• Mature • Tomorrow is Another Day

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Llyr Llywelyn
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Tomorrow is Another Day

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9 Ashan, Arc 719, Morning.

Zarik
woke before dawn, to sit at the tower windowsill, and watch the rise of golden light over the horizon. It looked as if it might be warmer than the day before. He felt a sense of hope, persistently uplifted since last night’s intimacy with his… his… he still struggled to find a word that suited Alistair. He supposed fiancé was appropriate considering their agreement, but even that didn’t feel right. Lover felt too distant and love felt merely factual. He still felt as if there was a word out there, lost to him, that he only needed to find so he could express the emotive connection he felt toward the magister.

But he had a new word also. A word for himself, that Alistair used: Durien. He’d never heard it before now and he wondered how well-known of a word it was in the greater world. Zarik held his knees to his chest, resting his chin on them, as he stared through the glass and listened to the quiet sounds of Alistair waking for the day ahead. He had tried to keep silent, stealthily sneaking out of bed to watch the sunrise and contemplate all that had been said and done between them in the dark hours of the night. He didn’t look at the man, instead closing his eyes and taking a deep breath as he spiritually absorbed the sun rays cascading over the Quacian cityscape.

He loved Alistair, that much he was sure of. Even in the light of the morning, that sensation didn’t change. But with the new day came reminders of his life… perhaps his old life, one that would change now. It had to. There was little possibility that he could carry on like before. Even if Alistair hadn’t asked to marry him, he would never be able to be the man he was before – never again, the chaste unknowing youth, oblivious to the intricate details of lust and romance.

Alistair had changed him overnight. Zarik was happy for it, but he also felt a sense of guilt. He had betrayed his father by doing such a thing. It had not been his intention, of course, but it was the fact of the matter. He’d come for a job, for his first ever excursion to interrogate without his father’s watchful eye. He knew that meant a lot to his parent, that it was a sign of him coming into his apprenticeship… and what did he do? He failed so horribly and then laid with the noble client. He knew his father well enough to know what he’d think of that… a degenerate slag, that’s what his father called people who acted like that.

Zarik gnawed on his lower lip, the flesh swollen from the activities of yesterday, and he moved to leave the windowsill. It was time for him to get dressed. He wanted to assuage his guilt some, he wanted to check on his father’s cough, and maybe confess to the man if he could gather enough courage to do so. He didn’t want to simply abandon his father by disappearing, though he considered drawing out a lie... creating a fabrication that the job still was going on, but he did not want Alistair to have to pay him as if he were still performing the job he’d already finished. The thought of payment made what they were doing feel too… strange. Zarik didn’t want to ask for the money. And he didn’t want to go through the next few days, worrying about his father’s well-being and potential reactions either. He would be expected this morning and if he did not show, his father would likely send a contact to find out why.

His clothing had been brought up by the thrall, folded next to the door. He needed to get ready. He had brought his boots over to the sill and already wore his undergarments and breeches, having put them on when he woke. Zarik leaned back against the stone frame of the window and pulled on his stockings. He grabbed a boot, slid it on, and started the long process of tightening the many crisscrosses of the front-faced lacing.

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Last edited by Llyr Llywelyn on Tue Feb 12, 2019 10:47 pm, edited 1 time in total. word count: 728
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Alistair
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Re: Tomorrow is Another Day

The sleep that followed had been fulfilling. He slept well, comfortable, with the smaller frame of Zarik's encompassed by his own. He used the biqaj almost like a pillow, though was careful not to make him feel uncomfortable, and the other seemed to like it. They both slept easily, and fast in one another's skin. And then as midnight came, and their minds were still to the sensations of the outside world, Alistair - at least - dreamed. Easier than most other nights, for certain, imagining again the spire that rose from Sabaissant and the Rubicund Court... and the great white castle of Andaris, overlooking the vast, walled city. And Oxentide... the place he ruled. One of the greatest realms of Rynmere, for all he was concerned; a place he called home for so long.

He would be returning there, to all of it, soon enough. And with Zarik beside him, to take upon the mantle of his co-ruler. The dreams that followed were surrealist, and reflected his daydreams. Great green fields with white flowers, himself and his lover upon his back, legs wrapped around his waist. Jacadons flying overhead.

The night was filled with quiet groaning and pleasured, satisfied sounds, with the occasional whisper of Zarik's name as he spoke to him in dreaming. Even in sleep, it was clear that he was ever the focus of his mind.

And eventually, consciousness returned. The ever-warming Ashan winds breezed through their window, and swept across the surface of his skin. He felt Zarik leave his side, and Alistair quietly watched him through narrowed eyes for a time, before rolling over and pulling his quilt over himself to gather more needed rest. Though, whether because he'd already awoken or because subconsciously he began to wonder of where Zarik was going, the mage eventually rose, taking a grip of the bed with each palm and pulling himself up by his back. Darting his eyes to the open window, and then to his partner, he shut one of the vortexes and rubbed along the skin of his closed eyelid.

Zarik sat back against the window, pulling on his boots and working on the laces individually. Alistair could not possibly imagine why he'd chosen such difficult footwear so commonly, his mind immediately jumping to purchasing him garments of satin and suede, with comfortable boots that would act as nothing more than a cushion for his feet. Perhaps... lighter colors, warmer ones. Blues, golds. He imagined they would compliment his lover very well. In fact, the bright red and copper-gold of Warrick would, too. He had a complexion and shade of hair that seemed to compliment every color... but he ultimately chose to appear as if venturing into a morgue, most of the time.

Rising from the bed, Alistair was still nude, though this factor did not seem to inhibit him. He stretched out his muscles for what must have been at least a bit, yawning as he walked over to Zarik to offer him a soft kiss on the cheek. "Good morning, my love," he said warmly. It was clear that for both of them, nothing had changed from the night before. There was no doubt, or second thoughts. Alistair pressed his palm against the core of Zarik's abdomen, leaning in as he smoothed over his skin, taking a firm grasp of his pectorals before squeezing the soft muscles. What followed was a loving, but prompt round of kisses, ceasing once he realized that the younger man intended to go.

He... supposed back to his father - he'd been gone the whole night, despite supposedly only going in for work. There would be repercussions for that, he could only imagine. And the thought of that... distressed him now, much more than before. He remembered the welts, the ones he'd dismissed so easily as he first touched them.

