of the town to their unrelenting hands. Devin, Icarus and Andreas combed through the buildings as if they were on a mission of utmost haste, with their stamina an unyielding quantity. Before dusk had truly come, the bodies were piled, though Alistair and the people he'd spoken to had determined they would need to all be brought to the town square to determine the total casualties, and who might still be missing, either eaten wholly or dragged somewhere else.

The total number of dead appeared to be thirty six, and he was told that this was around a third of the village's entire population of - roughly - one hundred and twenty, before the culling. Everyone who wasn't already declared dead - though many of their bodies were unrecognizable - was proven to be alive and in the square, with no missing or completely indeterminable corpses. There was another reason they'd all been gathered, too, the bodies - many of them would be sold to Necromancers by their kin, which the people believed would help to revitalize the town and restore it to its prior condition... or, as closely as they could get to that.

They would be gathered into body bags and kept right with ropes. The more valuable bodies - the athletically inclined - were kept separate. Noting his Necromancy, many of the villagers asked if he would purchase the corpses himself, though on all accounts he declined. He was no new Necromancer, and did not need to experiment or craft arbitrary numbers of husks.

Then, his lover finally returned, and the mage grinned at him warmly - reciprocated eagerly by Zarik, his darling. You're back, he said.

"I have finished," the mage replied. "It is done - the village is cleared. No one is missing, and... the Saltfetchers have been dumped into a pile to be sold or plucked for parts. The villagers will decide that overnight, without our guidance," he said. Alistair then glanced behind him, as if to gesture towards the many bodies being placed into bags and tied together with rope. Wagons had already begun to gather, and even carriages meant for cargo. There was, apparently, a group of Necromancers on the island that they were to cart the bodies off to to begin their negotiations. For that purpose, many of the villagers would leave tonight before the morning. And certainly before the rotting became too severe.

"They're like a bundle of locusts," he leaned forward to his spouse, and whispered. "Vultures. I wonder how many of them are experiencing true grief."

It was strange to him - and probably Zarik too - how eager they were to profit from the death. Not all of them felt as such, and some opted to bury their dead or burn them, depending on their beliefs or lack thereof. But... too many were bitter, resentful creatures, not far removed from the Heaps of the Shanty. It was... another reason they needed to leave Quacia. In Rynmere, where life thrived and so did love, this night would have been one of true tragedy. It would have been remembered always, and the bards of this town would have sung of it all. It was not that selling the bodies was betraying them, but the vigor in which they began to prepare their negotiations... at least he knew they would be put to good use, rather than festering in the soil.

And he supposed, for people so mired in death, that 'grief' such as this was common. That it was even expected.

He realized his words might have offended Zarik, as they were insensitive. But Alistair was a man of honesty, at least, and his love knew that. He spoke true from the heart, and though he tried to word himself eloquently, his observations were as forward and instinctive as they could come.

"Torches sounds good. Really, though, I'm... ready for the resting and cleaning up bit," he confessed. "I feel disgusting; I've had this Saltfetcher blood all over me for hours. Perhaps we can do that later?" he asked, if not requested.

Zarik fell into pondering, and the mage felt fearful of what he might be thinking, or remembering. Alistair leaned forward and patted him lightly on the shoulder, trying to catch his gaze with his own. He whispered, "It will be okay, my love. This is still our honeymoon - this is our time to be together. You and I can take a bath together, and we can rest together. And properly eat, I hope," he added. "Let's go, wife - there's no need to worry for anyone else anymore. We've done all that we can." He gestured for Zarik to lead, as he knew where they were to go. He could only attempt to keep his mind off of it all, as there was no point writhing in the misery of others. The world had enough worry as it was.

[Llyr Llywelyn]

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Though Zarik

had not realized it before, too busy with cleaning and helping the villagers, he now saw that Alistair seemed bothered by the villagers’ intentions with the dead. The mage gestured to the wagons loaded with the morbid cargo. Zarik looked, and blinked. Though the attack was a tragedy, Zarik didn’t fully understand Alistair’s whisper. Locusts? Vultures? But the villagers were only making use of loss.

Zarik kept his mouth shut. While he was not Quacian, he’d spent his entire – albeit, short – adult life in the city and he regarded this treatment as a rightful choice. It might not have been the choice he would’ve made, but the corpses were not his to decide about. Then again, if it’d been his father… Zarik mentally squirmed at the hypothetical. He moved the conversation on, hoping that his lapse hadn’t been noticed, and asked about whether more torches set along the perimeter would be helpful.

Alistair confessed that he wanted to clean and Zarik couldn’t blame him. Gore still coated the man from head to toe. Zarik forced a small smile and he nodded in agreement.

He looked back toward the cart of wrapped bodies and he wondered, briefly, if Alistair understood the necessity of such scavenging of resources. Probably not, he supposed; the nobleman had likely never truly been in dire need of assets for any extended period… even with his grand stories of familial loss and love. Despite his exiled state, the magister had multiple estates and a hospice and so much to his name. He, even, had people to his name and thralls he commanded to do menial work for him. The necromancer never had to lift a finger to scrub a floor, or wring clothes dry, or…

Zarik had gotten carried away with his thoughts. His eyes had turned a pure glaucous color. He felt a touch on his shoulder, as he’d been zoning out again, staring at a cart. As if startled by the touch, he quickly made eye contact with an apprehensive expression to his features. Zarik listened to the whisper. His discomfort lessened as he allowed the words of his lover to soothe him. He nodded again, in agreement, something he’d been doing every time Alistair suggested anything since they’d gathered in the village square.

