The Silver Flame (LOTR)

Light on Your Feet

The Fellowship moved steadily through the land, a landscape of deep valleys and turbulent rivers, their path stretching endlessly before them. The Misty Mountains loomed sharply to their left, their jagged peaks disappearing into the clouds. The air was crisp and biting, with a constant wind that whipped through the trees. Visenya's long silver hair flowed behind her like a banner, her sharp eyes scanning the terrain as they walked.

Gandalf's voice cut through the chill, his words both an explanation and a reminder of the difficult journey ahead.

"We must hold to this course west of the Misty Mountains for forty days," he said, his tone firm yet thoughtful. "If our luck holds, the Gap of Rohan will still be open to us. From there, our road turns east, to Mordor."

Visenya listened carefully, the words sinking in. Every step they took seemed to bring them closer to their destiny, yet also further into danger. The weight of the Ring felt ever-present, though Frodo carried it silently. She could see the growing tension in his shoulders, the way he held himself a little more stiffly each day.

The sky was just beginning to lighten with the first hint of dawn when the sound of clashing swords reached her ears. She glanced toward the campfire and saw Aragorn and Boromir engaged in a mock sparring session with Pippin. The young hobbit was doing his best to keep up with the larger men, his feet shuffling clumsily as he tried to follow Boromir's instructions.

"Get away from the blade, Pippin," Boromir instructed, his voice both firm and encouraging. "On your toes... good, very good. I want you to react, not think."

Sam sat nearby, tending to the fire but casting amused glances toward his friends. "Should not be too hard," he muttered under his breath, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"Move your feet," Boromir continued, his eyes locked on Pippin's movements. The hobbit was trying, but his steps were too slow, too predictable.

Merry, ever the supportive companion, called out from the sidelines, "Quite good, Pippin!"

Pippin, slightly out of breath but pleased with the praise, grinned. "Thanks."

Visenya watched with interest, her mind turning back to the times she had trained young soldiers in Westeros. The hobbits were brave, there was no doubt about that, but they were unaccustomed to battle. She approached the group, her steps light and purposeful.

"May I offer a tip?" she asked, her voice smooth but authoritative.

Boromir stepped aside, nodding his head in respect. "By all means, Lady Visenya."

She moved toward Pippin, gesturing for him to raise his sword. The hobbit did so, though his grip was a bit too tight, his movements tense. Visenya gently adjusted his stance, shifting his feet so he had a more balanced posture. "Your feet are just as important as your sword," she said. "You need to be quick, light on them. Try to feel the ground beneath you, move with it. Don't fight it."

Pippin blinked up at her, nodding earnestly. He mimicked the movements she showed him, stepping lightly on his toes as he swung his sword in a small arc. "Like this?" he asked, his face full of concentration.

"Better," Visenya replied with a small smile. "But remember, in battle, hesitation can be costly. Don't overthink your steps—let your instincts guide you."

As she worked with Pippin, Aragorn and Boromir watched with approval. The hobbits were learning, slowly but surely, and every small improvement would count in the battles ahead.

Suddenly, a sharp croak echoed through the air. Visenya's head snapped up, her keen eyes narrowing as she scanned the skies. Legolas had already spotted the dark patch moving swiftly against the wind. "Crebain from Dunland!" he called, his voice urgent.