Now... those scars whispered to him in fury. They were marked upon his Zarik. He was his husband - or would be - and that meant that Zarik was his, not his father's. Alistair had claim to his body, and would not abide by another bringing him harm. The thought of him going home disturbed the mage, though he did not wish to push his boundaries so early. The last thing he would do was begin to act as if he owned Zarik; he had his own freedom of choice, and his own free mobility. He could see his father if he liked.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked, instead. "I did; you were so soft and pleasant. It was..." he paused, shaking his head. It did not matter; there was something more pertinent to say. Though he knew the serenity of the morning would perhaps be marred by his words, he spoke regardless.

"It is the tradition in my Kingdom for a noble to marry his partner in Saun. It is quite a ways away, though I do not mind if you would like an unofficial ceremony before then. As of last trial, you and I are family, and so I'll provide you the keys to my home and the Woodstock Hall, as well as access to anywhere within these locations. There are many things that I must inform you of, however, now that we are to be married. Firstly, I have a son - two in fact, though one does not currently reside with me. The one that does is just a baby - a newborn. His name is Asher, and he is half-biqaj, half human. His... mother," he preferred to explain it as, "looks like you, too. Pale blond hair, tall, with a soft complexion. She was a surrogate; I chose her because I thought it would be fitting, and strangely enough it was. It's almost like he's ours," he said. It was another reason he felt the Fates brought them together.

But there was so much more to explain. More than his children, more than the ceremony, and the date. There was also... Fridgar. It finally clicked in his mind how important that 'little' detail might have been, though he still struggled to mention his havendal, who was due to arrive in perhaps no more than a fortnight. Zarik called him his only love, and those words scared him. Though Alistair's passions burned for Zarik equally as strong as the other's did for him, he was not his only love. Nor even his only spouse. How could he explain that to him? The words sat silently within his throat, afraid to leave his lips. Perhaps they would be for a while longer, yet.
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Llyr Llywelyn
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Re: Tomorrow is Another Day

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Good morning, my love.
Zarik paused in lacing his boot, looking up at the man who’d given him a gentle kiss to the cheek. He smiled, pleased to see him awake. The irises of his eyes had a blend of yellow and pink, reminiscent of the sunrise that had just occurred. It’d felt nice, though unfamiliar, to share a bed with someone else. Even when him and his father only had one bed in the earlier, poorer years, he always opted to sleep on the floor instead. He returned the greeting, “Morning, Alistair. Are you well rested? Isn't the dawn beautiful today?”

The answer, whether included with words or not, became a touch to his lean stomach. Zarik let go of the laces, moving his arms back to offer more of himself for the man to continue caressing and squeezing if he wished. He intuitively returned the kisses, bringing a hand up to run his fingers over Alistair’s dark hair.

Eventually though, Zarik pulled out of the embrace to finish lacing his boot. He pulled the second one on, repeating the process. The controlled ability of tightening them to be taut to his legs while also adding an extra layer of protection that cloth couldn’t provide made his thigh-high boots the best option for the type of activities he liked to get up to.

Alistair was quiet, but that was okay. Zarik felt comfortable in the silence. Whether it was the tranquility of watching the sunrise, or the bond of sleeping beside him, or the distraction of thinking about visiting his father, he didn’t feel nervous next to the man. He felt simply happy. He pulled the lacing tight, then knotted it a couple times before tucking the excess strings under the interior boot flap. Zarik got up from the window, stretching his arms and leaning to the side. He smiled slightly toward Alistair, not aware of what was going through the man’s mind.

He answered the query of whether he'd slept well with a nod. A slight twitch of confusion knitted his brows together when Alistair’s words trailed off and the man shook his head. Zarik let him figure out what he wanted to say, while also going over to collect his shirt. He pulled it on, doing his best to not wince as the cloth rubbed against the sensitive – and now healing – welts on his lower back. They would dry and become scars once more in a day’s time, as long as he didn’t irritate the many layered old wounds like he had yesterday.

Alistair began to talk about tradition, about the ceremony, and about the keys to the Woodstock Hall... and the home Zarik had never even been to yet. Upon mention of the keys, Zarik’s eyes widened and his mouth opened slightly. It hadn’t occurred to him that something so important as keys would be offered to him. He closed his mouth quickly, trying not to seem too taken aback… and then the rest of the information sounded. Sons? Two of them? Zarik supposed he shouldn’t feel as surprised as he did. Alistair was an older man, a noble, it made sense that he would want heirs, though he didn’t know why the man didn’t already have a wife then. Perhaps because he exclusively preferred men? But how did that work then… how did he have sons? And a new one too, which meant it was recent, which meant he had a partner recently… a biqaj partner, a female biqaj partner, who was blond and tall and soft… Zarik barely heard surrogate by the time it was said. He felt a flood of anxiety rush through him.

He said nothing though. He kept his lips tightly shut. Zarik stared at the other man and as he did, his eyes had gone from the shades of the sunrise to the clear blue of ice. He nodded slowly, in absorption of the new information. Zarik grabbed his coat and gloves, then pulled them on. He adjusted the frayed sleeves and tightly belted the coat around his torso. His entire body was covered in black now, save for his ice-blond hair which soon became covered by his knitted hat. He tucked his pointed ears underneath.

Finally, he said, “I don’t mind. You must have a… very full life with lots of people in it, huh? It’s only right. It is good you have sons. W-where does your other son reside?” He searched for his mask, finding it in the pocket of his coat. He put it on over the lower half of his face, hiding his lips and half of his expressions from view. With the scarf wrapped around his neck, the only remaining skin that showed was that around his eyes.

Now that he was dressed, he mentioned in a quiet muffled voice, “I am going to visit my father. He forgets to eat, and bundle up, so I need to make sure his cough has gone away. I'll return soon and perhaps you can show me around your home?”

