Legend of Ransera

Though he hadn't put hands upon the derelicta yet, her mesmeric onslaught prevented him from bringing the flat of his blade down upon her head. If he lived to consider, he would marvel at how Kædryn banished and recalled his pact blades so quickly and easily; for Finn, it was still a matter of meditation at the end of a battle or a spar in order to mitigate the pain. Had they returned to Kalzasi, he might feel omnipotent. Solunarium always kept him humble while stoking his ambition.

Had this all been a fool's errand?

He knew he shouldn't falter, should follow through decisively per his Sentinel training. Even Arkænyn urged it, though the thought of losing him felt akin to losing Arvælyn just then. But Phædreon urged patience, staying his hand. Finn didn't know whether that was a wise idea or merely on that assuaged his own feelings.

His blade ready to move on Thalya, all his own mesmeric power and Aværyn grace attempting to stave off Thalya's control, he spoke through gritted teeth: "Be not so long to speak, kinslayer."

Kædryn would be a kinslayer if he followed through, killing a brother to protect a mother, both of whom weren't even of this reality. There wasn't time to delve into the mental and moral acrobatics of Vrædyn's father in this reality.

There wasn't time. He wished he could make each instant dilate, giving him time to think things through, even overthink them, without being penalized, without risking his unexpected amatus and his time-bending in-law. Even the lines of the slipspace around him felt taut, almost resonating with tension. He didn't know what music it would make, and that terrified him.

"Stay out," he growled through gritted teeth, "of my mind."

Of course he remembered her worthless wishes, even as he weighed her son's purple monologue. He wanted to know all the weighty events and choices that were the missing context to their words.

Phædreon honored the dishonorable woman with his words; Finn hoped that didn't mean he would act against him, whatever he decided. If Kædryn and his vile mother were to be believed, this might offer an end to their heinous story which would leave Khyan railing in his veins. He thought he could come to terms with that, though; he didn't know if Arkænyn would be satisfied, but Arkænyn was willing to sacrifice himself for vengeance.

"Phædreon. Can you hold us three halfway here and halfway home so we can witness their deaths, insufficient though they may be, and take us safely back to continue fixing her mistakes and making her name synonymous with her sins?"

He couldn't know if Thalya had otherwise manipulated Time such that she returned to their reality to cause further damage; he relied upon the elder elf for that, and to return them to where they belonged. If he could, Aværys, Cithæra, Arvælyn and several others could read their experiences for themselves and judge whether he had made the correct choice. As much time as he had spent in Solunarium and among the Re'hyæan elves, he didn't always know when pragmatism ought to outweigh other ideals.

"A window, then," he acquiesced, trying to keep the weariness out of his voice.

Kædryn expedited matters by calling off his brothers' kinetic structural support, forcing Finn to blink to Phædreon's side.

"Mark this place well," he said to the time lord, "lest your window prove they were not as good as their word."

The gathering magic teased at his own arcane senses, not the same, but similar. They did not screen him from the scent of fire and brimstone, which seemed a fitting end for Thalya, at least. A part of him wished he could bring Vrædyn back his father, but this was not that man, merely a mirror, a shadow of that soul. He didn't know whether three Arkænyns would be better than one; he had only recently known the worth of the one his reality owned.

He glanced at him quickly, platinum and beautiful under the sweat and soot. Finn would have to sort his feelings soon lest Arvælyn read too quickly, miss nuance, and attack.

And then, though Khyan would not be assuaged and he wondered at his own darker impulses being thwarted here, perhaps for the best, though he was no priest, but merely chosen, he felt his own crown flickering to life.

"To His justice, I commend your souls."

It seemed the best he could wish for them. He didn't want Aværys to have mercy on them, even though Thalya hadn't been able to take Arvælyn from him. Here, at the end of it, or at least a possible end, he wondered why he had carried this vengeance so far when he was normally the sort to let go of such things. The Assessors had helped him with his old traumas, though he had not let them erase them as they were a part of him and something from which he could learn.

Perhaps this had been set up for Aværys' amusement. Perhaps this was a distraction from some other, graver matter that he had overlooked while he plotted throwing the fallen queen into the volcano's hungry maw.

