kings of old (fiaethe)
The corridors were empty save the footsteps of servants, rushing to complete one task or another. They'd appeared in preparation for Maeglin's arrival. Word had come to them before it had come to Ilúvatar because they were the ones who organized the house. They were the ones who ruled this place, with its rules and its standards. He was nothing but a guest at the pleasure of their true master. And that meant whatever changes he'd requested, whatever demands he'd placed on them - though most of those were likely requests of his mother - were being undone so that Maeglin would find his home precisely as he left it. It amused Ilúvatar to think that they would have a list, somewhere, of every painting that had been removed and precisely how it sat on the wall. It amused him because there was nothing else to do but be amused. And drink.
He'd indulged in his fair share of both.
"My Lord," Ilúvatar swept a bow, forearm pressed to his belt as he did.
"Rise," the King spoke in a quiet voice. "Rise, Ilúvatar. You have no need to show me such respect. Bowing is for sycophants."
He said nothing, merely waited. Clearly something was on the mind of Eöl Melwasúl. He did not lift his eyes, merely looked troubled at the tips of those stately boots he preferred. Ilúvatar wondered what a king considered when he held himself in that place, in that position, until he'd forgotten that the target of his summons was finally arrived. No measure of talking would bring him away from that fugue of thought - nothing would help him conquer the abyss into which he stared. When at last the moment had passe,d and he was ready, the king lifted his head solemnly.
"Glashta has demanded satisfaction, Ilúvatar."
This, then, was a simple trouble. "Where and when, my king?"
Eöl rose from the throne with such speed, and nervous energy, that one of his ministers openly flung out a hand to forestall him. That brought a laugh from the other ministers, and even a smile from the king, but Ilúvatar only watched. There was nothing of humor in those eyes; he was wearing the crown because he was sitting in attendance as his ministers debated policy. They were loyal elves, and true, but not warriors. Even if the king had not personally gone into battle in some time - he knew enough to be dangerous in a fight. Yet he summoned Ilúvatar here to take on this fight for him. That was a knight's duty, after all. Even one so humble as Ilúvatar.
"You would fight him?" Eöl asked with a single raised brow. "For my honor?"
"Yes."
"And what of your own honor?" Eöl descended the stair which led to the dais, one at a time, quite deliberately. "No insult, my old friend. Just a question. When someone asks for the honor of your steel, do you give it?"
"No one has offered me an offense in over fifteen years, my king."
"No," and now Eöl's smile was more genuine. "I suppose not."
What time could not steal it destroyed. The knowledge that Eöl was there somewhere, his existence not denied but encouraged in another world, came to small comfort for Ilúvatar. What this country needed was him. He and his queen had been honorable guides, just stewards, of the elves who lived in Astarii. No injustice unanswered, no plea for help denied. It was the way of things. Now they had a magister who could not even make good on his promise to kill an offending party, because he had to worry about the politics of the situation. Perhaps it was right, that something else should come before violence. Yet he could not help but think that he'd somehow betrayed the words and deeds of his king. A king long dead. Ilúvatar could not believe he was the only one who longed for the return of those days. Could not believe he was the only one that missed the steady hand of...
"Quite a display," Pol said.
The elf had arrived without warning, without so much as a sound. No. There had been sound enough to warn Ilúvatar he was coming. Only with so much to drink, he wasn't sure he could react to such a presence. Normally it was not in the chevalier to become intoxicated. But tonight was the night that Astarii died, even if no one yet knew it. Pol seemed to. He pressed a bottle of wine into the table, slid it across that smooth polished wood to the elf on the other side. And gestured, with a great deal of show, to the second glance. Ilúvatar lifted the bottle with an iron grip, bit the cork savagely, and yanked it out with his teeth. Sloshing made Pol wince - he was one for fine things - but he caught the long-stemmed glass nimbly enough when Ilúvatar pushed it back to him.
"You would have killed him," Pol said, staring at the red ripples encased in a world of glass.
"I know."
"But that wasn't the point, old friend."
"I gave him reason to want me dead," and now Eöl was close enough to see the pattern of embroidery on his robe. "Doesn't that matter to you, Ilúvatar?"
"I would not abandon a member of my family to a duel," Ilúvatar answered immediately. "So it is with you, my king. The origin of the dispute is not material."
Of course the king nodded, more for his ministers than for anything else, or so Ilúvatar assumed. He turned away from the knight, stared back at the throne - almost as if seeing it for the first time from this position. A murmur ran through the court when the king actually bowed to his own throne - a proper imitation of what Ilúvatar had done only moments ago. Those robes whispered louder than the ministers when he turned back to Ilúvatar, a grim and strange sort of smile on his face.
"That's the first time I've ever bowed in my life," the king pursed his lips. "A strange sensation. You render yourself blind to the other man. If he wanted to, he could lash out at you. A position of submission, Ilúvatar. How do you manage such a thing?"
One of the ministers made to open his mouth, but the king cut him off with a gesture. Apparently the question was quite serious.
"A good bow," Ilúvatar answered with the same pursed lips. "Takes a great deal of practice, my king. Always it beings with the legs. If you can master that-"
"Oh, enough," and he was laughing, but still angry for a reason that Ilúvatar could not see. "Are you a submissive individual, Ilúvatar? So much so that you would fight the battle of a king who took a lord's land, and his dignity, for a perceived slight? I don't expect an answer, old friend. I called you here to tell you that I will fight my own battle this time."
Now the murmurs were shocked and scandalized whispers.
In another life Pol would have been a fine knight. But he looked upon swords with disdain, and he made no promises to crowns - or so he said. Only to individuals. What a life that must have been, to be completely free. To feel no responsibility and even less shame. To believe that the entire world was disconnected from your person. But that was not the expression on the face of the elf who sat across from him. Pol drank more of the wine than was polite, and when he was finished, he leaned forward abruptly. One hand still clutched his glass. The other waved about the hall in annoyance.
