When he had been a boy on the brink of becoming a man, Finn had rebelled against the light yoke of his parents' dominance. He loved and respected them then, and he loved and respected them now. Just once, unused to ungovernable emotions since as a young child he had first learned to rein them in, he had struck his father. His father, a gentle man, had struck back, laying him out and reminding him of his place. Afterward, they had both wept, apologized, embraced. It had been a crucible, and their relationship was tempered to greater strength. His father had told him it was natural to push at one's boundaries as one grew, learning where one fit in the grand scheme of things.
So too now.
The crown that was a part of him was what Aværys used to rein him in. Though it felt a part of him, it was Aværys', and so was he, body and soul. He wanted to cry as he had as a youth, but he did not. He had put himself into the crucible once more, and his god would temper him into finer mettle.
"I Hunger, Lord," he said with all due humility. He was trying to understand where his boundaries lay, how he fit into the palm of Aværys's hand. He was kneeling as he ought.
So much had happened in the past few hours. It came back to him all at once: the magical revels; the assassination attempt; his battle with Thalya; the work of the healers and Assesors; his burgeoning bond with Lystreia; his worry after Arvælyn; this. Aværys' presence made it difficult to think of anything else, but now it was all there.
His god spake. He obeyed.
'A crown is but a collar higher set.' He was the poet, but his god articulated something he had been trying to for some time now, giving him an object lesson.
Finn saw the Hunger in his god's eyes and shivered, wearing little more than smudged paint there upon the examination table, spread.
So too now.
The crown that was a part of him was what Aværys used to rein him in. Though it felt a part of him, it was Aværys', and so was he, body and soul. He wanted to cry as he had as a youth, but he did not. He had put himself into the crucible once more, and his god would temper him into finer mettle.
"I Hunger, Lord," he said with all due humility. He was trying to understand where his boundaries lay, how he fit into the palm of Aværys's hand. He was kneeling as he ought.
So much had happened in the past few hours. It came back to him all at once: the magical revels; the assassination attempt; his battle with Thalya; the work of the healers and Assesors; his burgeoning bond with Lystreia; his worry after Arvælyn; this. Aværys' presence made it difficult to think of anything else, but now it was all there.
His god spake. He obeyed.
'A crown is but a collar higher set.' He was the poet, but his god articulated something he had been trying to for some time now, giving him an object lesson.
Finn saw the Hunger in his god's eyes and shivered, wearing little more than smudged paint there upon the examination table, spread.
