"The Shadows on the Wall"

[Arvælyn]

Arry withdrew a soup can from the pantry, arching an eyebrow and glancing to Aurin as he presented it.

"Why, you flatter me, sirrah." He offered wryly, before placing it back and withdrawing another, smaller can. "If by 'fix you summat to eat' you mean, 'open a can of fish and shove a fork in it', then t'would be my pleasure." The ostensible elf said, as he fumbled for a can opener. "If you're on good behaviour perhaps I'll throw in a dash of pepper."

He did, in fact, go a few steps further still, insofar as he dumped the canned comestibles onto plates and forked them into a more palatable shape than the form of the can that had housed them. He even arrayed a few savoury biscuits around the plates before presenting them.

"Oh come now, Aurin. You're too savvy at the art of espionage to think that anyone who works in government doesn't suffer fools. Solunarium would have you think it a meritocracy on the assumption that a storied pedigree translates to capable offspring, but such is rarely the case in my experience." He said as he used a fork to partition off a bit of fish meat to scoop onto a biscuit. Even with such humble offerings, he seemed to dine so delicately. A far cry from the urchin wolfing down honeycakes in Antiris, though this was the self same mouth into which those pastries had been shoveled. He'd long since learned to chew with his mouth closed, making barely a sound as he did so.

"So, how are you doing these days? Are you any sort of happy?"

[Aurin]

"True," he acknowledged. "They did put your skinny arse upon a throne."

But that was as far as he teased, not wanting something worse than spit in his snack. Perhaps he watched Arry like this was some mummer's farce of domestic bliss, though aside from Arry's presence, he didn't truly know what bliss would look like.

When the seeming elf sat, Aurin did sit up, laying a cloth napkin over his lap. No shoes, no shirt, but he still got service, and he rubbed elbows at enough fine tables these days, he could pretend to have been well brought up. Under the table, though, his foot rested upon Arry's. He didn't acknowledge it. He wasn't playing footsie, but there, where nobody could see it so there was a flimsy excuse for it not actually happening, he was in some sort of physical contact with Arry, or at least Arry's boot leather.

Aurin had learned to have a bit more of a discerning palate, but he merely thanked Arry and ate. Food was fuel that he forgot to eat more often than not, and sometimes scarfed down with feral abandon, a nod to his own troubled and sometimes hungry youth. He held his napkin up to his mouth so as not to give an unwanted show as he laughed.

"Happy? Me?" He brought the napkin down when it was safe. "You know I don't believe in that horse shit." But after a moment, he answered with less coarseness. "Best to take a moment present as a present for the moment."

Aurin had always paid attention to the music and theater he had seen, even if he pretended to drag his feet and roll his eyes. There was a magic beyond his seeming tricks to what Arry had done on the stage, and he had craved it like the smallest blue flame before nothing in a freezing room.

[Arvælyn]

“Heh, fair enough…” Arry replied to the taunt perhaps more wistfully than Aurin intended. He certainly didn’t feel worthy of his lot much of the time. After a fashion he did think it was a boon that he’d grown up the way he had. It gave him a fresh perspective that was so very needed in a realm so steeped in ancient traditions that few bothered to question. It was really Finn who caused him to think along those lines more than he might have without that angel on his shoulder.

He did not withdraw his boot from beneath Aurin’s sole. If he even felt anything through the thick leather, it didn’t seem to offend.

“That is why I phrased it as I did…” He replied, grimacing at the predictably cynical response “I know you will balk, but if you were to take to the worship of my gods, I think They might do you a service. You’re rather Their type of creature and they do boast an happy flock…” He trailed off. He hadn’t come here a missionary, but Faith was now part of his life in a way it had never been. It was easy to favour Gods who favoured him. Still, he would not tug the chains that bound them twain toward his own way of thinking. That would have been an unfair use of a Trick Aurin didn’t ken. Surely Finn would have criticised the kind of morality that evangelised through arcane coercion rather than rhetorical persuasion. He wondered, momentarily, if Finn would find himself in a world where Arvælyn’s ethics had not been influenced by Finn’s softer sensibilities… Æternus seemed so strange and esoteric.

“I never said I was a chef.” He noted, nodding toward Aurin’s plate.

[Aurin]

► Show Spoiler

Aurin would be the first to admit that he himself was unqualified for any sort of throne, and would disdain any country who saw him fit to rule. He wasn't exactly building himself a financial kingdom, either, but more of a web of intelligence and opportunity spanning much of Ailizane and now with a foothold in Solunarium, but if he was the spider in this analogy, most of the movement he felt from that line was too dangerous to risk.

It was mostly because he couldn't let go of Arry, even as he pushed him away.

A brow arched at the mention of religion.