"You served the king before he died," Pol said loudly.
"I did," Ilúvatar answered.
"But now that he's gone-"
"May the light embrace his soul."
"Damn the light!" Pol was on his feet in an instant, hurling his glass into the stone, an expression of anger rare enough for him. "What has the light done for us, Ilúvatar? It turned Talmus into a traitor. It turned you into a puppet. If our former king is listening now, he knows exactly how dear his memory is. You're the only one who defends him-"
"Not the only one," Ilúvatar snapped crossly, but Pol pressed on.
"-and the only one who ever did. You think because a man receives an oath, that makes him important? That makes him special somehow?"
"What do you know of oaths?" now he was on his feet, and they were staring at each other from across the table. "You make the slightest promise you can and reap the honor that comes with it in the form of coin!"
"Are you," Pol began.
"Yes," Ilúvatar snapped again. "A whore, Pol!"
The silence might have been deafening, if the words that preceded it had not been so.
"So you went," Maeglin said quietly. "And found Glashta."
"I did."
"To what end?"
"The end at which we arrived."
Maeglin had always been an imposing figure, since Ilúvatar had first met him as a child. Now that imposing man returned, all thunderheads and promises of death. He leaned forward with dark eyes and stared at the younger elf, as if searching for something. The truth. An answer. Or perhaps the way through which all of this could be solved. A blood feud had been ignited when Ilúvatar took Glashta's head. An enduring one, since he'd refused to return said head. Only put it to the dogs and let them eat it. A worthy end for an unworthy coward.
"The king is furious," Maeglin said.
"Yes," said Ilúvatar.
"He wants to know why."
"My word. He would make me an oathbreaker to prove his point. I could not allow my word to be broken, or my king to be injured."
"This country," Pol handed the bottle back with a slightly annoyed look. "This country has been here since the dawn of time, Ilúvatar. Not because of Lorien, but because the people make it so."
Only when his throat burned like fire did Ilúvatar pull the glass from his lips, and offer it back to Pol. "What is your point?"
"Why promise your life to a king?" Pol rolled his shoulders - they'd been sitting against the wall together for some time now, staring up at the map of Astarii which was boldly painted onto the ceiling. "Why give your blood to a god? Far better to help the people who truly matter, and damn honor to its grave. This country will survive Eiron'aith, and Ramga, just as it survived Eibhear's private war with the enemies of the king. A war he dragged you into, I might add."
"Eibhear was a good knight," Ilúvatar couldn't help the slur that touched his tongue. "And a loyal friend."
"That may be," Pol shot back. "But you're a better person, Ilúvatar. Don't waste it trying to stop Ramga from taking the throne he wants and you don't. Stop fighting for ghosts and fight for something real."
His eye still ached from where Pol had punched him. And the other elf was favoring ribs that were certainly cracked from the hammerblow Ilúvatar had dropped there, down on one knee.
"You see this?" somehow he'd managed to peel back the collar of his coat, and reveal the scar beneath the fine fabric. "On my chest, there."
"An orc?" Pol guessed before he drank.
"My brother," Ilúvatar's head lolled back against the wall; no longer could he contain the sigh. "My brother felt exactly as you felt, Pol. That you could pick and choose whose life was important. That you could decide for yourself who deserved to live and who deserved to die. But I believe something else. A knight's word is a rare thing in this day and age. Too many of us have forgotten what it means to take an oath, and hold to that oath. We think that our character is perfect, that our honor is always pure, and whenever I find myself veering into such noble territory I need only look into the mirror. My brother marked my soul on the day I took his life, and I cannot go back. On that day I made an oath to myself, that I would fight any person or army which threatens to lead us astray."
"Us?"
"This nation, which has survived for so long," suddenly Ilúvatar could see all the whispers he'd heard in his dreams since that day. "Was not built by souls looking out for themselves, and what is best for themselves. It was built by, and atop the graves of, knights who believed in a higher purpose. And were willing to do everything and anything to achieve it. That was the oath I took on the day Tholiath died, Pol. I would kill my brother to protect the future, if he would not yield. Not because I can decide who should live and who should die, but because everyone deserves to live - and no one should have that taken from them unless they choose it for themselves. I fight, so that you could catch the eye of every female you pass, and write those entertaining books of yours."
"At least you don't see yourself as a martyr," the other elf laughed.
"I don't," Ilúvatar's anger was palpable once more. "But I won't surrender this nation's future to a self-obsessed fool such as Ramga Usol. Not when I can still lift a sword and drive it into his heart."
"There's only one problem with your theory," Pol's laughter had faded.
"Oh?"
"A king decides who lives and who dies, doesn't he?" Pol rolled his head along the wall, until he was staring at the side of Ilúvatar's face. "He sent you to kill someone and you did it. A soldier following orders. How does that square with your romantic vision of knighthood?"
Ilúvatar did not think he'd ever been so grateful to hear a door swing open as he was just then. Pol did not understand because he had never lived as Ilúvatar had lived. You gave your enemy a chance to yield, and if they did not take it, you widowed their wives. Your orphaned their children. If you hesitated, then you were nothing. Your oath was nothing. And your fear outweighed your word each and every time. Ilúvatar would never let fear trumnp what he knew was right. Wanting to live, believing this country could take care of itself - as though a nation itself were sentient - was nonsense. That was what Pol would never understand. That was why he would never understand that a knight's character was not perfect, that they were not always pure, but they were the only ones willing to do what was necessary to protect the future from indifference. Even good, honest elves such as Pol felt that indifference. And if Ilúvatar ever felt it, well, he would know it was time to open his veins and greet the goddess he no longer loved.