There were green fields. As he pressed his palms together to claim each drop of sweat as his own Eiron'aith could see those fields again. Not with the wondrous eyes of a child - seeing promise in the smallest blade of grass - but with the jaded eyes of a grown elf. There was something fragrant in the air but it wasn't blood. He didn't notice it. Take no note and move on. Though his blade was bare and it brushed the tops of the wild grass it harmed nothing. That, too, was a fantasy. A sword that harmed nothing. He knew what he was seeing and he knew why he was seeing it. The memory was not unwelcome but it did not fit. Not with his thoughts, not with his purpose, and not with the mood of the room. In the heavy wooden chair that was his by right the paladin sat. Staring down the hall toward the wide double doors. Waiting. There would be a challenger through those doors in a matter of moments. Enough time to reminisce, but he didn't want to think of childhoods playing Ranger in the tall grass with Tithion and forgetting that he was the son of a noble house. More important things to do. Mourn his friend. Prepare for the end.

( Flowers. )

It was just like a thousand other wilderness hikes that he'd taken. The only difference, if you could call it that, was that he felt it in his bones. A weariness that no rest could mend. If his mind was not addled by drink then he felt ill enough to vomit on most days. The vomit was too often mixed with other things, so that he did not finally know what was contained in the wretched fluid. A disease? A sickness? Pieces of himself that clumped together like boiled fat? Skandra had tried to stare at it once and then went on his way, content with what it was. And what it was not. Too long spent on that was the road to madness, and he was close enough to feel her fingers on his face as it was. Didn't want to depend on that. Didn't want to rely on that. Sooner or later he was going to have to answer for a lot of things. Later. He hoped it was later. And somewhere in his heart was the still-growing ambition that this might not be the end of everything for Skandra Tyullis. The hope was just an empty thing. If he survived he didn't know what the hell he would do with his miserable old self. Bereft of the strength and ferocity of his youth.

( They'd all been young once. )

Elemmire and Sita were gone now, and Aeotha felt the clock ticking away again. The sand passed through the glass and each grain counted down the last seconds of Eiron'aith's life. It was grim, it was horrible, and it was everything Aeotha wished for now. That made her an animal. Only animals desired the death of another like this. It wasn't a war, it was revenge, and Aeotha felt weak about it. She felt both empty and full at once. Empty of what she had been, full of hate and a dark desire. It wasn't something she'd ever felt before, and yet it felt.. Was that how it was? Aeotha never sought out the death of someone so heatedly, but others before her had.

( Was this what it felt like? )

He stared at the assortment of things as if they would leap up and bite him. It was a set of throwing knives. To replace, he supposed, the ones that he'd in theory lost. Longer blades, narrower than his last set, but well-balanced. Skandra didn't know what he was supposed to do with them at first. Beyond the obvious. He would be dead soon. And dead men, he'd heard, were without need or desire of throwing knives and other weaponry. Was his aim still true? Could he still hit something if he wanted to? There were a thousand questions and none of them had answers. He knew he wouldn't stay. He knew he didn't want to stay. Beyond the obvious. What was left for him? To go somewhere and die? But not the tomb. Despite what he'd said to Leironuoth, he wasn't going to that gods-damned tomb. There was nothing in it for a haggard old creature that felt no kiss or touch of magic. What Leironuoth was describing was ... well, it was magic. It had to be magic.

( What else could it be? )

He stared through a sheet of metal rods on strings. When the wind was roaring you could hear them play, like hands of the gods on instruments no human ear was meant to know. They were suspended from railing to overhang, pulled taut at both ends and firmly anchored. Must have been a bitch to tune. Skandra reflected on this as he plucked one of the strings. The Immortal was rewarded with a glistening chime, so heavy with silver and melody that it must have shook the cavernous home of Lolth herself. From one metal rod to the next the movement traveled, carrying music with it, until you couldn't have told it was Skandra who'd pulled the strings only a moment ago. No wonder politicians and temple magnates were so entranced with it. The rods, like their fat fingers and oil hearts, could subsume a thing in sound until its origins were unknown. Skandra took a swig of his flask, and then waited. It wouldn't be long until a presence made itself known.

( It was never long. )

If there had been a clock in the room Aeotha would have smashed it by now. There was no clock, but time was ticking away. Every second she was a second closer to being done with the past. Every second reminded her that soon Eiron would be no more. Or, if Eiron somehow survived both the fury of the real Leironuoth, and the fury of Aeotha Easaahae, they'd both be dead. Finally they would rest, either in death, or with his death. It was all she could think about, even while she slipped away from them all to have a bath. Every second passed her by like hours did. How could she live another moment while Eiron sat pretty thinking he'd won everything. When she was clean, and dry, Aeotha dressed again. There were things that needed to be done before Eiron came.

