Wild Monster

by Matthew Harrington

  Thoron smiled, obviously reading his thoughts. "That part of the trial is over, warrior. Come," he repeated, before leading the way into the communal dining hall.

  There, the habitual blanket of silence followed him as it always did but with the warriors, it was but a momentary lull before they were back to their quiet conversations. There were no judgemental stares, no hate, just acknowledgement of his arrival. It was refreshing and he allowed himself to relax a little. True enough he had not seen Barathon and Brethil in one corner for there could be no mistaking the emotions in their hard, uncaring eyes.

  Captain Tirion stood and beckoned him over to his table. Saluting, Legolas sat were he was shown and nodded at Dunorel, and then smiled sparingly at lieutenant Dorhinen, who seemed to be having a somewhat meaningful conversation with Dunorel, a fellow Sinda.

  "But why, why did you refuse that recommendation?" asked Dunorel.

  "Because I was not worthy of it," said the cold Sinda.

  "It wasn't your fault, Dorhinen. Even the king knows this, still trusts you implicitly."

  Dorhinen did not answer and Legolas was shocked to see a fleeting moment of emotion pass over his face. It was grief, he realised, grief for his fallen king if Legolas was not mistaken. He could not forgive himself for the loss of Oropher…

  He chanced a glance at Dunorel and then Dorhinen, but quickly looked back at his plate as the Sinda caught him.

  "It must be difficult for you, that this son of Thranduil should resemble him so much."

  Legolas hesitated for a moment, before finally eating his bread, eyes back on Dorhinen.

  "It is - strange - I admit."

  "It is strange for us all," said Dunorel to his table companions.

  "He is the spitting image," said Tirion. It's how I knew, how Lainion too, had no doubts as to who he was."

  Legolas' head bowed at the mention of his lost brother and Tirion's calming hand fell upon his vambrace. "Peace, child, it calms with time…"

  Legolas simply nodded, unable to speak for a moment and nobody else did, in respect for his grief.

  Sipping now on his hot tea, he dared ask his first question.

  "Captain Tirion, will I be required to fight now, or will that be later?"

  "Now, why?" he asked in interest.

  "May I be allowed a few minutes - to prepare?"

  "Prepare what?"

  Legolas scowled, "myself, Captain."

  "If you must. I see no harm in that. Be ready for us in fifteen minutes in the courtyard."

  "Of course, Captain. Thank you," and with that he stood, saluted, and left, under the calculating stare of the captains.

  Outside, two warriors were setting up wooden shelving where an array of weapons was being displayed, and further away, targets were being placed. As Legolas passed them, they smiled and nodded at him for these warriors were Silvan and though Legolas still did not understand it, they seemed to respect him, even though they did not know him.

  Unbuckling his quiver and laying his own weapons out carefully on the floor beside him, he unbuttoned his outer tunic and removed his shirt, leaving him naked from the waist upwards, save for the two silver bands that sat high on his right bicep.

  The weather was humid but the rain had stopped, yet the sky was still a shocking slate grey - the storm would break again later, of that he was sure.

  Siting upon the cold stone, he crossed his legs and tilted his head back, closing his eyes and beginning his own, practiced routine, completely unaware of the stares the Silvan warriors were sending his way.

  Empty - there was nothing in his mind except his own body. His muscles, his endurance, his skill and his velocity - coordination, anticipation, strength..

  He breathed slowly, deeply. Eyesight, hearing, touch, control - control.

  "Legolas."

  Opening his eyes, he allowed them to focus for a moment, registering the presence of Captain Forhen.

  "Step into the Circle, warrior."

  Rising, he briefly wondered how fifteen minutes had just escaped him, and if he should dress, but decided against it, for the captain had said nothing and so he followed Forhen until he was once more in the centre.

  Huron stepped forward and circled him. He briefly touched the area where Legolas had been shot just days before.

  "Does this pain you?" he asked.

  "No, Captain."

  "Will it impair your performance today?"

