A/N: Alright loves, this chapter is a little shorter but I thought that I would give you a more in-depth flashback before the next main chapter. Enjoy!

XOXO - Presephone

Zillaryn stood in the center of the field with the light of the torches dancing across the grass. She spun the blade in her hand once before taking a deep breath and charging towards the stationary target. At the last moment, she turned her right shoulder down, turning herself inward and rolling across the grass. When she completed her spin she was still crouched down and threw her sword at an upward angle, and it sunk in with a loud thunk.

She took a deep breath and stood back up; a smirk graced the corner of her mouth at the sight of the sword embedded into the throat of the wooden target.

"Why am I not surprised to find you here?"

Zillaryn spun around and met familiar green eyes, and her shoulders relaxed, "You are the one who raised me this way."

Captain Zarlen Vonondiel walked from the shadows with a smile as he embraced his only child close, "Why are you out here so late pin maethor nin (my little warrior)?"

"A soldier's training never really ends, Ada." Zillaryn took a step back, "That's something my Captain taught me."

"Did he?" Zarlen around her and eyed the target, "I'll have to discuss that with him, for soldiers rest after the sun itself has long since retired is just as important as their training in the daylight."

"Ah, but at night," Zillaryn walked back over to where her father stood, "That is when I can train my new ideas for how to take down our enemy better."

"Your ideas are radical."

Zillaryn turned, immediately dropping to one knee, and placed a hand over her heart with her head bowed. She saw out of the corner of her vision that her father had followed suit.

The Elvenking's robes moved gracefully around him as he approached the soldiers; with a wave of his hand, the rose and stood before their King, "These new tactics you try are unconventional and strange," He moved around them. The pair turned as he continued, "Strange indeed," he mused as he gripped the hilt of the blade and pulled the sword free, "Yet innovative and highly effective."

Zillaryn felt heat warm her cheeks as her King's gaze fell on her. She could count on one hand the number of times he had directly addressed her in the millennia that she had been a soldier. She always preferred to keep her head down and not draw attention to herself; being a soldier meant to give up your identity for the betterment and protection of the Realm. Now, he walked towards her, his hands held behind his back as his ice-blue eyes bore into her, "Tell me, how often do you practice this late into the evening, Zillaryn?"

"E—Every night, Aran nin (My King)." Her voice was soft yet confident.

He watched her for a moment, "And how long have you been one of my soldiers?"

Zillaryn looked away from his piercing gaze and noted that her father was no longer at her side. She didn't want to look around for him and not answer the King's question, so she looked back to where he stood in front of her, " Just over millennia, Aran nin (My King)."

He hummed to himself as he stopped right in front of her. He brought her sword from behind her back and examined it closely, "How long have you had this sword?"

"My father gifted it to me when I passed the tests to become a soldier, Aran nin (My King)."

"It is a fine weapon," Thranduil observed as he looked down at her, "But a soldier of your caliber requires a weapon of better craftsmanship."

Zillaryn wanted to speak up, to defend the craftsmanship of the weapon that her father had made, especially for her on the day she had been accepted into the guard. But any objection she had was immediately silenced when her father came back into her line of sight, this time cradling a narrow wooden chest in front of him. He crossed the field and came to stand next to the King with a knowing smile dancing across his lips. She arched her brow in her father's direction, but he was quickly blocked from her view by King Thranduil's broad frame. She heard hinges creak open, and she caught sight of something in the King's hand as he turned back around.

Her breath caught in her throat, and her confused gaze met her King's once more. His usually indifferent gaze had taken on a hint of pride as he extended his arms out to her. She hesitated a moment before her fingers wrapped around the blackened hilts.

The swords were lighter than she had expected. Even with the torches lit around the training field, they were still blacker than the night that surrounded them. The silver designs twisted around the blades and Zillaryn felt transfixed as she stared at the masterful weapons she held in her hand.

