InsaneJournal

towers of blood (leironuoth)
All wrought iron and vicious corners, these gates. Yet the massive wheel-and-pulley systems on either side began to hiss. Chain was wrapping around itself with dull metallic clanks. The gate began to rise. It was one of a hundred such gates spread throughout the city. The great wall of Terestai was in reality two walls - one outer, one inner - with about thirty yards of space between outer and inner. That space was occupied by murder holes, fox holes, arrow slits and heavy entrenchments from which a wall-saving stand could be made. Oil was boiling up above, distracting the mages with its scent of death and fear - oil and tar that had been pulled from the burning wood to the south. Those fox holes between the two walls were occupied by four pikemen each, but could hold up to fifteen. Ilúvatar could see eyes and helmets floating through the arrow slits. Elves stood ready behind the inner wall, waiting to fire on anyone who breached the defenses from the safety of stone.

Baila had done a fine job of preparing this city for battle.

Inside there was a little stone walkway, and torches hung in dull iron sconces to one's right and left. Soldiers milled about here, sticking close to their formations but talking as soldiers were wont to do. Ilúvatar's appearance made them stand up straight. Not just for who he was, but for what he was wearing. Instead of armor - or even a cape and coat - Ilúvatar had taken the time to dress himself in the manner of his ancestors. Light brown trousers that clung close to the skin, reaching only mid-calf, and soft-soled leather shoes that drank in sound. There was a makeshift gauntlet-and-cestus that had been forced upon him covering his left hand. Apart from that, he wore paint and paint alone. A hawk's beak was painted onto his face, sloping down with his nose, and his eyes stared out from that paint to take in those around him. It was an adjustment, to be sure.

Many of these had never fought with Sylvans at their side before.

Stone stacked on stone made high towering arches, with steel crossing beams to support the walkway up top. This was where Baila and several of the Sylvans were. Preparing for the worst. As for these below it was necessary always to be ready for a breach of the walls. Ilúvatar did not think that such a breach was going to occur - the logistics would be incredibly difficult to manage - but if they did, then Terestai would be ready for them. It was only a mile or so from this site to the place where Fiaethe'tari and Aeotha were preparing to receive the wounded. Ilúvatar urged himself not to think of her. It did not work. She would be well, and all things would be well, in due time.

"Lord Voronwé," a curt nod was all he received from the towering Sylvan bastard in front of him. "We can hear them up above, but so far, not a single speck of dust is out of place. These walls were made to last."

"So they were," he agreed.

Something was familiar about the Sylvan warrior before him. Instead of green paint, the fellow wore blue, squeezed from the erciusberries that sometimes grew on the towering smokewillows in Stardriel. Ilúvatar knew the paint well because he'd dueled with a fellow who wore it. Such grudges were set aside in times like these. Yet Ilúvatar was certain he knew this son of a bitch. Muscular even for one of their people. Face painted in an owl's mask, with a steady grin and a fearless sort of air to him. Clearly this young fool was expecting Ilúvatar to remember him, or struggle to remember him.

"Ceevis," the elf finally grinned. "I was there the day you cut off poor Rubus' head. The dogs had a fine time with it, and you egging them on with that stick, trying to get them to eat faster."

"I remember," Ilúvatar laughed, finally, and clapped the younger elf on the shoulder. "You were there? You must have been-"

"-up to your knee," Ceevis nodded solemnly. "A perfect vantage point, when all you're watching is a head on the ground."

The paint was no surprise. Ilúvatar himself had seen a great many Sylvans, some with whom he had quarreled, at the fires last night. They buried their axes in the sand in honor of their fallen ancestors and then went to work. Painting one's self for battle was a deeply personal experience, of course. There was no speaking until the last was done. You learned the motions by heart as a child. No mirrors, and no assistance. You were only worth the final expression which came out. For Ilúvatar, it was a hawk's beak on his face and black rings around his eyes. The hawk had watched over his family for thousands upon thousands of years.

With luck, there would be one more battle in which the hawk would favor him. At least one more.

There were some as young as ten in here, with pikes large enough for grown souls. Ilúvatar could not credit the idea of children fighting. And yet ten was the age of consent, for a Sylvan. He could choose his own battles. So cruel for an age so young. They honored their ways, and they honored their times. A Sylvan of ten was worth ten High of thirty, and it was not simply a bold statement searching for a truth. He'd seen boys that young butcher enemies twenty times their age for less than laying siege to the capitol of Astarii. Ceevis caught his eye, finally, and then shrugged his shoulders.

"One of many," the Sylvan said. "Who is this with you?"

"This," Ilúvatar said finally. "Is Leironuoth. He's here to win the war for us."