The Hobbit: Tales Untold

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Having the king watch over her in such manner felt strangely odd. She got that need to fidget but it was not the childish lack of self-control that made them restless in their seat; this was a need to look adequate in a situation that went beyond her control. Now that she had some time and limited freedom to relax in Thranduil's presence, Tirneliell found herself by chance examining the king in a different light. Whilst he cut out an impressive, tall figure which was meant to strike awe or fear in the hearts of onlookers; his expression always cold almost arrogant to a point, that even some elves of the kingdom called the king heartless; the way he has been treating her within the matter of few moments, just didn't fit the whole image. Whilst the snippets of care he showed were nothing but snippets, they brought a certain warmth to the king's character. Something that was missing from his conduct since the horrific events his wife disappearing. To this day, no one really knows what has happened to their beloved queen. Tirneliell would not call it a glimpse of what the king once used to be. She perceived it more as a hope of what he could become again if he only didn't separate himself from, well, his inner self that seemed to have been dormant, or even suppressed.

"I promise, I won't hold you back for long my lord. I am already starting to feel much better." Tirneliell was aware of Thranduil's pressing duties. Word of the possible threat on the edges of the kingdom reached almost every elf. Orcs gathering, plundering, and attacking, but most of all, endangering the peace that they have been preserving in this kingdom. Just the thought of those foul creatures sent waves of hatred through her body. 'Thanks' to those monsters she no longer had either of her parents. One dying by a poisoned arrow, the other in grief as consequence. Back then, her mother accompanied a small scout group into the forest. She had a new gadget that she wanted to test on the spider hatchlings. They were ambushed by a small number of orcs. More of the elves might have survived if the spiders didn't attack alongside the orcs. Maybe even her mother would havemade it back to safety, but as she was escaping with few other scouts, an arrow hit her in the shoulder and the poison was released into her blood stream. By the time, she was carried past the stone gates of their kingdom, she only managed to utter few words. Words of love for her husband, and a name for her only daughter.

"I know this is not a matter that you would seek my counsel for, my lord," she spoke abruptly, her voice somewhat filled with urgency and need to be listened to. Her eyes fixing on Thranduil's with captivating exigency. "The news of the gathering orcs have spread throughout the kingdom and everyone is slightly distressed. There are rumours about an expedition that might be deployed to deal with this threat. As you well know, my king, orcish archers tend to use poisoned arrows. I want to offer my services, plead with you to allow me to join the troops, so that shall any of your soldiers suffer such wound, I can treat them." Tirneliell wasn't aware whether the king knew how her mother died, because maybe if he would, he would understand her ulterior, personal motives for volunteering for such a dangerous task. However, if he was unfamiliar with her past circumstances, Tirneliell's pleading might have been exchanged for eagerness to support the cause and minimize the suffering of king's people as much as possible. Yet, at the end of the day, Tirneliell needed to reclaim for herself the name that was given to her by her mother. She needed that sense of closure and achievement so that she could wear her private name with pride as it was meant to be.
 
A healer pleading with him to confront the orcs with foot soldiers was... unexpected. Neither had he expected cowardice, but he couldn't imagine the reasoning behind her sudden interest in taking up a position in the expedition. He felt his brow furrow in response to her request, sensing her sincere desire to help the moment she'd begun speaking. "You wish to accompany us." Though he would never admit that he was surprised; dealing in orcs was messy business that Thranduil would much rather be finished with without dragging others into it.

But it was her choice, he reasoned, and if she thought it wise to tag along and offer her services in a support role, then so be it-- he would not stop her. "Very well," he said to her, his face impassive as it was when regarding someone no more than a messenger. "You reasons are your own." He was certain that the soldiers he took along would be appreciative of the aid she offered. Perhaps the morale boost would get them home sooner than anticipated.

They shared contempt for the creatures that dared to threaten their home, and that was enough for Thranduil to accept her. Peace would not reign until the orc bands were razed and each put to the death-- as was the natural order for beasts with a mind no higher than a common animal. Thranduil would gladly spend a millenium cleansing all of Middle Earth of them, had he not been otherwise preoccupied.
 
His face assumed a thoughtful expression as if he was contemplating whether she would be a valuable addition to the expedition. For the whole duration of the silence, Tirneliell was fighting her need to try and convince the king further that she could indeed prove useful during the quest. Certainly not as a fighting force, since her own knowledge of elven martial arts went as far as a basic use of daggers and an odd shot from a bow. Give her a sword, and she'd probably accidentally butcher herself with it. The moment of waiting agonized her, however. Finally, Thranduil gave his word of approval, even if it was masked by the passiveness of his tone. It was enough to incite another hint of a smile on her face. It was not excitement it showed, but thankfulness and determination to affirm the king that he would not regret his decision.

