Makanárë had returned to Imladris after ten days on the road, ten days of slipping through woods and scouting under cover of darkness. Her eyebrow twitched in annoyance as she rode through the Gates of Imladris, on an evening when the stars were again veiled by shadow. She had a report for Lord Veryacáno - truly nothing more than a perfunctory record of where and when she had patrolled - there were some signs of brigands and patrolling Orcs upon the road west of the Last Bridge, but that was all. Nothing out of the ordinary. The sound of her horse's iron-shod hooves rang harshly upon the flagstones of the path as she descended into the Vale of Imladris, her dark mantle wrapped tightly upon her shoulders.
No, her thoughts were hardly with the events of the past few days' patrol, but on what would happen four days hence. The duel would happen, she would face the slayer of her father and brother, and then it would be decided. She knew she would most likely be expelled from the Hammer when word of the duel spread - it was inevitable. But before then, she had preparations to make.
Wearily she dismounted and turned her steed loose at the stables. She trod the path to her own house, boots dragging with each step. After fumbling with the door, she entered and slumped into a corner. It was dark, but she did not bother with lighting a fire, or even a candle. With a muttered curse, she took out a hastily wrapped bundle and shook out its contents onto the floor.
The crystal lamp of Fëanorian make lay unchained upon a ragged scrap of fabric, its finely wrought iron casings all shattered into pieces. A cruel, jagged scar ran across the face of the crystal, which nonetheless still shone with the same blue-white intensity. Fragments of chain, wrought-iron, and silver-inlaid steel lay scattered around the floor, miserably reflecting the white light. Makanárë shivered. While she was in the Lone-Lands, a band of brigands had come across her camp, and in the fray she had forgotten about the lamp hanging by her campfire. Only when she had seen a faint white flicker in the distance had she realised that the Men might have had their eyes on it. Orcs would not dare to touch it, wrought as it was by elven-craft, but Men - they were less wise and more greedy. She remembered little besides an overwhelming sense of rage as she flung herself at the fleeing brigands, and a storm of steel and blades as all fell to the onslaught. She had discovered that the brigand carrying the lamp had thrown it over a cliff in his panic, after all was over. With mounting fury she rolled the four corpses into the chasm as well, then began the slow descent. She had found the lamp -casing shattered about the blue crystal, and picked up the pieces as best she could.
Now, with her back to the wall and knees drawn up before her, Makanárë looked on at the ruin of the crystal lamp with detached interest. It was an apt comparison to her own life, when everything seemed to be shattering around her. She had found a House, only to be on the verge of losing it again. She had finally found her cousin Nolomir, and seen the slayer of her father and brother in him. She had been so close - so close to happiness again, after all those Ages of attempting to bury the past, and now - she was on the path to destroying all of it. Nolomir must die. She had sworn it. Kinsman or no, she had sworn to avenge her father and her brother. And she would keep her oath, though it cost her everything.
She shifted in her position, mumbling wearily as a dull feeling jabbed into her side. She had momentarily forgotten the sheathed dagger strapped to her belt, the dagger she had carried out of Imladris despite the mixed feelings she held for the one who forged it. There had never been any occasion to use it - her twin blades had been enough to dispatch the four brigands - but there had been something in the feeling of the slight weight of the dagger at her hip. And later, when her lamp had fallen into darkness and she began the descent into the chasm to retrieve it, she had unsheathed the dagger and held it out before her, a pale sliver of light guiding her way. Was this weakness?
No.
In that moment, as Makanárë gazed at the blue-white crystal lying naked upon the floor, an overwhelming desire to live seized her. Damn her oath, and the fate which she saw as inevitable. There was still enough in this world for which she would fight. She laughed bitterly. Had not the entire history of the Noldor been a doomed struggle against the oath which bound them? She could not do any less. For the past Age, she had been living in lethargy and bitterness, hiding herself away from reality because she could not bring herself to face it. She would run no longer from her fate - she would face it head-on and best it, or go down trying. With a flash of silver, she drew the dagger which Annúngil had given her and laid it upon the floor.
"I love you, Ruivë."
She sighed and buried her head in her arms. "How could I not love you, my Elenáro," she muttered. Eyes hardening, she seized the dagger and stood up, sheathing it neatly. "And I would fight for you until my last breath."
The crystal lamp bathed the room in a pale light, unmade and scarred though it was. Makanárë bent over and began to collect the shattered pieces of the lamp's wrought-iron casing, piling them neatly on the fabric beside the crystal. She walked over to the table and brought out the wooden chest lined with crimson fabric, where the lamp had once lain. Carefully, tenderly, she lifted the crystal from the ground and placed it upon the bed of crimson, so that the scarred side faced upward, casting fractured reflections upon the ceiling. The remnants of the lamp's casing she scattered around the crystal, watching as the reflections above dissolved into shattered designs of black upon white. She closed the chest and locked it.
She would have the crystal lamp remade, in a way that showed the beauty in its flaws, the light seeping through its scars. Already an expression that was not quite a smile hovered on her face. The duel would not be the end, for her or for anyone else involved. She would pick up the shattered pieces of her life, and move forwards. Though the way was yet dark and unclear, Makanárë knew with all her heart that it was not the end, but a beginning .
