Arvælyn let out a throat-rending, guttural scream and his eyes glowed like the churning lava below as he reached out with his Kinetics and his Mesmer at once. The former failed to grasp Finn’s weight at this distance, and the latter was not too evenly matched to force his demand to vault back. He wanted to rise and rush to the edge, but his knees were locked and his abdomen frozen taught. Even his back ached with the physical response to such potent psychological abjection. If only he might spring wings like Raithen’s to swoop forth in time to save Finn, but no. In this, too, he was of baser birthright.
If you die, they will not have it, Finn had said, and the Founders of Solunarium exchanged a glance, nodding to one another in tandem. Aværys smirked at the singer's vitriol.
“We, who have long been exiled to this volcanic mount, are no strangers to the flavour of ash upon Our tongues. We have acquired the taste.” And then, in a blink, Finn was over the roiling core of Kaladon, tumbling toward oblivion.
“Næ.” Varvara extended an arm sharply and a glowing silver tether shot forth from Her hand as another burst out of the scar from which Finn had rendered his sacrifice to Her. The Mother of Chains wound Her tether around the torso of the human, and dominated his Rune to deny further vaulting as She drew him back toward the platform.
“The Player’s sacrifice is not the Minstrel’s to forsake, He hath rendered unto Us his life, and verily do we accept.”
“However.” Aværys asserted, “The Minstrel is correct. It be his life we were offered and his life we do adopt. The death of Arvælyn would be wasteful and would withal vex them against whom e’en We would not blithely vie.”
Finn was gently deposited upon the obsidian as the altar turned molten and melted into its surface. Arry’s eyes faded back to their normal gold as he scrambled forward on hands and knees to wrap his arms around Finn’s legs, when Varvara released him from her celestial grip.
The Twins also seemed to melt along with their altar. Varvara’s milk white skin emitted pitch black smoke as Aværys seemed to sweat magma, and both diminished in size until they were both of matching height. Both now stood shorter than both Finn and Arvælyn. Each still glowed with a luminous nimbus, but neither now stood titanically imposing.
“Ye twain be foreign-reared and new to Our quondam realms. There is much thou knowest not, and even more which hath been perverted o’er the years by Our kin, both the complacent and the conniving. But wot ye this: We knew little of the world when We ascended. We were tormented and limited by Our lot, until We were thrust into an impossible situation not unlike the scenario We did create for thee. For Our sacrifices We were rewarded with divinity…”
“Children. We were in earnest when We did pose Our questions as hypothetical in nature ere thou didst make thy dread decisions. We did not disabuse thee of thy perceptions, for in terror lieth truth and thy Sacrifices were in sooth. Thus shall Our answer, too, be delivered with veracity.”
“Arvælyn, Scion of Our Blood… It cannot be denied that thou hast Hunger, Ambition and Power. We would fain bequeath unto thee-...”
“Brother, a word.” Aværys, arched an eyebrow and nodded faintly, before the pair stepped away to confer in hushed tones and an ancient tongue.
Arvælyn got to his feet and hugged Finn tightly.
“I will never forgive you for that, you cunt!” He said, albeit muffled against the minstrel’s chest. “You’re the good one! Without you, I-...” He cut himself off, as weeping supplanted words to better articulate his present sentiments. Arry’s reasons for this pilgrimage had been different from Finn’s. That much was clear. Aværys had the right of it. It had been Hunger, Ambition and Power that drew him to this fell place. They sought to know how much he was willing to sacrifice, and even he was surprised at where that took him. He sacrificed everything, but not in a fashion he’d ever dreamt of doing. He’d spoken of burning entire realms to keep Finn at his side, but never of burning himself. He’d been a consummate survivor, at the cost of others. He’d stolen, he’d turned conscious people into puppets to serve as his armour against slaughter. And Finn, in a flash, took his agency and tried to steal his sacrifice by quitting the world to leave him alone again. What might have been an existential relief proved to be naught but crippling, agonising dread. He would sustain the embrace, even after the Founders returned.
“Arvælyn. Though thou art an exemplar of My domains, My Mistress hath persuaded Me that I should deny thee My Radiant gift…” Arry looked to them, with weary bemusement.
