The Witch's Destiny || Thranduil

Chapter XIV

Thranduil and Violet were engaged in training one morning after the dwarves arrived since the sun had risen. Her stitches had been taken out, and the bruise was almost healed completely due to the wonders of Elven healing. He had allowed her to use a wooden sword now, teaching her each move individually before showing her how to put them together. As she came to swing at him, he knocked it out of her hands and swung her into his arms, his front against her back and his own wooden sword across her throat.

He leaned down to whisper in her ear, "Dead."

Thranduil took delight in watching goosebumps appear on the witch's skin, and for a moment he wanted to place a kiss on them to see what would happen then. But the Elven-king had far too much restraint for such a notion, especially when he could see his brother and son watching them both with guarded eyes.

He cleared his throat and released her, bending down to pick her sword off the ground, tossing it at her handle first. He desperately ignored the red that was painted on her cheeks, and tried to push the evil out of his mind that reminded him that he put it there. Or perhaps it was the good that reminded him? He wasn't much sure he could tell the difference between the two anymore.

"Again!" he said, resuming the proper stance. She attacked first, and he allowed her to push him back, blocking each strike she sent with his own. And when she swung herself around, intending to slash him from the side, he came up quickly from behind her, blocking her sword with his. It resulted in a momentary struggle with Violet giving up rather quickly. "You cannot give up just because for a moment it looks like you may lose. That is how you die, mellon nîn. And I will not have you die on this battlefield. Your last breath will be over my dead body."

She looked back at him, before she turned around, breathing heavily. "I know. It's just -- I need a quick break, Thranduil. We've been at this for a long time. It's nearing mid-morning. I do not have the elven stamina that you do."

He smiled, though he was sure it looked more like a sneer. "No, you do not." Another bitter reminder of your mortality. "But if we keep training, you will have almost as good as. The more you train, the easier it will become, and you will find that these small things that you struggle with now will be like second nature. Of course, I should like more time to teach you, but I will take what I can. Now go," -- he nodded to the benches surrounding the training grounds -- "Take a quick rest. I will follow right behind you. I just need to talk to our observers for a moment."

He walked over to Legolas and Authanar, as she walked to the bench holding her things.

"Do you teach all of your students like that?" Legolas asked in their native tongue, his tone resting somewhere between teasing and bitterness. It was a strange sound to hear from his boy, but for the life of him, Thranduil had zero clue how to address it with him.

"I do not teach many students, son," Thranduil replied. Legolas smiled, but it felt mocking, and Thranduil made a mental note to at least attempt to tone down his feelings in front of his son. Knowing what his father felt was one thing, especially when Thranduil himself couldn't bring himself to admit it out loud, but knowing what his father felt for one of his best friends was another. The Elven-king turned to Authanar. "What is your counsel, brother?"

"Violet heavily favors her right side, and it leaves her left side open for attack. When she swings her sword, she swings it outwards, and that is what leaves her open."

"Good. I will attack her from the left then."

"Without telling her?" asked Legolas, eyebrows furrowed and eyes full of worry.

Thranduil raised his eyebrow at Legolas. "Do you think an orc is going to call his attacks out to her?"

"Alright," Legolas conceded, "But I don't think this is going to end well for you."