Live Journal FeedMuch thanks to VanaTheEverYoung for the beta work on this chapter.
~Chapter 8: Preparations~
The days spent in Rivendell were the most relaxing Harry had had in a long time, for now he had neither Voldemort nor schoolwork to worry about. It seemed that there was a feast every night, but when they complimented the skills of Elrond’s cooks, the Lord of Imladris simply laughed it off and said it was but simple fare.
“It’s still good enough for a party back in Hogwarts,” Ron said.
Since their discussion with the Elf, he had opened up to them and become warmer, introducing them to his guests and making them feel at home. The Hobbits – especially Bilbo – took them around the Elven settlement, leading them through beautifully crafted buildings and serene gardens with the leaves just turning golden-red. They came across Aragorn once, sitting before a white marble statue reflectively, gazing silently at the splintered sword it held. Gandalf explained the sword to them at supper.
“It is named Narsil, Red and White Flame, and was crafted from the metal of a falling star. The sword once belonged to Elendil, who died in Mordor fighting against Sauron himself. It is the blade that Isildur used to sever the Ring from Sauron’s hand. And as you know, Aragorn is Isildur’s heir.”
“Will they reforge it?” Hermione asked.
“I cannot say for certain. Now that the hand of evil reaches out over the land once more, Aragorn will need to emerge from the shadows and eventually make himself known to the Enemy. But whether he is willing to take up the burden – a heavy one indeed – that remains to be seen.”
Hermione could rarely be coaxed out of the library, but when Harry and Ron managed to do so, the three often set out wandering in the valley with the hobbits in tow. With the beautiful waterfalls, forests, and pools, there seemed no end of places to explore.
Even though the leaves were changing, the weather was still pleasantly warm during the middle of the day. Harry, Ron, and Hermione ventured lower into the valley wearing their new cloaks. The four Hobbits were with them, Merry and Pippin scrambling ahead, and Frodo and Sam trailing behind. Hermione found it a little difficult to pick her way down the trail in her dress, but somehow they all managed to make a path down to the stream by midday.
Ron sprawled out on the mossy bank; Hermione chose to seat herself meditatively on a flat rock that jutted out into the water. Sam, handy as ever, set out the bread, cheese, and apples he had brought for lunch as Frodo lay down and looked at the sky. Harry sat in the grass away from the water’s edge.
“It’s so peaceful here,” Hermione said. “I wish we could stay forever.”
“You mean that?” Ron asked. “Without schoolwork?”
“The Rivendell library is more than enough to keep me occupied.”
But then Frodo said sadly, “It will not remain peaceful so long as the Ring remains undestroyed. The world will fall into shadow, and the Elves will flee Middle-earth. They have already begun to sail.”
No one spoke for a few moments. Then Harry asked, “What d’you mean, the Elves are leaving?”
“He means that they’re going away, never to return,” Sam responded. “It makes me sad to see such fair folk leave.”
“But why?” Hermione asked, still gazing down the stream.
“Their time is over – at least, that is what Lord Elrond says. The Big Folk – Men, that is – are going to rise as the protectors of Middle-earth.”
The silence hung in the air.
A splash broke through the companions’ thoughts, accompanied by Pippin’s loud, high yelp. “Help! I can’t swim!”
Shaking his head, Harry waded out into the stream – it was perhaps only a foot of water – and hauled Frodo’s madly thrashing, bedraggled cousin up onto the bank. “And you’re coming with us on the Quest?”
Merry laughed, cocking his eyebrow. “Aye. A person of intelligence, as he said.”
Pippin scowled at him.
* * *
One morning Harry, Ron, and Hermione were in the library. Harry and Ron, who had gotten bored of perusing maps and books they could not understand, were practicing the Stunning Spell and other hexes over a pile of cushions they had borrowed from many of the library chairs. Hermione was curled up in the sunlight by the window, reading and occasionally finding a location on the large, detailed map that was spread out on the table before her.
