An Inheritance of Fire

“You look better.”

Viria paused, scowling at Valandor’s words. “What is that supposed to mean?” She asked, voice filled with mock outrage.

The older elf raised one eyebrow. “Don’t play those games with me, girl,” he said crossly. “You know well what I mean. Time with your sister has done you good.” He paused. “In spite of my warning.”

Viria huffed dramatically, but found herself unable to keep from smiling. Valandor was right— time with Veile had lifted her mood. She’d worried that things may remain awkward between them, but that was quickly proven a baseless worry.

She sat underneath a gazebo; and though there was plenty of seating for Valandor, he chose to stand, propped up against one of its legs. Much of her free time was spent here. The hollow’s visits were irregular— and she preferred the quiet of solitude.

Whenever Valandor deigned to be quiet, at least.

“It’s not just that,” Viria said slowly, trying to articulate her feelings on the matter. They were complicated, and something she’d spent hours trying to rationalize— to come to terms with.

“I’ve… accepted my role, I think.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Valandor asked dryly, a light mocking tone in his voice.

Viria’s lips curved into a slight smile. “I’m just here to support Veile,” she said after some thought. “That’s it.”

Valandor snorted. “That’s your grand revelation?”

“I never said it was grand.” She sighed. “In truth, I worried I wasn’t cut out for this,” Viria admitted. “Twins we may be, but my sister and I are very different people.”

“You don’t say.”

She glared at Valandor, but the scarred elf just shrugged. “It’s true,” he pointed out. “You wouldn’t have had the guts to pull that public stunt.”

Viria hesitated. She knew he was baiting her, but…

“What did that result in?”

A wolfish grin spread over Valandor’s face. “The other three are outraged, of course. Not that they can do a whole lot about it.” He paused. “Your sister seems adept at navigating towards her desired outcome.”

“… She is.” Viria said no more than that, but Valandor tilted his head quizzically.

“Some sisterly secret?” He laughed when she didn’t answer. “No matter. I don’t know what your sister’s endgame is, but it’s not hard to see the short term effects.”

“… And those would be?”

“Why should I answer your questions when you won’t answer mine?”

She glared at Valandor. The older elf just laughed again.

“For one, you’re no longer an exile.” He paused. “Although I assume you knew that already.

Viria nodded.

“I’m not privy to all the details, but your sister is using this opportunity to jump start things.”

“Jump start?”

“Aye. You know that each Grove plays its own role?”

“Of course.”

“Then you should know that your father’s territory was in disrepair. His advisers kept things running, but only just. Your sister has been rebuilding those bridges.” He paused. “Do you know what role this Grove plays?”

“No.”

“Your father’s territory was tasked with producing weapons,” Valandor said flatly. “Magical and otherwise.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “Is your sister preparing to wage war?”

Viria bit her lip. Her kneejerk answer was a vehement no— but she’d wondered the same before. Veile was unwilling to speak of it, but she seemed certain that something loomed just ahead.

The thought made her shiver.

“I don’t think so,” Viria finally answered.

“That’s not a very comforting answer.”

“I know,” she acquiesced. “But it’s the only answer I can give right now. She said that her goals align with yours— at least, in part. I don’t think she’s trying to spark conflict.”

“Her actions say otherwise.”

Viria bristled. “Can you blame her? What—”

“Yes,” Valandor cut her off. “I can. And I will. If—”

“She’s not,” Viria interjected. “I don’t know what her goal is, but… it’s not that.” She stared up at the older elf, daring him to say otherwise.

Valandor glared back, and for the first time, she saw a hint of real anger in his eyes. It faded an instant later. “If you say so.”

They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Until, finally—

“I heard she returned your uncle’s sword.”

— Valandor broke it.

The bracelet on Viria’s wrist grew heavy. “She did,” she said softly, turning it with her other hand.

“Don’t you want to learn how to use it?”

“I was going to ask Veile about finding a tutor.”

Valandor chuckled. “Why bother?” He shifted, pushing off of the gazebo leg and drawing his sword in one smooth movement. It was metal; unlike most other weapons wielded by elves. “You have a Weaponmaster right here.”

Viria hesitated. She’d considered asking Valandor, but hadn’t expected him to offer. “Are you sure?”

He nodded. “You’re not surprised,” he pointed out. “Which means you were thinking about asking me.”

She nodded wordlessly.

“So why bother asking?” Valandor stepped away as he spoke. “Stop overthinking.”

Viria stood after another moment’s hesitation. She wove a thread of essence as she followed him, and her uncle’s sword flickered into her hand. She gripped it, realizing for the first time that its handle had been rebound.

Just holding it was enough to bring the memories rushing back. Vane was the only real family she had; and this was one of the few things he’d left her. Viria pushed her emotions to the side as Valandor led her away.

He strode a few more paces before coming to a halt. “Why do you want to learn, anyways?” The old elf’s sword glinted in the sunlight as he planted it in the ground. “You’re a mage, aren’t you?”

“Didn’t you offer?”

He grinned. “This and that are two different things.”

“It’s my uncle’s sword,” Viria answered. “I want… knowing how to use it is important to me. And my magic is weak.” She paused. “It’s like I said. I’m just tired of feeling hopeless.”

Valandor shook his head. “Don’t get your hopes up, lass,” he said quietly. “The weakest magic is still greater than the strongest sword.” He paused, shifting his posture so that his weight rested on his sword.

“But honoring your uncle’s memory is a good reason, I’ll give you that. I saw you and the boy sparring all that time ago. What did he teach you?”

