On the ninth trial of Ashan during the 718th arc...
You can give me my life back.The words had echoed throughout Kleine's dreams, so that when he awoke, the warmth of Alistair's body long since gone and the sun's light streaming in through his window taking his place, it was all he could think of. He wasn't a fool, even when he had been overcome by his desire, his own love for the man who was his entire world, he had known it was false. Alistair didn't love him, but it was a matter of when now, no longer if; the thought of it was enough blur his vision, the hot burn of tears trickling from the corners of his eyes to splash down onto his bare and battered body. He had made no attempt to heal himself of the aftermath of Alistair's ministrations the night before; all the aches, the pain... they were reminders that what had happened was not a dream, not one of his endless fantasies he'd worked so hard over the arcs to suppress, to release onto the blank faces of the other men with whom he'd found no real replacement.
Alistair would love him, could love him, and there was nothing Kleine would not do to see it so.
Alone, he rose out of bed, walking as painful as his body had warned him. It was real. What had happened had not been a fever dream, and he paused, pressing his hand against the wall as his emotions overtook him once more, his voice cracked and dry. "Alistair... my havendal..." He wouldn't lose Alistair, not after the mage had taken the one step he'd been longing for for so long. He couldn't lose him. Biting down on his lip, Kleine broke through the skin with his teeth, the sharp pain of the act drawing both tears and blood that trailed down his face, pooling in the divots between his shoulders and collar bones. The spark within him shivered, his magic drawn upon, as he released the stinging flesh from his mouth, letting the holes his teeth had left fill themselves in, the familiar scratch and itch of his becoming mending what he had torn. He drew a deep, heavy breath, letting the cool air of the morning fill him, forcing out the doubts and fears out through his newly healed lips. You can give me my life back. It echoed again, like thunder through his mind.
Slowly, he moved about the room, the scent of Alistair still clung to the sheets and his taste lingered on his tongue, mixed with blood and the salt of his own tears. As he dressed, he let his eyes close, the smooth fabric passing over his worn skin a soft echo of everything he had experienced under the cover of night's darkness not but breaks ago. He shivered, running his smooth hands over his shoulders, forcing himself into the present, the now. If he was successful, if he could capture Alistair's heart, not just his lust... they truly could be together.
He knew he was not Fridgar, nor could he ever be. There was a sharp spear of pain that struck through his chest as he recalled the moment Alistair had stepped in to stop his lover from passing on his totem to the slave. He had not felt cheated in that moment; in the arcs that had followed, he had always been glad that the totem had not been bestowed upon him, afraid of what he might have done, how badly he might hurt Alistair, had he possessed the ability. Now, however, there was nothing but baldfaced despair and frustration. Had he been able to take on Fridgar's form, had he been able to give Alistair his husband back, if only in the flesh... perhaps Alistair would have grown to love him, maybe even in the same way he had loved Fridgar. But that possibility existed only in the past, and he was forced to face his options in the present.
Once his socks were on his feet, boots still placed carefully by the front of Cappola's entryway, he headed out of his room, his hands running through his hair, easily unraveling the tangles as he searched for any sign of the man who had promised to become his havendal. His heart skipped a beat just at the thought. All he needed to do was give Alistair something only he could give. Something only he could provide, a reason to cherish him, to need him... to love him. And while the thought was one he had entertained before, long ago when he had considered himself more slave than comrade, Kleine already had a plan slowly formulating. You can give me my life back. It was not a matter of giving Alistair what he had had, but of giving him what he had always, deeply desired.
Finding no sign of Alistair within the house, Kleine slipped his shoes on, still moving slowly as his body continued to protest his efforts, his own spark insisting that he make us of their shared soul, that he mend himself, change himself, free himself of the aches and burns and bruises. He ignored them both. Instead, he stepped outside, the warmth of the sun beaming down upon him as if congratulating him on his newfound opportunity. It took him no time at all to spot Alistair's muscular frame, moving through the field of burgeoning wheat. Without calling his name, he waved, grimacing from the dull throb he felt from the movement. Slowly, he picked his way through the field to join him, his hand first gently caressing the man's shoulder before he sought to take Alistair's hand in his. "Good morning, Ali."
His blue eyes were filled with affection, and he could hardly keep himself from kissing the other man. Even after their night together, he didn't know what it was Alistair expected from him when the sun was there to illuminate the world below. It didn't matter, not to Kleine. Alistair had given him a chance, and it was all he needed. "I was wondering if we could... talk. Not about..." He cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable but doing his best to put on a casual, friendly air. "About you." Warmth blossomed in his chest as he smiled at the other man, his fingers gently squeezing Alistair's. "Would that... be alright?"
