Legend of Ransera

"We remain chess pieces upon a board we can only see but obliquely," he said. "That we have crowns of gold and light, well, we are still but mummers. The platinum dragons and the Divine Twins rule here. They merely delegate to us."

Finn took the vehement denial in stride; he supposed it might be due to the object lesson Aværys had taught him, but while he didn't bother the God with every thought in his head except in prayer, he was not shy about invoking him when the need arose. If he didn't want discourse with his chosen, then he oughtn't to have chosen them, at least to Finn's mind.

He smirked back, a little thrill running through him. The bard felt closest to his husband when it felt as though it was them against the world, whether it was penning a song together or, he supposed, conquering a nation.

"Well, I had hoped to serve you Thalya's head on a silver platter for your birthday... My golden prince looks so fetching in the sunlight." Deft artist's fingers came up to adjust an errant bit of golden hair. He smiled, inhaled the restrained, pleasant bouquet of fountain and waters, distant sands. The cool of the marble against his rump, the heat of his lover at his side. It was a paradise, but not the sort that Aværys had offered. This didn't make other glories fade beside it; this simple perfection made him feel as though his dissatisfactions were incorrect.

"Our hearts we have sold for diamonds and gold," he reminded him in song. "But hey, baby, take a look: we have it all." It wasn't only his power that had grown; Finn's voice had achieved new heights as well. Arvælyn heard it stripped down and without accompaniment more than most, and it was lovely in simplicity as well. Finn smiled wryly.

"For what it's worth, my love, I share in your dissatisfaction, your restlessness. I love your dissatisfaction and your restlessness. I cannot wave my hand and banish them, but I will bide by you until we figure things out. Always."

"She tried to take you away from me," he reminded Arvælyn darkly. It created dissonance in his music. Finn had a sunny disposition, had seemed almost too compassionate for the harsh-seeming rules of Solunarian life. If Zalkyriax and Arvælyn loved like dragons, as Cithæra claimed, it was odd for a note of jealous possessiveness to chime along his words.

His hands tightened on his husband again, not so tight as to hurt or harm, but underscoring what he said. It didn't seem as though he were about to drag his husband into his cavern full of treasure, however.

"We could go somewhere," he agreed, the moment passing quickly as a shoreline sunshower. "Our honeymoon was a delight." Nodding along, he knew that delegation was entirely possible. The Atraxian empire had a sizeable bureaucracy, and Finn saw firsthand how Cithæra depended on Phocion and Phocion depended on him. Of course, Finn wasn't the only support Phocion had, and it wasn't as though any of them were shirking duty. But they certainly didn't need to overload Arvælyn so early in his princely career such that he didn't learn how to balance upon that sharp pyramid point.

"Hm. Matters with Ecith aren't yet resolved to my satisfaction. I am still trying to figure out how to charm the aid I require to seek Thalya from your, ah, great-great-grandfather? A great deal of attention is paid to Sirena. I brought her here for protection, and for Solunarium's benefit. But her mother saved my life, saved my music, and charged me to care for her. I am trying to balance my duty to the realm and my duty to mother and child. They still imagine she is might be a bomb to tear Solunarium open as Zaichaer was rent asunder, but I do not see it." He shrugged.

"Perhaps I am blinded by loyalty, and bound by competing loyalties."

He sighed and his song went wistful, resonating with Arvælyn's Rune. He was, as he had said, content, but that didn't mean he didn't sometimes yearn for simpler times, sharing a fine apartment with his lover, playing roles and singing songs and being lauded for their gifts.

Finn's response had to wait as Arvælyn broached difficult territory. He was glad that rage was no longer the response, though a part of him wondered whether it was Mesmer, a divine, or a draconic influence that smoothed over those rough edges. Or perhaps his husband's perspective had truly widened beyond his knee-jerk emotional response. He put his arm around the prince's shoulders, mindful of his wings. By now, he had figured out how to comfortably cuddle the half-elven dragonling he loved.

