Manadhlaer awoke in the dark, in more than one way.
Someone had thoughtfully tucked her diary under her arm. Had she a quill and ink? They must be in her pouch, if she could find it.
With infinite care, she put her feet -- disguised, as she had thought, in mismatched boots, which suited her sloppy grey tunic -- on the floor. She groped around a bit, head pounding; she tried not to move more quickly, lest she vomit again.
Again? The thought stopped her. What, after all, had happened? Manadhlaer had a vague memory of her guts reversing themselves onto the floor, right in front of the gentle Elloen. But these little flashes were just that, little. Curulinn had been there, had she not? Where was "there," and how could such a degrading thing have happened to her when she knew -- perhaps the last thing she was certain of -- that she had taken only a single glass of wine?
Manadhlaer inhaled deeply. Blood, sweat, rust, oil, ale... could this be the Hammer Hall? If so, that was a surge of unlooked-for cleverness from Earcalië. I am making a grand tour of every Order, she thought, with a bit of bitterness. Grim necessity had brought her to this place. But was anyone on guard? Maybe Tuilerië and her faithful dog?
Someone, at least, had been terribly thoughtful in guiding her here. The barracks cot was not luxurious, but with the pillow and blanket, it had apparently done for... how long? Night. It was night now. Manadhlaer knew she ought to lie down again and sleep off the headache, but she needed to know a few things.
Aha, a table -- and on it, a lantern! The lantern was small, and cast only a single beam, but after some fumbling it served its purpose. Her pouch was nearby on a small table, and in it her medical kit; her carefully concealed swan-badge and pink diamond; and all of the essentials with which she had left... wherever she had taken her rest last night. The pouch retrieved, she turned the lantern back and forth -- yes, the sword, in its unadorned scabbard, was there too. Manadhlaer quickly buckled this on, feeling it important for some reason.
She stood up carefully. Her legs still felt a bit floppy, but she stood without falling; that was certainly a start. Ai, what a nightmare! In her dream, Curulinn had been arguing with someone -- who? Maybe Silwë? -- about a crystal. Manadhlaer winced. She had had quite enough of Noldor jewel-feuds to last her until the breaking of the world.
At least there's no smoke, she thought, and then stopped -- why would there be smoke in here? No one of the Hammer took up the Dwarrow's vice, at least not where the lords of that Order might smell it.
But those lords were themselves absent. She was, she realized, alone in the echoing hall. She took a few faltering steps to orient herself, turning the small lantern this way and that. Tindir was away -- that much, at least, she remembered. With him were Naergon and the loyal quartermaster Golvagor. No one had found Veryacano, Estarfin... suddenly the lantern's beam shone on a smiling face framed by silver hair.
"Themodir!" she cried aloud. And then her heart broke anew. It was not her love somehow returned to Middle-earth to save her. It was, rather, Elloen's painting that made the fallen warrior seem lively, present. Merely a flat canvas with the very skill of the Valar dancing upon it. He was still gone. Thus was the world Manadhlaer still must live in.
She continued to wander a bit, hoping to orient herself within the hall and at the same time piece together her recollection of events. There was something about smoke, definitely. Thick, choking, distorting the sight. And... knives? No, Tuilerië and Eirulisse had most certainly been by her side. She had had some woodworking query for Tuilerië, who had reported in from her patrol. The two of them would have stopped... whatever.
Poor Narumirë! She had just wanted a cup of tea, and maybe she said something that, Manadhlaer guessed, had sparked the argument about an amethyst gem. Funny -- amethyst had the reputation of preventing intoxication. Well, that superstition was obviously wrong.
Something tugged at her mind. Something had been set in motion, and now there was danger, and a distinct lack of Hammerites to stand in its way. No doubt Losgael had been patrolling -- her younger kinswoman would be awfully cross with her, she reckoned, as she had been cross with somebody or other. Someone had acted foolishly, tasting a poison to learn its nature, but certainly her twin star Norliriel was away also.
It must have been a dream, she decided, else the Captains of Arrow and Fountain would have been there too. But maybe the dream had been prophetic. Who, above all other concerns, was "Prince Hunulf"? She knew not why, but knew in her bones that this name was dreadfully important. Exceptionally so. But who had spoken it to her, and in what context? Could it possibly have to do with --
"Daegond!" she yelped, and nearly dropped the lantern. Her little dog lay at the foot of the cot she had been given, snuffling and paddling his paws in his sleep. Relief washed over her. She hobbled back to the cot and, after some rearrangement of objects -- shutting the lantern and setting it down, and reluctantly unbuckling her heirloom sword -- she picked up the hound and cradled him. As plain as the cot was, it had just room enough for her and the badger-dog. She settled down again, trying to remember.
This is impossible, Manadhlaer thought. What events of the last cycle of sun and moon had been real? What had she dreamt, and what still lay forgotten? The wine, that was it. That and the tea. A dread remained upon her. Something had happened, and she was -- they all were -- in peril.
Had this Prince Hunulf, whoever he was, ordered all this chaos? What could Manadhlaer possibly have done to a prince of Men to cause all of this?
One thing was certain. Curulinn owed her a report.
