A gold base. Circular, sloping upward to form a smaller circle. In that smaller circle rested a single wax candle. Hard wax, if his eyes did not deceive, the kind that they made in cities. Skandra didn't know precisely how far they were from a city who made hard wax candles. Not something you liked to use if there were another option in the summer. Hard wax candles were winter things. He would assume then that it was winter. The gold inlay on the candle holder spoke volumes of its origins. He thought it was a pattern of leaves and vines. The sort of code language that had been used once upon a time to communicate if there were humans about. Elves used that script. Strange to see it marking a candle, but there were other oddities before he asked about the candle.

( Many other oddities. )

"Well," Pol said quietly.

"He isn't here," Ilúvatar answered.

Somewhere on the plains of Astarii the hands of the gods had done work that few mortal minds could properly frame. A flat stretch of grass, each blade of grass a solitary emerald, between two foothills that may as well have been mountains. These were the burial grounds of Caoimhin, the resting place for their ancestors dating back for longer than Ilúvatar had been alive. Wind sent by the dragon flowed down one hill and up the other, brushing the heads of those magnificent blades. Each one swayed in time with those around it, a rolling sea somehow on dry land for the occasion. There were no tombs here, no masoleum. They were surrendered to the earth which bore witness to their creation and their destruction, but anonymously. Only the marble tablet in the center of this otherwise empty field bore the name of Caoimhin. Their family pride encased in a single immovable stone, which stood unchanged since before Eibhear's birth. An incredible thing.

There was an apple tree, now that he thought of it, but Eibhear had once joked that it would not bear fruit again until it drank once more of Caoimhin blood. Developed quite a taste for it, he said. Sure enough the tree towered over the marble slab. Thick with leaves, but not a single red fruit in sight.

( Eibhear was not as funny as he pretended to be. )

Capes were a fine thing for formal engagements, but Ilúvatar was glad to leave it behind. Equally glad that he wasn't saddled with armor. The coat of his office hung open, collar folded down, and the double-breasted thing was only there to keep out the sudden chill of the night. Despite how cold it was the air felt charged, explosive. And that was mostly due to the danger. Every man who'd come along carried every weapon he could find on his person, because the half-second you took to kick a dead Perub off your sword was the half-second it would take for his brother to skewer you like a pig. Improvisation was essential. Adaptation. Respond to the situation and don't stop moving. Just fight, and kill. Those were the orders he'd given. Along with 'be quiet or I'll end you', it was the simplest set of marching orders he'd ever given a group of soldiers. It was also the reason he'd chosen these men. They knew how to fight as one. And to the last they were all respectful of their new recruit. To suggested that having two lords on one mission such as this meant it was doomed to failure or bound for great success - but no in-between.

( Sometimes he wanted to cut out To's tongue. )

Saoirse dragged him down and pressed her breasts into his chest. She was famous for them. He was famous for almost everything and that’s why she loved him. The raven haired girl moaned like a pagan and locked her ankles behind his back. The four-post bed shook and a pillow fell to the floor. She sank her teeth into his shoulder. He laughed.

A month since the footrace. A month since he’d healed Felix. Flaithriaoh had wanted Saoirse Ailis for years now. Everytime she walked by the pitch with those long legs, or tossed her dark hair back to laugh and show her white throat, everytime she said something low and soft in that sultry witch voice…Now that he had her here, covered in sweat and smelling like tulips, all he could think about was Felix’s cracked skull. And the inquisition that had followed. These things took time, he had been assured over and over again by the priests. There was no quick answer.

( “There, there,” she pleaded. He obliged and her head knocked loudly against the board. )

Theirs was a mad race.

All around them boats were struggling to reach Djokole's ship, with paddles flashing wild into the water, sometimes turning the boat sideways in their zeal to propel it forward. Skandra and Leir were using even strokes, cutting through the water quickly, keeping themselves just ahead of those with more steady nerves. It was not a race they wanted to lose, yet even if they reached the ship, their battle was far from over. Leir seemed keenly aware of that - every ounce of his body was seized with the hot blood of the moment, and Skandra felt little different. A race to what could be their own deaths. What could be more exciting? Skandra stretched out with the paddle, caught the edge of the boat closest to them, and heaved down with all his might. The boat rocked once, more viciously that he could have imagined, before it capsized. The pirates cried out in rage as they disappeared beneath the boat. Lucky. Story of his life, that. Lucky to the extreme.

( How much farther could it take him? )

The spot had been picked by Leironuoth. Among the trees, in the early morning, sliver-thin wisps of child mist slipped about. Carelessly cavorting he would have said. And how odd that he was a prisoner of no one, free to follow his own whims. But it was the mist that was dancing before his eyes. Trapped by the leaves of the forest, fearing for its life against the stabbing rays of the sun. For his part Skandra was amazed at what they'd been able to accomplish in the roughly two hours they'd had before the pirates set out from the beach. That was the event that led him here. Stripped to the waist, covered in mud caked thick upon his face and chest, drenched in black and brown that hid him against the trunk of the tree. Nestled in the open space of a branch that forked like a snake's tongue he wasn't comfortable. But he was concealed from view. Somewhere out there, Leir was lurking, though Skandra did not know where. That seemed the perfect arrangement for now.