Upon the gesture to lead, Zarik took out the key and then he started walking. Though his walk wasn’t straight, or strong. His steps became ambling as he went in a gradual weave of steps to one side and then the other in a gentle serpentine path. It seemed he was not aware of this, however, as he held the key in both hands and stared at it… as if it told him where to go, except for the occasional glance to check their surroundings.

He found their way to the cottage garden, quiet no matter if Alistair attempted to converse, and then he said, “I-it’s the one with the daisies painted on the window frame.” Zarik caught sight of it as he said it, headed to the front door, and slid the key into the lock. He paused, looked at Alistair, and asked, “C-could you get one of your thralls to draw the bath? I… I do not feel well.”

Zarik opened the door and led into the cottage. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw it was clean. It appeared as if the family had been outside of their home during the attack and as such, the place was left untouched – one of the rare few in the village. Zarik was glad. If it had been dirty, he surely would have felt the need to start cleaning regardless of how poorly he felt or how tired he was.

He slumped into a nearby lounge chair and tossed the key on the table next to it. Zarik placed a hand over his pained head. He closed his eyes, endured the throbbing rush of blood pressing into his skull, and kicked his bare feet up to rest on the ottoman in front of the chair. The soles were cracked with dry blood and still had splinters in parts of the fleshier pads, much like his similarly abused knees from the wooden shingles that’d broken underneath his fair skin. The biqaj quietly groaned. He wanted to feel better, so he could spend time with Alistair, but he didn’t know where to even start. His entire body felt like a mess of aches and stings.

I Speak ✣ I Am ✣ I Think

[Alistair]

Zarik did not indulge his demeaning of the locals, and as Alistair's face quickly drew back from the whisper, he realized why. He'd not thought of it so clearly as he spoke, but Zarik was one of them - a Heap - and he had lived in the same squalor as the rest of them. Alistair did not particularly find a dead body to be a sanctified thing, but he had his own strange perceptions of death that were not related at all to wealth, but to the acquisition of power. The look in Zarik's eyes told it all, and in a way explained it to him: for those without Necromancy, this was... yet another way to utilize the resource of a body. In that trill, he had an epiphany: there truly was nothing wrong with their actions. On deeper reflection, perhaps he would have even understood that what he displayed was a form of projection, chastising them for something he found utterly reasonable - but could not accept, as he knew such notions were inferred by the foul nature of his spark of Necromancy.

The two of them had both allowed their thoughts to go on for far too long, however, and the mage was eager to follow his beloved towards their destination. His almost strained focus on the road was quickly called into question when his lover began to weave his movements, unable to keep his movements entirely straight. Alistair stopped him, placing an arm upon his shoulder, before picking him up and wrapping him in his arms, pulling his legs around his waist and keeping him still. The mage was covered in gore, but he would clean soon; both of them would. What was more important than the grime of his body was that his lover's feet and form did not need to strain any longer against the rough, war-torn cobble. Alistair followed where he pointed the key, and once they'd drawn close to the home with the daisies in the window frame - as he'd advertised - he allowed him to draw closer to the door, so that he could slip the key inside and twist the lock open.

His lover humbly requested for a thrall to draw the bath, and professed how poorly he was feeling. Alistair knew he was not well. The two of them... they would need to recover together, and the mage would have to mend his lover's wounds. For now, though, by Zarik's direction he helped his lover lay into a chair as he set him down. The key clacked on the table, and his now outstretched legs appeared before his lover. The mage sighed with worry as he shut his eyes, and like clockwork a porthole appeared immediately after. Those extended lapses, where his eyes fell closed and remained so, would perhaps become a symbol to Zarik by now that he was fetching something from... somewhere else. This time, it was his satchel, the one he'd brought with him to the cabin and had left inside so that they could swim.

The mage drew his satchel around his waist and clipped it around his shorts, before reaching into the larger leather pocket near the 'belt' area over his pelvis, where he pulled a small bottle of burgundy-colored blood. Zarik had seen it before - it was Acid Crocodile Blood, which he'd used previously to make him feel better in the Tower. It was his go-to, a reagent that had performed so many miracles. The mage swished it around in the bottle, still covered by a cork, before stepping over to Zarik and offering it to him, not far from his lips. "Drink," he demanded. If his lover accepted it, he would force him to scarf it down, even though it may have stung with the illusion of true acidity. It was merely a momentary irritation.

Next, he pulled a larger flask of Rockmaze Moss Powder from his satchel, as well as a vial of Scarf-Rot. He set them down upon the nearby table and sprinkled them onto a series of bandages he'd laid out, blending them together into a poultice by beating and mashing them together. By the end, it looked to be a beige color, distributed across multiple bandages that he would run across the worst sections of his lover's body. But not yet. First, Alistair rubbed his hands over the surface of Zarik's legs and feet, completely smoothing his palm over them. Though Zarik might have wondered why he was doing so - and even questioned whether or not it would bring him pain - he might have noticed that as he did so, the wooden splinters all began to vanish as if being washed away. It was Corrosion, and he had specifically chosen to disassemble any and all inorganic materials that he touched.

