Bruises, Old and New

Dolthafaer wrinkled his nose in distaste at the sharp scent of the balm as he rubbed it into his shoulder, the large bruise there as bright a purple as the tunics he tended to wear to gatherings in the Hall of Fire.  The balm and the bruise both were gifts from Sargiel, a fellow recruit of the Hammer with whom he had taken up training.  The lady fought very well; she was young, but had apparently been born with a sword in one hand and a shield in the other.  It had been a long time since he had had such an excellent sparring partner. 

The first few days of training had been difficult for Dolthafaer.  He knew the dance of a fight by heart – how to hold himself, how to move, how to grip his blade and make it sing – but his body was slower in remembering.  He had spent too long creeping through the silent woods, his bow in hand, relying on his eyes and his ears and his wits rather than the strength of his body and his courage under pressure.  But he was making progress.  He was remembering. He was beginning to give as many bruises as he received.

Sargiel was a far more forgiving partner than his first. 

“Harder, Nuldafairë!”

A blow to his ribs ripped a shout of pain from his lips. 

“Faster!”

A steel-toed boot hit his ankle with enough force to knock him to the dirt.  The fall stole the air from his lungs, and he lay there gasping, staring up at the dark-haired woman as she touched the tip of her blade to his throat with an expression of disgust etched on her hard face.

“Useless.  You will die the moment you draw your blade in earnest, stupid boy.”

Dolthafaer’s grey eyes darkened, and he let the not-unpleasant burn of the salve distract him from chasing that memory any further.  She had been wrong.  He had drawn his blade countless times under the service of Gil-galad, doing both himself and his king proud as he cut bloody swaths through Sauron’s armies.  A few more bruises – a few more falls in the dirt – and that pride would come again. 

It was, perhaps, too soon for him to have any hope in placing in the melee event of the Tourney, but a different sort of pride had demanded he enter.  He was not one to back away from a challenge, even against such hopeless odds, and he would not allow the lords of the Hammer to think him too cowardly to face them in a ring.  Better to let them beat him into the dust so that he might pick himself up, harder and stronger, to face them again another day.

He was remembering. 

Just a few more bruises.