Dropping By

[Torin Kilvin]

52 Ash, 121

It had been far too long since Torin had promised to come by and watch Finn play. His life had gotten much busier much faster than he had anticipated. It was his first time starting a business, after all, his first time having a place to call his home, the first time anyone had been dependant on him for everything. Not to mention he'd started on his first big order for house Leukos almost as soon as he'd gotten good and settled. The requested delivery date wasn't for weeks yet, but the work had been there, so he'd gotten it done. Even sneaked in a couple of small personal projects at times when he'd needed to wait on the next steps of his paid work.

The fruits of that labor were tucked away into hidden places he'd discovered in his home, waiting till the special moments when he could deliver them to the little family he was beginning to gather about himself. Their existence helped him feel warm as the season sped its way on toward Frost. Timon was off to the Pavilion to study and possibly have a lesson with Kaus as well. Torin, for the first time since he'd moved, had no plans for the day. So, after breakfast and dropping Timon off with the Leukos twins, he made his way to the inn where Finn had said he could be found. It had sounded like a semi-permanent living space and Torin could only hope it was still where he was.

It was still early, not yet noon when he arrived. He figured they could catch up over a bite to eat if Finn hadn't eaten yet, and if he had they could go for a walk perhaps, or, if the other man had his own plans for the day, Torin could at least apologize and make plans for another day. When he inquired at the bar the tavern keeper said that Finn had yet to appear, but had been out late the evening before so he wasn't expected for a bit. Torin nodded, about to take a seat when the man told him that Finn's room was up the stairs around back if he wanted to knock.

Torin considered this. He didn't want to wake the musician if he needed his sleep, but he could check for signs of life, knock quietly and go away if nothing came of it. Leave a note maybe.

Taking himself out of the warm tavern, his long legs making short work of the stairs around the back that took him to the door to Finn's room. There didn't seem to be any sounds coming from inside so he knocked quietly, spoke equally quietly, but loudly enough that someone on the other side would hear a voice.

"Finn? It's Torin, uhm, Torin Kilvin. I know it's been longer than I said it would be. I'm sorry, my work has been much greater than I thought it would be. I just wanted to know if you'd let me buy you some lunch as an apology?"

[Finn]

Your heart is more than a machine
Pumping blood through your body, doing things you've never seen
Their words come like arrows when they fly
With mechanical precision, they can cut you up inside

Dreams had been a respite from pain, but even the quiet knock started him awake, and the pain came flooding back in. The voice was familiar. He groaned, and picked himself up off the floor. Memories came back in pieces, enough to get him moving, though some was held back, his mind wanting to preserve his sanity, perhaps.

Torin. Torin Kilvin. The smith who had sung with him, who had come to his recital at the Pyrecaeon, even brought his fellow apprentice who was probably, by now, his apprentice. Those memories were easier than the most recent ones. He slumped against the door. A part of him wanted to send Torin away. A part of him was ashamed. A part of him was a dog who crawled away from its family to die alone. Another part of him understood that he needed help. He wished Arry was here, or even Lyra. He had prayed to Talon for a moment last night while he performed, wanting to share a bit of it with the prince-cum-demigod. He could have prayed to him and he supposed he might even have come.

He was all mixed up.

"Torin," he croaked. He swallowed, dry-mouthed.

"Torin, I got mugged last night." He tried to swallow again.

"I'm really messed up, but... I'm gonna let you in, just... don't freak out, all right?"

Finn unlocked the door and staggered back a bit so Torin would have a bit of distance when he saw him. He couldn't see himself, couldn't see how blood had dried black all over his face, matted in his hair. One eye was swollen near shut. His lip was split. Under his clothes, he was mottled with bruises. It hurt to breathe, and his left hand was held instinctively to his chest, the fingers unmoving as even the slightest movement hurt. He knew at least one of the little bones was broken. His career could be over.

He laughed harshly.

"Fuck."

[Torin Kilvin]

There came first the sounds of a little bit of movement from inside, which was promising. He hoped it was promising and he wasn't disturbing the man in the depth of writing or having sex. Very quiet sex.

