You Want to Play with the Sire [Finn & Arry]

[Pharaoh]

Once the blazing bright orb expanded to consume the three remaining Pilgrims, they would find it was no longer blinding within. But there was another world inside the light of this simulated sun and not all of them had arrived on the same plane of it.

Perhaps it was their entwined Symphonies, their mutual love or maybe it had been their taut grips upon one another as the orb devoured them, but for whatever reason Arvælyn and Finn were together and Hilana was gone. The altar was still before them, but smaller- encompassing only their two sacrifices. Finn’s, a plate of raised obsidian glowing like yellow-orange lava in the shape of his Rune, and Arvælyn’s, a paltry charm to which he’d clung through the most difficult times in his life as if it might anchor him to the fantasy he bore of his past and future.

But as they looked beyond the altar, they would find themselves in the lustrous presence chamber of some palace or temple of gleaming, sunlit platinum. On a great dais ahead of them appeared two large statues seated in profile on matching, platinum thrones set back-to-back. To the left was a golden statue of He of the Sceptre and to the right a silver statue of She of the Scourge. Or so they thought at first, but then the statues canted their heads in unison to face the mortals before their altar.

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The lustre of the gold faded from the exemplar of Aværys to more resemble bronzed elven flesh than metal, though a faint glow remained and a swirling crown-like Nimbus rotated over the blonde head of the Rex Regum. His face would be familiar to both Finn and Arvælyn. Though the version they knew lacked the churning, celestial eyes that now fell upon the pair before Him. At the same time this was transpiring, to the right the exemplar of Varvara was shifting as silver skin gave way to the matted pallour of lunar luminescence.

“Thou standest hither before the puissant Throne of Majesty…” Aværys’ voice was rich and resonant, and His words would be processed by the pair in their native Common.

“And the sterling Seat of Supremacy.” Varvara’s silken soft voice added.

“And thou art come at so auspicious an hour.” Aværys rose from His throne with a sceptre in one hand and a gleaming globus in the other. As he turned His body toward them and descended the steps of His dais, they would note that He was adorned in jewelry sans textile; with bracers at his wrists, a festoon necklace covering his neck and much of his broad chest and a skirt of jeweled beads hung from a golden belt about His sculpted waist. Varvara rose a moment after Her brother-husband, her own lithe form rounded in a gown made of barbed silver chains that hung heavy and dragged behind her as she approached. Now that they were closer, it was clear that each exemplar stood at least twenty feet tall.

“Thou didst brook sundry trials ere Our eyes did ever seek thee out.” Aværys lowered Himself to one knee across the altar from them, and looked into the eyes of the half-elf and then the human.

“Others have been deified for enduring less than ye.” Varvara stood aloof, towering above them imperiously.

“But fie! Ransera be a realm afflicted with fickle forces prone to chaotic, cavalier comportment. We do stand athwart such feckless powers, and do demand much of those who would fain seek Our favour.” Aværys’ eyes darkened, “Brazen art thou both to stand at Kaladon.”

“Bolder still to pose such offerings.” Varvara hissed.

“Arvælyn… Wouldst thou curry the Might of Majesty with a trinket?” He of the Sceptre rose sharply to his full height, and pointed accusingly at the amulet.

“Finn… dost thou think thou might earn Supremacy for a song?” She of the Scourge remained still, as her gaze bored into the human minstrel’s eyes.

AVÆRYS IMPERATOR


VARVARA IMPERATRIX

[Finn]

Everything was light.

When the light receded, Finn found himself, his lover, and the altar in a different place. Hilana was gone. When he looked back, there was no sign of Arvælyn's family. He hoped the violence of Phocion's flight hadn't harmed him, that Raithen and Cithæra were safe and sound. But he also hoped they weren't in trouble. Certainly, they were in peril. The Twins were hardly tame.

"Are you all right?" he whispered to his lover. He daren't engage his Rune to be sure when he wasn't quite sure why it was floating in effigy over the altar. Had he given an inch and they taken a mile?