  "Somewhat, Sir, the bow, specifically."

  "No archery for the moment, then," he said, before his eyes began to travel the entire length of Legolas' body, the broad, strong shoulders, the well-defined muscles, the corded abdomen and clearly curved thighs.

  "Today you will show us your skill with the weapons we provide you with. You will spar with the best we have but we do not expect you to win, Legolas. This is not about winning but about showing what you know, and what you do not.

  "I understand, Sir."

  "However, that does not mean we want you to hold back - for we, will not," he smiled, and then turned to join his fellow commanders.

  The captains spoke quietly for a few moments, their eyes constantly returning to the tall, strong warrior, for seldom was such a body seen. There was a perfection to the hard muscles that spoke of training way beyond the norm, and the whispers they had heard were suddenly more credible.

  "Warrior," called Captain Eramir. "What training regime do you follow?"

  "The standard Greenwood regime, as if my duty. I then carry out my own routine."

  "What is your routine?"

  "It is based on concepts both from the journal of General Darcaneth and the teachings of Nurostel of Doriath. It requires meditation both before and after the session and favours slow, precise movements as opposed to velocity. From there I have incorporated techniques I have learned from Avarin hand-to-hand combat, and Silvan aerial work."

  The captains stared back at this - child - and for a moment, in spite of the thousands of questions they wanted to ask, none were forthcoming. It was the perfect opportunity for Captain Brethil to press his point.

  "What would a Silvan know about Nurostel of Doriath?"

  Legolas stayed his irritation, for the most part at least. "The Silvans can read, Captain and, I am half Sindarin."

  Some of the captains smiled openly, but of course Brethil was not impressed. "You remain as impertinent as ever, warrior."

  "Captain Brethil," said Huron, sharing a knowing glance at the Commander General as he uttered his next words. "You will confront Legolas with the swords." They knew Brethil had somehow come by a Masters in the long sword but long had they suspected that had been achieved by means other than the elf's skills, for Brethil hardly ever rode in the field, preferring the more administrative tasks at the barracks. They would test their theory now and if they were right, they would find the elf that had approved of it…

  Brethil, however, seemed completely unconcerned that his skills would be put to the test, so confident he was. He would assume, and rightly so, thought Huron, that Legolas would still be much greener, less skilled than he, a seasoned warrior - Master or no. Still, the bracelet stood on the Sinda's arm and Huron had the sudden urge to rip it off him.

  Accepting a sword that was solemnly presented to him by a Silvan weapons master that stood nearby, Legolas turned to face his opponent, just as Glorfindel's face came into his mind's eye.

  'Why are you flapping your arm around like that…'

  Legolas took up his stance, strange and ancient, the position of his hands distracting for they held the pommel with both hands, one wrapped around it and the other touching it only with the flat of his hand.

  "What is he doing?" asked Dunorel, leaning in to Thoron.

  "I'm not sure," he murmured.

  With a mighty whoosh, Brethil's sword cut through the air, arcing towards Legolas' head but the Silvan did not parry it, he simply dodged it and then regained his stance.

  Brethil turned and swung low, and Legolas jumped, collec
ting his feet under him and then landing lightly, again taking up his posture, and Glorfindel was there again.

  'Watch your opponent. Let them make the first move, read them, their skill, their tendencies…'

  Brethil dodged to one side and then the other, before turning and jabbing forward - into air, for before he knew it, Legolas was behind him.

  Whirling on his heel, his face now red with anger, he squared himself once more, holding his sword high over his head. Brethil was changing tactic.

  With a cry he attacked, and Legolas parried for the first time, his cool green eyes locking with Brethil's seething grey.

  With a scrape of metal they fell apart, and then circled, and Huron watched from afar.

  "He is holding back," he said in fascination to Celegon. "The boy already had him in that second move but he held back."

  Celegon knew it was true but was too engrossed to even acknowledge what Huron had said.