Then there were words. Finn's voice sounded blown out, somehow, as if he'd been crying hard or singing longer than his voice could take. It took a few moments for the words to make sense in Torin's head, then his eyes went wide. He nodded, steeling himself and his expression at the request that he remain calm. Calm was better, in cases of injury or emergency. When Aurin had been hurt Torin had gone into a place in his head where helping without dramatics made sense, he tried to return there as he heard the lock on the door unlatch.

The sight that awaited when he carefully pushed open the door was, at least visually, much worse than when he'd stopped by to find Aurin recovering from an attack.

"Oh." Was all he let himself say for a moment. "Oh, Finn." He tried to keep the sorrow he felt out of his voice but with only mild success. Stepping fully into the room he shut the door so the cool air would stop pouring into the small space. The fire was not lit and, based on the smears of blood present on the floor but not the bed, it seemed as though the musician had passed on just inside the night before.

"How bad is it?" If there was blood loss but Finn was no longer bleeding and had survived the night he might just need cleaning up, perhaps a few stitches. Stepping forward slowly with his hands in front of him where they could be seen he looked into the other man's eyes. There were signs of deeper injuries, Torin didn't really know them but if something was obvious he would see it. Blown pupils were one he knew. He would ask about what had happened later, for now seeing to the aftermath, ensuring Finn was safe, was what mattered.

[Finn]

Perhaps it was illogical, but his kneejerk response to eyes on him was embarrassment. Combined with how bad his body hurt, it almost felt like shame. He wondered if things would have gone differently if he had brought his sword despite the ban by the Order of Reconciliation. He wondered if he oughtn't to have sung that song, though now by the light of day, he wondered if that wasn't just some far-fetched narrative his mind had come up with in order to make sense of senseless violence.

"Like I got run over by a band of horses," he croaked, then noticed the blood on the floor. It was dried. He tried to scuff at it with his boot so it could be swept away. Then, he would probably have to borrow a bucket and a brush and do some scrubbing. He felt guilty for making a mess. His mind was pointing fingers and most of them were pointing at him.

"I don't really know," he admitted. "Your knocking woke me up."

But his shoulders were hunched and his left hand held protectively against his chest, which couldn't be a good sign. The man's hands were his livelihood as much as his voice and whatever part of him produced his music. He flinched when Torin's hands came for his face, but then steeled himself and let him play doctor. Perhaps he knew a thing or two; Finn didn't actually know him all that well, though he seemed a friendly, good sort, and an appréciateur of music.

"Am I pretty?" he asked, uncharacteristically sharp. Then he laughed. It was ugly. No, he was crying—or trying to. It was still ugly. There was a numbness inside preventing him from feeling too much, perhaps to keep him moving.

[Torin Kilvin]

Torin nodded, the man looked like he'd been run over by horses.

"You're beautiful." He said, easy and honest, because he rarely saw the physical form of a person. He saw Aurin's body, and oddly, occasionally Sivan's, but most other people he didn't judge on their forms. Finn was beautiful because his soul was made of music and he knew things that Torin knew, he was genuinely generous and tried to give people what they needed. All of those were rare as they were lovely, so Finn was lovely.

"I don't think you have a concussion, but I have no real training, only what my first master taught me when I'd knock my head as a child. Your hand is, I'm sorry, broken, though it might not be as bad as it looks, and by your breathing, your ribs are at least bruised. Your face needs cleaning, but it doesn't look like your scalp is split or you need stitches. We can wait and wash your face, if you don't want to draw attention, but we should get you to the Tranquil Gardens as soon as may be. May I do down to ask the tavern keeper for hot water and soap?"

He didn't step any closer than he had to and lowered his hands from their light though; some people weren't alright with others close to them after a bad beating.

"I'll borrow a horse from the tavern keeper as well, until we know if those ribs are broken you shouldn't walk that far." He could have borrowed a hand cart instead, and it would probably be safer than Finn climbing onto a horse, but the man seemed frayed and bitter, tight like a lute string with its peg too tight; about to snap. Asking him to submit to the indignity of being made a public spectacle would likely do more harm to his mind than riding would do to his body.

