FIRE AND FATE¹ ━ legolas greenleaf

𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍, friendships, mended and broken

"Two. One. Five. Good. Very good."

"I think you're improving, Boromir," Raelyn snickers from her seat beside Aragorn, applauding. "Keep practicing, you might even beat Pippin." 

Pippin grins, entire face lighting up like a lantern. He nudges Merry's shoulder — they both almost lose their balance, but regain it again quickly, desperate to seem prepared before their teacher. Boromir scowls at her comment — but it is good natured, no trace of malice to be seen. It's odd, but fighting with him has brought them closer together. The best friends you make are the friends who you've failed to kill. ( Maybe that's a little too far. Raelyn wouldn't classify Boromir a friend — not yet, at least. ) 

They do the training exercise again — Boromir attacks while Pippin tries to fend him off. It's typical of a hobbit to learn defense first — Raelyn learnt to attack before she learnt anything else, as did Aragorn and Legolas. But the hobbits are stubborn and too good-willed to wish harm on anyone, so they block and defend and try to fend off the storms of swords. 

"Move your feet," Aragorn instructs, blowing a ring of smoke from his pipe. It stays in the air for a quick second, holding it's shape, before dissolving into nothingness. 

Pippin grins — Raelyn smiles back. It's hard to remain stoic and serious around Merry and Pippin ( how does Aragorn do it? ) because they have a strange aura — an aura of pleasant things, like smiles and courage. Everyone sees the world in different ways. Raelyn chooses to associate people with feelings — not only does it help her understand them, but she can see how they change. Take Legolas, for example — when they first met, Raelyn would have named him honour and steel and ice. Now — now he is adventure and laughter and — well, there's no need to elaborate.

Gimli puffs on a pipe, frowning. It hurts to look at him —  he reminds her of something else. Another age. ( It's the first time that Raelyn has thought about immortality with horror, not desire. It's an awful thing to watch your friends die and age before your eyes, to see them in their children and then their children, and to know you will never be able to break out of the cycle. ) "If anyone was to ask for my opinion, which I note they're not, I'd say we're taking the long way around. Gandalf, we could pass through the mines of Moria. My cousin Balin would give us a royal welcome."

Raelyn shakes her head at him. "Good thing we didn't ask for your opinion, then." He splutters in outrage. She ignores him. "Gandalf —  since we're sharing unwanted opinions now — I think Moria is a terrible idea."

Gimli looks betrayed. "I thought you, of all people, would be ecstatic to see your old friend again."

And Raelyn would be, if they were not on a time-sensitive, very-important quest. But dwarves are not the best managers of time, or important information. And she has a bad feeling about Moria — a pit in her stomach of smoke and ash, curling around her organs darkly, tightening it's grip. In warning, or in anger. "You truly intend to take the One Ring into the depths of Moria, and you expect everything will go as planned? Don't you know of the nature of dwarves?"

"Didn't you see what the ring did to my axe?" He roars, fire flashing behind the masks of his eyes. 

Raelyn rolls her eyes. "No, Gimli. I must have missed it." 

"Perhaps my brethren can make a blade that can destroy it. The dwarves are the finest craftsmen in the world. We need not venture into the depths of Mordor — we can destroy the ring without ever — "

"Lord Elrond — "

"Lord Elrond makes mistakes."

"Not about this," Aragorn speaks up, holding Gimli's glare. Some unspoken agreement passes between them, and Gimli settles back into his rock, grumbling but sated. "Raelyn is correct."