On the 92nd trial during the 718th arc...
He stepped through the portal without looking back, without saying anything other than a soft "goodbye". His thoughts were loud, raucously battering away at the walls of his head, and he found himself looking forward to returning to his homeland, where things made sense and were simple. Once he was returned to the cave, the familiar scents of the little white flowers and the cool tang of the water's humidity in the air, he drew a long, slow breath. His eyes closed, shoulders rose, and lungs filled. It was enough to calm the painful twist in his heart for the moment, and he was glad to have returned.
Though he paused, he didn't turn to look behind him at the empty blackness he'd just passed through. With a sigh, he started forward, easing his way through the narrow passage that led to the woods outside. While it had only been a matter of trials since he'd trudged through the wilderness in search of the cave - and by extension the pathway that led back to Alistair - it felt like a lifetime ago. He had returned weighted and worried, uncertain and unclear. It was not the homecoming he'd expected nor wanted, but it was the one he returned to.
The way back, to his home, was clear in his mind, but so too was another destination. There was far too much on his mind for him to idle his time away within the confines of his empty home. Though there was some comfort to be found in his garden, in picking away at the weeds and watering the flowers, he needed more than simple, mundane pleasures. He needed Lily.
Passing quietly through the underbrush, he trailed his fingers over the leafs of bushes and plants as he went, forcing his thoughts to quiet enough that he could, at least, enjoy the beauty of the Venoran landscape. Na'haer had not been so different, so foreign, but it was not Rynmere, not Venora. He could hear the familiar songs of the birds, taste the flavors of the forest on his tongue, and all the scents that found their way into his nose were wrapped in the warm coat of nostalgia. He was at home. He was, as much as he could be, at peace.
When he arrived at the edge of the clearing he'd been to countless times before, he took a moment to take in the scene before him. The great, ancient tree rose high and proud, its branches already covered in a thick, verdant crown of green. The little brook babbled contentedly as a lazy breeze rustled through the leafs and grasses, casting them about in a murmuring, susurrus dance. He breathed deep, eyes closing once more as he leaned against the smooth bark of a trunk by his side.
In little more than whisper, he nodded his head gently. "Hello."
The Sanctuary was calming as ever. Even the wild whirlwind of worries found itself beginning to still, to settle, to become something manageable and cohesive. With no need to rush, Doran slowly removed his boots and socks, wriggling his toes in the grass that snaked its way between them. The earth was soft and cool, and with each step, he felt it shift just slightly beneath him, as if welcoming his familiar footsteps with a gentle, affectionate embrace. Boots in hand and socks in boots, he wandered over to the massive roots of the Sanctuary. His eyes caught the shadows of skittering creatures, disappearing into the protective tangle of wood and bark, their home for generations upon generations.
His lips turned in a warm smile as he placed a hand upon one of the roots. The rough texture of the bark pressed back against him, firm and solid and healthy as ever. Setting his boots down, Doran pulled himself up, gradually scaling first the bottom of the tree then the thick, low hanging branches, until he settled into a well worn crook between the tree's trunk and one of its middling arms. It was high enough that he could see the whole of the little clearing in its entirety, from the gradual curve of the brook to the almost circular border of grasses and trees. There were pockets of colors, blues and white and lavenders, scattered through the otherwise verdant canvas below, and as he shifted in his seat, leaning back against the sturdy cradle of bark and wood, he let his eyes close once more.
Though his breath had become a bit heavy, brow just lightly dappled with sweat and heart beating a bit faster, he drew slow, easy breaths and let his body calm in the serenity of the glade around him. The tension in his shoulders, in his feet and hands and back and legs, gradually began to relax. Each breath brought with it the gentle kiss of peaceful memories, a bittersweet nostalgia that, over the arcs, had become one of the few things that could soothe him so completely. When he once more opened his eyes, he stared calmly at the end of the branch he lay upon, lazily counting the leafs in his head.
He supposed, with a sigh, it was time to begin.
