From the time he was a boy, he'd been raised with one thought in mind. Do not be selfish. Do not set yourself on the path of the undesirable. Make your heart not a fortress of greed. Ilúvatar had taken to those lessons because a knight was meant to be all of those things. He was meant to be a sacrifice to his people, a defender and champion of his people. His people were any of the innocents who shrank away from the defense of their lives. His people were the ones who had nothing. It was for them that he must live his life. And yet here he was, a goblet before him, staring at the sun-haired beauty as though he'd never seen someone so perfect in all of his life.

( He did not think that he had. )

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. )

All wrought iron and vicious corners, these gates. Yet the massive wheel-and-pulley systems on either side began to hiss. Chain was wrapping around itself with dull metallic clanks. The gate began to rise. It was one of a hundred such gates spread throughout the city. The great wall of Terestai was in reality two walls - one outer, one inner - with about thirty yards of space between outer and inner. That space was occupied by murder holes, fox holes, arrow slits and heavy entrenchments from which a wall-saving stand could be made. Oil was boiling up above, distracting the mages with its scent of death and fear - oil and tar that had been pulled from the burning wood to the south. Those fox holes between the two walls were occupied by four pikemen each, but could hold up to fifteen. Ilúvatar could see eyes and helmets floating through the arrow slits. Elves stood ready behind the inner wall, waiting to fire on anyone who breached the defenses from the safety of stone.

( Baila had done a fine job of preparing this city for battle. )

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. )

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. )

Fiaethe spent what time she had outdoors. Perhaps she should have double checked her own work instead, or harassed someone for not doing their job fast enough, but while Lord Ilúvatar was in captivity she had not left the halls of Maeglin's residence. Not even for a brief visit to one of the gardens. If Fiaethe was going to be trapped in a siege with everyone else, she wanted to enjoy the sun for a day. And she wanted to do so without being followed.

This wish was far more challenging to fulfill than when she first arrived here. Back then, Fiaethe was less known and did not hold the kind regard of the staff. Now the household's eyes knew her and had concerned themselves with her safety. Fiaethe could not find it in her heart to spurn what worry was shown to her -- after all, no amount of inner steel disguised that if not for divine intervention, she would be dead. And while just Lord Ilúvatar's presence here made it infinitely safer to be out in the open, Fiaethe knew risk still walked wherever she did.

( ... )

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. )

To slip into the world of nightmares was an easy task, if one put one's whole mind to it. Fell had never seen a people that could dream as this, the ageless sleep, where all was as one's mind ordered it. It was easy to think that they could have controlled these dreams, if they'd tried, and yet their minds were so weak that they dared not try. Fell had witnessed countless empires with something unique about them. Yet it was always this shared unreality that drew him back. Had Ao known, when the first was done, or had he - as with so many other things - simply followed his impulses without regard for the result? If so, it made this strange dreamscape even more interesting and not less. To be the construct of a being of near-limitless power was one thing. To be the result of unforeseen chaos was quite another. Fell found the distinction important, at least.

( What they saw was rarely what was intended. )

Gallien Arbus swung his horse 'round, enjoying that snap and hiss of leather as gloves writhed against the reins. His boots dug into the stirrups. His coat, long and lined with wool, rasped against the flanks of the beast. If you were going to cut a dashing figure, this was one way to do it. Someone was calling to him from the cattle pens. This was the sort of thing you could expect if you were a landowner. He'd saved his wages after twenty-five years in the king's army, saved them to buy acres upon acres of the most beautiful land that Tyrus had to offer. There were gentle hills to the north of him and wide plains to the south. After all this time it was his. You could spend hours traveling a land by horseback and not know it as well as you knew it on that first night, wandering from tree to tree with a bottle of wine in your hand. The only thing that could have made it better was a pipe.

( There was not so far to ride, now. )

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. )

Elemmire sashayed on out of the room and took half the wine with her. Good for her: everyone deserves to tie one on now and again. In fact Leir was half in the bag when he decided to follow through on what had earlier been simply an idea of whimsy. Maybe whimsy isn’t the proper word because, after he smoothed out a piece of expensive tan paper, he was not laughing or smiling or doing much else other than reaching for a pen.

He sharpened it quickly with a desk knife. ( Flick flick flick. )

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. )

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. )

Leir didn’t like being in other people’s homes. Not as a guest anyway. He’d climbed into plenty of windows in the middle of the night when he was called Flaithri but that was just to spend time with girls. That almost always ended with an angry father or a shouting butler; either way was much more fun than simply being someone’s welcome guest.

Nothing in the room was his. Nothing on the grounds was his. This removed any opportunity to feel free or excited. If he owned the house he was sitting in he’d be finding out how far up the walls he could scale, which balcony he could fall from and still land on his feet, and which table was best for bending a woman over.

But the house was Maeglin’s. So he was sitting alone in a room, orange and white hair dripping from the bath, bouncing a small handball off the floor to the wall and then right back into his palm. Mindlessly, waiting for something to happen. At any moment the ball might turn into a bird and fly right out the cracked window in a show of the universe’s improbability.

His sword was hanging from the back of a chair up against the wall. Above it was a framed painting of three horsemen and their dogs on a fox hunt. Leir always liked the fox better than the hunters and decided that this particular painting showed the three men in utter failure; they’d never find the fox and it would go on forever being the cunning master of its forest.

They were about to be in a civil war.

Iluvatar would make the right decisions. Which meant Leir would ride at his side or stand down all the same; whatever the sylvan required. Leir caught the ball again and squeezed it, watching the seams threatening to burst under his grip. He’d already dispatched a messenger to the temple historians. They had his uniform, his medals, the armor that had been crafted and measured especially for him years ago. At one point they’d been publicly shown and only taken out of the temple shrines when needed. Now? Since all the betrayal? Probably hidden away in a store room. And he’d sent a chamber man off to find Elemmire. So when there was a rap at the door he knew it was one or the other; either his belongings coming to find him again, or the ethereal woman come to speak with him.

“Come in,” he said in an almost songlike timbre.

He glanced over at the door as it cracked. Elemmire. The door swung open fully and allowed a gentle cross breeze to pull in from the windows.

“Hello,” he greeted her. There was a half empty bottle of wine on the floor next to his chair. “Want to get drunk?”

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. )

On the table before him was spread a map of Astarii; from end to end it was perhaps one of the smaller countries. Faustben, to the north, had somewhat less territory. There were the Free Cities, and Tyrus. Perava. Most nations had fallen away after the Breaking. Ramga had no trouble remembering that sensation of falling in his stomach. It had morphed very quickly into an actual descent as the earth made its troubles known beneath him. That palace had stood against all assaults and damages for nearly six thousand years. Strange to think it could give way to an opening on the earth. Yet it had. Marble slabs whistled, servants screamed. Ramga managed to pull two men away from the great openings that split the main castle into five seperate sections. Not pieces, even though most would say such, because the sections had not been intact. Over five hundred people had died in the rain of stone.

( It was instinct, and good fortune, that saw him through. )