you will destroy, you must destroy (leironuoth)
Whisking themselves away in the dead of night actually developed into something of the easy part of this mad little plan of theirs. The riot was only just beginning to take shape as they'd fled, hustling across dark stone and shadowed corners to reach the place where the wagons were loaded and unloaded. A port on dry land, Skandra had called it, and that had mostly been right. Plum sheets and curtains disguised the back of the high-walled cart. enough to shield the fact that only four bottles had been arranged there. It was the perfect amount of space for two Elves and an Immortal that were simply desperate to be away from there, and didn't want to be seen on the road back to Terestai. There were going to be patrols, or Skandra was going to become a zealot of Lorien. Guarantees didn't need to be that colorful, but the more confident you were, the more likely you were to offend someone's sensibilities.
And he was fairly confident.
For the first few miles, nothing in particular was said. Airion and Ervu had business planned. That business might lead to fighting. There was no way to know who the Forenya Guard was going to answer to at dawn. And no way to know if Airion would die and the whole of that army would come marching into Terestai to take Ilúvatar and put him out of his misery. Even though they'd been successful, there was no promise of success, and Skandra hated that as much as he hated anything. Leironuoth couldn't pacify a whole country by barking shame at them in tongues. Skandra was not a preacher, nor was he one for proselytizing in the worst of times. People could think what they wanted and generally would. Actions won over hearts more than speaking. Although it seemed the Elves of Astarii had been on something of a tear lately listening to one liar after another.
Ilúvatar was still wearing a coat and trousers with his colors, though his boots were gone. As were his gloves. They'd managed to collect his sword, which he'd clung to as tightly as Leironuoth did to his, but the rest of it was gone. One of the advantages of being rich. So now they were sitting across from one another. Ilúvatar and Skandra. Staring at one another like strange cats while Leironuoth sniffed at the bottle of wine, then handed it off to Skandra. For his part Skandra couldn't get a read on the severe and scowling face of the Sylvan Lord. He might claim to have honor in his heart, but Fiaethe was dangerously naive about certain things. If Ilúvatar was even more naive than she, it didn't bode well for their chances, no matter how many heads he was willing to cut off. And Skandra had to believe he was willing to cut off quite a few. So there Skandra sat, nursing a clove while the Magister and High Lord of Astarii stared.
Hard.
"You're certain-"
"Not one," Skandra replied evenly. "Though they deserved it, for the way they keep their prisoners."
"Those prisoners deserve their fates," Ilúvatar answered curtly.
"Just as much as you, I'd wager."
"You seem to know much," Ilúvatar's grimace was soured by his savaged face.
"Drink your wine."
They were back to staring daggers now, only the daggers were sharp and the intent was to kill. Ilúvatar still had his own ideas about how a thing should be run, didn't he? And those ideas didn't jibe with what he'd seen and experienced in his time in confinement. Knights were always the most annoying breed. The simple fact was that codes only got in the way of doing what you needed to do. Leironuoth knew that as well as Skandra, which was why they'd been friends for this long, but Ilúvatar chose to see the world a different way. A wrong way. Living by rules was like giving your enemy a map of how to destroy you. And while Skandra didn't think he'd lose any sleep if Ilúvatar died tomorrow he generally disapproved of working hard only to see his work scrapped in favor of... say, not killing a woman? What if Fiaethe was nothing more than a well-placed, silk-tongued assassin?
Skandra doubted it. He also doubted Ilúvatar's ability to choose his friends wisely. Then again, he seemed to have the loyalty of everyone who met him. Maybe Skandra was judging him too harshly based on this foolish enterprise alone. Idly the Immortal wondered if there were alarm gongs in Ceranarad, and if those alarm gongs were being hammered soundly at this very moment. The road was a rough one, and the wagon did not have what civilized people referred to as 'sound construction'. Their driver was a dwarf who'd been too drunk to pronounce his own name. It occurred to Skandra that he ought to ask how Yorilan knew such a dwarf, and trusted him to keep their confidence, but those were questions he'd have to ask in the even that Yorilan survived what was coming.
Hell, in the even any of them survived what was coming.
There was barely enough light to see, but Skandra could clearly make out Ilúvatar's head turning. He was studying Leironuoth as closely as the Champion of the Lion had ever been studied. It was then that Skandra realized the truth. Ilúvatar had called Leironuoth 'my friend's son'. So, Eibhear had known Ilúvatar, and vice-versa. Obviously, Skandra scolded himself. Was that the reason for Leironuoth's undying loyalty to this fellow? And did Ilúvatar have any cute 'Leironuoth was a child like the rest of us once' stories that Skandra could force out of him? But no. Because the mood was suddenly very somber.
"I still haven't thanked you," Ilúvatar said quietly.
"You're welcome," Skandra laughed low.
"Thank you," Ilúvatar said, in a voice that made it clear he was not speaking to Skandra.