But then the statues came to life, came down to address them. Deus Aværys looked suspiciously like a giant version of Arvælyn's faux father. Finn wouldn't put it past Cithæra to take some avatar of her God as a lover, though it seemed more likely the divine bloodline had simply birthed a man who might be his ancestor's twin.

Not letting go of Arvælyn's hand, he bowed before them. He might have parlayed in Vallenor, but they had deigned to speak in Common so he didn't throw their gift back in their teeth.

"Holy Ones," he said with all due respect. "I did not come for a gift. I came at your call. I witnessed the solar mass and spilt blood at the night prayer asking for you to watch over the man I love in his homeland. My gift is my song, and that song was for you. I was told you would expect another sacrifice, and so I brought you the fruits of my labor. If it did not please you, then I hope, at least, you will not take out your displeasure on Arvælyn."

Once more, he bowed, and looked to Arvælyn, unsure whether he ought to speak up or if they would mete out their pleasure or displeasure upon Finn first.

[Arvælyn]

Transfixed as he was by the platinum palatium that stretched out before them, Arvælyn didn’t even register Finn’s check in. His nerves were high… perhaps more raw than they’d ever been, as he suddenly truly processed how much was truly at stake here. His life itself, and more importantly, Finn’s! Gold eyes darted to blue. Finn was still looking at him, anticipating a response to the question Arry had failed to register.

Suddenly, movement in his peripheral vision drew the half-elf’s attention back to the throne daïs as seeming statues started to shift. He knew at once what was happening. Their fateful meeting was at hand.

As the pair of deities descended the daïs, Their approach revealed their truly titanic scale. Had they loomed so large during their reign? His eyes fell over Varvara first. Her saunter was akin to a slither, too graceful for one donning a gown that looked as though it would pierce flesh with every slight movement under the weight of its chains.

He looked then to Aværys and was struck immediately by his striking beauty before he even recognised the familiar face smirking down at him from above.

“Kyrin…” He whispered, uncomprehending. But there would be time to unpack that later, for now they were being addressed directly by Gods. This didn’t feel like it had with Talon. Perhaps it was his personal of shared blood or some other ancient magic that bound him in awe. Perhaps it was a byproduct of standing in this realm which, itself, seemed to invoke all concepts of majesty and supremacy he could envision. When he dreamt of grandeur as a child, it was in this vein but lesser to what lay before him.

When Aværys’ voice boomed, the Solunarian Founder seemed to be in good spirits. But the relief that washed over Arry was short lived. Soon their good humour turned toward what he feared most from these two: judgement. Direct questions were posed to both of them and, to his relief, Finn’s response came first and was far more articulate than aught he might have mustered without a moment to steel himself against the platinum light.

When Finn’s thought was finished, Arry spoke.

“Your Divine Radiance… Your Argent Luminescence, what may seem a simple bauble is meant to symbolise a piece of my very soul. It is the piece of Solunarium that was mine before I knew that I was a son of this place, and a descendant of Your Glorious Selves. That simple charm hung from a bit of twine is the only piece of property that I’ve kept from Antiris to Kalzasi to Solunarium. It was the very soul of family to me, when I was alone. It was an anchor to my blood as I was tossed on the doldrums of uncertainty. Now that I am Solunarian and Aværyan, I yield this up to Thee… I renounce Karnor. Hereby am I wholly Solunarian.”

[Pharaoh]

Aværys cast a sidelong glance to Varvara and scoffed.

“Artists!” He shook His head, “How prettily and abundantly they do speak purple words amounting to as meagre an offering as their sacrifices. Dissemblers, all!“ He shifted his penetrating gaze to the human mortal.

“And to what end didst thou think We did fain invoke thee, Mesminstrel? Thou canst no more claim ignorance of the Faith that laudeth Our glory. Surely thou didst not conjecture that We simply sought the favour of thy sweet serenade. Thou shalt not quit Our presence unalteréd, if thou dost quit it at all...”

“Fie, Brother.” Varvara countered, “These are but their opening remarks. Let us see how their resolve doth withstand more stalwart scrutiny.” She turned Her attention from the other exemplar to the mortals before the altar.

