[Amanaduial the archer]

“My lady…my lady, are you…? Sairien, I think this one stirs, at last, she’s waking, I think…my dear, come to us, come on…”

“Good gracious…” The kindly, elderly voice which called Narisiel to wake was followed by a gasp, then a hand touched her face, gently turning it to the side. “Good gracious, Tisinwe, I…my husband knows this elf, I believe, her name…her name is Narisiel. Narisiel Mirdain.”

At her name, Narisiel stirred, the fog in her mind clearing as, almost reluctantly, she opened her eyes, narrowing them against the sudden light of the sun that shone through the walls of the medical tent. Above her, a kindly, beautiful face, framed by dark hair, drew back in shock, and the cool, soft hand on the side of her face drew away suddenly. That face was familiar to Narisiel, her beauty standing out in a crowd as she watched her husband standing beside Celebrimbor…Narisiel tried weakly to clear her throat which felt as if it had sat one hundred years unused, then gave up and croaked, “Sairien?”

Sairien gasped once again and reached for Narisiel’s hand. “Yes! Yes indeed – Narisiel, my husband…Maegisil…we presumed you dead! Why, he has no idea you are here, wait, wait until I go to find him—”
“No!” Narisiel’s reply was sharp as she interrupted, her fingers curling around Sairien’s to stop her as she went to stand, presumably to fetch Maegisil, and she started up herself – a mistake. Wincing, she clutched at her side, almost doubling up in pain as the kind hands of the nurse who sat beside her caught her, gently lowering her back onto her pillow. Narisiel felt blood on her hands and drew them away from her stomach – to see them covered in blood. Her eyes widened in horror and her breathing sped up. “No…no, I…I did not…it had to be done, he was in such pain, it was a kinder way to finish it, I would never have-” Narisiel was becoming frantic now, struggling to rise out of the bed despite the pain that ripped through her abdomen, more blood spilling out onto her hands. Blood, blood on her hands – Celebrimbor’s blood, surely. Death, death, death… The crippling pain from her stomach finally got the better of her, and Narisiel yielded to it and the gentle hands that forced her back onto the bed, tears welling up in her eyes as she wept bitter tears. “It…it had to be done…” she whispered desperately through her tears.

“Narisiel, please, calm yourself – w-what had to be done? What are you talking about?”

Narisiel looked up sharply at Sairien, searching the woman’s face for any sign of deceit, for surely, she felt, they had to know, had to have found out what she had done…but she found only sincerity and concern in the woman’s fine features. And pain. Plenty of pain. But Maegisil…Urgency took hold of her once again and she gripped Sairien’s hand fiercely. “Sairien, your husband, the counsellor Maegisil-?”

“He is alive, Narisiel, alive and well, although I shall not say that he has not also been harmed by the battle, if not physically.” She frowned and looked away, her forehead creasing slightly into newly formed lines of anxiety. “The fall of Eregion and the death of Celebrimbor...” she turned back to Narisiel, shaking her head. “He could have done no more to protect the Lord Celebrimbor, though my telling him so seems to make no difference. Not that it is known for sure whether he is dead, although Maegisil seems convinced of the fact…”

Ah. So this woman was not entirely knowledgeable about the events of the fall of the city. An image flashed through Narisiel’s mind: Maegisil kneeling before Angoroth, swearing an oath that betrayed Celebrimbor. She looked away and something in her expression must have alerted Sairien, for the elf leant forward. “What, what is it? You know something of Celebrimbor?”

Narisiel turned slowly back to Sairien, and she gave a sad smile. Oh, all I know of Celebrimbor… She turned to the nurse and, giving her her thanks, asked her to leave. Studying Sairien’s earnest features, she prepared to reveal her secret…

…then hesitated.

Why should she reveal this secret to Sairien? Maegisil had kept his secrets close, evidently, somehow omitting to tell his wife of the vow he had sworn to Angoroth. But that, too, was not Narisiel’s secret to tell. Let Maegisil reveal what he saw fit to his wife, of the ring, of Angoroth, of Celebrimbor… Her eyes flitted critically over Sairien’s features, again searching for some sign that the woman knew any more than she was letting on, but she came up only with simple consternation and anxiety, not only for Narisiel but for Maegisil as well. For all the years the two counsellors had known each other, Narisiel had only ever met Sairien a few times, and always fleetingly. But whenever she had seen husband and wife together, she had seen the same adoring, simple love as resided between herself and Sirithlonnior. . She smiled. “You are every bit as beautiful as Maegisil said,” she replied quietly. Sairien smiled, blushing slightly, and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear self-consciously. But Narisiel’s smile was a sad one: she envied this woman that she still had her husband, loving, alive.

“Today is not our dying day…” Her husband’s words echoed back to her painfully and Narisiel almost flinched, her eyes glistening. She knew, as surely as she knew of her own existence, more surely even, that Sirith was dead. His words had been proved false, but she could never tease him about it in the way that she would have done, could never again mock him, tease, embrace him… The elf took a deep, ragged breath in, then out, blinking away the tears in her eyes. She looked up at Sairien and gave her a brief, tight smile. “You are lucky, Sairien. You…” she paused, taking a deep breath against the grief that welled up in her throat. “My husband,” she continued quietly. “I don’t suppose…” Sairien’s eyes told her what she needed to know before she had even finished the sentence. She gave a quick, curt nod, a quick, almost business-like sniff, opening her mouth to speak again, then deciding that she did not trust herself with the words. The other elf, as if understanding, squeezed her hand gently and, without another word, drifted away, leaving Narisiel alone.