“Aye, Filius Phædryn.” Midnight’s Mother agreed, “Thou dost ken the ache of manacles, for thou wast Chained by the bonds of specious liberty. Thou knowest Sacrifice, for there is little thou dost cherish in this world that thou wouldst not yield up for advancement. And thou dost wot Domination, for thou hast seen it oft from both sides and plied it willfully to protect thy precious self and thy treasured amatus.” Varvara stepped forward and offered him Her hand, “If thou wouldst fain accept it, I would gift thee with the Mark of Supremacy… Wield it well, and dominate thy fear... thy foes... thy very fate with starker weapons than ever thou hast brandished and stronger armour than ever thou hast donned.”
Arry’s breath caught in his throat.
“...What?”
“Finn, you sought My blessing to protect your beloved, but thou art no creature of mine. Chains, Sacrifice and Domination? These are not the realms for thee. Thine is no crafty nor contriving heart, though thou art, after a fashion, severe. That thou didst hither display. The Mark of the Tethered would be as a curse to thee and We shall not hence bestow it.”
“Instead, thou shalt have mine.” Aværys smiled, “For there is much of My will in thee. Thou hast Hunger, though thy tongue seeks for different tastes. Thou hast Ambition, the which hath garnered thee attention from gods and men alike, eager to hear thee ply thine art. And thou hast Pow’r… for the most persuasive thing in all the realms known to God or Man is a story, and thou dost guide strange hearts with song whithersoever thou willst. If thou wouldst have it, I shall bequeath unto thee the Mark of Majesty. Use it to broaden thine audience, to protect thine amatus, or howsoever thou choosest, for as long as thou dost stand exemplar of My domains. Grow in power, strive for Radiance and thy Majesty shall thrive. Stagnate and grow complacent and watch it wither. I would mark thee not to command how thou pliest Mine instrument of puissance, for in stridency you and I stand as compeers. You were not born to sue, but to command.” He tipped his golden-haired head, and cast an almost lascivious wink to the handsome human.
Varvara regarded them both.
“This morrow We have garnered much knowledge of thee. Of the wending tides of a world from whence We have long been banishéd. For this are We grateful.”
“The world will soon change drastically. Accept these boons, and thou shalt rise amongst them who chart the course.”
If you die, they will not have it, Finn had said, and the Founders of Solunarium exchanged a glance, nodding to one another in tandem. Aværys smirked at the singer's vitriol.
“We, who have long been exiled to this volcanic mount, are no strangers to the flavour of ash upon Our tongues. We have acquired the taste.” And then, in a blink, Finn was over the roiling core of Kaladon, tumbling toward oblivion.
“Næ.” Varvara extended an arm sharply and a glowing silver tether shot forth from Her hand as another burst out of the scar from which Finn had rendered his sacrifice to Her. The Mother of Chains wound Her tether around the torso of the human, and dominated his Rune to deny further vaulting as She drew him back toward the platform.
“The Player’s sacrifice is not the Minstrel’s to forsake, He hath rendered unto Us his life, and verily do we accept.”
“However.” Aværys asserted, “The Minstrel is correct. It be his life we were offered and his life we do adopt. The death of Arvælyn would be wasteful and would withal vex them against whom e’en We would not blithely vie.”
Finn was gently deposited upon the obsidian as the altar turned molten and melted into its surface. Arry’s eyes faded back to their normal gold as he scrambled forward on hands and knees to wrap his arms around Finn’s legs, when Varvara released him from her celestial grip.
The Twins also seemed to melt along with their altar. Varvara’s milk white skin emitted pitch black smoke as Aværys seemed to sweat magma, and both diminished in size until they were both of matching height. Both now stood shorter than both Finn and Arvælyn. Each still glowed with a luminous nimbus, but neither now stood titanically imposing.