She felt the tiredness slowly disappearing and she saw it adequate to stand and thank the king properly. Leaving one of her hand on the arm rest of the chair, Tirneliell slowly stood up, careful to see whether her body was indeed ready. When her mind didn't threaten to black out, the she-elf courtesied. "Thank you, my lord. If you wouldn't mind sharing with me how many soldiers will be going on the expedition and by when I need to be ready, it would greatly help my preparations," Tirneliell stated as she looked up at Thranduil who was still towering over her. She would indeed need to get quite a few things ready. Certainly she would need to accumulate enough remedies for all the soldiers if every single one of them were to hypothetically get injured. One thing she didn't want to happen was to run out of antidote. Yet, more importantly, she would need to go and see the elven forgers and ask them to create her some sort of simple armour that would protect her, but allow her the movement she needed as healer. Quite frankly she only possessed hardened leather armour after her mother, which failed to prevent her from dying. Tirneliell did not intend on going to the expedition as vulnerable like her mother. Tirneliell would make sure not to fall victim to the deadly orcish weapons even if it meant transforming her garbs into soldier armour.
 
He had long convinced himself by this time that taking along a healer couldn't be too terrible an idea. It was a risk to take an non-combatant into a dangerous area such as where they were headed, but a risk that offered its own benefit should the orcs indeed bring poison to the battle. Thranduil had always been unwilling to lose good soldiesr to such a petty thing as the sloppily poisoned tip of a poorly carved orcish arrow. Elevn soldiers were deserving of much better, he'd think. It was a sensible decision he would defend if brought into question.

He would see to it, then, that she was well protected on the journey to the orc encampment out of respect to her importance. He would not take on a new healer only for said healer to lose their life on behalf of his decision. And his solders would be more than pleased to know that the wait to be treated for their wounds would be significantly cut short.

"I will inform you when it is decided," he replied, all traces of the warm tone he'd used to address her earlier gone. "If you would excuse me; I must consult with my generals."
 
It didn't come to her as a surprise when the king's demeanour returned to its previous distant, cold self. But she felt a sting of regret due to the loss of the subtle care, she thought she heard in his voice. As strange as it might have seemed that the king would care for a healer, or anyone apart from himself, Tirneliell felt oddly proud that she was the object of the fleeting moment. "Of course, my lord. I have kept you from your duties for too long already," she replied humbly. Using the bag that the runner left in the room, Tirneliell swiftly put the mortar and pestle along with the book and vial away and with last respectful and deep courtesy, she turned around and walked away, leaving the three soothing herbs still upon the fire, scenting the room subtly.

Once she was outside of the king's private quarters and back in the open cave in which they all lived, Tirneliell had already made a list of things she would have to do before the king would call upon her and her services. But first she needed some rest. Whilst she didn't feel so weak anymore, she knew that some sleep until the sunrise would replenish her energy much more efficiently than fretting about preparations, or her father's body for that matter. A sigh escaped her lips. For some reason, the imagine of her king's face, the contrast of healed and tarnished, floating in front of her inner eye. It left a strong impression with her.
 
He was unsure how long he remained standing, his face drawn into some distant expression, or displeasure. It was a feeling he couldn't place, something longing that seemed familiar in an almost nostalgic fashion. Displeasure with the inability to place it? He grimaced. Pondering his tightly-locked away emotions wasn't a wise way to waste time, and the orcs would not wait for him to decide on whether he felt like dealing with them. He had time, but what time there was must be directed towards meeting with the consultants on the matter so he could be underway.

If he were lucky, he would return with just enough time to take care of his own personal business, even if the actual importance of the personal business of royalty was questionable. Thranduil's sense of time, a terrible and untouchable thing to elves, was fleeting as he spent the meanwhile after alerting his Generals overthinking the wording of the letter he planned to send Tirneliell's way. Thranduil wasn't a particularly social elf, a cold and distant demeanor that seemed unusually even for the elves, and thus writing in a non-formal way seemed an impossibility for him.

Why he put thought into make it informal in the first place was completely lost on him, but he refused to think on it longer than necessary.

The arrival of the generals, which he assumed couldn't have been long after they'd been called upon, woke him from his musing, and he addressed them swiftly to get their meeting started. Thranduil rarely lost his train of thought in such an important meeting, but his thoughts strayed. He vaguely recalled the mention of a specific set of strategies particular to orcs before time, once again, had decided to leave him behind.

Thankfully, Thranduil had remained intact enough for him to see the generals off as the meeting concluded long after morning. He followed them out and, reminded of his promise to Tirneliell, called for one of his more trustworthy messengers to carry a message for her eyes only. Though terse in its length as it had been written quickly during the conclusion of the meeting, it was as informal as he had planned and was worded as warmly as he would dare.

Written on the note, in a bold and neatly flowing script, were very specific instructions.

A small force will be gathered, no more than eighty to match the orcs at our border. See to it that the smiths forge a lightweight set-- you will be spending much of your time on foot. What you carry to defend yourself should you find yourself in danger is your decision to make. What equipment you deem important enough to bring other than what I have suggested is acceptable.