“Finn. Thou dost ken well that Ours is a Faith that demandeth sacrifice. Blood is a worthy gift, and thine beareth fruit of which thou yet knowest not…” She noted blithely, “But what dost thou sacrifice with a song, other than a few minutes time… a bit of æther expended. Should we be assuaged by aught that thou dost liberally grant unto drunken mortals at their revels?” Her argent gaze turned to Arvælyn.

“As for thee…” A faint smile painted Her lips, “All that thou hast proffered has been a symbol: First a toy, next a trinket. Who can surfeit upon a semiotic supper? And yet…” She tilted her head, “To offer a symbol doth opens doors through which We might claim greater rewards thou didst not intend to offer. Both of ye be incautious in this.” Her smiled broadened, as Her Brother spoke up.

“For example, from Finn We might claim the Rune he employed in serving his serenade… From Arvælyn We might cull the memories and connections he did forge in Karnor. Wouldst thou, Minstrel, forfeit the mark of Mesmer that doth bind thee in love and lust to thine amatus? Wouldst thou, Player, forfeit all memory of the founding of thy love for the Minstrel? Will ye or won’t ye, if it be Our Will, it shall be rent from thee for thou hast opened that portal."

"But… let Us instead play a rhetorical game and see whether it doth amuse Us enough to turn a fanciful hypothetical into an unyielding reality. Wouldst thou begin, Brother?”

Aværys’ smile was unnervingly cool for one who seemed to blaze so hot.

“A splendid notion, Sister.” He considered. “Mortals two…” Great golden eyes scanned the faces before Him. “For the puissance of a God at thy beck, which of you would sacrifice the other?”

“Finn…” Varvara smiled seductively, Her white eyes boring into his light blue. “If I were grant unto thee the pow’r to save millions of lives from misery and abjection… The pow’r to forever end the trend of mortal sacrifice in Solunarium, and to bring cessation to wars born of ancient grudges… For the great boon of many, wouldst thou sacrifice this one? Wouldst thou lay Arvælyn upon this altar and plunge a blade into the tender flesh of his belly, dragging it up until his heart be split in twain like Solunarium Herself?” As She concluded her query, a silver blade was conjured from the obsidian altar, and rose to levitate before Finn as if begging to be clutched.

“Et Arvælyn…” Aværys paused to run his tongue over his lips, “If I were to confer upon thee the radiance of My Majesty… To deliver you unto a world where thou wast never in abjection or solitude, unless thou didst wish it. A world where the name 'Arvælyn' was as a blessing and thou wast beloved by all who did look upon Thee: a cynosure star with numberless adoring satellites in thine orbit. If I were to dismiss all memory of this meagre, mortal, fleeting soul of your fancy, and create an existence where t’would be as if thou didst never meet, and thus there would be no guilt to brook o’er the choice… Wouldst thou cut slightly shorter this already-ephemeral human life for greater happiness across the centuries of thine own? Wouldst thou cast Finn screaming into the depths of Kaladon’s core for blameless bliss in evermore?”

The floor behind Finn began to recede and the heat of churning magma warmed his back once more, as it had before the orb of light consumed them. The edge of a cliff formed just behind Finn’s heel. It would have been so simple a thing for Arvælyn to shove him off it.

“And what would ye fain do, if only one of you might walk away from this grave decision?”

The two exemplars stared at the mortals, each unmoving like the statues as which they’d initially presented themselves.

[Finn]

Varvara seemed to say that she would indeed take more than was offered, though what she meant by his blood's fruit he knew not. He might have asked, but these Mistlord's children were playing a game with them—like children or like sadistic cats. The revelation of the Twins only served to solidify the mistrust their rites had inspired in him.

"I don't need a Rune to love Arvælyn," he said, sure of that at least. He hadn't offered his Rune, but he supposed they had the power to rip it from his soul.

Streolon hungers, went the old song about the dead gods. And Ugrimal, red of tooth and claw, doth feed them. Incarnated in ambitious, racist elves, those things hadn't changed, he supposed. They loved their pageantry; they disdained softness. Finn despaired. If this was the path Arvælyn chose because his blood or his inclinations called him thither, Finn didn't know that he could follow lest he cease to be Finn. Or perhaps Arvælyn would sacrifice him for power, for majesty. The minstrel resigned himself to the unknowable future. Hilana had offered them a spider, and now he was caught in their web.