( Like praying for strength. )

"No matter what happens, say nothing," Ithacles told him firmly.

"No matter what."

"I mean it."

"I know you do."

"And you're just going to do what I say?"

"Sure, why not?"

"You're a liar."

"True."

Skandra gripped Ithacles' sword in his hand, and would have admired the craftsmanship of the basket hilt, if he could see a damned thing in front of him. This staircase must be the one installed for access to the very bowels of hell. Walking without making a noise was easy. All you had to do was hold in your coughs. Behind him someone else was walking. Quiet. Too quiet for him to remember the name of the person. In the darkness you couldn't rely on anything like light to give you aid. Light would have died here. More darkness was welcome. He could make out the edges of stairs well enough. Could hear the clanking of an armed guard's gauntlets. After being so close to death he was surprised that he felt this good. Then he remembered. Laying off the tonic made him feel worse. Physically he was better. He was seeing the ghosts that followed him again. He was seeing them and hearing them and -

"You want to raise an empire, but what would you build it on?" Gershul's voice asked him from the shadows.

"What were you gonna build yours on?" Skandra laughed low. "If you take a thousand people and move to an island, it doesn't count as raising an empire. That's taking your ball and going home."

"I shouldn't expect you to understand."

"So why do you keep talking?"

( It was Eiron's prison. )

Not being there, not seeing his friend ride off and knowing what dangers awaited him, Eiron could not make himself easy with the status of his friend. He could not make himself easy with his friend's absence. This was as much Tithion's victory as his own. Now that it was done, now that he had everything within his reach and grasp, he could ... what? Relax? The nation of Astarii had a proud and noble history. Over the years countless elves of fine quality than Eiron himself could ever hope for had shed their lifeblood for the good of her soul, for her core of good creatures, and for her continued prosperity. The deed that was done paled in comparison to what had been done before. Valor was a strange and varied thing. Yet he didn't want to be remembered for this. It was the faintest of deeds that he hoped to accomplish. In years yet to come there would be other victories for Eiron'aith, and for Astarii. Under a king's firm rule the nation could return to the status it had enjoyed at the height of what some were calling Empire. It was now to return to those storied days of yesteryear before the breaking.

( This was the rising. )

Skandra lined up the loaded crossbows one after another at his station, behind the wagon that was his cover. Preparing for a battle, keeping himself ready for everything that was coming, kept a mind occupied. Kept you from wondering how someone could survive with nothing but hate in their hearts. Etain really did have a cycle, didn't she, of hate? She hated Leironuoth for loving Lorien more than his family. She hated the goddess in turn for that, and for taking her husband, and for ruining her home. Skandra had wondered at meeting someone who could even whisper their hatred for the gods in his presence. Now he had to ask himself if Etain exceeded him in that. Certainly no one exceeded him in ruining their plans, in spitting on them and their revered races. Surely he still claimed victory there. But that really didn't matter right now. Each crossbow was leaning against the side of a wagon, and that wagon was turned down and into the mud - mud created by rain, an endless downpour to wash away the blood they were about to spill.

Maybe the question of what he was had been answered.

Maybe the question of why he did what he did had been answered.

( Somehow, Skandra doubted both. )

There were a thousand hills nestled in the region. Some of them were flat and wide, others sharp and high. Ithacles had a knack for picking a defensive location. That much Skandra would give him. For the rest, well. A loaded crossbow and a belt full of glass vials did not very much at all to reassure him. After all, they weren't up against just one man. The fact that he'd rested enough to be able to stand - confidently - wasn't extremely reassuring given their situation. In the distance you could see the citadel itself, the temple of Lorien rising above the skyline of the city. Not for the first time he asked himself if Leironuoth's fight was worth his own life. Not for the first time he couldn't come up with an answer that satisfied. He had to guess that it didn't matter. Sooner or later he was going to die. No. Just sooner. Maybe for no good reason, maybe for a reason somebody would think was good later. Staring over the hill, counting down the seconds until they were caught up in it, that wasn't really the question he wanted to ask himself.

( He had no idea what the question was anymore. )

"Have you heard?"

"Apparently not."

