At long last, here is the first installment! It's a bit of preamble, introducing Forven for those of you who don't entirely know him, and setting a general tone. It's a bit different than usual—for me—but I hope you enjoy!

Young Hearts in a Weary World

It could be said that the blades chimed as bells. One ringing upon the other, they sounded with passion, desperation, hope. The music was quick and light, distant yet enchanting. A spell upon the air.

But perhaps they were not bells but instead a ballad, echoing with the raging rolls of a thousand waves, pounding in the depths of an ever near purpose. Could they be a battle cry?—a call to action, a whispering alert.

Or did the blades ring with an emblem?

For certain, though, the blades danced. They slipped through the air as silk on glass, coming nearer, nearer, nearer, colliding with the fervor of a storm's winds, spinning once—twice—and separating just to begin again.

Then they stopped. A lull in the tune, and the blades separated, sharply scraping against each other. The blades descended, falling to their bearer's side. Each tip brushed the grass, the ground yellowed and flat from so long spent training upon it.

Legolas smirked. His breath was quick but even, air filling his lungs as a swelling upsurge. The elf across from him smiled, but it was an expression that did not reach his eyes. Legolas imagined his own expression was much the same—but he could hardly spare it such more than a passing thought. "Again?"

The other warrior, dark hair whisking in front of his eyes, swallowed once, heaving a breath and nodding. His eyes looked just past Legolas' shoulder, then brushing over the area. Legolas followed his gaze, finding a ring of elves to be watching from the outskirts. "Aye. We may as well so long as we have an audience."

Legolas looked to the ground, tilting his head back and forth, stretching the muscles in his neck. He looked again at the surrounding elves who—though they may have pretended otherwise, with fidgeting an murmured conversations—held rapt focus upon the dueling warriors. "Ai, Forven, are you looking to give them a show?"

Forven shrugged. "Perhaps." He whistled softly and tossed his sword to an awaiting warrior on the fringe of the spectators. "Or perhaps I simply wish to improve my skill in more than just the realm of swordsmanship."

"Oh, truly?" Legolas laughed, following suit and discarding his weapon. His feet felt lighter, movements freer. He bent his knees, bringing his hands before his face. Though his heart pounded, a calm descended upon him and he released a steady breath. "Then let us begin."

There was a soft countdown from the warriors, an exchange of a jeweled dagger or two, a wager released into the air—and then Legolas and Forven began their dance anew. This time, their hands were their blades and their bodies' their power. It began slow but in an instant the thunder of their spar became lightning—quick movements, skilled placement, misleading intentions defeated by tempered foresight.

It was not long however, before all rules of the spar were forgotten—or perhaps discarded—as they so often were by the wood-elves. Legolas slipped a knife from beneath his vambrace and Forven a dagger from his boot. The weapons were dull, but their presence nonetheless heightened the warriors' alertness.

Forven swiped at Legolas' neck with the dagger, feigning to the left. Ducking beneath Forven's reach, Legolas dove for the other elf's legs, hitting the grass with a roll when Forven leapt into the air and to the side. Spinning on his heel, Legolas kicked out just as Forven's heels hit the ground. Then they were both on the ground—Legolas pinning Forven with one arm as he brought his knife to the warrior's throat.

They paused for a moment, a brief acknowledgement of a draw, and then they continued afresh.

The moments were timeless. A flash here, a flurry there—one movement following fluidly after the other. Legolas' knife flashed in the sunlight, Forven's fading amid the shadows of towering tree limbs. The blades were flung away once serving their purpose, perhaps to be drawn again. The bout continued, fierce but calculated. One lunged, the other darted back or under or forward—a constant cycle of vigor. Never ending, incessant, monotonous. The same as the fight of all of Eryn Galen.

Legolas faltered, barely. His weight shifted a moment earlier than he had planned. He adjusted, but the hesitation cost him. Forven gripped his wrist and jerked him forward. Allowing Legolas' momentum to carry him forward, Forven slipped behind him and before the prince could turn, Forven pulled him back. Legolas stilled as Forven's arm came up, wrapping about his shoulders, fist pressing against his jugular and hand holding the side of his head. "Are you done? If I were an orch, you would be dead."

Legolas breathed in—hesitated—then smirked. "If you were an orch, I would have put an arrow through your head before you knew to draw your sword."

Forven huffed a laugh. "And what if I weren't and happened to come upon you unawares in hopes of killing you?"

"If you weren't, then you would have hesitated before snapping my neck, and I would have flipped you over my shoulder, doing some amount of incapacitating damage in the process."

"Good. Can't say that's comforting and I'm not sure you would have been successful—but good." Forven looked up, seeming to remember that an audience had gathered. He sighed—soft, contented. Legolas shrugged a shoulder, and Forven loosened his grip, taking a step back. The small crowd murmured—there was a reluctant exchange of tokens from those who had taken to betting—and then it was quiet. The other warriors dispersed. Legolas and Forven were left alone.

Legolas wandered the short distance of the training field, eyes upon the ground. There was a flash—and he saw it, his knife softly folded into the yellowing grass. Bending, he collapsed on the grass in a heap, uncaring of the soft prick of the grass that pressed upon his hand. He turned his face toward the sky, relishing the feel of sunlight upon his skin. He took a breath again—this time one of contentment. Of peace. Of lie. For the peace wasn't real but an illusion, as it would not last. No peace could.

