Not Secure

[Taelian]

34th of Frost, Year 119

Journal,
I can feel it beating in my chest.

Sorrow.

Fear.

I've never felt a premonition for anything like what I feel now -- a sense of looming danger that comes from being connected. I've tried not to see it, creeping in, the discontent bleeding in through his veins as much as his love for me. I know what it's like to be discarded . . . Lethiril came back to remind me of that feeling. It was the same when his parents left me to die -- when I was abandoned to the Pyred Bedlam as they strode through our homeland's whistling fields. It was difficult to place it at the time, but it was very... hollowing. And now, somehow as a Famished when I wasn't one back then, I feel so much more in this moment.

There's been a dread looming over me for a while, now. I can't help but feel that if I acknowledge it, the things that I dread will spring forth. Even a word -- misplaced or aimed true -- will bring me spiraling into the abyss that I was so entrenched in before.

This bond... has done a lot for me. It has brought me closer to Riven, and to myself. I know now what depths I'm capable of achieving; the contours of my feeling heart, seemingly incapable of being still these days of late. I still struggle with my dull, dampened imperfections, but compared to how I have been the last fifteen years I have truly come alive.

I don't want to lose it... any of it. But part of me worries that it is all only a fleet moment meant to follow the wind. When I realized that Talon carried affections for Riven, that was nearly enough for me to concede. My mind has been frayed for some time. To feel such negativity, emotional complexity . . . it was not something to which I was adapted at the time. When I realized that Riven likely felt the same -- from solemn breaths and lingering moments where his mind seemed to stick to mention of the other man's name -- I lost the will to think on any of it at all. I pursued a Dranoch I knew I shouldn't have, trying to face a Cardinal alone.

And I nearly died.

I don't like these feelings. Even as I was reunited with Lethiril, and as I was initiated into a world apart from my own, this emotion of what I can only title self-loathing swept beneath my feet as an undercurrent that did not abate.

I'm home now, but I don't feel at home anymore. I don't... like being here anymore. The looming anxiety of what that 'Prince' may do to me is crippling and raw; the knowledge that I will never amount to anything as a foreigner and a man without wings. I hate it here. I hate the clothing, the wooden buildings with their red-tiled roofs, the stares from the ordained wing-bearing men who serve as the cultural elite. I even hate the other Siltori who come to this place. They become decadent. Unworthy.

I sometimes wonder what Aldrin would think of all of this. My mission, thwarted by a romantic dalliance. No... it's more than that. It's dangerously overgrown; a weed that has not stilled. I am infatuated. But more than that, I am in love.

And it's... so, jarring. The fear that I will never suffice. The anger I feel every time I hear the name of a man who likely matters more than me, to the one that matters to me. If jealousy is the offspring of love, then I wonder why I allowed that foundation to overtake me. Whatever the case, I know I must leave this place.

There's nothing for me here, anymore. I've done a number on the Dranoch cell. More will come, but not enough to matter. Perhaps not even enough to survive.

There's only one thing keeping me where I am -- and I want him to follow me south. I'm going to ask him. I don't know what I'll do if he says no. I can't live without him -- he's become all I think about.

I'll never have anyone like him again if he goes. My first... my only. He's not the first hand to extend kindly towards my own, but he is the first that I took. Because his grip was the softest; his smile the warmest, and his heart filled with silver and gold. I could write a thousand more words about his face alone. But I'm tired, and what I've said is already more than needs to be written.

[Taelian]

Taelian moved quietly to sit along the edge of his bed. No lanterns were lit, no hearth aflame; the Quirk he had awakened reflectively from his view of Riven's eyes had changed the way he interpreted night. Nothing was too dark for Taelian any longer -- he could see figures, details, shapes so well in shadow.

He laid his back onto the bed and moved his legs onto the frame, shifting his body to the center of the mattress as he stared into the ceiling. Taelian outstretched his arms behind his head and closed his eyes. He wondered what he would do if things didn’t work out the way he wanted. If all of his nightmares came true. Taelian started to realize that he just didn’t know.

He brought his hands back to his sides, and attempted to fall asleep. It was difficult, though; haunting worries filled his mind and brought him away from the verge of rest. The Ebon Knight thought of the way that his lover made him feel; the way that he hoped he made Riven feel. Valuable. More than any other, at least to him. Of course, there was the fear that measured to Talon, he would never be enough. Perhaps even without that; Riven had told him before that his Famished state was not a concern, but it was impossible to deny that it still bothered the Elf. How could it not?

The man sighed. He had been subject to... so many worries of late, and almost all of them were of his own making. Insecurities that did not deserve to be recognized, or brought to light. He turned over, anxiously, and peered at the simple brown material of the wall. This was the bed where he and Riven first made love. Where they had done so many times, and shared in many moments. How many more times would he feel his lover’s form filling the mattress’ shape? How many more miracles did he have left?

He wondered. And worried. Not only for himself, but for Riven. Taelian truly felt that no one would ever love the man as he did — so wholly. To the point where... he would have done anything for him. Unlike Talon, he wasn’t a prince. Riven was one of the only things he had; he cherished him as if he were the font that gave him life. He... was meant for the other man. There wasn’t a shred of doubt in his heart. He didn’t feel often, and usually not very much, but from the beginning Riven had awoken meaning in him. That was something worth keeping. For both of them.

[Taelian]

The Siltori breathed in. He wanted to plan for that moment; for their conversation. Whatever it would mean. He knew it was coming eventually, and he thought that the only way he could express himself adequately would be to do it wholly. To weigh in with emotion; to connect it to who he was as a man, Riven’s beloved. He needed to make clear that though he was Famished, nothing quite felt numb around him. Taelian was... filled to the brim with emotion these days. Some were bad things, but most were good. And he was smart enough to know that many of those good feelings were shared.

He knew his value. And so did his arlaed. The Siltori would never — could not — accept a secondary position. He didn’t want there to be positions. He wanted it to just be him.

Taelian began to settle into sleep, propelled awake only by the progressive stirring of his mind. He wondered if he was naive to give so much of himself to one person; to give anyone the power to leave him so tarnished in their wake. It was repulsive, the emotions that came with the mere thought of Riven leaving him behind. Unimaginable sorrow. Self loathing.

He started to realize that perhaps he wasn’t healthy. No... of course he wasn’t. There he was, on the bed, shaking with what was a gripping anxiety that clutched every inch of his form. He began to frantically breathe. “Riven,” he whispered beneath his breath, a shaky voice overtaking his speech. He really wasn’t alright. The truth so heinously dawned on him.

“It’s going to be okay, Taelian,” he told himself, softly. “He loves you, Taelian... he loves you. It’s going to work out.”

He began to sob. It was then that he realized what this moment was — his Famished soul plucking from him all positive emotion. Filling him with nothing but self-loathing and dread. This had happened many times before, but all of those times it was different; he did not worry that he would lose something, he dreaded how empty he already was. But for once, he wasn’t empty. He was proud of his life. He was proud of the strength that had come with a purpose for being.

The Siltori buried his face in his soft, sky-blue pillow. The tears were soaked by the sheet that surrounded the feathery, cotton interior. He decided not to force his emotions to stop, even though he had learned to tame himself in moments such as these. Perhaps he needed this, this almost neurotic fear — he did not want to be a Famished in that moment, when it came. He wanted to be a lover. He wanted to feel with everything that he was.

And... as much as this thought pained him, he wanted to have the will of his own to decide — if all that would come to him was pain — that he was willing and able to walk away.

[Paragon]

Taelian

XP: 5/5
Magic? No.

Lore: None requested.

Comments: The Black Sigil, for as much as it gives extracts a heavy price from those who bear it.