( He'd done what he could. )

In the roaring fire, half-delirious from all the drink he'd taken in that day and all the heat that had rained down on his shoulders, Skandra could see a great many things. First, no one told you that nights were so gods-damned cold on a jungle island. He preferred the cold to the hot, but his face was red as an apple, and cracked besides. Water. At least his throat was burning like sand at the temperature. Aches and pains acquired in the fight were less pained now that it was cold out, but only because he was certain parts of him were numb. All in all it could have been worse. He was chewing jerky and smoking one of those fine cloves at the same time - damn propriety. If his companion cared he gave no sign. He just sat there, staring without staring at that sword. It was a pretty piece of work, but Skandra didn't know why it was worth the trouble.

( Had to get it. )

"They look pretty ugly from here."

Skandra was kneeling behind a tree, half of his face hanging into open view. Enough for one eye to see what they were up against. The first man was something out of a story. The sword on his back, as wide as Skandra's torso. As tall as the pirate himself, with no dull edges and a rounded point. So you weren't going to be winning any contests by running a man through, but Skandra was fairly certain if you hit someone with a weapon like that, they were done. No matter how small the hit was. That fellow, whom Skandra affectionately dubbed Brickhead, was surrounded by a group of four other pirates. They were strapped from head to toe with knives. All of them had crossbows. They were throwers, then, range experts to his melee. Skandra grimaced as he twisted on one heel, shoulders coming to rest against the bark of the tree. Sweat was rolling down his face in waves. Even with his hat back on, the jungle heat was taking its toll.

( Why had he agreed to come out there? )

It had been but a few short years since bein stripped of his title. Little over three, if he remembered correctly. A paltry amount of time in the eyes of the average elf. Yet the humiliation of defeat, the agony of exile, cast a gloom over each and every one of Leironuoth's hours. And so, by the time any of this happened, he felt as though it had already been a thousand years.

He wandered many great miles from his home, from the songs and fires of his people, and he inflicted his rage upon the wickedness of the outside world. Far and wide he roamed, carving a name for himself with the Champion's blade. He killed brigands and slavers, marauding orcs and ogres. When his path crossed that of the tyrant and the thief he destroyed them with a fury unmatched in the lands of humans: ( this is how he became a privateer of Trone. )

On the first day of the attacks, she learn what the formidable prowess of the Sylvans could wronght against their chosen enemies and how to keep her tears to herself as the Sylvan women did when their kinsmen took their leave of their families in the morning.

On the second, how her magic was futile without direction and even harmful. In all her years, eh had never been pulled to be involved in any skirmish and as she ached to offer her assistence, Elemmírë couldn't be sure what she could do to bring to the defense of the village.

On the third, she stepped forward, ignoring the wary and distrustful looks of the villagers who had thought she was no more than the traveling Priestess of Lorien rather than an amateur air elementalist of no known magical tradition. They grudgingly allowe her to participate and help create a distraction to enable their swiftest messenger to escape as well as some of the women and children.

By the seventh day, her confidence was shaken when one of her spells caught some of the defenders as collateral damage not by her own fault bt by her own lack of finesse. Tolerating the the accusatory looks launched at her back as night fell, Elemmírë fled the crowd and took her place among the village battlements, half filled with disgust at her own self and also the horror that filled her every time replayed itself in her mind.

How far more could they hold up?

Elemmírë wasn't sure - she knew the Sylvans kept things from her but this skirmish was long overdue and it was just her luck to wandered in just before the fighting started. To her knowledge, more than half the womenfolk and children had been evacuated.

What were they waiting for?

There seemed this huge weight lingering in the air that threatened to crush her had she given the chance. The weight of anticipation, so they said - Elemmírë hastily pulled her hood tightly around her, trying to look away from the images in her mind. Secretly, she too had her doubts as to hold long she could keep up with the magical demands. Had she already started to slip? Was it all just an accident or was it just her? There were limits, Beren had told her but what he didn't say was what the limits were.

It was summertime, and the sun felt good on her skin. It warmed her down to the bone. Although the ride had been long and cold while crossing the mountains, Aeotha was pleased to shed her cloak and abandon the often too warm robes of a Priestess of Lorien. Within Ithacles' homeland Aeotha was free to travel as she pleased. The knights here knew her by name because of Prince Ithacles. They knew her stories as well as they knew their own lands. It was nice to be here. The sun filtered past the strong boughs of the evergreen trees that nestled into the walls as if the stone had grown with them. She loved it here. There was no pressure upon her shoulders as she passed quietly on foot through the streets and towards the main palace.

If anything, no one wanted to burden her with anything more than what she'd been burdened with in her long life. She passed children playing an assortment of games she wasn't familiar with. Humans and Elves were different from childhood on, and while the songs they sang sometimes took on a familiar tune, there was so much to learn here. She enjoyed the difference in customs and in the songs they sang. She loved the smell of the market here with their summer hauls of apples and pears, along with roses of every shape and color.

( If she wanted to, she could have lived out the rest of her days somewhere inside the palace. )

It felt like years since Aeotha had stepped into the castle seeking an audience with the king. Then the mood had been sad on the King's part, Angry on Aeotha's part, the death of Eibhear was a tragedy to all elven kind. Some had taken it much better than others. Eiron, for example, assumed a mantle of new power. Etain moved on to a quiet life, Aeotha had not seen her friend since the funeral. But Aeotha had been standing on the sidelines for quite some time, just watching. She'd already left Ellthorien and had been seeking guidance from a friend in Iasa. A priest who believed in her, and the dreams she'd had. When he was called to attend a ball within the palace. Aeotha got a message as well, both were summoned to be in attendance. It took a night of thinking before Aeotha decided she still owed allegiance to the king. She left the next day on horseback.

( Returning to the capital )