“Stupefy!” Harry cried, pointing his wand at Ron.
At the same moment Ron whipped his wand in Harry’s direction and said, “Expelliarmus!”
A jet of red light streaked out of Harry’s wand, but his aim went awry as Ron’s Disarming Spell hit him. Ron lowered his wand as Harry went to retrieve his.
”Y’know, now that I think about it, we might not need that one here,” Ron said a bit sheepishly. “Not unless Gandalf tries to attack us.”
“Actually, we might,” Harry said, standing. “In fourth year Diggory used it to make a giant spider drop me – well, I broke my leg because of it – but it worked. So it might come in useful against Orcs. And Ron?”
“What?”
“You shouldn’t leave your wand lowered like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because Voldemort and the Death Eaters fight dirty – like this!” he said as he aimed again. “Petrificus Totalus!”
Ron toppled backwards in the full Body-Bind, nearly missing the pile of squashy blue cushions they had borrowed.
“Harry, that was uncalled for,” Hermione said, glancing up from the massive book she held.
“I just wanted him to learn. Don’t you want to put that thing down and join us?” He crouched over Ron and pointed his wand at his friend, muttering the countercurse.
As Ron stretched, Hermione replied, “No thanks – these flowing skirts really make things like that difficult.”
“And you’re planning to go on the Quest wearing what?”
“Elrond told me that he would find someone to make me an outfit similar to the one Arwen wore when we first saw her, but I asked him to let me wear something more practical.”
“Meaning?”
“An outfit a male would typically wear, like the ones you will be using. A tunic and leggings with boots and such, altered to fit me, of course.”
Ron smiled from his prone position on the floor, eyes closed. “And what did Lord Elrond say?”
“He didn’t look too convinced, but when I told him that it was perfectly acceptable for a girl in our time to wear clothing that consists of trousers and a shirt – none of this nonsense of long skirts and robes – he didn’t argue with me any more.”
“Most likely he’s worried that the others will have…er… inappropriate thoughts when they see you wearing that,” Ron grinned cheekily.
“Ronald!”
“Just a thought.”
Hermione responded by lifting the book so that it hid her face. Ron sighed and turned to Harry. “Let’s go.”
They positioned themselves ten feet apart. “Ready?” Harry asked.
“Any time now.”
As he raised his wand, Harry cried, “Fenarvis!”
But Ron was ready. “Protego!”
A shimmering shield blossomed around Ron, and the Blindfold Hex bounced off, now headed for Harry. With his Quidditch instincts, he ducked and the spell hit a delicate statue, breaking off the head.
“You two are hopeless!” Hermione said when she heard the crash. She pointed her wand at the marble fragments. “Reparo!” The pieces flew together and the head settled back into position. “Hopefully no one noticed that,” she said.
“Begging your pardon, Miss,” Sam’s voice said. “I did – but don’t worry, I’m not going to tell anyone! I’m here because Lord Elrond wants to talk to you three,” he added as he shuffled into the room.
“Whatever for, Sam?” Hermione asked.
“The messenger who told me to find you didn’t say. Just that you’re to go to his study.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
They slipped their wands into the slim pockets that had been sewn into their robes – or, in Hermione’s case, attached to her skirt and hidden in a fold – before leaving the library and heading off. By this time, they knew Rivendell so well that Sam did not even bother leading them to Elrond’s study.
“What d’you think he wants?” Harry asked.
“I can’t imagine,” Hermione replied. “Unless he wants to withdraw his permission for us to go on the Quest. But I can’t see why he would.”
The room was dimly lit, for the open wall faced west – towards Valinor, as Gandalf had explained. The old Wizard himself was waiting for them, standing beside the Elf Lord. Harry, Ron, and Hermione inclined their heads respectfully as they entered.
“You wished to speak to us, Lord Elrond?” Harry asked.
“Yes. A few weeks ago, I promised that I would send you on the Quest as part of the Fellowship. However…”
Harry watched as Ron’s and Hermione’s faces fell.