He would do this until his legs and feet were entirely free of splinters before he began to apply the poultice. Then, when that was done, he lifted the bandages by their ends only to lay the blend onto different sections of Zarik's skin; it seemed to stick to him easily, and once each piece of the blend had been added in an even distribution across his legs and feet, he began to smooth out the poultice and slather it evenly across his skin and partly exposed flesh, forming a full coating across his legs. It would have the effect of disinfecting the wounds, healing his bones and flesh, and preventing any scarring. It would also soothe him and allow him to relax, with much of the pain being snuffed out by the relaxing blend.

Then, he began to wrap bandages around his legs in a tight grip so as to keep the poultice pressed firmly against his wounds. It might have been uncomfortable for a time, though the mage did not allow Zarik's body the agency to squirm or flee, keeping him entirely still and quickly catching him if he ever jerked or jolted. It did not take long for him to finish.

What he had as a result was his lover in a much more suitable condition. The Acid Crocodile Blood would help him rapidly recover and heal, and so rather than trials or much longer, or the festering of infections into a horrific state, Zarik would feel better within breaks - or perhaps less.

The mage kissed him softly on the lips as he laid into the embrace of the lounge chair. They couldn't bathe together, but his thralls had been working on drawing the bath amidst his quick medical procedure, and it was ready. Alistair nudged his lover, beckoning him to follow. If he showed any struggle, the mage would carry him to the bath.

Devin - his Revenant - had prepared it in a small wooden room that seemed to be most often utilized for bathing. What he had was essentially just a large wooden bucket filled with hot water, at a temperature roughly similar to what the magister preferred. There was a wooden bench within the room, wrapped around the corner almost like a small sauna. Alistair set him down - or led him to - the bench, seating him there before turning to the bath, leaning forward and bending down, and cupping some of the hot water within his palms. He turned back to his beloved, then, and dumped it over his head with a grin, before rubbing the water across his skin and particularly any areas he'd dirtied by holding him. Alistair was still covered in filth, but he didn't want Zarik to be. This whole thing... he wouldn't let it ruin their time together on the island. Not for anything.

[Llyr Llywelyn]

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While Zarik headed out

of the village square, his path winding and weaving, he did not get far before he felt Alistair touch him, then pick him up. A quiet audible breath escaped Zarik, slightly confused by this. But as he wrapped around the stronger, larger man, his sore feet felt relief. So much relief that he did not even mind the terrible stench that covered Alistair due to the dried mucus guts. He relaxed a little, nestled against the filth-covered mage, and pointed in the direction of their destination with the key.

They made their way, and found the cottage, going inside. Zarik didn’t want to have to ferry water back and forth for the bath, as he assumed would be needed, thusly asking if Alistair could have a thrall do it for him. After that, he motioned to a nearby chair as he wanted Alistair to rest as well and while the biqaj was light-weight, he didn’t think having to carry yet another body around would help the mage recover from any possible muscle strain.

He tossed the key over on the table and placed his feet up on the ottoman. Zarik groaned from his headache and the pains he felt throughout his lithe form. He didn’t even notice Alistair as the mage opened a porthole and fetched the satchel. Zarik had his own eyes shut, internally writhing from his miserable state. Together, all combined, it was a lot endure and to add to the exhaustion he felt from having swam for most of the morning… he moaned quietly again.

Drink. Zarik opened his eyes. He looked at a bottle that had seemingly appeared in front of him. He glanced at Alistair. He lowered his hand from his forehead, then simply opened his lips for Alistair to just pour it in. They were in the privacy of each other’s company now, he didn’t have to worry so much about the villagers witnessing and judging their behavior toward one another. His nose wrinkled along the bridge as he drank the Acid Crocodile Blood. Once it was done and he had swallowed all of it, he closed his mouth and shut his eyes in a look of powerful distaste. It lasted only a few trills, then he returned to his weary look as he watched Alistair start to work.

He didn’t know what the other man was doing, but he could tell that Alistair intended to treat him. Zarik watched the blending of the poultice and the preparation of the bandages, staying mostly quiet. He shifted on the chair slightly, in attempt to find a more comfortable position, but it proved impossible. No position would be comfortable for him, not at the moment.

Zarik held still as Alistair ran his hands over his legs. He tilted his head to the side, but though he wondered, he didn’t ask. He trusted the mage, completely.

It was, after the splinters had been removed from his battered skin, his curiosity that had him ask, “Alistair, are you okay? Don’t you need to rest also? You don’t have to…” …take care of me. But it wasn’t true. Alistair did have to take care of him. In all regards. Whether it was due to the pain and discomfort Zarik felt, driving the youthful man closer toward a darker view of the world and thus himself, or a separate realization that’d started to emerge to his awareness, Zarik’s lower lip turned in a pout and he averted his gaze.