[Finn]

Finn laughed bitterly at Torin's assurance, though he had no reason to doubt him. The laughter hurt and cut off abruptly; tears welled up not from pain, but from worry that Arry wouldn't find him beautiful anymore. Words spilled out of Torin and Finn heard some of them, nodding when he was asked questions, not because he necessarily agreed, but because he couldn't think straight but someone he had determined to be a good person was trying to make decisions for him when he found he couldn't.

He supposed he ought to hoist himself up and force himself to think, to action, but he found it difficult. It was easier to be numb.

Tranquil Gardens, the name and the place registered. But his hand was broken—he didn't know whether he ought to trust them or perhaps go to Lyra instead. The woman knew him, valued him, and was, as far as he could tell, a master necromancer. She might be better equipped to heal the damage done to the fine bones in his hand, and whatever attendant, auxiliary damage the thugs had done to it.

He tried to formulate thoughts as Torin went into action for him. He wondered why Arry wasn't here, wondered how he could get Arry to be here. Perhaps he oughtn't to bother the man, who was most likely in rehearsals and needed to attend to his career. Thoughts intruded, but they probably didn't make a great deal of sense. Trauma was new to Finn.

If Torin left him there to fetch things and arrange transportation, Finn would remain and continue to try to scuff the blackened spots of blood from the floor as if that would solve everything. He had to do something, though, and that was what his mind had fixated on for the time being.

[Torin Kilvin]

Finn was nodding when he was asked questions. Torin wasn't perfectly sure the other man actually understood, and that worried him more. He knew Finn's family lived far outside the city and while he almost certainly had closer friends than Torin himself, the smith did not know any of them.

Stepping outside he closed the door behind himself and then went down to speak to the Tavern keeper, the man appeared concerned but Torin assured him he was handling it. He wasn't sure Finn would want a lot of fuss, or his employer knowing how badly he was injured, particularly where his hands were concerned. The mad assured Torin that a horse would be ready when he needed it and gave him a large bucket of steaming hot water, soap, and several clean cloths.

Taking his acquisitions back up the stairs he stepped into the comfortable little room again.

"Here, can you sit on the bed, or in your chair? Don't if it hurts." When Finn was settled in the position of his choosing Torin went about gently washing away the blood, and quite a bit of dirt from his face and hair. His lip was badly split and there would be no hiding the bruises from anyone who looked at him directly. Examining the cuts and splits he could see in Finn's skin made Torin frown. There was a lot of blood. Not so much that the smith was worried the musician would die right there in front of him, but enough, combined with what was on the floor and what his vivid imagination told him would have been left on the street where it had happened, that he wanted to get some fluid into him immediately. There was a pitcher of drinking water and a clay cup, so he poured some and held the cup to Finn's lips for him to sip, accepting when he did so very slowly.

"I might be able to stitch the cuts if they aren't too deep. It doesn't look like you were stabbed with anything sharp." That only made the places where Finn's pale, pretty skin and split seem even more traumatic. How hard did you have to kick someone to make their skin tear? Torin tried not to think about it.

"Who did this?" Perhaps Finn did not know, but if there was a reason behind it more than a robbery, and Torin didn't see the point of beating someone so badly only to take their purse, it might be important to know before they left the room. When the cup was empty and set aside Torin used the rag to soak through the wreck of a shirt Finn wore, knowing from experience that trying to remove it with dried blood gluing it to wounds would be a painful mistake. When it was soaked through enough that it came away easily he lifted it slowly, not trying to remove it, knowing that bruised or broken ribs would make lifting the arms excruciating. Examining the wash of black, purple and blue that met his eyes was painful enough all on its own.


Oh, Finn..." The look of shared sorrow on his face would have embarrassed him if he'd been able to think of anything beyond what he was seeing. "We must get you to a healer, I don't know any outside of the Tranquil Gardens but I'd be afraid to even let you sleep like this."

[Finn]

Finn wasn't entirely himself, but he was responsive to Torin's urgings. He took a seat on the edge of his bed, wanting nothing more than to lie down and let oblivion, or at least slumber, claim him again. He couldn't know whether pain would abide with him even when subconscious. Perhaps Torin, tall and strong, could keep him safe or at least if he wasn't conscious, he wouldn't have to worry at all about his health. He wouldn't have to worry at all.

