There is something restless and wanting in him —— it, that unfathomable IT, beats against his ribs in a desperate bit to get out / get out / GET OUT. Confusion / fear / discomfort is an ill fitting cloak : too tight around his shoulders and constricting at his arms and billowing at his legs, as if begging him to run. Yet, all the same, saying that he will never truly be free.
Once upon a time these things were foreign to him : confusion / fear / discomfort.
The boy / man / mage / practically soporati approaches him and he nearly takes a step back. His lungs crave freedom, or the idea of freedom, or the false freedom that he had made for himself in the slums of Minrathous in the arms of whomever would take him —— or whomever he could afford for the night. There were times when he could almost pretend that he was free from the golden cage that he had been locked and bound in and he could almost pretend that he was something in the realm of HAPPY.
Happiness is a strange ideal that fits him as poorly as confusion / fear / discomfort and he looks at FELIX and thinks of a time, not so long ago, when he had been : powerful / feared / adored / respected / loved by his mother / loved by his father. He looks at Felix and remembers ——
❝ Livia’s boy has shown some magical talent, after all these years,❞ the MATRIARCH sits at the head : which is to say she sits in the largest chair in her personal sitting room, surrounded by other women.
He : THE SON lurks just beneath the window, young and curious and wishing to hear, to understand that unfathomable thing that is society.
Someone makes an inquisitive noise and he nearly wants to leverage himself up the windowsill to see. Perhaps he would have, if he could escape his mother’s wrath soon afterword. ❝ Truly? And here I thought —— ❞
❝ It would have been beneficial if he had nothing at all,” she speaks as if her words at the unquestionable truth and he imagines her drinking out of her tea cup, keeping all attention on her : the malevolent overseer. ❝ He is weak. Practically no magic at all. Certainly nothing compared to my Dorian.❞
And in spite of her tone, as if she is bored yet all-mighty, he feels something inside of him PREENING and he smiles and presses himself close to the wall : hoping and wanting and parched for more.
The cloak is taken from him and Felix is speaking and there is something unrecognizable in his voice that Dorian has not heard in an age and he thinks that it is something like —— warmth. A healthy dose of nerves, as well. He watches him closely yet finds himself surprised by the hand on his shoulder, leading him forward, and his feet move forward in spite of their screaming desire to retreat. Personally, he thinks that he is rather distracted by the bruise on Felix’s face.
A physical altercation. He recognizes the shape and location well. Though they had often been on others, not himself.
❝ I’m quite aware of who you are, ❞ impatience sours his voice and his mouth sets soon after speaking aloud and he wonders, abstractly, if he should apologize for the way that he sounded. ❝ And I, truly, should be on my way. There’s hardly any need to bother your servants at such an hour. ❞
If his mother and father could see him now ( though the point is that they can’t, and he’d much rather it STAY THAT WAY, thank you very much. hence the need to LEAVE, POSTHASTE. ) he would be smacked on the wrist for his lack of politeness and given another lecture, though this one would last a few minutes, at most. He thinks of how his father respected Alexius, or something in that area. He thinks of how his mother had disparaged Felix, all that time ago.
The hand on his shoulder is warm and it is not forcing, merely directing : a benevolent force. He thinks, helplessly, of his father’s hand on his shoulder, gripping and harsh and pushing as he led him to the Order of Argent and his mother’s nails digging in when he returned home from yet another circle and ——
❝ There is a bruise on your face, ❞ he finds himself saying, just too loudly, gaze narrowing on the aforementioned discoloration that had been distracting him since Felix had appeared, ❝ in case you weren’t aware. Haven’t you seen a healer about that? ❞
A great start, obviously.
It’s an instinctive fight or flight — and he KNOWS this. AND he can even ignore the sharp edge — for the most part. Well, he tries. At least it’s something he is normally good at, but it still somehow manages to sting. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that Dorian, like almost everyone else of a particular social standing, with a certain magical proclivity and raw talent, would look at him with that same barely concealed contempt.
