[Amanaduial the archer]

Minutes after Maegisil, Narisiel arrived at the palace, almost skidding to a halt in front of the courtyard gates, her feet slipping on tiles now slick with oil spilt from the lamps shattered from their brackets. She had run with as much speed as her stately garb would allow her, only making one stop on the way at her forge – empty, thank the gods, for she was as yet unarmed. For once, she was glad that Losrian hadn’t arrived on time: the room was almost unrecognisable, the mighty anvil turned over and the coals from the furnace scattered over the floor, which was littered with debris from the cupboards which had evidently been rifled through in a search for anyone hiding, or for anything worth taking. Her life’s work destroyed. But the black hoards who now ravaged the city like a plague of locusts had not taken everything…Steadying herself on the gatepost, the councillor caught her breath, resting her other hand on the hilt of her sword, taken from the workshop, as if taking comfort from it. She looked up to the palace – and froze. Above her, halfway up the steps, was a sight maybe none had witnessed on the shores of Middle Earth ever before: Maegisil, an elf, one of the first born, kneeling to an invader of their city.

Traitor.

The word flashed through Narisiel’s mind, and in that instant she felt like her heart was ripping in two, to see one of her greatest friends so humbled, so humiliated. Her hand tightened on her sword handle at her waist as she bit her lip to fight down the scream that welled up inside her, but the worst was yet to come.

“…I am no lord. As for the lord of this city, he is yours. And indeed I beg you to kill him, so he and the Oath of Fëanor may no longer plague my people.” Maegisil’s words as he condemned the Lord he had sworn to serve ad protect with his life could not have been more of a betrayal to his fellow councillor, and as Narisiel’s every impression of her friend fell apart, she pulled herself upright once more and, tears in her eyes, she ran from the hideous scene in front of her. Maegisil was on his own now: the fiery woman who now fled from the courtyard where he had lowered himself would now quite happily have taken her own sword to him right that minute, but she knew where this black messenger of Sauron would go next – and even if Maegisil had betrayed Celebrimbor, Narisiel was not ready to give up on him yet. She couldn’t leave it as she had at their last meeting…

Running around to the side, Narisiel pushed at the door in smaller entrance and leapt backwards as the hinges gave way sending the door crashing into the corridor beyond: she wasn’t the first to enter the palace through this entrance, although she could only pray that she would be first to Celebrimbor. Lifting her skirts, the sword swinging awkwardly against her leg, Narisiel sprinted up the narrow staircase inside the corridor, at the end of which were Celebrimbor’s chambers and, she could now hear, the sounds of battle. Heart pounding in her throat, she took the last few steps three at a time to the top of the staircase and threw herself with all her weight against the door that stood between her…and destruction. There in Celebrimbor’s chambers, a battle was already raging, a few remaining guards putting up what fight they could against the forces of Sauron who had entered, huge, burly men who were more animal than human. All the training they had had could not help them against the sheer strength of their foes, and indeed, bodies were already scattered, broken, clad in the armour of Eregion, a bloody trail of defeat that led up to the throne…where Celebrimbor still sat. And as she watched him, still an unnoticed observer almost beyond the scene that lay before her horrified eyes, Narisiel suddenly saw the mighty Lord of Eregion for what he was now, maybe for what he had been for a long time: an old man, alone now on a throne guarded by none, with all who had stood by him either having fled or fallen, his only guards now the silent suits of armour that lined the walls, watching as if the judgemental eyes of his cursed ancestors themselves dwelt there. Just a sad, lonely old man who had made too many mistakes – and had been too stubborn to ask for help as he watched his past destroy the future of his domain.

These thoughts in their fullness only hit Narisiel afterwards, for her greatest challenge was yet to come – and it stood, hideous and vile, between herself and Celebrimbor, sword raised and ready to strike: the creature to whom Maegisil had knelt. Narisiel felt loathing swell up in her throat as the creature spoke. “And so it comes to this, Celebrimbor. The Oath is fulfilled, and my duty to my master, Melkor, is complete.” And, having intoned these prophetic words, Angoroth drew back his sword and slashed Celebrimbor viciously across the stomach.

