Youth's Proud Livery [Raithen]

[Pharaoh]

"Youth's Proud Livery"
20 Final Solstice, 122
The Temple of Midnight's Mother, Umbrium

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"Our Lady in Chains..." Cithæra whispered, pausing as the first muffled moan threatened to overtake her in volume, until the dagger dragged through the larynx and left only gasping and sputtering in its wake. She glanced down to the ancient altar as warm blood burst forth to warm her cold hands, falling forth to fill cool, grey spillways with hot, vibrant scarlet.

"Thou of the Bound and the Binding..." She continued, committing her full focus to the purpose at hand. Sacrifice. Previous, sacred Sacrifice. She had spilt much blood over this altar over the years in true and earnest sacrifice. She believed that was what had placed her in her present position. Aye, she was clever and crafty. In her cunning she had devised wily plots that flanked her foes and routed their boldest gambits. Some might think her wits were a product of her blood or her lofty education, but her schooling was the same as the Solar Sovereign's and her blood no better. She'd spent her whole life being told that the Unbroken Line was pure, and the Phædryn branch was polluted... a conscious and necessary sacrifice initiated by the eponymous ancestor. But where Cithæra believed she differed from Her Divine Radiance was in the fullness and veracity of her Faith.

If Thalya IV truly committed herself to the Golden Path of Aværys Imperator, she would not have led her realm in moderation. She would not have allowed Solunarium to stagnate, as had so many of her forebears since The Rending. She would not have committed the inaugural mortal sin of her reign in allowing Cithæra to live long enough to concoct the plans that ultimately severed Solunarium in twain and garnered the support of Men, Elves and even Dragons to her cause.

Cithæra had been prepared to sacrifice so much more... Although she Sacrificed much for the advancement of her children, the Princeps Sibylla was prepared to face the cogent reality that one or all of them might be the objects, rather than the subjects, of Sacrifice. If Deus willed it, or Domina commanded it, her faith would demand it be their blood coursing through the stone spillways of the altar. She was prepared to lose any of them, but she almost expected to lose one.

It hadn't been an entirely conscious choice to bear an expendable child. She didn't have Raithen merely to use him as a fatted calf to feed the Founders' famous hunger. Such was possible with any of her children, but it was only as Raithen grew that she recognised the probability that he would be a martyr to her cause. His father's features showed in far more than just the feathers. He was sweet, loving and guileless. A golden child who shone without the subtlety of the Moonborns, nor even the dragonborn she'd spirited away to Antiris all those years ago.

The Grandmaster Sembler was quick to glean the nature of the child, and she was confounded how much he charmed her. The easy choice would have been to close herself off from his adoration... to turn a cold shoulder or send him away... to steal her heart from loving him. She could have done that. She certainly had the mettle. Instead, she made another sacrifice. She let herself love him in sooth, so that his heart might blossom even if hers was bound to break. If his was to be a brief life, she would see that it was a radiant one. And so it was that Gaius Val'Aværyan Raithen Dux was the happiest of her brood... Free of the responsibilities demanded of the others. After the lad, to her gleeful surprise, survived Kaladon, she wondered whether he might not be claimed after all.

"May this sacrifice nourish Thee, Oh Founders."

It was for his happiness she now prayed as the last of the blood dripped onto the altar, which absorbed it entirely until the stone was pristine and bone dry once more.

"Cithæra Princeps."

Cithæra gasped. The voice was familiar, if not the pattern of speech, but the strangest part was that the most potent Sembler in the realm hadn't sensed the approach of her eldest son who now stood behind her. She turned sharply, immediately noting the silvery shine of the Emblem at his wrist. A silver which was echoed in eyes that glowed with divine potency.

"I am hither come to ask of thee another tribute."

"Your Argent Luminescence... What would You ask of me?"

Cithæra knelt and lowered her head. This was not Phocion. He was but an avatar... for Her.

