By Dawn's Early Light by Grundy

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Real Me

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Elrond could hear the sound of swords floating up from the training yard long before he reached the balcony he usually watched from. He had meant to be out here sooner, but finishing the letter soothing Thranduil – and reassuring him that despite whatever Galadriel and Celeborn had said, Elrond did not hold him responsible for his daughter’s involvement in battle – had taken longer than he’d expected.

It was difficult to reassure someone of something you weren’t completely certain of yourself. He had certainly hoped that Thranduil, as a careful father himself, would be able to keep his littlest child out of trouble. (He’s slowly beginning to suspect that might be a task only incrementally less difficult than the one Thingol had set Beren.)

One of the strictures placed on his middle daughter after her return from Erebor – at her mother’s insistence – was daily training with Glorfindel. As she had only just returned the previous evening with her brothers from escorting Mithrandir and his hobbit along the more dangerous part of their road back to Hobbiton, this was her first session.

For an elf who wanted nothing more than to keep his family safe, watching first his sons and now his daughters learn the way of the sword has only ever been bittersweet at best. He understood they needed to be able to defend themselves, and his sons will always want to protect their younger sisters. There was comfort in knowing they would not be defenseless. But he had never enjoyed watching the process.

He can’t forget what he has seen swords do over the years, and how many of his kin have been on the receiving end.

Occasional instructions punctuated the clang of metal on metal ringing through the air.

“Mind your footwork!”

He would have preferred to train his daughter himself, but Celebrian had said flatly that her mother’s cousin was the best warrior in residence. She had allowed that her husband was second best only at his indignant look. To soothe his disappointment, she had offered that Elrond probably knew the spear better than Glorfindel, and that so far as she knew Anariel had no experience with spears.

It was not much comfort.

“You are dropping your shoulder. Again.”

He found his youngest daughter already leaning against the railing, watching her sister and Glorfindel sparring with a critical eye.

“Hi, Ada!” she greeted him cheerfully before returning to her observation.

At her tender age, she was nowhere near up to the level of instruction going on in the yard below – she knew little more than how to hold a sword properly. But she did have a fair eye for the fighting abilities of others, honed by hours watching her sister train in California.

“How long have you been watching, gil-nin?” he asked, ruffling her hair.

She shrugged.

“Maybe half an hour?” she offered. “I’m not really sure. Since whever Erestor got tired of my questions about the differences between Telerin and Sindarin dialects.”

Elrond smothered a proud smile.

His youngest child was already a scholar in the making. It was a relief to find that her skills, at least, would not cause her mother further worry. It was an even greater relief to discover that he had not missed her entire childhood. Unlike Anariel, she was yet reckoned an elfling, and would remain so for some years to come. Fourteen might be nearly adult for the edain, but for elves it was only early childhood. And her fourteen was not a normal fourteen at that.

Much like her older sister, her size did not match her years. Her hröa had been created with the edain in mind, and was thus much taller than any elfling would be at such a young age. To Elrond’s relief, the nearly two years since her return to Middle Earth had shown that Tindomiel's growth followed the elvish pattern, not the mannish. She would likely not reach her full adult height for another twenty to thirty years – and unlike her older sister, he judged her likely to be as tall as her grandmother.

“You know it is not only Erestor who can answer such questions,” he reminded her.

“I know, ada,” she chirped. “But he was there, and he did not seem to mind, so I asked until he said he had other things he needed to attend to. Then I came to watch and see how Buffy was doing.”

Elrond did not sigh aloud at hearing his middle daughter’s current preferred name. He did so hope she might accustom herself to her given name soon. But for now, it seemed to help that her younger sister humored her in the matter – for the twins flatly refused to use the California name any longer, and even Celebrían was trying to wean her away from it gradually.

“And how is your sister faring?” he enquired, watching closely.

Tindomiel shrugged.

“Ok, I guess,” she said slowly, sounding troubled. “She’s definitely enjoying this, but I don’t think that was really nana’s point.”

Anariel did look to be holding her own, which was fairly impressive. The Balrog Slayer of Gondolin was not noted for going easy on his trainees - and Elrond knew Celebrían had made it very clear to Glorfindel that he was not to be soft on her daughter who had already managed to finagle her way into a major battle, no matter how little and adorable he thought she was.

“It looks as if she is not doing too badly,” Elrond observed, puzzled at the less than approving way his youngest was reacting.

Tindomiel sighed in exasperation.

“You need to stop holding back,” she called down into the yard.

Glorfindel frowned at being reproved by the child of Elrond who knew the least about weapons and fighting. Tindomiel’s own lessons in this area were as yet only with her father or brothers, and far more basic. She was not even permitted more than wooden training swords – much to her irritation, all her older siblings were in complete agreement with their parents on that subject.

“I am not trying to actually hurt your sister, Tinu,” he pointed out patiently.

Tindomiel snorted.

“You’re not the one I was talking to.”

All eyes turned to the petite blonde who was still unexpectedly pristine. Elrond knew the pair had been out here for over an hour. Normally Glorfindel would have dumped his opponent on their behind at least once by now, and more likely several times. But Anariel’s leggings and tunic showed no sign of contact with the ground – or anything else, for that matter.

“What?” she asked innocently.

Tindomiel rolled her eyes and switched to the California tongue.

“You’re supposed to be learning to fight better, Buffy. How is Glorfindel going to train you properly if he doesn’t know what you can do?”

To Elrond’s surprise, Anariel chose to reply in Sindarin. Usually if handed an excuse like this, she would speak California until reminded that her speech was much too fast for anyone other than her younger sister, mother, and the Scoobies to follow.

“I’m not holding back,” she protested. “I’m just protecting my sword.”

Elrond blinked. His youngest daughter gave her older sister a deeply skeptical look.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to protect the sword,” Tindomiel replied dubiously.

“But it’s so pretty!”

Elrond was about to protest that it was a perfectly normal training sword – which meant that though it was as carefully crafted as any other sword fashioned by elvish hands, it was blunter than those that would be used in earnest – but Glorfindel decided to expedite matters.

He launched himself at Anariel while she was distracted, forcing her to react without time to think.

The next few minutes were a dizzying blur of thrust, counter, and increasingly acrobatic movement as two warriors dropped any pretense of holding back and tried to gauge what the other could really do. Several times, it looked like the older elf had beaten the younger, but Anariel proved to be extremely adept at evading blows that would have prompted most Imladrim to yield.

The flurry of movement came to a halt only when Glorfindel abruptly stopped, and Elrond realized that his daughter had actually been nicked on the upper arm.

“Enough for today,” he declared, glancing at the trickle of blood on Anariel’s sleeve. Though he knew on some level that such training mishaps were inevitable, he wasn’t yet prepared to see his daughter bleeding.

To Elrond’s surprise, though that was clearly why Glorfindel had ceased his attack, his daughter didn’t even seem to notice her injury. Her face showed only pure delight.

“That was fun!” she exclaimed, turning to Glorfindel. “Why did you stop?”

Tindomiel looked at her father.

“That’s more like it,” she told him.