Perhaps he would never know.

Now, he waited for Phædreon's guidance back to where he belonged. He stayed close as propriety would allow, wanting the time lord to require the smallest possible field to translate them home as possible; no mistakes this time.

They were back. Finn was once more in one of his homes.

So little time had passed here, but the three of them were older by some time now, some of the age lived in other realms. He couldn't speak for his compatriots, but he came back feeling more. There lingered that resonance of another Finn's love for another Arkænyn—several other Finns' for several other Arkænyns—and he didn't know what he was going to do with that. He felt strangely connected—entangled?—with Phædreon, whether threading the needle through time- and spacestreams with him did entangle them on some level or it was all in his mind.

But even as he began to move toward the eldest elf with the intent to help him into his seat and then staunch the flow the platinum prince's blood for him, he felt the Presence of his God before the sunlight even began to shift in response to Him.

Weary, he knelt before the golden one.

"Ave, Rex Regum!"

He felt tears on his face, whether from weariness or his soul's resonance with this divine being. Whether he had been successful or not, he would not gainsay the God. Instead, Finn would meditate upon the journey from masquerade to Aværys appearing in a golden shower from the window. He would seek to understand how he had succeeded when it felt more like a stalemate. Thalya was dead—he still needed Phædreon's window to see that it was done and Thalya hadn't tricked him—but it seemed she had taken so many more with her.

Death didn't seem like justice. This didn't even feel like vengeance.

But Finn knew he was not wise, and so he could think on it for some time and perhaps ask for insight from his God later.

"Being in Your service is reward enough," he said and meant it, "but it would not have been possible without the help of these, my companions, and so I pray You do not forget them in Your generosity. If You would insist... I want more." This too was Hunger, Ambition, and Power. "More of You, my God, and Your grace."

...and Aværys said that it was good.

So it was good.

Arkænyn was whole, and blessed by the true Solar Sovereign. Phædreon's tears bespoke the truth of his faith. And there was still room in Aværys' generosity to fill him with His grace, His light, and His power. A part of him missed his earlier instruction, but its rarity made it special and it were better not to give Arvælyn more to trouble his troubled mind.

A beat or so after Aværys departed, Finn rose wearily to his feet, buoyed by the Power within him. He was higher than even Vrædyn now, he mused, and then shook his head at the thought; it was unworthy of him. But he turned his eyes upon his worthy companions, thinking to help Phædreon to his feet. The sobbing time lord had waited so long for this, and it was understandable he should be so moved. But it was Arkænyn who arrested his attention.

There hadn't been time—time lord notwithstanding—to wonder what would become of these three now. A part of him wondered if the platinum prince would return to Auris where perhaps his life had been happier, and Phædreon to his studies of this time and place. Perhaps he would stay longer now that the Divine Twins were in sometimes residence.

But, no...

Finn stood straighter, haloed in light reminiscent of He Who had blessed them.

His eyes shone with unshed tears. They had shared things on their travels that only Phædreon was likely to understand, and that perhaps only in theory. He hadn't waxed so prolix about his personal life.

"Amatus," he murmured. It was a dangerous word. Then, "Nani gigantum humeris insidentes." Each thrall was another rung in a ladder toward Aværys. Monarchs and grandmasters were those to whom knights swore; he remembered the platinum knight's first public appearance in the Luxium. Finn had risen high indeed if Arkænyn chose to follow him. As much as he hungered for the power, he felt the yoke of responsibility.

He wondered if Aværys had known this was coming, or if He would merely feel His newly avowed taking advantage of fealty offered.

"I take thee, Hyperion Arkænyn Princeps, as my Sworn in the sight of Deus Aværys Imperator. I take thy sword into my service. I take thy self into my care."

Finn knelt to pick up the claymore, wanting to touch the elf's perfect face. He rose, tried to take the huge blade's measure as he touched it to each shoulder.

"Witness, Time Lord. This is my Sword, and I am his Empyreal Liege." He balanced the blade upon his upturned hands. "Rise and take thy blade, my platinum knight."

Another thrall, my God. I will use him well.