Before you do this, however, I would require your presence in my chamber. There are things we must discuss privately.
 
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Just as she planned, the moment she arrived back in her house, Tirneliell left the satchel in the healer's room and retired for the rest of the night. Welcoming the moments of nothingness with open arms. When she woke up with the sunrise, she had an odd feeling as if she dreamt but the memory of the dream escaped from her consciousness the moment she opened her eyes. The only remnant of that fleeting illusion was that indescribably feeling at the pit of her stomach. For a few moments she just laid in her bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to the somewhat distant sound of elves starting the new day. Not long after she got dressed in another black mourning dress, seeing it fitting as her father has not been gone for more than a day, a messenger arrived. Tirneliell was aware of how effectively the king ran his kingdom, decisions about major events and issues have always been reached within a matter of few days. However, the fact that the ruler has already reached the decision about the expedition so soon, only confirmed to Tirneliell that the plans of the retaliation have been discussed for longer than anyone in the kingdom anticipated. Which only mean that the threat was also much more imminent.

80 soldiers...lightweight armour...weapon...private audience. The key words stood out in her mind and suddenly she had a whole plan for the day lined out. She would work fast, as usual, in order not to hold the expedition back. Therefore, after a light breakfast of few selected fruits, Tirneliell set up a simple distillation process to create more tincture she would use as an anti-dote shall the orcs use poisoned blades. It was an advantage to know that there were no other animals with potent poison apart from the spiders in the forest. Orcs were known for gathering their poisons from animals so unless they brought their own, the spider of Mirkwood were their only source. Being bitten by a spider hatchling, not more than a few days old, did not necessarily cause an immediate death if the affected person was brought swiftly to a healer. Those types of injuries were also somewhat common, especially with children who stray too far from the border, so the antidote was very well developed within the kingdom.

Content with the tincture being processed, Tirneliell left her house to meet with the local blacksmiths. A lightweight armour...she never wore anything even close to such a thing, but she believed in the craft of the elven masters. It was true that they looked at her slightly surprised when she asked them the favour. After all, Tirneliell looked nothing like a soldier, even less as someone who would survive in the battlefield on her own. Suppose, that also served as an inspiration for them to create a unique set that they promised to deliver within couple hours along with a weapon. Just as a complimentary gift, so they said. Having the first three things ticked of her check list, her mind turned to the last part. A private audience with the king.

For some reason her chest felt tight at the thought of it and the unusual feel at the pit of her stomach also returned. She felt as nervous as yesterday, yet somewhat inspired at the same time. Whether it was because of the note that seemed less former than it probably should have been, or whether she just felt flattered to be allowed another private audience with Thranduil two times in a row. For all she knew, he could have just sent her the instructions and then tell her to meet the expedition at certain place. After all, Tirneliell wasn't even sure whether the king was also taking part. Either way she knew, she would have to be ready once she would step her food inside Thranduil halls. However, there was one more thing she had to take care of, before she would finish off the preparations. It was her father's resting place. She believed in the stories of elven souls sometimes returning to their bodies and in her heart she found it too difficult to say good bye to her father just yet. Therefore, she has decided to ask the stonemasons to build her father a resting places, deep within their garden, among the white and purple clovers that her father adored so much. He deserved to rest in a place as peaceful as that and maybe one day, when Tirneliell would not find it so soul shattering, she would let him flow down the river, setting his body ablaze, letting go.


Just like the blacksmith's promised the armour and the weapon was delivered before noon, about the time that Tirneliell was safely packing away the last tincture vial. She felt unsure about wearing a set of metal and leather, but she had no choice if she wanted to survive, and she surely treasured her life as much. In fact, the package was delivered by one of the apprentices who was ordered to help Tirneliell into the armour and answer any questions she might have about any of the objects. Thanks to him, she was soon able to look upon herself in the mirror and it was as if she was looking at someone, she thought she had long forgotten. She looked daring, ready to stand up and take an action of her free will. All that as coupled with the sleek look of the darkish grey metal, that would help her blend with the surroundings of Mirkwood. She was indeed looking at herself when she was more than a millennium younger, when she was full of life and courage, challenging to world to bring her down. Furthermore, she had to put her hair in a couple braids to keep it out of her face and out of the way of the armour, forming and simple headdress that seemed to beheld in place by magic. Only she knew that a simple pull on the pin hidden in her hair, would undo everything and her hair would again flow freely around her back. With a grateful smile and thousands words of thanks, she sent the apprentice away with payment.