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Re: Tomorrow is Another Day

Zarik was far from happy. Albeit not saying anything, that much was clear from his expression, and the colors that flooded into his irises. Though Alistair did not have the clearest picture of the other's emotions, he had begun to piece them together. Violet was lust, amber was... fear, or hesitation, or something of the like. Grey was nothingness, or perhaps a still, creeping sorrow. And blue... anxiety? Doubt? It was not a positive emotion. When he felt happy, his eyes tended to flood a many mixture of colors, and within them he'd seen purples, golds, and rosy shades. He had no true conception of the colors, but the impression was there. The blue spoke negativity to him, though it would have been clear from his body language alone.

And he couldn't begrudge him. Zarik was young, and Alistair was his first love; his only love. He was to be his husband, but from Zarik's perspective he was certainly not Alistair's first love, and perhaps not even his first husband. Which... he wasn't, on neither accounts. He had prior bonds, and children to prove it. He could tell that these things twisted and tormented him, and that his worries and anxieties would spin and unravel within his mind. His first query, as to the location of Alistair's other son, was perhaps a clear picture of what could be an anxious list of curiosities. They'd not discussed Alistair and his prior - or ongoing - arrangements with others. Or his morals, or virtues. Zarik had only just begun to conceive of what their life together might be like alone; he had no notion of how others might bleed into their fates.

Alistair placed a palm upon his lover's shoulder, staring at him knowingly. Like he understood. "I understand, Zarik, if you're perturbed by these things... but Asher is a newborn child, not even an arc old. I brought him into the world - specifically - as my heir, with no particular parent in mind. He will be our child, yours and mine. And we will raise him to succeed us, and we will love him, together. He has known no mother before you." He referred to him femininely, though in truth 'wife' and 'mother' were not far off in intention from where he'd have preferred Zarik's roles to lie. That would be a greater discussion yet.

As for the other son - Winston, though Fridgar sought to change his name - that was... more complicated. His face expressed as much, the mage standing to his full height again as he attempted to mull over the list of proper explanations. He would for now, be vague. "I thought he was dead for a long time. The boy is almost two arcs old now, and he'll be in Quacia soon. I hope you'll meet him with me, my love. I never have. He was taken from me before he was even born."

A long, sorrow-filled story lied there. One of pain unimaginable, rife with misery he could not begin to explain. Zarik had been his breath of spring, but before then, he'd lived beneath a cloud of darkness for a long time. Until he saw Winston again, it would still loom, even if somewhat dispersed by all the wonderful things that had come after. And by knowing that he was alive.

Zarik was fully dressed, and Alistair was not, at all. His fiance had intentions to meet with his father, to feed and clothe him. The worry rung back into his thoughts. Zarik was tense, and anxious, unhappy to hear of Alistair's previous relationships. That could, possibly, effect his interactions with his father in a very negative way. He could lash out, and be hurt. The mage's protective instincts kicked in. He wanted to tell him not to go, despite what he'd thought about earlier. He wasn't certain if his better judgment was to let him go, or to make him stay.

The mage... nodded. Not knowing, it was best to back down. He could protect him in other ways, particularly with Scrying. Alistair just needed to make sure he got dressed immediately after Zarik left.

"Alright, my darling," he said, moving forward to plant another kiss on the other man's cheek. "Be safe, and come back to me before the evening, alright? Ashvane is right next to here, so please feel free to just knock. I'll answer and then I can show you around; I'm sure you'll like it, very much."

From that point onward, he would passively wait for the other man to leave. There was much to linger upon, and many worries that beset him. Most prudent was the question of Fridgar, though Zarik's father was not a subject that sat well with him. But he would linger upon it, at least for a trill, and think. Though their agreement had been made, the courting still continued. He could not act a fool.
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Re: Tomorrow is Another Day

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Of all the mysteries
surrounding Alistair still, the one that bothered Zarik the most was how he fit into the man’s life. He knew how he felt toward the magister, and he believed the other man’s confessed mutual feelings to be sincere. Zarik had a vague idea for the future that the man wanted with him, but he was just as naïve and inexperienced about married life as he was with romance or desires. The concept of a real, full household… he hadn’t known that since he was a boy. That boy who used to climb masts, and rumble with his sisters, felt leagues away from the man he’d become under his father’s mentorship, as if the memories of his boyhood belonged to someone else entirely.

Zarik didn’t know what role, exactly, he was meant to play. He didn’t know how to introduce Alistair into his own life, he realized, as he heard about the sons and the previous partner. Anxiety had taken hold of him once again, but he pushed it back, resisting the nervous impulses, and focused on controlling his emotions as if to make up for how much he’d let himself be driven by them yesterday. He felt the palm on his shoulder and looked back at the other man. His blue eyes remained, unchanged, and so pale that light seemed to go right through them.

Asher, he made a note of the name. Not even an arc old? Zarik blinked. He struggled with the information, to keep his expression neutral, and he wanted to blurt out so many things: he didn’t know how to raise children. He barely was able to take care of his father in his aging health. He’d stopped spending peer time with children the moment he’d left the sea and never had another friend after that point. He didn’t know how to relate to them, let alone how to guide them through life. Zarik felt ambushed. Why hadn’t Alistair told him about this before? Wasn’t this important, something he should have known about? He supposed he should have thought to ask…

And Alistair talked with such certainty, telling Zarik what he would do, who he would be for a child who was not related to Zarik in any regard. Zarik’s brows flitted in a mixed expression of hurt and confusion. He moved away from the other man, to continue getting dressed and to gain some distance to calm himself.

Alistair turned to answer his question, finally, about the other son. Zarik paused in belting his coat, listening to the tone of voice with the words. “You thought he was dead?” He repeated in curious confusion. “H-he was… kidnapped?” Zarik felt himself ease some, his heart warming toward the other man again. A momentary flash gave it away as periwinkle colors flooded past the cool blue before fading back into the icy color.

Zarik finished dressing, whether Alistair explained more or not. He didn’t pry anymore; his question having been more rhetorical from his surprise. Instead, he relayed his intention to visit his father. It didn’t occur to him that the nobleman could try to refuse him and so he barely noticed the nod. He accepted the kiss to the sliver of skin on his cheek above his mask. Zarik ran a hand over Alistair’s beard. He smiled at the offer to visit Ashvane in the evening.

He paused, then his hand slid lower, gliding over the human’s form and intimately caressing the muscles. Zarik’s eyes narrowed as his hidden smile grew coy.