“However, I will not send you without the knowledge of how to fight without magic. Should you ever be cut off from your power, you will not be without defenses. You must master the sword and the bow; an orc will not be frightened by someone wielding a blade without the knowledge to use it. But first, you must receive the swords you are to use.”
He unwrapped a cloth bundle that had been lying on the dark, polished surface of his desk. Inside were three sheathed swords, all unique but equally beautiful. Harry felt his eyes widen in astonishment.
“The smiths of Rivendell have worked tirelessly on these to ensure that you have none but the best sort of Elven swords. The blade, I believe, is a mixture of mithril and steel and will not break easily. They were neither crafted from the metal of a falling star nor have the power to glow when Orcs approach, but they will serve you well.” He selected a sword from the three that lay on the cloth. “Harry Potter.”
Harry approached and accepted the weapon reverently, bowing as he took it in his hands. He backed away, clutching it close, as Elrond presented Ron, then Hermione, with their swords.
“Draw them,” Elrond said. “But take care, for the blades are sharp.”
The sound of metal sliding gently against metal rang through the air as they carefully pried the swords out of their sheaths. The scabbard, Harry noted, was a work of art in itself. The black, hard leather shone softly in the light, and the ends were chased in silver. On closer inspection, he saw that the Gryffindor lion had been added to the design near the top of the scabbard, worked in red enamel and gold.
“Where did you find…” he began.
“The emblem? The design is a copy of the one from the cloaks you wore when you first arrived.”
Harry nodded and continued his study of the sword. The handle was wrapped carefully in black leather, and right where the blade met the hilt the lion design was again detailed into the metal. He drew the blade out in full and hefted the sword. The straight, perfectly balanced blade was etched with delicately flowing Elven script; he would ask Hermione what it meant later. It was surprisingly light – the sword that had come out of the Sorting Hat during his second year had seemed heavier – but also felt comfortable in his hand. Not that he really knew anything about swords.
He glanced over at Ron. His friend had received a sword similar to his, but the handle was of slightly different shape, perhaps to accommodate Ron’s larger hands. He saw that the Gryffindor lion on Ron’s sword had been placed at the pommel rather than at the hilt.
Hermione’s sword, however, looked entirely different. The Gryffindor design had been worked into the scabbard but not into the sword itself. The blade she held aloft was slightly curved and shone in the light with a silver-blue sheen. Both of Harry’s friends were gazing wonderingly at their new weapons, studying the artful designs.
“They’re wonderful, Lord Elrond,” Hermione said. “How we can thank you, I don’t know…”
“Yes, thank you,” Harry said. Ron echoed him.
“You can repay me by doing what the Council and I have asked. Learn how to fight well and defend the Ringbearer with your life.”
“And when will we learn?” Ron asked.
“Aragorn is to teach you, starting tomorrow. And he will also teach you the bow, if you wish to learn.”
* * *
The next day, Aragorn gathered Harry, his friends, and the four Hobbits in a spacious courtyard to begin teaching them the proper use of the sword. Clearly, the Hobbits, like Harry, had been awaiting an exciting lesson. They stood admiring the wizards’ new weapons, and Frodo gladly hefted his new sword – Sting, he called it – for all to see. After five minutes, however, Aragorn positioned his seven students in a line, far enough away from each other so that they would not be able to unintentionally hurt one another. The lesson commenced – but it was not nearly as thrilling as Harry had expected.
First, Aragorn told them to hold their swords up and grip them as they would naturally. Harry, used to holding his Firebolt broomstick during Quidditch, wrapped his fingers around the handle in that manner. Hermione, at the end of the line, was the first one whose grip Aragorn corrected.
“No, Hermione…Adjust your left hand just a little; you need not have a death grip upon the sword! Good. Now grasp it lightly with your right hand. Relax the shoulders…Yes…and bend your elbows slightly. Very good. Move your arms outward a little – perfect. Hold that stance and remember it.”
