𖥔 ࣪˖ ⊹₊ ⋆ ➵𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐋 -OIALË
↪︎ legolas thranduillion
❝Yet you offer trust so freely. What makes you think I will not turn this blade on you?❞
❝if you wanted to, you would have done so already.❞
𝗶𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗵 ━Eliamäre daugther...
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━━act one 𖥔 ࣪˖ ⊹₊ nepenthe CHAPTER FOUR beneath the blade ⋆₊⊹˖ ࣪𖥔 THIRD AGE YEARS ━━250
━━━━⊱⚔︎⊰━━━━
𖥔 ࣪˖ ⊹₊ ⋆ ↪︎
❝she wasn't looking for a knight.she was looking for a sword❞
━━
The morning sun filtered through the towering trees of Rivendell, casting long shadows and dappling the training grounds with golden light. It was a perfect autumn morning, the crisp air filled with the rich scent of pine and earth, the world still and peaceful save for the occasional sharp clink of swords and the laughter of Elladan and Elrohir, who were, as always, locked in a competitive bout, both eager to prove themselves superior to the other.
Eliarame stood at the edge of the field, separated from the spirited energy of her brothers, her chest heaving with the effort of her countless failed attempts. The light breeze tugged at strands of her dark hair, which clung to her sweat-dampened forehead. Her gaze remained fixed on the sword in her hand, the metal catching the morning sun, but it brought her no sense of accomplishment. Instead, the weight of it seemed heavier, almost mocking her. She could feel the frustration building in her chest, threatening to spill over.
"Why can't I do it?" she whispered under her breath, her voice tight with a mixture of anger and despair. Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her sword, the leather-wrapped grip biting into her palms. Her arms ached from the repeated strikes, and her body felt like it was betraying her with its fatigue. But worse than the physical exhaustion was the growing sense of self-doubt that swirled in her mind, whispering that she would never be enough.
Across the training field, leaning against the wide trunk of a great oak, Glorfindel watched her silently. His golden hair shimmered like spun gold in the morning light, a striking contrast to the shadows of the forest that framed him. His piercing blue eyes, sharp as ever, missed nothing. He had seen this many times before—the weariness, the frustration that came from trying to live up to expectations that felt impossibly high. The weight of it could crush even the strongest spirit if left unchecked.
Eliarame sighed heavily, shaking her head as if to rid herself of the doubt clinging to her like a dark shroud. She raised her sword once more, but her movements were sluggish, her arms heavy, and the blade faltered halfway through the motion. With a cry of frustration, she let the sword slip from her grasp, the metal falling with a dull thud onto the grass at her feet. She turned away, burying her face in her hands, willing the tears not to fall, though the sting of failure made it difficult.
