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Whatever he had been expecting, it had not been this.
It was a sweet, cold drain, like the yellowing late-spring honeysuckles that drooped with the burden of impending decay. It was the early morning fog that drifted ever so gently over one's skin. It was a dark ambrosia that had become the air he breathed; intoxicating, poison, but never a smoother breath had drawn itself through his lungs.
Despite every sensation that embraced him, the experience did not speak to any of his physical senses (except to his eyes, which were closed anyway, and would have registered complete darkness even if they were not). However, he was used to the nonsense-logic of the rift, and his mind was open enough to accept everything as it was, no matter how beyond comprehension.
He felt Sevarog exhale slowly in the way the cloying curling coldness pushed further across his face. It was so sweet and curious in the way it tentatively explored him, and Gideon felt that in that moment he learned more about the lich than he had ever during all their time on the battlefield.
Soon enough, though, the feeling drew back, and Sevarog was standing tall again a few feet from Gideon. He had remained silent during the exchange, and that did not change; his hands were crossed as stoically as ever in front of him now, hanging down, and he gazed quietly at the riftmage with the same empty facelessness with which he regarded everything.
Gideon stared back at him for a few seconds, then smiled. "Thank you."