The Preservation of Fire [Finn]

[Pharaoh]

"The Preservation of Fire"
Silver Sentinel Training Grounds
The Vigilia Argenti Prætorium
Early Frost, 122

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The call had come abruptly and without warning. Finn had been at the Vigilia Argenti Prætorium in the midst of a training session with a martial adept of the Silver Sentinels, when his Vastian pædagoga halted suddenly, and let out a call of "Pausa!" as she spotted Sentinel Phocion in the doorway.

"Forgive the interruption, Vigilia Rauda. Subvigil Finn has been summoned to return the Palatium Umbrarum." The implacable Phocion, looking a bit more animated than usual... perhaps anxious. The enchantments in his uniform would prevent an incursion into his Symphony, but Finn was an observant sort and had spent enough time in the company of the Moonborn prince to recognise this was not a casual call.

"Towel off and join me in the corridor, if you would..." Phocion nodded to them both, before stepping out into the hallway to wait for Finn to join him. When the human peregrinus emerged, the elf immediately started to stalk down the hall, expecting that Finn would infer to join him without his needing to say as much verbally. Instead, he began to speak on more pertinent and less perfunctory matters.

"I've received a missive from His Exalted Highness, Arvælyn Princeps. He is currently attending a meeting of the Consilium Draconum back at the palace. It seems His Exalted Majesty the Crownwyrm feels obliged to better acquaint himself with the favourite of his heir. Make of that what you will." Phocion offered, as if he wasn't sure what to make of the news himself.

"Whatever the case, the council meeting will conclude within the hour and I am disinclined to keep the Umbrian Monarch waiting. Let us make haste. I've already reserved a sitting room near the council chamber and sent for more suitable attire than your training gear for when you are in the draconic presence." By the time he was done, they were approaching not the exit to the Prætorium, but Phocion's office.

"Consider yourself briefed. Now, vault yourself to the Presence Chamber where servi are waiting to conduct you to your waiting room. Dismissed."

The Imperial Solunarian Throne Room,
Palatium Umbrarum, Umbrium
Moments later

As indicated, there were servants in the otherwise empty presence chamber poised to attend to Finn, who leapt to action as soon as he appeared. He was encouraged to follow them, and offered water, fruit and nuts in case his training exploits left him peckish. By and by, he was led into a sitting room, where a selection of his own finery (and a few unfamiliar options, should he be feeling adventurous) were on offer. There was even a servus with Kinetic abilities, who offered to give him a quick æther bath once he'd undressed in case he'd worked up any sweat or grime during his martial regimen.

He was just barely vested, when a knock sounded at the door to indicate that the concilium's work had concluded. He would be led out into the hallway, where he briefly crossed paths with the councillors on their way out of the chamber- The starkest of the group were four strikingly beautiful elves with platinum hair, fair skin that seemed to glimmer with a metallic sheen and violet eyes. Through his Rune, Finn would note that each figure had the same illegible, nebulous... almost alien Symphony that Kyrin had always exhibited, even before his true nature had been revealed. It would be apparent, straight away, that these were not Platinum Elves, but the Seemings of the Crownwyrm's siblings. Two feminine, two masculine, all beautiful. Their purple eyes regarded him curiously, but they did not pause to greet him. Instead, speaking softly amongst themselves with graceful voices in a tongue with which Finn was not acquainted.

When he was led inside, he would feel the familiar, calming influence of Arvælyn's Symphony, from where he was seated at the council table. At the head of the table, facing him was a figure whose face he did not recognise, but whose murky Symphony he did. It was that of Kyrin, or rather Zalkyriax. No more did he don the face of Aværys, but a pale-skinned visage framed by long, platinum hair that covered his shoulders.

"With the liberation and return of His Divine Radiance the Deus Imperator, it seemed meet that I should adopt another guise for the benefit of mortals and..." He glanced around the chamber with an arched brow, "...the local architecture." For indeed, high and vaulted though the ceilings may have been, the chamber hadn't the breadth to house the Crownwyrm in his true form.

"Won't you join us?" The voice was the same as Kyrin's, although the face was different. A hearty baritone, rather than the thunderous basso profundo that had echoed through the Fortis Lacerta Arena on the night of the great revelation.