The blond said, “I’m sure I will like it, very much.” He winked, then blushed from his own blatancy. He playfully pushed on Alistair’s chest, leaping backward a couple steps, and then opening the door to head out. Zarik gave a handwave and despite the weight of their morning conversation, he said in a cheerful voice, “Farewell, my strong, powerful, noble husband-to-be! Don’t go interrogating any changelings without me, okay?”

Zarik slipped out of sight, running down the hall, the staircase, and finding his way. He managed to recall the layout well enough and left Woodstock Hall, sprinting if for no other reason than all of the youthful energy he’d gathered in the farewell. His body felt so different, stranger than it’d ever felt before, but good in a weird way. There was a pleasant sort of ache inside of him that made him think of Alistair and smile, though he had to run a little slower than usual. He had so much to think about, the jogging helped him sort through it all as he started through The Gleam to return home.

~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~

He arrived quickly enough, the path between the hall and his house having been traveled multiple times yesterday. Zarik paused at the back door, then took out the bone-crafted housekey and fiddled it in the lock. The door squeaked open, a faint bell ringing to announce his arrival. He winced and shut it quietly behind him.

What he was going to tell his father… he still hadn’t decided. He wanted to confess everything, and he expected to, but only because he doubted he could get away with not doing so. He wasn’t sure how to word it though, in a way that wouldn’t cause his father to become enraged. He knew how the man would feel betrayed. Perhaps, though, he could get away with making breakfast and preparing the rest of the day’s meals, then taking off again. He could postpone it until tomorrow.

Zarik found his father at the dining table. The surface was already a mess since he’d cleaned it the prior morning. Jars of various fluids, sharpening tools, implements in the process of being fixed or put together, a few unmentionables left over from the last session, a couple dead rats nailed to a board, and the tea kettle with what looked like mud in it. He lowered his gaze, trying to hide his eyes, and said, “Morning, father.”

The hunched over, pallid biqaj grunted a wordless response. He was busy digging at something stuck in a leather paddle with the tip of a knife. Zarik picked up the tea kettle, grabbed a rag from a spot where he hid the fairly clean towel, and went to a tub of fresh water to rinse the container out. At least the tub had remained clean in his absence, so he didn’t have to go through the process of filling it up again. He listened carefully, and in a few minutes, his father heaved a hacking cough. Zarik sighed and pocketed his mask. He took off his scarf, hat, and coat, setting them on a hook.

He finished with the kettle and set it above the fireplace spit to boil fresh water. Zarik looked around, then found the blanket crumpled up in a corner. He dusted it off and set it on his father’s lap. “You have to keep this on until your cough goes away.”

“What do you know,” muttered Zalazar. He set down the leather paddle, picked up a sharpening stone and started to glide it over the knife’s edge. “Shouldn’t you be getting back to your job?”

Zarik knew that was his father’s way to ask how things were going. He nodded, going to see what they had in the food stores and find something to prepare. While he did, he answered, “Soon. The changeling is… more difficult than I expected, as is the client. I barely was able to get any rest last night, so... but that’s why I wanted to come here now because I’ll likely be required to stay there again.”

His heart beat fast in his chest as he lied. He tried to keep an even keel to his voice and avert his gaze from his father. He set a handful of oats in a bowl, dashing sweet spices over them for flavor, and glanced to see if the kettle had started to steam yet.

Zalazar had yet to say anything. He continued to sharpen the knife in swift strokes.

In a couple minutes, which Zarik spent sweeping and cleaning up, he retrieved the kettle from the spit and headed back to the petite kitchen counter to make the oatmeal.

As he poured the boiling water, his father asked, “Why are you limping?”

“Wh-what?” Zarik’s hand shook a little and the water splashed to the side of the bowl. He quickly moved the kettle back. He focused his entire attention on preparing a cup of tea and stammered, “I… I’m n-not limping.”

“Don’t act daft. I know your gait.” Zalazar pointed the knife in Zarik’s direction. He coughed, then asked, “Did something happen on the job? Did you screw up?”

“N-no, father, nothing, I just... I slipped on some ice,” tried Zarik. He set the tea to steep. “The changeling is difficult, like I said, susceptible to fire-“

“As I expected,” interrupted Zalazar. He leaned forward, scraping the knife against the surface of the table. “But what aren’t you telling me?”

Zarik picked up the bowl of oats and the cup of tea. He walked slowly, self-conscious of his steps now, toward his father. After clearing a spot in front of him, he set the items down and answered, “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to… tell you. But the changeling died. Their innards are highly flammable, and I applied too much heat, too fast. It took to flame.”

Zalazar grabbed Zarik’s wrist in a firm grip. He held onto his son and looked at him with narrowed eyes that flashed gold. Zarik looked back at him, eyes widening. The biqaj eyes, father’s and son’s, communicated to each other in rapid displays of colors. And Zarik knew he had lost the silent argument within several trills.

Zarik pulled back, trying to release his arm from the grip, but he failed. He glanced at the knife and said, “It’s… I…” What could he tell him? What else could he say? What would his father believe?

“Stop trying to craft a tale in that daft head of yours and tell me what you aren't saying. Don’t make me extract it, son.” The warning was blatant. Zalazar turned Zarik’s arm over, pulled off the glove, and looked at the gold banded scar around the young man’s wrist. He pressed the pad of his thumb hard between the inner tendons, enough to send pain through the nerves.

“I didn’t want to bother you with it, father,” said Zarik, relaxing in the painful grip and he took a quick breath to endure it. “I’m ashamed. I-I failed, I killed the changeling. I couldn’t bear to admit it to you.”

Zalazar’s eyes narrowed. He eased his thumb, releasing the pressure. He hummed, then let go. Zarik pulled his arm back, taking a couple steps away. The older biqaj said, “My dear son, why do you think I would be angry about that? You’re still learning. You have many mistakes ahead of you to make and likely, even more failures before you learn the craft.” Zalazar picked up the tea, breathing in the hot steam with a restrained cough. He stood, then tossed the full cup toward Zarik.

Zarik tried to catch the tea cup on reflex, but the water sloshed and hit his exposed hand in burning droplets. He winced, but had kept the cup from breaking on the floor and clung to it with both hands. His father approached. He swiftly backed up toward the kitchen wall.

