The days and weeks after his conversation with Thanarwë and subsequent sparring match with Boromir went by quickly and were, generally speaking, far less emotionally draining.
In fact, they were marked with several successes: Robb, having identified what he thought to be his bond with Grey Wind, was able to shorten the time it took him to consciously warg by a large degree. It was still not instantaneous, of course, but having something to 'hold onto' helped his concentration immensely. Now, the whole ordeal took him a few minutes instead of the several hours of his first try.
Another leap forward came in the form of his fighting abilities. Before Lothlórien, Robb had not been able to truly train in weeks—there were battles and skirmishes, of course, but none of them compared to the exhilaration and simultaneous bone-deep dread of a duel. Sparring with Boromir helped Robb to refamiliarise himself with the feeling, improve his reaction times and learn new moves which Robb guessed were native to Middle-Earth.
And that was another thing. Sparring with Boromir.
It happened nearly every day now and although Robb had at first only gone along with it to not seem rude, that hesitation had almost completely vanished.
As Thanarwë had suggested, the more time he spent with Boromir, the more differences there seemed to be between the man himself and Robb's father. There was his fighting style, quick and aggressive compared to his father's powerful but mostly defensive strokes. His laugh, a tad higher and more freely given. His shorter, tidier beard. His hair, almost blonde now that it was freshly washed, its fairness doubled by the golden light and leaves of Lothlórien, and so different from Father's dark brown strands.
If anything, Robb thought, Boromir looked like he could be Ned Stark's long-lost brother. (Well, another one.) The realization was... relieving.
Even though Robb's heart still clenched at the sight of Boromir—he had no illusions of that ever fully going away, and Thanarwë had been brutally honest with him on that, as well—Robb no longer thought 'Father' whenever his eyes landed on Boromir.
His meetings with Thanarwë continued, albeit on no set schedule. They were happy for Robb's progress and, as promised, had told no one of the events he had spoken about in their presence. Not even Lady Galadriel knew, for otherwise she surely would have demanded his presence once again. This more than anything alleviated the rest of his—admittedly unfounded—fears and aversion.
Thanarwë also encouraged Robb to speak to the others about his past—in his own time, of course. He was still hesitant, however, as he did not see the sense in that. Surely his... slip-up when they had seen his scars had revealed enough? They knew most of it now and Robb himself was coming to terms with it—he had to be, because if not, well, all this was useless, wasn't it?
He'd made progress with Boromir. He'd told some stories of his childhood weeks ago, when they had tried to climb the Caradhras. He'd revealed the circumstances of his death.
What more even was there? Why would whatever remained matter?
Now, Robb did not ignore Thanarwë's advice—technically. More childhood anecdotes counted as 'his past', right? It had to, when he could feel that thinking of his siblings became less painful.
Mostly, however, Robb focused on improving himself physically.
One night when he'd been preparing to go to sleep, rummaging in his travel pack, Robb had almost cut himself on the Dwarven dagger from Moria, which he'd completely forgotten about. The dagger had been at the very bottom of the pack.
In the dim lights of Lothlórien, Robb had examined it for the first time. As little as he knew about metalworking, even he knew this one was expertly made. The dagger was a bit shorter than Robb's forearm, which suggested that it could have been a Dwarven short sword instead. The pommel was uneven in the intentional, square way some crystals were. Upon the hilt were equally geometric engravings, interwoven like complicated knots. The blade was unpolished, but no less deadly for it, sharp at both edges. It widened at the tip before coming together again in a triangular-going-on-diamond shape.
Aware that the dagger was not his to keep, Robb approached Gimli the next day. The Dwarf, however, only shook his head.
"You keep it, lad," he insisted, patting Robb on the arm. "My cousin Balin would have wanted you to. Use it for its intended purpose. I've enough blades to hold an army at bay."
The fact that this had apparently been Balin's blade was a bit of a shock for Robb. Balin must have been buried with it, Robb gathered later, and when the troll had smashed his tomb, an Orc had probably seen and grabbed it.
As there was no convincing Gimli, keep the dagger Robb did. It still felt inappropriate, but the dagger fit comfortably into his hand and was perfectly balanced. Fighting with it was not going to be a chore. And so Robb resolved to do his best to actually learn how to wield it. He did not think his basic training would suffice here, not to mention be enough to make the Lord of Moria proud.
Now, of course, Robb needed an instructor. Out of everyone he knew here, only Aragorn and Legolas came to mind. Robb knew Boromir preferred swords—daggers were more his brother's domain. He supposed there were some warriors of Lothlórien, too, but he would rather be taught by people he knew, and who knew him in turn.
Aragorn, however, seemed to have vanished, and so Robb sought out Legolas instead. For once not in Gimli's company—and wasn't that an interesting development?—the Elf smiled at Robb's approach and easily agreed to his request.
The next hours involved far more movement and dodging than Robb was used to. It made sense—a dagger was much more ineffective at blocking and parrying than a sword was, and its shorter range made both offensive and defensive moves harder.
