"Kingdom Come"

[Arvælyn]

"Kingdom Come"
15 Searing, 122 Steel

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The bath had been just the thing after so long and cramped a journey. At last they were able to luxuriate at length with pomp and privacy both of which had been scarce on the most recent, nautical leg of their trek. They got clean, then dirty, then clean again over the span of a few hours in their provisional apartments at the villa. But as the sacred solar disc of this realm made its lazy path away from the seas toward the desert horizon, they knew that carefree relaxation would soon give way to a more constricting form of recreation- Dinner with royalty.

Arry felt fortunate to have had at least some experience in regal company, and he expressed his gratitude to Finn for facilitating that prerequisite knowledge vehemently and frequently as they dressed for dinner. The mode of fashion Arry had grown to fancy in Kalzasi didn't translate well to their current climate, he realised. He'd grown quite fond of styles considered Southern in Kalzasi, though they originated far, far Northwest of here. The garb that ended up feeling most suitable to the impending event was of Kalzasern make. The flowing robes of the Avialae princely class served well in the warmer weather. Arry thought he read somewhere that their winged overlords didn't feel cold as elves or humans did, and so such clothing was still oft worn in the cooler Kalzasern climate.

Standing before a mirror, Arry turned to inspect and appraise the evening's attire: A formal hanfu suit dominated by a crimson and gold fan pattern, with angular shoulders and a braided belt tied tight enough to emphasise his narrow, elven waist. The hem of the skirt ended at his ankles, where boots with upturned, pointed toes were visible beneath. His hair was waxed to hold a shape that seemed artfully messy- slicked back without being slicked down. The boots offered him a bit more height than nature had afforded, and the heavy heels sounded loudly against the marble tile in the resonant chambers of the villa.

"Nerves are good in these sorts of situations, I think..." Arry mused aloud, as he stalked over to Finn- forcing himself to stop hemming and hawing over his appearance, at least for the moment. "But I do think I may be a scad more anxious than is beneficial. Would you mind tuning up my Symphony just a bit? I don't want to be boring in front of the Sentinel..." He knew too well that he could clam up when he was nervous.

A knock at the door.

"Shit, I guess it's time..."

[Finn]

The elf and his human had coordinated quite a bit while packing for this trip. Already, Finn was considering investing in some more local attire when they arrived in Solunarium. The tunics and sandals just seemed much more sustainable for whenever he wasn't supping with royalty. He had opted for a summer weight kimono, the middle layer practically diaphanous. He didn't want to sweat through the finery if he could help it. The pale blue at the top brought out his eyes, and the ombré bled darker downward. It made him think of day turning into night. Stylized night birds were embroidered near the hems.

Finn was the stem; Arvalyn was the flower.

All the same, his hair was lightly oiled so what little curl it had was highlighted.

"I think you are right," he agreed. But he did offer a little correction, lilting with jest: "Cacas."

He gave Arry a once-over, and nodded approvingly. His approval might never be enough, but it might assuage the elf's nerves somewhat. The would-be bard began to sing under his breath as he walked toward the door to open it. Music did help him focus his gift, and he was still playing the pliant concubine.

"In your tears and in your blood
In your fire and in your flood
I hear you laugh, I heard you sing
I wouldn't change a single thing."

His little bit of song and sorcery was meant to enliven them both, but smooth out any jittery discordance of anxiety. Phocion liked them well enough to invite them to Solunarium, to host them in his royal family's home. In all likelihood, he would not be looking for some reason to change his mind about them. They had but to be the same Arvalyn and Finn who had amused him in Kalzasi.

[Arvælyn]

Arry chuckled and shook his head at Finn for turning his expletive Vastian. He stepped up to the human and fussed with the collar of the minstrel's garment as he quietly began to sing, then stepped aside to let him open the door.