And then he opened his mouth as if to say something important, his expression serious… but he didn’t and simply shut his lips tightly together instead as if snapping at the air. Zarik closed his eyes and let Alistair rub the poultice balm over his legs. It felt nice… the removal of the splinters having taken away much of the stinging on the surface of his skin. Even his aches felt a little less demanding. Though there was a new sensation of faint burning at the worst spots along his knees, shins, and the soles of his feet as the poultice actively disinfected the thin wounds where the splinters had dug in. He sighed in content, resting against the back of the chair, and surrendering to the fact that his handsome, powerful husband was also proficient in his trade as a doctor.

“Gods, is there anything you can’t do?” murmured Zarik as his headache began to recede. The bandages were next and Alistair wasn’t gentle on them as he tightened them around Zarik’s lean legs. He yelped as one was pressed into his knee, his relaxation interrupted by the sensation. He tried to move upward in the chair, but Alistair caught him from doing so. Zarik gulped, then settled to hold himself still for the rest of the bandages.

Alistair finished his treatment with the most needed remedy of all: a soft kiss on the lips. Zarik sighed against the touch. He felt much better after being under the attentive care of his newlywed husband, though a headache drifted between his temples and much of his internal body ached with soreness. The magister nudged him and gestured to follow to the ready bath, but Zarik felt unsure with his newly bandaged legs. He grabbed onto Alistair’s wrist and whimpered. He wanted to ask for the other to carry him, but… his bandages were mostly clean and Alistair was dirty. Zarik, instead, used his hold on Alistair to help get himself to his feet and he said, “L-let me hold onto you, for balance, please.”

Together, they went to the bathing room. Alistair helped him to a bench and Zarik took a seat in the center. He settled into a comfortable spot, sighing and about to relax again when he suddenly felt a splash of hot water run over his head. Zarik gave a small shout of surprise, lifting a delayed hand up to block the already fallen water. He leaned back against the wall as the nobleman rubbed the fresh water over him, rinsing dirt and filth away. Zarik relaxed again. He dryly laughed and said, “What are you doing? Stop. Go wash yourself.”

I Speak ✣ I Am ✣ I Think

[Alistair]

Go wash yourself, his lover commanded with a laugh. Alistair shook his head before returning to the large wooden basin, teasing Zarik by cupping some of the water into his hands - again - and splashing it onto his beloved, a quirky smile erupting from his lips. He stepped back to his lover, whose upper body was now largely soaked, and he rubbed the warm liquid across the surface of his skin with intensified vigor. As the mage did so, he kissed him on the lips, pressing his nose into his so that some of the gore rubbed off on Zarik's face, if only so that he could splash a little more water onto it to clean it off. He did so, eagerly, with a brilliant grin upon his face.

And then, the mage disrobed, quickly climbing the basin and jumping in, the water nearly splashing out from the edges as his immense weight barged into it. He began to clean himself, beginning with his arms as he sunk deeper into the water, scrubbing himself off with his armored palms from his shoulders to his triceps, biceps, forearms and all the rest, before dipping them beneath the surface of the water to wipe the grime from his legs. Of course, though, being in a bath meant that the grime would quickly distribute itself within the basin, and before long the water took upon a murky yellow-tinted shade, as if he'd pissed himself. The mage looked upon it and laughed lightly, throwing small splashes over the edge of the tub - not far enough to reach his lover - to display the odd color.

But then, remembrance came. His lover had been... more than just ill-feeling; there was a look in his eyes that spelled something beyond physical maladies. Alistair had been worried for him, though he always prioritized his physical health. Now that they were alone, though, he wanted to speak further. "Are you alright, Zarik?" he asked him, though the question didn't feel like enough. It was closed-ended; he could simply say yes, or even no.

"I worry for you. We may have had a short life together thus far, but already I feel that I know when things are amiss," he stated, his brows lowering and clinging closer to his temples, a look of what appeared to be distress.

His lips flexed awkwardly as he sighed, uncertain on what to say. He continued to scrub his body, rapidly, as he thought... before eventually stepping from the basin, relieved of the grime. The mage lumbered towards his lover and sat beside him, clasping his hands together at his front, between his knees. Alistair looked to him, quietly at first, and then stared towards the door.

"Is it the bloodshed? The village? Is it just... the headache? Are you feeling any better?" He was no master of consoling others, though he couldn't help but let his mind fly whenever he wasn't speaking, or attempting to comfort him. Was it what he'd said about the villagers? Locusts... vultures. The mage did not wish to offend his spouse, and if that were it... he...

His expression stilled. He couldn't have known, really. Perhaps it was nothing.

"I keep fearing that what happened here will destroy our time together on this Isle," he said, in admittance. "I know you and I don't have the same experiences in life. For you, this might have been... a fearsome thing. It's different for me. I'm not so bothered, because you're still alive. That's all that really matters to me, at the conclusion of each trial." The mage paused, and looked to the other, a hint of remorse in his eyes. "I'm sorry if I was... callous to the villagers. You seem quite attached to them," he said.

