BALLAD OF BROKEN SWORDS ( LEGOLAS )

𝟬𝟭𝟬 ━━ these fears I carry

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˚ ₊ ♡ ❰  BALLAD OF BROKEN SWORDS ❱
*✧ ─── ❝ ❪ THESE FEARS I CARRY ❫ ❞
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˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ ACT ONE ── ad melinora 🏹 ⁺⑅

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CHILDREN OF ARDA DUOLOGY ⋆ ☄.
♯ ❝ YOU ARE NOT ALONE IN THIS ❞
CHAPTER TEN ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
˚ ₊ ♡ the third age ─── year 2950
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━━ ˚ ₊ ♡ 🏹
❝ 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘥𝘰 𝘪 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙠 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺, 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪'𝘷𝘦 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪 ❞

*✧ ─── THE STARS SEEM BRIGHTER TONIGHT AS GYDA STARES UP AT THE NIGHTSKY DISPLAYED ABOVE THE TRAINING YARD, THE BOW GIFTED TO HER BY LANTHIR earlier that day for training resting beside her mockingly. Gyda had been skilled with most weapons, naturally gifted even, but there was a reason why she was happy for Galion to pick up the bow as his weapon of choice in their youth. She clearly had no affinity for it, as everyone had been able to witness during training earlier that day. She abandoned practise quickly, much to Galion's surprise who had never seen her quit anything before. She might even have surprised herself, but whilst she felt comfortable making mistakes back at home in Lindon in her youth under her father's tutelage and during her stay at Imladris after they travelled there for Elgarain's safety.

But something about the scrutinizing gaze of the Mirkwood elves made her wary of showing weakness. She had always known the Sindarin and Silvan elves were prideful, but watching it first hand was a whole other story. Gyda knew, that her name, or her lineage did not mean anything to them, even if she deserved their respect after her display of skills at the first day of training when she fought Lanthir.

They favoured their own kind clearly—and Gyda, she knew no matter what she and their delegation did during their stay—the Mirkwood elves would always think themselves better.

Let them believe such things. She thinks bitterly, I know my own worth, and that of my friends.

The cold wind brushes against her pale cheek, strands of hair sweeping in front of her eyes and she moves her hand up to move them behind her ear. Taking a deep breath, Gyda grabs the bow again, the wood unfamiliar in her hand. Its feels more rough that here Noldorian spear, lighter in weight, easily bendable unlike the rigidness of her own weapon. In a way it's completely opposite to what she's used to, and she thinks it must be the reason why it does not compliment her fighting style.

Shaking off the doubt that runs through her body, she pushes herself off of the grass and grabs the simplistic bow and one of the arrows sprawled next to it. The arrow is sharp, the feather a crisp white colour. It is clear that it has not seen battle yet.