The armour itself was a delicate, fine work. As the under layer, Tirneliell was instructed to wear her riding boots and pants and a woollen shirt as a softer support for the straps of the armour. Everything on top of that was the work of the masters. It included tempered leather vest as metal armour would have been heavy around her chest and it would restrict her movement. On top of the vest, there was a modified style of elven armour gorget, which apart from being one of the only metal parts of her whole armour, had a collar that came about two inches high around her neck, which a half circle falling down her chest, resting perfectly atop her breasts. The shoulder parts extended slightly into the sides, lightly curved downwards, ended with a point that only looked sharp but was not, also created from separate plates so that if Tirneliell was to raise her hands above her head, the plates would shuffle under one another, allowing her that range of motion. Continuing from the same piece of protection, another set of thin and long, separate plates covered her her whole back and it was loosely attached to the belt that fitted perfectly around her waist. As a poorly armed, inexperienced fighter, the masters thought of a great way how to cover the most vulnerable parts of her body, yet allowing her the full freedom of movement that she certainly needed as a healer. The set was then coupled with simple forearm leather tempered vambrace. The last set of metal on her equipment were thin plates running down the sides of her thighs. At first, Tirneliell did not know what they would be good for, that part seemed unnecessary, but the apprentice swiftly explained that if she was to ride a horse or at any given point be in higher position than her attacker, these would protect her legs from blows from swords or arrows, but since it did not run all the way down to her ankles, she was advised to leave the battlefield the moment she would sense an attack going her way.

She felt safe and protected by this masterpiece and so she swiftly went off to conclude the preparation, sending of soft clinking sounds of the metal around her body. Tincture, some general herbs, bandages, flask of water...oh the weapon. Until now she didn't think about it, though the apprentice did show her. It was a dagger. Smaller than the one the captain of the guards carried with her. It sat well in her hand and it felt light, the curved blade certainly meant to be lethal, but Tirneliell hoped she would not have to use it. Saving lives was her priority, not taking them. Though, if it would be an orc...she returned the dagger to its sheath on her belt with a resolute flick of her wrist. If it was an orc, she would gladly use it to carve a death sentence into its throat. All in all, that was it. She was ready. Placing a light travel cape over her shoulders and picking up her travel satchel, she was ready to leave and present herself to the king. In a way, she was glad for the cape covering her body as it felt odd to be walking around in armour.

As she arrived at the door of the king's private quarters, she announced herself to the guards at the doors. One of them, just like before nodded his head for her to follow and she followed him to wherever the king was at the moment.

((Gorget reference; Vambrace reference; The gorget is medieval inspired so give it a bit more elvish elegance and modify it to the description in text and you'll get the idea. The vambrace reference is exactly as her forearm guards are, but a bit more feminine.))[/hr]
 
Time blended for Thranduil, scrunching itself up into the smallest point imaginable and then leaving itself for him to figure out. He'd piece through it all carefully, sticking together what he thought was the present and tossing away what he was certain was the past. The future was never wound like the other two, and he was thankful for that. And once time had been organized appropriately, it would flow smoothly once again and Thranduil would be able to see without being blinded by day-old actions and things he thinks he should have done. He had noticed that it also made waiting less excruciating of an experience.

So when he returned to his chambers, his mind busied with organizing and fixating on the journey ahead, Thranduil had been sure to notify the stationary guards to allow Tirneliell entrance upon arrival, before disappearing soon after into his chamber to prepare himself. He had long ago commissioned his own set, heavy in appearance and light in material, wrapped in delicately swirling designs that were almost too much for a simple set of armor. But Thranduil was nothing if not vain.

An elven shortsword with similar designs along its hilt rested at his hip, secured in place by the leather belt around his waist that dipped beneath his armor. It was an old thing, if the writing along its blade were to be believed. The second weapon Thranduil had ever wielded according to himself, and if the Elvenking had favorites, it would be one of them.

When the doors swung open to admit Tirneliell, Thranduil was there to greet her. His expression was as soft and unhardened as it had been when he was alone, welcoming her presence as a distraction from the stray thoughts wrestling on the fringes of his mind. It appeared as if she'd followed his instructions, and he found himself admiring the work she'd put into preparing herself.

"Excellent. We have plans to leave before the sun begins its descent. You will be told to stay within the center of the expedition, but you will ignore those orders and find me instead. The healer..." he paused here as if thinking on what to say next. "The healer must be kept safe. An ordinary soldier cannot assure that."
 
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She walked into the room, the sharp yet muffled sounds of her own armour, barely audible, but strangely loud to her own ears. Landing her eyes upon the king, she was in a way surprised to see him dressed for battle. Whilst it was understandable that he would take part in the expedition, the importance and potency of the threat was larger than she assumed before. The armour he wore took nothing away from his stately figure, yet it gave his appearance the menacing look that signalled to any daring orc that shall he take a chance, he would be struck down. Thranduil's posture alone spoke of the battles he's been through. However, as intimidating as he might have seen, Tirneliell noticed the softness in his features that almost gave her the impression that he was welcoming her back in his chambers. That alone, the sudden and not-seen-before change in the king's behaviour, peaked Tirneliell's curiosity as to what could have caused it. Probably, he was glad to finally be able to ride out and end the threat once and for all. Bowing lightly, as courtesying in her armour made her feel even more uncomfortable, she greeted the king.

