Legend of Ransera

It was like a fucking hall of mirrors and for all his efforts, it was nigh impossible to find the edges, the mistakes, the threads to pull to unravel things and make progress. He hoped he was making progress. Eshar was depending upon him.

Fuck, he thought. If I had known...

But he had wanted the power of the covens for his own, and so he had brokered his deals. Sweet-talking, some jobs, some tests. The Sunsingers were still a touch wary of him; he wouldn't submit to their rigid hierarchy. He feared the Grymalka if he was honest. There were too many ghosts he didn't want to meet, too many people who might be ghosts but he didn't want to know.

Here he was. And here was a Torin like he had dreamed of once, though without the weight of sadness upon him. This wasn't the Torin with a brokeback lover; this was the Torin he hoped his boy would grow into eventually, proof that the bad man was capable of good when he wanted to be. A part of him felt a sort of gravity between them, like he could fall into those burly arms if he let himself. Resistance was growing more difficult as the Menagerie or what had become of it wore him down.

"Fuck you," he mumbled angrily at that beautiful face, feeling betrayed, feeling torn up even though he knew it was a heart's desire being used to turn the screws. His body was responding—traitor that it was—but he turned for the door. It just had to feel like he was leaving Torin forever, denying him once, twice... They said third time was the charm. Or perhaps through this door that didn't lead into the hallway of Torin's house, he would finally find Eshar or whatever had them captive.

Aurin almost looked back, though he knew it would have been a mistake. There was an older version of Torin in his memory, and if he allowed himself to reminisce, he would have shuddered. He might have wept. Instead, he was back in the Menagerie—the top floor. It was just him, the hallway, and a door. Eshar was there and not alone. He wasn't a religious man; in fact, he had challenged a newly reborn god to prove himself worth of his mantle. Already today he had considered invoking the Stitchmother, but no. He had made it this far. With how poorly his magic was doing in these environs, he didn't even trust himself to vault to safety.

This was a bad idea. This whole thing had been a bad idea.

This was all Torin's fault. Aurin didn't put himself in harm's way, not for a shred of hope that he might save what was left of someone who had been good to him.

"Fuck it," he muttered. "In for a penny, in for a pound."

The time for thinking was over. He strode purposefully toward and, with practiced ease, kicked the door in.

There was so much light...

Hazel eyes drifted closed. He shouldn't have let them. Whatever was doing this could read him like an open book no matter what defenses he threw up. It wasn't fair—magic had been thrust upon him, and he had wrestled it to the ground, pinned it, and held on until he was its master. He could read a person's soul and then spin illusions around them like a comforting cocoon, but the tricks oughtn't to work on him. With his eyes closed, he was transported years back, before so many mistakes. If he let go, he could change things, make the right decisions or—knowing Aurin—different mistakes. Aurin was the sort of man to tell you, 'I don't cry.' He would say it with a smirk, and then suck on a cigarette like he was feeding upon it.

Tears scalded his cheeks. Arry had teetered over his threshold, a boy teetering over into manhood, and Aurin had caught him. Aurin offered him a place to rest with no expectations, and then helped him onto a path of his own choosing, even if agency cost him.

A rough hand came up to cup Arry's cheek, gentler, more loving than he had ever done before.

"What's next?" he asked those golden eyes. "Galeas and Ava? Jamila...? Are you going to resurrect the dead for me? Rewrite my errant childhood?"

His thumb caressed those lips that had taken him inside, had spoken sweet words of real longing.

"The Myshalarai are my people now," he said to whatever was using this person as a puppet. "This building is my home. Give me Eshar. Release the rest of them. Eventually, you will starve of the ZADC will cover this place in napalm and the Order will destroy you or seal you up and experiment upon you."

A cocky smirk twisted his face, a face still damnably handsome for it, a face still streaked with tears.

"I'm your only chance."

Aurin didn't let go of whichever one of his brethren was wearing a glamour of Arry, but he reached for the door again.

Illusions were funny. They could be so real, though they required belief for that finality. Aurin didn't know exactly what was going on, just the edges, the shape of whatever had taken over the Menagerie, slowly fed upon his people, made them feed upon others, each other. It was monstrous, and he was hardly the man to call anything evil. He was weeping and he was angry when he grabbed this iteration of his beloved brat by the neck of his shirt and hauled him up.

To Arry, to whomever wore Arry's face, to whomever pulled this puppet's strings, he snarled, "You can always come home."

The words were slow like a judge's sentence, complicated as a magic spell. He slid his arm under Arry's arm, around his back. He turned toward the door and he opened it. He carried Arry through with him into the unknown beyond. It wasn't Arry, but Arry would never come back to him. Perhaps this was what Arry had felt like on stage, though, being Divine Aværys while the play lasted. This day would never come, but Aurin could live it. He could drag Arry out of danger, or into danger, but at least with him.

If the next room was a lie where Torin and Arry got along, happy to share him, happy to live in the world he created for them, then he would burn the place down and whatever it was tormenting him and everyone else here present.

Perhaps the next room would be Myshala's realm. Perhaps She was calling the coven devoted to Her to account. These were strange times they were living in, after all.

The Spider would continue to toy with him, then. No mortal man could escape Her web. Anyone less than Her, he would fight. Mists, even Her, he would fight. He had been fucked since the day he was born. Today was just another day he happened to survive. But he was damned if he wasn't going to give it his all to survive so he could take care of Torin, so he could be there on the splinter of a chance that Arry would come home, needing him. He was damned if he was going to let the covens die because, whether or not it was a bid for power and influence, he had sworn to these people and while he was a liar, he wasn't an oathbreaker.

"C'mon," he said as they crossed the threshold, "let's see how far this goes."

Many things changed between one step and the next. Perhaps Arry hadn't been one of those poor shambling husks from below, but that was a mystery he wouldn't be able to solve today. His mind was caught up immediately in something too large. He had met a demigod before. Talon Novalys had even writ Negation upon his flesh and his soul. He had sembled around the edges of him, wary of burning out his eyes and his other faculties. This was different. This was a god. Eshar was crucified by the Mists, but Eshar was a god. He didn't understand it. He didn't know enough about religion to know if this was a new thing, some new moritasi born of his one-time lover and a mist storm, or if they had been hiding this behind their glamours until a mist storm fucked everything up.

But this god had called him here and he had answered. He had slogged through all of that and...

"Eshar."

"ESHAR."

Aurin was here. He had answered the call. He knew that with his Railrunner trick, he could vault into the air, take hold of them, and vault them back to the ground, but would the mists follow them through the slipspace? Would the mists corrupt his trick? Would forced separation kill them or... worse?

All he could do was attempt to wake them, to better understand what was happening and how to help. His senses were scouring this "reality" for cues, for clues, for keys, or for a crowbar if subtlety was useless now.

"Wake the fuck up!"

No, he was not a religious man, but he was the one this god had called in time of need and here he was.