Post by Admin on Jan 3, 2021 0:34:44 GMT
Author: Wanderer of Realms
Legolas shook his limbs, loosening them. He kept a steady jog in place as he warmed up, each footfall silent on the compact dirt floor of the training arena. The stands were already filling, elves talking and laughing before the championship, a tradition Oropher had started in the military academy: each year, there would be matches between each student that would eventually weed out the lesser swordsmen until two were left. There would then be a duel to see who was crowned winner.
Legolas glanced at his opponent at the other side of the arena. Sylfaen. She, too, was preparing for the deciding match. He sighed. The winner would be hailed as hero for the entire year; he would get extra privileges, time all to himself in the training grounds, and would be more likely chosen as a lieutenant or captain. Or general, for that matter. All three serving generals had been winners. And his own father had won thrice. But even more than petty privileges was the glory. Being able to swagger down the dormitories as the tournament champion. Walking down to the mess hall, whispers following him.
Legolas’s stomach knotted up tightly. If he lost….. The shame wouldn’t end there. He was the heir to the throne. The firstborn of Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm. To lose would be to shame both himself and his father. And that was unthinkable. Legolas cringed. He looked upward to the foremost box in the audience. Sitting in it was his father and his generals, speaking quietly. Thranduil. Always composed, always regal. Always the image of perfection.
The trumpets sounded for the contestants to come forth. Legolas straightened his shoulders, gave his sword a final check, and walked out into the arena.
The crowd cheered as the Legolas and Sylfaen entered. General Thorontur, awaiting in the middle, signaled for the two contestants to come to the center, where the match would begin. Legolas stood facing his competitor, all anxiety and nervousness replaced by pure aggression. On the general’s mark, the two unsheathed their swords, glittering steel sparkling in the sun. These specially issued swords had been blunted, of course, but could still make painful bruises upon contact.
“On three,” General Thorontur said. The crowd hushed. “One.” Legolas shifted his feet for a better stance. “Two.” He raised his eyes to his opponent, who was already glaring right back at him. “Three.”
Their swords met in a clash of metal, ringing in the silent arena. Legolas looked for weaknesses in Sylfaen’s technique. Maybe the right side? He feinted left then switched to right, but she saw right though that tactic, blocking both his blows effectively. He put pressure to the right, driving her towards the back wall. He was on the offensive now. He spun on the ball of his foot as she took a stab towards his left shoulder.
Legolas was a few feet away from the wall when Sylfaen evaded an incoming slice and turned to the wall. Within half a second, she had climbed it and vaulted behind Legolas. Eyes widening, he instinctively stepped to the side and ducked, turning to face Sylfaen again.
Her eyes sparkled. “Not so easy, huh?” she asked. He took a swipe to knock her off her feet, but she had already sidestepped his blade. Legolas gritted his teeth and got down to business.
It had stretched on for far too long already. Sylfaen and Legolas were too evenly matched. Both competitors had taken risks that often landed in too-close shaves. He could feel his strength flagging. Much longer, and he would be too desperate for a win. Legolas had to come up with a plan. Fast.
Sylfaen’s blade shot up to his neck and he barely blocked it in time. His sword was getting heavy.
She knew. He could see the triumph in her eyes. But there was something else: a nagging doubt in her mind. Or maybe it was worry.
“Imagine what they will say when you beat the King’s firstborn,” he whispered as the two sword hilts met each other, bringing the elves close enough for their breaths to mingle. They spun apart, following with another move.
He stepped past her. “Tempting, isn’t it?”
As she turned, he used his boot to kick up loose dirt, temporarily obscuring her vision. Legolas swept his other foot around her knees, knocking the air out of her lungs as she hit the ground with a dull thump. When the dust cleared, the Prince was standing over his opponent, his sword to her chest.
“And that is why you should never let your opponent distract you,” Legolas breathed.
The crowd went wild. He could see his friends, Faelivirn, Taldor, Kallon, whooping and cheering as they exchanged claps to the back. Even, his father was up on his feet, clapping appreciatively.