[Llyr Llywelyn]

≿————-　❈　————-≾

Zarik laughed,

unable to keep from doing so, when Alistair continued to splash water on him. The brunet looked so silly, covered in grime like he was, goofily smiling, and then kissing Zarik and rubbing the muck on him only to rinse it off with more splashes. And Zarik laughed. He laughed through the entire rubbing and the kissing and the press of their noses and the splashing, the absurdity of it broke through all he’d been feeling and thinking. His restraint snapped apart and by the time Alistair rubbed at his face, cleaning the dirt he’d purposefully gotten on the biqaj, Zarik had descended into near-silent convulsions of giggling. He pushed at Alistair, playfully trying to get him to stop… but not really wanting him to. He couldn’t speak anyway, his lungs too deprived by his wheezing laughs to allow for it.

He only got respite when Alistair finally took to bathing. Zarik laid against the bench, holding onto his waist, and smiling from the cathartic release of the laughter. He breathed steadily, then slowly, as his smiled faded. He regained composure. Twisting on the bench, he moved to watch Alistair as the man cleaned. He sat up again when more water was splashed, but now it looked sickly and like urine. Zarik’s nose scrunched and he stuck out his tongue in a display of childish disgust.

Zarik’s headache thrummed louder though, irritated by the play. He rubbed at his temple, closing an eye, and then eased to rest with his back against the wall again. His vision still dappled here and there with the black spots. His stomach ached now that he’d calmed down, strained by all the laughter. He heard Alistair ask him if he was alright and he simply moaned in a non-answer. Zarik didn’t quite know if it was a yes or a no…

Alistair continued though and spoke of his worry. Zarik averted his gaze, crossed his arms over his waist, and slinked farther back as if he wanted to fade away into the wall itself. He thought to say that he was fine, but he knew it wouldn’t be true and that would be obvious. He murmured, “I am glad to be alive.”

Zarik looked over when the magister left the basin and sat beside him on the bench. He forced a slight smile, but it flickered and disappeared like the flame of a candle blown out. Alistair started to query as to what it was that might’ve troubled Zarik…

...the bloodshed? The village? His aches and pains?

“I…” Zarik started then he trailed off. He drew his arms tighter around his waist. Couldn’t it be all those things and more? He considered simply choosing one of the easier options… to say yes, it was just his headache and that he should go to sleep. Zarik didn’t want to lie to Alistair, but there was so much and his thoughts felt all jumbled. He didn’t know if he’d be able to make sense even if he did try to describe how he felt.

Alistair shared a fear that the attack would diminish their honeymoon, would destroy the rest of their time together – what little of it they had left – before they had to return to Quacia and face the rest of their lives… and Zarik would have to fulfill his promises to Alistair.

The biqaj covered his face with his hands, leaning forward. He heavily sighed. He listened though as Alistair continued to explain that Zarik’s safety was all the magister cared about and apologized about being callous toward the villagers.

“I’m not attached to them, that’s not it,” said Zarik, his voice loud despite being muffled behind his palms. He lowered his hands, running his fingers down over his face. Zarik flipped his bangs back, the ice-blond hair wet from the splashes. He looked at Alistair and said, "I had no idea- I mean, I knew you were… I knew you could perform spells, of course, the portal and thralls and- but-"

Zarik turned so his knees tapped against Alistair’s leg. He reached out and grabbed onto Alistair’s hands, encasing them in his own. “If it weren’t- I wanted to flee when we first- but- you didn’t even think, you ran- and you saved my life and little Hazel’s life, and the rest of this damned village. If it hadn’t been for you, the Saltfetchers might’ve devoured every single person here. You’re… You’re… amazing, Alistair.”

His eyes shone iridescent... for most of his words, but as he stammered at the end, and concluded with the man’s name, the oily-reflective hues became saturated with moss green pigmentation. He shifted, as if he wanted to move onto his husband’s lap, but the bandages tightly squeezed at his legs. He gave up on the motion. Instead, he pulled Alistair’s hands over to his own lap.

“I don’t know how… how I’m ever…” Zarik lowered his gaze. Tears welled in his eyes without warning as a few droplets escaped. He struggled through hesitation and difficulty to voice how he felt with common words, “I could hardly do anything… that little girl- I was going to drop her right on that beast. It would have torn her apart- Alistair, I… how will I ever be the wife you deserve if I can’t even save a child from a single monster?!”

Zarik wiped his tears away with his forearm. He straightened his posture and looked at Alistair again, though his lower lip quivered slightly. The youthful biqaj said, “I won’t place so much burden on you. It isn’t right of me. You shouldn’t have to… I can… I don’t want to… You’re… Agh!” Zarik let go of the other man, throwing up his hands in sudden frustration as his words wouldn’t come together. “Dammit, I simply cannot!”

He hurriedly explained the outburst, concerned that Alistair might take it the wrong way. “I mean, me, I can’t take how- how- useless I am. How ignorant! How little I know about you… and about anything. Before I met you, sincerely and entirely felt you as one with me, I thought I knew so much about things."

"Everything seemed so simple and obvious, but now… it is as if I’d been staring at a small ray of sunlight thinking that dot of light was my entire room I lived within… and- and- now you’ve walked in, and cast your brilliant light all over the place; and now I see that my room is so vast that I cannot even see the walls. I am illuminated but I know not what to do about it, I have only ever known my little dot of sunlight.”

