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. )

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. )

He didn't like all of this. Not one bit.

The room was cramped and composed, stoic in the face of danger with its brown hues. Every onerous creak of planks beneath their feet reassured him. Yes, they were protected. Yes, they were safe. Skandra did not think to check himself for injuries. Any more than he thought to check himself for fleas, he supposed. If that thing - whatever it was - had wanted Skandra dead, he would be dead. Such darkness as he never could have imagined. Infinite and black. He did not know what it could be, or why it would choose this moment to strike, but he had a few ideas. Later. There was one table, arranged in the middle of the room, with a chair on either side. A map of Terestai was unfurled on this dusty, faded thing with untreated surfaces. This map was pinned down by every weapon Skandra Tyullis currently had in his possession.

( You didn't go to war with a list of names, after all. )

They walked in relative silence.

Endless staircases presented themselves, square-cut stone forming steps leading them higher and higher into the tower. Those they passed were white trimmed in gold, perfect images of the temple and of its inhabitants. More than any other time in his life Skandra was aware of what a fraud he was. And yet there was something more honest in what he was doing. No pretense. Only the knowledge that he was not, in fact, the keeper of knowledge. He laid claim to no ancient secrets and pretended no divine knowledge. Only a whisper and a hope, for a world that needed more than he could give. It was a very priestly feeling. Or at least, what he imagined the priesthood would be like. Did that make him a paladin? Was he the same as those sword-strapped loners with their angry eyes and their hard hearts? Only the lady beside him gave him any faith that it was not so.

( And that, barely enough. )

One thing you could always expect and respect about the Elves was their sense of grandeur. The White Tower was impossibly tall by any standard, reaching far higher into the sky than it had any right to, and imposing its will on the surrounding landscape. By Skandra's estimation there was no building in all of Terestai that equalled even half of its height. Out of respect for Elemmírë's history as a priestess he didn't point out that the White Tower was a massively phallic symbol, and that it ought to be razed to the ground in favor of something less terribly ostentatious, but he was thinking it all the same. What impressed as you approached the entrance to the tower was not the tower itself, however. It was the walk that got you there. Skandra had seen images of power and money, things that were built as much because someone wanted to make a statement as because someone needed to project their dominance. This one took the cake from all of them while it was beating them to a bloody pulp.

( Marble was the word of the day. )

There was little to the place, so far as Skandra could tell. It was in that old configuration that he admired so much. The walls literally shelves, built right into the structure of the thing and showing every sign of age. Wood was faded, varnish had been stripped away, and carefully configured purple cloth hung over gaps in the inventory. An odd-looking crystal ball sat atop the fabric here and there, keeping it in place, and there seemed to be no hurry to fill the space. You could see bottles full of powder, of sticks that looked like cinnamon but burned like the black powder that dwarves liked so much. Other jars were full of liquid, clear as good glass, with motes of something floating in the liquid. Perhaps it had gone bad, or perhaps it was supposed to look that way, but in either case there it was. Whatever remained of the sunlight slipped through small circular windows - almost like the portholes on a ship - and highlighted these oddities with narrow shafts of orange and red.

( Dusk was an angry time of day. )

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. )

The first thing you realized when you were stuffed into armor and coat was that soldiering was a miserable profession. Skandra couldn't remember the last time he'd worn armor like this. Of course, the good news was that he wasn't actually a soldier. The bad news was that pretending to be one was probably a lot fucking harder than actually being one. Yorilan's nephew was no fucking help. The entire time they were chaning, in the locker that Ervu - what a name for an elf - swore was never used, Ervu kept peeking out the narrowest slit in the door to see if someone was coming. Skandra half-wanted to kick one of the metal boxes just to make the kid jump. You didn't get anywhere by refusing to play it cool, but then again, they'd all be fucking stuck here if this thing went sour. Skandra didn't want to be stuck here. And Ervu didn't seem to have any gods-damned idea where Ilúvatar was being held.

( This kid was almost useless. )

Skandra had to wonder how he'd do, himself, in a city that saw sunlight as often as it saw rain - in both cases, never. The last time he'd been here, he'd been looking for a good time and nearly gotten through into the Red Vault for his trouble. Of course, that was the story with Skandra Tyullis wherever he went. Good times. Bad times. Near-imprisonment. Eventual escape and victory. Standing as he was now in one of the crowded lifts - at last relieved of his burden the stone - Skandra wondered what all of these short and troublesome elves would think if they knew this place housed one of the greatest fighters to ever walk their country with his head held high. Probably they'd all shit themselves, lean against these dusty wood-and-metal walls, and beg for deliverance. They typically did not know how deliverance arrived.

( On the tip of the spear. )

"Wait outside," he'd told Leironuoth.

"Maybe," the elf replied.

( It didn't seem like too much to ask. )

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. )

Night in any city was a time of renewal and rebirth.

If you traced the cycle of hours from dawn to dusk, you would see the rise and fall of civilization. In the morning the honest folk rose from their beds. A touch of milk and water, perhaps some bread, and they were on their way. Honey if you were a rich asshole. You proceeded with an honest day's work, you collected the wages produced by said honest work, and by dusk you were home. There was a loving family awaiting you there. A wife. Children. Perhaps an uncle or aunt that you were gracious enough to allow to live with you. Dinner was a shared and familial experience. Then you prepared for the next day. You let your self shine through all of the small trials you endured during the day.

( Skandra could never imagine living that way. )

The door closed behind him.

For a moment Skandra was left staring at the punctured, ruined wall before him. Holes revealed the support beams that held all of this up around him. Nonsense was comparing it to what he'd seen now, a glimpse of how a chosen being of the gods really worked. There was no grand tale to show you the way. Show you the light. He kept waiting for it to appear, that circle of golden promise, to give him an answer he could understand. They were set on their course now. He accepted what he was without asking questions, without asking... why any of this should be happening in the first place. Because there was no one to ask, and no reason to think that the answers would make any sense at all.

( That left him going on. )

Stairs shouldn't shake as these did. Skandra paused at the foot of them, one boot still on the hard floor, and placed his hand on the banister. The corridor was seven feet wide, and the stairs took four of that, leading up to the next level. When the grip grew hard the banister creaked. He never shifted his hand, never tried to make it sway. Only a hard grip. On his face a smile erupted. It was steady on his face as he climbed them, these shaking stairs, each step heavier than the last. Wondering if perhaps he'd put his foot through them. While these questions had occurred to him every time he'd gone to check on her it was the first time he'd tested his supposition. There were so many things he did not understand about himself, these days. About Elemmire and the stone. The stone he'd not returned. Its time was coming soon. He needed to be ready.

( Those questions made him plant harder heels on the stair. )

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. )