  Brethil carried out three intricate moves that Legolas followed with his quick eyes, countering them by feigning left and then spinning round, and as the Sinda's blade sliced predictably where Legolas knew it would, he grabbed Brethil's forearm and pulled him forward, sending him crashing to the rocky ground face first.

  Stunned silence ensued, the captains' disbelieving faces still registering the fact that a Master swordsman had been thrown to the ground, not by another sword but bodily.

  Uncomfortable silence ensued as Brethil slowly rose, looking around at the captains, whose sparkling eyes were fixed on him; accusing, dissapointed, disgusted…

  "Is there a Master swordsman that would like to spar with Legolas?" asked the smirking Sinda, and there was no mistaking the emphasis Dunorel had placed on the word master.

  "I would," came the deep voice of Tirion, stepping into the circle. "Shall we?"

  Legolas bowed low, unable to hide his joy, and this time, the spar was fast and skilled and Tirion worked hard to best Legolas, something which took him fifteen exhausting minutes to achieve, for what Legolas lacked in technique and experience, he made up for with sheer velocity and acrobatics. Indeed Tirion had moved more in that one spar than he had the entire year fighting the enemy.

  Eventually though, Tirion's mastery gave its fruit and his blade found itself resting over Legolas' side. The Silvan stood back, nodded and then bowed low, conceding the fight with a brilliant smile on his face.

  There were loud murmurs that were promptly quieted as a panting Tirion rejoined the captains, handing Legolas' sword back to the weapons master.

  "Tell us, warrior. What are your weaknesses with the sword?" asked the General.

  "I fail to adapt to its weight. I am so accustomed to the short swords that with the heaver weapon, I tend to overcompensate. That and my lack of experience - I did not anticipate that final move - have never seen it before."

  Nodding his understanding, Huron returned to the Inner Circle, and as for Brethil, Brethil stood stiffly, his face too red to be healthy by any elf's standard, but when Huron's glacial stare rested on him accusingly, it promptly turned the colour of winter snow.

  "Maeneth!"

  Silver silk fanned out around the face of an angel and all that looked upon her did so in admiration. She was beautiful by any standards, her face smooth and pale, her frosty blue eyes bright and alive. Yet all that knew her would never say her character fit her face, for it did not.

  "Write soon, Sister. No sooner you arrive, send word," said the dark beauty that now stood next to the magnificent mare.

  Maeneth stared down at her friend, her sister. "Wish me luck…" she whispered, her eyes too bright, her voice too soft.

  Arwen lifted one hand in farewell, a proud smile upon her face and a light in her eyes that told Maeneth they would see each other again soon, for friends such as these would not be parted for long.

  And so it was that Maeneth, Princess of Greenwood the Great, finally set off on a journey that would take her home, for the first time in five hundred years. She had not been summoned, not with missives, but her brother had called for her all the same. Not in words for that was not his way, yet he needed her all the same.

  It was time to return, as an adult and not the child she had been in those days of suffering, days which had seen her father's decent into grief, and the destruction of her beloved brother's peace and happiness. She had not understood it at the time, but with distance and instruction had come understanding.

  She had fond memories of Handir for he was close in age to her, but it was Rinion - Rinion was the other half of herself, the elf only she was able to move, to understand. In the thousands of letters they had sent each other over the years, Rinion had poured out his heart, his anger and frustration, his fears - all the things she knew he would not show to anyone else.

  Yet there was one thing she still did not understand, after all this time. Why had he sent her away? Why had he insisted his father send her to Lothlorien? For somehow, Maeneth knew it was not the absence of the queen that had prompted such insistence.

  She had thought perhaps, that it was because of their father's volatile health and her own tender age. Or perhaps it was because Rinion had sensed a danger - one he had never addressed.

  Whichever the case, he needed her now, and she wanted her beloved brother back. Rinion, Crown Prince of Greenwood the Great; mercurial, glacial, unfeeling on the outside, yet on the inside scarred almost beyond recognition. Maeneth had moved on, grown, changed yet he had not - but he would, of that she had no doubt.