“And a part of me, so desperately, wants to go running off and swim away past the break into the waves of the deep sea, Alistair. Don’t you understand? I’d thought myself free in a cage, but now I see I’ve been chaining myself to a blade of grass in an open field by my own volition.” Zarik grabbed Alistair’s shoulder, rather roughly and in a tight, strong grip. He said in a low, hoarse voice. “I will never allow myself to be chained again. Not now. Now that I understand this.”

“It’s all because of you,” added Zarik, his tone softening. He grabbed onto Alistair’s jawline. His thumb ran along the beard. The biqaj moved closer, as if to kiss, though he hovered nearby. He looked into the alluring vortexes of his lover's eyes. The irises of his biqaj eyes turned white with a thin rose pink outline, the rare display showing once more for Alistair in the intensity of what Zarik confessed to him in a clear voice, “You are my light, my key, my freedom, my spear, my first and my last. You and all your magnificence. I love you, I adore you, and I want to be a worthy moon to your sun so that I might reflect your glory onto Idalos for everyone to understand just how imperious of a man you are.”

I Speak ✣ I Am ✣ I Think

[Alistair]

Knowing who his lover was, he did not expect him to lie or to conceal the truth, not when he'd been asked. It was to his relief then - and perhaps his anxiety - that he answered, and wholly. And Alistair listened... listened as well as any man could, but it was difficult for him to understand. Difficult because... Zarik was merely describing the fragile mortality all men bore, first in being unable to even protect a single child from a single beast, and then in being unable to match Alistair even remotely in the sheerness of his ability. It was difficult for him to transcribe, to place into words that could match with his own line of reasoning. None of the villagers had been able to cull a single Saltfetcher - at least, not an adult. It had been left to Alistair to kill every last one of them, because that was the unimaginable gap in their particular level of martial ability.

Such was often the story, particularly where magic was involved. He was not the only one with powers over the arcane, and though he was among the greatest of his kind, he did not see the flaw in his capability. Such... disappointment, he could only call it, was an oddity to him in the face of his revealed might. Rather than awe or the falsification of cordiality in order to draw more from him, as many displayed, Zarik was left bewildered by the seemingly insurmountable gap between who he was and who his husband was.

It was - in some ways - disconcerting. Still, for the trill, he made no sweeping conclusions on anything that he said, or how he really felt about his perceptions. He allowed him to speak, though it became grueling as he displayed what the mage almost perceived as anger at being unable to articulate his thoughts. Alistair was confused. Tears, anger, frustration - all at the prospect of being protected? Was Alistair's strength really such a burden on his mind? He remained leery of his views, unable to see how power on either of their parts could ever become so compromising.

And then, he brought his mind back to form, and articulated his feelings visually. He explained it as a light, though Alistair thought most often in doors, perhaps as a result of his long life as a Rupturer. The image shifted to that of larger doors opening, expanding the parameters of his room, with a glowing light peering through. Many of Alistair's actions themselves were linked with doors, capable of altering his beloved's view of reality as he knew it. This trial, among all of them, was many doors opening. He revealed a lot about himself, and life revealed a lot about itself. He understood how it all might overwhelm someone's mind, but--

The mage shot a glance at him, as he gripped his shoulder firmly, asserting what strength he had. He said... that he did not wish to be chained, and it was Alistair who brought him that realization. His movements grew amorous, as if now that his confession had bled into his words, that all was done. His beloved's eyes even flashed white, as he spoke words to the mage that truly... truly did make him feel something very powerful. Alistair smiled warmly at him, as a thread presented itself to him, one that he wished to draw upon. But where could one even begin? In some strange way, Zarik too had opened a door, for Alistair rather than himself. He could see into him, for a trill more than he had before, and with his peering gaze he discovered something that he loved about him, and something he wished to nourish.

"I feel your ambition through your gaze," the mage said to him, with a voice that was crystal clear, deep and almost foreboding. After all that had been said, it was an odd place to begin.

"And I welcome it," he whispered, lowly. "I chose you not only because I loved you, though I do and more than I have known. Love is for lovers, and though that is what we are, it is not all that we are. I'm sure... you've felt it, as I have." At first, he did not make clear what he meant. He peered back, with all of the might of his vortexes, into the white eyes as he loomed subtly closer to his beloved. Their faces almost touched, but they didn't. And then, he pulled away, staring forward once again to the doorway.

"It is almost strange to think of me as your lover, and perhaps, even as only your husband. I am more to you than that; I am your life mentor, your predecessor, your master. A figure as paternal as I am the man that makes your heart, and body, sing. And you, to me, are more than my wife. You are my future, as you've called yourself, and I have done the same. My legacy, and my bond. The one I have chosen."

He laughed lightly, a small titter from his lips, as he lowered his gaze and pressed his palms past each side of his body. Then, not raising his eyes, he looked to the soft skin of his lover and sighed.