"'Tis where the lines of the Pyramid are unclear that I find difficulty," he admitted. "Sirena has no advocate but me, no place yet in the Pyramid. I will not defy Phocion, but I begged him leave to take her elsewhere if he deemed her unfit for the Custodes Deorum rather than... destruction or punishment. And the word of Aværys is my command... even when it risks your displeasure." He sighed. "The most dangerous gray area, though, has to do with you. If your father commanded one thing and you its opposite, I do not know that I could defer to his greater authority. Or if you decided to give it all up... I would forswear myself to vault you elsewhere, wherever you desired."

He took that beautiful, princely hand in his own, brought it to his lips.

"Look kindly on me, though, my love. Your father might be exalted beyond wherever you might perch, but you will always be the king of my heart. I think he knows it, though, and whether he deems it human frailty or Kalzasern corruption, he allowed me to marry you and does not stop me when I want to defile you."

Finn paused. He hadn't meant to imply there would be others, lesser than the Golden God or otherwise, but he nodded his head in understanding lest clarification seem combative. There was a faint smile, however, for how poetic Arvælyn had become in his pronouncements, even just for him. It was likely having spent a sleepless night among his draconic family as much as anything else.

He had loved knowing the soul behind the role back in Kalzasi, and he still treasured the times now where he felt as though he was seeing the parts of Arvælyn that others didn't see. But there were certainly parts of Arvælyn that were changing to fit the mold of the masks he wore, faking it until he made it as they said.

"A peregrina," he said dubiously, "or an asset of the Custodes Deorum." He didn't keep things from Arvælyn, but he didn't go into great deal about most of his missions. It was important to Finn that Phocion not feel as though Finn was likely to run to Arvælyn with reports as to his handling of his branch of the Vigilia Argenti.

Sometimes, he wasn't sure if he was a peregrinus or an asset of the Custodes Deorum, a royal-by-marriage citizen or a knight on a chessboard wearing the colors of Phædryn-Sol'Aværys and Sol'Zalkyrion. He could weather some uncertainty, though, for the certainty of his husband's hand in his.

"The print was so small
I didn't understand
He cut our thumbs
And placed a feather in our hands
Told us we would see
All our dreams and plans unfold."

He didn't mean the lines to be murky, merely topical. A smile softened them.

"Wither would you away, my love, were we fleeing the routine for a bit of adventure? Kalzasern trips don't seem as important anymore now that my family is here, and it felt strange to be there for the coronation... In Kalzasi, but so separate from most of the people and places I knew best. I wonder how the folks at the Crown and Lion are faring. Their simple lives, their simple support."

Finn wasn't wistful exactly, but his life had taken a strange turn.

"Of course," he replied with a smile. "I will be eager to hear, though, when you let your imagination take flight."

It occurred to him that he didn't know how to please his beloved in this situation; oh, he could take his clothes off and please him in the moment, but an earth-shattering orgasm only dropped one into the afterglow for so long. There were larger, more systemic hurdles to their happiness now.

What is happiness? he wondered, not aloud, but he didn't exactly guard his thoughts and feelings from Arvælyn. He knew the thought of a life without his husband was a decidedly unhappy thought, but the having and the holding didn't make each moment a joy. When he spoke to his parents about such things, they were so practical about them. They had shared a life for so long, been partners, reared children, now grandchildren, and it seemed as though they were happy now for their son who would never want for anything material, and who clearly loved his husband, and they were glad that the rest of the family would suffer no deprivation. Fionna could create whatever she wished. Mabon could walk into a strange bar and make friends of strangers and expand his understanding of the world.

Ciarán was currently recovering from too much partying...

"Perhaps when next I find myself in Kalzasi, I will find myself in the old taproom with a bag of gold and I'll give gifts for new children, new marriages, and the like... Make things a little better for everyone." He smiled; the thought did give him some pleasure, although he knew he was more distant from those people than he had ever been now and it wasn't just the distance.

He brought a golden hand up to his lips again.

"We will figure it out, love. Together."