𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬, 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐖𝐨𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐬 || 𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐁 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊

ɴᴇᴛᴇʀǫᴜᴇ

The days and weeks after his conversation with Thanarwë and subsequent sparring match with Boromir went by quickly and were, generally speaking, far less emotionally draining.

In fact, they were marked with several successes: Robb, having identified what he thought to be his bond with Grey Wind, was able to shorten the time it took him to consciously warg by a large degree. It was still not instantaneous, of course, but having something to 'hold onto' helped his concentration immensely. Now, the whole ordeal took him a few minutes instead of the several hours of his first try.

Another leap forward came in the form of his fighting abilities. Before Lothlórien, Robb had not been able to truly train in weeks—there were battles and skirmishes, of course, but none of them compared to the exhilaration and simultaneous bone-deep dread of a duel. Sparring with Boromir helped Robb to refamiliarise himself with the feeling, improve his reaction times and learn new moves which Robb guessed were native to Middle-Earth.

And that was another thing. Sparring with Boromir.

It happened nearly every day now and although Robb had at first only gone along with it to not seem rude, that hesitation had almost completely vanished.

As Thanarwë had suggested, the more time he spent with Boromir, the more differences there seemed to be between the man himself and Robb's father. There was his fighting style, quick and aggressive compared to his father's powerful but mostly defensive strokes. His laugh, a tad higher and more freely given. His shorter, tidier beard. His hair, almost blonde now that it was freshly washed, its fairness doubled by the golden light and leaves of Lothlórien, and so different from Father's dark brown strands.
If anything, Robb thought, Boromir looked like he could be Ned Stark's long-lost brother. (Well, another one.) The realization was... relieving.

Even though Robb's heart still clenched at the sight of Boromir—he had no illusions of that ever fully going away, and Thanarwë had been brutally honest with him on that, as well—Robb no longer thought 'Father' whenever his eyes landed on Boromir.

His meetings with Thanarwë continued, albeit on no set schedule. They were happy for Robb's progress and, as promised, had told no one of the events he had spoken about in their presence. Not even Lady Galadriel knew, for otherwise she surely would have demanded his presence once again. This more than anything alleviated the rest of his—admittedly unfounded—fears and aversion.

Thanarwë also encouraged Robb to speak to the others about his past—in his own time, of course. He was still hesitant, however, as he did not see the sense in that. Surely his... slip-up when they had seen his scars had revealed enough? They knew most of it now and Robb himself was coming to terms with it—he had to be, because if not, well, all this was useless, wasn't it?

He'd made progress with Boromir. He'd told some stories of his childhood weeks ago, when they had tried to climb the Caradhras. He'd revealed the circumstances of his death.
What more even was there? Why would whatever remained matter?

Now, Robb did not ignore Thanarwë's advice—technically. More childhood anecdotes counted as 'his past', right? It had to, when he could feel that thinking of his siblings became less painful.

Mostly, however, Robb focused on improving himself physically.

One night when he'd been preparing to go to sleep, rummaging in his travel pack, Robb had almost cut himself on the Dwarven dagger from Moria, which he'd completely forgotten about. The dagger had been at the very bottom of the pack.

In the dim lights of Lothlórien, Robb had examined it for the first time. As little as he knew about metalworking, even he knew this one was expertly made. The dagger was a bit shorter than Robb's forearm, which suggested that it could have been a Dwarven short sword instead. The pommel was uneven in the intentional, square way some crystals were. Upon the hilt were equally geometric engravings, interwoven like complicated knots. The blade was unpolished, but no less deadly for it, sharp at both edges. It widened at the tip before coming together again in a triangular-going-on-diamond shape.