"Do you know of Ellasin Dathlande?" he asked him. "The Necromantress - the Witch. I'm certain you do. She haunts every nightmare, a looming shadow of tendrils that arch deep black into the skies above, breaching the clouds. She is always there, or so everyone believes, lurching in the dark. Awaiting her destiny, one in which she overcomes the Gods themselves. I... I know her intimately. She was a woman I knew as Mother, for a long time. The one who raised me, who brought me out from the shadows of fear that followed my father and into the actualization of my true self. Though I have loathed her, and resented her, for all that she brought me... she made me a man of truly no equal, save for the Necromantress herself. And she did so with the reinforcement of one, particular lesson... guiding me to an answer you seem so near to finding. Do you know what that answer might be, Zarik?" he asked.

Whether rhetorical or not, and whether his beloved answered or not, he would tell him. It was the secret that all mages knew, to some degree. Perhaps they called it a trope, a claim made far too often to be true. But it was true - and what it meant was truly real. The Necromantress, the one who always looked above from the darkness of below, who had made even a child of the Ancestor Gods doubt that any one thing could truly be sacred, had relayed to him in all their arcs together only one truth he could never dispute.

"There is no chain," he told him. "It is an illusion. There is no death, there is no life, there is no sanctity and no sacrilege. There is only ether, and its repositories. Strong repositories, weak repositories; doubt, the difference between them. Fear, the chain the weaker ones dream into being. I am strong because I serve the greatest God; magic, and I am utterly devoted to all of its yearnings. To Arcana, I am a vessel... and because of it, my true fears have long gone." He rose from his seat upon the bench, standing before his lover - wholly revealed - with a rising flame of blue ether lighting bright from the core of his hand. He raised it to gleam brightly before the both of them, a display of its marvel.

"I am the sun," he told him. Alistair had no qualms with accepting such a role, a strong claim though it was. "And you wish to be the moon. For you to become my equal... is a desire we have in common. But there is only one way to achieve it. Become a mage. No one, and nothing, will ever offer you what ether can. No God, and no mystery, and no legend. The blade that may break the chains is already among us, and I offer to you my love, the pommel. Will you take it?"

[Llyr Llywelyn]

≿————-　❈　————-≾

Become a mage.

Of all the things in the past few trials Zarik had faced - of all the decisions he’d tumbled forward into, driven by his ecstasy of bonding with the older man - Alistair’s many words shot through them all, like a merciless spear aimed at Zarik’s core. A core he didn’t know he had until it was pierced by Alistair: a heart beyond heart, a soul joined to his consciousness, a genius spirit that brewed in the depths of somewhere beyond.

The life he once knew felt nothing more than a distant memory, or even a dream. As he listened to Alistair speak of the wondrous knowledge of magic, of Ellasin Dathlande, of ether, of Arcana, Zarik felt as if he awoke from a deep slumber.

His ambition was recognized by Alistair as the mage identified the meaning of the opaque pearly mix of white color in his irises. Not only did Alistair classify the infrequent display, but he welcomed it. He even accepted Zarik into his life because of it. Zarik had never felt such things for another person before, but he’d never met anyone like Alistair either. His gaze fixated on the nobleman throughout Alistair’s cerebral responses to his confession. He did not interrupt. He wanted to hear what the man had to say.

Destiny, fate, future, serendipity… words that failed to fully describe how Zarik felt toward Alistair. The sheer clarity of what Alistair said about who they were to each other resonated with the biqaj. Lover, husband, mentor, legacy… none of them actualized the blended perception Zarik held toward the man ever since they'd fulfilled one another in the tower room of Woodstock Hall, since he’d truly looked into Alistair’s eyes for that first time. What he’d seen in that moment, all that Syroa had lifted to the surface, had returned to the abyssal depths of his understanding but as he listened, he felt the pull as those impressions were dragged to visibility again.

And when put to the test, to answer an unspoken question… about a lesson that Alistair had undergone, which Zarik knew nothing of... He did not answer, too enamored by what the magister shared with him. Zarik waited with bated breath, gazing with youthful expectation. He wanted more, ever more.

Alistair provided him with more. He spoke of illusion, of the falsity of duality, of ether, and of the strong and the weak, of doubt and fear, of Arcana and serving magic in devotion. The nobleman stood and summoned a flame of blue from the palm of his hand. Zarik’s gaze slid to it, watching the ethereal luster as it flickered. He returned to look at the other man's eyes. The tip of Zarik’s tongue slid out and licked his lips. The rose pink outline around his pearly irises changed to a violet tint.

I am the sun, agreed Alistair and Zarik nodded once. He sat at the edge of the bench. His hands gripped the edge.

And you wish to be the moon. Zarik nodded again. He listened to the offer, the presented opportunity, the overwhelming stage set for him to perform for no purpose other than to satisfy the brilliant Alistair of the House Venora.

...and I offer to you my love, the pommel. Will you take it?

Zarik stood. His legs felt weak, but he ignored the sensations in his body. His spirit had been stoked too vigorously to care about the limitations of the physical. He reached out, and his palms hovered near the blue flame, not touching but being very close. A faint warmth sunk through his skin. He didn’t say anything immediately, though it was obvious he was engaged in substantial consideration.

