"I am a disaster waiting to happen, Hendunáro. And I would rather not bring you down with me."
With a grunt of frustration, Makanárë hurled a dagger over her shoulder, listening impassively as it embedded itself with a crunch in the tree behind her. It was unlike her to waver, to be so indecisive as she was now. She had been right, on that day long ago when Annúngil had found her on the rocky ledge above Imladris. Any happiness she might have found afterward was all an illusion, only fleeting seconds counting down until her oath had caught up with her.
She twisted the dagger out of the tree trunk, sliding it back into a concealed position in her tunic. It was time to stop wondering, and find some answers.
The guards by the door of the House of Elrond barely had time to glance at her with perplexity before she stalked past them. She was unarmed, to the casual observer, but she could feel each one of the slender steel blades hiding in her boots, gauntlets, and within her leather tunic. Their slim weight was a reassuring constant as she made her way to the library of Elrond, and pushed open the massive doors.
Moonlight slanted in through a half-open window, and a pale-faced young scholar was half slumped over a desk in the corner. The evening was eerily still, silence unbroken by the sounds of hushed conversation or rustling parchments which Makanárë remembered from her few visits to the archives of Imladris. Her footsteps rang harshly in the stillness, iron-shod boots clattering on pale marble.
"You there." She addressed the ellon in a level voice that held an edge of steel.
The young ellon's head jerked upwards in an almost comical motion, and he scrambled to his feet, stamering,
"Ah, y-yes, my lady, how might I help you? We d-do not often receive visitors at t-this hour." He rubbed his hands together, making an obsequious bow.
Makanárë took another step closer to the scholar at his desk, eyes glinting with a fey light.
"I want you to look through the genealogical records for a certain Nolomir of Gondolin."
The young ellon held up his hands in a hopeless gesture. "I - I am not sure I can do that, my lady, there are policies in place about this sort of thing, and Master Nolomir is an esteemed scholar, a friend of Lord Erestor even, and I ... I cannot simply release such information to anyone."
Makanárë narrowed her eyes.
"You will find the records, boy, and give me the answers I seek. Is that not what you scholars are for?"
The scholar stammered awkwardly, flinching back from the look in her eyes.
"Oh ... who are you then? Are you a friend of Master Nolomir's, then? According to Article Six, Section Three of the Scholars' code, an exception may be made for close friends and kin, with the Lord Erestor's permission - "
"Spare me your drivel, child." She took another step toward the ellon, reaching out and seizing him by the collar in one predatory motion. "Who I am matters not to you. Find me the records, and I will release you. We have all night, if you refuse." Pressing him against the wall with one arm, she half-drew a steel knife from her sleeve, angling the blade so it glinted in the moonlight.
The young scholar gasped and struggled weakly in her grasp, eyes wide with terror, but shook his head. Makanárë clapped a hand firmly over his mouth, shoving him roughly against the wall.
"Make one noise and I will end you, understand? We can do this the easy way, or the hard way. Say nothing, tell no one, and I will let you go."
A mute, terrified nod from the youth in her grasp, and Makanárë released him. Staggering against the wall, he took a moment to catch his breath before scurrying off to a corner of the library. Moments later, he returned with a large leather-bound tome in his hands, and set it down on the table.
"H-here, the records you seek are on this page, umm ... do you need anything else?"
She snatched the book from his hands, dismissing him with a curt nod. "Leave me for a few minutes." He obediently shuffled into an adjoining chamber. Running her fingers down the weathered parchment, she mouthed the names to herself. The names of those who had survived the fall of Sirion, those who had escaped the blades of her kin.
Nolomir, formerly of the House of the Tower of Snow, Ondolindë, born FA 467
- Son of Artamir, formerly of the House of the Pillar, Ondolindë, died SA 3441, Dagorlad
What? Makanárë blinked twice, staring intently at the paper. Nolomir, son of Artamir of Gondolin? It could not be. Her father had said precious little about his family when she had asked him as a child.
"Ada, I have Moryo, and Ammë has her sisters who live here in Himlad with us. What about you?"
"I have not spoken to my brother Artamir since before the Trees fell. Though I would not be surprised if he followed the people of Turukáno, the coward."
Her father had never said any more on the subject. For all she knew, her uncle Artamir could have been alive, or just another casualty in the wars of the First Age. But now, the innocent letters on the page made her blood run cold. Nolomir was her cousin, the son of her father's brother. She did have some kin left on these shores, after all.
Makanárë slammed the book closed, and whistled sharply. "Take the book back, I am done with it." She shoved it to one side and pulled out a piece of parchment from the desk before her, taking up a quill and dipping it savagely into an inkwell. There was no point in delaying any further; she knew what she had to do. The pen scratched against the paper as she wrote in a clear-cut script,
I, Makanárë Iron-Cleaver, demand satisfaction for the death of my father and brother at your hand. Meet me outside the gates of Imladris in a fortnight - I will be waiting.
A drop of wax from a sputtering candle nearby sealed the folded edges of the parchment. She turned on her heel and thrust the missive into the still-shaking hands of the young scholar.
"Deliver this to Nolomir by first light tomorrow, understood?" He nodded mutely, stowing the paper away in a pocket of his long robe.
"Then we have an understanding. No harm need come to you if you say nothing, but if not ... I will find you." She gave the young scholar a meaningful look, then turned on her heel and stalked out of the library. Fourteen days, and it would be over. She could be patient - what were a few days, after two Ages of pursuit?
