InsaneJournal

attrition (aeotha, leironuoth, fiaethe)
He noticed almost immediately that the air felt strange around him. No. It did not feel strange. It smelled strange. Ilúvatar knew it well. It had begun, this familiarity, in the days of his father. When you were the sword of your house you were meant to know the stench of battle. Smoke and death were recognizable to you because it was your purpose and intent to cause them, in as much volume as you could, thus laying great waste to the enemies of your house. Here he was, now, the last male of his family. If he'd perished in battle yesterday the house would have gone with him. He was not one to think often on family honor - unless it were one of the more obvious obligations, such as caring for his mother, he found he had little use for them. Yet that thought lingered as he stared into the mirror.

The last of a kind.

Perhaps that was why his mother was still lingering, even though he'd chosen his clothing for the day and needed only to pull on his cape. Perhaps that was the reason the servants were staring at him with half-awe, and half-concern. He'd given orders to heal only life-threatening injuries. That meant there were pains all over his body, as many as a person could stand, and some of them were not yet completely closed. Beneath this fine clothing he was a collection of bandages and injuries. Fayon herself was in a fine green dress. The color of their people. Hair pulled back at the temples, suspended in place by gems that would have cost five years of a soldier's pay, and she was impassive.

As she so often was.

"Leaders do not lead in this way," was what she said.

"Leading is by its obvious definition an exercise in moving to the front," Ilúvatar replied quietly.

"Don't be flip," Fayon snapped. "That is a terrible color for an elf with a limp. You should take it off before you're seen in it."

Instead of answering her, Ilúvatar lifted the rapier from its place against the wall. All of this time and his father's sword was still the one weapon he could barely bring himself to use. He wore it out of formality, and obligation... there it was, pressing against his shoulders again, heavy on his mind and on his heart as a result. Faion had commissioned the blade after he'd been knighted. The Knighted House Voronwé, though its existence was short, had always been led by someone who clutched this sword in his fist in times of war. Not to wear it, now, would have been an insult not just to his brother and his father but to his ancestors. Faion had not come into possession of a house alone. There had been generations upon generations before, each of them working to produce Faion Voronwé, who in turn had crafted a house for himself out of a soldier's dedication to duty.

There was not enough of that feeling in the world. If there were, Ramga would have joined with a duly-selected public official in serving to the best of their abilities. Ilúvatar had often asked himself - especially after his brother - if there was anyone in this nation who was capable simply of serving. If ambition was the only thing that motivated change, whether positive or negative. Did he want to be a legend? A memory? Did he want to write off the two hundred soldiers who'd died yesterday as casualties in service of a greater purpose? Or did he want to feel fire in his chest whenever their demise was remembered anew by him? There were too many questions and not enough answers. He hated most of all that his role in this existed at all. He was heartily sick of fame and respect. If his death could have ended anything - apart from his life - Ilúvatar was fairly certain he would have gone through with it.

Fiaethe'tari came to mind, just then.

"Your father was too enamored of his duty," Fayon spoke again, this time very softly, indeed.

So focused was he on the sword that Ilúvatar had nearly forgotten. He was surprised, and embarrassed, that she would speak of Faion in such a way. When he turned with heat in his stare Fayon gave no sign of being cowed.

"I hated you, after you killed your brother," and he needed to strain, so that he could hear. "I wished that you would die when it was done. For half your life, it seemed, I wanted you dead and gone."

He had always suspected as much. To hear it said - well, that was something else entirely, wasn't it? One hand tightened intto a fist.

"I only understood recently why," she still pressed on. "Your father trained you too well, Ilúvatar. You care notthing for yourself. Only what must be done, or what is right. And that is why some will always see you as a monster."

The coat he wore beneath his cape, which fell over one shoulder only - concealing the hilt of his blade, held in place to front and back of shoulder by enormous pins bearing a graven image of a hawk - needed an adjustment. Ilúvatar pried at the rolled-back cuffs for a long moment. They did not need adjustment. They had never needed adjustment. He simply did not know what to say. Perhaps some part of her was right. Perhaps that was why he thought of Fiaethe'tari when he thought of death. Did the former queen ever want something for herself, other than an increasingly convoluted attempt to bring her husband's killer to justice? It hardly seemed to matter any longer what they did. The real reason for Eiron'aith's madness might never be revealed. They would be hard-pressed to dig the truth from a dead elf.

"Some," he replied.

"Some," she agreed.

He tried not to slam the door behind him. He failed. Baila, wounded as he was - a bandage covered one eye, and the healers said he would most likely see from it again - could see the anger in Ilúvatar's stalking gait. Nevertheless the captain fell in beside him. They walked in silence for a handful of seconds. Baila opened his mouth. Closed it, at the look on Ilúvatar's face. When he finally did speak, it was to the assembled group. Maeglin, Aeotha, Leironuoth, Fiaethe'tari and Pol. Each of them looked as grim as death in their own ways. They had a great many things to discuss today. Since they were the closest things he had to advisors, he supposed he should listen to what they had to say. Every inch of him burned to go and kill Tyullis, after thanking the man for saving Fiaethe's life, because he was most likely in league with Fenrir.

Who was in league with ... who in the hell knew?!

"Two hundred casualties, one hundred and five dead," Baila cleared his throat before he went on. "That is seven hundred since Ramga attacked."

"Thank you," Ilúvatar rasped.

The map room was of Maeglin's design and favor, not Ilúvatar's, yet the Sylvan found every time he entered that he loved this place even more. Bone tubes filled with maps of one color or another had been collected for perusal, later this evening. They were all of them seated at this table, at the meeting he'd convened. It was morning, one day after the incident at the wall. There was still a bottle of wine on the table. Steam flowed from the nearest pot, fashioned out of clay and filled with tea and herbs. Pungent. He could smell it from here. It was meant to wake up, not to be savored, and he did not plan on attempting to do either.

"Good morning."

At least, not yet.

"The first order of business," Ilúvatar said without preamble. "Is your friend Tyullis."

He was leaning over the table, at the head of the thing, staring at Aeotha and Leironuoth in turn. As soon as he'd discovered that Skandra Tyullis was alive, he'd ordered the man stripped of his possessions and locked in a cell. Aeotha had not been pleased over that - the fellow did have an injury, and one that could not be healed with magic - but so far the strange man had yet to die. In at least one way, Ilúvatar wished that he would. It would solve a great many problems. How had the bastard managed the feats which were attributed to him? How had he nearly gotten Fiaethe killed and saved her life at the same time? Deliberately Ilúvatar did not look at the former queen. He feared that if he did, he would order Tyullis' immediate death, and that would solve nothing.

At least, not yet.

"I have not decided what to do with him," Ilúvatar went on darkly. "I am open to suggestions."

"Who the hell," Maeglin barked in annoyance. "Is Tyullis? We have a war to conduct. If he's a criminal, take his hands and be done with it, boy."