His thoughts swirled with a tangent storm, unguided and misdirected, but somehow comforting. He could hardly focus but for the pound of his heart and rise of barely subdued emotion. "It is beautiful, isn't it?" Then a passing shadow obscured the sun on his face, and a presence came to beside him. He knew who it was before he opened his eyes.

Forven reclined beside him, hair threaded into the grass as dark moss in a crystal lake. "Aye."

"Do you feel it?"

"It, mellon?"

"The air. It's different..." Legolas smiled, but shook his head. "Tis nothing, really. A passing thought."

Oftentimes the matter would cease in discussion there. A thought of one compared to the feelings of the other. But here Forven spoke. "Is it why you did not truly fight me?"

Pulled from his thoughts, Legolas allowed himself to fully collapse upon the ground. "Did not fight? Ai, gwador, I would hate to see what you consider an earnes effort."

Forven glowered but the expression was ruined by a grin. He pulled his hair where it fell before his eyes. "You have seen it and know precisely what I mean. You may prefer the bow but I know you to be faster without it. In the end, you fumbled. What is upon your mind?—and be honest. You're a terrible liar, despite what you may think."

Eyes narrowed, Legolas shoved the other's shoulder, though it hardly displaced him. "Why must you be so utterly stubborn?" He brought his elbow to bend over his brow.

"Tis something I pride myself in. But I learned the finer aspects of it from you—just as I've learned to recognize when you are avoiding the heart of an issue."

"Stubborn," Legolas mumbled, but did not argue. Naught would be accomplished by it. "I cannot explain it. Not fully. But—but I was struck during our spar. Not by your hand but of my own thoughts for... when does this end? Can it? How long must this fight go on? We train, we fight, we face this shadow and hope for something better, but how can we be certain it will come?"

Forven was silent. One heartbeat. Another. "I know." He sighed deeply. "I know what you are saying, for I have thought the same. And I do not have an answer."

Legolas hummed, low and soft. He had not expected an ultimate answer no more than he expected utter denial.

Forven continued. "But I can say this—it will not last. Not forever. You know that, I know that, Middle Earth knows that. The darkness is growing, but that does not mean it is stronger than us—we will not let it be. We fight now and we'll keep fighting. Perhaps we'll stumble, perhaps we will fall, but our fight will endure through it all because we have hope and that is our greatest weapon."

The chirp of a bird. Rustle of a tree. Breath of an elf.

Legolas squinted into the sunlight. His vision blurred and brightened, moment by moment. "Do you believe that?"

"Aye, gwador. So long as we have the courage to remain."

In these words, somehow, Legolas found surety. "Hannon-le, Forven, mellon. Your words ease my heart."

"Ah, you know that my wisdom—bred by my superior experience—far exceeds your own."

"I hope you recall that you came into this world but a few decades before me, and have hardly seen more of the world than I have."

"Not quite true, caun-nin. Those few decades you speak of tally to near a century I believe."

Legolas knew Forven was right—that those years may very well have been more than a century, for who truly counted them—but that did not deter him from haphazardly throwing his arm toward the other, a light shove as he muttered a brief "impossible" and then settled back into the soft grass, content for the moment in the peace that hope brought.

Forven shifted next to him, and Legolas smiled. The world was old, and they may die before it was ever young again. But today—their fight lived.

Smoke drifted in the air. There was a melancholic ambience. Elves moved about, cautious, suspicious, watchful. They were scared.

Forven leaned against a tree, hidden under the shadow of its boughs, his hands clenched in an effort to keep from shaking. His spirit, however, quaked as his vision refused to remain steady.

So many. Too close. Almost dead.

There had been no word of yrch here, not for months. This sector had ben believed safe. Somehow, the beasts had slipped around the southern front—perhaps from the east, a party would need to investigate—coming to the village edge and nearly massacring them all. If it had not been for the nearness of the company, their frantic approach at the first cry of a scout, how quickly they had been able to put out the fire—

—then the twelve injured would have been a hundred dead. It had been much too close for far too many and yet there was nothing that Forven could do to change it.

Anger rolled off him in tumultuous waves because in that moment he couldn't understand why. Why the threat, why the fight, why Eryn Galen. Why must so much darkness envelop that which had so much good in it? He felt rather than saw Legolas come beside him. The Prince of Greenwood—one of the lights, the good that still shone as ever in the darkening realm—placed a hand on Forven's shoulder.

Forven turned, heart aching. He saw a kindred spirit in Legolas' eyes, but also the essence of something Forven had allowed to slip away from him. Something he knew he must cling to.

"Hope," Legolas said, dipping his chin. "It is all we have, isn't it?"

And those words rang true in the deepening shadow, casting out despair. Forven nodded, once, quick, trusting. He clasped Legolas' forearm and their gazes held. In this second of ne'er wasted time, he let himself breathe a breath not tainted by the wiles of darkness.

And in this fleeting moment Forven knew that hope—that they may live, for a moment may endure so long as the heart has faith enough to embrace it—and a weapon courage enough to defend it.
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