mithril

XXXI.

— XXXI —

The cold is almost unbearable as the Elves and Aragorn move South with me. They have no horses, for Legolas left his pale Mirkwood steed behind long ago. To match their pace, Zunsh follows us on foot. They have no true reason to follow me South, for they have been hunting the Orcs that fled to Gundabad after the battle. Yet I am glad of the company, as the friendship their presence brings allows the journey to go even faster.

We ride mostly South, but not quite far enough to reach Beorn's house. Our path turns East well before the Cadoc with the intention of entering Mirkwood before the heavy snows begin to fall.

"Will you stay with my people long?" Legolas asks the second night of our travels as we pause beside a crackling fire.

"The Woodland Realm is agreeable with me. It would be wise to overwinter there instead of facing the snowfall. Yet I don't think I will. I would speak to the ache in my heart, but I have no wish to bore you with such matters."

"It would be hard for you to bore me, Silver Wolf," Legolas teases.

"Age has turned me into a poetic," I answer musingly.

"Has it dulled your blade?" Aragorn inquires slyly. A question I know he's been waiting to ask until my physical pains have lessened. I pretend to mull over the inquiry quietly, staring deep into the flickering flames.

"That depends. Do you think you could withstand the might of Angolain."

"Withstand?" He scoffs. I eye the teenager. How much he has grown and how much he will continue to grow. Taller, broader. Stronger than I could ever hope to be. A true Dunedán in every way. As kingly as his lineage. I have no doubts that Legolas and Tauriel have been honing him these past months in the Wild. Just like it had been my duty to do, once upon a time. I was afraid my time for completing that promise was long gone.

Perhaps, a year ago, I would have beaten him without a single question to our differences in skill. Now, I am not nearly as certain. Between his rapidly increasing strength, his newfound skills, and my own lapses in my health, he might just cut me down.

"Would you like to give it a go?" I ask, gesturing to where Angolain lays with my packs. Aragorn grins.

"If you insist."

"Léra," Legolas warns. I ignore him, standing and retrieving my sword.

He is eager with youth. Eager with the boundless energy that flows through him.

He's a fine young swordsman, honed on the foundations of Elrond's teachings, sharpened by his rapid growth in the Wild. Elven and Man all at once. Blood and fire showing in his eyes as he swings strong and true.

"Very good," I praise as I parry his blow. "But not fast enough. Faster, young Ranger. Faster still."

So he increases. Whirling and jabbing, needling at my defenses. This is nothing like my dance with Thranduil. Aragorn is a desperate fighter. He has only had time to learn to fight for the sake of his life. So he pushes me to the very limits of my energy. It doesn't take me long to tire. I begin to feel a dull drag on my senses, a lessening in the reaction time of my limbs. I end the sparring by stepping away and dropping Angolain's tip to the frozen earth.

My breathing is ragged. My heartbeat is thundering in my ears. Despite the cold, I'm still sweating profusely. It was a workout I had been expecting, but it made it no easier on me. Legolas begins to scold Aragorn, but I hold up a hand.

"Not bad," I force a grin. "But not good enough. You're too sloppy."

"Sloppy?" He chokes out, disbelieving. The Elf shakes his head as I drop next to the fire.