Alistair: the impossible man who seemed to grow only more strange and uncertain with each new thing he learned about him. There was so much about him he didn't know, so much he had learned, and so much more he still needed to consider. He supposed, as with any story - as, after all, what were people but a story - it was best to start as near the beginning as he could. The man had offered his childhood, however brief a glimpse into such darkness, and now that he was alone with his thoughts, he settled his mind upon it.
His father had raped him - not once, in a moment of cruelty, but repeatedly and for years. Though Alistair had not said as such in those exact words, it had been clear then, even charged so as he'd been with his own emotions and uncertainties and fears. Alistair had been broken, time and time again. What sort of horrible nightmares he must still have, Doran couldn't even begin to imagine. Striking one's child was one thing - he'd been beaten many times over for his mistakes and shortcomings - but it was another entirely to force one's self upon one's children.
It was disgusting - a true instance of the depravity of the human soul.
Though he could not know for certain, it was perhaps why Alistair was so keen to protect, to single-mindedly focused upon the tenants of good and evil. He'd experienced truly harrowing ordeals as a child, and that he had emerged with still so strong a sense of justice, duty, and morality - even if Doran didn't necessarily agree with his views - was a testament to his strength and, perhaps, his own fears as well. And those fears, those desires to be free of his enslavement, of what he surly imagined punishment that, try as he might, he could neither flee from nor avoid, had led to a choice, one that, even now, Doran couldn't understand nor condone.
Necromancy.
He knew the tales, the stories told to children to scare them into obeying their parents. Perhaps his father had told the same, perhaps he'd even used them as an excuse for his deplorable actions, perhaps that was why Alistair sought the fetid spark so adamantly, believing it the only thing that could save him. Or, perhaps, it had not been about becoming the cold, unfeeling lich who was removed from humanity's bonds, but rather the power to exact his own revenge. Doran was naive but he was not a fool. There was much the mage - the necromancer - had not told him, and while he had professed he had grown tired of the magic, grown to hate it even, there had been a time when he had not. When he had studied and advanced, seeking the lichdom and - perhaps - reveling in the power it provided him.
Powerlessness was something Doran did understand. When he had found Lily, broken and bloodied, destroyed by his own hands as far as he'd been concerned, he had never felt more pathetic in his life. Where Alistair had risen up, seeking power and wresting it from the cold hands that offered, Doran had accepted his weakness. He couldn't comprehend why Alistair had not done the same. Severity, he supposed, had played its part. There was only so much a child could take, but necromancy? That that had been a consideration at all was more so what troubled Doran than that Alistair had sought power to change his circumstances, his fate.
Why necromancy? For lichdom?
He shook his head, hair catching in the small cracks of the bark behind him. If Alistair had truly wished to ascend, as he had claimed he'd desired as a child, he would have done so long ago. There was more than what he had relayed. With a sigh, he chewed lightly on his lower lip. Whatever his intentions had been, they had changed, but had they changed because he sought redemption, or because the magic had not been enough? Because he had needed more power, more strength?
Alistair was a mage - whether necromancer or rupturer - and as the tales told, his kind sought strength, control, mastery... subjugation of the weak, if the cautionary fables had any truth. And though Alistair had assured him such things were mere fabrications, lies to ostracize and dehumanize the mages, he had hardly shown Doran that that was the case. Each new secret seemed tied to the pursuit of more - more power, more control, more understanding. Alistair was a force, something that moved forever forward, through light and dark alike. Whatever the weight of his regrets, they weren't enough to stop him.
Then... Doran didn't know what he was meant to do, what role he supposed to play. Necromancy was a ragged scar at best and a gaping, fetid wound at worst between them. He couldn't look at Alistair, think of his face, without seeing that spark. It was a blight, whether he had chosen to accept it in foolishness or not, and he wasn't sure he could overlook it. Away from Alistair, from the flutter in his chest and beautiful eyes and tearful expressions, he needed to be certain he could accept that part of the man, because when he was away was when it mattered most.
Was he willing to compromise upon the sanctity of life he'd vowed to observe so long ago for a man he'd only just met?
