Legend of Ransera

There was a moment of surprise, then a moment of acknowledgement—a veritable ballet of the tiny muscles in their hands.

There was a squeeze of acceptance, honest and unaware of consequence, comforting, and then a squeeze of panic.

Moment was insufficient to describe Finn's experience of Time while hurtling through it, but, poetically, it contained multitudes and he was comfortable with that. He was not comfortable when he felt Phædreon leaving or being pulled away. Arkænyn remained, and so he held all the tighter to the one person in all of this reality who knew his reality as well, as well as anyone can know another's reality.

The tether of their joined hands pulled him down to his knees. Reacting on instinct, his other hand went to Arkænyn to check he was unharmed. But he felt the glamours slipping away in a vague sort of way where a sense of symphonies intersected with a sense of seemings. He heard the collective surprise, the shock, and anger with his ears and his Rune. Words were coming at him so fast it took him a moment to realize they were Kathalan.

His broad back and shoulders hunched over the platinum prince as if expecting to take a beating in his stead. He got carefully back to his feet, attempting to assist his compatriot in doing the same.

It took a moment to reorder his mind to translate words from Kathalan into sense, and then his own thoughts into Kathalan words. He had known a bit of vocabulary just from living in Karnor, learned quite a bit more of the language while learning Zaichaeri and Gelerian music, and then latched onto as much as he could learn so as to assuage knee-jerk reactions when he heard it spoken. It had taken some time (and eventually some time with the Assessors) to work through the trauma he associated with the people who spoke that language, and this was hardly the optimal situation to hear it without warning.

But he held an empty hand up to appease, to show it was empty of weapon.

"Entschuldigung! Entschuldigung!" And, "Es tut mir leid." At least, like many a musician, the music of language came easily and he spoke well for all that he wasn't entirely fluent.

He didn't want to let go of Arkænyn's hand, but he had to. He put it on the elf's shoulder in a condescending, patriarchal sort of way.

"Ja, ja. Natürlich. Dieser Elfe und ich werden sofort mit dir kommen. Wir sind nicht aus eigener Kraft hierher gekommen. Ein Elfenmagier brachte uns ... irgendwohin. Er hatte einen weißen Streifen im Haar." He indicated where Phædreon's hair was white. Then he indicated Arkænyn with disgust. "Ich habe das Experiment des Magiers gestohlen."

He glared at Arkænyn, shoved him viciously. In Vallenor, "Behave yourself, filthy elf."

Finn didn't have to hide his intimidation from the armored Zaichaeri, although he supposed this could have been the Imperium; alternate timelines were strange like that. But while he was adopting xenophobia and human supremacy on a dime, he was also plying another Kraft. Living with Arvælyn, it was easy to forget that he himself was a more powerful Mesmer than most Mesmers.

He was also masterful in how he used his voice and language. He daren't use Aværys' grace as he hadn't learned how to do so without shining like some solar avatar, but he wove themes into various melodies around him. To Arkænyn, comfort and command: do as I say. To the symphony that felt so very familiar, empathy and concern: help this one; he is special. To the general audience: trust in me and my words. To the armored enforcer: satisfaction in his authority being respected, and a desire to believe this one.

The bard embedded his Craft so deep in his voice that one would have to be looking specifically for his works to notice. His work was elegant, finessing with less power more carefully and precisely applied.

"Sie stellen Fragen, die nur der Zauberer beantworten kann," Finn said apologetically.

Then, to Arkænyn, with mock severity in Vastian, "I do. You have heard of the Order? This is where they reside." He didn't want any cognates to give away what he was saying, and saying as if he were angry and exerting authority over the elf. "Here, only human lives matter. I pray you, pretend to be cowed, if not servile. I can only protect you by abusing you."

And then he said no more to Arkænyn, lest the man in the mechanical armor take umbrage.

"Oberst Kavafis!" was all he managed, too surprised to hide his recognition completely. He had been about to kneel when the position was forced upon him, but he didn't fight it. His silent song called for compassion and understanding, however, to the mechanized infantry and the colonel of the militarized Order of Reconciliation. He was otherwise quiet and hoping Arkænyn's princely pride would defer to wisdom and caution and that he wouldn't put Finn into a position where he had to risk everything just to save his platinum arse, even though echoes of another Finn's love left the odd frisson in his own symphony.

This man, or a version of him from their own time, had been Arvælyn's first love. Finn had written songs from both of their perspectives, having heard both their symphonies when thinking on the other or in the other's presence. He listened via his Rune, unsure what best role to play on this strange stage where an actor was familiar, but not his role.

When Kämpfer quit the room, Finn remained kneeling, his eyes on Kavafis' boots.

Whoever this Kavafis was, Finn and Arkænyn were in his power. There was a possibility they could fight their way out, but they were vulnerable here without Phædreon.

"I am Finn," he said carefully but confidently. He was glad they were switching to Common. Now he only had to manage to aetheric symphonies and his native language. "This is my face. This is not my Zaichaer, however. My subordinate and I were tracking a particularly murderous mage and she... well, she found help from a sort of magic I had never encountered before. In our tracking, we ran afoul of similar magic. The elf who wielded it..." He shook his head. "One moment we were in one place, and the next, we were where Kämpfer found us, only slightly less confused than you are now.