His father’s voice grew stern, intimidating, and despite the vast difference in their heights, Zarik cowered from the other man’s presence. “I raised you, Zarik, I know you better than you know yourself. Do you think you can hide anything from me when you have your mother’s eyes? And you’re still stupid enough to try and lie anyway? Have you learned nothing? Tell me what happened at the job.”

Zarik’s face paled. He said nothing. His father pointed up at him, a warning gesture, then said, “I’m disappointed in you. I thought we were long past these frail attempts of yours to keep secrets.” He whistled in a swift, high-pitched pattern. Zarik followed the trained order, going to his knees so that his height no longer towered over his father. He couldn’t bring himself to break out of the trained response. He knelt down in the shadow of the torturer and bowed his head.

“I want to tell you,” said Zarik in a clear voice. “Please believe me, I do. I’m not ready though. I don’t know how to explain. I wanted to visit and make sure you were well, but I need time to conside-“

“Shut it. I don’t want to hear excuses. The only thing I want to hear right now is the truth.” Zalazar grabbed onto Zarik’s right ear, pinching the nerves around the earring.

A knock sounded on the door. Both father and son looked at each other in the moment. Zalazar muttered, “Who is that?”

“I’ll tell you what happened,” insisted Zarik as he talked quickly. “Please don’t be angry, I- the client-“

The knocking got louder, aggressive enough that Zalazar let go of Zarik’s ear with only a slight bloody tear in the scarred flesh from the chain being pulled. His father stalked over to answer the door, but Zarik leapt to his feet. He ran past and held an arm out to stop his father. “W-wait, I’ll get it.”

Zarik turned back around, knowing his father was silently seething. He went to the door, unlatched and unlocked it and then opened it to see exactly who he thought it would be: Alistair. His eyes glistened blue-gray with etched black around the irises’ circular edge. Zarik set a hand over his right ear, where trails of light silver blood had started to trail down the slanted edge. He forced himself to say, “Y-yes?”

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Re: Tomorrow is Another Day

Rather than going about his day in the typical manner, Alistair followed Zarik's leaving by dressing up in his typical doctoral attire. He ran to the drawer and gathered his belongings; a grey trench coat with leather brown padding around the top, a black vest underneath and a white shirt under that... dark blue slacks and a charcoal colored pair of derby shoes. The magister combed his hair, though there wasn't much of it, realizing he needed to be presentable to Zarik's father in case he were to meet him. Which... was more than just a vague possibility, at this point.

The mage gathered his bearings, glancing upon his visage within the mirror. He looked... quite alright. If anything, he looked much better than normal. The coloration in his face was returning, now that the cold had receded. And despite the setback of their earlier conversation, he was feeling well. He knew Zarik was still content to be his 'wife', and for a trill he thought about all of the journeys they might have together with Asher. His son deserved another parent - someone like him, and someone who loved him. Someone who could teach him wisdom, for a wise man he would need to become.

Stepping through the doorway and making his way down the steps, Alistair descended all the way into the Entry Hall, before stepping through the large doors and locking them behind him. The mage then traveled towards the address of the torturer, given to him by one of his fellow Advisers. Though, not far into his route, he shut his eyes and opened a small Scrying near where he thought the address was, peering in through the window. Unable to get a clear image, his eyes shut and opened again, this time at the corner of the room that ran through the door. He saw a man sitting at a dining table, one that he found to be... filthy, to say the least. Turning his gaze, he saw the familiar biqaj greet him, and his eyes immediately opened. That was Zarik's house, indeed.

Walking through the Gleam had been busier than normal - there were many people on the streets, on every corner of every cobbled road and alley. The weather was starting to become nice again, and so they flocked to their agoras to purchase items and sit upon their corners, advertising questionable goods. The slave auctions started again, and all the yelling and arguing from that. The coliseum fights would, soon, as well.

Fortunately, he managed to weave his way through the burgeoning crowds without much incident, breaking through to the lesser renowned parts of the Gleam, where Zarik resided. The people here weren't poor, but they weren't wealthy either; it was a step above the Shanty, and that was what it was known for. Less urchins and chamberpot filth on the roads, and less starving Heaps that were visible only by their winnowing muscles and bones... but also, few businesses and unimpressive standards of grooming and attire. Fortunately, Zarik appeared to stand above many of the other Heaps in that regard.

Once he'd arrived not far from Zarik's home, Alistair shut his eyes again, as a Scry into their home opened. They were in conversation, with the young man stammering to defend himself. I'm not limping, he told his father. Alistair's gaze veered onto the figure of Zalazar. He looked... disgusting. Like one of the Coven's old Necromancers. His head was cut through the center in a spat of baldness, with long white-like locks flowing from each half. He was frail and gnarled looking; an altogether decaying mess of a man. And he looked... very old. Much, much older than Zarik. He could've easily passed for his grandfather, and perhaps even a generation before that. It was no wonder why Zarik needed to take care of him, though strange that the boy considered it such an important duty. It only took his first words before Alistair became reviled by him.

Don't act daft. I know your gait.

The conversation went on for some time. Accusations, lies, more accusations specifically regarding those lies. And then Zarik finally admitted to failing, and killing the Changeling... yet not all the rest. Alistair wondered why that might have been. Most parents would have reveled at the concept of their child marrying a noble, particularly one born the heir to one of Idalos' most powerful families. Was Zalzar not fond of wealth and prestige? Was he too intent on keeping a singular grip on his remaining child? Or was Zarik simply too meek to inform him?

As time went on, and the conversation progressed, it began to grow more abusive. Alistair, with his eyes shut and peering into the room through his small portal, still felt enough to make visible expressions upon his face as he observed them. He grit his teeth, and winced as Zarik's father gripped his earlobe, pinching at the earring and making it moisten and bleed. That was far more than enough. His eyes opened and he headed to the door immediately, knocking his first set quietly and waiting. When no one came to the door in a sufficient amount of time, he knocked again, much more loudly.

Zarik answered. He was hoping it would be Zarik. Alistair wanted to look at him -- to make sure he was alright. He had blood coming down his ear . . . the mage frowned, and reached into his satchel, pulling out a small cloth and a bottle of antiseptic. Pouring it onto the cloth, he rubbed at Zarik's earlobe, wiping off the blood and ensuring it would not become infected. He did so wordlessly, attempting to calm himself down. Zalazar hurting Zarik made him furious. The mage had to actively focus on his expression, ensuring he did not appear enraged, particularly not as this was his first meeting with his fiance's father.

