grand finale (vedette, ithacles)
They were lost in a sea of identical curtains, shielding boxes that contained nonsense, and Ilúvatar was starting to feel the hot blood in his arms dying down. A cloak that covered his wounds - for the most part - was a good thing. But there was no one on their feet here. How many had the Drow killed searching for their target? Who was their target? Was Dravath even alive? He could not make himself leave the boxes to go and seize more of the Thunderbolts - a large number of military persons filing into the theater, however dutifully, would not be met with enthusiasm. By anyone, including himself. They were all of them grim in their silence as they stalked those corridors, ignoring the well-hidden torches that cast half-moons of orange light onto the corridor floor. He had the lead, and the responsibility, axes hanging in his hands and well-hidden by the cloak around his shoulders. Staring with anxious eyes at anything that moved, wild eyes, the eyes of a Sylvan stalking its prey through miles of jungle.
There were fewer places to hide.
They were creeping along, creeping along, when a sound made him pause. Over the heavy music of battle - the stage was reaching the climax of the first act, in which the friend of the hero died - he could hear voices. Two voices, making no effort to disguise their shouting, but for all of that sounding like two lovers arguing. Perhaps. When he moved closer to the draping curtain, dropped to one knee, he could make out what they were saying. Axes rested on his knees as he leaned closer. Unusual to hear an argument like this, and he'd take enough time to ensure that one of them was not his target. Then again, he couldn't think of any other reason that such rich and insufferable elves would be shouting on a night like this one. Cloak tossed aside by a hand, he held it up; the universal sign to stop, even if his closed fist was clutching an axe. Ilúvatar had no idea if Vedette or Ithacles could hear what he was hearing, but that didn't matter.
"The Drow," one voice said - Ilúvatar's mouth crinkled in a smile. "Were not my idea."
"Then whose idea were they? They don't have to think that I'll-"
"Don't you understand, you fool? The Thunderbolts are here! Now! If Etain told them about you, what else has she said?"
"If she said anything else, they wouldn't be here, would they?" the second voice tried and failed to sound calm. "I need protection. I don't want to die in the middle of that."
"If you don't want to die out there," and Ilúvatar heard distinctly the hiss of steel on steel. "Then use this."
Ilúvatar caught Vedette's eye, and then pointed to the ground, all the while looking over his shoulder. It was to say 'stay here', or more appropriately, 'watch our backs for the sake of the gods'. That was the only movement he spared before he slipped into the box, parting the curtain in a flash. Ithacles would decide for himself where and when he wanted to go - right now, one was as good as the other, but Ilúvatar was not here to kill any Elves. Or listen to them kill themselves. They both looked up in stunned and shocked silence, one face that he did not recognize holding a knife while the other - Dravath, at last - shrank away, on the other side of the box. His scowl must have been fierce. Dravath looked as though he was about to wet himself, and the other fellow little better. An elf, though. Grey by the look of him. How had a Grey Elf come to be mixed up in this? They were uselessly arcane at best and hopelessly mad at worst.
"Ilúvatar Voronwé," the one with the knife finally sneered. "You aren't welcome here, ape."
Ape. The word they used for Sylvan Elves, and one that might inflame tempers. Since he'd just survived an onslaught of Drow both sudden and numerous, with more still out there somewhere, Ilúvatar decided behind pursed lips to let that one go. The hand revealed, which held an axe ever-so-powerfully, slowly came up. The anonymous elf gripped his knife defensively, but unless he somehow became a fellow of endless combat experience and a touch of courage, he must have known how useless the gesture. Dravath on the other hand looked relieved. As relieved as a fellow facing arrest and public humiliation could look. Not very haughty, for a Master of Ushers. It was not at Dravath that he pointed his axe. It was at the other elf.
"I don't have to tell you the kind of trouble that you're in," he growled. "Throw that knife down, now, or I'm putting this in your skull."
By this, of course, he meant the wicked pipe tomahawk encrusted with half-dry Drow blood. The fellow swallowed once, stared at the blade with perspiration on his face, and then -
- lifted the knife -
- Ilúvatar's arm went back -
- the knife drove down, into the fellow's own belly, and with a groan he collapsed. Ilúvatar's axe paused mid-swing, and he stared for a moment. Perhaps a moment and a half. Suicide was no small thing. And even if he could reach the fellow now, convulsions told him that the blade was poisoned. What poison? Did he want to save a coward and apparently a liar? Instead he let the death rattle wash over him as he turned to Dravath, who was now sitting on his heels, pressed into the wall as though some secret switch would reveal a trap door and make him disappear. Had he soiled himself? Well, he was about to start, wasn't he?
"Just the man I was looking for," Ilúvatar's smile was not kind.