"A boon... Not for Me, child, but for Him."

"He would claim Raithen, then..." Her heart sunk. So, it had come to this, at last.

"Aye. I bade this vessel to summon the boy. He is on his way hither..."

"My blade is yet sharp, O Lady of Chains."

"You shan't have need of it. Aværys treads the sands of Atraxia once more. He doth forestall to claim His ancient throne, content to bask amidst His people unrecognised. Yet I, who have known Him since the womb, do ken that He hath want of a retinue. At this moment He dwelleth in the Luxium. He hath just arrived at the Prædium Vlahos in the Upper City. Send thy wingéd messenger to attend Him thither, there to serve at His pleasure."

Waves of relief passed through the princess, though they were mitigated by caution... for the pleasure of Aværys was as mercurial as it was severe.

"Sicut Domina imperat." Cithæra pressed her nose to the stone before the feet of her eldest son.

"Uhh... Mother?" Phocion glanced down at her with duller eyes and a surpassingly bemused expression wrinkling his pale brow. "Is there a reason you're kowtowing to me?"

[Raithen]

A summons from Phocion was never idle, never a so simple a thing as a desire to spend time with his brother, so, when Raithen received one, he took it not lightly. It might have been cold, in another city, but even as Frost wrapped its fingers over the land, it was only cold by comparison to the other seasons in Solunarium. With the gifts of his father, even had it been cold, Raithen would have been protected from any suffering it might have caused. He was so used to never feeling the chill that he only threw on a light cloak that barely covered the space between his wings before heading out to where he'd been told to be.

The temple was very familiar, and revered in no small part by him personally, so he landed on the ground rather than entering by a window as his free spirit might have suggested had this been a building of less ascetic import. Tucking his feathers carefully he made the appropriate obeisance upon entering before casting his eyes around the space for sight of his kin.

He saw not only brother, but mother too, speaking quietly by the alter, which made sense in a way he did not question. Walking over he paused at the base of the stairs, letting himself be seen but not interrupting. The remnants of a very recent sacrifice lay upon the alter and it was furthest from the Avialea's mind to intrude on a private or even shared moment of communion with The Lady of Chains.

Patience had been a major part of his up bringing, and though he could be exuberant enough to irritate his elder siblings but had quickly learned to tamp down his expressive energies when Cithaera showed the mildest signs of displeasure. So he would stand, waiting, until he was wanted. A sacrifice of his own, however small, and send his prayers to his Lady until he was.

[Pharaoh]

Cithæra gave Phocion a look as she rose from her bow, which was no less informative than a verbal response might have been.

"Ah..." He said, glancing knowingly to the statue of Midnight's Mother looming above the altar before them.

The Princeps Sibylla sensed her younger son before she saw him.

"You may go, Sentinel." She inclined her head to the Moonborn, and Phocion bowed his head in kind.

"High Sentinel." He acknowledged, before turning on his heel and stalking the length of the hall, a faint smile curling his lips as he regarded Raithen. "Goldfinch." He said with a glint of amusement, as he continued toward the exit.

Cithæra turned to face the approaching Avialæ, clasping her hands in front of her torso. There was no sign of the blood that had drenched them moments earlier. Every drop had been claimed by the altar, leaving her palms clean and the body an exsanguinated husk. She took a few paces to close the gap between herself and Raithen, as clerics moved to remove the desiccated corpse from the altar on which it was curled.

"Raithen." She began, "Surely you've noticed that I've long granted you a level of liberty that your siblings were not afforded. With lighter duties, you've been able to pursue your whims in a manner Valæra, Phocion... even Arvælyn could not. But the time has come that I must ask for you to observe duties long deferred. Come... let us sit a spell." She gestured to one of the marble benches lining the walls from which one could observe the ancient statues and tapestries that adorned the antiquated temple.

"The world is shifting, and we must adapt to the willful change wafting upon the winds. Does your heart belong to the Founders?"

