Time Eats All His Children in the End

[Finn]

"Fæx," he muttered, and stood.

As he had anticipated this eventuality by a little span, servi hurried in to accouter him for travel, and they carried extra, presumably for Arkænyn should he require any equipage. Soon enough, he was in Sentinel blacks, armed, and he even pulled Varvara's instrument through the thin air from wherever he kept it safe. It was in a case on his back, protected from physical damage and scrying eyes.

"Strike while the chronomancer is willing, eh?" he asked rhetorically of the platinum prince.

To the servus, "Inform Phocion Princeps, Cithæra Princeps, and Arvælyn Princeps that I have gone on an outing with the Archidux."

That would have to be sufficient with the context they all had, and if he was likely to get a talking-to—or three—that was a price he was willing to pay for Thayla's head on a platter, or at least her on her knees before the judgment of Gods and elves.

The servi were already straightening the documents, and would keep Arkænyn's safe and separate until he should return, or hand them over if he meant to take them with him. Finn had a knack for memorizing words and, after all, what better font of knowledge could they have than Phædreon himself?

"I am ready," he averred, though he hardly knew whether one could be ready to ply the timestreams in search of deadly prey. But he knew he could depend on Arkænyn, which was strange in itself, and was fairly certain he could depend on Phædreon, if only because he was one of Aværys' chosen.

[Pharaoh]

Arkænyn arched a brow at Finn's expletive and, though he remained silent, his expression echoed the sentiment. Nodding to the Sentinel and then to the Archidux, he offered his hand as requested. Phædreon turned the prince's palm up and pulled off his to expose the pale skin. Taking Arkænyn's hand in his own, Phædreon's violet eyes rolled back until all that showed was a luminescent white. As the ancient elf remained still, as if entranced, the Platinum Prince remained fully conscious and looked bemusedly to Finn.

"Hold still. You're splitting streams. Be inert. No choice is a choice, but make that one." Phædreon snapped, causing Arkænyn's face to snap back toward him. "Good boy." This went on for a few minutes until, all at once, the time mage dropped Arkænyn's hand, adopted a giddy grin and stepped over to Finn.

"I have narrowed the search to fewer than one hundred realities. That is... most fortunate. The field will only narrow the closer we get to the... Nevermind. If I explain my process it will take so much Time that I'll need to bring us back to now for us to be productive. Suffice it to say we're going to go a bit into the past, but not in this reality, so it shouldn't be jarring... Well, it should be very jarring if gravity works differently where we land or if everyone has sausages for fingers or something absurd, but the, uhm... The timing, per se, should be irrelevant." He paused as Finn's servants returned with his change-of-clothes.

Arkænyn, for his part, sighed and muttered a few command words in Vallenor, which caused his somewhat martial garb to alter into more practical armour as the flowy bits gave way to metal and sleeker fabric that clung to his slender frame rather than draping over those long limbs. The style of the armour was very similar to that of his prior look, and he quickly sheathed his large Aurisian pactblade as it materialised, lest present company think it to have been a threatening gesture.

► Show Spoiler

"Well, now I feel underdressed." Phædreon pouted, "Anyway, it doesn't really matter where we begin... I mean, unless we begin somewhere without oxygen or something like that. That's... an exaggeration. I'm better at this than that, but... Well, I explain too much. I'll just pick a dimension at random."

► Show Spoiler

Phædreon grabbed the hands of both of his fellow travellers and began to backstep them through time and into another dimension. The chamber before their eyes began to fade, but very slowly and, as it did, they could see translucent versions of themselves operating backwards. Moving back to where they'd just been. Arkænyn's armour reverting back to its former, flowy regalia, but soon translucent gave way to transparent and it was the blue and purple light that began to consume the walls that became impossible to ignore. Finn's villa was gone. The very floor beneath their feet was no more, as they flowed through some pocket between worlds where only the three of them seemed to remain constant.

Flashes of other realities began to pierce through the warping surroundings into their fields of view. Vignettes of their own lives, moving in reverse as they continued to hurdle backward in time even as they shifted between dimensions. Their physical location seemed to hold no relevance as their own perceptions began to take them down unexpected routes outside of time and space as they knew it.

