The sunlight slanted cold and bright through the window, as Makanárë roused herself and threw off the covers. The day had come, at last. Stretching one arm over her head, she arched her back and yawned. It had been so long since she had actually faced one of the Eldar in combat. It was sure to be amusing, though it would be over quite soon, if Nolomir's skills with the sword were what she deemed them to be. She set her face in an impassive expression and threw on an under-tunic, then began to arm herself. The appointed time was two hours after sunrise, at the gates of Imladris. She would be there early.
She thought about which set of armour to wear as she left the bedroom, walking over to where all her armour was kept. The heavy black and silver boots, chestguard, and pauldrons would not do. They would restrict her movement and weigh her down in single combat against a dubiously skilled foe. No, she would pick something lighter, more resilient, and less restricting. The duel would be quick and painless - she would make short work of the oath that had been snapping at her heels ever since that day in Sirion. And then - she would move on with her life.
Resolutely she chose a light chain hauberk, overlaid with the eight-pointed silver star of Fëanor. She would not wear the colours of the Hammer and bring shame to her House, or her Order. No, today was the last day she would spend as a child of the Oath, and the last day she would draw blade against a kinsman. She would make sure of that. Strapping on her gauntlets, she drew the buckles tightly closed and flexed her hands, then took down her twin blades from where they had been hanging on the wall, and strapped them to her belt. Squaring her shoulders, she placed a light helm upon her head, leaving the visor up for now. The last thing to be done - she took up a crushed and withered flower from a drawer in the table. It was the colour of congealed blood, and showed signs of having once been a rose blossom. With a bitter smile she slipped it into an inner pocket of her tunic, above her heart.
Last night, after the Hammers had dispersed from their feast, she had sought out Annúngil. There was much weighing on her, not least of all the fact that she had disappeared for ten days without so much as saying a word to him. She did not tell him of the duel, nor did she hint at it. But speaking to him, she realised that she had not been wrong. There was a future for them, she knew it, and she would be damned if she let anything come between them. Her words of the night before rang in her mind.
"Tonight I was afraid for the first time in Ages. I looked at us, at the Hammers feasting in the hall, and I felt how much I would lose if I had to ... walk away." She remembered the look in Annúngil's eyes, a mixture of pain, confusion, and uncertainty. Yet burning deep in his eyes was the certainty that he trusted her, despite all that had happened.
"But nothing will take you away from me. I fear no darkness if I can see you beyond it. I will fight for the good I have found here. I am not afraid anymore."
Makanárë turned on her heel, walking resolutely out of the door and closing it behind her. The morning was clear and cold, the sunlight like the gleam of fire upon steel. She had toyed with the idea of forfeiting the duel, especially considering the consequences. Was she ready to be branded a kinslayer, a traitor, an oathbreaker again? No. But breaking her oath to stand by her kin would cause her to forfeit the other oath she had made to her family - that she would pay blood for blood, and death for death. Nolomir had slain her father Artanáro and her brother Morináro that fateful day in the Havens of Sirion. There was no other way but to move forward.
Her steps took her past the many houses in that quarter of Imladris. She spared not a look behind, save to glance at the door which she could have know with her eyes closed, the path she could have taken even with her eyes covered. Behind that door was home, refuge, and rest. That was not for her, not now. She swept past a few Elves who were out early, taking a walk in the morning or enjoying the fresh air. Yet she did not register the path her feet were taking, or notice her surroundings until she came to the cleft in the cliffs surrounding the Vale, the Gate of Imladris.
One of the guards recoiled slightly as she tapped him on the shoulder. He whirled round and eyed her warily, eyes narrowing as they saw the emblem blazoned on her hauberk.
"You are bold, my lady, to wear the star of the Sons of Fëanor in the haven of Lord Elrond Peredhel." The guard, a Sinda by the looks of him, fixed her with a stern gaze. "What do you want?"
"I am here to keep an appointment," Makanárë said in a clear, even voice. "I have demanded satisfaction from another for a duel, and appoint you to be my second in this matter. My opponent will arrive shortly, with whomever he has chosen to be his own second."
