It was no secret that Pelle had an unusual relationship with the supernatural. It was him after all who had frightened the entirety of his family by the ripe age of three by touching the face of a demon in the woods because he could sense the pain in its voice--and to him at the time that pain was his as well. It was one of his earliest memories, and forever a daily reminder that he was different than most. Much as he would like to see demons as monsters, there was something far more complicated and tragic about them to him. For him, he could see the dark and twisted reality that birthed them--they were seen by him. Not just perceived but really seen. It was a very intimate connection that he had, one that he was thankful for some days, but felt like a freak for possessing otherwise.
Visits from the supernatural didn't strike him as something to heed caution towards, or not as much as his fellow mages upheld. If anything he enjoyed the company during times when he felt alone.
It was late in the castle, and despite his knowledge that there were soldiers patrolling the walls, in his tower the silence was so harsh that his ears rang to give at least an illusion of sound. He was dabbling in some light reading (or trying to at least) to fight back insomnia when he noticed a silhouette standing in his balcony. It wouldn't be the first time he saw someone occupying the space, ghosts of whomever occupied the castle before the Inquisition wandered frequently. Only he and Cole had seen them it seemed, but that didn't make them any less present.
His first reaction to seeing someone in his balcony was to check beside him in case it was just Dorian. He would have seen him get up sure, but still he needed to confirm he hadn't imagined a ghost behind the glass doors.
"You can come in you know?" he said to the strange figure. "It can't be comfortable out there in the rain."
Pelle watched the figure for quite some time, waiting to see would they accept his invitation. The silhouette did not move, and so he chose to return to his futile attempt at reading. It would be hours before he felt the figure's presence shift inwards, by then he had given up on reading and settled for laying in bed staring at his dark room, unnecessarily big for one person, pristine and extravagant but also, lonely.
"I told you you'd get cold," said Pelle passively.
He felt a empty weight press onto the bed near his legs. Instinct made him look even though he didn't expect to see a thing. Much to his surprise, there was someone sitting at his bedside. Its form was ambiguous to him past the light that shielded its identity.
"I watched you for quite some time," said the spirit. "Something is on your mind. What is it?"
He paused at the observation. It was true. He had been deep in thoughts, none of them doing him any good in bringing him peace of mind. All he was doing was overthinking about things he couldn't change, things he had yet to learn to accept. It was a fatal flaw of his, accepting things. It wasn't so much accepting the choices of other people, so long as their choices harmed no one he couldn't be bothered to criticize them. What he did have a hard time accepting were things he'd done that harmed others, things he could have very well avoided if he were only wiser at the time.
"How kind of you to give me the choice to share," he replied. Spirits knew well what was on the mind of mortals. He could choose to say nothing and the spirit would still know every deep dark little secret swimming around his head. Asking him was nothing more than a formality, and invitation for conversation.
"But you're right. I have been muddling over the weight of my choices for hours. How many of them were unavoidable, if any of them were, how things might have been different if I decided differently, if they even mattered at all." he explained.
"As, crossroads," The spirit defined them. "Well it is true that the choices we make create reality, and the ones we don't create another. Somewhere perhaps in another life you chose differently, and in turn exist within that reality."
This response piqued the young elf's interest. He sat up to meet the spirit's face. He still could not identify any familiar features--or any features at all for that matter. He was by all means speaking with a stranger and yet, the spirit's presence bore a familiarity that no anomaly of facial features could. Strangers made him anxious, he wasn't anxious.
"You mean to tell me there are multiple realities I exist within?" Pelle inquired, seeking clarification.
"And ones you do not," The spirit continued. "You saw one did you not?"
"In Redcliffe," Pelle finished.
"Yes," the spirit confirmed. "Though you are not the only one. Everyone makes choices da'len. Some of them reap rewards, some of them kill you."
A silence fell between them. Fascinating as this was, it did not ease his heavy conscience in the slightest. It only made his questions burn even hotter in his mind, demanding answers from him.
"Would you like to see one?" the spirit offered.
Pelle raised a skeptical brow, but even his expression could not conceal the longing in his eyes. He didn't know if being shown another reality would bring him closure or more questions--or if he would even be alive in another life. Something in him doubted it, he'd cheated death more than once in his life. If there were truly alternate realities created by his own actions, then surely there were also realities created by his inaction.
"I shall take that hungry look on your face as permission," said the spirit.