"What the fuck?!" Arkænyn exclaimed audibly, as he stared at something Finn could not see. What the human observed in that moment was a scene from another version of his life, where he'd never left Kalzasi. Perhaps he'd never met Arvælyn, or perhaps he hadn't followed him to Atraxia, but whatever the case, he could see himself unsipping a cup of coffee in bed and handing it back up to a smiling Torin, whose ease suggested he'd overcome or never experienced the mental break that haunted him after the Mesmer attack dealt by his version of Arvælyn.

That reality floated quickly away and the next scene was elsewhere, where he saw himself huddled in terror in some dark closet or cupboard. Light poured in as the door swung open and he unhid and ran backwards out of his apartment at the Crown and Lion. The smell of smoke, ash and something unfamiliar assaulted his nostrils as he uncoughed and looked to the sky, where an open rift un-loosed a seemingly unending army of dragons, their fiery breath unburning Zaichæri and Imperial airships and returning to their maws as they returned to the rift through which they'd seemingly come.

Then that scene was gone as Finn saw them passing through, by, or past a dimension in which Talon was in the throne room of the Palatium Umbrarum pulling his sword from the chest of Arvælyn as the enraged draconic elf was swallowing a plume of starfire back into a fanged mouth. Finn himself was unscreaming in horror and re-sheathing a blade as he un-portaled back away from the backward duel.

Perhaps Finn saw more in the midst of the temporal mists, but very suddenly he would feel the jarring sensation of solid ground suddenly under his feet and gravity now pulling at legs that hadn't been steadied for standing. The ground was soft and moss-covered. Arkænyn was breathing heavily, tears streaming down his face as they settled into a reality where time seemed to be moving forward once again.

"What the fuck was that?! I saw my former fool... That Sælyan half-fae, but he was alive... unalive and powerful... so powerful and-"

"Unlikely paths are not impossible. Least of all in realms with different rules. I would not take you to any of the places you've just seen. Your minds drew them for one reason or another, but they are not relevant to our mission. Well. Hopefully."

The chirping of birds could be heard in the canopy above an apparent jungle. They looked as though they were in a jungle of some kind... perhaps in the Commonwealth or to the South of the Atraxian Expanse.

"Can you feel where we are, Viator? Do you sense the ley lines? Can you tell that we haven't moved an inch geographically? Welcome to The Atraxian Rainforest."

[Finn]

Finn would have offered Phædreon anything he asked for in preparation for their trip, but the time mage ceased to care after a moment, it seemed. Glancing at Arkænyn, he supposed they did look fine enough for the stage: starlit prince and human shadow. But if he pulled up his veil, he might be unknown; nobody was going to mistake Arkænyn for anyone but himself.

And then reality twisted.

He couldn't even ask his companion what was wrong. What was wrong became apparent over and over again: a version of him with Torin Kilvin; a version of him where war and terror came to Kalzasi; version after version. His eyes were dry when they stopped, but he had to choke down a knot in his throat at the sight of Arvælyn dying before he put his hand on the prince to stead him. Finn didn't have to say anything; Phædreon explained it all.

Should he feel guilty for a version of him that didn't cleave to his husband? No, probably not, though it made his heart twinge strangely.

"When will we know if those visions were meaningful to our quest?" he asked, knowing the answer would likely be something frustrating.

In any case, he carefully sensed the slipspace around them and found it much the same as it was at home, but indeed, he could sense where the River Vasta pulled the aether down and toward Tertium and the sea.

"Huh," he said. "Fascinating. It's certainly more humid here." He slapped his neck where a mosquito or something had landed, tickling his skin. "So a version of the world where Ecith's flora covers the Atraxian Expanse. Does Solunarium exist here?" He was looking through the canopy, tempted to vault himself high into the air for a bird's-eye view, and then back safely to the ground, but he didn't know if he wanted to chance his magic quite so spectacularly before he knew whether it would behave as he was used to. He had read about realities with different rules of physics and such.