Robb was on the ground when the battlemaster of Lothlórien showed up, distracted enough that he didn't immediately notice her. When he finally did, it took him a few seconds to place her, to remember where he had seen her before. Then it came to him—this was Maeniliel, Thanarwë's wife.
Her silvery white hair, unlike when he had first met her, was braided back, and instead of a light dress, Maeniliel was wearing boiled leathers. At her hips rested a curved sword and a dagger.
"Hello, Robb," she smiled, and Robb scrambled to get up.
He sketched a quick bow. "Lovely to meet you again, my lady."
"Likewise!" She then turned to look at Legolas. A quick conversation in Elvish ensued, with Robb understanding precisely none of it, before Maeniliel regarded Robb once again.
"Legolas tells me you want to learn how to fight with a dagger?"
Robb inclined his head. "Aye."
Maeniliel smiled. "Then I will help."
Legolas, who thus far had been unable to properly demonstrate all moves on account of having nobody to demonstrate them on, was delighted by this.
Maeniliel's prowess in battle was exceptional and together the two Elves were a veritable whirlwind of blades. Robb was in awe. He had seen Jaime Lannister fight, had witnessed Legolas and Aragorn spar, but none of that compared to what was happening in front of him now.
These centuries of experience really did pay off, huh?
Robb found himself tracing the lines of Legolas' body with his eyes—analyzing his fighting style, he told himself, looking for patterns in the way he attacked and searching for gaps in his defense. There were none Robb could spot, of course, but Maeniliel did not seem to have that same problem. At first only wielding her sword, she drove Legolas back quite a few steps. As soon as she had his blades in a lock, she drew her dagger as well and proceeded to give him hell, stabbing at him from several angles. Legolas almost frantically withdrew one dagger from the blade lock to catch Maeniliel's attacks.
She smirked, and the game continued.
From his spot on the sidelines, Robb watched on, enraptured. Gods, Arya would have loved Maeniliel. Sansa would have, too. With her poised grace and deadly fierceness, she united the two things his little sisters looked up to the most.
With a flick of Maeniliel's wrist, Legolas' first dagger went flying. Even so, the duel continued for another two minutes before Legolas had to concede. His exhaustion was almost unnoticeable. Had it not been for the ray of sunshine that made the thin layer of sweat on Legolas' temple glisten, Robb certainly would not have picked up on it.
"You have improved," Maeniliel commented with a light smile.
Legolas lifted a shoulder. "It has been over a century," he replied almost bashfully. "And there was the battle at Erebor. I have had plenty of opportunities."
"And you used them well."
Maeniliel sheathed her sword and dagger before turning to look at Robb. "Which techniques did you see?"
Robb's brain stalled for a moment, unable to recall anything but the sheen of Legolas' flying hair in the afternoon sun.
"Your dagger," he then blurted, hoping against hope that he wasn't blushing. "You didn't always use it; that's only your secondary weapon. For blocking, or for quick attacks while you have Legolas' blades locked with your sword."
Maeniliel nodded. "Very good. Anything else?"
Robb's eyebrows furrowed. "You... never moved your blades in the same direction at the same time, and very rarely crossed them?"
A smile worked its way onto Maeniliel's face and from behind her, Legolas inclined his head in approval, one corner of his mouth quirked up.
"Excellent!" Maeniliel clapped a hand on Robb's shoulder. "You see, when you wield two blades, your actions must be simultaneous. Else you waste time which you may not have. It is harder with two swords or two daggers, but with one of each, you have many options."
She had him stand across from Legolas, and proceeded to explain the intricacies of dual wielding to him.
It was, of course, a step up from fighting with only a dagger, but at the same time, Robb found it far easier to handle. Although he had to unlearn years worth of habits, especially regarding his non-dominant hand, he lasted longer in his bouts against Legolas. He still lost, of course, but his improvement was noticeable.
Perhaps it was because he had his sword back and, because of that, wasn't entirely out of his element. Or maybe it was because Maeniliel was an excellent teacher with easily comprehensible explanations and demonstrations. As the battlemaster of Lothlórien, he supposed that was expected of her.
By the end of their sparring session—the sun had long since fallen beneath the horizon—Robb was sweating and out of breath, but nevertheless in high spirits. His original plan of learning to wield a dagger had been derailed—or perhaps redirected—in the best of ways. Maybe he was unable to honour Balin's memory right at this moment, but he was on the right way. Of that, Robb felt certain.
As he wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand, Legolas grasped his shoulder and squeezed it lightly.
"You fought well today," the Elf smiled, his head tilted to one side. "And you are a quick learner. It was a pleasure to spar with you again. Perhaps we should repeat this."
Robb blinked and felt his face heat up at the compliments. "Um... aye, I'd like that. Thank you. I- It's an honour?"
An honour? Gods, he'd known Legolas for weeks now, what was Robb saying? This was not the first time someone here had praised him either, not to mention the flattery Robb had come to know back home. So why was he so easily flustered all of a sudden? It made no sense.
He shook his head to clear his thoughts and pasted a smile onto his face. It came far more easily than he would have thought. "Tomorrow, then?"
Legolas inclined his head. "Tomorrow."
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