Not a week passes when I do not meet Tauriel for a lesson in knife wielding. And though the blades refuse to cooperate, preferring the forest floor instead of my hands, the young captain has an unending store of patience. The first snow of winter arrives and melts, and still I cannot spin them in my hands long enough to practice any further maneuvers.
It is humiliating, and difficult to hide my frustration around Tauriel. I feel like a helpless child unable to hold a spoon.
"Tell me truly: is there any hope?"
"Tis a good question," Tauriel admits, her hand on my arm. "But I have not given up on you yet."
"Legolas did."
"Yes, he warned me about you long ago. But it did not stop me."
"Perhaps it should have."
We break into an easy laughter. I find no offense; we have laughed about it before. It is a testament to Tauriel's character that she refuses to admit defeat regardless of a seemingly hopeless situation. And for that I admire her more. If our roles were in reverse, I would have concluded it as a lost cause.
Many times after our lessons we talk until supper, trading memories and humorous stories, most of which involve Legolas. We share a bond in our acquaintance with him, and a bond in not seeing him as anything more than a friend. Tauriel confesses she is afraid. Afraid to hurt him, and afraid their long friendship will not endure if she tells him her true feelings.
It is my belief Legolas already knows and cannot yet accept it. But soon he will, I promise her, and perhaps his visit to Imladris will be the catalyst for a change in his heart. A realization it belongs elsewhere.
"Keep practicing, mellon," she says. "Eventually you will feel comfortable with them. And then and only then will we try something more challenging."
Unless the weather is not conducive, I practice every day after leaving my scriptorium. But no amount of practice makes the knives feel natural in my clumsy hands, and my frustration mounts as they continue to fall to the ground. Even young babes can eventually learn how to hold a spoon.
I am lucky I have not cut myself.
Why did I not inherit the graceful dexterity of my kin? Elros would say it is due to me being only half Sindar, the same reason he gave for my mismatching eyes. Another oddity. It seems I have many.
"Your grip is too tight," says a familiar voice behind me. "It is a fluid motion. You are going to injure yourself."
I stiffen, and one of the knives escapes my hand. Thranduil's chuckle is as loud as a horn in my ears. If all of Arda was watching, I could not feel more absurd.
"So I have been told a thousand times, or more," I say through my teeth.
He approaches me, dried leaves crunching under his boots. "Then you are not listening. Here, I will show you."
His voice is calm, any sign of his earlier amusement wiped from his face as though it was a conjuring of my imagination. A brisk wind flutters his loose hair and sage green cloak, and his eyes are warm as he looks down at me. With reluctance I discard my pride and hand him the knives.
In a mere moment he is deftly spinning them in his hands with an ease which puts Tauriel's supreme skill to shame.
"Watch my fingers. See how my I move my thumbs back at the start of the spin? I noticed you were dangerously close to cutting yours off."
Thranduil's motion is graceful and controlled, the daggers but an extension of him. He loosely keeps them in his grasp. His spinning turns to slashing the air, moving his arms but the rest of his body very little, not exerting more strength than required. No theatrics, no unnecessary moving around like I have seen from Tauriel and Legolas. He is a powerful storm in a small space.
"I am not focused on the fear of them falling. Since that alone is where your focus lies, you are too tense and cannot hold them for long."
Without warning, he throws one at a nearby oak. It hits the trunk's center with a dull crack of wood. A family of sparrows escapes from its overhead branches in alarm.
"Now you are only showing off." I glance at him over my shoulder as I walk to retrieve it, suppressing a smile. "The Warrior King."
He looks pleased. "It is an appropriate title."
"Yet when last did you go into battle?"
My tone is playful, but I hope my words strike a chord. It is still my intention of convincing him take a stand against the enemy. If only I knew how.
"Far too recent." His mouth becomes a thin line. "Now it is your turn. Try only one knife this time, and hold it at an angle. It will slow the spin and help you practice easier."
Holding the dagger as loosely as I dare, I will my body to relax and envision we stand on a peaceful, endless shoreline bordering an emerald sea. The tension leaves my shoulders and wrists as though it never existed. I exhale.
As Thranduil demonstrated, I begin to spin the blade with a more fluid movement, my grip not as tight as before. It is taxing to go against my nature. But I focus on the gentle waves, and the sound of my own breathing.
A squawking bird causes me to lose the vision, and the battle as well; the knife falls to its familiar resting spot on the ground.
"Better," he says.
"Hardly."
"For a moment you gave me hope of your abilities. It was fleeting, however."
I point the knife at his chest. "Pardon?"
"Your reactions are never a disappointment." His mouth quirks. "All you need is practice, and belief in yourself, and you will be as good as any of my Guard, Rîneth. Your mind is your biggest enemy. It always has been."
I feel heat creep in my cheeks at hearing the truth. I lower my knife.
I have been listening to taunts from Nethanar and Elros in my mind for too long, and I have started to believe them. Their cruel voices are nothing but my own insecurities rising up from a buried place within.
Unless I stop giving them heed, they will continue until they shatter my spirit.
Blinking, I return my gaze to Thranduil, and suddenly feel grateful for his company. "You do not oft wander outside the caves without purpose. What are you doing here?"
"I do not wander. I was walking to the stables when I saw you and stopped to watch your attempts."
"How long were you watching me?"
"Not long. I could not stand back and say nothing."
"Of course not." I shake my head, and re-sheath the knives. "Are you going somewhere?"
His gaze flickers down to my hand, then returns. "If I was, you would only wish to come along as well."