The leather grip is wearing away under my hand. I shift my grip slightly, making a note to see about getting the wrap replaced before we leave. I stand motionless for a moment, closing my eyes and recalling darkness and stone, shouts, and learned responses. Then I begin to move.
My lessons with Faerlir have helped me regain much of my familiarity with the motions, but weeks of inactivity in the valley are not so easily ignored. At first I am slow, feeling my way through a string of small movements that together form something of an intricate dance. After a few minutes I begin to speed up, the sword in my hand flashing slightly in the fractured sunlight that shines through the canopy of trees. The rhythm is soothing, the movements I make are calming in their simplicity. Even so, as if to taunt me with what I have lost in idleness, my foot betrays me. I misstep, only a fraction, but enough to interrupt my balance. I throw an arm out to steady myself, holding every muscle tense and still, and avoid falling. It is a recovery, of sorts, but I know that it was sloppy. The mistake should not have been made.
Suddenly childish in my frustration I throw my sword at the ground, and, unbidden, the look in Galdorion's eyes appears in my mind, as he stood face to face with Lord Veryacano, willing to fight him on my behalf. I close my own eyes, as if I could make the image disappear, trying to forget the fear I had felt. Once again, as if I cannot help myself, I have thrust Galdorion into danger for my sake – danger he would not have sought if it wasn't for me. He could be happy here, I think, and though he talks of the war beyond the mountains, he seems distant from it. As for me... I can no sooner hide my unhappiness than I could hide the sword in my hand. Not from him. He returned from another artistic endeavour determined to ask the lords of his house leave to depart from the valley, but for my sake, not his. Even though I knew what the result would be, I did not discourage him. Perhaps I had not entirely lost all hope, perhaps I simply could not find the strength to persuade him any more.
The conversation with Lord Veryacano was ample reminder – there is little hope. The Lord set down an impossible challenge, or the option of a further confinement elsewhere: never a choice designed to allow freedom, simply a consolation. A distraction. Now we will go to Lothlorien, to the Golden Wood. Galdorion is to be confined to the city, Caras Galadhon, and of course I will stay with him. The journey is as much a test as this further 'duty', however, and is one that I am determined we will not fail. There may even come a time when I must fight for Galdorion, as he was willing to for me... and I will be ready. I have so little to give him, but all of it will be his, when he needs it.
Jaw set in a determined fashion, I bend slowly and retrieve my sword, settling it once more in my hand. I shut my eyes, and I remember his eyes. I move.
