Shadow of Mirkwood

Connection

You can break my bones, but you can't break my will

The soft glow of moonlight filtered through the chamber as Lytharial stirred from a deep slumber. She blinked, realizing she had overslept through the day, the sun's journey unseen from the confines of her rest. Her leg, now sanitized and bandaged, throbbed with a persistent ache—a reminder of the spider-infested night. Despite the physical toll, an unwavering determination ignited within her. In the stillness of the night, Lytharial decided to venture into the training room. The desire to adapt to Legolas's fighting style, to be agile and responsive, fueled her steps.

She entered the training room. As she expected, there was no one, which was perfect for her; she could train in peace, without a care that someone was watching her. She took her twin swords.

Every movement sent echoes of pain through her wounded leg, but Lytharial remained steadfast. She set aside the discomfort, focusing on the rhythmic dance of training. The clashing of blades, the swift movements, and the strategic precision—all mirrored Legolas's style. With each calculated strike, she sought to align herself more closely with the elusive grace he displayed in battle. 

Dedication eclipsed the physical pain. Lytharial pushed herself, delving deeper into the training regimen. The muted clang of swords and the soft patter of her footsteps against the polished floor merged in a nocturnal symphony of resilience.

In the shadows of the training room, Lytharial's unwavering commitment surpassed the limitations of her wounded body. The pain became a secondary sensation, drowned out by the echoes of determination that resonated in every step, every strike, and every parry. The night, witness to her silent pursuit of mastery, unfolded a chapter marked by dedication in the face of adversity.

With every blow, she felt more and more pain in her leg. Even though she supported herself with another leg, she would bite her lips every time she'd make a step. And now her lip was bleeding. But that did not stop her from training. She was so into it that she didn't notice two figures in the shadows, watching her from a safe distance.

Thranduil, standing beside Legolas, watched with an inscrutable expression as Lytharial pushed herself through the pain, relentlessly pursuing perfection in her training.

                        "So, you mentioned she's wounded," Thranduil remarked, his gaze fixed on Lytharial's tenacious efforts.

                        "Yes, father," Legolas responded, his eyes following Lytharial's every move. 

He hadn't anticipated her immediate return to training despite her injury, and he did not expect from her such a bold move. 

Thranduil's tone carried a subtle pride as he spoke to his son, 

                      "I hope now you see why she holds the rank of general."

Legolas nodded, but his skepticism lingered. 

                      "Yes, but I do not need her," he argued. "She will make me slower, and as I told you, I will have to protect her because she is not used to my fighting style. That is why she was wounded in the first place—she was focusing on mirroring me so much that she did not even see the spider."

Thranduil's gaze remained steady as he looked at his son. 

                     "Legolas, don't underestimate her. I know what I am doing," he whispered, his words carrying a weight of wisdom that hinted at the intricate plans Thranduil had set in motion.

Legolas remained in the shadows as Thranduil left, an enigma of emotions swirling within him as he continued to observe Lytharial's relentless training. The enigmatic aura that surrounded her intrigued and perplexed him. In his mind, questions lingered—was she driven by an unyielding determination, or was there an element of recklessness in her actions?