"Excuse me, Zarik," he said politely, though proceeded to brush past him regardless of whether or not he actively moved to make way. The mage stepped into the room with a somewhat stoic expression, placing his arms behind his back as his feet faced the direction of Zalazar. He gazed at him for a moment. And then, the noble began to speak. "I apologize for my abruptness and my rude intrusion into your conversation. I am the client for your current task, the torturing and interrogation of the Changeling. Doctor Alistair of the House of Venora - I am pleased to meet you." The mage bowed slightly, despite being a noble, to show respect for the other. There was no need to develop bad blood immediately, if he did not need to.

Looking to Zarik, he offered him a cursory glance, one that almost had words within it. It's going to be alright. I'm here now.

And then, his eyes returned to the man, the vortexes looking down upon him. His arms straightened at his sides. "Your son's work was admirable. I received invaluable information from the Changeling, though I could not bear his presence any further and pressed Zarik to the point of killing him. I apologize for any issue this may have caused with our contract, though I am easily content with paying the full amount, including a few additional days of interrogation if necessary. But that is not why I am here," he said. Alistair did not move from his spot. He continued to linger in proximity of his father, staring, their eyes meeting.

And then, he put it all forth. There was no reason not to; it would have to come about eventually, regardless. "I am in love with your son, Zarik. I intend to take his hand in marriage. As a nobleman, I believe this would provide him a prolonged future with much greater means than what he currently possesses. Please be aware that I specifically sought to work with your son at his lonesome due to my affections for him, and I am to be blamed for any wroth you may feel towards him. I intend to marry him the coming Saun, and as his father, I would prefer your contentment with this fact. That is why I am here."

Perhaps it was all too much, what he revealed, and so early. But it was proper for a man to reveal his intentions early. There was no need to conceal, and he was not interested enough in a prolonged conversation with the man to do so. If Zalazar became abusive at this fact, Alistair would simply bring Zarik to his estate to stay with him. There was no need for lies.

The mage looked to the biqaj - his lover - one more time, before returning his gaze to the older man. He settled his nerves, preparing for a mixture of responses. Bitter, angry, controlling, or perhaps even content. He could not know.
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Re: Tomorrow is Another Day

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Silence…
and the nobleman retrieved a cloth and bottle from his satchel. Zarik watched him, bewildered by the inclusion of Alistair to his home. He lowered his hand, hesitantly, to allow Alistair to clean off his ear. The antiseptic stung, but being used by Alistair, it made him feel better. While he held still, feeling the glaring stare of his father at his back, he glanced over the human’s attire and smiled slightly. Alistair looked… handsome, of course. Zarik felt a sense of inferiority, aware that he probably looked worse than when he’d left Woodstock Hall. His blond hair was a mess and his dark clothing needed to be rinsed and pressed. He only had one glove on, the other gone to expose the banded scar around his wrist.

Zarik’s pulse quickened when Alistair walked past him. He didn’t try to stop the man, but he didn’t necessarily move out of the way either until it became clear that Alistair was entering the house no matter what. Shutting the door, he said, “U-uh, father, this is… uhm…”

During the brief moment at the door, Zalazar stood next to the dining table with a heavy furrow in his brow. He looked up at the tall human. His eyes, lined with dark circles, flashed colors unlike the ones present in Zarik’s eyes. They seemed to refuse the light in desaturated shadows of what would otherwise be bright hues, instead creating a muddled brown tone. He tapped his finger on the table edge, slowly but audibly, as he observed the nobleman.

Zarik went over, standing to the side between the two men. He tried to think of what to say, of how to explain the arrival… but before he could figure it out, Alistair had begun to talk. Zarik exhaled in slight relief that it was a polite introduction. He nodded when his father glanced at him, to confirm that what the human said about the job and his title were true. And from the peripheral of his vision, he saw Alistair glance at him as well, but Zarik didn’t look back. He didn’t want to risk it.

While Zalazar stayed quiet, letting the nobleman speak his piece, he had bowed in return though it was an awkward movement due to the curve of his spine. It seemed he had as much intention to show respect, despite the sudden intrusion into his home by the noble. He did not waver or move and despite the polite words, the respectful bows, there was an atmosphere of tension that burdened the dingy home.

Zarik folded his hands in front of him, missing his other glove, and nervously wondering whether Alistair had come to make sure he’d be okay or… I am in love with your son, and Zarik’s hands fell back to his sides. His eyes widened. And Alistair continued to talk, giving over more and more information. Zarik held his breath. He looked at the magister this time. His expression displayed his apprehension plainly. He heard the deafening silence as his father didn’t respond yet.

It was too much. The silence. Zarik turned his gaze, and the posture of his body, toward his father. “I-I’m sorry, I was going to tell you.”

“You were going to tell me…” muttered his father. He raised an eyebrow toward Alistair, a sharp glance over the man, and his irises flecked gold. As if weary, he sat down in his chair and leaned forward against the table. He tapped his knuckles against the table, then asked, “Is this why you're limping?” He shook his head, his lips turning white as he pressed them thinly together.

“It’s not that way,” insisted Zarik. He looked at Alistair and held up a hand, in gesture for the nobleman to stay where he was and hopefully be quiet. The youthful man knelt down in front of his father, placing a hand on the table's edge and attempting to make direct eye contact. “I didn’t plan this, father, look at me. I swear to you. I had no idea. But… he loves me and- and- I love him. I am certain of it.”

Zalazar scoffed. He stopped rapping his knuckles against the table. He peered at Zarik, then looked at Alistair with the same suspicious expression. “So, you’ve come to steal my son, my dear only child, from me? And you want my blessing for it. Tell me, Doctor Venora, how long have you had your sights on my boy?”

The older biqaj paused, just long enough for a quick answer, then he added, “Do you think I am to rejoice? I have heard your name before, in whispers as much as accounts. I know you intend for power, as all you nobles do. My son is weak and while he is giddy, he is also witless. Pardon my candor, sir, but it serves neither of us to speak around the point. It would be better for you to satiate yourself, take your fill of his fleeting youth, then move along instead of taking him away from an ailing man such as I. I require him more and he intends to learn my craft as he has promised. Isn’t that so, son?”