[Raithen]

The his mother was all but prostrate before her brother when he encountered the scene was not something he would question, unless it was put to him to do so. That Phocion had returned from the pilgrimage marked by Varvara was perhaps not widely know, and Raithen had seen no reason to mention it, even within their family circle. Information was something that, even if he would likely never be used as a spy (to his knowledge), growing up in his House, it would have been impossible not to understand the value of. That value decreased significantly if it was revealed carelessly, so while Raithen could talk to anyone near to indefinitely, he knew what things should not pass his tongue.

It appeared that even though it was Phocion who had summoned him, Raithen's presence was for their mother's benefit.

A ghost smile passed his lips at the old nickname and he breathed,

"Raven." So quietly it was a toss up if the darker man had heard it as he passed. Whether the Avialea's elder brother had ever heard the return nickname, as rudely intended in their youth as it was sentimental affection in their adulthood, Raithen had never known. He suspected, particularly considering the Sentinel's runic gifts, that there was no real chance Phocion had missed it every time it had been said, but the mystery left him feeling a little tug of pleasant wondering when he said it. He did not always, there were times and places, and, oddly, here in the temple dedicated to Varvara, felt like one of the acceptable ones.

When his brother was out of his peripheral sight the sunlit son turned his attention to their matriarch. He made a bow, though not so deep a one as he might have done in private, and listened to her words. The implication that he was to be given specific duty did not fill him with any particular emotion. He wanted to server Cithaera, and he was not tied to his current level freedom as someone denied it might have been. If his life had a path it was of her creation and he would follow.

Moving away from the alter they sat, the coolness of the marble under his legs just barely registering past his magically enhanced resistance. The question was a serious one, and while there was no resistance or hesitation in his heart he gave it due consideration, searching himself for faults in his faith before answering honestly.

"Yes, Mother, and to you."

If either of the Founders had appeared and told him to take Cithaera's life he would have done so, but it was because of her that his faith was without wavering, and he would have considered it an act of service to her as much as to Them. If she had told him, in that moment, not to kill her, to disobey them, he did not know what he would have done. He did not know because he had never once considered that his mother's intention and that of his Gods would ever contradict each other.

[Pharaoh]

Phocion waited until he was past Raithen to crack a smile at the younger brother's counter to his nickname. He'd always rather liked it, even when its delivery was cooler or sharper. His steps echoed through the large chamber until they faded out of earshot.

Cithæra waited for Raithen to claim a seat before joining, close at his side.

"I will be clear and I will be candid." She was aware that she was known for neither, and Raithen, like Phocion, was often not party to information of great import. Valæra was typically first to know, but she, like their mother, was a Grandmaster Sembler and second in command of the Sentinels. Phocion was a grudging second, and Raithen and Arvælyn tended to be last on the list. Raithen was the most obliging and seemingly least perturbed by her discretion. Perhaps that was why she saw no need to exert it now that she was speaking about his fate directly.

"She of the Scourge approached me in Phocion's form. She is able to communicate via those who bear Her Mark. I do not know from whither She projected Her words, but She did say that He of the Sceptre has returned to Solunarium. Right now he travels alone, and prefers to remain in relative anonymity. However, our Deus Imperator requires a retinue... attendants of His own to serve at His pleasure. " A faint smile tugged at her lips, which bore a hint of pride.

"She seems to believe that you should count amongst their number." She reached forth to claim one of his hands from his lap. "I know that you have committed yourself to the path of a mercenary and that you take pleasure in the rambling life. I do not know whether the King of Kings will remain here to reclaim His throne, or take advantage of his newfound freedom to wander the world. Whatever the case, I suspect He will demand your undivided attention. Are you prepared to withdraw from your mercenary company to join a greater... a sacred brotherhood?"