Why wouldn’t he?
“ Ah, Felix.” The voice slices through the chatter and the clink of glasses during a brief pause as the orchestra prepares for the next piece.
A voice belonging to a tall, exquisitely dignified man who may even be considered handsome had his expression not conjured the impression that he was permanently disgusted. “ Grandfather. ” Felix immediately straightens up, alert and attentive, resisting the urge to adjust the set of his collar that’s suddenly too tight.
“ Your father tells me you are pursuing a scholarship at the University of Orlais. ” The smile is of a man who has perhaps read about the concept in a book somewhere and had to practice in front of a mirror. “ Astonishing! Truly remarkable! ”
Felix’ face illuminates. “ Oh, yes! It’s all very —“
“ — You must be so proud. ” The voice turns to ice, a sharpened blade, a venomous hiss. “ The repository of the Alexius legacy... playing with numbers. But I do commend you for still thinking that you somehow have any significance. ” But Felix doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t wither or diminish as he is expected to. His features harden and his eyes, eyes that are warm and expressive and so much like Livia’s in their intensity, turn calculating and distant. He follows his grandfathers gaze to a group of young enchanters, coveted talent for an apprenticeship under the right Magister. “ It is only a relief to know your father has options. Do enjoy the rest of the evening. ” Felix knows better to say anything as he watches him turn to reach for a campaign flute from a passing servant before disappearing into crowd as the music starts to play again.
But Dorian mentions the bruise and Felix glances at him, genuinely perplexed, trying to decipher his expression, which even NOW is inscrutable —too many layers, too many walls — so he decides to interpret it as little more than an impulsive observation.
“ No, why? Are you offering? ” He says this with a laugh. It’s a pleasant sound, boyish and irreverent. This is also something he is good at. “ It’s alright. Nothing a little ice can’t cure. ” He shrugs dismissively and doesn’t elaborate. The smile falters, “ I’m fine. ” Normally he would conjure a story. A reflexive lie simply because he doesn’t want to be any trouble. He’d blame it on carelessness because it’s conveniently plausible; he is adventurous and energetic, why not add clumsiness to the mix as well? His mother often looked at him silently unconvinced but never pressed the matter further. And as always, any use of magic would be abruptly ( stubbornly ) brushed off. One of Livia’s apprentices happens to be a capable healer so naturally he had avoided him at all costs.
He will heal on his own.
“ At any rate, my father — and I sincerely apologize on his behalf — is hardly prone to bringing guests home at this hour. ” He quickly shifts the subject back towards one of a more pressing nature ( perhaps sounding a little more caustic than he intends with his own patience waning ) and wonders — and not for the first time since he had first approached — if he should simply let Dorian be on his way. Who is he to stop him? What did I do to deserve to be snapped at? He RILES because he knows the answer. Still, I didn’t ask for this...
...and neither did Dorian, he reminds himself.
What — or who — is he so afraid of?
The sigh is subtle, an exhaled breath, and the IRRITATION fades in deference to practicality as he decides to throw aside any further attempts at conventional etiquette. “ And you are in no condition to travel anywhere at the moment, Dorian. You look shaken and very pale, ” he adds gently. “ BUT you’re right, there’s absolutely no need to trouble the servants. ” He pushed open the doors. Clear glass windows cover the entire eastern wall and overhead a skylight displays an impossible array of stars over a room that is comfortable, carelessly lavish and very well lived in. Aside from a ridiculous number of exotic plants, books and scrolls and various other bits of stationary are strewn ( not quite haphazardly ) on almost every available surface as if someone were in the middle of academic warfare which the culprit would have to clear up before his mother returns home. Felix tosses the cloak aside as he moves his cello off a couch, indicating for Dorian to sit if he wishes before heading to an ornate drinks cart and pouring him a chilled glass of water. “ Here. ”
A thoughtful silence settles before he adds, “ Dorian... what ha—.... Where did my father find you? ”
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