"Deener weel begeen shortly." A slave announced, gesturing down the corridor and bowing. It sounded like the phrase had been learnt by rote moments earlier, Arry thought, as he claimed Finn's arm and followed the servant toward the rear gardens. They would find a table had been set up in a small courtyard overlooking the cliffs above the sea. The dining area was encircled by ivy-laden arches and lit by torchlight. Fruit, bread and cheese were artfully arrayed on tiered platters with oils of various hues in glass flasks. Servants stood between the arches, some holding flagons and others empty-handed. Two of the latter moved to pull chairs out for the guests, who would note that the table had been set for five. Arry was placed at one head of the table, with Finn to his right.

"It look as though we're first to arrive." Arry noted, a bit annoyed at having been rushed only to arrive first, but he supposed that was royal privilege at work and held his tongue as he took his seat. Another slave stepped forth to offer wine, and he quickly nodded his approval.

His golden eyes glimmering in the dancing light of the torches and candles surveyed the spread before him, until a starker light shone from the archway across from him and his gaze darted to assess its source.

Bolts of white lightning seemed to strike the marble arch with greater and greater frequency until they coalesced to form a blinding light that filled the entire interior of the arch. He held a hand up to shield his eyes from the luster, as a silhouette emerged. Though he was backlit, the long slender frame, the pitch dark hair and the brooding carriage clearly marked the figure as their Solunarian host, Phocion.

Arry bolted from his seat, and offered a genteel bow.

"Salvete." The Solunarian prince offered as he stepped toward the table inclining his head to each guest. Meanwhile, a servant with eyes downcast moved to pull out the seat beside Finn, toward which Phocion moved, though he paused beside it and placed a hand on its back as he turned his attention to the portal behind him.

Another figure appeared in the arch, not quite as tall as Phocion, but broader of Torso and with a face so chiseled one could even note the jagged jawline in the silhouette provided by the backlighting of the portal. The figure moved to stand beside the chair opposite Finn and Phocion and, as the light from the table's candelabras settled on his face the well-sculpted, strikingly handsome elf evoked the resolute colossus of Aværys that had greeted them at the harbour far below.

Before an introduction could be made, a third figure appeared in the portal. Shorter than the prior two, with long hair and a feminine physique. Arry recognised the voice before light found her face.

"Welcome to Solunarium, Arvælyn..." Cithæra offered, in a voice as cool as the evening breeze sweeping up from the sea below. "Your motherland." A faintly amused smile painted the regal countenance that now came into view as she stepped up to the head of the table opposite her son. She cast a wry, sidelong glance to Finn and winked to him.

"You were not meant to bring him so soon, minstrel, but it is just as well." Without shifting her gaze from Finn, the Princeps Sibylla nodded to a slave, who quickly obliged to pull her chair out for her. "Dis aliter visum." She gestured, and the stony-faced Phocion and his golden counterpart across from him took their seats.

[Finn]

"Thank you," he said in Common to the slave, a thread of his Mesmer twining into the man's symphony to give him the gist of his words and perhaps a slight uptick in his mood to show that gratitude. Arm in arm with his lover, they followed, taking in more of the villa, and he wasn't sure whether it was better or worse to have arrived before their host. The extra seats made an eyebrow rise. Perhaps Phocion had a wife, but even then, there was another mystery guest. They were seated and given wine, though he didn't touch his just yet.

Finn nodded to Arry's observation, but didn't speak, rather upholding the loop in their symphonies. His own underscored Arry's, bolstering it and acting as a metronome to keep it from careening wildly. It was a good thing he did so.

The flash of lights in the next room coincided with electric shivers through his body, centering on his Rune of Traversion. Someone was traveling by magical means. He stood with a bit more aplomb than Arry, but not much. His smile was sincere when he saw Phocion enter, though the elf seemed to smile less than when he had been on Kalzasern shores.

"Salve, Your Resplendence," he said with a bow. When the seating arrangement became a bit clearer, he could still only guess, and then turn his head toward the flashing arch. He bowed to the golden elf, and the woman who followed him. Arry's symphony surged at the sight of her, and her familiar words and the shape of her features made him think immediately that she must be his mysterious mother.

"Pardon my ignorance," he begged, "but I know not how to address you, Domine. I offer all respect and honor that are yours to claim." He daren't smooth things over with his Rune, given this might be the very woman who had given Arry his. When his social betters were seated, he too would sit, though not before Arry, less a human taking precedence over an elf, even a half-elf, cause offense.

