The sound of a key turning in a lock, then the creak of hinges that had not been opened in more than an Age, and the whisper of fabric on fabric. Makanárë held the lid with trembling fingers as she lifted it hesitantly, gingerly, until it rested fully open.
The night had been close, starless, oppressive even, but now a streak of blue-white pierced the darkness as she lifted the lid. She turned away, shielding her eyes as if unused to such light. Within the small iron-bound chest, lying upon a bed of crimson fabric, was a light gleaming like a star fallen from the sky. Intricate wrought-iron casing twined around a relic of Aman, a cherished heirloom which her father had brought over the sea - a lamp of Fëanor, made of clear crystal which shone with a radiance purer than any other lantern upon the Hither Lands. How much she had risked to keep it safe when the sudden flames descended upon Himlad ...
With a brusque motion she thrust forward one hand and grasped the lamp by the chain attached to the iron casing around the crystal. This was no time to reflect on the past. Not now, when the past had all but caught up to her. No, this was time to act, to decide.
Slamming the chest shut, she looped the chain around her belt, securing it with a savage tug. Eyes roving around the room, she quickly threw on a cloak to hide the glow of the lamp. Mechanically, her hands performed the motions that had become more natural to her than breathing - each and every one of her daggers was in place, her gauntlets strapped on, her blades hanging familiarly at her side. Last of all, she cast a glance at the few bags resting against the wall, half-distinct in the shadowy night. It was almost time, but there was one thing she must do first.
With a passing motion she swept up a square of parchment resting on a table, holding it in one iron-gauntleted hand. The paper was folded with almost painful formality, not an edge out of place. A blot of red ink spilled over the centre fold like a drop of blood, a jarring contrast to the crisp, stiff parchment. It lay there, a fragile blot of white and crimson in the vice-grip of her gauntlet which could crush it in a single breath.
Her door opened and closed noiselessly as she stepped out into the night. It was overcast, the stars hidden behind a dark cover of clouds, the moon absent from the sky. She found the path more out of habit than anything else in the darkness, illumined distantly by the lights of Imladris. Footsteps rang upon the flagstones she had trod so many times before, and stopped before the door which by now had become a familiar sight. Would she ever see it again, after ... ?
The paper fluttered to the ground, and she kicked it under the threshold with one boot. Clumsily she reached up to her neck, fumbling with a steel chain fastened about her neck. She cursed under her breath as her gauntleted fingers struggled to undo the clasp. Finally the chain fell upon the ground with a dull noise, the key hung upon it clattering on the pale flag-stones before the door. She would not need it any longer. Turning on her heel, Makanárë stalked away with head thrown back defiantly. Why should she care? What did she know of love? Nothing, the past few days had shown her. It would be better this way, she was certain.
She returned to her own door, and immediately cast a sharp glance around the room. A thin leather journal lay on the table, with a pot of ink and a sheaf of quills. She quickly packed them into a satchel.
The matter of the duel had not laid easy on her mind since the day she had issued the challenge. Nolomir would have no choice but to accept, and she all but knew what must be the outcome. But there were more than ten days left until then, days during which she would not forsake the duty she had taken on as a warrior of her House, before she should be cast from it, if the duel ended as her heart foreboded. Lord Veryacáno had given her a task to fulfil and she would do it, though it be her last duty as a Hammer of Vanimar. A short patrol west through the lands near the Bruinen, and then further on to the lands forsaken by all but a few of the Atani.
Report back, the Hammer Lord had said to her as Lord Anglachelm looked on. What you see, hear... or sniff. As Sergeant would say.
She had to bite back a wry chuckle at the thought of the Hammer Sergeant. And then, inevitably, her thoughts flickered back to the campaign in the Hithaeglir, when she had marched as one with the Hammer into the ice and snows, and fought alongside them in the goblin-caves. She tried to hold back the memories, but they came flooding thick into her mind. Gambling with the warriors, besting the Sergeant at dice. Tasting (and enduring) the Sergeant's particular brand of stew. Drawing steel as one against the servants of the Enemy, the breathless charge into battle which was all too familiar. Sharing the late night hours with others who were charged to keep watch. Discussing plans, tactics, anything over the fire, if they were lucky enough to have one. And one particular Hammer featured prominently in her thoughts, until all she could think of was his face on that night after they had felled the ice-giant, and newly wrapped bandages covered half of her face. She shook her head, fist slamming on the table.
No.
No more of this weakness. She would fulfil her duty to her Order and her House, then her duty to her fallen brother and father. And then? She could not say. Gathering up her belongings, she slung a light bridle over her shoulder, cast the hood of her cloak over her head, and left. Each step took her farther from the Valley she had come to call home, and closer to her destiny.