[Raithen]

The quiet of the temple, punctuated by a soft weeping coming from somewhere higher up than the first floor where he sat, soothed him, as it always seemed to. He had no special affinity for either of the Twins, though it was intentionally so. His natural leaning toward Avaerys was as obvious as Phocion's to Varvara, but he'd never found it difficult to revere them together.

The monumental changes in the nation had not gone unnoticed, by Raithen or, so far as he could tell, anyone else. The acceptance that his mother did nothing without a reason, and that his own life was something she had chosen to do had also not escaped him. That he might just be a child with whom she could have an uncomplicated relationship had been in the running as the reason for his existence, but he'd never been able to fully accept that. It might be part of it, or it might only be an happy accident, or it might have been that their relationship had been cultivated in the way it had been for a reason.

As she explained to him, asked him, if he was willing to devote his life to a cause wholly different than the one he had picked up after he'd left the service of the the Queen and her family, it felt like the loose ends of his explanation for his life were suddenly snapping together. Or, as though he'd spent his life trying to trace lines that he couldn't see all the parts of and now, he could.

It took him a moment to realize that Cithaera was waiting for his answer. That he would do as she asked had never been a question in his head or his heart. This was important though, and he found himself loving her more for, in this one instance, letting him decide.

"Yes, Mother." The words were quiet and sounded younger than his twenty-two years. For someone with Cithaera's knowledge of him and runic abilities, it would be stark that it was his pain at losing his sole allegiance to her, and not his mercenary lifestyle, that rendered him so. The words did not shake though, they did not waver. His hand wrapped around hers and held tightly, as though he thought he might not get the chance again.

Roving the world, or preparing the city to re-accept it's Founder wouldn't really be that different than what he already did for either his mercenary company or his mother. It was unlikely he'd never be allowed to see her again, but these were the Gods, and only they knew what the future held.

After a long pause in which he searched her eyes he added, so quietly it was barely more than a breath,

"If you wish it."

Varvara wished it, so, his words were, pointedly in this place, potentially sacrilegious, and he knew it. He said them anyway, brave, and foolish, and devoted wholly.

[Pharaoh]

As both a Master Mesmer and a Grandmaster Sembler, Cithæra was easily able to follow the course of Raithen's thoughts. Perhaps even without ætheric augmentation she'd have been able to do so loosely, simply by virtue of being an attentive mother. Whatever the case, she smiled a hint more broadly than usual at his willing acquiescence. Even that little twinge of sadness added to her adoration.

"To serve Him is to serve me." She replied directly to his internal sentiment, as if he'd shared it aloud. "To please Him is to better situate our family in the esteem of the Divine. I can think of no higher calling... no superior service." She nodded, firmly.

"It is as much my wish as it is my duty to ask this of you. This is another nail in the Sanguinist coffin. That a Phædryn-born Val'Aværyan, two steps away from The Unbroken Line, might be a favourite of Aværys, Vengeful Burneth His Sword, will further vindicate that we are not the inferiors our cousins might paint us to be. That Phædryn, First of that Name, was even more cunning than scripture might suggest." There was newfound fervour evident in Cithæra's eyes. She, who had been so measured for so long, was finally seeing the payoff for all of her sacrifices and truly she was relishing it. It may not have been obvious to those unaccustomed to her carefully muted expressions, but to one who'd studied her with as much scrutiny as Raithen, it would be clear as a desert day.

"I hope this path will be to your liking." She offered, lest he think this was more of a sacrifice than, in truth, it was. She had faith in her rearing of Raithen as she had faith in Aværys. The Deus Imperator was like to be pleased with Raithen, else his sister-bride would not have sought this course for him.

[Raithen]

The words washed over Raithen as though he'd been expecting them, or as if some part of them had been already known they were coming. His life had been a sort of just moving along from one thing that he did not truly care for to another while he awaited what service he, the least of her children, might offer Cithæra, even if it was only his love. It had been, up to that moment, with a few little exceptions in information that she could easily have gotten elsewhere, or moments in which his training in arms had served her purpose. This was different, it was a calling, as Valæra had, as Phocion had, as now Arvælyn had. Now Raithen also.