[Arvælyn]

Cithæra chuckled at Finn's apparent eagerness to please. She addressed the dumbstruck Arry, who was slow to take his seat- and trembling as he did so.

"I like this one, Filius." Her golden eyes turned to Finn and she smiled with the warmth of the noonday sun,

"It is I who should be begging pardons here today, Finn." As she said so, Phocion pursed his lips and adjusted his positioning in his seat as if he felt he was among those whose pardon should be begged. She cast him a subtle glance, which was enough to abruptly cut short his furtive act of rebellion.

"After all, it is I who have turned up unannounced. A pattern which surely vexeth my youngest son as it doth my eldest." And with that, she placed a gentle hand on Phocion's shoulder and looked upon his grimace with a warmth that softened it. Arry looked to Phocion, with wide eyes and the Silver son nodded grudging confirmation to the Golden. They were kinsmen.

"It is true." Phocion granted, softly to Arry, before clearing his throat and looking to Finn. "Tonight you have the honour of dining with Her Serene Highness Camilla Phædryn-Sol’Aværys Cithæra Princeps, Vigilia Magna of the Silver Sentinels, Princeps Sibylla of the Conclave of Electors and Materfamilias of the Gens of Phædryn."

Cithæra inclined her head to Finn.

"And my camerarius," She gestured to the golden elf at her right hand, "His Grace, Leukus Val'Sorokys Kyrin." The stiff-backed man tipped his head in a wordless greeting to Finn and then to Arry. "But..." The princess continued, "I think it best we set aside the pomp and circumstance for the evening. There will be time enough to prepare for the honorific expectations of the more exacting amongst us- Phocion will aid you in that endeavour- but for now, we are at a family gathering." Her smile faded as she regarded Arry's angry eyes, "...albeit an impromptu one." She conceded, almost apologetically.

Arry reached a quaking hand toward his wine goblet and drew it to his lips, draining the contents in a series of inexorable gulps.

"Arvælyn..." She sighed, "You are passing cross with me, and I do understand it. I will take great pains to make you comprehend the reasons for my apparent negligence toward you, when the time is right. But I do not wish for you to dwell in the misapprehension that my absence was borne of malice or disregard. So, I invite you to explore my Symphony." A sharp glance to Finn, "You may as well, for I sense a Mastery of Mesmer in this minstrel- even now entwining with my son's æther.

"I will focus upon you, Arvælyn, and make no effort to conceal the veracity of my feelings. I cannot tell you everything- Not yet. But I can impart that I love you, and have spent all your years making sacrifices to protect you. Listen to my soul's song and feel that love... And, if you see fit to punish me, then give me your pain and I will take it on as mine own. I will shoulder your burdens, if t'would lighten your load."

A tear leapt forth from Arry's eye as, under the table, his fingers dug into Finn's thigh and his Symphony begged for balming.

[Finn]

Finn was surprised at the warmth the woman directed at him, but not so much as her full title. His eyes widened a bit, and he bowed more formally than he had to her son.

"Your Serene Highness," he said. And to her chamberlain, "Your Resplendence."

Those formalities at least out of the way, he nodded, acceding to her will toward familiarity, at least here, in private. When Kyrin looked at him, he found himself smiling; they were the two people at the table most likely to feel like the fifth wheel to the family drama unfolding. And Phocion—Finn had genuinely liked the urbane diplomat and hoped this wouldn't sour things. In the end, he was on Arry's team, of course. Arvælyn Val'Cithæron. What had been a stage name turned out to be much closer to the truth than Arvine Venasyr. Or perhaps Arvine Venasyr was more true as it was the name attached to Arry's lived experience.

It would be a tangle, for certes.

"It is not my place, Domina," he objected respectfully. While he didn't understand her motives, his anger on Arry's behalf was more qualified, more complicated in its own way. He thought Arry deserved explanation, of course, and he was angry that she had caused him such ongoing trauma, but he didn't know what worse things that might have prevented. His hand fell over Arry's, not protesting the pain. "But perhaps I can help."

