He was right. And Alistair knew he was - those thoughts had encircled him for some time. Fridgar was dead, he knew it had to be so. But he did not need to follow him unto that fate. Fridgar had loved immensely, purely, powerfully - more than anything. More than all the stars in every constellation Reyard and Alistair had ever touched. He would have done anything for him, everything. He would have died for him - and perhaps, he did.
But if that were so, he died for Alistair to continue on. To know other futures than that of despair. Even... to know other futures than the one they would've shared. It hurt to think like that. Even now, he felt so guilty for feeling this way for anyone, and it didn't help that he'd felt so compellingly for more than one man. Doran, and Jonathan; Mister Cooney and Mister Burr. Two charming, lovely people, worthy of such a strong arm to guide them, and a keen mind to offer wisdom. And a heart. A heart of gold, of silver; a heart filled with the proud abundance of passion.
If there is anything that matters in the world, it is the love we carry for those who are no longer in it.
It was true. Alistair had loved falsely many a time, for whatever reason. To convince another, to convince himself, to resist his servile upbringing. To cope. But with Fridgar, there remained no reason. There was no benefit to be had from continuing to love him - it was simple, with no motives. To think of it as such was beautiful, and even disarming. It made him feel like a better person, knowing that he could love someone despite there being no objective benefit. It was self-harming to love him, still, but he did so anyway. He hadn't moved on.
The mage said nothing. He leaned into Doran, wrapped his trembling hands around his back, and cried. He listened to his words, soft and soothing and genuine, and out of them followed only more tears. He had contained so much sorrow in his eyes. Now, all of it came free, and so as Doran spoke more and he sobbed more in response, he could feel an immense weight falling from his shoulders and blending into his memories. Fridgar was dead... but he was not truly gone. Even though it was faint, Alistair could still feel the connection to his spark, flickering and resonating in moments of quiet and peaceful contemplation. Perhaps that had not been a game played on him by the Immortals, but in fact, Fridgar's will to remain with him.
The thought made him cry even more, but with such joy. He could feel that spark, even now, crying with him. He felt, for the first time in nearly an arc, that he was with his husband again. And even if it were the last feeling he'd shared with him, it was memorable, and resonant... and beautiful. Feeling their emotions trickle into one another. Feeling the passion and undying strength of his spark, that befitted him as a man. He was so strong, and for at least this one moment, Alistair wanted to emulate that strength.
"Don't," he whispered to Doran. "Don't leave. I want to stay with you, Doran," Alistair expressed, genuinely. He needed to keep everyone and everything together. While the circumstances had not been ideal, he'd come to care immensely for Doran, and he needed him to stay. He needed to make him a part of his life, for himself, for his future... and even for Fridgar. Alistair needed men like him so that his life could once again have meaning, with people that mattered.
"I know," he started, wiping his eyes with his forearm once more, "that you're going back home tomorrow. But I don't want that to be the end. I want to learn about the other parts of you, Doran. Let's keep our promise, alright?" he asked, smiling faintly, though of course echoes of sadness still remained within his eyes and lips... and certainly his stained, ugly cheeks. They were far from flattering, covered in lines and trails of trickling tears. Not to mention the glaze of cry-snot surrounding his nostrils.
But at least he had a shoulder to share the fluids with. It had been nice - Doran had been... so immensely kind. For once, he could think of Fridgar in a positive glow. It wasn't as if his words would simply blow away the anguish of his loss, but at the very least, Alistair could begin to mourn. It was a process that would continue for all of his life, but it was loving. Tender. No guilt, no self-loathing, just... pain.
Somehow, that emotion brought him resolution above all else.
But if that were so, he died for Alistair to continue on. To know other futures than that of despair. Even... to know other futures than the one they would've shared. It hurt to think like that. Even now, he felt so guilty for feeling this way for anyone, and it didn't help that he'd felt so compellingly for more than one man. Doran, and Jonathan; Mister Cooney and Mister Burr. Two charming, lovely people, worthy of such a strong arm to guide them, and a keen mind to offer wisdom. And a heart. A heart of gold, of silver; a heart filled with the proud abundance of passion.
If there is anything that matters in the world, it is the love we carry for those who are no longer in it.
It was true. Alistair had loved falsely many a time, for whatever reason. To convince another, to convince himself, to resist his servile upbringing. To cope. But with Fridgar, there remained no reason. There was no benefit to be had from continuing to love him - it was simple, with no motives. To think of it as such was beautiful, and even disarming. It made him feel like a better person, knowing that he could love someone despite there being no objective benefit. It was self-harming to love him, still, but he did so anyway. He hadn't moved on.
The mage said nothing. He leaned into Doran, wrapped his trembling hands around his back, and cried. He listened to his words, soft and soothing and genuine, and out of them followed only more tears. He had contained so much sorrow in his eyes. Now, all of it came free, and so as Doran spoke more and he sobbed more in response, he could feel an immense weight falling from his shoulders and blending into his memories. Fridgar was dead... but he was not truly gone. Even though it was faint, Alistair could still feel the connection to his spark, flickering and resonating in moments of quiet and peaceful contemplation. Perhaps that had not been a game played on him by the Immortals, but in fact, Fridgar's will to remain with him.
The thought made him cry even more, but with such joy. He could feel that spark, even now, crying with him. He felt, for the first time in nearly an arc, that he was with his husband again. And even if it were the last feeling he'd shared with him, it was memorable, and resonant... and beautiful. Feeling their emotions trickle into one another. Feeling the passion and undying strength of his spark, that befitted him as a man. He was so strong, and for at least this one moment, Alistair wanted to emulate that strength.
"Don't," he whispered to Doran. "Don't leave. I want to stay with you, Doran," Alistair expressed, genuinely. He needed to keep everyone and everything together. While the circumstances had not been ideal, he'd come to care immensely for Doran, and he needed him to stay. He needed to make him a part of his life, for himself, for his future... and even for Fridgar. Alistair needed men like him so that his life could once again have meaning, with people that mattered.
"I know," he started, wiping his eyes with his forearm once more, "that you're going back home tomorrow. But I don't want that to be the end. I want to learn about the other parts of you, Doran. Let's keep our promise, alright?" he asked, smiling faintly, though of course echoes of sadness still remained within his eyes and lips... and certainly his stained, ugly cheeks. They were far from flattering, covered in lines and trails of trickling tears. Not to mention the glaze of cry-snot surrounding his nostrils.
But at least he had a shoulder to share the fluids with. It had been nice - Doran had been... so immensely kind. For once, he could think of Fridgar in a positive glow. It wasn't as if his words would simply blow away the anguish of his loss, but at the very least, Alistair could begin to mourn. It was a process that would continue for all of his life, but it was loving. Tender. No guilt, no self-loathing, just... pain.
Somehow, that emotion brought him resolution above all else.
