Legend of Ransera

The Rune of Traversion held great utility, and Finn had mastered it. In Solunarium, however, it was considered a servant's Rune. In Solunarium, even the servants had Runes. He used his frequently as a Sentinel, but even though diplomacy fell within the purview of the Vigilia Argenti, he was here as Arvælyn's husband. My Grace, he thought ruefully to himself. He had to concentrate to remain graceful, else he would trip over his ornamented footwear, and that wouldn't do. Of course, while he didn't wear a prince's crown, he wore many hats—perhaps a tasteful fillet at a formal affair, cowl and veil should subterfuge and obfuscation be required to find and follow leads that might take him to the Mad Queen that he might take her life.

Finn nodded graciously, showing more respect to the chamberlain than Arvælyn needed to, but then all his status here derived from Arvælyn. The Siltori would hardly be impressed by Aværys' crown blazing forth from his brow, not like the faithful of Solunarium. That suited him fine; he was growing accustomed to the hunger in his belly that was a more spiritual Hunger. From time to time, he needed to remember to temper his Ambition, to mind his place upon the Pyramid—not that his last object lesson hadn't been a pleasant one.

He refrained from speech at this point; Arvælyn had said all that needed saying for the nonce. He walked beside his husband—not so close as to cling or get in the way of swaying arms and wings, but not so far that he couldn't reach out and pull him into the slipstream on the off chance ambush awaited them, not so far away that he could not step between him and sword or sorcery aimed at his blessed body.

When he caught the crown prince's gaze, he smiled, serene and supportive, then as his prince looked ahead to the courtyard opening up to them, he looked forward as well.

His Grace acknowledged yet again, Finn bowed more formally.

"Your Blazing Hightness," he said in time with his husband as if they were singing a duet back in Kalzasi before so much that was hidden was revealed to them.

"Thank you."

The marble bench was big enough for the both of them, and that suited Finn fine. He tried not to crowd, but to provide a pleasant foil for his royal husband. The princes were talking, so he settled in to listen actively. Their arrival was, as acknowledged, quiet, and so he supposed yet more might be revealed in the balmy air of the garden. His tasks here were myriad, but for the moment, he doubted Thalya would appear, so his focus narrowed.

Not so very long ago, he had thought Kalzasi impressive. It still was, but he hadn't had anything on a par to compare the impressiveness he knew. Solunarium was the realm that had lifted him up, from its humans, its elves, its dragons, and even its gods. All the same, he was mildly surprised that Qalanar's gaze focused so on him. His smile acknowledged, but gave nothing. He felt the invisible crown around his head tense, and he knew that it was glowing faintly. Sometimes it did that, and he assumed it was a sign from Aværys that he was watching, listening.

When Arvælyn didn't immediately answer, he did.

"There is ever concord between my husband and me, even as there is between the Divine Twins. And surely concord must exist between them and the Oathbinder."

Finn wondered, though, whether they would find accord or His Blazing Highness would seek to overawe them. Akrivar was a greater god; Aværys knelt before Eikæn, so would he do the same before Akrivar?

"Streolon," he whispered.

Of course, he knew that Aværys was an entirely new incarnation of the elder god, but while his god was patient with his unending torrent of questions, he hadn't had all of them answered. But while ancient lore was incomplete and often contradictory, the way he understood it, Streolon had perished in ancient struggles, quiescent for eons before being reborn, diminished, in Aværys. The long slog back toward former glory had been bogged down in the mortal hungers of the god-king, though his sojourn in Kaladon seemed to have purged him of that narrow view.

Streolon's realm had been the Abyssal Maw, the obsidian city and the Crawl of Ambition. Thankfully, Aværys' realm was brighter than that, unless he hadn't been shown its true nature.

Qalanar was distracting in his beauty; if he hid the Ash Knight's burning, then perhaps Aværys hid the darker hungers of his former self. When that arresting gaze released him and the princes spoke, he glanced to Arvælyn once more, and then he was on the spot again.

His posture straightened, though he had hardly begun to slouch. He nodded.

"Her ambitions would devour the Pyramid. She is an oath-breaker, cannibalizing her own blood to maintain her grasp on power. Worst of all, she tried to take what's mine." His hand rested possessively upon his prince's knee. He could share Arvælyn with his family, with Varvara Augusta, with his throne, his crown, and all his people, but he would not allow any of them to take his life, not while Finn himself still breathed.

"I do hope to pick up some Silandris while here," he admitted with a rueful smile. "Learning from texts isn't the same as immersion, I've found."

But perhaps he hadn't been sufficiently demure and mindful when the topic of the time-warping former queen of the Luxium came up. He nodded at all the information passed freely over by the prince.

"I appreciate that. I might wish to speak to those chronomancers who worked with her if possible. 'twould be easier not to find her in Auris, in fact. Then it would become a diplomatic issue, which would complicate matters." He wondered whether he would be forced to chase her through time. "The Powers of Solunarium support my quest to bring her to justice, though I must admit that a baser Vengeance is always on my mind."

Khyan wasn't always on his mind, but Finn knew his spirit-thrall did feast upon those feelings. Perhaps he was close now.

As matters turned over to the more delicate, Arvælyn answered for his sister; meanwhile, Finn's smile grew to Cheshire proportions, as if he were a cat who had got into the cream.

Of Arvælyn's Re'hyæan half-siblings, Raithen had been a fast and easy friend. Phocion was ever distant, but they had a rapport even if it was cooler than he could have wished. Valæra, though, was more forceful, more aggressive in some ways, and he had yet to find his footing around her. He rather looked forward to the possibility of Qalanar knocking her off balance. Of course, Finn was unlikely to be present for such a reveal, but he could, at least, imagine.

He wondered if this wedding would take place in the Ash Knight's realm. Arvælyn and his wedding had set the bar rather high as these things went.

Finn puzzled over the phrase, though that line of thinking was interrupted by the talk of chronomancy. He didn't think it wise to share the fact that his husband's family had one as well, though he hadn't yet met that particular elf. And as the prince began to speak of the oaths between him and his husband, he could only smile. There was nothing bashful about it anymore. Finn wasn't quite smug about it, but he was growing into the idea that he was a part of Arvælyn's hoard. Whether Arvælyn knew that Finn was growing equally possessive, he didn't know. More dyed in the wool Kalzasern in culture, he wouldn't care so much if Arvælyn's lusts expanded to other people, or even his heart, he would brook no rivals to the level of commitment between them. Their love and their marriage transcended most; it had been sealed by their Gods personally, and while he might not have made a thrall of Arvælyn, nor Arvælyn bound him in silver chains, the shapes of their souls were changing such that they were matched pieces of a puzzle.

"While I didn't go running toward marriage, Your Highness, and while it hasn't simplified life, I can say that I am happier now, more content with how I fit into the world, than ever I was as a bachelor. If it be Valæra's will that you be her match, I hope the next hundred years of your life eclipse the former." He smiled in all sincerity. And if she didn't wish to be wed to this handsome prince, he would not want to be in the room if Cithæra attempted to force the issue.

Collateral damage.

Drawing back around to the changes wrought upon practitioners of the more mysterious branches of the arcane, he wondered, "Do you suppose that chronomancers grow closer to Velar and Vicis? My golden god gave no rune, but merely an emblem. Yet I cannot say that I truly understood his domains at all until he did."