Shadow of Mirkwood

Sealed deal

You are worthy of your sword

Lytharial woke earlier than usual; she knew that she would find Legolas in the training hall around this time, the prince always trained early in the morning, and sometimes during the day, But morning was his favorite. 
She recalled yesterday's night, and how she followed her prince. Today, she will finally talk to him.

The training hall resonated with the rhythmic clash of blades and determination that echoed through the air. Lytharial entered the expansive chamber, her footsteps muted against the polished stone floor—the scent of sweat and the metallic tang of weaponry hung in the air.
Her eyes sought out Legolas, his lithe form moving with an otherworldly grace as he sparred with a fellow elf. The dance of blades, a language spoken fluently by the warriors of Mirkwood, unfolded before her. Lytharial marveled at the precision of his movements, the fluidity of every strike and parry.

As the sparring session concluded, Legolas wiped the sweat from his brow and exchanged a few words with his training partner. It was the perfect moment for Lytharial to approach, to speak to him about his father's decision.

                                 "Legolas," she called out, her voice a gentle breeze that barely disturbed the quiet intensity of the hall.

He turned, his keen eyes meeting hers. There was a pause, a moment where the world seemed to hold its breath. Yet, instead of the warm acknowledgment she expected, Legolas merely nodded and turned away, his attention drawn to the weapons on the nearby rack.

Undeterred, Lytharial closed the distance between them.

                                "I have something to discuss with you," she began, her tone measured and steady.

Legolas continued inspecting the weapons, his response delayed. 

                                 "Speak, then," he replied, his voice detached.

Lytharial hesitated for a moment, sensing the walls he had erected around himself.

                                  "I have taken on the role your father assigned to me. I am to be your guard, to do wherever you'd want me to do, to go wherever you order me to go ."

Legolas's expression remained impassive. 

                                 "It is unnecessary. I do not require a constant guardian."

                                  "I beg to differ," Lytharial countered him, "your safety is paramount to the well-being of our realm. Thranduil believes it is necessary, and so do I."

A silence settled between them, laden with unspoken tensions and unanswered questions. Legolas, however, chose to focus on the blade in his hands, his movements deliberate and controlled.

Undeterred by his silence, Lytharial pressed on, her words a persistent melody in the stillness of the training hall. 

                                "Legolas, I am here not as a mere shadow but as a guardian you may not see, but one you may come to rely upon."

Legolas finally met her gaze, his eyes revealing a complexity of emotions. Yet, without uttering a single word, he turned away once more, leaving Lytharial standing amidst the echoes of silence that lingered in the training hall. She felt the tension in the air, a palpable energy that crackled like static. The training hall, once filled with the echoes of practice, now held an anticipatory stillness. Her patience had been tested and stretched to its limits.

With a swift and determined movement, Lytharial unsheathed her blades, the steel gleaming in the dim light of the hall. The soft sound of metal meeting air was a prelude to the clash of wills that was about to unfold. She pointed her blade at Legolas. He, still in his composed stance, turned to face her, his eyes betraying a hint of surprise at her decisive action.