Cold. As the redhead spun in a rush of voices and raw energy, he felt nothing but cold. For a moment, Sivan forgot himself. He forgot war. He forgot pain. He forgot his hunger and the suffering of the hundreds still clinging pathetically to life, for whatever futile reasons, in a world desolate of all hope. He forgot the ever-present oppression of impending death, most of all. For a moment, Sivan felt absolutely nothing and it was such a beautiful relief that he wished to remain amidst this whirling vortex forever.<br/><br/>He was surrounded by a whirlwind of voices and colors, friends, past lovers, family, enemies, his own silvery tones, even. His mother's tears, though the Empath could barely recall the distant blur of her delicate visage, flowed freely as he was carried away by a hound-drawn carriage filled with other slaves. He was too young to understand monetary value at the time, that he would be easily worth more than the combined coin of every other man, woman and child piled into the cart with him. He was too young to understand that the occurrence of a redheaded child being born a slave was a rare one, and a lucrative stroke of luck for the man who held his birth contract within the folds of his coat pocket. The market was a loud and terrifying place for a toddler, especially one with his gift, untrained as it was, who'd never quite been bombarded by so many people and surrounded by such a tumultuous downpour of emotions all at once. It was overwhelming, to say the least, and he'd cried to go home, back to the safety of dirt floors, straw beds and the encompassing blanket of his mother's affection. But that memory was gone soon enough as he caught a glimpse of himself as an older child, bathed in a kaleidoscope of colors from the stained glass window above a pulpit as he played with wooden animals on the dusty floor of a chapel. The monastery, a place he'd tried to forgot but unfortunately could not remove from his past. That upbringing was an irreversible part of him now, like it or not. That place had taught the young Empath distrust, that kind words and actions were often thin veils over dark intentions. That's when he'd also begun to realize that his flaming hair could get him into a lot of trouble, that by simply coming into the world bearing a head full of fire, his mere existence placed him in danger. Thankfully, though, the memories associated with that place, those sick people, zoomed by at breakneck speeds along with the rest. Next he was surrounded by green, a color he'd nearly forgotten in the barren wastelands he'd grown accustomed to over recent years. His teenage self crept through brush, hair long and wavy, but tucked away from prying eyes, tied back and covered by a hood. He raised the first bow he'd bought himself, knocked an arrow and loosed, a grin spreading wide across his face as a small boar fell to its knees with a dying squeal. It's tender meat would would sell for a decent price at the market with the rest of the hides he'd gathered in hopes of saving for a hound of his own.  A vast library, knuckles white and fisted into blond locks as his hips pounded into the panting body beneath him. Blood carried away by a quiet stream. His? Someone else's? He had no way of knowing before the stream disappeared as well, whirling next to a world with which Sivan was all too familiar. Soldiers . . . no, rotting, stinking pillars of flesh and bone wielding sorrow, sewing death though a pathetic huddle of tents. "Find him!" He heard a woman scream and felt a powerful sadness, as if he should know her. And yet he didn't. No yet. Or did he?<br/><br/>For Sivan didn't even know himself in this moment.<br/><br/>There were so many images, too many words and thoughts flashing by him within the twisting mist. He wanted to scream, regretted coming to this confusing place . . . wherever 'here' was. How had he wound up here? He couldn't recall, only that he'd come willingly. Why had  he done that? Some of the images were his memories, he realized, all occurring simultaneously, each past, present, future and all at once as time no longer existed in this plane, only events. Sivan knew one thing, for certain, and that was he need to be free of this place before he went mad, lost himself within the liquid fabric of time. He needed something to cling to, anything just to focus long enough to ground himself.<br/><br/>As if a prayer had been answered, a hand appeared within the vortex, just along the edge of an ethereal barrier and Sivan locked onto it desperately. His fingers reached out, brushing just barely at the wall between himself and whoever had dared caress the outskirts of this impossible sea in order to find him. He didn't really care who it was, only that  he was no longer alone here and that hand had shown him the only foreseeable way out of this confusion. The hand disappeared and Sivan opened his mouth to object, but no sound came, only silence swallowed up by thousands of other voices, all his own, and yet not<i>him. <br/>
</i><br/>Desperate, when the limb appeared a second time, Sivan latched onto it, not thinking how it might startle whoever stood on the other side and not caring. He was close enough now, to see someone else beyond a thin veil. Whoever it was withdrew, but Sivan was fine with this as he'd  been shown the exit. Stepping through the portal, his body tingled as if his matter had rearranged itself. Catching his breath as if he'd just fled for his life, the redhead ignored the other man in the room, currently occupied in reorienting himself. His hands roamed over his own torso in both an attempt to take stock of his limbs and in fascination. The tunic and filthy armor were gone. The thick lines of battle scars were gone, even the ones caused by the hooked claws of a monstrosity that had nearly bested him, now replaced by smooth, warm, alabaster dusted with orange. And, much to Sivan's surprise, the bony ridges of his ribs, a part of his appearance he'd grown accustomed to and learned to think of as normal, had receded beneath healthy muscle and fat. It was as if . . .<br/><br/>As if he'd returned to the body he'd inhabited years before the war had run its course on him. He was twenty-four again.<br/><br/>And, the best part, the emotions of those he felt wandering through the streets around him weren't those of dying, hopeless and tortured souls. Sivan felt contentment, and dare he even think it? Happiness? He knew he was grinning like an invalid, but he couldn't bring himself to care.<br/><br/>Auburn eyes darted up to to meet cerulean blue, and he blinked as the other occupant of the tiny shack he now stood in, surrounded by dusty volumes and rolls of parchment, bombarded him with questions. And rightfully so. He held up a placating hand. "Just . . . stop. Please. I need a moment to . . . to . . . " He focused on his bare arm.<br/><br/>It was then that Sivan realized he donned not a single stitch of clothing as he stood before a complete stranger. "Shit! Why didn't you say something?" His hands immediately darted to cover himself, the light trail of ginger hair now disappearing into the concealed cup of his hands as he glared in exasperation at the blond man before him. A flash of familiarity washed over Sivan momentarily, but he dashed in into the farthest corners of his mind given his current state of exposure. Eyes searching the room, he grabbed the nearest article of cloth he could find, which happened to be a robe that had been tossed over the back of a chair. Now clutching the item over himself, he faced the other once more.<br/><br/>"I know this is strange, but believe me when I say I'm as startled to find myself standing unclothed in a random man's house as I'm sure you are to find a random man standing unclothed in your house." Well that had certainly been a mouthful, but he stumbled on regardless. "My name is Sivan Addenborn," he nodded, reaching out to offer his hand, the other still holding the cloak in place, without thinking the blond man might be offended given said hand's previous location. "Yes. I'm an Empath . . . " he stopped, eyeing the other as if to determine if this man, like the majority in the future he'd come from, bore him any threat, but it seemed his red hair had only been met with curiosity rather than power-hungry violence. It wasn't as if he could hide it anyways. In fact, it wasn't as if he could hide anything, currently. "I'm sorry," he shook his head. "Forgive my rudeness." Rudeness described it mildly, given his state of undress, he decided. " . . . but I didn't catch your name, I'm afraid." He'd been too busy puzzling over his new . . . err . . . old body. He'd ignored the question of  where he'd come  from, hoping fervently that this stranger would drop it for now. "Do you, uhh, mind if I . . . " he motioned the  cloak currently covering his flaccid cock from view, knowing this was a stupid question considering he'd already worn it more or less, just not properly. "Can I wear this? Until I find some clothes of my own?"