“I give you…. Legolas Thranduillion, champion of the final match and winner of the National Cup!” General Thorontur announced.
As was the custom, Legolas offered his hand to Sylfaen, still on the ground. She eyed him for a second, finally accepting the gesture and getting back to her feet with his help.
When he returned to the room beneath the arena, Legolas’s friends were already there to meet him. Amid all the laughter and cheers, however, a thought nagged at the back of his mind. He couldn’t ignore it. It made him wary and uneasy.
Legolas squinted at his target, 60 feet away. He focused on the black dot in the center, breathing evenly as he drew his bow and sighted the dot. It filled up in his mind, growing larger and closer.
He shot, the tip of his arrow obliterating the center of the target. Legolas sighed, looking to the red sunset. It was almost dusk now. The stands had emptied in the arena, leaving just him and his target.
“Not bad at all,” someone said behind him.
Legolas turned to see his father, gliding over the hard-packed floor. “I always preferred the bow over the blade,” he answered. “Unlike you.”
“Indeed,” Thranduil replied. “But I have not come to discuss weaponry. Where is the Champion at his victory celebration?”
Legolas walked slowly back and forth, mulling over his words. “I cannot celebrate, not while a nagging thought remains in my mind. I do not think that I won by skill.”
“No. You did not.”
“Then what is the glory in that?”
“You knew that you would be bested if the match continued on for much longer. You wanted to end it on your own terms. There is honor in that. And if it were a real fight, it would have saved your life.” Thranduil paused.
“That still does not ease my discomfort,” Legolas replied.
“Then maybe you should be sure that the next time, you can truly win on skill, not desperation.” Thranduil drew his sword. “You flourish your sword too much when you counter attacks. Don’t waste time and energy trying to control a wobbling blade.” He demonstrated the cut.
Legolas watched.
“Well? Will you not retrieve your sword?” Thranduil asked impatiently. Legolas did as he was asked. One does not refuse the king.
“You begin like this,” Thranduil said, taking a sparring stance.
Legolas shook his limbs, loosening them. He kept a steady jog in place as he warmed up, each footfall silent on the compact dirt floor of the training arena. The stands were already filling, elves talking and laughing before the championship, a tradition Oropher had started in the military academy: each year, there would be matches between each student that would eventually weed out the lesser swordsmen until two were left. There would then be a duel to see who was crowned winner.
Legolas glanced at his opponent at the other side of the arena. Sylfaen. She, too, was preparing for the deciding match. He sighed. The winner would be hailed as hero for the entire year; he would get extra privileges, time all to himself in the training grounds, and would be more likely chosen as a lieutenant or captain. Or general, for that matter. All three serving generals had been winners. And his own father had won thrice. But even more than petty privileges was the glory. Being able to swagger down the dormitories as the tournament champion. Walking down to the mess hall, whispers following him.
Legolas’s stomach knotted up tightly. If he lost….. The shame wouldn’t end there. He was the heir to the throne. The firstborn of Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm. To lose would be to shame both himself and his father. And that was unthinkable. Legolas cringed. He looked upward to the foremost box in the audience. Sitting in it was his father and his generals, speaking quietly. Thranduil. Always composed, always regal. Always the image of perfection.
The trumpets sounded for the contestants to come forth. Legolas straightened his shoulders, gave his sword a final check, and walked out into the arena.
The crowd cheered as the Legolas and Sylfaen entered. General Thorontur, awaiting in the middle, signaled for the two contestants to come to the center, where the match would begin. Legolas stood facing his competitor, all anxiety and nervousness replaced by pure aggression. On the general’s mark, the two unsheathed their swords, glittering steel sparkling in the sun. These specially issued swords had been blunted, of course, but could still make painful bruises upon contact.
“On three,” General Thorontur said. The crowd hushed. “One.” Legolas shifted his feet for a better stance. “Two.” He raised his eyes to his opponent, who was already glaring right back at him. “Three.”
