[Amanaduial the archer]

In the comfortable merchants' quarter of the city, the houses still lay peaceful and still, their innards and inhabitants as yet undisturbed. Morning had barely broken, and the first tentative fingers of sunlight were just beginning to gently prod the birds out of their perches to chirp their morning song, a sleepy hail to the morning - a morning that, unbeknownest to the little birds, or to the inhabitants of the slumbering houses that they serendaded, would bring the very doom of the Mirdain.

Or maybe the birds did know. Who knows what news blows on the wind? But they did not yet scatter as Narisiel stirred slightly in her bed, turning onto her side and, as she did so, disturbing Sirithlonnior's arm, lazily sprawled as it was across her waist. For a moment, the weight and warmth of her flesh felt strange, almost unfamiliar - several weeks of the taut tension and petty arguements in the house of the smith and the soldier had meant that the desert of the bed had lain unbreached for some time, but last night, many walls had fallen - as she and Sirith had battled out their differences and their tension, the anger and frustration had eventually burnt itself out in the flame of, well, an almost disappointment - disappointment, that is, that they had not spoken of it sooner, that the distance could not be breached earlier, that their love had had to stand, waiting, at the side until finally, in the raging inferno of anger, it had won over. Strange, then, and yet at the same time it was as right and natural as breathing. The moment seemed almost frozen, only moving on by the lively changes in the birds' laughing song and by the gentle breathing of her husband, and Narisiel took a moment to cherish this suspended second: the birdsong, safe in her bed in the arms of the man she loved, his weight and warmth resting beside her, around her, reassuring. She sighed happily, closing her eyes and sinking back once again into the pillow, her arm draped lazily across his. Moments like this were what made up life, or the parts of life that we will remember when we are old and grey and sitting by the fire, looking back with rhumey eyes into the past.

But maybe to sit old and grey by the fire was not what fate had planned in store for Narisiel Mirdain this morning.

As the first volley of stones hurled from the orcish catapults smashed into the elven buildings, although only a test to test the distance and angles needed, the stones that smashed through the long windows of Narisiel's window were more than enough to send the blacksmith leaping from where she lay with a yelp. It was as if the world, her peaceful world, had smashed open suddenly, waking her rudely from slumber as the panes of every window shattered inwards as the stones ricochetted into them. As the call came and a second catapult loosed its cargo into the city, Narisiel covered her ears, cowering back against her bed head. In a split second, she felt warm arms around her, a human shield embracing and shielding her as Sirithlonnior braced himself against whatever might enter; and she clung to her husband in the instinctive fear of an animal.

This time, however, the catapult fired its multitude of targets at another part of the city, and as her heart leaped in the split second of near silence that followed them, Narisiel was up and out of the bed, darting away from her husband's tight embrace as she ran to the closet at one side of the room, flinging it open and dragging out her husband's armour, which she almost threw at him where he sat, simply watching her. But there was not time for her to spend gazing at him in this second: the peace and quiet of but a few short moments ago had been dispersed, scattered to the wind, and something else had taken over: survival instinct. Grabbing her working clothes, Narisiel began to pull the shirt over her head, clumsily buttoning it with shaking fingers and dragging the leather waistcoat over it as she hastened down the steps from the master bedroom and down the corridor towards her son's room...

...where Artamir already sat awake, lacing up his long, leather boots. Clothed, wearing his armour, cloak sprawled across the bed, sword and helmet neatly ready beside him, the blade peeping out of the hilt at the top, ready checked... Narisiel froze in the doorway for a moment, staring at the figure on the bed, wondering who this efficient soldier who sat in place of her precious child was. Seeing his mother, half-dressed and framed in the doorway, Artamir finished his boots and stood up. Gracious, when did he get so tall, when did those lines define them so sharply across his bones, his face sharpen so handsomely? Narisiel felt tears in her eyes at the sight of this warrior who had once been a cherub-faced elven babe, and, as he stepped towards her, nodded hastily, turning away and dashing the moisture from her eyes as, with a few quick words to her son, she stumbled back to her bedroom. There, another warrior sat on the bed, again lacing up his boots, which he pulled decisively tightly as she reached him. Sirithlonnior turned towards his wife, moving stiffly due to the weight of the armour over tired limbs, then was almost knocked backwards as his wife suddenly grabbed him, embracing him tightly, fiercely, possessively. And for a moment, business and duty were allowed to subside, to ebb back, as Sirith softened and held his wife tightly back as she fought the tears in her eyes.

Finally disentangling herself from her husband’s arms, Narisiel rested back on her knees in front of him, taking a moment to calm herself, and to drink in everything about him: sight, touch, scent, the feel of her hands resting in hers. And as she did so, the sounds of battle and voiced, both panicked and commanding, reached her from outside, she reached a moment of clarity – her calm before the storm that would hit maybe. A self-inflicted storm… Rising fluidly from her knees, Narisiel stepped once more towards the closet and, carefully and precisely, she drew out not her workclothes, but a dress, practical dark blue, but underlined with red – simple, but striking, and with a balance of practicality, as far as was possible, and elegance.

“What are you doing?”

Sirith’s voice did not make Narisiel turn, admiring her dress held at arm length, her eyes glittering, a child having with a new and wonderful gift. For a moment, in fact, she did not move at all, until Sirith’s voice, tainted with urgency, prompted her to reply as he repeated himself. “Narisiel, what are you doing? You…you cannot be practical in such attire…please, Narisiel…”

Narisiel turned suddenly to face her husband as he pleaded with her to break this silence, and again she was struck by his perfection, the light from the shattered windows striking the side of his face, the image of an ancient knight, sword in his belt and helmet under his arm. Moments like this were what made up life, or the parts of life that we will remember when we are old and grey and sitting by the fire…

“If today the city is to fall, we shall fall as we were always meant to, deep down,” she replied softly. “If I am to die, it shall be as I am: advisor to the Lord of Ost-in-Edhil, and the wife of the noblest Commander of that brave city’s army.”

Sirithlonnior gazed at his wife for a moment, then enfolded her once more in his arms, rocking her gently. Releasing her and stepping back, he cupped her face and wiped the still dry patches under her grey eyes, surprisingly gentle and tender, feather-touch of angel fingers clad for a celestial battle. “Today is not our dying day, Narisiel Mirdain, I feel it – I will come back for you.”

The words that echoed around the city, determined husbands to desolate wives: I will come back for you. But this spouse was not simply going to sit back and go gently into that good night as the catapults whistled against the white walls – for even as she pulled the dress on, doing the elaborate fastenings with a suddenly steady touch, even as her son and husband marched out together towards their battalions, her mind was always focused deadly sharp upon the blade that hung in her workshop. Terrible and beautiful, both of them.