"I will not play this game. I do not believe that you play in good faith. You called; I came. But I am not one of your faithful. I mean no disrespect by it, but that is the unvarnished truth."

He turned toward Arvælyn, feeling the heat at his back all the more intensely. Finn didn't want to die, but another fact was that he cared more about Arvælyn's happiness than his own. He had made countless sacrifices, large and small, to stand by his side whether on a creaking Kalzasern stage or the altar of these mistborn Twins.

"I love you, Arry," he said. "Whatever you choose, that will not change."

[Arvælyn]

Much was said between the Twins, and much of it was terrifying. Arvælyn’s nostrils flared slightly as Aværys criticised his amatus. Every mark against Finn felt like a tally toward some score on his soul, and the half-elf shuddered to think what might befall his beloved should he end up with low marks. Finn did not seem awed, as he was, and with the warnings posed at the gates leading into the realm of these severe sovereigns, Arry was forced to wonder whether the minstrel aught not to have stayed when Cithæra gave them an out… and perhaps Arry ought to have stayed with him.

The Sacred Sister spoke up in interjection, but only to add to the list of things that left the two mortals wanting. His heart sank. He’d been so confident this would end in boons and now it seemed increasingly possible that the contrary might end up being the case. They spoke of robbing Finn of his Rune… Mesmer had been one of the first things that connected them, even before they became a couple. It was intrinsic to their relationship in a fashion that made it difficult to imagine things without it. What would Finn’s Symphony sound like without the layered tones of his masterful Mesmer? They spoke, too, of robbing Arry of his memories of the past. There was much of Karnor from which he might wish to be liberated… Years on the streets as a petty thief, debasing himself in the back rooms of the Velvet Cabaret for coin and a place to lay his head. But he’d resolved himself to those things enough that they felt a worthwhile cost to have memories like those of Aurin in those early days and, of course, Finn… The ecstasy was worth the anguish. Yet, before he had a chance to plead in protest, they shifted toward an even more frightful trial.

His neck tensed as he heard the Mother of Chains offer sweet Finn the opportunity to be a saviour to sundry. She described his potential future as if he were some benevolent hero out of myth, descending in Deus ex Machina to resolve plights that affected millions. All he had to do was gut Arry like a fish, and he could spare the souls of countless people from death and misery. Instinctively, the tendrils of his æther reached for Finn. Arry knew that he was but one and a bargain which might be a boon to so many could be one of the few things that actually tempted Finn. And Arry wasn’t even sure he could blame the minstrel if he made that dire decision to his own detriment.

Then the Golden Aværys looked into his eyes and spoke of a world where he was devoid of misery. Beloved by all, with no need to question things as he always did. He spoke of Finn’s finite, human lifespan and highlighted Arry’s longevity, and even offered to erase all memory of the one in whose orbit he’d remained aloft for so long. He gasped as a pit opened behind Finn, fearing it might swallow him of its own accord, but of course it didn’t. It was Arry’s to act. His eyes darted from the roiling, fiery eyes of the demi-deity to the light blue of his love. Those eyes were so gentle… almost too innocent for the world they inhabited. His own welled with tears at the thought of forcing him to leave it prematurely. Tears fell, as Finn defied the dark whims of the Solunarian Founders… Declaring himself apostate to Their Faith… to which Arry had now promised himself. He feared for how They might answer defiance.

“I love you, too, Finn… And it would change if I made that dread choice. What is the love of a dead man? Who am I without you? If They stripped me of my memory of you, I… can’t even imagine the creature that would remain, but I know he would be lesser than the man you've made me. You are my conscience. If you would reject the premise of this… game,” He looked sharply to the Founders. “Then, so shall I.”

[Pharaoh]

“Thou hast let thy blood in Sacred Sacrifice to Us, mortal. Thou didst commit this act with intent. Faithful or faithless, My chains churn in thee evermore.” Varvara observed with a cool didactic directness, that seemed to brook no offence at Finn’s declaration.