She had seen her father's Duag Mor Vagol (Soldiers of the Black Sword) swords many times but had never touched them, even when he had offered. It always had felt disrespectful to what the black sword represented. Now she held two in her hands that looked as if they had just been forged. She glanced to her father, who was openly smiling at her now and couldn't bring herself to return the smile. She was too confused as to what was happening.

"Try it out."

Zillaryn looked to see that Thranduil had moved behind and to the side of the wooden target. Zillaryn furrowed her brow, "My Lord?"

The Elvenking motioned toward the target, "Try it out."

Realization dawned as her father moved out of the way. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened her eyes again, they focused on the target in front of her. Again she charged the target and repeated her previous move. After dropping her shoulder, she spun her body forward; as she collapsed, she threw the first blade, seeing it lodge into the wooden target's chest. As she completed her spin on the ground, she threw the second blade toward the target's neck, and her eyes widened as she saw the blade cut through the wood, completely decapitating the target.

She stood back up as the Elvenking observed her. If she didn't know better, she would think that he was smiling. He retrieved the blades once more, her father following him close behind. "Very good," the King stopped in front of her once more and extended the swords towards her once again, "They will serve you well."

Zillaryn's head shot up and met the King's eyes once more, "Aran nin (My King)?"

He waited for her to take the swords from him once more and then placed his hands behind his back. He straightened up to his full height, looking every bit at the King that he was, "Tomorrow it will be announced that Levan Arixo will be stepping down from his position within the Duag Mor Vagol (Soldiers of the Black Sword). He has heard the call of the west and will sail to join his wife and the rest of our kin in the Undying Lands."

"May the Valar bless his journey," Zillaryn responded.

"May they, indeed," Thranduil nodded, "As I'm sure you've guessed, this will leave the battalion down one soldier."

He can't mean— her thoughts were running away from her.

"You have grown into a formidable soldier, Zillaryn Vonondiel. It would be an honor to have to serve as the tenth soldier with the battalion."

Her eyes widened as his words sunk in. "M-My Lord," Zillaryn began trying to articulate her words correctly, "B-But there has never been an elleth in the Duag Mor Vagol (SOldiers of the Black Sword)."

Thranduil took a step closer to her, "That is because no elleth before you has shown your level of skill and dedication. The only other elleth that has come close is Tauriel; as she is Captain of the Guard under Lord Allistair, her responsibilities lie elsewhere. There is no other soldier that is matched in your skill with a sword. Do you accept this offer?"

Zillaryn had to stop from leaping in the air with excitement, "It would be my honor, Aran nin (my King)."

"Very good," Thranduil walked around her, giving a short nod to Zarlen, "You will arrive at sunrise for training tomorrow morning. The battalion is trained by me exclusively," As he left the field, he called over his shoulder without turning around, "Get a good night's rest; you'll need it.

The memory faded as Thranduil watched ZIllaryn rehearse a familiar, fatal dance that he knew all too well. The morning sun shone through the trees and glinted off the black of her blades as they cut into a hastily constructed stack of hay. She moved just as effortlessly as that night on the training field, a time that felt like so long ago. He looked back over to her just in time to see her stop in the middle of the small field, her chest heaving from the exertion of her workout.

In a solemn moment, she lifted her head, placed her hand over her heart, the sword still clutched in her hand. Then she extended her hand up to the sky. Thranduil suddenly felt as if he were intruding on a deeply personal moment. Which, in a way, he was. Before he could hide away, he suddenly saw a pair of dark green eyes staring at him.

A moment later, she was walking towards him, back towards the encampment. She held his gaze until she was almost in front of him. Then she glanced away, whispering as she walked past him, "Your Majesty."

He turned to follow her as she walked away, "Zillaryn." Her step faltered, and then she stopped, glancing over her shoulder.

"After hardly sleeping all night," Thranduil stopped several paces behind her again, "Why are you out here before the dawn itself has fully awakened?"

She was silent for a long moment, and he thought that she would turn to him, but at the last moment, she turned her head away from him. He saw her shoulders rise and fall and knew that she was breathing deeply. Then she was walking away from him. As she almost reached the bottom of the hill, he heard her whisper.

"A soldier's training never really ends."