"How much do you know about this reality coming into it and how much do we have to ascertain for ourselves?" he asked, settling into a Sentinel's attitude. He needed intelligence before proper decisions could be made. Even so, he was testing the slipstream for aberrations, doing the same with whatever bits of symphony he could sense from his companions, and even testing his connection to Aværys. He had brought blades, unsure whether he would be able to bring out a pact weapon wherever they might go, afraid to break a pact when returning. He thought he could call one forth, and perhaps he ought to just so he knew what tools remained in his arsenal.

He glanced between their guide and the prince, who likely had plenty of tricks up his sleeves as well. Were this home, he might have called Khyan forth hoping his new state of being would allow him to track the object of their vengeance, but that seemed unlikely.

[Pharaoh]

Phædreon shrugged broadly and twitched, suddenly slapping himself across the cheek hard enough that the clap pierced the air and echoed abroad of their little corner of jungle, startling Arkænyn.

"Sorry. Buggy and muggy here. Anyway, don't get stuck on those visions. They might as well be idle dreams to work through worries. They are your might have beens, but weren't. They can't ever be realities for you because you're beyond those fulcra. Anyone in those worlds... They might look like a friend, an amatus, a parent, but every last one of them is a stranger.

"If those visions end up being meaningful it says more about you than it does about those scenarios... those realities. It says that you're savvy to Fate or Destiny or connected to your quarry in some way that-..." Phædreon blinked, his eyes darting to the still shaken Arkænyn.

"Oh, Phædreon, you short-sighted fool." The mage muttered to himself as he stared at the platinum princeps. "Earlier I was focused on versions of you, but you are a version of her... Your cells were formed within her body. The version of her that came from our self-same timeline. There are ties there that traverse multiverses. That which is of something is always connected to it on a level that- Oh right. We decided I wasn't going to explain everything, didn't we? Suffice it to say: Finn gave me an idea that is going to help us. I think that should shave off another, oh, sixty to eighty possible timelines. Just depends on how active our mark has been." Phædreon glanced around their immediate vicinity and hitherto unseen witchmarks glowed blue at his neck. Though partially covered by his collar, Finn and Arkænyn would see two nearly identical Runic markings.

"Do you... have two of the same Rune?"

"Quiet. I'm Sembling." Replied Phædreon sharply, holding a finger to Arkænyn's lips, which were pursed in incredulity until said digit was removed and the glow at his neck died down. "Almost the same. One was from our timeline, one is a souvenir from another when I merged with another version of me. It's helpful. Works in Timelines where the first one didn't. Not all, though. They both work here, which is useful since the me from this reality is long dead so I can't currently tap into his... You know what? Nevermind. Not what anyone asked. What Finn asked was whether Solunarium exists, which it does or we wouldn't be here." He tapped the trunk of a nearby tree. "This land has been terraformed. I'd guess via arch-magic or Green Dragoncraft. And clearly it's not the capital of Solunarium. Now, then, if I were the wily capital of a sacred imperial demesne and I weren't in the Atraxian Desert, where would I be? And why would I have-... Oh! Good morrow."

Phædreon offered, continuing in the Vastian he'd been speaking all this while, as he paused to regard a forest dweller of some sort. Dirt-smudged, camouflaged and wild-looking, he might have been taken for some jungle Fæ'ethalan, but no. He was an elf and one who bore features rather similar to those of Finn's own spouse as he'd been before his draconic transition. It might not have been so noticeable if Finn had not seen visions of Arvælyn in his days as an sooty-faced urchin. Closer inspection would reveal that this was not, in fact, some replica of the Princeps Draconum, but one who bore something of a resemblance.

"He looks... Starborn." Arkænyn observed, sounding somewhere between shocked and appalled, but at least having the courtesy to have done so quietly under his breath.

"Nt nan'uv io Arvain. Vonaho ai'uv tou?" The jungle boy demanded in a husky voice that further distinguished him from the Umbrian regent of their timeline.

"Oh, bother, I don't suppose either of you speak Ecitharese?" Phædreon looked first to Arkænyn, who just gaped at him in overt revulsion, and then to Finn with a hopeful smile.

[Finn]

Finn had done his homework, so he wasn't entirely lost when Phædreon tugged them down a rabbit hole of time theory. Of course, now was probably not the time for lessons; perhaps when they returned, the time mage would indulge him with more discussions of his great Craft. As Finn had said when they met, he hungered for all the stories the elf might tell, almost as much as he hungered for his vengeance.