“Not much,” Viria answered, looking down at the sword in her hand. “Just the basics. He said he wasn’t a swordsman.”

“Just as well. The control they have over their bodies is different than you or I.” Valandor gestured with his free hand. “Show me your stance.”

Viria followed instruction, taking a half-step back and holding the sword up in front of her.

Valandor straightened, yanking his sword from the ground and stepping towards her. “You’re holding it too far from your body.” He raised his own sword. “The further you hold it, the weaker your guard. It’ll tire you quicker.”

She adjusted her posture.

The old elf reached out with his scarred arm. His fingers clamped delicately onto the weapon’s flat. “Oh?” One of Valandor’s eyebrows raised as he shook it lightly. “Your grip is right. That’s interesting. I thought that would be one of your mistakes.”

“Selerim showed me,” Viria said, remembering how the hollow had knocked the weapon from her hands. “It was one of the few things I actually learned.”

“Did he teach you how to strike, too?”

She shook her head. “He just taught me how to defend.”

“Show me how you strike, then.”

Viria tried to mimic the way Selerim cut; flicking her wrist to make a small cut.

Valandor snorted. “If that’s the way he struck, then no surprise he doesn’t call himself a swordsman.” He took a step back, gripping his weapon with two hands. “The boy used a chain and dagger. Quick, small movements were his forte. They have their place for us, but longer blades have more reach. Use it.”

He made his own cut. The movement was larger than hers, but smoother and more controlled. “But be careful not to make them too large. Moving your blade too far away leaves your chest exposed.” The grizzled elf raised his elbows to his ear to demonstrate. “It’s about control. Keep them just out of reach.”

“Try again.”

She did as instructed.

“Better.” Valandor stepped towards her. “Bear in mind that things change when you’re fighting Reavers. Their hides are tougher, but they’re dumber. Your strikes will have to be strong and wide.”

He raised his sword. “Allow me to test your guard.”

Viria nodded and raised her weapon.

“Three. Two. One—”

Valandor struck. His weapon was heavy and slow, but as their blades collided, Viria’s instincts kicked in. She stepped back, letting the weight of Valandor’s strike push her back.

“Oh?” The scarred elf raised an eyebrow. “I half expected your weapon to go flying.”

“It’s happened before,” she said, remembering how Selerim had caused that in the past.

“Is that why you stepped back?”

Viria nodded.

“That will serve you well,” Valandor said gently, “but it’s not a good habit either. You should have felt it just then— I’m much weaker than the boy, correct?”

She nodded again. It was true. His strike lacked the crushing power that had been behind each of Selerim’s.

“Diverting force like that is good when your opponent is significantly stronger than you,” the old elf continued, “but against someone of less, equal, or slightly greater strength, it’s a waste. You give up timing and ground for no reason.”

Valandor raised his sword again. “You can use the same concept when blocking. Let my strike push your arms towards your body, rock back on your heels— and be sure not to cut yourself.”

He counted down again.

This time, Viria let his weight of his strike push her arms into her chest, careful to keep the blade pointed away. Instead of stepping back, she rocked back on her heels like Valandor instructed. He was still stronger than her— the feedback numbed her fingertips, but he was right. There was no need to step back completely.

Valandor nodded. “Good.”

Viria felt a hint of pride, but she stifled it. This was something simple.

“It’s good that you two sparred. It’s the best way to learn.” He paused. “I’d spar with you, but I’m not confident enough to use live blades. We’ll spar some other time, when we have practice swords. For now,” he planted his sword in the earth again.

“You should get comfortable with your weapon. Keep practicing until sundown. I’ll adjust your posture as you go.”

“Until sundown?” She asked uncertainly. There was still quite some time left until night fell.

“Do you have anything better to do?”

“I suppose not, but…”

Valandor chuckled. “I’m kidding. Rest is important. But,” he added, “we should practice whenever you have time. It’s good for you— body and mind.”

Viria nodded. Her sparring sessions with Selerim had served as both practice and distraction. It was yet another reason she’d thought to ask Valandor. She rarely met with the hollows more than twice a week, and as a result, found herself with too much free time.

It felt absurd to even think that, given everything that had transpired, but it was the truth. And when there was nothing at hand, Viria found her mind wandered to hostile places.

This would be a welcome distraction.

“May I?” Valandor asked, pointing to her hands.

She nodded.

“This weapon is too long for you,” he said, letting his own fall to the ground. His large hands enveloped hers, and his fingers gently adjusted hers. “Hold it closer to the blade. It’ll be a bit uncomfortable, but your balance will be better. And with any luck, you’ll grow into its length.”

Valandor stepped away and sheathed his weapon. “We’ll stop here for today. I’m old.”

“Alright.” Viria stowed her weapon in her bracelet. She hesitated for a moment, remembering Valandor’s prior words. She’d mulled over them for some time, but her conclusion was always the same.

The old elf had offered her friendship.

It would be a short one— he’d admitted as much— but she could use a friend.

“You were in the war, right?” Viria asked softly.

Valandor’s body stiffened. “Aye.”

“As was my uncle.”

“… Aye.”

“Will…” She trailed off. “Will you tell me your stories?”

The scarred elf’s face darkened. “Those are heavy ones.”

“You offered me friendship.”

Valandor’s face remained stony, and for a moment, Viria feared she’d gone too far— but the old elf nodded.

“Fair enough,” he said softly. “I’ll tell you my stories— so long as you can stomach it. But not today. There will be time enough for them later.”

“Fair enough,” Viria echoed.