As Hermione adjusted the tilt of her sword to point the tip at throat level, she asked quietly, “Sir?”
“Yes?”
“I have a trivial question really, but…How often is it that women are trained to use weapons of any kind?”
He smiled gently. “Not often. You are one of the few exceptions, only because you are a part of the Fellowship.”
There was no hint of distaste in his voice, but still Hermione asked, “And do you consider it – unusual?”
“Truly, I do not mind. Arwen knew how to wield a sword long before I was even born.” His eyes shone slightly, remembering something. “In any case, you do not seem as perturbed by the idea as most ladies of this time would be.”
“Our time is…different. I for one hate the idea of being a damsel in distress.”
He chuckled slightly. “Indeed, I could believe that.”
He moved on to Harry next, following much the same process: adjusting the position of his fingers and telling him to relax before leaving him standing to memorize the way his body was positioned.
“Is this usually how people start out learning the sword?” Harry asked.
“Young boys who live the life of a Ranger or intend to become soldiers for their land start at a much younger age. Often the lessons are shorter at first, and intensify as the young warrior’s skill grows. But here, however, I – and perhaps some of the other members of the Fellowship – intend to give you intense training. Every day.”
“Every day?”
“You have but a few months to learn. And I cannot guarantee that anywhere we go during the Quest will be safe enough for sword practice.”
Ron was next. Aragorn tried again and again to correct Ron’s grip on the sword – but for some reason, Ron’s hands did not want to comply. It seemed, rather, that as soon as Aragorn moved his hands aside, Ron’s fingers slipped back into their original death-grip position. Finally the Ranger threw up his hands in frustration.
“By the Valar! How difficult can you possibly find this? I have told you repeatedly – grip mostly with the left hand, and grasp lightly with the right. And relax your shoulders or you will be unable to move with precision. There is no need to be so tense!”
“It’s not my fault,” Ron mumbled. “This is how I grip a wand…”
“But not how you hold a sword. Your weapon is of Elven make, and one of the finest I have seen. It is balanced well and is made of the strongest metal the smiths could find. Honor their hard work by at least making the effort to do it correctly.”
“I’m trying, but it’s not working.”
“Indeed.” He rearranged Ron’s fingers around the handle once more. “There! Hold it just like that. And relax.”
“How am I supposed to relax if, say, hundreds of Orcs come dashing madly at me?”
“You will have to learn,” Aragorn sighed as he resignedly moved on to a still-eager Pippin.
He knelt down by each Hobbit, gently correcting their stances. When he had finished with Frodo, who was the last in line, he stood back and surveyed his seven pupils.
“Lower your swords. Carefully,” he added as they began to comply.
“Now – raise them again, holding them just like I showed you. That would be your ready stance.”
He walked down the line, inspecting them once again. He nodded in approval to six of them. It seemed, however, that Ron was incapable of holding his sword correctly.
“No, Ron…Like this.” Aragorn drew his sword and demonstrated.
“It’s not that difficult, Ron,” Hermione said.
He shot her a look, one that clearly told her to stop being such a know-it-all. His ears were turning red again.
For twenty minutes Aragorn worked with Ron, trying to get him to hold the weapon correctly. Then, when Ron finally mastered that, it was another ten minutes before he managed to relax his tensed muscles.
Aragorn sighed, but nonetheless nodded. “If you must know, I myself had some difficulty in learning swordsmanship when I began. Do not despair – I will make a good swordsman of you yet!”
“How old were you when you started?” Ron asked.
Aragorn smiled. “That was eighty years ago.”
“What?” Ron exclaimed.
“I am of the Númenorian people, descended from Lord Elrond’s brother Elros. Elven blood mingled with that of Men flows through our veins, making us a long-lived race.”
“So how old were you?”
“Seven.”
“And you think that I can be a good swordfighter with just a few months of training while you have had eighty years to practice?”