"No blades," he averred, misunderstanding the thrust of Torin's observations. "Had to leave it at home. No weapons at the party." Then, when asked who had done this, he realized before he spoke that monsters was not quite correct. He shrugged, not really knowing who the thugs had been, though he assumed they were connected somehow with the Order of Reconciliation or, worse, Kalzasern sympathizers. The shrug hurt, so he grimaced.

His eyes cleared a bit, however, in his bruised, bloodied face. He looked curiously at Torin, thanked him. Then, he began to ease himself out of his shirt with Torin's help.

"Not the Tranquil Gardens," he protested. Somewhere in his pain-clouded mind, he was still trying to budget himself. "I'll go to Lyra. At Ale'Ephirium... She knows necromancy." He started weeping. "I can't play anymore..."

Finn was a mess.

[Torin Kilvin]

Finn did not appear to be entirely understanding Torin and that worried him even more than the blood. There had been a mill worker in his village who had hit his head hard and he'd never been the same. There had been no magical healer and while the herbs and poultices that the mundane healer woman had used had stopped the bleeding and closed the wound the man's mind had never returned to how he had been before. Difficulty understanding things had been the first sign of the permanent damage.

If it was not a common thing, banning weapons at larger gatherings, Torin might have suspected an intentional plot to harm the busker. As it was he could not imagine why Finn had been attacked. Torin's mind was not slow, but his understanding of the internal workings of politics and business beyond simple shopkeeping or merchant endeavors was severely lacking.

When his question went unanswered he was not surprised. It had been late, and unless the busker had specific enemies, figuring out who the attackers had been would be guesswork. He continued to clean the wounds as best he could, wishing he could bandage them but knowing that whatever healer they saw would only unwrap them again. The shirt they worked to remove together was beyond salvaging, torn and more red than its original color. He could have torn it to strips to use as bandaging but it was so dirty, even beyond the blood that Torin thought it would do more harm than good.

Finn thanking him was nice but it felt odd to Torin. He was beginning to understand that the world was not made out of only good people and bad people. Bad people who would do you harm and good people who would help fix it. Most people seemed to fall into the space between, people who would do you little or no harm, but would also do little or nothing to fix what harm had been done.

It seemed that Finn too had friends who were versed in the magical arts. Though Torin would not have taken Finn to Kala, knowing she was still learning. He had heard of the place Finn was asking to be taken to and had a vague idea of where it was. He should be able to ask directions from the innkeeper, and from street people as he went if it was far.

The blond's planning thoughts were disrupted when pain of an entirely different kind broke free from Finn and began to leak out. Torin wrapped his arms around the smaller man, trying to be careful of his many injuries but thinking that the damage done to him that went beyond the physical might be the worst. The smith had avoided looking at or touching the wreck of Finn's hand as soon as he'd realized it was broken. Even cleaning it would likely have only done more damage to the delicate structure and Torin could only hope that the woman Finn had named was very good at her trade.

One of his large hands came to cup the back of Finn's head gently, cradling it almost protectively.

"It's alright, you can feel it. I'll get you to the healer and we'll see what can be done, but you can let it out." It was what he needed, when he was grieving, so it was all he knew to offer.

[Arvælyn]

"Awaken." A quiet whisper pervaded Arry's mind. Unvoiced and breathy, he somehow still knew its source.

"Mother..." He rasped as his golden eyes opened to regard a golden vision- Cithaera seemed to hover in mid-air with a light to rival the resplendent sun blindingly to her rear. There were others, though their faces were obscured as if lit only from behind by that glaring light. He counted nine in total, including his mother. He could see that some had golden hair like his own and his mother's, whilst two had raven dark hair. Beyond that there was little to be gleaned except their general shapes- long, slender lines with flowing robes- pointed ears, all.

"Awaken." She repeated- her face coming into view, clear and beautiful.

"I am awake." Arry replied with a grimace.