“I…” Zarik looked at Alistair, helplessly. While his father’s words were measured, and his expression calm, he knew… he could read between the lines of just how angry he was. He said, “Y-yes. I have promised. That won’t change. Father, I won’t abandon you. I will care for you regardless. I’ll- You can come with me… can’t he, Alistair?”

Zalazar gave a pitying look toward his son. He then looked at Alistair with the look of an old man who knew a great deal more about the world than his child did, and he offered the nobleman a chance to admit it – a chance to backpedal and change his mind.

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Re: Tomorrow is Another Day

The air became... stale. No... not stale. Heavy. Zarik was deeply reluctant to reveal such information, and by Alistair doing so, he was filled with doubt and worry. As he often was. His father... Alistair had an understanding of men like him. He was not truly anything like his own father - Kaleb was a deeply esteemed man, statuesque in all ways, presenting himself warmly and as a true friend to all his eyes fell upon. His blade to their back was the first notion they ever might have held of his foul intentions, of which there were many.

Zalazar, on the other hand... was not so noble, and not so good at pretending. His expressions displayed what he felt, which for the moment, was the very beginning of anger. Though he was always irritated, always frustrated at the world. Alistair knew that. Syroa, Goddess of Fury, had given him an eye for rage. In some way, he almost siphoned it from others, growing from it. The beginning inklings of rage were... exhilarating to him, as they spelled a clash; tensity. But he would not be controlled by Syroa's compulsions - not right now. Not yet.

Is this why you're limping? he asked. Alistair could not deny it. Zarik had been a virgin before the night they shared; his body was not used to the intrusion. Zarik seemed to deny it, however, or pass it along as something else. But... fortunately for the noble, he did not deny their love. Their affections. Zarik, even in the face of a man he must have found deeply intimidating, did not betray Alistair's trust. He was content to move forward.

Zalazar, on the other hand, was accusatory. Stealing. As if he were property, owned by him. In this way, Zarik's father and his own were exactly alike. It took all the discipline that he had not to allow a look of pure disgust to litter his expression. Instead, though he allowed for the man to finish, he intended to correct him. "When Zarik and I are married, he shall go where he likes and be who he likes. I do not intend to keep him captive in my castle. If he'd like to visit you, he'd be more than able to. As for my sights... well. It was not until very recently that I realized the nature of my affections for your son. Such affairs of the heart are, however, complicated. I have felt a pull towards him since we met. That is all I can really conclusively say on the matter." As to when they met... he would not say, nor how recent it was. If Zalazar asked, he would simply lie, and his heart would not skip a beat.

He continued to listen. Zalazar had heard of him, which was both a benefit and a disadvantage. He appeared to be resentful of the nobility, however - the sort of man who might've joined the Heap's Commune. But Rynmere's nobility was different than Quacia's. They were symbolic, Holy, as well as powerful. And, in general from what he'd experienced, they were considerably more benign. But he doubted Zalazar knew all too much of the Ancestor Gods, nor they descendants. He spoke only of what he knew, and Alistair did not try to correct him. He continued to respectfully listen, staring quietly even as he accused him of simply seeking to pilfer in his son's youth for the sake of pleasure. Zalazar then deferred to Zarik, though again, he remained loyal to Alistair. He did not back away, and sought a compromise between them; he would continue to learn, and would remain at his father's side, as well as marrying the noble.

Alistair nodded, smiling warmly at his fiance. Lovingly. He would not look to him, whilst in his father's presence, without revealing the gleam of love that he felt for him. If only to show the elder biqaj how earnest his intentions were.

"Perhaps he may be weak, if only for his ignorance to the ways of the world. But I intend for him to rule alongside me, soon enough. Any remaining strands of weakness will be plucked through time in a position of leadership. Of that, I assure you." Whether or not Zalazar reveled in the thought of his son becoming strong, Alistair could not know. He would not put it past him to be the sort of parent who kept their child intentionally weak, to keep them by his side. "As for... your assertion, I have no intention of doing what you claim. I have had other youthful partners in the past, and none of them did I intend to marry. You and I are both men, and we are aged enough to understand mutually that men who pilfer the young do not present themselves to their fathers to request a hand in marriage. They scurry away, fearful of retribution. That is clearly not what I am seeking."

His arms returned behind his back, hands clasped together. He was standing straight and looking forward, his posture formal. He was clearly not relenting, and his request stood outstanding. "Zarik has already discussed with me what options he might have in furthering your familial trade, by my side. Rynmeren torturers and interrogators are some of the best, and I hail from the land of the Saintivelle, the greatest spies in all the North. I would be happy to have you at our side; you could even have a dwelling within the castle, if you so wished. And servants. The weather is fairer, and the food is better, and the conditions are cleaner. The scent is far from putrid, like Quacia; it is a pleasant aroma. I offer all of this to your son, and to you. You could fulfill your duties as you do now, but with much greater conditions. Perhaps you could even serve as the royal torturer for my House? It is not beyond possibility."

It was a negotiation. He understood that, and laid out all of Zalazar's opportunities quickly before him. He was not intent on mincing his words.
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Re: Tomorrow is Another Day

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Betrayal
showed obvious, as Zarik returned Alistair’s warm smile with one of his own, while he stayed kneeling in front of his father. It was all of Zalazar’s paranoid fears come true, realized in a sudden instance. All his work of the past years seemingly tossed out the window. There was no other way to describe it other than his son being stolen away. He struggled to keep his anger in check, and if it were not for the presence of the nobleman, he wouldn’t have.

Zarik felt a chill rise through his spine. He returned to look at his father and he recognized the golden colors in the brown. His skin paled at the silent communication. He knew that his offered compromise wasn’t enough.

While Alistair spoke to his father, Zarik returned to his feet and took a couple steps away. He shivered, held onto his wrist, and lowered his gaze. He barely heard what the nobleman was saying about him, speaking about him with his father as if they were negotiating a trade… and in a way they were. Zarik was not truly independent, he belonged to his father, and he supposed when he would marry Alistair, then he would belong to the nobleman instead. He knew his father well, but he did not know Alistair that well and these doubts started to rise as his father locked a golden-eyed stare onto him.