At Thranduil's words, her eyebrows rose up ever so slightly in an almost tangible surprise. Has the king just ordered her to disobey a command? Or did he just command her to follow a different set of rules? Furthermore, did he just take the role of protecting her upon himself? The surge of wonder, as strong as it wasa, didn't prevent her from nodding her head. "As you wish, my lord. Whilst the master blacksmiths forged me a fine dagger, I understand that on a battlefield this weapon will be close to pointless, shall the orcs swarm around us." Just the idea of the foul creatures getting that close, made her skin crawl and her jaw hardened momentarily. Perhaps, it was better not to think about what could happen in a few hours. As her eyes went out of focus for a fraction of a moment, her imagination playing a terrific scene of swords clashing, she looked at Thranduil, apologetic even, feeling even further out of place. She would not want to make the king doubt his decision of taking her on this expedition, if she appeared to be too weak, but the truth was that Tirneliell has indeed never been in such a situation before. Maybe she wished to have never spouted out the words of yesterday; maybe she wanted to get this done and over with just as fast as the king. Either way, her own features returned to the usual calm, collected and serene expression.

"My lord, I greatly appreciate you allowing me to join this expedition, but I would not want to hinder you on the battle field if you would have to look after me. The blacksmiths forged this armour so that it would protect me for a while but on the front lines, it might not last very long. They suggested for me to leave the skirmish as soon as it would seem to begin. However, I do not want to turn away from the fight if I am needed. But, to speak freely, the only fighting I know are the basics with a dagger that my father taught me. Simple moves to kill a spider, but not an orc. And so...I was wondering, that maybe, since the dusk is still half a day away, if one of your soldiers could teach me some more..." Under the sun and moon, she would never ask Thranduil directly to help her with such thing. She assumed he had much better things to do, than waste his time on her possibly futile tries in learning some more defensive moves that meant the difference between life and death. But being enclosed in this private room only with him, Tirneliell could not deny to herself that a part of her wished for the king to take up the task. A part of her that now felt charmed by the king's presence and the amount of time he has decided to spend with her, even if it were just mere moments.
 
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Against a berserking orc, such a weapon would serve as little more than an invitation; the appearance of a capable warrior drew attention, and attracted the same amount of attention regardless of the wielders true intentions or potential. Thranduil knew this well and relied on his past experience in making the decision to keep an eye on her himself in spite of the hindrance she may or may not become. He was wise to think ahead under such circumstances, and had thought it through well enough. He had made his decision and was willing to set an example by following through with it.

The smooth plates of his armor slid lightly across each other as he moved. "Should things go according to plan, it will not be necessary." He deferred to her good judgement on whether taking it anyway was a good idea. A small assurance should Thranduil become occupied during battle was an excellent idea, but the Elvenking hoped it wouldn't come to that. "But you are welcome to bring it, nonetheless."

When she spoke of her limited knowledge involving the use of the blade, Thranduil fixed her with a scrutinizing gaze, surveying her stature and build and the way she held herself, the way she walked. All would play heavily in the way she used the dagger. But a simple soldier, skilled as he or she may be, could never possible teach a healer such things in so little time.

Although aware of the uncertainty of the idea he currently toyed with, it was the fastest and most efficient way to give Tirneliell a decent chance should she find herself stuck. Learning the different ways in which it could be used would also become handy in a healer's line of work, and so Thranduil was quick to make up his mind upon realizing the fact.

"My soldiers are not trained to teach, and those who are are indisposed," he said. "Therefor, I will offer my own time to teach you the basics. To keep you alive, of course."
 
The certainty with which he spoke, the way he regarded the upcoming battle as a necessary evil, something that he would just deal with and finish it without any harm, only underlined all the reasons why he was the king, and a great one for that matter. Tirneliell didn't doubt that he thought everything through, calculated each move, drafted out each outcome and strategy needed to win in this skirmish. As much as she trusted in Thranduil's planning and now her own safety as well, she still needed that little something to put her mind at ease. The sense of being able to take care of herself shall the two of them be suddenly separated. Everything her parents ever told her was for Tirneliell to become independent, and she was good at that. However, nothing they have said would have the potential of preparing her for a day, or night, on the front lines of an army unit. However, she was ready, even eager to learn. She tried to show that fervor in her expression, hiding the nervousness that was crouching in the corner of her soul, as Thranduil was looking her up and down. She knew he was guessing how much she could do, but suddenly she became more self-conscious, aware of how the armour fitted against her curves, the fact the she looked agile and flexible. She should have been proud of her body, but instead, she felt strangely exposed. Tirneliell knew that she felt that way only because of the intensity of Thranduil's stare and at that moment all of her wishes to be taught by him scattered away. She had the urge to grab the sides of her cape and wrap it around herself, but of course she didn't do that. Instead she withstood the king's gaze steadily.