"Just because I call out Talon Novalys doesn't mean I'm a stan of your twins." He had also fucked a godling, but didn't want to kiss and tell. From what he understood of Torin's goddess, Arry likely already knew, but he had agreed to secrecy so as not to be an impediment to Torin's rise to lordly status. Sometimes he wondered if Torin, too, would leave him for greener pastures. The smith loved the tranquility of his valley, and there was a romanticism between him and the elf he had persuaded to take him to Sol'Valen that was certainly missing between him and Aurin.

"Anyway, if I wanted someone to trick me into being happy, you're the one I'd ask. But best I don't settle in your desert oasis. I'd just fuck everything up for you. And I wasn't complaining about the food. It's my larder, my table." He paused, suddenly frustrated. "I'm trying to say that... fuck... this... you, here..." he indicated the tremulous moment that was, in his experience, as delicate as a soap bubble on a breeze. "This is my version of happy. Until one of us gets pissed or just pissy and sets it on fire."

His face cracked again, just for a moment.

"I don't know how to be happy. I'm just happy you're here. But I also hate the idea of you... thinking of me, pitying me... from far away. Whatever. I'm going to ruin this." That said, he began to shovel food into his mouth to keep himself from talking.

please don't go; I want you to stay.
I'm begging you please, please don't leave here.
I don't want you to hate
for all the hurt that you feel.
the world is just illusion trying to change you.

[Arvælyn]

“I don’t know what a ‘stan’ is, but I knew you’d balk. I said as much…” Arvælyn’s thought trailed off into a sigh. There were things Aurin seemed to want more than happiness. They were simpler desires, for their fleeting nature but more complicating in the long run. It wasn’t as though Arvælyn’s path was one of ease or consistent contentedness for all its frills, but at least he wished for those about whom he cared to broach some modicum thereof. At least a respite here and there…

“Not everything that soothes is a trick, you know. The world is not half so tricky as you think… as you are. But you are nothing if not uncompromising, so I shall not vex you further from a… missionary position.” At Aurin’s momentary loss of words, Arvælyn’s appetite joined it in obscurity. He drew his foot back as he swung around on the chair and stood, pacing to the window to page the curtains and look outside. His vigils remained vigilant.

“I don’t pity you.” He replied, without turning from the window. “Recent events have put me in mind of past paths and you, with whom… for whom I walked a very long road. But fire is an apt analogy, for how hot we burned and how destined for ash was our union. I am uncompromising, too, and quick to hatred… no, you would not thrive in Solunarium, though you might benefit from its…” He shook his head, dismissing his evangelical sentiments. He’d already committed to casting those off.

“Anyway, I’m glad you’re happy I came to visit. I’m in no rush to leave, so there’s no cause to make an unhappy exit a foregone conclusion. Darker destinies are simpler to summon by force of will than the happy ones.”

[Aurin]

"It's a portmanteau," he said sententiously, but a deal after the fact. Arry might not know every dark detail of his past, but he knew he had little in the way of formal education. "Stalker and fan, which is just short for fanatic, isn't it? So... hm."

For once, Aurin didn't argue. He found that the way they spoke, the way they communicated, seemed almost designed to irritate each other. Perhaps that was just the well-traveled road they had walked together, though, and old habits were difficult to break. If he made a point not to react immediately, Arry tended to leaven words that could be offensive on their own.

He had never given Arry enough: time, affection, support. He had given what he could, and often not in the way Arry needed.

Hazel eyes tracked the movement of the elf in dragon drag, then, finally, he rose, stretching languidly as he walked toward the bed. He still hadn't put more clothes on.

"Whatever shall we do until the show?" he asked innocently.

But it was innocent. He passed the bed for the armoire, dropped skimpy trou, but promptly dressed himself properly in case the princeling wanted to go out at any point. There were new scars on his skin, old bruises fading away. Everything he did was to stay safe, but he certainly weathered a lot of danger and damage for it.

"Do you need the guards? You're more dangerous now than you were before, and you know I won't let anyone hurt you."

Another Aurinian paradox: his main goal was to survive, but he would likely throw himself into the fire to protect Arry, even now.

[Arvælyn]

“Oh. How creative.” Arvælyn said with a smirk, “I can’t say I’ve kept up on the ever evolving slang of the Common tongue, now that I don’t use it as much. Whatever the case, I’m glad we avoided ‘stanatic’.” He added, after Aurin posed his etymological musings.

Arry turned away as Aurin began to disrobe. Noting his home upgrades was one thing, but he didn’t want to fall so far into his past that he started counting newly accrued scars. He returned to the window.

He merely shrugged at the question about what to do with their time pre-show. The answer he might have given at another time in his life was no longer meet, even if it did often feel like that was what Aurin was driving at, explicitly or tacitly.

“Oh, did I give them up?” He arched a brow and looked to where the Sentinels lurked.

“Don’t concern yourself with them. You won’t even know they’re there. And, if you do, let me know.” His eyes narrowed slightly. His guards were amongst the most elite of the most elite. They were not well-rounded individuals, but they were focused— like a caste of ant intended to be subtle, observant and deadly. If Aurin caught them out, that betokened unacceptable, exploitable flaws that were not to be brooked — especially after the derelict queen’s gambit. If they were thus compromised, they would need to be replaced… and disposed of. He pursed his lips and glanced over his shoulder to make certain Aurin was descent before pivoting fully around.