Zalazar listened to the noble’s persuasive words, while watching his son, and he hummed lightly when the man spoke about furthering his trade at the Rynmeren castle. His fingers returned to tapping against the table, then he glided his gaze over to Alistair when the offer of being a royal torturer was spoken. He narrowed his eyes, still suspicious.

“You are determined,” he observed of the doctor plainly. Whether due to his anger or resentment, he didn't hold deference to the nobleman in the discussion and he said, “I can’t claim to understand why. I fail to reason the logic of degenerates, even those who hold court and wealth, perhaps especially those. But it seems like the rest of your station, you are willing to say anything that might get you what you want and if that does not work, well… who am I to decide, but an old nuisance to discard of?”

“We came here because of you,” Zalazar’s words turned to Zarik. He looked over to his son to make it clear. “And look what it got me. What a disappointment you have proven to be, as loose and degenerate as your whore of a mother.”

“I wasn’t going to stay a boy forever,” responded Zarik suddenly in a quick emotive burst. “And I'm not her! I'm your son! Forgive me, father, but I want to live my own life and I can’t wait any longer to do so. I don’t regret that we moved here and I’m so grateful for everything you’ve done for me, but don’t you want to be in a place with gardens and better conditions for your health? Alistair wouldn’t lie, I believe him and… and I will make sure of it. So… please, consider it, that’s all I ask.”

Zalazar twitched his fingers in a gesture for Zarik to come over to him. Zarik followed the movement with only slight hesitation and leaned down to get closer for his father's reach. His father patted his cheek, slightly sharply but not a slap. Zalazar shook his head and said, “By the sea, you are a hapless moron. Go, leave, I will send word when I am ready to talk with you again.”

“F-father?” stammered Zarik, unsure of the command. He straightened his posture. His father had turned his gaze away, not looking at him anymore. He dryly swallowed, then pushed the bowl of cooled oatmeal closer. “Please, remember to eat. And there is still boiled water in the kettle.” Zarik leaned down, gathering the blanket from the floor. He returned it to the old biqaj’s lap and lightly kissed his father on the forehead.

Zarik hesitated, then went over to Alistair and said in a quiet voice, “Thank you. L-let me gather some of my things and my coat, I’ll meet you outside in a few minutes.” He smiled slightly and he added. “It’s okay. I know the air in here is not good to breathe. You should go, wait outside.”

Whether he did or not, Zarik proceeded to get dressed again, clean up slightly with a comb and washcloth, then he checked on his father once more. The man still refused to say anything more or look at him.

Zarik left his home, fully dressed with his mask, willing to go wherever Alistair wanted, and feeling unsure about his choices – shaken by all the words exchanged between his father and the nobleman.

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Re: Tomorrow is Another Day

A degenerate. Supposedly, that was what he was. The man continued with his look of bitterness and resentment, and words that did not betray those emotions. He truly was... a nasty individual. Zarik's meek behavior made a great deal of sense in light of that; he had an overbearing, abusive, angry father to contend with. He was never allowed to express himself, or be truly open, or to seek his own fortunes or acquire his own destiny. And now... he was moving straight into a marriage with another man, with an even wider gap in power and authority. Perhaps Zarik was a fool. He was trusting his emotions, and from what Alistair could tell of his father's cynicism, that appeared to be much the issue. He imagined that Alistair would abuse and discard the young boy, or treat him as his property, much as he did. The man was almost... projecting.

When the man appeared to be finished speaking to him, Alistair's lips pressed together, then parted. His eyes remained trained upon the elder biqaj, though with similarly little emotion as before, still in the mindset of a business arrangement. "You are not a nuisance, you are his father. As any prospective husband should, I value your perspective, validation and judgment. If you are not ready to provide these things, I understand. However, we will be married before long, as ultimately your blessing is not a legal requirement. I would simply prefer our relationship to be... a cordial parity. Alas - that will have to wait."

Again, he was forward. Alistair was not subordinate to the other man, and neither was Zarik, now. Zarik was his, and it felt good to make that clear, even if not directly. He would no longer be subject to the elder man's abuse.

The two tangled, the beginning of an argument. Zarik stood his ground, which Alistair was proud of, though he could not discern much of what they were referring to. It was typical familial argumentation, but without any context known to him. His mother was a contention; she likely left the two of them, perhaps for another man. The mage could not be sure, though calling Zarik's mother a 'loose whore' was not a particularly insightful addition to their discussion. Zalazar had clearly held hegemony over his son for far too long.

Alistair hesitated as Zarik moved to his father's beckoning, the soles of his feet rising within his shoes as he readied himself to move. If Zalazar laid a hand on Zarik, he--

No. It was alright... it was just a tap, nothing more. The mage's eyes cast off to the door, ready to leave, though his concentration remained enough so that he heard his future father-in-law's final words to Zarik. It was not... the worst he could have said, though Alistair was not looking forward to their next meeting. He would need to send a thrall to accompany Zarik, in order to protect him. Perhaps without his knowledge... as despite the elder man's appalling behavior, it appeared the young biqaj still held a great deal of reverence for him. He kissed him on the cheek, brought him food... all to a man who refused to speak to him. Who'd called him a loose, degenerate whore. It made the magister deeply uncomfortable, though was still yet beyond his station. Once they were married, perhaps that could change.

When Zarik advised for him to leave and wait outside for a few bits, the noble nodded. "Very well then," he said, before glancing to his father. "I'll be sure to come by again at some point to discuss this further. Thank you for your time and entry into your home," Alistair said politely, before stepping from the center of the room and moving towards the door. Pulling on the knob, he nearly winced as his eyes adjusted to the light, after the time he'd spent in Zarik's dark abode.

When Zarik joined him outside, he would immediately take the smaller man into his form, wrapping his arm around his shoulders and keeping the two of them close. Most of their journey towards Ashvane, led by Alistair, would be marked by small-talk. The mage did not wish to speak much of Zarik's father until they were in the security of their home. Their home, he thought of it as. It would be nice to be there, the two of them; and he would make Zarik feel more at home there than he ever had at the side of his father.
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