Narisiel felt Celebrimbor’s scream more than she heard it, and, without meaning to, gave out a cry of her own, melding in with her lord’s as he writhed in pain at the cruel, fatal wounds across his abdomen. But Angoroth was not finished yet: laughing cruelly, he stepped forward, taking the elf’s chin in one giant hand and raising it so that Celebrimbor was forced to look at his face. As the monster murmured something to the elf, relishing in his victim’s pain as he prepared to watch his slow, painful death, Narisiel barely thought. Drawing her sword, a yell ripped through her throat, more a scream of anguish than a battlecry, and she took the distance between herself and Angoroth at a run. Narisiel herself had no military training: where the trained soldiers of Eregion had failed in killing Angoroth, she knew she wouldn’t succeed. But that wasn’t her aim, and she had help: the owner of these suits of armour might have long since passed from military service, but they could help her yet. Pulling back her sword as she came close to Angoroth, half turning towards her now, Narisiel swung it at one of the suits of armour nearest to the monster. Muscles trained by years of service in her forge came into play, tensed and rippling under the fine material of her elegant dress as the sleeves swung around. Narisiel’s entire weight and strength went into that strike and as her arms jarred painfully against the solid metal of the armour, her strike paid off: with a mighty crash, the figure crashed down – straight onto Angoroth’s back.

The monster gave an enraged yell, trying to disentangle himself, and as he staggered away from Celebrimbor, he collided with a second suit of armour and further entangled himself, losing his balance and falling beneath the heavy unwieldy chunks of metal, an image that would have been almost comical if Narisiel had had time to take it in. But she had achieved her aim: Angoroth was distracted and she was at Celebrimbor’s side in an instant. Narisiel was no trained doctor, and even if she had been, even the greatest medic or magician in Arda could have done nothing for the elven lord at this stage: his eyes rolled up deliriously, only the whites now visible, and his robe, slashed twice horizontally across his torso, was soaked in his lifeblood and his innards were actually visible beneath them. Narisiel took a deep breath and steeled herself: she had no time to even be shocked at his horrific wounds – she had one last duty to perform to Celebrimbor. Positioning herself behind the throne, she pulled the other elf’s head up almost roughly in her haste, and placed her sword across his throat, his shin less than an inch above the bright, polished blade. Caught for an instance in the irony of her position, about to use her own weapon on the one she had sworn she would serve for her whole immortal life, Narisiel gritted her teeth against tears that threatened her eyes. She leant down, her loose hair skimming Celebrimbor’s cheek softly. “I’m sorry, my Lord,” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly despite herself. “I’m so sorry…”

Celebrimbor’s hand came up to her face, trembling and twitching spasmodically as he pressed against her cheek, and as Narisiel closed her eyes, the blood on his fingers melded with the water of the tear that fell onto them. Taking a deep breath, Narisiel straightened up and gritted her teeth, one hand holding his head, the one her sword, both of them still and untrembling on her sword’s hilt: years of careful work with jewels and minute carving paid off and would allow Celebrimbor the swift release that she intended to give him, a last, merciful gift. “May the Valar speed your soul back to them, Celebrimbor, Lord of Eregion. Rest in peace there…” And having given him a last obituary, Narisiel did her duty: her sword slid across his throat and released Lord Celebrimbor of Eregion into death.

An almighty crash of armour and a furious yell announced that Angoroth had finally removed himself from the clutches of Narisiel’s ‘distraction’. For a moment they stood unmoving, a frozen tableau: Narisiel, her eyes glistening with tears and her sword hilt and blade, carved so fittingly with asphodel, glistening with blood, as she glared defiantly at the furious fallen Maia as he realised that his torture victim had been stolen from him. Then Narisiel gave a small, defiant smile. “Not today, Angoroth: my death will not be at your hands!” And as Angoroth lunged towards her, Narisiel leapt, her arms covering her face against the glass that smashed over her – as she threw herself out of the second storey window to the ruin beneath.