She bowed again. Her heart picking up speed at hearing his decision. After all, the king would take upon himself another ordeal tied to her being. She was not sure whether to feel honoured for having the privilege, or ashamed for her own incompetence in that matter. "It's an honour, my lord," she said at last, her cheeks gaining a light rose colour not only due to her heartbeat, but her internal struggle as well.

Tirneliell supposed that the king would want to start straight away so she put her satchel on the side with the cape on top of it. Now, the whole armour was visible. In fact, her whole figure was shown in details that the dress she wore the previous day has hidden, such as her lean, long legs that could hold her well on a horse; thinner waist as an attribute of her womanhood; not particularly gifted in the bust area, but she certainly had nothing to be ashamed of there either. With movements that were too smooth and feminine, and not so confident, and strong as that of an elven fighter, she would have hard times trying to persuade anyone hat she was a soldier. For a while, Tirneliell just stood in place, trying to figure out what to do, the uncertainty almost etched into her features, when at last she pulled out the dagger that was forged for her. It was a thin, fighting fit blade. The shape curved just like any other sword, but the slenderness of the blade was designed to slide under two pieces of armour. In other words, if Tirneliell, aimed well, or got lucky, she could jab that weapon right between someone's ribs without any difficulty.

Either way, it was challenging to say how well she could handle the weapon from that simple movement of unsheathing it, but her hand gripped the hilt firmly, her wrist seemed to have been relaxed to allow swift, flowing cutting motion, but her body was stiff. The foot work that her father taught her was in her mind, but she hasn't practised it for a long time. The only occasion when she in fact fought, was long time ago in Mirkwood, when she encountered a spider. It was a long time ago and back then she even stumbled over a root and fell. Whether it was lucky or not, from lying underneath the creature she managed to kill it at the end. However, to this day, she would swear the that tree moved its roots to trip her. One way or another, it has been a long time since she went over the basic moves.
 
Thranduil had always had a natural talent for the blade, regardless of its make or length. A renowned swordsman in his young age, he was surprisingly deft in his movements and claimed to be capable of outmaneuvering and defeating any who challenged him in battle. It was the ever present well from which he drew his pride, lingering in his tone and the light sheen to his eyes when he was feeling particularly pleased. That same shimmer of pride reflected in his eyes now, as he watched the she-elf before him. She knew how to hold herself, that much was obvious, and the position of her wrist signified that she'd been taught at least the basics at some point in her life.

His armor was silent as he approached her, walking a half circle around her and adjusting her grip on the dagger. His hands drifted to her shoulders and held her firmly in place. "Tension will make you slow should your adversary come close. Orcs are dull creatures, but they are quick." Predictable and easy to dispatch, but strong in physique and could easily become an overpowering force if left unchecked and alive.

"A loose wrist is good only for light attacks. Slashing your dagger at the thick hide of an orc will only serve to enrage him," Thranduil explained and tapped her wrist to encourage her to tighten it. "Wound him. Your dagger has a point-- use it." He was obviously implying the action of stabbing the orc, as decapitation - the easiest way to rid yourself of such a menace - was not an option with such a short-bladed weapon. "A serious enough wound will distract him enough for you to escape."

Of course. Thranduil was still very focused on keeping her alive, rather than teaching her to duel with a blade. It was not a healer's place to learn such things unless they were considering taking up a sword as a soldier. Thranduil would most likely not allow such a change for her, but he was willing to make sure she was capable of protecting herself in a dangerous situation.

"The orcs we will be dealing with larger than most. They are significantly more powerful than you, and you must respond to that power appropriately."
 
She must have been doing something correct, otherwise the king wouldn't look so satisfied. Tineliell herself felt a nudge of delight, maybe she hasn't forgotten as much as she thought. As the king walked around her, she stood still, up until the point his hand once again landed on her shoulder. She could not feel much of the touch itself but she felt the heaviness of his hand on the armour. Tension? Only then she realized how stiff her body was. Trying to relax her muscles proved to be more challenging than looking confident in her doings. The self-consciousness that she has been oppressed by since taking off her cape only intensified with Thranduil not keeping the distance. Her legs certainly softened slightly, and so did her lower back but her shoulders were still fairly tense. As it turned out, the tenseness was not the only 'fault' with her position, her wrist was also too loose. The single, light tap on her hand, made Tirneliell involutarily draw in a short, quite, sharp breath. Why exactly, she wasn't sure, but to mask the sudden moment of furore at the unexpected ephemeral touch, she did tighten her grip on the hilt. In fact, feeling the motion empowering, more secure. She nodded firmly, her wrist rotating slightly, bringing the blade almost parallel with the floor. Positioning the blade in that way felt more comfortable if she were to stab an orc, even if the creature was most likely to overwhelm her potentially.

"If I do have to use this dagger during the fight," she started, shifting her weight from one leg to another as if she was getting ready for an attack, "where would you suggest I aim?" Ludicrous question, since the answer was obvious. It was the throat, if she could aim for it or reach it. Yet, to Tirneliell, who has never faced an orc, but only fought a spider once, all the knowledge of the weak spots of those foul creatures were unknown. She looked up at the king, whom she realized was much closer than she anticipated, standing right next to her, she froze in her pose. Despite her fast heartbeat, however, she managed to look curious, if a bit unsure whether her question caused her to look dim-witted.
 