“Ye twain be foreign-reared and new to Our quondam realms. There is much thou knowest not, and even more which hath been perverted o’er the years by Our kin, both the complacent and the conniving. But wot ye this: We knew little of the world when We ascended. We were tormented and limited by Our lot, until We were thrust into an impossible situation not unlike the scenario We did create for thee. For Our sacrifices We were rewarded with divinity…”
“Children. We were in earnest when We did pose Our questions as hypothetical in nature ere thou didst make thy dread decisions. We did not disabuse thee of thy perceptions, for in terror lieth truth and thy Sacrifices were in sooth. Thus shall Our answer, too, be delivered with veracity.”
“Arvælyn, Scion of Our Blood… It cannot be denied that thou hast Hunger, Ambition and Power. We would fain bequeath unto thee-...”
“Brother, a word.” Aværys, arched an eyebrow and nodded faintly, before the pair stepped away to confer in hushed tones and an ancient tongue.
Arvælyn got to his feet and hugged Finn tightly.
“I will never forgive you for that, you cunt!” He said, albeit muffled against the minstrel’s chest. “You’re the good one! Without you, I-...” He cut himself off, as weeping supplanted words to better articulate his present sentiments. Arry’s reasons for this pilgrimage had been different from Finn’s. That much was clear. Aværys had the right of it. It had been Hunger, Ambition and Power that drew him to this fell place. They sought to know how much he was willing to sacrifice, and even he was surprised at where that took him. He sacrificed everything, but not in a fashion he’d ever dreamt of doing. He’d spoken of burning entire realms to keep Finn at his side, but never of burning himself. He’d been a consummate survivor, at the cost of others. He’d stolen, he’d turned conscious people into puppets to serve as his armour against slaughter. And Finn, in a flash, took his agency and tried to steal his sacrifice by quitting the world to leave him alone again. What might have been an existential relief proved to be naught but crippling, agonising dread. He would sustain the embrace, even after the Founders returned.
“Arvælyn. Though thou art an exemplar of My domains, My Mistress hath persuaded Me that I should deny thee My Radiant gift…” Arry looked to them, with weary bemusement.
“Aye, Filius Phædryn.” Midnight’s Mother agreed, “Thou dost ken the ache of manacles, for thou wast Chained by the bonds of specious liberty. Thou knowest Sacrifice, for there is little thou dost cherish in this world that thou wouldst not yield up for advancement. And thou dost wot Domination, for thou hast seen it oft from both sides and plied it willfully to protect thy precious self and thy treasured amatus.” Varvara stepped forward and offered him Her hand, “If thou wouldst fain accept it, I would gift thee with the Mark of Supremacy… Wield it well, and dominate thy fear... thy foes... thy very fate with starker weapons than ever thou hast brandished and stronger armour than ever thou hast donned.”
Arry’s breath caught in his throat.
“...What?”
“Finn, you sought My blessing to protect your beloved, but thou art no creature of mine. Chains, Sacrifice and Domination? These are not the realms for thee. Thine is no crafty nor contriving heart, though thou art, after a fashion, severe. That thou didst hither display. The Mark of the Tethered would be as a curse to thee and We shall not hence bestow it.”
“Instead, thou shalt have mine.” Aværys smiled, “For there is much of My will in thee. Thou hast Hunger, though thy tongue seeks for different tastes. Thou hast Ambition, the which hath garnered thee attention from gods and men alike, eager to hear thee ply thine art. And thou hast Pow’r… for the most persuasive thing in all the realms known to God or Man is a story, and thou dost guide strange hearts with song whithersoever thou willst. If thou wouldst have it, I shall bequeath unto thee the Mark of Majesty. Use it to broaden thine audience, to protect thine amatus, or howsoever thou choosest, for as long as thou dost stand exemplar of My domains. Grow in power, strive for Radiance and thy Majesty shall thrive. Stagnate and grow complacent and watch it wither. I would mark thee not to command how thou pliest Mine instrument of puissance, for in stridency you and I stand as compeers. You were not born to sue, but to command.” He tipped his golden-haired head, and cast an almost lascivious wink to the handsome human.
Varvara regarded them both.
“This morrow We have garnered much knowledge of thee. Of the wending tides of a world from whence We have long been banishéd. For this are We grateful.”
“The world will soon change drastically. Accept these boons, and thou shalt rise amongst them who chart the course.”