Finn took that hand in both of his and turned toward Arry. He could give him balm, stability, and calm, allowing his lover to be more objective in this exchange; processing what he found emotionally could come later. His hand came up to touch that beautiful, beloved face.

"My mind to your mind," he murmured. "My thoughts to your thoughts."

He took Arry's pain, the roil of emotions into his own heart. They were still there, and the lovers were still attached, but Arry could observe his emotions without being drawn into them. Finn experienced that. His hand fell back down to Arry's. They squeezed him and then withdrew to his lap. He closed his eyes, but it was not enough to keep the tears from rolling down his cheek in silence. It was, he thought, the best he could do for Arry in this moment, and it was worth the suffering.

[Arvælyn]

"I know it may feel overbold, but tonight you may call me Cithæra, as I call you Finn." Her Common, like Phocion's, was delivered in the Kalzasern dialect. It was very unlikely that they'd learned from a native of Karnor, which meant that they were practised enough in the tongue to not only discern, but also replicate the nuances of different accents. Arry wasn't sure whether it was meant to put them at ease or unnerve them with the unearned familiarity it implied.

All three of the elves at the table were gaping at Arvalyn. His mother's golden gaze was nurturing and tentative, his brother's silver-white stare was pained and plaintive, and the other with eyes the colour of rust shone impassive in the firelight. It was unnerving to that point that, for once in his life, he didn't feel like acting.

"Do you know..." He began, weak-voiced through clenched teeth, "...what I did in Antiris? In Kalzasi, whilst you all sat at fancy tables like this dining on haute cuisine and fine wine?" Hints of his Antiran accent came out in his choked words, as tears continued to fall.

"I know." Cithæra replied gently, "But they do not." She leaned forward slightly, staring unwaveringly into his eyes as he glared into hers. "Words are weak. Impart your pain to me with the true language of Solunarium: Aether." She spoke the word with a rare religiosity, and Arry sighed.

"Very well..." He replied, looking to Finn as his lover offered aid in that same tongue they shared between them.

"Do not take this on, sweeting. If she would know my pain, let me offer it in its entirety." He released his grip on Finn's leg and turned his hand up to catch the minstrel's, as he regarded his mother. "Very well, Mother. Know me, at last."

With a blink, his golden eyes flashed white, but unlike Phocion's they glowed with their own light. The veins at his wrist emanated enough heat that Finn could feel it pulsing from the hand that clutched his. The other hand extended and sharp tendrils sprung forth to latch at Cithæra's heart, causing her to gasp.

She may have known with the insufficient understanding that words could impart, and felt as though she empathised with her youngest son, but it was nothing akin to the commiseration he inflicted upon her. It was one thing to know her son had suffered and scraped- Been abused and violated and felt wholly unprotected, and that had been hard enough on her. But this...

Cithæra's lip trembled and her hands shook. She clutched the table, needing to fortify herself to hold the gaze of her wrathful son. Her eyes poured with tears borne of her son's anguish, now made her own.

Phocion looked to Cithæra and his eyes widened. He looked uncertain, and then frightened. Kyrin remained unmoving, his eyes locked on Arry with stony stoicism.

"Enough!" Phocion barked, but the Mesmer didn't seem to hear him.

"Look upon me, mother." He hissed in a voice beyond his own- A voice Finn had only heard twice before, and the first time he'd been in no state to properly register it, when it had been used to command Torin. The second time it had been used to command strangers to protect them at Talon's wedding massacre. "Regard what you have wrought."

"Enough!" Phocion repeated, louder now- Bursting from his chair.

"What do you see, Mother?" Arry's voices demanded.

"Stop him, Finn!" Phocion looked from the human, to Kyrin for aid, but it was Cithæra herself who lifted a quivering hand to silence her silver son. Slowly, with streaming eyes and tension in her neck so stark it looked as though the veins might burst, she rose from her chair to answer his question in the classical tongue of their elven ancestors:

"Power." Was her answer. And though one could hear none of it in her voice, one could see it in eyes that looked as angry as his own. That, too, he had imparted into her. "Power!" She repeated in Common, stronger now and suddenly, she was released.