“I will make sure you leave Rivendell with enough skill to battle Orcs. Believe me – they are vicious creatures, but not overly bright. Brute force is their main advantage, but there are ways that smaller but cleverer people such as yourself can turn that against them.”
Harry caught Hermione’s eye and both of them had to suppress sniggers. Ron, clever? They had never heard that word used to describe him…
Aragorn backed away from his students, surveying them. “Good. Lower your swords, and on my command, raise them.”
As they complied, his normally soft voice became strong and commanding, even regal. “On your guard!”
They repeated this exercise several times before he was satisfied with their speed. Harry hoped it was the end of the lesson; his arms were already aching. Quidditch practice had never been so physical.
His reverie was interrupted when Aragorn spoke again. “Well done. Now, another basic skill you must learn is how to unsheathe and sheath your swords quickly but without hurting yourself. Watch me…”
After another thirty minutes, Aragorn dismissed the Hobbits. As they turned to leave, he said, “Keep in mind that you will not be standing still during actual combat. These exercises will become more difficult as we progress, so I suggest you get some sleep.” They nodded before leaving Aragorn alone with Harry, Ron, and Hermione in the courtyard.
The Ranger now turned to Harry and his friends. “Follow me.” They trailed behind him tiredly as he led them to another, larger courtyard with practice targets against the high wall at the far end. Hermione’s eyes lit up with interest, but Ron and Harry groaned. They wanted nothing more than to relax their exhausted muscles, yet here they were for yet another lesson…
“I will not keep you long. Swordsmanship is a skill that you all must learn in order to survive the Quest. Archery, however, requires a little more finesse and – considering the short time we have – can only be taught so quickly if one has the talent, patience, and concentration required. Oh, do not fret, you will all learn the basics of archery, but only if you have considerable talent will you take up the bow as your primary weapon. If that is the case, you will spend more of your time with a more capable teacher than myself.
“However,” he added, seeing their now excited faces, “I must remind you that these lessons will also be trying. And I will still expect a good amount of proficiency with the sword.”
Aragorn now strung a bow he had been carrying on his back. “This one is not overly difficult to draw.” He demonstrated how to nock an arrow and aim before releasing it. The bowstring sang as the arrow hissed through the air, finally thudding dead center into a target.
“Wow,” Ron said, eyes wide.
“If you’re that good,” Harry asked, “then why can’t you be our teacher?”
Aragorn smiled. “That was but one arrow. Lord Legolas, on the other hand, has been known to shoot two or even three arrows at once, all of them flying true.”
“This Legolas,” Hermione asked, “he would be the one teaching us?”
“Of course. His skill with the bow is unsurpassed. Now, Harry, I would like to see you try. Twenty-five paces.”
Harry tried to get a feel for the bow as the other three backed away. He ran his hand up and down the wood, noting the delicate tracery of leaves carved into it – but it just didn’t feel right, not the way a broomstick had when he had first ridden it. Nevertheless, he plucked one arrow from where it was stuck into the ground at his feet, nocked it, and let it fly.
To his surprise, it thudded into the very edge of the target.
He turned to Aragorn questioningly. The Ranger responded, “Good, but continue just to see whether that was merely luck – no offense meant.”
So Harry tried with the rest of the five arrows – but all of his shots went miserably wide. Well, he thought, guess it’s more sword lessons for me. Not that it mattered much to him; he felt more comfortable wielding the sword. Archery required far too much standing still for his taste.
Ron was next. Much to his embarrassment – Harry supposed he was trying not to make a fool of himself in front of Hermione – his shots not only flew wildly in all directions, but one even flew into the target to the left of the one he was aiming for.
When it was Hermione’s turn, everything changed. Ron gawked at her as she stood there, still as a statue as she took aim and fired her first arrow into the ring just outside the center one. Her other arrows flew into the target, though none as near to the center as the first. As the last one gave a resounding thud into the target, she turned to face Aragorn.
