"Yes, and imagine! Lady Uilossiel is such a very respectable scholar as well! Why, I have no idea what she is doing with such a one as Master Annunghil." The warbling voice of a young girl floated over to Makanárë as she stood in the Hall of Fire, enjoying a cup of wine after a long day spent before the forge. Idly she glanced over in the direction of the voices, then rolled her eyes as she recognised Aurineth, the House's self-proclaimed messenger, deep in conversation with Gilfiniel.
She snickered to herself, wondering if there was any truth in the rumours. At least, it would be another thing with which to annoy Annunghil. A casual mention of the lady Uilossiel's name, the next time they met to spar, would suffice. She frowned, staring at the near-empty cup in her hand. How had the time passed so quickly? She could have sworn she had only started on her first glass of wine. But wine be damned, she still had work to finish in the forges before the evening was over. A last look around the hall revealed Sogadan, Gilfiniel, and Aurineth to be the only other company present. She set the cup on the table with a faint clatter, then turned on her heel and left the room.
Gossip was a petty, amusing thing, an artifice of the sort of society which left a sour taste in her mouth long after she left the hall. Still, Makanárë allowed herself a few moments of reflection on the many meetings she had endured on her arrival in Imladris. Upon meeting Lord Tindir and eventually Lord Veryacáno of the Hammer, she had been impressed by the easy yet authoritative way they addressed others of the House. She would be honoured to serve these Lords of the Order of the Hammer, though the Sergeant Daegond was altogether a different matter. Brash, curt of manner and speech, he nevertheless seemed to handle matters for the Order in a timely fashion. She was no stranger to commanders of that temperament, in her long years wielding the sword.
The recruits of the Hammer she had met formed a diverse, yet mostly agreeable group. She had encountered Brasseniel of the Greenwood, and Himwen of Lórien in the hall of Fire, wearing the uniform of the Order. She recalled how the young Nelthiel, Brasseniel's sister, had joined their conversation and introduced herself shyly. With a pang she thought of her own brother Morináro, all quicksilver smile and cunning gaze, who had long since passed to Mandos. Happy those siblings whom war had not yet sundered, she thought. And she had crossed blades on the practice field with two other recruits of the order: Aratinwë, a reserved and mild-mannered soldier from Lindon, and Annunghil who had since often chanced to meet her at the forge or upon the training grounds.
There were several other prominent members of the House who were as of yet somewhat of an enigma to her; among these were the lady Danel and the smith Ararusco. Both had been among the people of Fëanor in Beleriand, to her surprise. She was pleased that Ararusco had spoken to her of his position in Vanimar of supervising the artisans and crafters, and gladly volunteered herself as a smith, should he need her skills. The forge had always been the one constant in the bleak, disordered life she had led since the drowning of Beleriand. She took a deep satisfaction in the act of smithing itself; in the slow and rhythmic process of hammering, grinding, tempering, and polishing. The thrill of creation and the fascination of seeing the steel yield under her hands never ceased to lift her spirits. Armour, tools, blades - she cared not what her hands created as long as they were occupied.
With quickening steps Makanárë approached the forge where she had been given leave to work in Imladris. An array of tools, materials, and carefully drawn plans were spread out on the table before her, left as if in the middle of an unfinished project. One moment more, as she seated herself before the table, and it was as if she had never left. Her hands flew over the paper, amending a corner of the design here, and sketching an addition there. In Lindon she had only been another drifting smith from Beleriand, with few ties to the realm of Gil-Galad. Now she had a House to serve, as best she might. Her grey eyes shone with fierce determination as she pushed back her chair and approached the anvil. As the shadows outside lengthened, the firelight flickered upon her face as the sound of hammer against steel rang late into the night.