"Mater!" Phocion caught her as she stumbled, and Arry gasped as the tendrils of light receded back toward his body, and into his Rune. The light in his eyes snuffed out and he crumpled into his chair. He grasped at Finn, incognizant of his fine clothes and his fingers dug and pulled to be closer- to be comforted and enveloped by the larger human.

Cithæra settled back into her seat, and recomposed herself. Gesturing for Phocion to return to his own chair, as she regarded her now sniveling youngest.

"Now I know your anguish. Would you know my love?" She wiped at her cheeks with a hand that still tremoured slightly. "Hear my heartsong, Arvælyn."

[Finn]

Finn wasn't certain he could call her Cithæra, but he would try. The Kalzasern Shinsei had bade him call him Talon, but that had felt at least partially earned with time spent together in informal spaces. But he was determined to support Arry in this as in all things. If this put him in a difficult situation, well, nobody said love was easy, not even poets and bards.

Just like that, Arry took his pain back. Finn didn't cling to it, didn't fight him for it, but instead stilled his own symphony so it would take another Master Mesmer to force it out of him. He didn't enjoy seeing Arry like this; it made Torin's fear and suspicion feel entirely founded. It recalled traumatic events in his own story.

It felt as though he were in an immersive piece of theater. Kyrin observed, Cithæra and Arvælyn struggled, and Phocion tried to mediate. When he called on Finn to intervene, he could only wipe away remnant tears and spead his hands helplessly. His words would fall upon deaf ears and any attempt to overpower him would only make matters worse. He knew enough of Vallenor from his studies to recognize the word before she translated it, though he wasn't sure he understood every connotation to her use. In shared rage, they certainly looked like mother and son.

Finn had to wonder if his own mother harbored such intense emotions when it came to his siblings and to him, or whether this was a script being played out for Arry's benefit. It would seem histrionic if he didn't know how much this meant to his lover.

[Arvælyn]

Phocion glared at his hitherto estranged brother with a snarl, now, though he didn't seem much more pleased with their mother, who'd been quick to shirk what comfort he'd sought to offer. He leaned close to the latter, and hissed in Vallenor:

"What is the meaning of this exercise? It seems you've kept a dangerous secret."

"Discretion, Phocion. Your brother knows Mythrasi and his paramour knows something of Vallenor." Her eyes darted to Finn to gauge what, if anything, he understood of their exchange. She was the preeminent practitioner of the Craft of Semblance in all of Solunarium as per her duties in service to the Conclave of Electors, and she made no effort to conceal her use of the ability in the here and now. Arry would recognise similar notes from Aurin's Symphony, though he naturally played those themes quite distinctly from Cithæra.

"Arvælyn." The princess prompted again, causing the young half-elf to lift his head from Finn's chest.

"This feels like a ruse." Arry whispered to Finn, "A feint after some fashion." He stared across the table to Cithaera and opened his Rune to enough æther that he could cursorily scan the Symphonies around him without doing any sort of deep probing.

Finn, the closest and most familiar, was easy to read. He was cautious, anxious and felt out of his depth. He sensed that his actions thus far had disturbed the minstrel and his heart sank at that. Eager to drop that theme from his focus, he shifted his attention to Phocion, whose vexation was in earnest. He seemed to have genuinely been blindsided prior to coming here and was yet reeling from the effects. He felt angry, overlooked. Kyrin's was a strange Symphony- Tranquil with a mild curiosity, but little that begged him to delve any deeper. And then, farthest, there was his mother. He'd been within her Symphony and his influence was still present. He was surprised to find fear in the woman who'd always seemed so implacable. He couldn't discern whether she was scared for him or scared of him.

"Did you trouble yourself to give me a name when I was born?" He inquired coolly, "Or did you leave that to Ruslan?"

"I called you Phædryn." She replied with a faint smile, though a guarded motif entered her Symphony, "Your protector took an Antiran name and gave one to you."

