29th of Frost, Year 119
It began with a nightmare.
Riven. His golden locks, his stunningly handsome complexion. To Taelian, he was a dream come alive; everything he could have only imagined prior to meeting him. He had changed his view of humanity, for Taelian viewed him as one of them, as much the oppressor as he was a gallant and loving man. What Lethiril said, before, would have been taken with eagerly receptive ears by the young and ideological Elf... but now it wasn't so clear. The nightmare, he supposed, was a convergence of his old reality with his new one, and then again with the reality presented by Lethiril. The former and latter did not wholly conflict, but with the world introduced to him now... he wasn't so sure.
Could he love Riven, and yet hate his kind? Hate those of a similar complexion to him; those whose faces bore similar shapes, those whose ears extended to the same simple, curled length?
He realized the nightmare wasn't just about that. Since he had been initiated... he began to experience something akin to an affliction. Not an illness of the physical body, but a drowsed awakening that bore on his mind like a migraine. He felt more receptive to things he did not used to see. He saw lights pass along in the corners of his vision that would have never been there, and he felt a strange connection to the shadow from behind the watery veil. He thought of her... almost beckoning stare, extended from golden eyes, the one color from within the matte black.
It was Veravend. But could it have been a memory of her? A feeling imbued by her power which still flowed throughout their world? He did not understand how the 'Patrons' worked. Or Summoning in general. Lethiril had told him that he needed to rest; that his threshold sickness, which had mostly faded by now, would impede his ability to think rationally and adequately understand his answers. That his progression into the art would come only once he awoke, unmolested by the ardors of the day.
But the night had been an ardor as well. At least, the first half; the moon was still out and the sun still beyond the horizon. It was likely two hours past midnight.
Lethiril wasn't asleep. He was reading, with a candle lit, directly across the hall; Taelian could see him through his open door.
"Leth," he called him. The Elf had risen from the bed, wearing a pair of flexible linen briefs and a white cloth undershirt. He stepped forward, almost limping, towards the other man's door. The Dratori-Orkhan turned his gaze to eye him, before setting aside his book and making his way towards his old friend. Taelian was still undergoing the drawbacks of his initiation, and needed help that the mixed-blood was happy to give. Lethiril was just glad that he was alive.
