love (fiaethe)
Terestai, once an outpost for the military and little else, had become a teeming center of everything grand in Elvish society. In Astarii's society. Now the streets were deserted. Now, at night, you walked alone no matter how many you numbered. They were only two. She in the finest that she could muster, and he in much the same. No cape. The lies he'd told his mother did him little good. A dinner affair, as before. The gossip of Terestai might have reached her. She still believed her son was a lord, and worthy of whatever finery she could manage to cram onto his body. She did not appreciate his lack of a cape. Ilúvatar managed to hide his weapons from her in Baila's care. Then they were off, he was armed to the teeth, and it was time to find out if he was too clever for his own good.
The meeting was set.
They didn't talk. There was nothing to talk about. She held her reserve as firmly as he held a weapon. Probably wondering if he felt as many nerves as she did. It was a promise she would never hear aloud, never spoken even in whisper, but he'd promised himself that above all else he would help her bring her knight and her husband out of there. Even if they'd never married, he was truly her husband. This life might not suit her forever. And whatever she decided, whatever pieces of herself were going to survive this, she would not be able to begin the tally until she had buried the one that she loved. He would have all the honors that Astarii could bestow upon a former king. Truly, he'd been a king. That was the only way that Ilúvatar could think of him.
The last time he'd visited the Shell was the first time he'd met her. It was a strange place of secret meetings and hidden lust, but in the main it was the ruins of a former mansion that now held an eerily apt quality. They were deceiving Ramga into thinking that all of this a game he'd already won. Or at least, that was the idea. Baila had not liked arriving separately. He also had not liked the idea that Ilúvatar would be alone with Ramga and all of his soldiers at the start of this meeting. Well, at least Baila was still loyal. There was something to be said for the fellow's insanity in even agreeing to give up his resistance.
It was insane.
They were not greeted by anyone. That was the ruse, after all. Making their way through the massive entrance to the place was the same as stepping into another world. Vines snaked up the supports and columns which dotted the entrance, all finely-carved wood now hidden beneath the overgrowth. Grass was seen in patches on the walls, and where grass did not prevail flowers did. Enough of the pink-and-yellow Sunsets that he was distracted momentarily. Their destination was one of the least private - and therefore most private - rooms in all of the Shell. The grand dining hall, which one found by proceeding through the double doors and beneath the landing that was the true entrance. Ilúvatar saw that one of the doors was ajar.
They were meeting a contact, or so Queen Fiaethe had told Ramga that she'd told Ilúvatar. It was meant to be a surprise. That meant maintaining certain illusions until it was time to strike.
There was no sound from his stiff black boots as they crushed grass and flower alike underfoot. It should have been more of a trampled mess than it actually was. Some said the Shell grew even faster in moonlight. Some said it was consuming the buildings around it from the inside out. Not precisely his most pressing concern at the moment. With barely a rustle of clothes he entered first, the door creaking ahead of him. Not an ounce of subtlety. As soon as he saw Ramga, Ilúvatar snatched the axe free of his belt. A hard sprint for a handful of yards carried him into the middle of the room.
There was Ramga, standing tall and proud, with a gaggle of soldiers at his back. It was not a surprise to Ramga. He was smiling. Ilúvatar's look over his shoulder was as expertly timed as he could make it - Queen Fiaethe had averted her eyes, standing in the doorway as she was. And when he turned back to face Ramga it was with the face of an elf who'd been betrayed and knew it. Resplendent in his blue coat with embroidered serpents woven shoulder to cuff, Ramga took a confident step forward.
"I thought it would be harder to get you alone," the younger elf said. "Then again, you never did look far enough past a pretty face, did you?"
"You aren't planning to kill me yourself," Ilúvatar said quietly. "That would be foolish."
Queen Fiaethe was drawing closer. Ilúvatar knew very well that the Thunderbolts were assembling as quickly as they could. If they were not already in place. He would give them perhaps two more minutes. Minutes that would be hard won. Ramga did not seem the sort of fellow given to waiting. And a part of Ilúvatar actually respected that. The room was wide and deep, with no columns as the foyer had, but with an arched and raised ceiling. Once stained glass had tainted the light of the sun and moon as it entered. Now vines covered that glass; only patches of blue and red light that illuminated the floor revealed the previous nature of the place. One such shaft of moonlight bathed Ramga in a disquieting red. He seemed purple for an instant, before he passed through the light.
Tangles of vines hung down from the ceiling, twisted up through the floor. Yet he did not seem to mind. Any more than his soldiers did. Only two things did not wear the uniform of Ramga, on the far side of the banquet hall. One was a coffin. The other was Kethsahlon. His face was grim and determined. No doubt waiting for a chance to strike someone despite the fact that his hands were chained, and his bare torso was bandaged from neck to waist. Ilúvatar did not relinquish his axe. Not as Ramga came closer still. Not as Ramga's soldiers tensed. Not as Queen Fiaethe drew closer. Not as close as she could have. They were still recently betrayed and betrayer; she wouldn't want an axe in her neck. Or at least, the Fiaethe that she was pretending to be would not want an axe in her neck.
Chairs were raising out of the tangled vines. He thought he saw half of a splintered table. One day he was going to find out who had lived here.
It was Fiaethe's turn, now. Ramga was waiting expectantly. Perhaps for her to say that Kethsahlon was Kethsahlon.
Still, he resisted the urge to strike Ramga in the face. It was difficult.