He knew this hill. It was just south of Trone, close to the water, and riddled with wild wheat that no one bothered to harvest. He recalled lying here, on his back, looking up at the stars and imagining an adventure at each one. A beautiful girl awaited him there, and swords, and derring-do. He would snatch a kiss and doff his cap, and he would be the king of those distant places. He would roam however he saw fit. His people would love him, for he would be just. A child's fancy was never captured so perfectly as it was in his own mind. That he could no longer picture an adult self having adventures such as those spoke more to his mood than his general state of childish wonder. He'd been stabbed by a lady with whom he believed he'd fallen in love. Now that love, much like these childish fantasies he only just recalled, seemed to be fading away. His adult self was cradling someone else when he checked. It was a vicious sort of thing. Not one that Skandra imagined ever felt good. To see all of your protective fantasies, all the small things that guarded your fragile heart, evaporating before your eyes.

( Things made even less sense than they used to. )

He noticed almost immediately that the air felt strange around him. No. It did not feel strange. It smelled strange. Ilúvatar knew it well. It had begun, this familiarity, in the days of his father. When you were the sword of your house you were meant to know the stench of battle. Smoke and death were recognizable to you because it was your purpose and intent to cause them, in as much volume as you could, thus laying great waste to the enemies of your house. Here he was, now, the last male of his family. If he'd perished in battle yesterday the house would have gone with him. He was not one to think often on family honor - unless it were one of the more obvious obligations, such as caring for his mother, he found he had little use for them. Yet that thought lingered as he stared into the mirror.

( The last of a kind. )

Skandra did not stroll so much as strut. They were in the full grip of winter's fist, and with a coat buckled on it was all right to appear to have a great deal of bulk. The high, angled collar of his coat was raised to conceal his cheeks and his chin. Every clasp was worked up to the last, with the collar resting inside of the hood this time. No sense in taking chances, being recognized or whatnot. The only part of Skandra Tyullis' face that could be seen were his eyes. What malevolent eyes they were, staring hard at anyone who dared to meet them and challenging them to a fight. His belt was cinched on over his coat, riding somewhat high. Since the coat was split for riding it hung over left and right legs below the waist. On his belt were two swords - one, the cherry-grip sidesword he'd used for so long. The other was a late addition, with a basket hilt in the style of the latest schiavona the city had to offer. And then, inside of the coat, the weapons of alchemy were concealed in the bulky torso area.

( In other words, he was armed and ready for war. )

Maeglin's residence was a boiling sea of madness. Elves in heavy armor and pikes were scrambling into ten-deep formations before hustling off to points unknown. Well, in fariness, he knew. Baila had given him a detailed report of the arrangements for the defense. Ilúvatar was certain that he'd been listening intently. Their colors were strange bedfellows, indeed. Some of Maeglin's soldiers and some of Guyther's soldiers and some of Ilúvatar's own Thunderbolts. Their ranks were swelling every day. If you were able-bodied and had a mind to defend Terestai, you were enlisting in the Thunderbolts and taking your lumps among all of the other fresh recruits. Baila had established quite a system for funneling and testing recruits, so that by the time Ilúvatar was aware of them, their participation was almost certain. Truly irreplaceable, that Captain of his, and he would never be able to Baila so until one of them was certainly going to die.

( It would be a long wait, he hoped. )

There were whispers again as he walked the halls. Each forceful jab of his heel into the hard wood gave the game away. Servants were peering around the corners and trying to look busy. Some managed it better than others. There was a basket full of cloth and towels for the bath rooms. Woven reeds rasped when they were balanced between a hip and the wall. Trays and expectant guests were forgotten. In some ways Ilúvatar was fairly certain he had not been the subject of such spectacle since he killed that boy. Or Tholiath. It seemed that every spectacle made of Ilúvatar had nothing to do with intelligence or soul, and everything to do with death. That was probably an unfair way to look at it. After all, most of these servants were simply hoping to see tomorrow. And the day after, and the day after. Ilúvatar could not promise them that. Why, then, did they seem so interested in watching him as he passed?

( They could have been looking at Aeotha. )

It was, in many ways, the worst sort of homecoming.

( Not what he had expected. )

Aeotha hadn't bothered to change her clothes, but she had washed the blood from her hands. Her arms she'd bound in tightly wound white cloth, covering up the harsh red marks the shadow magic had left behind on her skin. She didn't need to ask for healing, she could heal this once she'd rested for a time. But none of them were resting, save Lady Fiaethe. She was in another room this time, and with Baila posted silently outside of her door. The man was as she remembered him being, and that only briefly made Aeotha smile. There was not much to smile about tonight. Lady Fiaethe had nearly died in Aeotha's arms. She still felt uncomfortable with the idea that the woman had nearly died right there. The Drow hadn't been prepared for Aeotha, or for Elemmire, but they had been ready to kill Fiaethe.