The white coat, with its high stiff collar and folded cuffs, fit him a bit more snugly than he remembered. If anything it made his visage more impressive. Standing there, in trousers of the same white fabric and a white cloak that was flung over his shoulders and trailing along behind him, Eiron was reminded of his days long past. Days as a child, when hope of the goddess still filled him. It had to have been her hope. When he looked around, young and impotent, he'd seen nothing to give him hope. It wasn't until he'd realized the truth that his own hope had been found. On the steps of her greatest temple, not far from the place that had seen his birth, Eiron felt the coming death of the goddess. She laid her head down gently. A goddess in every way, perfect in every way, and therefore unsuited to a world of thinking beings. Despite it all, despite his hatred of her, he realized that he would miss Lorien when she was gone. How odd a thought was that? He adjusted the thick gold and green cords on his shoulder - signs of his rank, as though anyone would doubt his identity when they glimpsed him - as he descended the cascade of stair and marble that led to the courtyard. Tithion walked beside him, in the same white but lacking those cords. To Eiron's way of thinking his friend deserved every status and rank that could be afforded to him by a grateful people.

( To his way of thinking. )

There was no fire. Nothing marked the camp but the banners that Ithacles insisted on flying. They were of the tree, of course, surrounded by a sun that must have belonged to the other half of his family. Skandra had seen that sigil before, and even grinned like a fool at the fair on seeing it, but today it weighed heavily on him. There were hard times ahead of the prince. He had to know it, but if the thought pressed down on his shoulders, he seemed not to show it. Busy now with the duties that a prince on the road had - mostly, talking to Etain and organizing his men in case of an attack - he'd left Skandra alone with his thoughts. Stripped to the waist with his arms and legs bandaged heavily Skandra felt more like an invalid than he had in the whole of his life. Battered before, bruised before, but not like this. Potions forced down his throat took some of the sting away. Lotions rubbed on his skin took the rest. He still felt like laughing. Death was going to take him, and most likely soon, but not in the way it had always tried. Conniving, that death. Conniving and full of tricks like the creatures of times past who traded souls for blazing iron or fistfuls of gold. Did he make the same bargain? Not in so many words. But the same bargain, and his soul ached for it.

( Ralus was dead. )

Aeotha was angry, beyond angry, With Leir and with herself for going along with it. What else could she have done? Run between the blades? Leir's head hadn't been tended to as of yet, so Aeotha lead him to the main temple of Lorien within Terestai. A white marble tower surrounded by vast gardens that only held night blossoming flowers. Moon blossoms of all shapes and sizes. Fountains and statues of Lorien, as well as the Champion of the Lion and High Priestesses of long before. There was a small garden behind the tower, a patch of remembrance of those who had died in the breaking. It was dutifully tended to. Aeotha lead Leir to her private chambers, there no one could bother them, and no one would dare to try. The whisperings of priestesses, priests, and paladin alike were made silent by their passing. They would not whisper rumors with her there.

( That was the only good thing right now about being Aeotha. )

He could never be truly comfortable with the thoughts that were running though his mind. Time to get between Sita and Ralus, and the mage. Time to plunge his sword into her defenseless chest. Time to kill her before the golem could upset his carefully thought-out strategy of killing her as quickly as possible. No matter how much time he thought he had it was never enough. There were heartbeats thumping in his chest and he could feel each one of them. Beat. Beat. He was counting them like men counted sheep. Dropping into a trance. It was like the old days. When he was invincible and the question wasn't whether he'd win or lose but how long it would take to win. Ralus and Sita didn't remember the old days. But when he took his first purposeful step forward it was like walking into a dream. His arms and legs were on fire. Not with pain but with anticipation. Adrenaline flowed through him burning wild like a drug. He wasn't just thinking of himself as invincible. He was invincible. And now was the time to prove it. Etain was shifting out of her chair to watch the thing that was happening. And the only thing that could have made it better was his hat. And a clove. He didn't dare smoke right now. His lungs were on fire with pain and not adrenaline.

( The outcome was certain, but the eventual fate of his lungs was not. )

Aeotha was very sure that the council were more than likely looking for a noose that fit both of their necks rather than discussing the fact that Eiron was a liar. Hoping that people could see through him was a hopeless endeavor. Still, if she didn't believe in the best then all hope was lost after all. It was a trying thing to be the only one always believing. Doubting things came so much easier, and once in awhile Aeotha did like things to be easy. Her life had never been easy, even if it seemed like it to so many people. What was easy? Following the long and narrow path of religion? She was outed from her sisters because she was common. She had to be sponsored to be considered and even then it was harder on her than the nobles.