“Well done, Hermione. Try it at forty paces.” As she counted off her steps, he said to Harry and Ron, “You may leave for today, if you wish. Hermione will follow in a few minutes.”
So that was the end of archery lessons for the moment. Harry glanced at Ron, who was looking quite upset. “I guess we’ll leave,” he said, steering his friend away.
Once they were on the way back to their rooms and out of earshot Harry asked, “What’s eating you, Ron?”
Clearly frustrated, he ran a hand through his tousled red hair. “I…”
“It’s Hermione, isn’t it?” Harry said.
Ron stopped dead in his tracks. “How’d you know that?”
“On, come on, it’s obvious from the way you’ve acted since fourth year. And then there was the time after the feast that you went and kissed her…”
“I did not!”
“You were drunk, you prat. You didn’t know what you were doing.”
“I…” Ron trailed off. “It’s just…I can never do anything right when she’s around, even if I try. And she always does everything right. I don’t know what to do.”
“So go talk to her,” Harry said. “Tell her.”
“Oh, you’re one to talk!” Ron said heatedly. “What about what happened between you and Cho Chang, eh? I don’t know why you’re trying to give me advice…Although…about Hermione…” His ears turned pink and he avoided Harry’s eyes. “You don’t…”
Harry guessed what he was going to ask. “No. She’s a friend, that’s all.” They continued walking in silence.
Hermione caught up with their slow walk five minutes later, happy that she would be learning how to use the bow.
“It just felt so…so natural, the way you described being on a broom for the first time, Harry. Oh, I do hope that there are some books on archery somewhere in that library, I’m worried that this Legolas will be a really difficult teacher…”
“Him? He looked like he could hardly hurt a fly,” Ron said.
“And where did you meet him, Ronald?”
“At the Council, obviously. He looked like such a pretty-boy.”
“Aragorn’s description gave me a quite different impression. And which opinion would be more reliable, do you think?”
One would hardly have guessed what Ron had been talking about with Harry only a few minutes earlier, what with the way the two of them bickered all the way back to their rooms. Harry surmised that Ron was trying to make his feelings less obvious after Harry’s comments – either that, or it was his strange idea of flirting.
* * *
The tallest Wraith advanced upon him, raising a knife menacingly…when he refused to hand over the Ring, it leapt back before bearing its knife down upon him…a chill like poisoned ice, paralyzing his body, swept through him…The others, Aragorn and the Hobbits, were too slow to react, and the Wraith swept him away from the crumbling fortress and onto a midnight-black horse…
Frodo sat bolt upright, breathing heavily. It was only a dream; he was still in his room in Rivendell, wrapped in comfortable blankets. Moonlight streamed through the balcony, and flickering torchlight came through the crack under his door. He closed his eyes and attempted to relax once again, to get the sleep that Aragorn had said he would need. But slumber evaded him, so he finally got dressed and headed for the garden where he had first seen Bilbo. Even in the darkness of an autumn night, the garden was still a calm and beautiful place. Frodo put his cloak on and headed there.
When he arrived, he found that he was not alone. The figure sitting on the bench moved its head slightly, and the reflection of moonlight off a pair of glasses told him it was Harry.
“You could not sleep either?” he asked the young wizard.
Harry turned around swiftly, whipping out his wand. He relaxed when he saw it was only Frodo. “Oh. You scared me for a minute there.”
“I apologize. Do you mind if I sit as well?”
Harry shook his head and moved over as Frodo clambered onto the bench. His legs swung a good six inches off the ground as they sat in quiet reflection.
“What’re you doing here?” Harry asked.
“I could not sleep; I was awakened by a terrible dream. And you?”
Harry replied, “I…I have too much to think about, I guess. The Quest, of course. I just hope that Ron and Hermione won’t get killed…After all, it’s my fault they’re here. And then there’s the problem of getting home – not that I don’t like it here. But I miss Hogwarts.”
