"Since you began," and the Lady Vaelrun was as cool as the lake which sheltered her home. "You have brought nothing but fear and disorder to this place, Lord Voronwé. Why would I approve of further madness? Why would I back you in a challenge to Lord Usol's right to rule?"
"You don't see what is happening before your eyes," and it was an effort not to let his teeth grind together.
"Enlighten me."
Ilúvatar would have expected broken, ruined furniture. After his king was laid to rest, and his future was truly shattered, that was the first thing he'd done. Stalking from room to room as the lion stalked the plains, Ilúvatar had systematically taken an axe to everything he cherished and treasured. The furniture died first, a miserable fate, and when it was gone the windows went next. Then coats. One at a time, very methodical. Sometimes he'd shrieked as the lion did, a warning. Other times he was quiet. Devoid of sound. Moving through the tall grass in the night. Avoiding detection. There were few things in life more wicked than your purpose being taken from you.
Baila's story made no sense.
"Ramga wants to pit us against one another so that no one is left," Ilúvatar growled. "Failing that, he will destroy me, and anyone else who suggests that he is not fit. Unless we act now."
"And this is the will of Maeglin?" Lady Vaelrun's voice was smooth crystal; he hated it for the order it created in her tone.
"By the time Maeglin arrives-"
"He never should have trusted you with this, my lord. You are overwrought. Perhaps you always have been, but especially since-"
All the lines he could trace back to past times; all the memories he'd boiled inside of his skin trying to see or create meaning in them. All the wine he'd consumed thinking about days and nights riding on the plains, scaling jungle trees that broke heroes on their unforgiving bark - and he still did not know what the hell he ought to be looking for in this world. A sense of purpose, perhaps, or some sort of divine intervention. But he did not see himself as a hero of the gods. Or of the people. Just the one soul left in all of Astarii who was doing this simply because he believed.
Wasn't he?
The vase shattered against her wall. Vaelrun did not seem alarmed. She didn't even bother to turn and look. Only the smooth skin of her face changed when her lips curved into a smile.
"Compromise, Lord Voronwé," she murmured. "It is the virtue of true diplomats, and not of warriors. He seeks unforgiving, brutal extremism as his starting position. He will bargain his people down to something reasonable. And if the temple can no longer interfere in my affairs - then what have I lost?"
"Everything, though you do not see it now," his voice was tinged with disgust. "Ramga will not be satisfied making deals. That would create in him one more puppet."
"Perhaps that's what the people truly want," and she shook her head; those diamond earrings arranged as windchimes sounded pleasant but he hated them more than her. "A figurehead. Someone to reassure them, someone to make them feel peace. The time of strong kings died with the southlands, Lord Voronwé. Let it rest in peace."
"And will you bargain with the Deadlands?" he asked, just before her heavy door slammed behind him.