With a thud, the smithing hammer clattered to the floor. Makanárë stared at it blankly, eyelids drooping. How long had she been in the forges? Hours? Days? She had lost count. Glancing at the polished steel blades which lay on the table before her, she nodded in satisfaction. All the commissions which she had received in the past month lay finished and ready to be delivered, as finely hammered and polished as she could manage. For now, her mind was pleasantly numb, the roar of the fire and the clash of hammer against steel drowning out the voices which whispered uncertainly in her mind.
She had not seen Annúngil since the day he had given her the dagger, which still hung at her side. What would she have said to him, anyways? She was still at a loss for how to respond, or what to make of his words that starlit evening. Did he love her? He was a fool, for saying it, and doubly so if he meant what he said. She scoffed and turned on her heel, stalking out of the forge.
As she made her way down the path, her footsteps absently turned to the Last Homely House. A glass, or more likely several glasses, of wine would not be unwelcome. She tried to quash the voice inside her which whispered that she was hoping to find Annúngil there. But as she opened the door and stepped inside the Hall of Fire, she squared her shoulders and set her chin resolutely. She was a soldier, a warrior of the Hammer, a child of Himlad who had faced fire and ruin, serpents and nameless abominations. What then was this uncertainty, this fear that had seized her? She would face it with drawn steel, without backing down.
Soft murmurs of conversation, the rustle of robes, and the clink of wineglasses met her ears as Makanárë stepped into the hall. Annúngil stood by a table, his back to the door, conversing with another dark-haired ellon garbed in long and elegantly adorned robes of burgundy velvet. Involuntarily she stepped forward, eyes intent only on the one who stood facing away from her, laughing and conversing with the stranger in a voice that she knew all too well. A flash of something caught her eye - a jewelled pin upon the robed ellon's breast, and her gaze flickered to his face. She froze.
No. It could not be. Not here, after all these years ...
Blood roared in her ears as she swayed where she stood, reaching out a hand reflexively to steady herself on the door-jamb. Swift as thought she whirled on her heel and strode up the causeway to the balcony of the hall, concealing herself behind a pillar as she watched the conversation from above. She knew that face. How could she forget? Her knees buckled as she sank down onto a carven bench, head drooping into her hands. All seemed to turn to darkness before her open eyes, and as she stared into the fire at the end of the hall, the flames of another day, graven on her memory, rose unbidden before her.
~~~~~~~~
Sirion, Year 538 of the First Age
"Coward! Come down and fight like a Noldo! My father and brother have fallen by your hand, and I swear by the thrice-accursed jewel your lady holds in her keeping that I will have the satisfaction of killing you myself!" She could see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing but a desperate rage born of grief and shame as she leapt up the stairs toward the library doors. The young ellon's eyes widened in sudden fear and he leaned backwards into the door, which opened as someone from inside called out,
"Nolomir? How goes the defence of the stair?"
The youth called out, "They are routed, for now. But more come!" With a quick motion his eyes darted across the street, as if assessing the situation, and he darted into the doorway, fumbling with the steel bolts across the doors.
With mounting rage Makanárë halted, seeing that her prey had fled, and gave one last shout toward the narrowing gap in the doors, "Hear that, Nolomir? I will find you, craven, though it take me an Age, and slay you, friend or kinsman though you be. I, Makanárë Iron-Cleaver have sworn it!" She could not see if he had heard, for he had vanished into the library, and her last words fell upon only the mute oak wood of the door.
She bent over, resting her hands on her knees, vision blurring. A breath, a moment's respite, too short to mourn the passing of the only family the wars in the north had left her, and she plunged into the fray. Smoke seeped into her lungs, and she coughed harshly as flames leapt into her vision and she remembered no more.
~~~~~~~
With a start, Makanárë snapped back to the present, finding herself seated on a bench in the balcony of the Hall of Fire. The flames before her eyes were none but those leaping merrily on the hearth of the hall, the choking feeling in her chest only the result of her unsettled state of mind. She peered down at the conversing elves in the Hall. Annúngil was still there, as was Nolomir. Leaning forwards, she strained to catch any fragment of their conversation.
"Ah, are you acquainted with my grandson?" Nolomir nodded and smiled, inclining his goblet to Annúngil.
Makanárë ground her teeth. So Nolomir had not only escaped Sirion unscathed, but now boasted a family of his own? He, who had torn from her the only family she had left? How quickly could she end him, here in the Hall? A blow from behind, two hands around the throat ... she knew a few quick motions could finish off an unarmed opponent. Her fists clenched and unclenched as she glowered at the face she had hoped never to see again.
Moments later, her shoulders slumped in defeat. Not here, not with him watching. Annúngil knew him, and they were even friends, she gathered as much from watching them speak. A year before, she would have stopped at nothing to fulfil her oath. But now, something held her back. What it was, she knew not. Turning on her heel, she stalked down the stair and toward the door of the hall, weaving through the shadows cast by the firelight on the pillars. She closed her eyes, leaning heavily against a pillar.
He killed your kin. You swore it, on the Silmaril of the Havens. You would find him and end his life. All these years you have lingered, until vengeance grew like a smouldering fire in your soul. Vengeance for your kin, for yourself. Fulfil your oath to your father, to your brother, Makanárë of Himlad.
She shook her head, as if to rid it of the whispers that clung to her like cobwebs.
Not now, when I have begun to rebuild my life anew, in a haven far from the Sea which whispers to me of my own misdeeds and those of my kin. Not here, where I have a House to serve and an Order of brothers and sisters in arms. Not after tasting so much of happiness and content that I had never dreamed of finding again. I am no longer the Kinslayer who swore that oath in Sirion - I have changed!
The voices returned, murmuring insidiously as she stumbled out of the door, and hastened away from the Last Homely House into the night.
Have you changed, Makanárë? An oath is an oath, foolish girl. Unfulfilled, it will hound you until your last breath, as it did your parents, as it did your kin. "Neither law, nor love, nor league of swords..." Not even the fool who loves you will be able to keep you from your oath, Kinslayer.