  Twin swords whirled and clashed for the second time that afternoon. Captain Lanthir had sparred with Legolas and had been summarily bested after the third move, leaving the captains anxious to see more of his skill. Yet Legolas had not ended it, instead drawing out the spar into some semblance of dignity. Lanthir knew what he had done, indeed had Huron not told the boy this was not about winning and losing? He was not bad with the short swords, but Legolas was beyond his ken.

  He sparred now, with General Huron himself. The mastery was clear and Legolas took the opportunity to show them his own, personal technique.

  The captains watched in utter silence as the Silvan used every part of his body, not just the blades in his hands for he twisted and turned, swivelled and then jumped, summersaulted backwards, forwards, twisted away to the side so that it was impossible to land a blow. Almost half an hour later, Huron could take no more and stepped back, his chest heaving and his eyes wide with the rush of the fight.

  "Your mastery with the short swords - is well merited - warrior," was all Huron said, watching as Legolas bowed respectfully to the General while he himself desperately struggled to regain his breath.

  "Five minutes," he shouted as he turned to the others and Legolas to the water barrel, for he had been fighting all morning, all afternoon with but small breaks in which to drink water and little else.

  "So that is why they call you Hwindohtar?" asked an excited Silvan warrior who was caring for the blades they had just used.

  Legolas looked at him with a puzzled smile. "Yes," he said, shaking his head at the amount of information his people had about him, information he had no idea how they had come to know.

  Conversation amongst the Captains had become louder, more excited as they moved their hands to illustrate the techniques and moves they had just witnessed. They were becoming more and more engrossed in their debates and Legolas only hoped that was a good thing, in spite of the humiliation Captain Brethil had suffered during their spar with the swords. It was not Legolas' way, but the Captain was clearly not up to standard - how he had gained the bracelet upon his arm was painfully obvious and that had fuelled Legolas' wish to teach him a well-earned lesson.

  Soon enough, Huron called for their attention. "Captain Barathon has requested a spar with one of his own favourite weapons," he said, "with a weapon that will require improvisation on your part Legolas. Granted it is seldom used now, indeed there are no masters left. We test your adaptability, your skill with a weapon you will not ha
ve wielded; spears."

  Legolas' eyebrows shot to his hairline, and then lowered as his eyes slanted dangerously and the fool that stood smirking before him. Barathon had obviously given some thought to this, choosing a weapon he thought Legolas would not master and thus try to discredit him. The Silvan's pride bubbled to the fore for in this, one thing, he would not yield. Honour was high on his list of priorities and this buffoon had none - and where he had spared with Lanthir in spite of his inferior skill, with Barathon he would not.

  The weapons master passed Legolas a long spear with an apologetic stare, but it was met with a mischievous grin which only the young Silvan saw - and understood for his face lit up in disbelief.

  Barathon had wanted to humiliate him, and that would be his downfall.

  The captains watched on in barely veiled concern, indeed Dorhinen had inched his way to the fore and no one stopped him. Barathon was triumphant even before the spar had begun and Huron, Huron stood wondering if he had just made his biggest mistake. It was a gambit, but it was also the best way to justify what now seemed inevitable - Brethil and Barathon would face consequences for their intolerable behaviour.

  Barathon raised his spear and then strode forward, making a first strike at Legolas, who parried it. The echoing crack of wood against wood signalled the start of their spar and Barathon smiled. Legolas, however, kept his face straight, watching as the Sinda turned and jabbed backwards. It was a clumsy attempt at a standard move and a pang of pity almost made him shudder. Legolas simply stepped aside, watching as Barathon moved forward once more and brought his spear down predictably. Bending his torso to one side, the spear whooshed past his head and his opponent stepped back to start again. Barathon was enjoying himself, realised Legolas and he smiled.

  Again, the spear came down and Legolas flipped it aside with his own. He still had not needed to make an attack himself, hence he had not revealed the fact that this was not the first time he had wielded this weapon. He would have to though, if he was to show Barathon the meaning of humility.