Legend of Ransera

When he had been a boy on the brink of becoming a man, Finn had rebelled against the light yoke of his parents' dominance. He loved and respected them then, and he loved and respected them now. Just once, unused to ungovernable emotions since as a young child he had first learned to rein them in, he had struck his father. His father, a gentle man, had struck back, laying him out and reminding him of his place. Afterward, they had both wept, apologized, embraced. It had been a crucible, and their relationship was tempered to greater strength. His father had told him it was natural to push at one's boundaries as one grew, learning where one fit in the grand scheme of things.

So too now.

The crown that was a part of him was what Aværys used to rein him in. Though it felt a part of him, it was Aværys', and so was he, body and soul. He wanted to cry as he had as a youth, but he did not. He had put himself into the crucible once more, and his god would temper him into finer mettle.

"I Hunger, Lord," he said with all due humility. He was trying to understand where his boundaries lay, how he fit into the palm of Aværys's hand. He was kneeling as he ought.

So much had happened in the past few hours. It came back to him all at once: the magical revels; the assassination attempt; his battle with Thalya; the work of the healers and Assesors; his burgeoning bond with Lystreia; his worry after Arvælyn; this. Aværys' presence made it difficult to think of anything else, but now it was all there.

His god spake. He obeyed.

'A crown is but a collar higher set.' He was the poet, but his god articulated something he had been trying to for some time now, giving him an object lesson.

Finn saw the Hunger in his god's eyes and shivered, wearing little more than smudged paint there upon the examination table, spread.

Finn shivered at the touch, but relaxed into it like a beast tamed by its master. Aværys was terrible in his anger, and dangerous at the best of times, but Finn did have faith in him, that punishment would be meted out with a divine sense of justice, and always with an eye toward his enlightenment and evolution. After all, he was his lord's instrument. He needed care, tempering, and Aværys had spent too long locked in the liquid fire of a volcano to want to break his toys in a fit of pique.

"Aye, Master," he said quietly, cultivated voice throbbing with emotion. His imagination let Aværys paint a picture for his mind's eye. He saw his identity eclipsed by his Sentinel blacks. He saw himself leaning against Arvælyn's throne, their marks glowing until they were merely shapes of nothing upon which those marks arrayed themselves.

"I Hunger for thee, Master." Even his hunger for Lystreia's thralldom was eclipsed. Not cognizant whether her frozen form held a mind in sync with this divine exchange, he couldn't manage shame for his behavior, for what would have made him flush from sole to crown otherwise. "I want to sate thine Hunger, even if only for a moment. I want to learn thy lessons. I want to embody thy domains."

"I belong to thee, body as much as soul."

"The Pyramid is Paramount," he intoned in kind, full-voiced after a litany of gasps and moans. He felt a great many things; neither guilt nor shame were among them. There were parts of him that belonged to Arvælyn and there were parts of him that couldn't belong to the dragon prince. Those parts, parts he hadn't even been particularly aware of until illumined by his God's affections, belonged to Aværys. Those he could not share with anyone else. He understood now a sliver of that jealousy, or some divine emotion that he could only read as such, when Finn had considered Arcas' dawnfire or strummed a lute marked with a symbol possibly of Syren.

The words came out of him as he came, although he wasn't entirely certain it was a physical response. He might investigate when he was in control of his mind again, or wanted to rein it in. The pleasure was ineffable and he knew he would feel all manner of frustration being unable to articulate it, being a bard of no mean skill. And yet, he couldn't care less at the moment whether he could explain the experience to anyone else. It was personal, shared between man and God. It belonged to them.

In the moment, Finn felt special and entirely worthy of everything he had achieved, everything that had been given to him as his due. He was worthy of Aværys' love, power, and instruction. He was worthy of Arvælyn's love and the power that came with it. He was worthy of his Sentinel blacks, the power of his voice, his Command, and everything.

He could be a humanitarian, love people and want the best for them, and also realize that he had risen above them. Born equal, sure; but he had clawed and climbed his way to new heights and was owed his due. The higher he climbed, the more perfectly he could see and love his God, the more he could be like his God. That was now his purpose.

The broad-shouldered man didn't know how long time stood frozen as he came back to himself, pulled all that glory back into the shell of his flesh. He had to thank Aværys, renew his connection with mere words even though he had thanked Him and glorified Him in that shared experience. It began to fade, bit by bit, the world becoming merely the world again. It left an ache. He wept. But that ache remained around the shape of something he knew now, something he might experience again if his work pleased the God. With more power, Finn might become a creature that could hold even more pleasure, more power, more Aværys.

When he was able, he slid off the examination table, so mundane a thing to become an altar to Aværys, and knelt at Aværys feet. He kissed them.

"The Pyramid is Paramount."

"Excelsior," he whispered from his knees. And then all that remained of his God was an ache inside him. With a hand upon the examination table, only moments ago a holy altar, he got shakily to his feet.

Lystreia remained upon her knees, but those who had tended to his body and mind had their quiet conversations come to a stuttering halt. Having all eyes upon him was not new. Now, though he wasn't performing, it made him stand taller. Let them look. They ought to look. He was Finn Farstrider, beloved of dragon princes and golden gods, bard and sentinel.

"Deus Imperator accepts as well," he said, offering the beautiful elf his hand. She accepted it and rose, a bit of awe in her eyes. His halo remained, and perhaps she could feel a hint of Aværys' passage through their emblem-formed bond. While she had hesitated to bow before a mere human, now it felt right, their places on the subjective pyramid, and she felt a surge of pride to serve him and, through him, her God.

"Deus vivit; magia accidit," he said, voice stronger, for those who glanced askance. Finn wanted to weep, to grasp at the fading threads of divine ecstasy, but he would meditate upon that later, and tell Arvælyn what had occurred. His lover would not be pleased, but neither would he appreciate any obfuscation. Finn wanted to be the one he could be entirely honest with, and would reciprocate, even when it was unpleasant.

Finn thanked those who had seen to his ills once more, and then bade Lystreia go home, rest, and recuperate, as well as to meditate upon their new bond.

"And tomorrow, you will attend me at the Prædium Sorokys."

"Yes, my Empyreal Lord," she said. When she looked up, he was gone, no doubt to recuperate in the Palatium Umbrarum. She rose with quiet elegance despite the disarray of her masquerade attire, feeling prouder of herself for being a thrall than she could ever remember.

Strange, that.