Aeotha almost wished she could be petty about her hate for Eiron. As if that'd make anything better. To be angry with him for doubting her, or at least doubting her ability to be frightening. Aeotha had never wanted to be feared, but right there in his home she hoped she was scary to him. Why shouldn't he be afraid of a powerful mage? Certainly, even if he wasn't religious, he must have known her powers could decimate him as if he were nothing more than paper. She shouldn't have been angry over that, but she was. Doubted during her entire existence was not something she could easily shake. Petty or not. Not the point of this mission or not. She wanted Eiron to fear for his life just once in her presence. Just one look at her in honest fear. He deserved it.

( He deserved so much more. )

It wasn't just the lords and ladies of the land, of course. There had to be pageantry associated with this. Everyone had to feel as though they were the most important in the room. If you had fewer servants, you chided your adversary for their indulgence. If you had more servants, you chided them on their frugality. Eiron let such sidelong jockeying glances pass over him. Part of the reason the games were so much an interest for those assembled here was simple. They were going to do everything that he told them to do. And the only reason they hadn't decided that yet, the only reason they hadn't reached that conclusion, was simple. They had no idea how deftly they were being manipulated. While he sat cold and reserved they glanced about, sizing one another up. The leader of this group was established. It fell on them to sort out who would be second. Who would be third. Eiron might have laughed if he didn't feel so horribly grim at the moment. She was planning something. What she was planning, he could not have said, but this was her time to do as she would.

Tithion was his only aid present, and the man wore it like a badge of honor. He, too, was coldly reserved. He, too, could feel the occasion approaching. It was nearly time for them to move. And yet he felt oddly detached, as though there was something he was missing. Something that might have involved him in the situation further. Eiron could not have said what that was - could not, in fact, even remember ever knowing what that was. Tithion's hand rode his sword like a knight upon a steed, aloof and calm and seething beneath the surface. Lusting for combat. Ah, yes. He was angry about that. Well, Eiron didn't want to lose a friend. Another. Friend. If that was selfishness on his part then so be it. Tithion did not need to die for this plan to succeed. He did not even need to draw blood. He had to be loyal, as he always was, and cunning. Cunning beyond belief.

"How many of them are close to death?" Eiron asked in an amused tone.

"More than would admit it, my lord," Tithion growled.

"The brevity of your wit is its most charming asset."

( I want him dead. )

"You should take a drink."

"I'm fine."

"Talk to him, will you?"

Ralus had begun imploring Sita to implore Skandra in turn. He didn't really care. Having a clear head was important, even if you couldn't breathe. He was having, upon reflection, a bit of trouble with that. Even with the fine horse that the elves had given him Skandra still couldn't get comfortable in the saddle. That had more to do, most likely, with what he saw before him than what was going on in his chest. Shantar had said it best. Everyone dies. What matters is what you do with the time that you have left. Inspiring talk like that usually wasn't enough to cut to the heart of him, but this time it had. And it had only taken what, fifteen years? That was a comparatively short amount of time. At least so far as Skandra Tyullis was concerned it was. What he saw before him was the ruin of a once-great estate. Winding wooden archways provided an entrance from the road, but they were overgrown with moss and vines where they weren't totally collapsed. It had been beautiful, he thought, when it was still standing. Now it was just a remnant of the past and a reminder of what happened to everything in this world eventually.

( Death. )

"My lord! My lord, come and look!"

"What could it be?" he was amused by the excitement.

Sweeping marble columns welcomed him as he stepped onto the balcony. Of course he knew. There was not an elf in all of Terestai who didn't know. Clever of her to make sure that word of her arrival reached Terestai ahead of her physical form. Clever of him to come only in her company, and with twenty of those backwoodsmen to support him. Eiron'aith had lived a long life in support of his own causes and his country's causes. Cleverness in his enemies did not trouble him. There was always a way to turn notoriety from a blessing to a curse. Always. And usually he kept his hands clean of wrong-doing. Tithion appeared at his side with brocade jacket in hand. As Eiron looked down the long street, which led to the Council's meeting place, he caught sight of them at last. Aeotha Easaahae. And that poor black sheep Flaithriaoh of Caohmin. Rumor said that he'd killed Tuoth. Tithion appeared to be thinking of the same rumor, for he almost wrinkled Eiron's coat in his savage grasping hands.

"Now, now," Eiron chided gently. "We knew this was going to happen. I've prepared all, old friend. And all you have to do is manage not to draw your sword against him."

"He is," Tithion ground out. "An abomination."

"An abomination who happens to be very skilled with a sword. I'm not sure what your death would prove, Tithion, save that High Lord Eiron'aith still sheds tears."

( Your colors, my lord. )