"My son suggests I have been negligent in acquainting myself with you. Please be seated." He gestured with a pale hand to the seat directly to his left, opposite where Arvælyn sat smiling over to him with a sheepishly apologetic shrug. Finn had all but asked for this, though Arry was certain he'd have preferred more time to prepare.

The Elven Seeming of Zalkyriax Zalkyrialis as of Frost 122

[Finn]

To master one craft was just the beginning. To master several and weave them into a new thing was the goal. Steel and sweat, symphony and slipspace, Finn was as engaged in total war as he was able, but Vigil Rauda not only held her own against him, challenging him, but she noticed their audience and called and end to it, seemingly at ease shifting from training to her duties without pause. Meanwhile, Finn stood there dumbly, broad chest heaving like a bellows as he came back to himself. It wasn't a berserker rage by any means, but he wasn't entirely sure Rauda would stay her hand from a deathstroke. Training often felt more real than his memories of violence that had happened.

He nodded. He found a towel and swiped at his brow, but quickly found Phocion and kept pace with him. The air was dry and he would be too soon enough. It took effort to focus upon the briefing, and if he found it odd that Phocion called Arry by his full title, well, he didn't say anything about it. He did glance at Phocion when the meat of the matter was brought up. It was something he had desired, but he wasn't sure this was how he had hoped it would happen.

"Aye, sir," he said when dismissed, saluting. But before he did as he was told, he pulled a piece of paper from his own desk and let it fall upon Phocion's. He had meant to give it to him when he saw him next, but hadn't expected this opportunity. He was gone by the time the paper hit Phocion's desk, reading:

"Drinks?
—Finn"

It was a testament to his nerves if nothing else that he didn't feel uncomfortable having the help of servi to prepare. He availed himself of the water, mostly, though he did manage a handful of nuts and berries to stave off hunger if this was to be a long audience. He even practiced the gifts of Aværys, speaking to a foreign serva as if in her own tongue, and dazzling the servus who cleaned his body with magic. It would behoove him to be beloved of the servi, he thought, as they were an overlooked population in Solunarium.

Barely vested, he passed councillors in the hallway, bowing formally to the beautiful dragon kin, though they remained aloof. He wondered if he might learn their draconic language, the better to write music in it, if nothing else. He wondered if the dragons had bards among them.

Once inside, he smiled at Arvælyn though this was not happening as he would have wished. He bowed to the both of them.

"Your Exalted Majesty, Your Exalted Highness." And then he took his seat at the table with the draconic royalty, only one with whom he was entirely comfortable. His smile was apologetic. "'Tis a lovely face, Your Majesty. I did not mean to imply that you had been remiss, merely that I hoped to know you better." He felt he ought to say more, but couldn't think of the words to say—a failing in a bard.

[Arvælyn]

At the Prætorium...

Phocion simultaneously furrowed and arched his brow as he plucked the slip of paper from his desk with a gloved hand and held it by the corner, letting it dangle as he turned it between his index finger and thumb. He half scoffed, half sniggered shaking his head.

"Honestly." He muttered to himself, as he hung it over the bin and let it waft down to join the rubbish therein. If he wasn't pressed further on the matter, the notoriously reclusive Phædryn prince planned to pretend the succinct invitation was never posed.

At the Palatium

"I did not infer that your influence infused Arvælyn's insinuations." Zalkyriax replied, ignoring the compliment to the æsthetic choice of his current form. The face may have changed, but its still, stony stoicism was the same as when he'd worn the visage of Aværys. His countenance was as an edifice carved into a volcano. Mostly an unmoving monument, but all knew that eruptive flames churned behind its foundations.

Silence followed his prior statement. He merely stared at Finn with impassive, violet eyes until Arvælyn's voice drew his gaze to his right.

"Perhaps some wine?" He suggested with a nervous twitch of the wings at his back.

"Very well." Zalkyriax nodded slightly and servi rushed to attend them with platinum, jewel-encrusted goblets that looked better suited to sacrificial blood rites than casual, family gatherings. Fittingly, the wine poured was a red as human vitæ. "You are, of course, at a disadvantage." The dragon mused to the bard. "I have known you as you are, and you have known me in a deceptive guise. Even if you did due diligence and read up on me, or perchance visited the museum dedicated to my kin and me, little is chronicled that ought to be relied upon."