He did glance at Arkænyn, however, perhaps considering some version of him he had seen down one of those tunnels of time that their guide had bypassed entirely. He did smirk, too, just a little.

Even a jungle city would require fresh water, so he supposed they ought to travel toward the river, but he didn't have time to make that insight known before he whirled to follow Phædreon's gaze and found a... starborn version of Arvælyn... sort of. At least, a Phædryn if he had learned to recognize the family he married into at all.

"Huh. No... I do not speak Ecitharese. But I can use Mesmer to help communicate, and if Aværys' grace follows me here, I can make myself understood perfectly." He paused, a sick feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. "Fæx, I hope they weren't conquered by the Orkhan. I don't... hm..." But he was enough of a linguist at this point and the elf wasn't guarding his symphony nearly so well as his husband did.

"His name is Arvain."

Finn felt a profound sense of relief when he felt the golden glow of Aværys' radiance flow into him, emanating as a halo from his brow.

"Well met, Arvain," he said in Vastian, and between the Gifts of Sovereignty and Voracity, he was understood and in a light most inspiring of aid. "I am Finn the Far-strider. My friends and I seek the city nearby. Could we prevail upon you to show us the way?"

[Pharaoh]

The flush that penetrated Arkænyn’s oft sneering visage seemed to suggest he’d been party to the same or similar vision as Finn had experienced. Strangely it had been a less ludicrous offence than Æros as a Lich-lord, but here they were and things moved quickly when dancing through time.

As Finn’s brow began to glow with golden Radiance, Arvain’s eyes widened and he gasped as power within the youth surged to summon a silvery spear from the æther. He adopted a martial stance and shouted:

“Fi'uvndo! Pi'uvpai'uv! Eh'uvt ai'uv oidi'uvi Avaerisi!”

“Oh dear…” Phædreon said, taking a backward step which halted as his back struck the front of a towering Orkish woman snarling down at him and holding a blade to his throat.

Another female Ork appeared to Finn’s right as the thunder of rapid wingbeats descended from the trees above and a blonde Fæ with insectoid wings and a scimitar in either hand appeared from the branches.

“Vonaht hav'uv tou con'uv eo eh'uv iand Varvaeri, uvn'uvnt fion goid?” Arvain demanded in a panicked shout, as he regarded Arkænyn, now armed and taking stock of the opposition.

“Op'uvak, oeiang'uvi, oi Oidi'uvi Norani vonai ki toui fi'uvnd.” It was entirely clear regardless of linguistic comprehension that this was a threat, as the Ork holding Phædreon tightened her grip. He held his hands up in submission and

“Parley!” Was shouted in Vastian, then in Vallenor. Arvain scoffed angrily as he replied in Vallenor.

“This is parley. Why has a Herald of Hubris polluted Her Holy soil with his fell footsteps?” He inquired, glaring at Finn.

[Finn]

Finn had lessons in time-traveling coming at him hard and fast. His husband in another reality might be his enemy even as Arkænyn might be his soul's other half. The silver spear in Arvain's hand ought to have had a complement of gold in his own, but he daren't ask this reality's Aværys for a weapon when they were flying relatively blind into this strange.

Hold! he commanded, though Phædreon clearly sought not violence. Perhaps he oughtn't to have done so to Arkænyn, but the royal elf had been a loose cannon the entire time Finn had known him and he was not prepared to die in some foreign reality over a miscommunication become too heated too quickly. If he railed against divine control, perhaps he would forgive the mortal who wielded it in time.

A version of Arvine Venasyr before royalty and dragoncraft, an Orkhan woman, and a Fae'ethalan—all signs pointed to an Ecithian ascendancy here and now. Fine, he thought. He could deal with that.

He raised empty hands, showing he bore now weapon unsheathed. He made eye contact with Arvain, and he wove mesmeric cadences into his words as subtly as his mastery allowed, though if anyone reacted negatively to it, he would cease. He didn't seek to control now, but merely to calm, to keep the princeps, the archidux, and himself alive to bungle things yet another day. He daren't speak of another reality; one of the texts he had read had spoken of a prime directive, that actions one took in the past could warp the future, and how anything one did in an alternate reality could rebound upon one's own. He didn't want to shred reality; he only wanted Thalya.

