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. She focused on the balance of the swords, on the hum they made as they sliced through the air, and the shifting of weight in her body as she whirled upon the field. This was not combat, but the frame for a warrior's movements, as she had learned long ago from her mother. As a child she would watch with rapt attention as her mother went through the same set of exercises each morning, upon the grassy field still wet with dew. And now, Ages later, she schooled her features into a mask of calm and paced through the same exercises.
Balance - so crucial to a warrior, and yet so elusive. Makanárë had found little of it in life. Sometimes in her work at the forge, there would be a moment when she felt a flicker of life, a whisper of content, but those fled like leaves before the wind of regret and memories of the past. Now she executed a deft turn, swords glinting in the light, and held them crossed before her, muscles tensing. In the fray of battle there was no time to think, no time to reflect. She would have to rely on instinct, on the memory stored in her limbs to react. There was no turning back from the past - but the future was another matter entirely.
She brought her arms over her head, pivoting on one leg and extending the other behind her in a lunge. Grey eyes glinting, she mulled over the events of the past days, especially those which had happened among her fellow recruits of the Hammer. She been accepted to their ranks by Lord Veryacáno, and awaited the day when she would take up arms against the Enemy once more with a sharp eagerness. It had been too long since her arm had only wielded the smith's hammer, cleaving only iron and steel. On coming to Imladris, she had relished the opportunity to test her skills against other Hammers. It was good to hear the clash of steel against steel once more. Yet none with whom she had crossed blades seemed to occupy her mind lately as much as one Annungil , a smith formerly of Nolofinwë's following.
Annúngil - Star of the West - She fumbled and nearly lost balance, cursing under her breath. He was an able swordsman, she would give him that. Their first match had ended in a draw, their second in her decided defeat. She ought to be indignant, furious even that one of them (she could think of several other choice names her father and brother would undoubtedly have called him) could match her in battle. Yet her losses did not sting as much as she had expected, instead whetting her desire to hone her skills until she saw him kneel before her in defeat. And another feeling, strange yet familiar, had coursed through her the moment they crossed blades. It was the thrill of being fully, painfully alive, every muscle at the ready, every sense honed. It had been so in her youth, whenever she and her company marched out on patrol. In the Ages to follow, she had laid down the sword and taken up the smith's hammer more often. But to her, the dull pounding of iron upon iron would never be equal to the clash of arms. He had been her first opponent in a long while, and she would be damned if she let him get away without a well-earned defeat. It would happen. It must.
Makanárë sucked in a breath, face hard and intent. Bringing her blades around in an arc, she feinted to the left as if to evade a foe, then made a stabbing motion upwards. She smiled, a feral light in her eyes. There. The motions for a perfectly executed killing blow. Yet it was not enough to distract her mind from its wanderings. Who was this Annúngil? By all rights she had no reason to care, but had found herself in his company more often of late. He was a soldier and smith, of Hithlum he had told her. There was a weary light in his eyes that matched her own, and she knew without asking that he had seen the same horrors as she had, though he had marched under a different banner. And yet she could not bring herself to dismiss him as she had dismissed many of his kin before. He did not flinch, or scowl, or raise his voice when she spoke flippantly of his lord Nolofinwë, nor of his sojourn in Lórien.
With a scowl, Makanárë stood and sheathed her blades. What sort of devilry was this? She had let on more about her past than she realised, as they spoke over a few glasses of wine in the Hall of Fire, or happened to meet at the forges. Annúngil knew of her allegiance to the Sons of Fëanor, and still seemed to find her company not disagreeable. They had spoken of the past, faces turned away from each other, but she could hear the heaviness in his voice. He had listened as she spoke of the Fifth Battle with bitterness, and of the bloodshed at Sirion with regret and horror. He had not shrunk back, like Norliriel had, when she mentioned the fighting among the quays where kin drew blade on kin. Why?
Snarling in frustration, Makanáre pulled a dagger from her gauntlet and launched it across the field, watching as it embedded itself in a nearby tree. Why did she care? He was just another face among the many she had seen in her long life. Yet something inside of her rebelled, insisting that she pursue the question until she found the answers she sought. Balance, she muttered to herself as she stalked across the field and yanked her dagger out of the tree trunk. Perhaps she was just unaccustomed to losing a spar, after all these years. She smiled wolfishly to herself. The next time she crossed blades with Annúngil, she was determined to be the victor.