Without a warning or farewell the spirit's presence disappeared into thin air and with it, the rest of the castle around him too began to fade around him until there was nothing. His heart leapt with fear as he began to believe that perhaps that fear in him was more than baseless anxiety but sound truth. In another life he was dead long dead perhaps. The nothingness of it all--it terrified him. He tried to scream, but he was in a dream--and so it fell on deaf ears. When his sight returned it came with a tight chest, choking and gasping for breath. Strong currents was what he saw. Water thrashing with rage, breaking his bones and crushing his lungs as they went. He was fighting for the consciousness that had frightened him so much to lose, but this was not a battle he could win. While deep down he knew he wasn't really tangled up in an angry stream in the Dales, the violence it thrust upon his frail body would have him believe either wise. It was a stone decided his fate. He could rebel against the current all he wanted, but he didn't have the strength to best it. When his collided with the stone the waters carried him towards his body went limp against his will. His struggle ceased and all at once his broken body had done the very thing he was so very bad at: acceptance.
In another life he'd drowned, this surprised him not.
His consciousness returned with a sharp gasp for air--this time it was grated to him. He sat up so quickly that the lack of weight from water tossing him about made him dizzy. His breath was ragged, but it was his. Never did he think he would thank the Creators for something so simple--and yet now it felt like such a crucial thing to be grateful for.
He'd woken up in his quarters again and somehow this disappointed him. Either his small glimpse at another life was merely death or the spirit wanted him to know he would end up in this tower no matter what path he chose. Both possibilities were equally useless to him. It wasn't himself that he cared to learn about, it was everyone else. His friends, his family, lovers, both past and present.
Even after reliving something of a near death experience, he felt as if nothing had changed. He was still left alone with his thoughts and no answers.
"So I am here no matter what I do? Lovely lesson." said the elf with a tone both dry and dissatisfied. He was still cooped up in a tower with more power and influence than he knew what to do with--and he was still alone.
"Who are you talking to sunshine?" A groggy voice cut through the silence.
His heart skipped a beat when he heard the familiar voice. He almost dared not to look beside him--afraid it might all be a lie. It couldn't be him, it most certainly couldn't be. He wanted so badly to fight the impulse to turn towards, but his heart betrayed him.
Next to him was precisely who he thought. It was him, red haired, freckly, beautiful, alive...Mallas.
"What's the matter with you?" Mallas asked. "Look like you've seen a ghost." he paused, thinking over the expression he'd just used. "Well I guess you see em all the time so maybe that's a bad description." he considered, smirking as he did.
Pelle could feel himself shaking as tears starting pouring down his cheeks. His response concerned Mallas, who sat up to wipe the tears off his face with both thumbs. It was difficult for Pelle to meet his eyes, not when he felt so responsible for what he knew was true. Mallas of course didn't know a thing about that, how could he? All he knew was that Pelle had sat up with a start and now he was in tears.
"Hey look at me," Mallas urged him. "It's not your fault," he told him.
Whatever it was he was talking about Pelle hadn't the slightest idea, but the words only made him more upset. Mallas was alive in whatever reality this was, so he couldn't possibly be speaking of his own death, and yet for Pelle it most certainly felt like he was.
Mallas sighed. "I knew it was botherin ya still, but you're too quick to go blamin yourself for everythin you know that?"
Pelle nodded hastily. "I know, I just--" He wanted to explain himself but he was interrupted with a kiss on the forehead that made him forget whatever excuse he had prepared.
"I already told you it's not your fault. You did what you thought was right. Whether it was or not you're gonna kill yourself worryin about it. Learn to trust yourself once in a while." said Mallas. "Wouldn't have followed ya if you were really that terrible." he added.
"You wanted to run away anyways," Pelle reminded him. "You'd have taken off if given the chance regardless."
Mallas' head cocked with a look of confusion. "Not if I couldn't take you with me." he corrected him. "I could have run away whenever I wanted to. It would have been easy. But I didn't. You wanted to stay, so I stayed."
"Sometimes I wish I did," Pelle confessed, averting his gaze.
Mallas' confused expression softened. "But you're happier now. What's the shame in that? You don't have to feel guilty for looking out for yourself. You're free now, we're free now. Sure maybe we weren't planning on it happening like this but--nothings torn us apart yet so I've chosen to focus on that."
Pelle's eyes turned back up to meet Mallas', "Not unless one of us died I guess,"
The suggestion caused Mallas to let out a nervous laugh. He shrugged it off like he always did. Mallas was never all that good at coping with tragic situations. He and Pelle had that in common, though they hid from them differently, Mallas pretended they didn't bother him, Pelle worried himself sick overthinking about them.
"No one's going to die silly," Mallas assured him, wrapping his arms around him and playing with his loose curls. "I promise."
"You can't promise that," Pelle argued.
"Who said?" Mallas rebutted.
"Fate?" Pelle pressed as if that were the obvious.