"Very well, we parlay with the agents of Her Argent Luminescence. I am Finn, called Far-strider. I hail from Karnor, and your ways are strange to me. I am married to one of the Divine Tethered, and the emblem of Aværys was the price to save him from the fires of Mount Kaladon." He wove a spell of words, using mostly truth, to seek abeyance of violence or incarceration until they could figure out next steps. They needed information first and foremost.

"We have traveled far in search of Olivia Vlahos-Sol’Aværys Thalya Imperatrix—at least, that was what she called herself—a daughter of Aværys' lineage. We seek to bring her home to face divine and temporal justice. If you doubt me, I bear an instrument of music marked by Varvara Domina Herself, a mark of Her divine favor, given to me by Her own holy hands. If you will allow me, I will take it out to show you."

If gold was ill-favored here, then perhaps the silver he carried would carry the day.

[Pharaoh]

Arkænyn froze at the command, though he was far from inclined to initiate any aggression that might kill their only known way home. He may have been impulsive at times, but those occasions tended to be when he was very much in his element and this was very much not that.

The snarling spear-bearer did not seem to soften at Finn's mesmeric influence, which may have meant he'd have been more aggravated without it or perhaps the effect was mitigated or nullified upon him. Whatever the case, he did listen to what was being said. He tensed at the mention of Karnor, and seemed to grow increasingly confused the more the stranger elaborated.

"Obfuscation!" Arvain exclaimed in protestation, "You speak nonsense, stranger. Is this a stall tactic whilst your forces converge upon us?" He glanced to the Fæ sharply, "Destynrael, o'uvaich foi eiouki'uv!" He barked and the faerie nodded before shooting upwards for a better vantage point from which to seek out threats.

"Now, then, what are you playing at, oeiang'uvi? Varværa does not suffer Her devout to bind themselves to heralds of hubris, Kaladon does not burn, and the one you seek rules in the place you claim to have quit in search of her. Did you tumble through the wrong portal? Do you not know that you stand upon the sacred soil of Her Argent Empire?"

"Vona'uv ohouid eak'uv eh'uvn eo ciet, nt pinc'uv." The Orkish woman to Finn's right rasped, as the other growled low beside Phædreon's ear.

"Tou ai'uv coi'uvce, Yngoen." Arvain nodded, "We came here to hunt a gentler quarry than we have found. It would be best if you returned with us to eh'uv gi'uvae ciet. Walk cautiously, lest we mistake a misstep for an attempt to flee." He gestured with his spear,

"This way. And tell us, while we walk, how you came to leave the service of Kalædia while retaining enough of your patron's affection to wield that Mark of yours."

The Fæ descended from the canopy and shook his head, indicating he'd found no reinforcements approaching to rescue their current captives.

"Fit iovona. K'uvp uvt'uvo eo eh'uvn" Arvain raised his voice to instruct, and the Fæ flew lower and a bit ahead. High enough, at least, that the sound of his wingbeats was not deafening.

[Finn]

Finn didn't seek to hide his confusion. He knew that the same players were playing different roles here, as different as Atraxia in verdant weeds rather than austere. It was a trial not to say the elf in jungle drag's name as he would in the dark of their bedchamber and reach out for his hand, though it was what he most desired in that moment, to grasp that anchor of love. Some of that might have been visible in the limpid blue of his eyes.

Perhaps the Finn of this reality was Thalya's plaything. He knew she was ruthless, but he didn't know if she was mean.

His eyes rose at the familiar name and indeed, it was Torin's friend Destynrael.

"Dè cho math 'sa tha do chinneadh, Destynrael Dromlach’darach?" he called over the noise of wingbeats, wondering if this Destyn knew a Finn. The Orkhan woman, though, he didn't recognize. Most Orkhan women he knew were Kalzasern scholars, far from their cousins of Ecith in more ways than physical distance.