When Arvælyn joined his lover in protest, a glance was exchanged between the Twins. Their expressions remained illegible, but They were beyond the need for words as deeply and intricately interwoven as Their two souls were over their several lifetimes. One needn’t risk their sanity delving into their Divine Symphonies to know that there was harmony between Aværys and Varvara. A lengthy pause elapsed wherein the only sounds were heavy, mortal heartbeats and breaths, and the churning of magma to the rear of Finn.

“Very well.” It was Aværys who broke the silence. “You are, of course, allowed to withdraw from Our trial.” He settled back onto the heel of one foot. A less formal posture than the Majestic Monarch had permitted Himself thus far. “In fact, We have already granted you two paths you might take to quit this undertaking and, indeed, Our presence withal, should you seek to do so.”

Varvara’s exemplar lifted a hand languidly, and the silver sacrificial dagger turned its handle toward Finn, dancing in the air just in front of his sternum.

“Hither lieth one.” She noted, as Aværys raised both of his hands and the fiery pit extended- forming a crescent shape around both mortals. Soon they were surrounded on all sides, save the altar with the two gargantuan gods across from them.

“And hither the other.” Aværys remarked.

“And lest ye think We do with duplicity swindle thee t’ward gifting Us thy souls, let Us assure ye: If ye take your lives without the intent to commit thyselves to Us in sacrifice, we take no boon from thy death. Marry, if thou quittest Our presence and Our trial after this fashion, t’would be simple suicide, not sacred rite. However… only one of you need perish, and the other might still yield a blessing from Us…”

“If either one of ye doth commit himself to the hereafter, the other may claim his life as their sacrifice and We will reward the survivor amply for his lofty sacrifice. Should the Minstrel pierce his own heart, the Player might yet play his princely part. Should the Player leap to the thousand tongues of unyielding fire, the Minstrel may yet minister to the masses with music and mirth as a wellspring of life to be remembered for the ages.”

“Or…” Varvara tilted Her head, “You may both die meaningless deaths to the benefit of none.”

“What think ye, Artists, of Our dramatic denouement?”

[Finn]

Finn had no idea how to respond.

His bloodletting had been an act of courtesy, an act of good faith to tell Domina Varvara what his intentions were within Her realm and with Her golden scion. Whatever his intentions had been, perhaps there were chains now. His only experience with the divine previous to this was with Arcas reborn, and he had only seemed a heightened version of Talon Novalys. Of course, now he was changed, too, by time and circumstance.

Lyra had begun to tell him about bonds crafted with Mesmer and Scrivening, but he knew little of compacts made with demigods. He hadn't anticipated a conversation with them, nor a trial, but the trial, the pageantry, and everything to do with Solunarium seemd off to him, alien in a way he didn't know how to overcome. Perhaps he never would. Certainly, the options laid before them seemed to be suicide, murder, or...

"Impasse," he said. Finn wouldn't kill Arvælyn, and Arvælyn wouldn't have him die. He was reminded of the High Hopes and how a drunken lord had nearly ruined his life and career; Talon had saved him then, but he doubted such would be repeated now.

The minstrel didn't want to die, though he knew there were circumstances in which he would sacrifice himself for Arvælyn. He would rather compose songs about heroes than be one himself, yet he had battled his way through an historical battle just to get here and be given what was, to him, an impossible choice. But he had also followed Arvælyn to Solunarium and then to Kaladon. When he looked at his lover, he seemed as stymied as Finn was.

While he was no solicitor, this all bothered him. "Compacts made under duress are void," he muttered, half to himself. Given the options of murder or death, he was frozen. As he looked to the half-elf, he began to feel for the slipspace. Perhaps he would leave one Rune behind, but if he could vault them back to the others, then the Twins could have it. He wasn't certain he liked what Solunarian musicians did with it anyway. He couldn't articulate exactly what gave him pause, but like everything else, it was jarring.

In all likelihood, the Twins would block him. But perhaps they could slip away and Arvælyn would return with him to Kalzasi where things made sense.