Arry wrinkled his nose,

"So, I am Phædryn-Sol'Aværys Phædryn?"

"You truly think me terribly cruel, Arvælyn." She offered with a cautious chuckle, "No. Your nomen is Val'Aværyan, after the fashion of baseborn children of divine descent. I understand that you were reared in cultures with a harsh view of bastardy, but hither you stand above dukes and lords."

Arry's rage softened as did his mistrust- Too eager was he to believe what he was now being told.

"Then I am..."

Cithæra nodded,

"Got of godly stock." She completed his thought, albeit not as he'd have done so. A flush swept over his skin, pricking it up into gooseflesh as he considered the realisation of a lifelong dream of being a secret prince. But this was even better. He was descended of deities... Perhaps that accounted for the strange vision he'd had in Talon's presence months earlier.

"You know..." He looked to Finn and let out a weak laugh, "I was originally cast to play Phædryn in Aværys Æternal, before..." He paused, considering what he'd done not to, "...before I assumed the title role."

"Sors est ridicula." Cithæra offered a shrug and, sensing that the tension was on the wane- at least for the moment- she gestured for the first course to be brought forth, which it immediately was. "And Finn." She sat upright, as slaves simultaneously place plates of spiced, honeyed sea urchin rounded by grilled prawns.

"Are we to understand that you are a performer of even greater renown?" She continued as she reached for her wine goblet, "Phocion tells us you wrote a symphony..." She sipped through smirking lips "To honour Arcas, was it?"

[Finn]

Finn was rather adept at Vallenor by now, though Lyra was the only person who had been able to speak it fluently around him. As such, he caught most of what mother and son said to each other, though it took him a moment to process that what he had considered a dead language was alive and well here in Tertium. His eyes dropped when they looked at him; he wasn't ashamed, but he also hadn't meant to eavesdrop.

Discretion, Phocion, she had said. Whether that meant they were keeping secrets from him or from Arry, he couldn't know yet. He didn't really have secrets from his paramour, nor did he think Arry had any from him. He could only hope their attempts at discretion didn't further enrage his tempestuous love.

There was a tinkle of agreement in Finn's symphony; he didn't know Cithæra, nor the full story, but based on what she had revealed, it didn't sit right. The information was being doled out piecemeal as if they were at the theater. Perhaps she thought Arry could only handle so much at once, but they had already been shoving emotions onto each other with some vehemence. He offered a smile too when Arry looked to him for reassurance, nodding that he remembered the drama surrounding the casting of Aværys Æternal.

He straightened as food was served, though he didn't let go of Arry's hand. Arvine Venasyr had always been a prince to him; now he only truly wondered what strings were attached to this revelation of his lineage. And he had to wonder if Ruslan was his father in blood as well as rearing, or if that was another thing hidden behind the mask of discretion. If nothing else, though, he played the social game to give Arry time to process, to recover.

"I would say rather that our renown is matched," he corrected gently. "Complementary. Intertwined, even. We wrote music together. We were called together to perform for Lor— for Phocion." He hoped the Sentinel wouldn't think it impertinence to relax into familiarity here at the princess' insistence; he would certainly treat the man with all due respect when supper was over. He has been making a name for himself as an actor at the Golden Peacock Theater, the foremost venue in Kalzasi. I recently completed an advance course in music at the Academy and have been taking private commissions. The symphony that was my capstone was dedicated to Talon Shinsei Novalys, the man who urged me to seek the patronage of House Zatrian, which allowed me to study and find new depth and breadth to my art. The music did thematically query the idea of aptheosis, but it was hardly a hymn to Arcas. I don't know the deity; I know the man.

"Much as..." he glanced toward Arvalyn. "Much as I don't know the golden prince; I know the man." He looked to the house's materfamilias, then to her lover, her platinum son, and to her once more. "The man who led us here from the port seemed most comfortable when I played the role of valet to Arvalyn. Arvælyn. If his identity were to become public knowledge, would his relationship with me complicate things?" He looked once more to Arvalyn. "I want whatever makes you happy, and I don't want to shame you in the eyes of your people if you choose to adopt the Solunarians as your people."