“This is no longer my city. I am but a visiting dignitary. But I wouldn’t mind seeing what survives and what is lost of our past haunts. This is a nostalgia tour, after all…”

[Aurin]

Aurin was a touch disappointed to find Arry looking studiously away when he turned back around fully dressed. A shameful part of him wanted the now foreign prince to yearn for him forever; better unrequited passion than a lack of anything that had existed before. He didn't speak of it, though. And he would certainly not rat out the guards. It was just nigh impossible to sneak up on Aurin while on his home turf anymore. His magic was all over and in the Three Sisters and the plaza, and the alley was his domain almost as profoundly as Sivan's tower and garden. So many slipstream connections had been aligned so he could flee from there to anywhere on a whim, and while his Railrunner tutor had been the only one to ever actually teach him magic, association with the Zaichaeri covens had given him ample access to fonts of knowledge. Even his knowing trick was different now, having taken the Whispers under his wing and then reinserted them into Zaicher to focus those arcane senses upon that city.

"Oh, mists bugger your dignity," he said as he crossed the space between them and put his hand on the prince's shoulder.

With a twist of those strands of spatial connection, he pulled Arry out of his home and up into one of their places in Cloudhaven.

They stood upon a fine stone quay, old and aristocratic, but also lonely. A skeleton crew of butlers and maids remained to keep the floating manor clean and ready should its tragic lord return, but Aurin had easily burgled before and there were no guards here. He sat down at the edge, letting his legs dangle. From here, they had often watched the city below. Of course, that had required "borrowing" an air taxi to get up here. That was before space became Aurin's bitch.

He didn't pull Arry down to sit beside him. He didn't think he had to.

This place was nostalgic, and one couldn't beat the views.

"Aurin Kavafis," he said to the expansive sky, "royal kidnapper." He smirked, quite self-satisfied.

[Arvælyn]

Arvælyn sighed to himself. Aurin’s reticence on the matter of the guards spoke volumes to one know knew him and his Symphony so intimately. While he had no lack of faith in Aurin’s abilities, it still concerned him to know that he’d been able to mark two grandmasters whose specialisations were deliberately quite pointedly specific to the duties to which they’d been assigned in his service. His guards hadn’t been so highly skilled prior to the attempt at the Masque, but since then at Cithæra’s command and Finn’s urging, greater resources had been put toward his protection. To be fair, this wasn’t a planned visit abroad and he tended to have more attendants on scheduled trips abroad, but it would still need to be mentioned to the Vigilia Magna as a chink in the armour. He was content to know that, whether they were reassigned, retrained or bathed in Sorokyn’s depths, they would be servants or Sacrifices to the realm.

Furtive guards were not his sole defence and so Aurin would feel the objection of the powerful wards laced into Arry’s garments anchoring him into place. When he realised what was happening, Arvælyn gripped his sleeve with one hand, tipped his head toward his collar and whispered:

“Dimittere ancoras!” With intention, this bypassing the ward and ending the hiccough between hither and thither. It was all so quick, really, Arry hoped Aurin hadn’t even noticed it. He didn’t seem to with his jest, so smiling, the prince played along.

“Oh, don’t put on airs.” He said, letting his illusions fall away to reveal the folded wings at his back and the horns protruding from his crown.

“I was never a royal up here.” He said, climbing down to perch on the ledge. “And I’m not afraid of heights anymore…” Another thing that distinguished the now from his memories of then.

“Do you ever come up here anymore?”

[Aurin]

It was strangely galling that he couldn't even play a little joke on Arry any longer without his express permission. There was no spontaneity in that. Perhaps he was just a bully unused to having his claws removed. Perhaps he was the powerless one now, though his pride was such that he would rather die than cross the world to swoon upon Arry's grand doorstep.

Funny how those things went.

"I'm up here now," he said. In fact, he couldn't recall if he had been up here since the last time he had come, which had been soon after Arry had gone off to Solunarium with Finn and Aurin's blessing. He had wanted him to find some answers to his questions, even if he didn't like them. He had wanted him out of Kalzasi with the conflict brewing with Zaichaer, knowing his devoted lapdog would jump in front of a falling blade for him.

Once after Arry left, once again after he realized that—barring state visits and wild hares up his arse—Arry wouldn't return. He had shown Rivin quite a few of his "secret places" while training him how to parkour with and without translocational tricks, but the Lysanrin was an employee and a tool, not the sort of person he was going to show a chink in his armor.

"Nah, it's not the same without you."

Anyway, it wasn't like he was expecting Arry to sit closer so he would have Aurin to grab onto if his acrophobia kicked in.

"But you're here now, so I'm here now, and seems as good a place as any for a little nostalgia tour of Kalzasi, you know?"