[Arvælyn]

Arvælyn was now quaking with unmitigated terror. This was not how he'd expected all of this to go. Not at all. In his fantasies, the gods had been impressed with them both and showered them with gifts of their Emblems. In his imaginings, Varvara was grateful for Finn's sacrifice and blessed him with her mark and Aværys graced Arvælyn with His Majesty. These were visions the amantes had shared in whispers across their pillows as recently as this morning. Instead, they were faced with this present nightmare.

Finn was steadfast in his northern sentiments which seemed to make the famously cruel, severe Solunarian Founders that much harsher in response. Arry's fear swelled as Finn tried to litigate his case to the divine imperials and hold them to Kalzasern rules in their own realm. Though Cithæra had bade them against using Mesmer on the gods, Arry instinctively sought out Finn's Symphony in this moment of abject terror.

Peace, love... He urged, though there was nothing of peace to the fortissimo, percussive marcato that swelled in his own Symphony. He could feel Finn's desire to flee, and sensed the æther collecting at his Rune of Traversion, which made the half-elf panic, grabbing Finn's hand in a taut warning grip. Since playing Aværys on stage, Arvælyn had studied Solunarian scripture and knew that their severity extended deep into the realm of the vindictive. Right now the mortal choice lay between the two of them, but if Finn sought to flee Arry feared They might seek far greater reprisal than a quick death. When 'eye for an eye' was the order of the day in Karnor, it had been 'holocaust for an eye' in Atraxia. Finn's family and Arry's would be at risk of reprisal... To refuse their terms would put Aurin at risk as well as Finn, if the growing power of these majestic monsters reached a point where they could be liberated.

Faced with this impossible choice, he looked into Finn's beautiful, blue eyes and reached up with his free hand to cup his face.

"My conscience." He whispered, "This defiance proves better than anything why you deserve to live far more than I. You've made the choice for us. You know that, don't you?" The storm of his Symphony turned suddenly, alarmingly placid as he stepped forth to kiss Finn. It was resignation.

"You won't like this part." He turned to the colossal demi-deities. "I offer myself as Finn's sacrifice. May my blood pay for his boons and blessings. Please... Let him live and grant him power enough to make the world a little more like the one he imagines it to be." He cast a sad smile and one last glance into Finn's eyes before he released his grip on the human's hand and started to tip backward off the edge of the obsidian platform, to fall toward the churning magma below.

[Finn]

Finn had never been comfortable with Arvælyn’s dreams of divine magic. At least, not for himself. If the half-elf shone any brighter, it didn’t feel possible that Finn could adore him more. But, from what he understood, Varvara’s gifts were those of domination—the minstrel was already uncomfortable with the possibilities of his power to dominate via his Rune. Solunarians had power, but replaced conscience with ambition, or so it seemed to him. In Kalzasi, he felt as though the Gods afforded mortals the respect of self-determination, but here, the people were chattel.

The fact was Finn would stand by Arvælyn’s side even here far from his own friends and family. But the other fact was Finn would never be Solunarian. Whatever her bloodline and the respect he afforded her, he did not believe Cithæra or her kin were above him. And so, he never truly believed he would be granted what passed as grace in Atraxia, but he had smiled along with his lover’s dreams.

Now they were here.

Now the dreams were becoming nightmare.

“No,” he said as Arvælyn began to teeter on the edge. He would not lose his lover and become a puppet of this mistborn puppeteer.
He grabbed the half-elf by his clothes and pulled him back and into another kiss.

“I will not accept your sacrifice,” he said into those golden eyes, ignoring the divine gazes for the nonce. “If you die, they will not have it.”
Still gripping Arvælyn’s princely attire, he yanked him around rather roughly and shoved him down to his hands and knees before his Gods, the better to immobilize him for a moment.

Finally, to the Gods, “May you choke on my sacrifice. May it taste like ashes in your mouths.”

And then he used the Rune they had not taken from him, vaulting out over the molten rock too far to be pulled back.

Gods, the air was hotter than his mother’s forge.

Talon, watch over him, please, he prayed as gravity began to take him. Syren, may better bards sing of me.