Frodo nodded in understanding. “I miss the Shire. I always dreamed of going off on an adventure like Bilbo’s, but the Quest will be fraught with far more danger.” He paused. “Which makes me wonder: why did you and your two friends volunteer for the Quest? Why not instead remain in Rivendell, unseen?”
“I’ve asked myself that loads of times. I honestly don’t know why. Why did you accept my friends’ and my help? Others say that we are too young, too inexperienced…And there were lots more capable fighters there in the Council.”
“As you told me when you stood up, I could always use another wizard. Or even three, as it turned out. And…” he hesitated for a moment. “I feel that I can trust you.”
“Funny, I’ve got the same feeling.”
The Hobbit was taken aback. “You do? But do you have any idea why?”
“Yes and no.” That was all Harry said.
Frodo had to suppress a small laugh. “Are you always this cryptic?”
“I’m a wizard, it shouldn’t surprise you. You’ve said yourself that’s the way Gandalf is.”
“And I suppose that you are not going to tell me?”
“No. I can’t.”
“Oh, very well, then.” Frodo slid off the bench and began walking back to his room. “Good night, Harry.” He did not respond.
* * *
The next day dawned bright and clear. The sword lesson was more fun than the first day; they exchanged the blades for several wooden staves and practiced the many moves that Aragorn taught them. One thing the Hobbits continually used to their advantage was their height. By the end of the lesson, Harry and Ron had a considerable number of bruises up and down their legs.
“Dunno what Sam’s got against me,” Ron said, wincing as he walked. “I’m sure most of these bruises came from him…”
“I reckon that he still doesn’t trust us,” Harry said. “C’mon, let’s go find Hermione.”
They wound through the covered walkways until they came to the practice range they had gone to the previous day. Hermione was still in the middle of her lesson, her face set in a look of concentration as she held her drawn bow and looked down the arrow to aim. Harry looked at the target. Many of the arrows were embedded in the center ring.
“Wait a few more moments.” Harry and Ron turned their heads to the speaker, who must have been Legolas. His own bow and quiver were slung across his back. “Is the technique I showed you helping?”
“A little,” Hermione replied. “But my arm still hurts.”
“In time, you will become used to it. Very well, release your arrow.”
After pausing for another second to check her aim, Hermione let it fly.
“Well done,” said a voice as the arrow flew quickly to join its fellows in the center of the target. They turned to look at the speaker, who had approached without their notice. Harry vaguely remembered him from the Council: Boromir, the man from…Gondor, was it? “Fair morning, Legolas,” he said, nodding. The Elf inclined his head in reply but said nothing. The Man looked at Harry, Ron, and Hermione. “I know your faces, but you must forgive me for not taking the time to learn your names. I am Boromir, son of Denethor.”
The three friends introduced themselves. Boromir nodded approvingly at Hermione. “You certainly have skill with the bow, Hermione. How long have you been practicing?”
She blushed modestly. “Two days.”
“Truly? You have talent. Quite unlike myself,” he added laughingly. “I was hopeless when it came to archery; it seems that any inherited talent went to Faramir.”
“Faramir? Who’s he?” Ron asked curiously.
“My younger brother,” Boromir responded. “My only brother, in fact.”
“Me, I’ve got five older brothers. I’ve got a lot to live up to, too. Bill was Head Boy of the school, Charlie was captain of Quidditch – ”
“Quidditch?” Boromir asked. “What is that?”
“Wizard sport, played on broomsticks,” Ron replied. He and Harry launched into an explanation about the four balls and positions of the players to Boromir, who listened with some interest and occasionally asked questions. Legolas resumed his teaching. Harry saw Ron glance sideways at the Elf, his ears turning a violent shade of red as Legolas touched Hermione’s shoulders to correct her stance.
“And once the Seeker catches the Snitch, the game’s over. Their team usually wins; catching the Snitch earns an extra one hundred and fifty points. Harry’s the Seeker for our House’s team, and I’m the Keeper.”