( They'd gone so far as to break into her room. )

There was only so much of being in her room that Aeotha could take. She could not sleep here, at least, not the kind of sleep that she needed. She was as tired as all of them, she thought. Those eyes she saw in the hallway, missing their master, their lord, or whatever it was that they called him now. She missed him too. When she saw Baila there in the hall their brief exchange of words only left her with a heavier heart. Reminding her of better times, even hopeful times, that a naive Priestess had stood beside valiant knights who thought she belonged there. She never had belonged there. Instead she'd twisted them all into a despair. It was her fault Eibhear had not survived to take care of his son, his wife, his house.. She could pin it upon someone else, and it had been his hand that had acted, but it'd been her own pride that had kept her quiet.

( Her own pride that kept her here. )

She still felt worn, even if for a brief time she'd found sleep. But she'd done her best to tell Priestess Yorilan what it was she needed to know. To help Leironuoth once he was there, to know it was something she wanted. There were problems with Dream Walking, one of which was that not every dreamer retained anything let alone everything. But she'd made it as clear as Aeotha could. Manipulating that dream scape and painting Leironuoth into it. She was worn out, but had found the time to bathe and to change her clothes. A fresh dress seemed so strange now. It was a fine thing, not as fine as that dress Lady Fiaethe wore, but different all together from the once protective robes of a young Priestess. Aeotha no longer was forced to wear such things, though she often chose to. But the rank which was written in flowing script along such things was too much for hiding out in a home. This was more comfortable and less of a constant reminder of her title. Title. Life.

( She did not know where title ended and life began, or if they were one in the same now. )

When someone said 'map room', Skandra usually expected the thing to be full of maps. They were there - endless wooden tubes capped in bronze, which could be unscrewed to reveal the carefully waxed map inside. Yet there was only one map on display. A stretch of leather had been carefully inked with the whole of Astarii's borders visible to anyone that looked. Skandra's fingers were tracing this name, that name, all of it in the tongue of the High elves. Yet always his fingers found their way back to Ra Arato Sapsa. Always he was left with more questions than answers. It was just a name on a map. It couldn't tell him anything that he didn't already know. And if this, what he despised, was any indication... then his life was not about to become less complicated. It was about to become more complicated. And the most he could hope for in all of this madness was a little bit of luck and a lot of good will. Ramga had to be the one, didn't he? Only what To had explained didn't make any sense.

( There was very little that made any sense. )

He'd read the map with a wicked hangover and a pair of bleary eyes, gloves scraping water away from the waxed parchment as best he could. Riding in the rain was miserable. Riding in the rain with a pair of women and a fellow who thought they were constantly being stalked by lions was worse. Leironuoth called it "sneaking up on my horse" but what usually happened was that all of the animals were spurred into a mad gallop. At least he hadn't done it since the border. Though he'd yet to stop laughing about it. The storm was sweeping west to east, so that they were constantly mired in it, ever since they'd gone out of Agethlea. There was nothing to do but button up his coat and live with it. Reading a map with only a clove and a set of narrowed eyes was hard enough.

( He'd had too much whiskey, probably. )

It was always a surprise when she laid her hands on Leir. A shock to the senses, she felt like she could have told him everything and he would have understood, she felt as if her lives had always revolved around his, but that wasn't true. Those were memories that were not her own and never would be her own. She knew Leir only in the smallest of ways and she could not understand him, nor would he understand her. The next thought was always that he looked too much like his father and it caused a deep sadness to well up inside of her. How many times had she almost whispered his name? Eibhear was gone, he was not coming back. Leir was not his father, and in her mind he could never be better than Eibhear.. Just different from him. Great in his own way but not in her heart. She was different from Leir. They were not friends. Simply companions of fate and destiny.. She would not tell him that though.

( He simply would not understand. )

For a moment, he didn't think such a thing was possible.

In the aftermath of... whatever the hell it was that had happened here, this section of the city remained deserted. Early one morning he'd heard shouting, and the rattle of armor, but it turned out to have not a thing to do with Skandra Tyullis or the ones who were with him. Which was a lucky thing, considering that Elemmire slept more often than she awoke - and that was usually just to treat herself to a gulp of water. They were not running out of time. They had already run out. Tomorrow was the day. Skandra had not quite framed it in these terms for the stalwart companions that were tolerating his bossy, churlish ways - but tomorrow either Elemmire was going to die, or they were. All other options had been eliminated by now. He couldn't imagine what sort of things were happening in her mind. Or what sorts of images she was seeing in the darkness of her eyelids.