Arvælyn reached for his goblet and drew it closer to his edge of the table, but didn't sip yet.

"I expect you've questions..." Zalkyriax trailed off, as he stared at the pale-faced human. "Pose them."

[Finn]

"Thank you," he said both for the wine and the tiniest relief in the tension. He smiled once more to Arvælyn and tried to figure out how to bridge the gap between human and dragon. It didn't help that it felt as though Zalkyriax was doing this out of some sense of obligation to his long-neglected son.

"I don't know what questions I could pose that would serve my purpose," he admitted after consideration and a sip of wine. "I think Arvælyn always knew he was destined for greater things, even if he knew neither the manner nor the depth of these things. All I have ever aspired to... I already have: I play for sovereigns and gods. I could quit all other endeavors and focus on music, enjoy the company of my amatus whenever the exigencies of state don't require we part. But a God has singled me out for more, stokes my desire to be something greater, and I am still trying to understand the mind of this God, as much as a mere mortal can. Your Majesty wore His face and form even as you wore another identity, so I suppose the natural desire to have some kinship with my amatus' family is also tangled up in that question.

"I want to know the mind of the Crownwyrm," he said, a self-deprecating smile acknowledging how strange that sounded. "Inasmuch as I can. I know little of your people outside of song and history. I don't know how to build any sort of a friendship or even amicable acquaintance with one, so I suppose rather than a question, I shall just say that I am interested in being more than just Your Majesty's son's amatus if that proves possible or mutually desirable."

He considered what he had said for a moment, then nodded and reached once more for his goblet. Arry hadn't quite known how to fit himself into the fussy domesticity of Finn's parents' home, and Finn didn't know quite how to fit into the opposite of that, which was now Arvælyn's family.

"Also, I would like to learn draconic and perhaps chronicle any stories Your Majesty or Your Majesty's kin might wish to share with the world."

[Pharaoh]

Zalkyriax inclined his head in answer to the expression of gratitude, and Arvælyn looked anxiously back and forth between the two until Finn answered the Crownwyrm's unkindly broad opener.

"I was desperate for greatness," The draconic elf chuckled, "Hardly was I certain it held any place in my destiny. I was just prepared to fake greatness even if fate denied it me in sooth."

"A part of you was subdued, which would have alluded to grandeur and invited danger. You are here, because you survived and the winds of fate blew you desertward. But you are also worthy. Inborn greatness is exiguous without the augmentation of the earned."

Though the content of Zalkyriax' sentiment was encouragement, the framing felt to Arry like chastisement. He lowered his head, half in a nod and half in defeated deference.

"Yes, Pater."

Both of their attentions returned to Finn.

"I do not mean to condescend in saying that it would take you many long lifetimes to ken aught of my mind, or that of any ancient, conscious force. To embark upon that exploit, know you this: I am Atraxia, as are my kin. In this realm of refugees, we were the first. Aggrieved with our prior lot and unfocused upon how to correct it, we lived in unnatural chaos for many years. At intervals we observed, at intervals we ignored, and betimes we participated. ...But I speak of memories belonging to other lifetimes. Today we participate."

Arry, for his part, seemed rather fascinated by this speech. If it was a sentiment he'd heard thus far, it hadn't been imparted in this particular way and it struck him. "I am Atraxia, as are my kin." He'd said, and Arvælyn was kin to the Crownwyrm.

Zalkyriax tipped his head back, laughing at the request.

"You were well chosen by the Archon of Ambition to seek such boons. Moreso for having the boldness to express them so directly. I know not what you will become, boy, but your present tongue, though silver it may be, was not formed to utter the language of dragons. I have seen men's skulls shatter to ash in the trying. Were the heart of my child not a factor, I would not begrudge you the risk, but things being as they are it is not a whim I would indulge." He tilted his head to one side, hints of the reptilian evident in the gesture, albeit executed by the swanlike neck of an elf, rather than the serpentine neck of a dragon in its natural state.

"As for stories? I would not shirk my mystique for the mickle masses, but for the heartsworn of my son, I will not withhold the odd tale of yore."

[Finn]

The poet's mind clung to poetic phrasing, turning it over in his mind until he decided: Arvælyn is Atraxia. And so he loved this place of refugees with its oppressive heat, its ashfall, and all its blemishes.