The other guard looked at her with an affronted expression, starting forward with his sword drawn. "This is madness! You know that it is forbidden to draw a weapon against one of the Eldar, kinslayer." He spat out the word with vehemence.
The first guard laid a hand upon the shoulder of the other, forcing him back. "Who are you, lady, and why do you demand this? Your words have given us enough reason to arrest you."
"I am Makanárë of Himlad, which is now drowned under the Great Sea. I, the only daughter of Artanáro and Kalormë of Tirion, and the elder sister of Morináro of Himlad, wish to appoint you as my second in this duel. Give me your name, Sinda, before I ask you less politely." She narrowed her eyes, laying one hand on the hilt of her sword.
"Malthoron am I, and I accept your request." The dark-haired guard bowed, though he too had one hand upon his sword. "But know full well that it will be my duty to arrest either you or your opponent , whoever remains standing when the duel ends."
Makanárë shook her head, eyes intent upon the guard's face. "No, Malthoron. My opponent is innocent. I sought him out, and demanded the duel. If he slays me, let him go free. Do not breathe a word of this to anyone else." A brief expression of tenderness passed over her face. "He has a wife and a family to return to, and I have none. And if I overcome him - I am at your mercy."
"Are you mad?" The other guard, a youth with silver-fair hair tied back at the neck, gave her an incredulous look. "Either way, you have written your doom. If your opponent does not kill you, Lord Elrond will banish you from Imladris, or worse. There are easier ways to end one's life, kinslayer."
Makanárë gave a harsh laugh. "I do not seek to end my life, young one. I could easily have disarmed and slain both of you, had it been my wish. But today will be the last day I draw steel against any of the Eldar. Do you agree to let my opponent go unharmed, if I fall?"
The silver-haired ellon looked uncertainly at Malthoron, who squared his shoulders and held out his hand. "I give you my word, Makanárë. Your request is strange, but I will hold to your wishes. Though I will undoubtedly have to give a report of this duel to Lord Elrond." He extended his hand and clasped it around her wrist.
"Of course." Makanárë gave him a steely smile. "I am glad we have come to an understanding, Malthoron."
There was a sound from behind, and she turned to see a figure coming up the path. He was dressed in a shirt of mail, with a breastplate buckled over it. The emblem of the Tower of Snow, a white tower upon a blue field, was blazoned on his armour, and he carried a slender sword. It was Nolomir, not as she had seen him in the Hall of Fire, dressed in the flowing robes of a scholar, with silver circlet upon his brow. No, this was the Nolomir she had seen that day before the doors of the library of Sirion, the warrior who fought with his mind and his will - calculating and unyielding. Perhaps he would not go down without a fight. She cracked her knuckles, then swept into a deep bow.
"You have come to accept my challenge?" The figure halted before the guards, drew his sword, and saluted her.
"I, Nolomir of Gondolin, son of Artamir and Curunis of Tirion, do accept your challenge to single combat, Makanárë Iron-Cleaver of Himlad." There was a cunning glint in his eyes, a hidden fire which she had seen mirrored in that of her brother's eyes, when he had stepped forth to give his case in a debate.
"Limthir has agreed to serve as my second." He nodded at a figure approaching on the path, the figure of a tousle-headed young ellon dressed in the robes of an apprentice scholar. Makanárë drew in a breath. This was the young scholar she had accosted in the Library, and asked to deliver the note to Nolomir challenging him to combat. She cursed under her breath. This scholar had more tricks up his sleeve than she cared to admit. She had not anticipated this move. Coldly, she nodded and returned the salute with her own swords.
"I, Makanárë Angahyandë of Himlad, have named Malthoron of Imladris as my second. The field of honour will be here, two-score paces north and east of the Gates." She fixed Nolomir with a meaningful look. "Do not hold back, Nolomir. I have asked the guards to look more favourably upon you, if you end up the victor. You will not be detained and dishonoured."
Nolomir returned her gaze with a nonchalant expression. "Do you not think that I have already made arrangements to that effect? Do not underestimate the machinations of a master of letters. We make war with our words, not with our swords. I have already put in place measures against my incrimination in your death, should it come that far, and provisions for those I will leave behind, if the reverse happens. And whatever you say, you will not escape justice."