Mallas released him only to put two hands on his shoulders and stare at him. "You speak as if you know the future." he pointed out. "I want you to listen, like actually listen. Nothing can keep me from you. They can try all they want they'll fail."
Pelle hated knowing what he did. He hated even more being exposed to two truths. Mallas was right, in his mind nothing could keep them apart. But the truth remained that something could and it did. Death. What he despised most of all was that he knew all this and yet he was falling for this fantasy that Mallas preached. Despite all evidence pointing towards tragedy he believed him. Perhaps in this life they were invincible, maybe they were as Mallas said, free.
The idea that they could be, it possessed him like nothing else in his life could. This was a promise with no sound foundation, a young love doomed to slip through his fingers that would nearly kill and haunt him for years to come. He knew all the warning signs. He knew how this story began and how it ended, but by the gods if he wasn't a fool then he was no one.
Reckless abandon overcame Pelle and he made a fatal mistake. He kissed him...he kissed him hard. Mallas received him with open arms, smiling between the passing of their lips. By blind instinct, Pelle's hands reached under Mallas' shirt and touched anything he could slip his fingers around. He caressed every detail on Mallas' pale skin, cherishing him like Orlesians cherished their fine silks.
Tongues wrestled for dominance as Mallas became more worked up by Pelle's starved desire for his body. He broke the battle between them for only a moment to pull Pelle's shirt over his head and cast it to the side.
"can't let you have all the fun," he purred before leaving a trail of kisses that began at his neck and made their way down to his collar bones and stopped at his chest before returning to kiss his lips with a ravenous passion Pelle had not experienced in a very long time. It was the kind of kiss imparted from someone that knew their affections were not to be accepted if proclaimed publicly. Someone who wanted him more than they'd ever wanted anything--this too was a desire the two of them shared.
Further careless participation led them to be tangled in one another. He was no longer sitting beside Mallas on this oversized bed, he was his back with his legs wrapped around Mallas who had crawled on top of him. He never wanted to wake from this dream and suddenly he was saddened to remember that none of this was real or--not for him it wasn't. And with that stark reminder, just as he feared everything he'd given way to began to slip away.
Mallas stopped kissing him, his hands stopped exploring his naked body. He just stared back at him, his green eyes saddened by the sight of him. The sudden change in his energy caught Pelle entirely off guard. He reached up to touch his face but Mallas dodged him.
"What's wrong...?" Pelle asked him.
"I don't want to hurt you," Mallas replied. Then he leaned forward so his mouth was only inches away from Pelle's ear. "Let me go," he told him. "I'm dead."
Hearing Mallas say it himself, to confirm his own mortality, it broke Pelle harder than he thought it would. He knew--he fucking knew that. Why did it hurt so much to hear it?
"I killed you didn't I?" Pelle whispered, seeking an answer he didn't even know if he wanted. Should Mallas say yes, he would despise himself to the end of his day, but if he didn't he didn't even know if he would believe him. This spirit had shown him an ideal reality, it was him who was twisting it with his guilt.
"No," Mallas answered. "I did."
Pelle wasn't even given the chance to ask him to elaborate before he again was thrown forwards to sit upright in his bed. His clothes were on and his hair no longer scattered in every direction. He looked around breathless his eyes rapidly scanning the room for any sign of Mallas, of the spirit, of anyone. He was caught in Dorian's hands when he turned to the left. He jumped back, startled to see Dorian's face so close to his.
Dorian's expression was wrecked with worry as he watched Pelle tremble between his fingers. "Ah you're awake!"
Pelle stared back at him stupidly and suddenly he felt his heart sink to his stomach. He felt sick--horrible even. He was disgusted with himself, and sorry for Dorian. He was so very sorry.
"You stopped breathing for a moment and then you started again but I couldn't wake you and--" Dorian paused. "Don't scare me like that." he went on fussing but it was short lived. The moment Pelle's expression shifted from alarm to a deep sadness his scared venting came to a steady halt.
"Are you alright?" Dorian asked.
No he wasn't, he was far from alright. He wanted to be, he wished he could be but he wasn't. His chest weighed heavy with guilt as he stared back at Dorian knowing that if he answered him--he couldn't.--he just couldn't. It would hurt him and that was the last thing he wanted.
He shrugged Dorian's hands off before he laid curled up into a ball facing away from him, weeping into the sheets as he did. Never again would he play games with spirits late in the night. He wanted answers--and now it was clear that he actually didn't. All there was to be found in his constant worrying and what ifs was torture and despair.
And with that he gained a new fear. That if he were to ever tell Dorian that he had dreamed of the man he had once considered his soulmate--and that he couldn't be woken probably because he didn't want to be that Dorian might never speak to him again.