Their swords met in a clash of metal, ringing in the silent arena. Legolas looked for weaknesses in Sylfaen’s technique. Maybe the right side? He feinted left then switched to right, but she saw right though that tactic, blocking both his blows effectively. He put pressure to the right, driving her towards the back wall. He was on the offensive now. He spun on the ball of his foot as she took a stab towards his left shoulder.
Legolas was a few feet away from the wall when Sylfaen evaded an incoming slice and turned to the wall. Within half a second, she had climbed it and vaulted behind Legolas. Eyes widening, he instinctively stepped to the side and ducked, turning to face Sylfaen again.
Her eyes sparkled. “Not so easy, huh?” she asked. He took a swipe to knock her off her feet, but she had already sidestepped his blade. Legolas gritted his teeth and got down to business.
It had stretched on for far too long already. Sylfaen and Legolas were too evenly matched. Both competitors had taken risks that often landed in too-close shaves. He could feel his strength flagging. Much longer, and he would be too desperate for a win. Legolas had to come up with a plan. Fast.
Sylfaen’s blade shot up to his neck and he barely blocked it in time. His sword was getting heavy.
She knew. He could see the triumph in her eyes. But there was something else: a nagging doubt in her mind. Or maybe it was worry.
“Imagine what they will say when you beat the King’s firstborn,” he whispered as the two sword hilts met each other, bringing the elves close enough for their breaths to mingle. They spun apart, following with another move.
He stepped past her. “Tempting, isn’t it?”
As she turned, he used his boot to kick up loose dirt, temporarily obscuring her vision. Legolas swept his other foot around her knees, knocking the air out of her lungs as she hit the ground with a dull thump. When the dust cleared, the Prince was standing over his opponent, his sword to her chest.
“And that is why you should never let your opponent distract you,” Legolas breathed.
The crowd went wild. He could see his friends, Faelivirn, Taldor, Kallon, whooping and cheering as they exchanged claps to the back. Even, his father was up on his feet, clapping appreciatively.
“I give you…. Legolas Thranduillion, champion of the final match and winner of the National Cup!” General Thorontur announced.
As was the custom, Legolas offered his hand to Sylfaen, still on the ground. She eyed him for a second, finally accepting the gesture and getting back to her feet with his help.
When he returned to the room beneath the arena, Legolas’s friends were already there to meet him. Amid all the laughter and cheers, however, a thought nagged at the back of his mind. He couldn’t ignore it. It made him wary and uneasy.
Legolas squinted at his target, 60 feet away. He focused on the black dot in the center, breathing evenly as he drew his bow and sighted the dot. It filled up in his mind, growing larger and closer.
He shot, the tip of his arrow obliterating the center of the target. Legolas sighed, looking to the red sunset. It was almost dusk now. The stands had emptied in the arena, leaving just him and his target.
“Not bad at all,” someone said behind him.
Legolas turned to see his father, gliding over the hard-packed floor. “I always preferred the bow over the blade,” he answered. “Unlike you.”
“Indeed,” Thranduil replied. “But I have not come to discuss weaponry. Where is the Champion at his victory celebration?”
Legolas walked slowly back and forth, mulling over his words. “I cannot celebrate, not while a nagging thought remains in my mind. I do not think that I won by skill.”
“No. You did not.”
“Then what is the glory in that?”
“You knew that you would be bested if the match continued on for much longer. You wanted to end it on your own terms. There is honor in that. And if it were a real fight, it would have saved your life.” Thranduil paused.
“That still does not ease my discomfort,” Legolas replied.
“Then maybe you should be sure that the next time, you can truly win on skill, not desperation.” Thranduil drew his sword. “You flourish your sword too much when you counter attacks. Don’t waste time and energy trying to control a wobbling blade.” He demonstrated the cut.
Legolas watched.
“Well? Will you not retrieve your sword?” Thranduil asked impatiently. Legolas did as he was asked. One does not refuse the king.
“You begin like this,” Thranduil said, taking a sparring stance.