"Good. Let us begin, then. " She signalled for the seconds to take their places on either side of the level field, and then walked to the far side of the field. She looked across at Nolomir, standing with sword sheathed, directly opposite her. His dark hair was half bound behind him, and braided so it fell down his back. He wore no helm. With a fluid motion she took off her own helm, handing it to Malthoron. There was still a measure of honour left in her, and this she would take to her end. She closed her eyes, waiting for Malthoron and Limthir to arrange the signal that would begin the duel. For the last time, the words of her own oath came back to her.
"You have slain my kin, and I swear by the thrice-accursed jewel your lady holds in her keeping that I will have the satisfaction of killing you myself! 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 opened her eyes. Malthoron and Limthir made a motion with their right hands, and above them an arrow sailed and embedded itself in a tree to the end of the field. The light-haired guard stood back, watching them with his bow in one hand. She drew her swords, and heard Nolomir drawing his own. They advanced toward each other in the field, each step drawing closer to the clash of steel upon steel. Makanárë braced herself for the impact - but it never came.
Nolomir had feinted to the right, aiming a well-directed slash at her upper arm. She darted forwards and parried the blow with both swords, crossing them and trapping his blade with her own. Of course. He would seek to use the advantage of his lighter build to out-maneuver and evade her. He might not be a hardened warrior, but he had the mind of a tactician. Like her father and brother before her. Makanárë wrenched the sword out of his grasp, turning round and attempting to knock him down. He was already disarmed, and she must finish him off. Pathetic.
But again her blades missed their target. Damn, he was fast. She supposed he had had some training in combat before - there was no way a scholar who spent most of the day sitting before a desk could have this much skill. He reappeared behind her, sword in hand, and a hard glint in his eyes. Taking advantage of her moment of surprise, he lunged forward and slashed at her right arm, aiming for the weakness in her armour where the arm met the torso. Makanárë stumbled backwards, rage burning in her eyes as the sword slashed across her arm. He was sneaky, she would give him that. But he had not the strength nor the stamina to hold against an all-out attack. With a broken cry she surged forwards, bringing both swords down against his own, and then aiming two slashes at his neck. Both missed.
Nolomir was beginning to tire, she could see it. But the soldier inside of her had taken over, and her actions were no more than a reflex by now. Parry, slash, hack, evade, repeat. If she could not take him down with one blow, she would wear him out until she could disarm him. Why was this harder than she had expected? Because she did not truly want to kill him? The thought had never occurred to her until now. How could she face the rest of her House, face the one she loved with the blood of their comrade on her hands? Would her father and brother truly have wanted this vengeance? They had been cold, cunning, and unscrupulous in life, but still ... they had not seen the Kinslayings as anything beyond a necessary evil. And in death? Did they have such power to command her from their rest in Mandos? Why had she even felt obliged to follow her oath, to pursue vengeance for them?
She realized with a start that it was only for one reason. Weakness. She had pinned the blame for her grief upon Nolomir, and let the desire for vengeance consume her instead of facing the facts. Kin turned against kin because of the desire for the Silmarils, and Nolomir was no more to blame than she was. He had only been doing his duty - that of protecting his people. She would have done the same, if she had been in his situation. Her mother, Kalormë, had been right. "Love is stronger than death," she had always said. And it was true. She was glad, now, that her mother had fallen in battle before the events of the Kinslayings in Doriath and Sirion. They would have twisted her noble heart even more, blackening it with the blood of more kinsmen slain. She would not have wanted to remember Kalormë, the Lioness of Himlad, as a thrice-accursed kinslayer. What would Kalormë say if she could see her now, locking blades with her own cousin in a fight to the death?
Nolomir's sword clattered to the ground as Manakárë finally disarmed him, and shoved him roughly to his knees. She held her swords poised above his neck, readying for the final blow. In a moment, all would be over.
"You fought well, and have rendered me satisfaction for the deaths of my father and brother by your hand in the Havens of Sirion, Nolomir of Gondolin." The blades shook in her trembling hands.