He stepped through the portal without looking back, without saying anything other than a soft "goodbye". His thoughts were loud, raucously battering away at the walls of his head, and he found himself looking forward to returning to his homeland, where things made sense and were simple. Once he was returned to the cave, the familiar scents of the little white flowers and the cool tang of the water's humidity in the air, he drew a long, slow breath. His eyes closed, shoulders rose, and lungs filled. It was enough to calm the painful twist in his heart for the moment, and he was glad to have returned.
Though he paused, he didn't turn to look behind him at the empty blackness he'd just passed through. With a sigh, he started forward, easing his way through the narrow passage that led to the woods outside. While it had only been a matter of trials since he'd trudged through the wilderness in search of the cave - and by extension the pathway that led back to Alistair - it felt like a lifetime ago. He had returned weighted and worried, uncertain and unclear. It was not the homecoming he'd expected nor wanted, but it was the one he returned to.
The way back, to his home, was clear in his mind, but so too was another destination. There was far too much on his mind for him to idle his time away within the confines of his empty home. Though there was some comfort to be found in his garden, in picking away at the weeds and watering the flowers, he needed more than simple, mundane pleasures. He needed Lily.
Passing quietly through the underbrush, he trailed his fingers over the leafs of bushes and plants as he went, forcing his thoughts to quiet enough that he could, at least, enjoy the beauty of the Venoran landscape. Na'haer had not been so different, so foreign, but it was not Rynmere, not Venora. He could hear the familiar songs of the birds, taste the flavors of the forest on his tongue, and all the scents that found their way into his nose were wrapped in the warm coat of nostalgia. He was at home. He was, as much as he could be, at peace.
When he arrived at the edge of the clearing he'd been to countless times before, he took a moment to take in the scene before him. The great, ancient tree rose high and proud, its branches already covered in a thick, verdant crown of green. The little brook babbled contentedly as a lazy breeze rustled through the leafs and grasses, casting them about in a murmuring, susurrus dance. He breathed deep, eyes closing once more as he leaned against the smooth bark of a trunk by his side.
In little more than whisper, he nodded his head gently. "Hello."
The Sanctuary was calming as ever. Even the wild whirlwind of worries found itself beginning to still, to settle, to become something manageable and cohesive. With no need to rush, Doran slowly removed his boots and socks, wriggling his toes in the grass that snaked its way between them. The earth was soft and cool, and with each step, he felt it shift just slightly beneath him, as if welcoming his familiar footsteps with a gentle, affectionate embrace. Boots in hand and socks in boots, he wandered over to the massive roots of the Sanctuary. His eyes caught the shadows of skittering creatures, disappearing into the protective tangle of wood and bark, their home for generations upon generations.
His lips turned in a warm smile as he placed a hand upon one of the roots. The rough texture of the bark pressed back against him, firm and solid and healthy as ever. Setting his boots down, Doran pulled himself up, gradually scaling first the bottom of the tree then the thick, low hanging branches, until he settled into a well worn crook between the tree's trunk and one of its middling arms. It was high enough that he could see the whole of the little clearing in its entirety, from the gradual curve of the brook to the almost circular border of grasses and trees. There were pockets of colors, blues and white and lavenders, scattered through the otherwise verdant canvas below, and as he shifted in his seat, leaning back against the sturdy cradle of bark and wood, he let his eyes close once more.
Though his breath had become a bit heavy, brow just lightly dappled with sweat and heart beating a bit faster, he drew slow, easy breaths and let his body calm in the serenity of the glade around him. The tension in his shoulders, in his feet and hands and back and legs, gradually began to relax. Each breath brought with it the gentle kiss of peaceful memories, a bittersweet nostalgia that, over the arcs, had become one of the few things that could soothe him so completely. When he once more opened his eyes, he stared calmly at the end of the branch he lay upon, lazily counting the leafs in his head.
He supposed, with a sigh, it was time to begin.