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Thranduil was prepared to answer the question the moment it was spoken. "Where their heart lies. The armor of the orcs is pitiful at best; the dullest of daggers could pierce it." He was hardly surprised that the orcs hadn't thought to enhance their armor with something more resilient than iron or leather. He supposed he should be thankful, however, as anything else would make more of a nuisance out of them than they were already. If only their hides were of paper and their armor of silk...

He observed the changes she'd made to her form and nodded once in approval. "Show me," he said to her, "show me how you would do this. You have imagination, don't you? Use it." He was hoping to get her to act out the appropriate maneuver; a step forward, body loose, and an upward thrust of the dagger that would pierce the heart in a real battle. With a lack of training, she wouldn't be able to force the dagger all the way through except by random chance, but it would be enough to wound and drive the orc away.

Then again, orcs were naturally resistant to pain, so it would have to damage.

It was all he could do for her, in so little time. But it would have to do until Thranduil could assign her a mentor to guide her through the steps of self defense, should such an occasion where her presence would be needed arise. He hoped what he taught her wouldn't become necessary, and couldn't explain why he cared so much about her safety. But he pushed that out of his mind.
 
Of course it would have been the heart, but to Tirneliell, who has never seen an orc and only heard of them, she could not quite imagine how well armed they would be. But giving the king a nod of her head in acknowledgement, aware of his eyes on her, she further engaged her imagination, trying to conjure up in her mind the almost tangible idea of a threat she hopefully won't have to face. To her, orc's physique was as much a mystery as Thranduil's thoughts, but she took the king's height for reference and she aimed at the air at whereabouts the heart could be.

Her legs started to act on their own, she made a smooth yet fast move forward, bringing her arm back to get speed and power into the assault, then she thrust the dagger forward into the air, at the imaginary organ. Her movements were almost fluid, if a little unsure, but that could have been for many reasons. First, she was not even a trained soldier; second, she was just stabbing at the air. But she felt satisfied with her try. Dropping her hand to her side, she looked at Thranduil, a hint of question in her eyes.

"It is difficult for me to aim properly as I have never encountered an orc before, but even with the lack of reference, would that be an acceptable attempt?"
 
She lacked confidence in her strike, and lacking confidence led to death in battle in the very same way that arrogance did. It was a problem that couldn't be resolved in a day, and certainly nothing Thranduil himself could fix with a few training sessions. Nonetheless, she had followed through with his commands well enough that the king was satisfied. He nodded. "Orcs vary, as you will soon find out. But you have done well." He noted that her talent had to have come from somewhere, and wondered how much of the "basics" she had been taught.

"You're holding yourself back, I can tell. Your lack of confidence will get you killed, but you are quick. Use that to your advantage." He drew his shortsword and held it out flat, the curve of its blade catching under the light. "Keep yourself in motion if a direct hit is not an option. A flesh wound will not truly harm an orc, but it will lure his more primitive side. He will not think when in a rage."

He appeared to be giving a lecture on orcs, now. But she hadn't yet faced one before, and Thranduil saw it as his duty to make sure she was well informed on what she was up against. An enemy left in the dark, as he always said, is more dangerous than any other. And so he'd spent much of his time learning what he could, experimenting and determining what worked and where. He would gladly share this information.
 
The spark of self-satisfaction was ignited deep within her chest. The king has just praised her attempt and that was all she ever wanted to hear. How often would it happen that this man of distant nature, could be capable of such words? Without realising Tirneliell grew slightly fonder of the man in front of her. The effect of his words could have been seen on her face, her features lit up and she somehow stood taller than before, despite the comments about the lack of confidence. She took them with dignity of an eager student. After all, she didn't expect from herself to have done perfectly well on the first attempt. However, she didn't doubt that once an orc would charge at her with the single aim of ridding her body of life, she would certainly react adequately. It was the basic instinct of survival, that every sane being possessed.

The sound of Thranduil's sword unsheathing brought Tirneliell's mind back into sharp, attentive focus. "But wouldn't rage intensify the orcs power? Even though if he would not think clearly and it would cloud his judgement, I have seen what anger and rage can do to a being." She said, the momentary darkening of her eyes indicating that as inexperienced in fight as she might seem, Tirneliell has witness certain things that left deep imprint on her mind. Seeing the king's weapon, she assumed a fighting stance again as if a part of her was expecting him to attack at any given point. It wouldn't be the first time when two elves would be capable of having a comprehensible conversation while being engaged in a utterly different action. So she kept her concentration on the Thranduil's moves as well as apparently being absolutely aware of whatever he would be saying.
 
