Hefting a bundle of cloth-wrapped armor on one shoulder, Makanárë approached the entrance to what seemed a gathering of tents, barricaded to the north. A uniformed soldier of the Malledhrim noticed her approach and bowed, somewhat intimidated by the glowering intensity of her gaze.
“Ah, híril, to what do we owe the pleasure?” he managed. Makanárë arched a brow, allowing a smile appear through the cracks in her stern disposition. The poor recruit looked even more intimidated than before.
“Delivery of repaired armour and blades, as Captain Belegorn requested,” she stated. “The newly commissioned pieces will be arriving shortly. Expect them within a fortnight.”
The guard nodded in bewilderment, then motioned for two other soldiers to come take the armour and weapons. He resumed his post by the entrance to the encampment.
“Ah, here again?” A gruff Sinda with a weathered - looking face stepped out of a tent hung with the banner of the Malledhrim. “Good to see you, Angril. How are my daggers?”
“Oh, they’ve given me some trouble, Captain, but they should be done within a fortnight.” She cracked a smile at the officer. “I must say, between your recruits and the regular patrols, my apprentices and I have had our hands full this past year. Though these daggers are truly excellent pieces of work.”
“Aye, and well they should be. They were given me by a dear friend in Eregion.” The captain looked thoughtful for a minute. “I am glad one of his kin is taking up the task of mending them.”
“ ‘Tis an honor,” she replied, expression grown more solemn once more. “Though these times call for a unity of mind that renders insignificant some of our differences.” She subsonsciously adjusted the silver pin upon her cloak bearing the star of Fëanor. Laying down the bundle upon a nearby set of crates, she nodded to several other soldiers standing nearby, who began to unpack the delivery.
“I will not trouble you futher, Belegorn,” she said, inclining her head slightly. “My apprentice Lothelian will be along to deliver another batch of armour within a few days, and I myself will bring you your daggers when they are finished.”
“That is well, Angril,” the captain replied, likewise inclining his head. “My troops thank you and your apprentices for your support.”
Slinging the cloth wrappings over one shoulder, Makanárë turned to leave the encampment. She had not gone a few steps before she nearly tripped over a wretched-looking ball of grey and brown fur curled up at the foot of a stack of crates. With a snarl, the creature turned its wild-looking yellow eyes on her, clawing futilely at the toes of her iron-shod boots.
Stepping back in surprise and vague amusement, Makanárë took a moment to look at the animal. It was smaller in size than a housecat, but also much thinner. Its fur had been scratched off in places, and a few pink scars crossed its back - newly healed, apparently. It was, evidently, a young cat which had wandered off into the forest, gotten into a scrape or two with some larger animal, and returned with a general hatred of all things living. Not too dissimilar to her own experiences, she reflected wryly.
With a smile, she pulled out a piece of dried venison from her pocket, and held it out to the cat. It hissed, back arching almost comically, before taking a few steps backwards and curling up on the ground, facing the exact opposite direction. She could have sworn she saw it turn up its nose. Makanárë chuckled.
“You are a proud one, aren’t you?” She knelt on the ground, breaking off a piece of the venison and laying it down in front of the cat. “Well, no one said you had to eat.” Makanárë crossed her arms over her boots and sat down to wait, ignoring the confused glances of passing soldiers. The cat’s tail twitched a few times, and as the minutes passed she could see its whiskered snout turning ever so slowly towards the venison. Finally the cat darted towards the venison, took it between two paws, and began eating it with relish, side-eyeing her occasionally with mild suspicion.
Makanárë watched as the cat finished up the last of the venison, then began meticulously licking its paws. “For such a mangy creature, you pay quite a lot of attention to cleanliness. Not that it helps, much.” The cat gave her an irritated glare, then resumed cleaning its paws. The two sat in companionable silence for a while, until Makanárë glanced at the lengthening afternoon shadows and abruptly stood up, brushing dust off her tunic.
“I suppose you don’t have a home,” she said. It glanced lazily at her, whiskers twitching. Was it … purring? The rumbling sound coming from it could hardly have been expected from so small a creature. “Well, neither did I, once. The way I see it, you can either keep on feeling sorry for yourself and stay where you are, or get up and do something about it,” she said, more to herself than to the cat.
She turned away and began to walk down the path leading from the encampment, giving the young guard at the gate a curt nod. He seemed to be more confused than usual, looking between her and the path behind her. She shrugged and walked on, thinking of all the rest of the work that had to be done before the forge was ready to be closed for the night. Between the two of them, perhaps Lothelian and Alyandil had burned down the forge by now … She chuckled wryly. Lothelian had a great deal more sense than Alyandil, being older and raised by a mother who was nigh as fine a smith as she. If anything, she would be the one ordering the lad Alyandil around - an amusing mental image, she reflected.
In the year between her and Annunghil’s arrival in Lórien, several unexpected responsibilities had presented themselves, and she found herself too occupied with work and the care of two inquisitive apprentices to dwell long on her betrothed’s absence. He had departed across the Anduin, along with several stout warriors of their kindred, on an urgent mission into the depths of Mirkwood. And while she had once thought to follow them eastward over the river, she could not forsake her duty to her former apprentice’s daughter, nor to the lad Alyandil who had been left without a smithing-master after Annúngil’s departure. In the following months, thanks to the recommendations of Alcartano, she had made the acquaintance of several smiths of the Malledhrim who offered her a space at their forges in exchange for a closer look at the fabled smithing-techniques of the Noldor.
Lost in thought, she nearly recoiled when she felt a warm, furry weight press against her calf. The cat looked up at her contentedly and purred, rubbing against her boots as if it had decided it now owned them.
“How impertinent of you to follow me home,” she scolded, while unlatching the gate and making her way to the forge. But she smiled to herself, hearing the light footfalls behind her and mews of curiosity. Lothelian, of course, would be delighted, being a lover of all furred, feathered, or otherwise gentle creatures. It seemed another charge, though not entirely unwelcome, had crept into her life.