Alistair: the impossible man who seemed to grow only more strange and uncertain with each new thing he learned about him. There was so much about him he didn't know, so much he had learned, and so much more he still needed to consider. He supposed, as with any story - as, after all, what were people but a story - it was best to start as near the beginning as he could. The man had offered his childhood, however brief a glimpse into such darkness, and now that he was alone with his thoughts, he settled his mind upon it.
His father had raped him - not once, in a moment of cruelty, but repeatedly and for years. Though Alistair had not said as such in those exact words, it had been clear then, even charged so as he'd been with his own emotions and uncertainties and fears. Alistair had been broken, time and time again. What sort of horrible nightmares he must still have, Doran couldn't even begin to imagine. Striking one's child was one thing - he'd been beaten many times over for his mistakes and shortcomings - but it was another entirely to force one's self upon one's children.
It was disgusting - a true instance of the depravity of the human soul.
Though he could not know for certain, it was perhaps why Alistair was so keen to protect, to single-mindedly focused upon the tenants of good and evil. He'd experienced truly harrowing ordeals as a child, and that he had emerged with still so strong a sense of justice, duty, and morality - even if Doran didn't necessarily agree with his views - was a testament to his strength and, perhaps, his own fears as well. And those fears, those desires to be free of his enslavement, of what he surly imagined punishment that, try as he might, he could neither flee from nor avoid, had led to a choice, one that, even now, Doran couldn't understand nor condone.
Necromancy.
He knew the tales, the stories told to children to scare them into obeying their parents. Perhaps his father had told the same, perhaps he'd even used them as an excuse for his deplorable actions, perhaps that was why Alistair sought the fetid spark so adamantly, believing it the only thing that could save him. Or, perhaps, it had not been about becoming the cold, unfeeling lich who was removed from humanity's bonds, but rather the power to exact his own revenge. Doran was naive but he was not a fool. There was much the mage - the necromancer - had not told him, and while he had professed he had grown tired of the magic, grown to hate it even, there had been a time when he had not. When he had studied and advanced, seeking the lichdom and - perhaps - reveling in the power it provided him.
Powerlessness was something Doran did understand. When he had found Lily, broken and bloodied, destroyed by his own hands as far as he'd been concerned, he had never felt more pathetic in his life. Where Alistair had risen up, seeking power and wresting it from the cold hands that offered, Doran had accepted his weakness. He couldn't comprehend why Alistair had not done the same. Severity, he supposed, had played its part. There was only so much a child could take, but necromancy? That that had been a consideration at all was more so what troubled Doran than that Alistair had sought power to change his circumstances, his fate.
Why necromancy? For lichdom?
He shook his head, hair catching in the small cracks of the bark behind him. If Alistair had truly wished to ascend, as he had claimed he'd desired as a child, he would have done so long ago. There was more than what he had relayed. With a sigh, he chewed lightly on his lower lip. Whatever his intentions had been, they had changed, but had they changed because he sought redemption, or because the magic had not been enough? Because he had needed more power, more strength?
Alistair was a mage - whether necromancer or rupturer - and as the tales told, his kind sought strength, control, mastery... subjugation of the weak, if the cautionary fables had any truth. And though Alistair had assured him such things were mere fabrications, lies to ostracize and dehumanize the mages, he had hardly shown Doran that that was the case. Each new secret seemed tied to the pursuit of more - more power, more control, more understanding. Alistair was a force, something that moved forever forward, through light and dark alike. Whatever the weight of his regrets, they weren't enough to stop him.
Then... Doran didn't know what he was meant to do, what role he supposed to play. Necromancy was a ragged scar at best and a gaping, fetid wound at worst between them. He couldn't look at Alistair, think of his face, without seeing that spark. It was a blight, whether he had chosen to accept it in foolishness or not, and he wasn't sure he could overlook it. Away from Alistair, from the flutter in his chest and beautiful eyes and tearful expressions, he needed to be certain he could accept that part of the man, because when he was away was when it mattered most.
Was he willing to compromise upon the sanctity of life he'd vowed to observe so long ago for a man he'd only just met?
