By the time Doran returned to Kaelserad, the sun had risen, its beauty seeming pale and distant as his bare feet had pressed down into the earth with each of his steady steps. There had been some fear Jonathan would follow him - do more than the threats he'd hissed before Doran had turned away. His words still lingered in Doran's thoughts, mixing and mingling with all the rest in a seemingly endless cacophony of noise. His skin had since dried, only the damp small-clothes he still wore cold against his warming skin that drank in the morning's light like pale petals of a wilted flower. He seemed almost like a ghost, drifting towards the red-roofed healing house, and he made as much noise as one.
Alistair was necromancer - a practitioner of a magic forever vilified and for good reason. Though Jonathan had claimed Alistair no longer used the magic, Doran had found such sentiments weak - more reactionary than truthful. From what he understood, he had been worried how Alistair might react. His requests that Doran act "for him" seemed only to paint him all the more selfish. It wasn't something he necessarily held against the man. People needed selfishness in their lives, otherwise they'd never stop to think of themselves, to take care of themselves. Jonathan had simply been looking out for his own best interests after he'd realised the mistake he'd made, the secret he seemed to have assumed Alistair had told him. Everything after had been too mixed with his desire to fix what he'd done that Doran could put little stock in it - after all, the man had end in insults and threats like most who became desperate, when things didn't go the way they'd wanted. Though still, Doran found he couldn't keep himself from considering what he'd said.
The very idea that Alistair did not, to some extent, still use his necromancy - however much he would have preferred that to be the case - simply didn't seem plausible. Jonathan had known, Damien had known, everyone, it seemed, had known. Though not impossible, it was unlikely Alistair would have been so open about something he'd strived so hard to suppress; after all, they had come from the same homeland. Though magic had not necessarily been reviled, necromancy was by far a clear and ever present evil in fables of the past and cautionary tales of the present. That he might not share that same stigma - or at least the acknowledgement of it - did not lend well to him sharing such things with others. No, it was clear Alistair was a necromancer; that much was irrefutable.
What had struck him had not been the possibility that it were an empty title. It was what Jonathan had said before, that "maybe, just maybe, his past wasn't his present". He knew, without question, whatever Alistair did with his magic, with his life, was entirely up to him. Doran had no real sway over the other man, though the mage might have protested differently. If he were a necromancer, he was a necromancer out of some sense of duty, some greater pursuit of power in the name of justice. Of this, Doran had no doubt. Whatever his is past with the dark, dreadful magic, the present was clearly defined: it was a tool to him, like any other; and that was, perhaps, the most terrifying thought.
He'd seen Alistair at his most tender - most gentle and loving. So too had he seen him buckle under despair, hiding behind false masks and shedding tears like a frightened, weary child. He'd seen his hunger and desire - both of love and lust. He'd even seen glimpses of a darker, seething rage that churned just beneath the calm control of his words when he'd spoken of the king and his empress. The man was as faceted as any other human being; the only difference being he was incredibly powerful. And at some point, along the line, in that power, he had determined that it was acceptable to twist people's souls and rape their dead bodies with his ether. Though the magic itself was vile, Doran found that the action of rationalizing its use was far worse and far more corrosive of character, of spirit.
When he realised he'd stopped just at the door, he paused, eyes staring at the solid, wooden panels, his toes flexing and relaxing in place, gripping the cool stone of the path. Drawing a deep breath, Doran entered, quietly closing the door behind him. The front desk was empty - whoever was meant to tend it seemingly having stepped out for the moment, and he took the opportunity to pad quietly to his room, slipping inside and shutting it closed behind him. Leaning his back against the smooth wood of the door, he slowly slid down to the floor, wrapping his arms about his shins and reseting his forehead against his knees. He was so, incredibly tired.
He didn't want to think about anything. He didn't want to talk to anyone or go anywhere or do anything. He wanted to find himself covered in sweat, blankets tangled about his legs and he was released from the waking nightmare he now found himself in. But what he wanted didn't matter - not to himself, not to Jonathan, and certainly not to Alistair. It wasn't a matter of direction action that had been taken against him, rather that, no matter how much he wished things were not as they were, the fact of the matter remained the same. A heavy sigh wracked his body as he ran both of his hands through his tangled, still damp head of wavy hair. His eyes were closed, the darkness a small, soothing comfort amid the chaos.
Necromancy.
Just the thought of bodies that had once held souls of those who had loved and lived and lost and wept and laughed bastardized into mindless servant made him feel sick. It was not so simple a nausea of the stomach as it was the very soul; it ached within him, brought sweat to his brow and flushed his body with a shivering chill. Fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters, lovers and warriors, friends and enemies... their lives nothing but tattered, empty shadows. Jonathan was right: Doran knew little the magic. Yet, what little he did know, he knew quite specifically - and none of it was justifiable, not in any way.
Slowly, he rose to his feet, letting his eyes flutter open, taking a moment to simply stand there. In the next, he removed his pants, leaving him as naked as the day he was born, before he padded over the dresser and pulled one of the drawers open. To his relief, there were a collection of clothes within, and he busied his hands with and forced his mind to pick out something to wear. He moved with a deliberate, focused flow of motion, pulling his thoughts away from anything but what was in front of him.
These are too big. That's too small. This is silk; that's leather; that's... something coarse. This will fit fine, this will fit better, this won't fit at all. This is nice, that's nicer; this one... or that one? A pair of socks. Another pair of socks. A mismatched pair. Here's a shirt - but the sleeves are too long. Oh, it's all too long. There's another, this will do and... trousers. These are nice. Those are nicer. These fit. These fit too.
Eventually, he found himself in front of the small mirror. His face was paler than usual, hair dried thanks to a towel that sat folded over the back of the single chair in the room. No longer did is pearly skin glow soft in the sunlight that poured in though the east facing window. He had found a far less form-fitting, beige shirt, though the sleeves were just slightly too long and had been rolled back at the cuffs. His trousers were a deep chestnut and of a more firm fabric than the silk he'd worn before. Finally, he'd chosen to wear a pair of worn socks that didn't rob him of any and all traction upon the smoothed wooden floors beneath. His boots were still drying in Jonathan's stone garden - a practical voice in his head made a note that he would need to ask to borrow some before he requested he be sent home.
Home.
It was an odd thought; made more so by the stark difference he now felt under the Kaelserad's roof. Though the trial before, he'd felt safe, secure, and at ease, there was now little else but tension in his tightened shoulders and forced, steady breath. A part of him had entertained the idea of Kaelserad becoming a home to him, in a sense, but that had long since withered away beneath the blaze of revelation. Now, all he really wanted, was to settle things with Alistair and return to Venora. He had no doubt the man wouldn't harm him, and neither had he desire to do the same to Alistair. Yet, he couldn't stay there, not any longer than was absolutely necessary. If Alistair wouldn't send him home, he'd find another way.
With his conviction settled, he turned and headed out of the room, the front desk still unmanned, and, without any idea of where he might go or if Alistair had returned or had even left in the first place, he called a surprisingly firm, "Alistair?" His voice, though airy, carried well through the building by volume alone. "If you're here, I'd like to speak with you." There was little else but a cordial politeness in his voice. It was somewhat strained, but something that could have easily been due to his unusually loud use of tone. "It's a bit urgent."
