These were the things he was never prepared for.

All that morning spent fussing over which coat to wear, which cape accented it perfectly. In the end he'd worn black trousers, stuffed into the tops of tall black boots. The coat was wool, of a fine cut, high collar brushing his jaw. There were too-large gold buttons adorning the front of the green monstrosity - and as a point of deference to the king he'd allowed the five white slashes of his rank to be sewn onto his exposed right sleeve, from cuff to elbow. A mirror of the slashes enlarged rested on the left side of this fine and well-tailored coat. A green cape was pinned to the left shoulder, front and back, sweeping down and covering his left side entirely. It also covered the ornate hilt of that fine sword his father had left for him. Today the sword felt heavier than he could ever remember it being. Perhaps there were great deeds left to sing of in this world, but he could not recall any of them in that instant.

( This was a day of celebration. )

It was a tired hand that seized the knot, but somehow he managed to hoist himself out of the passageway and into the tunnel. Since the incident on the river not a single soul had troubled them. Ilúvatar did not know whether to be troubled or pleased by that fact. Certainly it was cause for concern. And certainly he did not need to mention that fact to anyone else. From heel to hairline they were all a tangle of nerves and apprehension. Even the normally calm Eibhear was scowling at everything that moved in his direction. One thing to hope you would make it out of something such as this alive - another entirely to be on the verge of doing it, and suspecting that whatever quiet you feel and see is nothing more than a trap. They were all weary of suspecting it, even now when the air was the cleanest it had been in ... a long time. Strange to think a Dwarven mine's putrid mix of coal and sweat, blood and copper, would somehow be the most pleasant thing one had smelled in days.

( He didn't trust it. )

A blackened, ruined tangle such as this one had never been more bleak than it was when his arms began to protest. When his heart suggested that it would, at last, surrender. When every fiber of his being made its case for death. Ilúvatar was not a creature of darkness and surrender, but for a moment it was tempting. Then Nindë injured herself. A simple thing, that any untrained girl might do. Despite the angry intensity with which Fenrir berated her Ilúvatar was quiet, and so was she. She hugged her arms around his neck. She breathed against his hair. But she was silent, and still, as he carried her. Perhaps not believing that a twisted ankle might have doomed her to death - or worse - if not for the soldiers who had come to retrieve her. Or perhaps not believing that any of this was possible simply because she had kissed a king on his cheek.

( It was more than possible. )

How must a Drow feel when they looked upon such a thing? The incautious spectacle of it was like nothing he'd ever seen before. Works before Lorien, white towers and grand public structures, were always built with... more restraint. This looked as though it should have been a tower, cylindrical in nature and massive as Ceranarad itself - but it was lying on its side, posed there as though some great hand had toppled it to the ground intact. What was the point of building a structure so massive and stretched when you had no use for it? One could approach the side, actually touch the black stone, and through his gloves it felt like nothing else he'd ever seen or felt in his life. It felt like madness and death. Strange to think that a week gone, he was supervising additions of stone to his own home. More than a week now, wasn't it? Without the sun judging the passage of time was not as easy as it had been.

( To be this close. )

It was strange to think that he'd existed all of this time, and there still was something in this world he had not seen. Ilúvatar did not like to think of himself as inexperienced or even foolish, yet the first sight of it took his breath away. Light stunned the Drow, caused them great pain, and yet here in the city of their creation was light. Not a great deal of light, to be sure, but enough. Enough to see pale hair topping black skin, with red eyes that glistened hate in the darkness. He felt also a strange sort of excitement. As though this could be the moment of his death, or the moment in which he felt most alive. It was always the same before a battle. And like any battle, in this exchange, there would be blood. Getting into a city of Drow might not be as difficult as first imagined. Getting out, on the other hand, was probably going to be quite the trick.

( There would be no grand charge. )

There was only one thing to do.

Ahead of them, on flat black rock, there was but one figure standing proud. Alone. Ilúvatar knew it as soon as he saw the figure - Talmus. But his instincts were not confirmed until they were closer. Until the traitor was staring at them, face twisted. Eyes seemingly darker with hate. Ilúvatar did not know if that was something that his mind added or something that was actually occurring. Only that, for a moment, he felt something like repulsion at the sight. Only a moment. And then the battle instinct was upon him. Eibhear had the lead, but his steps were slowing, and the look on his face was one of conflict. Even Pol did not seem eager to fight, or eager to confront the one who'd nearly killed them. Fenrir was nowhere to be seen. If he was still alive, he had to be nearby, but Ilúvatar didn't know when or if he would shoot Talmus. DId he want the fellow dead badly enough to strike from the shadows and think about honor later? Or would he strike to Talmus' face? Time would answer that question.

( Time, and a dead body. )

Living in Ellothorien, you grew used to a great many things. Lights were abundant, forever changing in color. Forever changing in pitch. Mirrors were found with equal frequency. Fountains, endlessly surging, flowing water into deep mirrored pools that one could use for moments of reflection no matter where one went. Ilúvatar did not like thinking of home when he was out on campaign. only because he usually despised it when someone reminded him of what they were capable of in their best moments. Instead he was here, close to dying if not extremely so - for the moment. And though he did not fear death Ilúvatar often wondered what would happen if they lived in a world without war. More than likely he would have taken up a more honest trade. Farming, perhaps. Sheep herding. Living in the forest, training in the games, none of that would be possible in a world without combat. Their athletic prowess would not have been needed then, to help the monarchy emerge victorious in conflicts. Certainly he would have done his time in a temple. Learned affection for the goddess they were all supposed to love.

