The light was wrong for sketching, Olorissë thought – too weak, too pale, too tired. The crackle of the camp fires snapped over the cold ringing of metal as her mother and sister practised. Her pencil flew across the page, one deft stroke after another capturing the swing of their blades, the arc of their bodies, the sun in their braided hair.
A fluid feint-and-lunge from Ríniel, and suddenly Írimë was on her back in the dust, laughing.
“Well done!” Her blue eyes flashed with pride as Ríniel pulled her up. “Olorissë – you next.”
Olorissë's stomach knotted. “Here? In front of everyone?” Blood heated her cheeks. At the Lammoth she had hidden in the rearguard with the children and servants, knowing well that she had none of Ríniel's athletic grace, or her brothers' fierce courage.
Írimë raised an eyebrow. Suddenly she looked so like Grandmother Indis that Olorissë flinched. “Yes. Here.”
“Do not argue!” More softly, she added, “Do you imagine you are safe from danger because you do not wish to bear arms?" Defiance darkened her bright eyes. "I will not let this war have my daughters; it has taken too much from us already.”
Memories flickered in a cruel dance – Fëanáro's wild cries when he learned of Finwë's death; Elenwë, hauled stiff from the water; Turukáno and Itarildë's frozen grief; Arakáno's bloodied corpse; Nelyo, lying maimed in the Healers' tent. Olorissë swallowed and got to her feet.
“Good.” Írimë tossed over one of the practice swords, and smiled her approval as her daughter caught it. “Now – on your guard.”
Olorissë relaxed her frame and raised her blade in a soldier's salute.
Himring requested Írimë with the two daughters I gave her in my fic "Song for the Morning." This takes place much later in the timeline than that story, in the early First Age. I hope you enjoy.
Chapter end notes:
"Amya" - Quenya, "Mother." Informal. Source: Parf Edhellen.
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