She stood, face turned to the west, wind whipping her hair into an unruly mess, and watched the dying light vanish beyond the vale of Imladris. Standing on a high rocky ledge north of the valley, Makanárë spared a brief glance downwards, watching as the lights of Imladris glimmered below. It had been a long day, and she rolled her shoulders once before thoughtlessly pulling out a dagger from her gauntlet and twirling it in one hand.
It was hard to believe that it had been scarcely half a year since she had come to Imladris, at the turning of the spring. Her life had woven itself into a not unpleasant pattern, now that she had joined Bar-en-Vanimar. And though she had arrived like a leaf scattered in the wind, without kin, roots or ties of friendship, it seemed forces were at work to change that.
In one fluid motion she flicked her hand and caught the dagger mid-air, returning it to her gauntlet. Slowly she drew her blades, and took a deep breath. With practiced ease she paced through the motions of an old sword-drill she had learned in childhood, smiling to herself as her muscles relaxed and the tension of the day slowly melted away. Her blades had seen action once again, as the Hammer had marched into the Hithaeglir. And whatever the aftermath, she was glad that she had found comrades among whom she could fight and draw blade for a cause worthier than those she had fought for in the past. Noldor, and Sindar alike, sons of Gondolin and followers of Féanor, she had found among the ranks of the Hammer. The past was still bitter to remember, but now ... there were some she deemed brothers and sisters in arms, despite their differences. She laughed sharply. Perhaps that could be considered an improvement.
Makanárë had thought that there were none left upon Arda whom she had loved in her earlier days, but had been proven wrong again. She had chanced upon a young, sprightly archer with a sharp tongue a few weeks ago, and was instantly struck by her resemblance to Alyanissë, her former and only apprentice in Eregion. The girl had turned out to be Luthelian, one of Alyanissë's twin daughters. Makanárë had not been able to form words for a moment, as she considered the news that Alyanissë had not only survived the sack of Eregion, but had evidently married her mild-mannered admirer from Eregion.
With a wry smile, Makanárë remembered the shy, chestnut-haired archer, Lendir, who she had often seen hanging around her forge in Ost-in-Edhil, hoping to catch a glimpse of her fiery-tongued apprentice. And now, against all hope, their paths had crossed once more. Makanárë smiled to herself as she thought of her apprentice Alyanissë, now going by the Grey-Elven name Eliadis, and an esteemed smith in her own right. Alyanissë had received her like long-lost family, and had even permitted her to take Lothelian, the younger daughter, as an apprentice. Makanárë had forged two bright daggers for the other daughter, Luthelian, and was beginning to instruct her in the finer points of swordplay. It was a strange feeling, to be looked upon as a mentor by young and eager eyes. But not entirely unwelcome, she reflected.
By now, the setting sun had set the sky afire in a blaze of crimson, gold, and a thousand shades in between. Makanárë looked up, sheathing her swords, and watched as the western horizon flamed with molten light. Rampant, unpredictable, untamed, like the impulses of her own heart ... Ruivë, the wildfire, now an epessë she could claim for her own. Makanárë closed her eyes, smiling faintly as she remembered who had first spoken it. She had come to regard Annúngil as more than a fellow Hammer and sparring partner, in the days which had followed their first meeting, wary disdain giving way to rivalry, and then to companionship. They had found in each other something which they had not known they had needed - in their constant bickering, debates, and conversations. He would always be there, whether she was in a bright mood or a black one. They spoke of their work at the forges, of daily life, of the past, with all its joys and sorrows. In the days to follow, they had spoken together, drawn blades together, held each other in the cold and dark of the Hithaeglir, argued, laughed, wept, sparred together, until she felt she had always known him. He would invariably steady her reeling mind when the darkness of the past crept up on her, regarding her with eyes devoid of condemnation as she spoke bitterly of fire and ruin, and of things as dark and fell as the slaying of kin by kin. She was the ship drifting in the storm, he the star that held her to course in the darkness.
The light in the west dimmed, and a lone star gleamed above the crimson-lined clouds, seeming almost to spring like a burning flame from the darkening sky. Makanárë turned her face upwards, reaching out a hand as if to touch it, the star that reminded her of the one that had unknowingly stolen into her heart. Artakáno called Annúngil, Star of the West, and now ... she had given him a name of her own devising. Elenáro, her starry flame. Strange, she reflected, how fire could be both an element of destruction, and yet a source of light. A flame may ravage and burn and yet be a beacon in the night. And though she knew Annúngil did not count his own hands guitless of the blood of his kin, she yet admired his steadfast character, unmoving as a storm-swept boulder upon which the waves break in vain. He had never lost faith as she had done, never wavered in his convictions. In many ways, they could not be any more opposed - and yet, Makanárë had found joy and hope unlooked-for in the visage of this unassuming warrior of the Hammer, this Annúngil.
Unconsciously her hands moved to the dagger sheathed at her hip, that Annúngil had gifted her not two days ago. Her hands shook slightly as she drew the slender blade, holding it up to the starlit sky, watching its blade gleam with a pale light. Annúngil's words came unbidden back to her as she gazed upon the pale steel that seemed to glow of its own accord.
"If you ever find that all your weapons have failed you, and that the darkness has become too much of a burden to be borne, may this be to you both a beacon and a last resort. In the blade lays the undoing of your enemies, and in its light, your guide back to safety. Your guide back to me. A humble reminder that light is found in the most unusual of places."
She had not been able to form words for a coherent response, at such words. Instead she had simply held the blade in her hands, eyes blurring with tears which eventually found their way down her cheeks.
Now, as she stood with face turned west, painted a faint crimson in the light of the setting sun, her hands shook and she sheathed the dagger quickly. What had she done to deserve such a gift? What could she give in return? Especially after the words which had followed the gift, spoken in a voice so gentle and sincere it tore at her heart.
"I love you, Ruivë."
Numbly she bowed her head and drew her knees up to her chin, hiding her face as the last light of day vanished from the sky and darkness fell over the Valley. The wind had not ceased to blow, tangling her hair about her as she buried her face in her hands, her frame shaking with silent sobs. Night fell swiftly, and soon the only light above was the faint and ageless light of the stars. Was this weakness? Makanárë was long past caring. And yet she remained alone upon the rocky ledge, facing a foe within herself she had long considered dead - the spectre of fear.