If this had been part of her plan always, or if he had simply been an extra, an option should there be a need, made no difference. It was her will, so it was his will. That it was Varvara's will also made an amalgamation in his mind, a harmony in his heart. Pushing gracefully off the bench he sank to one knee and, lifting the hem of Cithæra's long skirt from where he brushed the floor he bent and pressed his lips to it reverently before raising his eyes back to hers.

"It does. This sits well in me, Mother." He searched her eyes for a long moment, seeing the secret religious ecstasy burning therein, before asking,

"Is there anything I should do to prepare myself? I will go now, as I am, if nothing else is required."

There were those who made elaborate sacrifices, loudly proclaiming themselves in processions through the city, and Raithen did not question if this pleased the Gods or not. It was not his place to know. His own sacrifices had been quiet though, personal, simple. If it were up to him he would give himself that way, simply and personally, but perhaps there were rituals, cleansing rites or sacrifices he would need to bring in addition.

[Pharaoh]

The supplicant winged son kneeling at the foot of the pious mother- It was a scene out of religious iconography. Or it would be, someday, Cithæra thought as it played out between them. The potency of these times felt like the text of a new testament to append ancient scripture. They were blessed to be alive during the resurrection of the Varværyn Epoch, and they each had roles to essay in these epic times.

She was gazing down at him as he looked up. His eyes were innocent and beautiful. She couldn't help but extend an arm and cup his artful face, which she had created if not designed.

"You may go as you are. There is no greater sacrifice than self." Though Aværys was less wont to demand sacrifices, as that was more his Sister-Bride's domain, he did expect fealty... for that was his. The Deus Imperator was also a noted æsthete, which would be to the benefit of the beautiful boy before her. She stiid and slid her hand from his face to offer it up to help him to his feet.

"If you display such earnest obeisance to Him, I've no doubt He will be passing pleased, my little bird." She observed, as she began to guide him toward the main entrance to the temple. "And remember..." She glanced forward to the path before them.

"It is a wondrous and a blessed thing to be born a Child of Re'ha. No matter where His Divine Radiance make take you, for as long as we are alive we are connected. You can always reach out to me... Feel my life-force and commune with me." She pursed her lips and continued her sentiment in the manner she was referencing, her words wisping into his mind rather than echoing into the high ceilings of the temple.

Know my love.

[Raithen]

His eyes closed briefly as he leaned into the touch to his face, it was what he'd grown up craving; what he still did. Whether that meant he was still a boy or that he would never outgrow his love of his mother was not in him to consider, in that moment, or any other.

Not needing the help, he still took the offered hand and rose. The whole of his form was aligned toward her, eyes on her, every muscle moving in association with how she moved such that none who saw them could have imagined them not wholly connected. Obfuscation was not something Raithen had been trained to, and even if he had, it was doubtful he'd have been self aware enough to conceal how every part of him was in obedience to Cithæra. Turning that obedience to another, as a part of it, did not feel like it would be hard; particularly not when he already held a similar level of devotion and reverence for Aværys.

He wrote her words on his heart, and as they stepped from the shadow of the temple and she spoke into his mind he could not help going to his knees again. Outside the sacred place of the Goddess he did not feel as though he could not ask for his mother's blessing, so he did,

"Benedicat mihi Mater." The sun now shining over him, gazing up into her eyes, the situation was sudden became real inside him. He wore no weapon, only a simple tunic embroidered and belted in leather and gold, leather saddles weaving their way up his calves. If Cithæra gave him the blessing of her expectation he needed nothing more to bring before his God. He would kiss her hands, her feet, and wing himself wherever he was led. That he would be led, somehow, to where he needed to be was not something he even thought to question. The Gods were real and present and would give what was needed to see their will done.