Annunghil

Makanárë stood poised on the practice field, chain-mail gleaming in the pale morning light. It was still early enough that the field was deserted, occupied only by the mute figures of training-dummies and the occasional trespassing bird or squirrel which crept in from the nearby trees. With an impassive face she began to put herself through the paces of the sword-exercises she had practiced every morning without fail since she had forged her blades. The motions were slow, deliberate.

In the maelstrom of memories and regret that is my life, there has never been space for tenderness. The sword does not stop to think of love before it stikes. The hammer pauses not to pity the steel before it falls. And since the breaking of Beleriand I have given way to none, slowed for none, turned back for none.