"I speak not to thee, Arvalyn, but to the seed of power I planted long ago..." He had never heard her speak the name he'd adopted upon arriving in Kalzasi. The one time they'd spoken, he'd been Arvine. "In the rich soil of your body, warmed by the ancient, desert sun that beat down upon your revered ancestors and nourished by the moonlit blood that shadows The Race of Sol'Avaerys, it has grown potent." She declared in a full, throaty alto. It was in this moment he realised there was music over which she was speaking. The other eight sung in celestial tones and an ancient tongue that seemed for all the world to echo the words Cithaera intoned.

"What power? What-..." Before he could finish his thought, her voice rose in volume as did the chorus pouring in from behind her like a tidal wave.

"O Child of the Dual Realm, within thee awakens glory and the puissance to ply the people of these realms toward thy bidding! Practise thy will with the brazenness of the harbinging Sun or the subtlety of the whispering Moons, but do so henceforth with the sagacity that is thy birthright!" The singing began to decrescendo, and the light began to fade.

"My birthright?!" Arry knitted his brow as vexed as he was confused by this intrusion.

"Until thy pilgrimage is upon us..." Again her voice was little more than an unvoiced whisper as darkness began to overtake the light that had shone from her very flesh. "Adieu."

And all was black, until his eyes opened and he shot up in bed. A dream. Quaking, he buried his face in his hands and wept. A fucking dream. Could it have been more? Of course, but what would it serve to believe that was the case? How could it benefit him at all?

He checked the time,

"Shit." Finn would be waiting. He shot up and quickly groomed himself, threw on a simple outfit consisting of black trousers and a matching doublet bejewelled with fake rubies. He decided to spring for a coach to deliver him to the Low City where he was dropped off at the Crown and Lion. He was known in the bar, now, but that was all the more reason he ducked round the building- as not to be slowed by the friendly banter of his acquaintance patrons. He jogged up the steps, his knee-high black boots thudding heavily upon the wood until he reached the door and opened it to step inside.

"Sorry, I'm late! I had the strangest dr-..." He froze, unable to process for a moment what was happening. He'd expected to find Finn lounging with his lute or losing himself in ink and quill penning some new lyric to awe Kalzasi's elite. But what he actually found wasn't Finn at all, at first, but another familiar figure. The very first of the series of strong emotions that was to overtake Arry over the next few moments was bewilderment. He'd been out of sorts on the rush to get here, unsettled as he'd been by that particular dream, and wondered whether he'd somehow put himself into the wrong context. Torin wasn't a part of this corner of his life, he was part of the Aurin portion and rarely, if ever, had the twain chanced to meet. Unless...

The next emotion struck when his eyes fell to find Finn was, indeed, present and these worlds had indeed collided. He let out a sharp little breath through clenched teeth and glared at Torin, unable to focus upon Finn.
Finn was familiar with Arry's Craft- Enough so that he would be able to see, unadulterated, what was transpiring, though Torin might not have had the senses to envisage it all. Arry's fingers curled like claws at his side as a golden light seemed to explode from one of his wrists behind the brace that covered it. The glow seemed to shoot up from there, following the curves and streams of his veins up his neck, and through his face. Something unlocked as his glower began to glow with an unearthly radiance.

Many times Finn had seen Arry's aetheric energies rising from his flesh like small, timid tendrils that cautiously floated toward the symphonies of others. There had always been something graceful and fluid about them, but he had never seen them look like the razor sharp hackles that now seemed to protrude from his Rune-bearing arm. All at once, that arm whipped forward toward Torin and his will shot forth like a spray of harpoons with whip-taut tendrils reaching into Torin's chest and projecting a horrible cacophonous discord into his symphony. Old traumas were fresh in his mind, after the strange dream from which he'd woken to enter this living nightmare, and so he deployed those crippling feelings of woe into Torin. The death of his father, the cold, lifelong dismissal of his mother- The way he'd felt when Torin had taken Aurin from him. That was the worst of all- as if envy was the mightiest emotion in all of Arry's psyche. He wove all of his anguish, anger and hatred into a rope of misery that seemed to drain Torin of any modicum of contentedness- replacing it with abject, crippling despair.

"Suffer." He commanded in a chorus of dissonant voices, and his weeping, golden eyes went silver.

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