"Please, have you seen a golden elf called Thalya? She might have gone by another name, but she tried to kill my..."

His Craft was hard at work, ensuring that his clever use of truth had the right effect. Whoever Arvælyn was or had been in this reality, Aurin would be able to take it personally as well and, hopefully, help Finn complete his mission.

"I don't know what your Finn did to earn your ire. I know we are trespassing, but your and yours are not our target. We did not come here intentionally."

The Aurin in his own reality did resent Finn, but tried not to. He was a complicated bundle of paradoxes and dangerous neuroses around a knot of trauma. Finn knew this without delving deep into his Symphony, though he knew that he had passively absorbed a great deal of what had gone on between Aurin and Arry over the years; it had seeped into some of his music that came out as stories of other people.

Regardless, this one seemed at least as complicated, which meant this would have to be done delicately.

Finn listened with his ears and with his Rune, he observed with his eyes and whatever senses a man had that he couldn't articulate. He didn't know if this was a world where Arvælyn even existed, or perhaps his soul and Aurin's soul were one. That gave him a pang of compersion and something else he would have to attempt to name later.

Eventually, he found he was frowning. Everything was turned about here and he had to adapt, to think on his feet, in a way even the Sentinels couldn't train. While listening, while attempting to sus what was actually going on here, he was also reaching out to Arkænyn, weaving their symphonies together much like their fingers had intertwined in the space between realities. They would have to move and act as one, think and feel, as well.

He didn't understand chronomancy, but he had, with his sense of the slipspace, felt something that might have been the version of the slipspace that a chronomancer manipulated—knowledge by the shape of a thing, by its lack. He knew the edges of that magic now, though he couldn't touch it, couldn't sense it directly. He used his own Rune as a beacon, slamming a thread of the slipspace against what would have to be a thread of time, making them resonate so Phædreon could hear him calling, track him down.

"I don't understand," he said, his frown remaining. He wasn't even sure he would understand if he hadn't compartmentalized his mind. "I tell you I don't know anything that is happening here. I have never seen a Zaichaer that I could love." The Withering Sickness; the elves of Sol'Valen had been beset by that plague and found a fix for it before Finn was even a twinkle in his parents' eyes. This world's Dornkirks had invented it as they had invented their parasitic weapon that fed upon aether woven into magic, apparently.

Had it killed Arvælyn?

He twined his song around his improvised instrument of cosmic percussion. Time was the string, space was the hammer. He played one note on Eikaen's pianoforte, attempting to call Phædreon back. He didn't want to know this reality's horrors. There were enough in his own. He wanted to go home. He wanted to take Arkænyn home and keep him safe, to— No. He wanted to take him home and keep him safe, but what else he wanted to do was, of course, reserved for Arvælyn. This was too much for a mortal mind. As much as he had attempted to prepare himself, he could sense the weak spots in his psyche, not yet cracks, but in danger.

No wonder Phædreon was strange, but he had the means to shield himself whereas Finn and Arkænyn did not.

"I did not come here on purpose," he repeated. "I did not come to upset you. I need to find Thalya and rub her face in justice. I have nothing for you. I am not the Finn you knew, and you are not the Aurin I know. We do not belong here."

The strange familiarity in the symphony soon accompanied an Antirin dialect of Common. He frowned, putting pieces together, but he was only on the cusp of realization when Arry-cum-Aurin made it clear.

"Arry?" he asked quietly, a catch in his voice. It wasn't his adorable Arry, nor his admiral Arvælyn, but if bards sang of love as something between souls, then was there a version of Arvælyn whose soul wouldn't make his own resonate? As things became clear, his own melodies took on tones of infinite sadness.

Finn didn't know if his timeline was the superior of all, but he was glad that Arvælyn and Aurin were at least on cordial terms in his reality. Perhaps after a few more fights, things would start to settle into a steadier place for them. But certainly, this was a sad example of what might have been: Arvælyn and Aurin committing murders because they couldn't treat like civilized adults. His Arvælyn had blood on his hands now; Finn wasn't certain one could rule without such damnable spots.

This Arvælyn had taken his Rune's power to a terrifying conclusion. Finn hadn't known they could do that. He wondered if the Mesmers of his Solunarium knew, or if this was some desperate genius of this timeline's Arvælyn alone. He didn't have time to think on it, though; in that sense of Time that was merely feeling for it where Space made room, he felt the shift. Phædreon was returning!

Everything moved so quickly, reaction was as quick as thought.

Arry Indwelt took sudden aim and Finn, on his knee, reacted magically rather than physically because that was faster. He blinked from his position to an interdicting one between bullet and chronomancer. It wasn't even dramatic. He couldn't fling himself like a kineticist. His bulk merely appeared and the shock of the bullet went through him before he could even shout no. There was only the grunt that accompanied the impact, and he crumpled immediately to the floor.

He would have liked to have been thinking heroic thoughts, but in truth, he was merely shock and pain.