( In the main he felt anger. )

Boots collided with stone, a thundering herd of soldiers throwing themselves at the ruinous terrain with all the fervor of a priest who prostrates himself before the gods. Ilúvatar had abandoned the massive axe that was his trademark. Somewhere, on a lonely rotting hill in the midst of the Underdark, it sat collecting dust. Or perhaps it would be used by one of those fiends chasing them? It hardly mattered, either way. The axe was too heavy for the flight in which they currently engaged. So he'd abandoned it and in its stead used the twin axes of his people, the axes held aloft when one returned to the forest, to show that you'd returned as you'd left - a warrior for the Sylvan Elves. They were his pride. And if he died, he wanted to die with those weapons in his hand and a smile on his face.

( The smile was the harder of the two. )

What he could see gave him no reason to hope for anything but death.

The Underdark was as barren a realm as he'd ever visited. Most of the surface upon which they walked was dark, and rocky; overrun in patches with dirt covered by moss. Unlike the moss of above, green and welcoming, this moss grew angry and red. Like the roots of the trees it gave a soft glow that illuminated only barely. That red light bathed the bark of the trees which grew into the caverns above their heads. Tress that grew upside down. He thought now that he'd seen everything. Ilúvatar's steps were hesitant upon the wretched surface as he stared ahead. And up. Those trees were unlike any he'd seen before. Bark black as night, standing out only because the hideous dark stone that formed this cavern was lighter. They were as talons reaching out from the dark. His grimace was the only sign of emotion that he gave. That, and his hard stare, which reached out to touch the trees. They did not wither but seemed fuller beneath his gaze.

( Almost as though they could feel his malice. )

One long step beyond the jagged mouth of the cave planted his feet firmly in the Underdark. A part of Ilúvatar felt as though there should be more than that to mark the barrier. Only a sudden chill gave him notice that could not be seen. What could be seen, of course, was incredible. Ilúvatar did not think such a collection of simultaneous horror and wonder existed anywhere else in the world. Rock caverns twisted downward in a never-ending spiral that vanished bleakly into total darkness. The only thing that kept the darkness from reaching them here, now, was a spiderweb of dark blue veins that clung to the sides of the walls. Ilúvatar took a hesitant step forward, the double-headed beast of an axe in his hand. Ready to strike. Only there was nothing there to strike, nothing at all save a vague ethereal blue that coated his skin and his clothing. Armor. He truly should have invested in armor. It was the only thing that made sense.

( Armor only slowed you down. )

The contrasts were all around them.

Where their camp had been an affair of tents and revelry, now it was a grim collection of souls hiding beneath makeshift structures with dim fires. The mine was not quite the Underdark, but the Dwarves had clearly intruded on something. Instead oif feeling heat from some unknown source - as he had the last time he'd come to one of these monstrosities - he felt a cold wind that never seemed to die. No matter how many layers you wore, to your bones the chill ran with abandon, seeking to ruin whatever calm and collected thought you could fold around yourself. There should have been a better way to enter the Underdark, but they had to use the breach they knew about, and hope that they were successful in going in and coming out again. Fire. It was a rare beast in the Underdark, and more so because of the hatred that Drow carried for it. They could see it a mile away, with a clear line of sight, and smell it at the same distance.

( So the stories said, in any case. )

A soft mist had settled over the ground. It rode from his ankles to his chest, flowing like a river around them as they advanced. Ilúvatar had an axe gripped in both hands, the monster double-bladed affair that usually rode with his horse. Speed was not as important as power and accuracy in a sludge and fog of this magnitude. He didn't want to know what lay beyond, but he did, because he could see it rising over the river that surrounded them. Eibhear had the lead - the greatshield he wore strapped to his arm parted the mist in front of him, but that slight part closed behind him. Ilúvatar had spurned the offer of a shield; this beast of an axe would smash any armor it lined up against, and he was not strong enough to wield it with one hand. Perhaps no one was - he had seen a dwarf try, once, right before he ran that dwarf through the heart with a sword.

( They were getting closer. )

Wagons.

He had not thought to see so many wagons, but they were there. Some were loaded with supplies of every kind, which they would pack once they reached the mines where the Drow were said to have reached out. Some were loaded with those who wanted to wish a merry departure to the traveling heroes. This was where some of the heroes took perhaps too much advantage of their status. Talmus was currently entertaining four young girls, and was never seen with fewer than two in his coimpany. Always with a fresh verse to compliment their beauty of face, their figure, their shimmering waterfall hair. Ilúvatar did not have the patience or the inclination for such things. It was that which led him to share a fire with Fenrir, though sharing was probably a generous description, since aside from giving a curt nod the only thing Fenrir did in Ilúvatar's presence was eat his food. The stew was not so delicious as the archer was pretending, but Ilúvatar did not want to be rude and ask him what he possibly found so interesting about it. It was easier instead to simply look up at the sky, and count stars that he had not seen in quite some time.

( Ancient stars, and powerful things according to some. )

The sun was high in the sky.

That was the detail Ilúvatar noticed most strongly on this day. There were trumpeters in the street, playing a strange and unearthly tune he would not have thought could come from such an instrument. As he made his way on horseback the signs and sounds could not fail to be noticed by him. Barkers were crying out on street corners. Elves were marching down the street with flags in their arms, proclaiming for this hero or that hero. Glittering paving stone kissed his horse's hooves, blessing the passage of this beast that carried the Thunderbolt, Lord Ilúvatar Voronwé of the Trees. When his cloak flared out behind him he was cheered, with elves taking up the call for his sword and his banner. They were normally a peaceful and reserved people. Something must have happened to inflame their tempers and their hearts. It made him nervous. Whatever had the people whipped into a frenzy was not a good sign for a king establishing his rule, or a lord that was called upon to fight in the king's name. Orcs on the plains again? He'd been called back from campaign against the ragged mercenaries of the east for orcs on the plains? His stomach was cold as he considered the possibilities.

( They may have sacked a city. )