Why don’t you, then? No longer bound by service to his father, Zarik’s time had become his own… acquiring sovereignty for the first time in his life. He thought of the wealth of magic he’d seen Alistair perform, from when his fall had been caught to the watery ruptures of teleportation. How fascinating it all was… how powerful… Recollections rushed through his mind in flashes of images, scattered with echoes of Alistair’s voice from the recent past. Why don’t you…

He looked into Alistair’s eyes, meeting the vortexes again. The type of danger that I want, he almost whispered as he recalled what - at the time - had felt like the foolish stammering of his chaste attraction, but now… had he already known, even then? Somehow? Had that profound part of him, the soul connected to his awareness, recognized Alistair then as how Zarik saw him now?

The summoned flame drew him closer. Zarik wanted to place his hands in it, even if it meant that his flesh might melt like wax from a candle. He finally voiced words, though in a demure whisper, “We have desires in common.”

Zarik lowered his hands to his sides. He stepped away from the bench, though remained near the magister. He continued to hear Alistair’s provocative voice in his mind, in remembrance of their trials together, as he maintained eye contact: I could do better for you, you know… I know my eyes sing to you… You only need to focus on me; Focus on the vortex… More than nice, it was meaningful to the both of us… Someone to rule with me… What we have with one another is worth a withheld whisper. Even worth a lie, and even to each other… I am not a good man, my love, but I am a loyal man… With you, I feel masculine, strong, a guardian and provider… You will bring me my throne.

“Through free spirit and sound mind, I honor you,” said Zarik. He remained standing, motionless and steady in his gaze and voice. “You embody everything I want. I want to make you happy, Alistair. I desire to share in your perfection. I will not hide from you, for I want you to see and hear me also. I yearn to be worthy of you. I have never felt so connected to anyone else in my entire life.”

“I do not seek pity or charity and thus, neither do I aim for mere protection. I am not a child. I have no interest in remaining useless or weak. I will not distract you from power by having to concern yourself with my safety.” The corner of his lips turned up in a slanted smile. He continued, “I want nothing more than you inside of me. You have planted your seed and it shall grow. And I’d rather be a fool with you than anything else, but I do not believe it to be foolish anymore. I belong to you, yet you are mine. All of you, from the shell of your vessel to the ether that fuels you. You are my… my… mine. I want what you want because you want what I want. Our bond exists past illusion into the absolute realms of the unknown.”

Zarik paused from his orphic speech. He gracefully descended from his tall height to bend a knee in front of the magister. He rested a forearm on the front leg, bowed his head in obeisance, and said, “I am no slave, yet you are my master. You possess me to expand my capabilities and I desire you to do so, past my own comprehension. Logic has no place in our truth.” He set a hand on the magister’s thigh as he looked up at the other man. His eyes swirled with the violet-tinted pearl milk irises. “I will do whatever is required of me to fulfill both our expectations.”

In the privacy of each other, their words secret from all but eavesdropping entities, Zarik devoted himself once more, “You are the emperor of my world. I am your dominion. I shall provide you with the resources you require to advance your dynasty.”

“So teach me, my love, of magic. I welcome it. But know that I will learn regardless. I will seek as much as I listen.” He ran his palms over the other man’s hips, moving closer. He gradually returned to his feet. His lithe body glided against the mage’s washed form until Zarik met Alistair's slightly taller height, their eyes separated by a mere couple of inches from being parallel to one another. “Sun and moon, you and I, ever connected. Together, we will rule.”

I Speak ✣ I Am ✣ I Think

[Aegis]

[anchor=OptionFour][/anchor]

Thread Review

“Gods, is there anything you can’t do?” Be emotionally available and healthy?

All in all, an interesting read. Sucks to be the villagers, but hey, that's life in a rough area. Well done both of you.

Word Count: 10,832
Review Request Link: viewtopic.php?f=242&t=16103&start=190#p110435

Zarik

• Skill Points - 15
• Renown - 15
• Skill Knowledges
  1. Endurance: Operating with little food
  2. Endurance: Ignoring aches and pains in the aftermath of a crisis.
  3. Teaching: Showing villagers how to make a solution to clean blood with.
  4. Caregiving: Feeding the hungry.
  5. Etiquette: Accepting an offer to stay at a house.
  6. Meditation: Processing complex thoughts with rhetoric.
  7. Meditation: Consideration of becoming a mage.
  8. Meditation: The Discussion of Reality
  9. Rhetoric: Devoting oneself to mutual ambitions.
  10. Rhetoric: Painting a vision of the future.
• Non-Skill Knowledges
  1. Alistair: We will rule together.
  2. Alistair: Wants me to be his equal.
  3. Alistair: What we share is spiritual.
  4. Personal: I must become powerful.
• Items and Other Rewards

Alistair

• Skill Points - 15
• Renown - 15
• Skill Knowledges
  1. Leadership: Taking command over a divided populace
  2. Leadership: Encouraging productivity through grief
  3. Leadership: Some people benefit from atrocities - learn how to use them
  4. Medicine: Creating a proper poultice
  5. Medicine: Using Corrosion to remove unwanted physical objects from a patient
• Non-Skill Knowledges
• Items and Other Rewards

Final Notes

If you have any questions, please PM me.

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