"I taught myself Vallenor..." It might have sounded a protest, but it provided a natural segue to his following thoughts. "I studied history in the Kalzasern Academy. People forget history. People rewrite history. I would be grateful for any story you feel the desire to share; know that you would have an eager audience in me." In Arvælyn, as well, he imagined. No doubt his amatus sought to ken the mind of his draconic father. He had always been held taut in a tug-of-war between various worlds; this one was no different in that.

"It was in Vallenor that I read most accounts of the Leh'anafel. It is my intention to found the order anew, this time with Deus Aværys' blessing. I may only find immortality in song and, I hope, an order that continues to enact positive change in the world after I am gone, but I do intend to seek out ways to prolong my life, if only to remain as long as my prince does."

Finn didn't think it was vanity that he knew his death would crush Arvælyn. He wondered if he could tie his survival to Arvælyn's with an oath of fealty under Aværys' eye, but dismissed the thought for now. It would certainly scandalize a Solunarian; it might enrage the Crownwyrm.

As for the language of the dragons, Zalkyriax's kin had spoken something unknown to him with their elven mouths, but perhaps the question of learning it would come up again later. Arvælyn himself might teach him once Arvælyn could speak it.

[Pharaoh]

"Vallenor is spoken. Draconic is incanted." Though there was no malice in so saying, Zalkyriax's directness (coupled with his nebulous Symphony) might have made the statement sound dismissive of Finn's achievement.

"I would not know where to begin..." The Crownwyrm considered, momentarily. "My memory is long. I have lived several lives and many mortal lifetimes." He took Finn's mention of the Leh'anafel for prompting.

"I know of the order... The Children of Re'ha dabbled with such things ere they graced the desert in realms I only ever knew as battlegrounds. Elements of their ways traveled South. Some were lost, some evolved, others are preserved better here than anywhere in the world. It is a strange thing that the ancestors of refugees who fled Sol'Vallen in disgrace today uphold some of its elder ways more accurately than the origin point." It wasn't exactly a story, but that of the Leh'anafel was not his to tell.

"We will work at the pesky issue of your mortal lifespan, Finn." Arvælyn protested, "If there is anywhere such obstacles can be surmounted, I believe it is here."

The Crownwyrm remained mum on that particular point and, though a goblet rested before him, he had yet to imbibe from it.

"I think I should like to hear the music of he who would fan the florid flame of the Leh'anafel toward rekindling." The dragon decided. Was that the hint of a smile eroding the stony stoicism that set his visage so still? "Would you indulge me in this, Finn?"

"Pater, please..." Arvælyn grimaced, "It isn't fair to ask a performer to present something impromptu- Least of all a renowned bard!"

"Ah... Well, it needn't be this tide. Nor even this decade. I am nothing if not patient, but it would please me to hear."

[Finn]

Draconic is incanted. Arvælyn's father was certainly glib.

Finn paid keen attention to even passing reference of the Leh'anafel from someone old enough to know more. He nodded gratefully even for that.

"Deus Aværys would not let me die once; perhaps He will not let me die until it pleases Him." He supposed there were ways to extend life through necromancy or alchemy, perhaps, but if it was easy, everyone would do it.

He hadn't an instrument with him, so he was glad of the reprieve. Of course, his voice didn't need accompaniment, but he also didn't know what sort of music would please a dragon.

"I shall indulge Your Majesty the next time we share a meal," he promised. "I shan't forget an instrument. Unless... well, I spent some time on the slopes of Mount Sorokyn when Arvælyn was undergoing his transformation. I flew up on a wyvern and spent time composing, thinking of him. The song isn't finished, but I suppose you could get a sense of my work in progress. If that would please Your Majesty."

Arvælyn was often his muse, and while the song had begun with feelings about the draconic elf, there were other themes and such that had come into it. Perhaps it had been a mistake to offer, or perhaps it would spark a genuine conversation about creativity. He couldn't know, especially with dragons—especially with the Crownwyrm. And though it was ill-advised on the off chance he was about to make an impromptu a capella performance, he took another sip of wine to fortify him before a sip of water to cleanse his throat.

Then all there was to do was await the Dragon King's decision. Arvælyn had offered him an out, but fortune and Aværys favored the bold.

