Two swordsmen fight in a silent glade. A very short piece for Meckinock’s birthday.

“Not The Blade, But What It Defends.”  

Elladan moved forward and pressed on wildly. The other let him lead the attack, giving ground foot by foot, parrying and stopping, and managing a thrust back only from time to time.  

But Elladan would not be tricked. He knew that he was being drawn out, and that his opponent would wait until his attack reached its peak, only to fall upon him when his guard was lowered. Elladan knew that style –it was the same Elrohir used and he had been fencing with his other half for over twenty ennin now, so he was quite familiar with all its possible variations…and not always capable of countering them.  

His opponent was more skilled that what he had anticipated, he panted and groaned inwardly, barely deflecting a vicious head cut that had come unexpectedly out of thin air. He kept his adversary at a distance with wider parries, taking advantage of his own longer blade while recovering his breathing.  

I shouldn’t have accepted his challenge, I am too tired, he grunted inwardly. Now it was too late, and no one could help him. The other’s blade had almost twice got through Elladan’s lowered guard, and he returned the favour with a vicious thrust that caught his attacker by surprise and made him jump back. But he would not yield. Keeping one foot slightly advanced, the man kept room for his blade while he withdrew steadily under Elladan’s renewed attack. Even when lowered, his blade seemed ready to attack. There was a harmony and a cadence to his sword-dance that would have been beautiful to behold under different circumstances, Elladan thought grimly as they stamped back and forth and their swords bound and disengaged, feinted, thrust and parried restlessly, clicking nosily as they chased each other in the silent glade.  

The man suddenly surged on very fast, with a thrust and a feint and then another thrust. Elladan riposted with equal speed, pressing on him again, eager to finish him off, aware that he was wearing out rapidly now. Again he pushed on his advantage mercilessly, his sword singing wildly, clicking, leaping; almost blazing. The man fell before this onslaught, barely parrying as he stepped back, until he came to a stop and stood his ground and would not be moved. His parries widened slightly, and his ripostes became more sudden now, interspersed with sudden attacks. Suddenly, he wove his blade in an elaborate double feint that nicked Elladan’s neck. This was an opponent who would not be satisfied with first blood, the half-elf knew, so he sprang forward and unleashed the full wrath of his blade, which carried the strength and mastery of several ennin. He threatened a cut and in the last moment he moved around the other’s parry and cut him above the wrist guard.   

“Do you yield?”  Elladan panted, studying his opponent through narrowed eyes. The other smiled briefly and sprang forward again, his blade leaping and dancing everywhere. Awaiting his chance under a shower of combined blows, Elladan stood his ground until he saw the opening. He jumped forward, beating the other’s guard, and delivered a blow that might have beheaded him had his opponent not managed to raise his blade in the last moment. Unbalanced, the man fell and rolled away, but he kicked and swept Elladan’s legs out from under him, carrying him heavily to the ground.  

How am I going to explain this to Adar? Elladan thought incongruously, winded by the unexpected fall. Before he could regain his footing, the man’s blade was on his neck.  

Elladan closed his eyes and tensed, grimacing, waiting.  

“Do you yield?” The voice came out quite steadily for one who had barely left his childhood behind.  

“I do.”

“I cannot hear you…”

Mockery? Elladan groaned and swore revenge.

“I do, I yield, and you win!”

“So you will take me with you next time you ride away with the Dúnedain?”

Elladan growled and met the grey, anxious eyes in the youthful, eager face.

“I promised, didn’t I?” he had to admit. “You will ride with us next time, Estel.”

And then he had to smile, as the young one raised both arms in triumph and the onlookers, half the population of Imladris in Elladan’s opinion, cheered and applauded and swarmed over from their watching places to pat the happy young man on the back and praise him for his feat.

“How many times have I told you not to engage in battle when being too tired, Elladan?”

“Not enough, it would seem,” the eldest of Elrond’s twin sons acknowledged with a wry grin, accepting the helping hand that pulled him up to his feet. “When did he learn all those tricks?” he grunted, stretching his sore muscles and looking at the fresh blood that dripped onto his tunic from the scratch on his neck. Glorfindel let escape an amused laugh.

“You and your brother, as well as myself –and every other willing warrior in Imladris have been fencing with him for the last years, Elladan, and he is a devoted apprentice…”

“But he was not half that good last time we fenced…he is a child!”

“He is seventeen sun-rounds old, Elladan, an adult for his people,” Glorfindel reminded him, placing a handful of staunch weed on the cut to stop the bleeding. “But he has been practicing like a madman since you departed eight moons ago…”

“…After setting that silly challenge upon him, brother-mine,” Elrohir reminded him, stepping beside his brother and shaking his head reprovingly. “You will ride with us the day you beat me with your sword, Estel,” he quoted. “How clever of you, Elladan,” he added with an amused smile, “knowing how stubborn he is…”

“Well, he wouldn’t have stood the slightest chance had I accepted his challenge after a good night’s sleep,” Elladan objected testily, groping for the threads of his battered pride. He turned then and looked at Glorfindel through narrowed eyes as realization hit him. “It was your idea,” he accused. “You suggested that he challenged me upon arrival! That was a dirty trick!” Glorfindel’s silvery laughter interrupted him.

“I told him to play to his advantages,” the golden elf admitted, “and to his opponent’s weaknesses. The rest was his guessing.” Elladan growled lowly and shook his head. “Look at him,” Glorfindel added, patting his shoulder comfortingly. “He is ready to fight by your side.”

Elladan followed Glorfindel’s gaze and smiled proudly. The youngster had sheathed his sword and now received the compliments of Imladris’ guards with a dignity and a poise that suddenly reminded Elladan of the many King’s of Men that he had known in his long life. He was a grown-up he had to admit with a fresh sting of melancholy, and one who was more than ready to undertake the weight of his heritage and his duty.

“That is your doing as well, Elladan,” Glorfindel added. “You and your brother have taught him, advised him, scolded him, trained him patiently for years, thus helping him grow into what he will be. His people will need the strength and skill of his blade, but also his steadfastness and wisdom in wielding it to defend what is worth defending…”

“And he will become the greatest swordsman of his age,” Elrohir pointed out, picking up Elladan’s sword and handing it to his brother.

“That too,” Glorfindel nodded quite enigmatically, not meeting the twins’ surprised glances.

“But in the meantime, he is our baby brother,” Elladan chuckled, sheathing his blade in turn. “Let us greet the winner and tell him that we do not intend to ride away for the next sun-round or two,” he suggested with a wicked smile, starting towards the noisy group that parted before him, followed by Elrohir and Glorfindel.

“Well-done, Estel!” he acknowledged, bowing theatrically before the beaming youth, “although I regret to inform you that...”

The End.

Happy birthday, Meckinock, and may you find time to tell us more about certain lost ring!  

The title comes from Faramir’s words to Frodo in Ithilien.