“Interesting,” said Boromir, though he was shifting uneasily from side to side. “Well, I must take my leave. Until we meet again.” He gave a small nod before disappearing around a corner.
“That was a bit abrupt,” Harry commented.
“Nice guy, though,” Ron said thoughtfully.
“I dunno. He seems a bit…” Harry trailed off. He couldn’t quite explain to Ron that he felt slightly uncomfortable around Boromir, almost suspicious.
From that day on, Boromir came to assist Aragorn in the sword lessons. Eventually Harry, the Hobbits, and even Ron were able to exchange the staves for their swords and set about fencing. Hermione would sometimes join them, and much to her frustration, she found that she was not nearly as skilled as the others had grown to be. She acted somewhat smugly, though, when Harry and Ron finally began their archery lessons and kept missing the targets. Legolas, while he was a patient teacher, did not speak all that much.
“What, is he too thick to string a sentence together?” Ron muttered to Harry as the Elf left. “Must be because he’s such a pretty-boy…No brains…”
An arrow whizzed past his ear, coming to rest, quivering, in the tree behind it. Ron turned, heart hammering rapidly, to see Hermione holding her bow.
“I heard that, Ronald. And I didn’t have to miss,” she said coolly. “I do hate it when you insult teachers.”
“A teacher? Looks like he wants to be more than that…”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Really, Ronald! Look at the age difference!”
“Age difference?”
“He’s an Elf! I don’t know his how old he is, but knowing Elves, he’s well over a hundred! Maybe even over a thousand!”
Ron blinked. “Whatever,” he finally mumbled as he turned to leave.
* * *
Their time in Rivendell was drawing to a close, for the Fellowship was leaving in just a few weeks. The lessons became more intense, with Aragorn and Boromir now fencing against their pupils. They varied their attacks greatly; both imitated the hacking style of the Orcs. Boromir then fought each in turn with the more traditional style of Men, and Aragorn used the smooth, flowing attack the Elves had taught him. Their moves were unpredictable at first, but soon Harry learned how to anticipate their actions. While learning the different forms he discovered their weaknesses and became especially good at countering them. Ron’s skill was passable, but not nearly as good as Harry’s.
“Is there anything I can be good at?” Ron moaned one day.
As for the Hobbits, they had learned in an astoundingly quick manner. Sam was especially proficient – he was surprisingly agile, able to duck and roll out of the way if he could not ward off the blows.
One day Harry was fencing against Aragorn. The Ranger’s moves were quick, and he kept throwing in elements of the various styles, but Harry was mostly able to defend himself. He had learned that sword fighting was nothing like any movie he had seen portrayed; he had once tried doing a fancy spin and gotten a good scolding for it.
He concentrated on the moment, paying close attention to the way Aragorn placed his feet, trying to anticipate his next move. Harry lifted the sword above his head just in time to block an orc-like blow that, had they really been fighting, might have split his head open. But Harry knew that Aragorn could handle his sword with precision; he would have stopped the blade few inches from Harry’s head. Next Harry aimed a cut at Aragorn’s leg. When the Ranger’s blade countered it, the swords hit so hard that they sent a vibration up Harry’s arms – and, by the looks of it, Aragorn was also trying to steady his own grip. Harry pressed forward, forcing his opponent to take a step backward, but then Aragorn’s sword came up in an Elven move, so sudden that Harry was forced to counter and give back the ground he had taken.
His arms, while they had developed a good amount of muscle over the past couple of months, were beginning to tire. He forced that thought out of his mind and sought for an opening. But Aragorn would give none.
So Harry tried a fake. He bore his blade downward, and when Aragorn’s followed to counter it, he swiftly changed direction and stopped it an inch from Aragorn’s throat.
Clearly Aragorn had been thinking the same thing, for his own sword was pointing at Harry’s neck in the same instant.
It was the first time Harry had ever gotten anywhere near beating the Ranger. Slowly they lowered their swords and looked each other in the eye.
“You are ready,” Aragorn said gravely. “Well done.”