[Pharaoh]

"Yea or næ, He would doubtless be impressed if you found your own path to deathlessness..." The Crownwyrm observed, almost blithely. He did, after all, know the Deus Imperator for longer and with greater intimacy than most. And it would certainly align with the domains of Aværys to pursue such an exploit.

Arvælyn, for his part, wondered whether immortality was something toward which Finn was naturally inclined. Perhaps, rather, it was the influence of his forebear's crown upon his brow... Perhaps it was his own influence upon the human. He could see that Finn was changing, and he wondered at it. Arvælyn loved the innocence and sweetness of his amatus, but those were the elements that also caused them to be at cross purposes most often. Would their relationship be the same if Finn lost them? Would be himself after bearing a Mark of Majesty for a year? A decade? Would he be himself after being tied to Arvælyn for so long, irrespective of the Emblem?

Zalkyriax just looked blankly at Arvælyn as the boy protested. He didn't appear confused by the grievances, but neither did he appear indulgent. His eyes darted to Finn when he spoke up for himself.

"Yes. I would hear this song." He replied without hesitation, "But we can send for an instrument if you would prefer to be accompanied. Or even a musician, if you'd prefer to keep your hands free and use your Craft to instruct some player in the performing of your composition." He may not have shared his son's aversion to an impromptu command performance, but he didn't wish for the human to feel handicapped by a lack of resources when so many were readily available in this well-stewarded imperial palace.

Arry blinked at his father, then his lover, then shrugged and took his drink as he sat far back in his chair, and arched a brow. To be fair, he was quite interested in this composition as well, now that he knew it was about him.

[Finn]

"Who knows when I shall have such an exalted audience again?" he asked with a subtle smile. After giving Arvælyn a reassuring smile, he dabbed his napkin to his lips and then set it carefully aside; Solunarian table manners weren't wildly different from the Kalzasern variety, and he hadn't been thrown out of court for his etiquette.

A servus pulled his chair out for him as he stood and stepped aside, leaving father and son to speak as he made a request. The lyre seemed to come remarkably fast, but it might just have been his perception. He had long ago learned to turn any nerves to his advantage, and never lost his aplomb. It was a finer thing than his hands had touched for most of his life: fine teak, inlaid with gold, silver strings. He tuned it himself, though it had been well tuned when handed to him.

When they were ready for him, he played.

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The accompaniment he plucked from the strings was simple enough, and when his voice sounded, it was quiet and precise, haunting and introspective.

"Some ancient call that I've answered before
It lives in my walls and it's under the floor
If this was meant for me, why does it hurt so much?
And if you're not made for me, why did we fall in love?"

Style was a matter of taste. His skill was clear. The simplicity was purposeful, and mastery of instrument and voice allowed his creative talent to shine. The first stanza was delivered as such; with the second, his heart bloomed like a flower sensing the sun, and while he didn't impose his symphony upon anyone, anyone could reach out and accept snatches of memory and emotion that he offered, a raw intimacy that wasn't fit for court.

"A knock at my door; I thought I was alone
Unaware of what I thought I needed, I drop like a stone
If I'm not mistaken, then I was the last to know
And if you return for me, I'd never want for more."

The ledge on Mount Sorokyn. The hot breath of the wyvern. The longing for his amatus, buried under uncounted tons of magma.

"You're dislocated
Don't be like that
And you smile when you dive in
Like you're never coming back
So hold my body
Aye, hold my breath
See your face when I black out
I'm never coming back."

Arvælyn's face—a thousand secret smiles writ on his memory.

The fear of losing him. The longing when he was out of reach even of his Traversion.

The dark sea racing below the airship bringing them to Tertium. The fear of what they would find.

The peace of the darkness below.

"Fear of the water
Fear of the water."

A few beats after the last note of the lyre faded out of human hearing, a servus stifled a sob and fled the room. Another, stone-faced, came to take the lyre from Finn so he could rejoin the meal. He didn't know why he had decided to sing that. He hadn't polished it, nor sifted out the personal details that made it so real for him. It was darker than he remembered it when played for an audience. Perhaps only Arry should have heard it some night when they were in bed together.

If he lost Arvælyn, he wouldn't kill himself. He would certainly welcome Wrædan as his next lover, though.

He sat. He smiled. He didn't know where their conversation had gone in the interim, but he recalled something Zalkyriax had said.

"Just so. I shall find a way to match your years, my love."