Nandutiriel did not need to keep watch over her sleeping comrades -- not even the gentle ones, híril Norliriel and the mysterious Elloen -- for plenty of sentinels with bows, even at night, peered down hawkishly and roamed the stones of Echad Mirobel.
Yet she could no more have rested than she could have flapped her arms and flown like Elloen's beautiful white eagle. Her mind was awhirl.
Too well she understood the heartbreak of being a refugee from Eregion, and returning to find so little. They had just held a funeral, built a small cairn, for a painting splashed with the blood of Elloen's mother -- the last material trace of her hröa that remained.
Yet something had been stirred in the Elf-lord whom Nandutiriel realized, with a pang of guilt, she had known before this mostly from his canvases. A painting of híril Manadhlaer hung in the hall of the Pillar, and that of híril Norliriel -- who even now slept soundly in her bedroll -- in the Houses of Healing. In the hall of the Hammer, really the Fountain's sister order in close combat, hung a portrait of Lord Anglachelm himself, one of Lord Tindir, and another of their slain comrade, the husband of Manadhlaer. The brief words that had passed between Norliriel and Elloen in the last few days led Nandutiriel to understand that each of his many canvases had cost the painter much more than aching arms, in some vague way connected to the slaying of his mother.
She had thought naively that burying the bloodied painting might bring Elloen closure. Perhaps they had all thought that, and perhaps it had -- but intelligence from the Mirobel stalwarts had changed the whole demeanor of the Elf-lord. The group had just pieced together that the Orcs who occupied the ruins of Barad Morlas were not common beasts of their kind, but a special team formed to work the will of the Enemy himself. Their leader was yet older and tougher, and Elloen believed that this Orc in particular had taken part in the slaying of his parents, as well as the famed Celebrimbor.
The warrior in his Noldor blood had been raised up, Nandutiriel felt. Already Elloen stood taller, looked angrier and even a bit leaner, harder somehow. He wanted to slay that Orc. There was no getting around that. And she felt it her duty, and that of Thanlossen and Telpenaro and every Fountain warrior present, to form a wall between the monster and Elloen's actual body.
There lacked one terribly important warrior: Captain Himwen. The beautiful white eagle had been sent back to Imladris with an urgent note begging her to say whether to attack as Elloen wished, or await her arrival.
This was the chief problem Nandutiriel chewed over like gristle in jerky. She had believed Captain Himwen would ride south with them, but she had not. From Gwingris, from Echad Eregion out in the middle of what had once been fertile plain, they had sent messages home but not yet received a reply. Was she testing the Fountain-soldiers? And if so, what was she testing -- their ability to creep into Barad Morlas and strike a particular target (for they were far too few to besiege the place and clean it of every last filth), or their ability to keep the painter and the healer undamaged?
Híril Manadhlaer, as befitted a healer -- now the Lady of the Pillar as well -- had always impressed Nandutiriel as tremendously gentle. Yet she feared her wrath almost as much as Captain Himwen's, if not more, should híril Norliriel or hír Elloen come to harm.
Himwen had instructed the recruits in their most recent training session to pair off, and to learn the strengths and weaknesses of their partners. After a few weeks on the road, Nandutiriel was beginning to sort it out. Thanlossen was faster to engage the enemy and draw the attention of whatever beast presented a threat, but Nandutiriel was more precise in her throws with spear and javelin. If Thanlossen made a wall, Nandutiriel could come behind it with careful step and hit with great accuracy. Indeed the Captain had been wise in pairing her with this strong warrior, Nandutiriel felt.
A strike team could penetrate Barad Morlas. She really believed this. They could accomplish the goal of slaying the old Orc. But what would hír Elloen do? Would he rage through the shield-wall from behind and try to take the kill himself? Nandutiriel guessed from his hands that it had been long yéni since he had held aught but a paint-brush. Yet a fey mood was on him, and when a Noldo-lord turned from sorrow to rage... well, much of the history of the Eldar was marked by this.
Nandutiriel was a simple warrior, but she felt a few equally simple truths fit together like the dovetail-joints of a door-frame. Elloen was cousin to Elvealin, who held him as a brother. And if one harmed Elvealin, one harmed Norliriel and Manadhlaer in the same blow. Much, much rode on their choice of how to tackle the situation.
In the end híril Norliriel held the rank, and thus that decision, if Captain Himwen did not arrive before Elloen's justified rage boiled over. And Father had always said that a good soldier obeyed her superior, even should it mean her own hröa-death.
Nandutiriel hugged her knees and sat staring out at the Valacirca, so bright and clear in the sky above Eregion. Yes, it was for this she must prepare: to be reaped by the great sickle, and come face to face with Lord Namó sooner than planned.
There was a peace in that, but it nagged at her thoughts that such a thing would end her usefulness to Vanimar, under whose protective shield she had already learned so much.