"Tch. I did not think a warrior would make such a florid speech before the last blow. Kill me now, and my blood will be on your hands." Nolomir's voice was smooth and impassive, not betraying a single grain of weariness. He sounded as if he were discussing Vanyarin poetry at an evening party. Makanárë grit her teeth, then drove the blades downwards with a cry - only to be tripped and fall to her knees. The bastard!
In bewilderment, she felt the whisper of cool steel pressing into the back of her neck, and heard a suave voice behind her. "Do not underestimate me, daughter of the Oath. Though I am a lover of books, I am also able to read other things equally well. Your rage and desperation was written all over your face the moment I saw you. And we both know how dangerous it is to let one's emotions take control in combat. It is an equation with only one solution - defeat."
She could hear the smile in his words, and seethed with anger. How had it come to this? She had grossly underestimated her opponent, had even offered him clemency, and now? She was about to end her life at his hands. The snake, he probably had insured that no justice for her death would ever reach him. Bitterly she bowed her head and closed her eyes, one hand coming to rest over her heart, pressing the withered rose to her breast. There was a searing pain as the blade sliced across her neck, a wet feeling, and then ...
The sound of chain-mail clinking, and a whisper of wind as the figure behind her turned away, cloak billowing past her. How? She opened her eyes, blinking in the cold light. Blood was dripping down the back of her neck, but it had been a shallow cut. Nolomir stood looking down at her, extending one gloved hand. He smiled at her, and this time it was the smile of a friend, not a serpent about to devour its prey.
"I have given you satisfaction, and withdraw my blade. The duel is ended. Now get up before you lose any more blood." He pulled her up by one arm, while she made no motion to stop him. Already she began to feel light-headed. What had just happened? Numbly she let herself be handed over to Limthir and Malthoron, who quickly dressed the cut on the back of her neck. Nolomir neatly cleaned the flat of his sword upon the dew-wet grass, then sheathed it and walked up to her, fixing her with a sharp glance.
"The next time you wish to speak with me, do use your words. It might be a battle you are more inclined to win." But now his gaze held no malice, though she doubted if it ever had. She had only seen a slight flicker of cold ingenuity in his eyes when he had faced her on the field. With a shaky breath she straightened her shoulders and turned to face him, extending a hand.
"Well fought, cousin." She could see the bewilderment in his eyes for a moment, then the glint of recognition. "Though I am sure you knew long before I did."
Nolomir smiled and arched a brow. "I would never tell you that. But it is true that the archives of Imladris have preserved several Ages worth of genealogical information." He swept into a bow, his richly ornamented cloak fluttering behind him. "Welcome to Imladris, cousin. I do believe introductions are in order."
Makanárë snorted, though there was no malice in her voice. "I do believe so. We are members of the same House, after all." She ventured a glance over her shoulder at the others. Limthir was standing with his back to a tree, mouth agape and wide eyes staring in disbelief. Malthoron had his arms crossed, eyeing the two combatants with an air of satisfaction and a smile breaking over his face. The other guard had turned away and was staring off into the distance, as if trying to affect an air of detachment about the whole affair.
Nolomir made a motion to Limthir, who obediently snapped out of his daze, gathered up a few books (Makanárë idly wondered how the lad had brought them this far out of the Valley) and followed, keeping well out of reach of Makanárë. He then turned to Malthoron with a winning smile.
"Allow me to append an account of the duel to your report to Lord Elrond, my friend. It was honourable of you to have agreed to witness the match and refrain from interfering in the outcome. I will be sure to put in a good word for you with the captain of the guard. We are acquainted, as he is a good friend of my daughter's husband." He inclined his head graciously, then swept past Malthoron, with Limthir and his books in tow.
"My office in the library of Elrond is always open to you, if you would ever like to come and visit. I will tell Limthir to let you in."
Makanárë made a noncommittal gesture. "Maybe. I have more important things to do at the moment." She made to turn and walk away, but Nolomir stopped her with a gesture of his gauntleted hand.
"Do remember that my house is directly across from that of Master Annúngil's, in case you wish to call upon me after visiting him." He and Limthir vanished down the path into the vale as Makanárë stood there for a moment, an expression somewhere between anger and bewilderment on her face. The nerve! She groaned and buried her face in her hands. Getting to know her cousin would be ... interesting, to say the least.