There was annoyance behind the king's tranquil countenance, and behind that lay understanding. She was wise to question such old and crude tactics, as common sense would dictate that pain would only serve as an incentive for an orc. But had Thranduil not utilized the tactic before, he would not have suggested it. His expression became dark, his eyes shadowed beneath the furrowed line of his brow. His shortsword turned so that her face was reflected in the smooth surfaace of the blade. "You would think so, as I did warn you against it," he said softly, studying her features through the reflection. "You paid attention-- good. A direct hit in battle is not always possible, and so you must resort to a secondary attack."

The shortsword tilted. "As I have said, shallow wounds enrage them. Deeper wounds harm them, and direct strikes to the heart will kill them. What power you put behind your attack makes all the difference." He would still advise against slashes, as not only was an orc's hide thick, but it was hardly the most sensitive part of their body. But when your options were limited, enraging the orc to blind them was a perfectly acceptable escape. "You are not built nor trained for true battle. A distraction, should you find yourself trapped, is your only option."

The Elvenking stepped back into a defensive stance and followed the stance through by lifting the blade to eye level. He was focused, determined to guarantee that she could defend herself without the tactics he'd suggested to her. "Strike me." His voice came stiff and distant and his eyes locked sternly on hers.

"Use your speed-- it is your most versatile gift in battle."
 
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His facial features shifted and created an ominous look, that sent slight shivers through Tirneliell's body. She followed Thranduil's gaze until their eyes locked in the reflection of his blade. It was an odd sensation, distorted by the curves of his sword. Yet it somehow felt too real to ignore and the healer found herself mesmerized by king's features. Tirneliell got the indescribable feeling as if thousands small creatures ran along her spine up to her neck. It could have been thrill; it could have been apprehension. But she felt as if her soul has shifted, turned around and re-emerged to face any given task. Withdrawing her gaze from the tilted blade, her grey eyes found his, absorbing everything he said so far just like she did before. For the first time, however, she has noticed that subtle tinge in his voice. Aside from teaching her in that short time all that was necessities for survival, speaking in authoritative yet guiding tone, Tirneliell caught a trace of something that could have resembled concern, or even care. She could not put her finger on the exact moments but she realised that the king has been treating her with exceptional kindness, warmth almost and again she felt the metaphorical fluttering somewhere in the middle of her chest.

The moment he ordered her to strike, it was only a fraction of moment until she acted. In that time she battled with herself. After all, he was the king and she would have never thought to attack him under any circumstances, due to her loyalty and devotion that was so common among her people. Yet he demanded her to do so, for a good reason. By the point Thranduil was half way through his sentence, Tirneliell was already attacking. Using all her speed, as instructed, she did not aim at king's actual weak spots. Instead, she took Thranduil's body as an embodiment of an orc and aimed where the orc would potentially be defenceless. As the king held his sword high, Tirneliell made a fast move to the opposite side where Thraduil's side was uncovered and open to an assault. Her knees were bent which brought her core lower, stabilizing her but it also allowed her to thrust the dagger upward with much stronger force and determination. Even though, it was more than clear that the king would not be baffled by that attempt, or even endangered by it at any point, Tirneliell did hesitate. The part of her that was still the king's subject took over in that moment, slowing down her arm just enough to be visible to an elven eye, preventing her from fully attacking. However, her blow was still powerful enough to possibly harm a beast she could face by chance. As she drove the blade upwards aiming at a place just below the ribs where she could pierce the lung or heart, Tirneliell shifted, preparing herself for an evasive movement which if it was successful would bring her further to the side, almost behind the king. But just like Thranduil said, she was not a seasoned warrior. Her movements, despite being blindingly fast like any elf, were predictable, making it easier for the king to read her intentions. However, an orc, if enraged and dull enough, might not notice it.
 
Thranduil saw the subtle shift in her features, miniscule and imperceptible had he not been paying attention. He couldn't decipher the mixture of feelings that accompanied the sight. And, trying to ignore the twinge that settled somewhere inside a place he had no name for, distracted himself with the grooves in the hilt of his shortsword, and the way the she-elf moved.

Her movements were predictable, he was disappointed to see, bur her remarkable speed made up for the lack of creativity. Thranduil responded by fanning his blade in a wide arc to meet her dagger in an attempt to reflect it away from his unprotected side. Orcs had learned that smaller weapons were hard to grip, and by extent easier to swipe away as long as their forearms were adequately protected. Thranduil wasn't equipped to swipe away a dagger, but in the act of blocking, he guided the blow away from him when both blades clashed too close for comfort. An orc would be much more erratic and slower than he, but with swiftness came quicker reaction times, and more often than not, reaction times were the only thing in the way of death.

If he had not been king, maybe their little training session would have been easier. She seemed reluctant to truly cause him harm even while he posed as her enemy and donned thick and protective armor to make up for weak spots. Whether he considered this good or a mere hindrance was unimportant. But the longer he got her to fight, the bolder she would get and the stronger her attacks would become, no matter how royally saturated his blood was.
 
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