Regardless, he nodded to his men—as if Phædreon and Arkænyn were Vigils under his command—and prepared to follow their hosts. It was quick as a thought to pull the instrument from his pack and into his hand using the slipspace, and he gave the silver strings a strum, as if daring Her to smite him or Her faithful to deny the veracity of his claims.

"Obfuscation is Her domain," he reminded the familiar face of his best beloved. "Though my claiming Her favor might, in fact, be Hubris as you decry." He began to play an old, familiar introduction that his Arvælyn would know immediately and sing in glorious tandem with him. Sometimes, he instrument required a sacrifice from him, drawing blood from his fingertips even through his hard-earned calluses.

He didn't know if today would be one of those days. And it was entirely possible She shielded this Arvain from his influence; he was no Sembler, but Mesmer was a cousin discipline, for certes. But when he sang, it was only his voice. If there was anything magical about it, it came from Varvara's instrument.

"There was Fire around us so I should have known why
The touch of His hands were as cold as His eyes
So don't you tell me we weren't hypnotized..."

[Pharaoh]

► Show Spoiler

It was easy to mistake this version of Destyn for another Fæ, so different was his deportment. His blonde hair was swept back and matted down by something that made it look a bit darker. His eyes were suspicious and narrowed rather than wide and whimsical. His garb was coloured to camouflage against the environs and the skin he bared was painted with mud, moss and clay. Though he seemed far less flappable than his counterpart in the Prime Timeline, the sound of a Vallasren dialect and his clan sobriquet were enough to cause a dip in his flight. Snarling he halted his flight just in front of Finn and landed in a crouch, eyeing him with angry suspicion.

“Labhraíonn tú teanga an gheimhridh agus tá m'ainm ar eolas agat. An é seo cleas éigin de do choróin?” Even his voice was different than that of the other Destyn- huskier and sharper. He didn’t answer the question posed.

“Oh, so he doesn’t speak Ecitharese, but he knows Vallasren?” Phædreon observed in Vastian rolled his eyes, though the gesture was cut short by a nudge to his back urging him forward and, presumably, suggesting silence was silver.

Arvain regarded the instrument with a glare. The glow in his eyes suggested his appraisal was more than mundane, and his face reddened at what he saw and heard.

“Silence! You may sing your shanties at the pleasure of my grandsire, if he does not cut you down where you stand. Now all of you, hold your wily tongues and weave no more magicks of manipulation.” Though Finn had already woven enough to know that this wild, Platinum variation was upon the same theme as his beloved, but different. It was as if the same motif had been adopted by another composer and reimagined in an entirely disparate style.

Arkænyn was content to stay his tongue for the journey and Phædreon, though less so, obliged the demand and was released to walk of his own volition as the Orkish woman stood behind him, and the other moved to Finn’s rear as Arvain led the way and Destyn returned to the air, where he held a bow in one hand and an arrow in the other, poised to thwart any attempts upon his party.

After about an hour’s time, they began to slowly see signs of civilisation woven seamlessly into the natural surroundings. Palatial structures that had been grown rather than built. The paths began to be populated with Orkhan, a few Fæ’ethalan and elves that might have been Hytori, Siltori, Dratori and the odd Neptori. Perhaps there were representatives of this world’s version of Re’hyæans, but they didn’t stand apart from the others in any observable way.

By and by, they were led up a ramp of the roots of a massive tree that was set against a high hill. The routes formed a sort of gate around the entrance to a cave, which was flanked by statuesque Orkish guards in matching armour of silvery sheen. They bowed to Arvain as he spoke to them in the local tongue and guided the strangers through the roots and into a cavernous chamber with winding wooden ramps along the walls formed from twisting roots. They wound their way up the root system until they reached an opening leading to the top of the hill where the great, lone tree loomed above the canopy.

Arvain approached the trunk and as they drew closer they would see a throne of twisting vines upon which was seated a striking platinum elf, who looked at the approaching party with an arched eyebrow. Arvain step up onto the natural daïs and pivoted to face the strangers.

“Kneel before His Blazing Brilliance Alcineus Imperator, First of that Name, Stellar Sovereign of the Holy Ecithian Imperium, Speaker for the Scourge-Maiden, Undoubted Steward of the Southern Seas and High Druid of the Gi'uvn Diagonfighe.”