((Pre-approved by Lirandel, fear not. More to follow.
))
((This scene takes place the day after the Event, the Sword of Thorns.))
“My dearest Kelli…”
Haelewulf sighed and screwed up the letter he’d just begun, tossing it onto a growing pile in the corner of his rooms in the Green Dragon. What hope was there for him if he couldn’t even begin a letter to her to his satisfaction? With a resigned look, he began afresh:
“Dear Kellidir,
The Thorns’ training sessions began yesterday… All went well, except that Sayvara nearly tried to kill Felaion. It wasn’t anyone’s fault really… but still.”
Haelewulf looked up from the parchment, grimacing as he recalled the look of rage contorting Sayvara’s countenance. He shook his head. She’d mastered herself in time… but he still hoped the day would never dawn that she would ever be looking at him in such a fashion. It also made him even more resolved to eliminate his own anger from combat. He bent his head again to the task of writing the letter.
“Lirandel worked us hard, but everyone tried their hardest, and even Archie stopped asking questions eventually!” Haelewulf suppressed a chuckle even now, recalling the irrepressible hobbit’s near-perpetual string of push-ups.
“Today Lirandel begins my own training. I’m quite excited… he’s a hard blademaster, but he’s the best, so I’ll try to keep an open mind and my tongue in check. He asked me to bring a sack of apples along, oddly enough.”
Haelewulf glanced over to where the sack sat beside his desk, and pondered again what possible use they could be, unless Lirandel merely liked eating apples during training sessions. He shook his head and tried to concentrate on the letter.
“I hope you’re doing well. I miss you.”
His pen hovered over the bottom of the parchment in indecision, then, shaking his head at his own cowardice, he settled on “With fond regards, ‘Wulf.”
Sealing the letter, he slipped it into the post box as he left the Dragon, bound for the woods and his first real training session.
He reined his horse in outside the Thorn’s Sanctuary, mounting the stairs. “Master Mornereg?”
Lirandel was already there, his back to Haelewulf, an impassive look on his face, his eyes closed, his legs crossed. The sword of Thorns lay across his lap, its blade bare to the rising sun.
Haelewulf stopped in the center of the duelling ring, respectfully waiting until Lirandel deigned to acknowledge his presence. At last Lirandel rose smoothly to his feet. He indicated briefly to the edge of the circle. “Remove your armour.” Haelewulf moved to comply, shedding the flimsy protection of his quilted Elven travelling shirt and his leather ranger leggings. Lirandel was already stripped for training, the hard muscles of his arms and legs shifting under skin like marble as the Elf warmed up.
Haelewulf finished preparing himself, and waited for further instructions. The Elf spoke without looking at him. “Go and fetch one of your blades, and bring the bag of apples over here.”
As Haelewulf strode over to his grazing horse to retrieve the apples from the saddlebag and his blade from its place under the saddle, he surreptitiously tested the limits of his shoulder. Despite the dislocation of the previous day, and Lirandel’s effective but heavy-handed treatment, the small jar of athelas essence that ‘Wulf had used before sleeping that night had worked wonders and it was all but healed. Nevertheless, Haelewulf hoped that further push-ups would be avoided.
As it turned out, his fears were almost unfounded…
“Sir?” Haelewulf peered at the Elf keenly, trying to ascertain whether or not Lirandel had actually cracked a joke. When it became apparent that the Elf wasn’t joking, obvious disappointment registered sharply on 'Wulf's countenance.
Lirandel eyed him impassively, a small tightness about his jaw the only hint of his displeasure. Without being asked, Haelewulf dropped to the floor and pushed himself up thirty times.
“You heard me,” said the Elf as ‘Wulf regained his feet. “Set an apple on that wall, and split it.” Utterly disappointed, Haelewulf stalked across to the spike of masonry that Lirandel had indicated. There was just enough room on the flattened top, around shoulder-height, to rest an apple on. So this was the great secret of the Mornereg, thought Haelewulf bitterly. He splits apples.
Taking two steps away from the spike, Haelewulf spun and struck the apple midway, sending the top half spinning off the hill in a shower of apple pulp. He turned back to Lirandel. “There!”
Lirandel’s jaw tightened again, but the Elf held his temper. “Place another, and I shall show you.” As ‘Wulf moved away, the sword of Thorns swept in a glittering arc toward the apple… and then swept on, the apple resting undisturbed.
Haelewulf blinked. There was no way that the Elf that had bested him with little effort had just completely missed a stationary target. As he watched, Lirandel casually lifted his sword and with the tip, gently nudged the top of the apple.
It fell away, cleanly severed.
Haelewulf swallowed hard.
Lirandel walked over to him, stopping just in front of Haelewulf, who was unable to tear his gaze from the two halves of the apple, resting next to each other. Lirandel took hold of ‘Wulf’s shoulders and spun him about to face him. Leaning in, the Elf ground the words out between angrily clenched teeth.
“When I tell you to do something, Man of the West, I expect to be obeyed. I am not your witless blademistress, I am not your father, and I do not have the time to explain myself to you. Moreover,” - and here the grip on Haelewulf’s arms became as strong as an iron vice - “I have already demonstrated just how vastly superior my skills are to yours. I am the Mornereg, and was hailed as a blademaster before your father’s grandfather walked this Middle-earth. You WILL listen and obey, or you will go your own way, for you are useless to me unless you can learn.” Lirandel released Haelewulf, and turned away, his composure restored.
“Now, Haelewulf son of Phindor, split an apple.”