( Probably better if he didn't. )

At first there'd been no talking. Only a bit of sleep for souls that were exhausted, despite the restorative effects of ... what he'd done. Skandra couldn't imagine sleeping after something like that, but his mind settled easily into the rhythm of rest. Hat brim pulled over his eyes, mouth slightly open, the Immortal had begun snoring in earnest. Of course no one complained that he was keeping them awake. That he remembered. If they had, their words were lost in that oblivion reserved for those who were doing something vastly more important than conversing with shrews who complained about snoring - namely, sleeping. But the sleep he found was not the sleep he wanted. Or even the sleep that he needed. Instead his throat was dry, but he took a drink, and the water plunged him into a sea of madness as before. Time that had no meaning. Voices he did not know, arguing about something he did not understand. The visions he saw along with those voices were half-formed and strange. A great hand, the size of a building, covered in runes and symbols of ancient times long forgotten. The hand made a fist. The voice belonged to it. And Skandra drew his sword at its coming.

( It made no sense. )

For a moment Skandra did not realize he was seeing the world in white outlines and black star-drinking shapes. Not until a void that was shaped like a former compatriot was whispering about exhaustion to him. Not until his eyes were drifting skyward, and he was scratching a day's worth of stubble with a bloody wounded hand. You bet everything, and if you lost, you doubled up to make back your losses. That was how it was supposed to work. In reality sooner or later you would lose it all - because nobody had an infinite bankroll. He was starting to feel some of that loss now, starting to wonder if it would be worth it to keep going. Another bet, twice what he'd lost, might save the day. Might ruin him. There wasn't enough time to search for answers. From the corner of his eyes he saw two white shapes clinging to each other, filled with the void, light-less and bland as they shouted incoherently. One staggering step forward. Two. Heat was in his boots, on his legs, but he could not make himself pay attention to the heat just yet. There would come a time. The time was not now. Not yet.

( They still had so far to go. )

Skandra was beginning to regret some things.

Onainat, who'd insisted that she was the perfect person to drive their wagon, was going entirely too fast. She seemed possessed of a madcap glee that he'd not seen in her in quite some time. Skandra didn't like telling people they were insane but he was starting to think they needed to have a conversation. Hanging onto the side rail for all that he was worth, and picturing his death beneath an overturning carriage and ten tons of horseflesh, was more than he was capable of just then. Instead his eyes snapped back, over his shoulder, to the distant rumble he heard from the rear. Whatever it was, it was probably unrelated to them. Probably someone causing another, wholly unrelated ruckus in the city? He never paid attention, but he thought they might have been demolishing one of the old court buildings today. The skyline looked different. He kept looking back until he thought it would make him sick, and then he turned his eyes to the front once more. Onainat was urging people to get out of the way by shouting haphazardly at them. And he was starting to suspect that she'd never done this before.

( Then again, neither had he, if... )

"You're a legend in your own mind," the fellow sneered.

"Then you shouldn't have a problem calling it," Skandra answered his sneer with a more powerful edition.

The brown-coat's face lifted. "Heads."

At the first ring of silver on stone, Skandra lifted the crossbow he was clutching like driftwood at sea and shot his opponent in the stomach. With a single high-pitched squeal the man's soul picked up its feet and fled into the afterlife.

"Well that was womanish," Skandra informed him.

( Somehow they'd stumbled into chaos. )

Thunder.

There was nothing on the horizon that might give way to thunder, of course. They were free of storms. All told it was a pleasantly cool evening in a city that seemed to be in desperate need of them. No, the thunder was his boots, slapping into the ground at an alarming rate, thundering over cobbled stone and back alleys as he ran. Even after emerging from the underground he did not stop. Even after he was blocks away from the auction center, he did not stop. There were White Riders roaming the streets - but none stopped to talk to a man who was running before they were aware of him. Aeotha was running, somewhere along behind, but she was hampered by skirts and a staff. All the same, with those handicaps she was not too far behind. He could hear her feet slapping in counterpoint to his own. Lightning to his thunder. Skandra only knew where he was going when he got there, and that was some time after leaving the gala event in the first place.

( Home. )

Skandra did not know what he'd been expecting, but this was not it. The catacombs beneath the structure were wide enough for five men to walk shoulder to shoulder, but he could touch the ceiling of the thing without stretching, and there were columns and archways in nonsensical arrangements all around them. First a wide arch, gradually thinning to funnel water? Or perhaps to keep large debris from getting through? He'd planned an hour's walk to the site of the auction house, hoped for thirty minutes or so, and was now around the forty-fifth minute with no end in sight. Occasionally water would flow past his boots, never higher than the ankles. He did not look if it was clean or not. Whatever the case those catacombs smelled like dust and stone, the remnants of a thousand years' disuse. Or so he imagined it. Agethlea might be a city of magic and wonder but it felt like a dungeon in the pits. He could have been enjoying a nice drink right now. Only, part of him did not believe they would find the stone there.

( Part of him thought they would never find it. )