“Today is not our dying day…” No. Death had been stolen from Narisiel as surely as she had stolen life from Celebrimbor, although how she had been taken from the city she was not sure – later, the nurse would tell her that she had been carried from the city by a soldier, mistaking her for another, although she did not know that for now, and had slept for several days, unconscious, after having been left at survivors’ camp. She remained alive where her son and husband were surely dead, but how?! Surely, a leap through a pane of glass from a second storey window onto hard ground below could only have one result! She had expected death, maybe even yearned for it after she had jumped, the blood staining her fingers not her own but that of the friend and lord she had sworn to protect. Two fractured ribs and a wrist broken from the impact, along with scratches and cuts galore, she had – but, miraculously, life also remained hers. And as she lay in that medical tent for the week or so after the battle, recovering slowly from her body, she both cursed and blessed that fact.

Maegisil did not come to see her: Sairien, although she did not know why Narisiel craved secrecy, respected her wishes and did not tell her husband of her prescence, and she mused on whether she was perhaps disgraced, fallen in his eyes – she heard little of the counsellor, lapsing as she did in and out of consciousness, maybe through concussion, maybe also through simply a lack of motivation to live. But after a week and a half in this state, when she was finally able to leave the medical tent and walk in the sunlight in the makeshift camp, the elven woman had concocted a plan, simple though it was. She would simply leave the camp. Leave the camp, leave the elves, leave Maegisil and all the secrets they held, shared and individually – too many secrets, over all the years. To keep them bottled up, both knowing of them but neither voicing their fears and concerns, twists the soul, and Narisiel wanted no more part in it. Such deceit over the past century had caused her enough pain for a lifetime, even that of an immortal. Deceit to her people, to her family, to herself even – and now that she had lost both her people and her family, Narisiel even found that she barely knew herself anymore.

No. No more secrets, no more lies.

And so it was, under the bright, winter’s morning sun, that Narisiel Mirdain stood at the outskirts of the camp looking up, surveying it one last time. Here, in this small area of land, was all that was left of the first great, white city. Yet although Ost-in-Edhil had fallen, life went on: children remained, their mothers’ faces newly lined with pain and sorrow, brightening to watch them play together, for children, a sign of life, speak of a future to come, even if it was a future that some would have to face alone. The soldiers of Elrond talked among themselves and to the elves of Eregion, sharing stories with pipeweed as they laughed together, the sound of cheer that echoed through the camp no longer so strange as it turned from a place of mourning to…well, somewhere people could go to. Each would start a new life – and Narisiel’s started here, on this hill, paused under this holly bush, with just a few belongings, provisions and the sword at her side, hidden discreetly under a borrowed travelling cloak. A smile creased her features as she surveyed the camp, then, finally, turned to leave – and paused.

“Sairien, are you ready? No, don’t worry, it’s nothing, I don’t want to talk about it…of course, of course…”

Narisiel stood, frozen, watching from her distant position the familiar figure who spoke to his wife, hurrying out of Elrond’s tent. He was a little gaunter, a little aged in the two weeks since Narisiel had last seen him, but nonetheless, there was the face from a lifetime ago, for a face of a century’s worth of friendship does not easily fade from the memory. Maegisil.

In the time since she had arrived at the camp, Narisiel had heard her own name referenced once or twice, always by strangers, for she knew barely a soul from her previous life. Her name was not unknown amongst them, for she had, of course, been of some standing in Ost-in-Edhil, and it seemed people always knew more than was expected – rumours, half-truths, whole truths which she would never verify all drifted in the minds of those who speculated about Celebrimbor and the rings. Maybe there would one day be a ballad, a poem, an epic work made of the great, fallen city of Ost-in-Edhil, and of the Mirdain, those greatest smiths who worked there. Maybe…maybe Narisiel herself would come into it. Maybe even the forging of the rings… Narisiel turned away. Better to be remembered in whatever way the remainder of that mighty people saw fit than to bring her broken secrets amongst them to scandalise and then, finally, fade away. No. With a dead son, a dead husband and the remainders of such a beautiful life gone sour, honey that turned bittersweet in the mouth when finally tasted, Narisiel turned from the camp and struck out for a new life. Whether Maegisil, as he hurried from the tent, might have chanced to turn to look up the hill, to catch the winter’s sun as she rose to her glorious pinnacle in the sky, and might have seen illuminated there a solitary figure he may have remembered her from a thousand years and a different lifetime before; maybe not. If he did, he never let on, and Narisiel Mirdain passed from the camp, quietly, and alone.

If Sairien never told her husband of her brief encounter with Narisiel in the medicine tent, why then, Maegisil would never know the elf-smith had even escaped: Narisiel Mirdain could well have died with her family in the city she loved. Let Sairien keep her secret, let Maegisil keep his. And Narisiel? Well, she too would keep her secrets now. Let them believe what they would! Of the rings, of the elves who made them, of Celebrimbor – and of his eventual fate. Let them all be remembered in whatever fashion the storytellers saw fit to conjure up! Let them hope, let them dream. Maybe that was all existence had ever been based on: a hope, a dream. And now, for Narisiel, a new dream had begun.