The sword was flung from one's hand and landed several feet away; the top of the others rested in the hollow of his neck. Both froze.

"Dead."

The small crowd of clustered elves cheered, and the opponent holding the sword dropped it with a laugh, offering the other a hand up. The loser returned to the crowd with a well-meaning threat of a rematch.

Oropher had to admit he was curious; there was enough of them in training clothes that it was obvious this had been a training session at some point. Yet this was the third sparring match in a row he had seen the blond elf win with someone who was obviously not apart of the training group.

There was something about him that reminded him painfully of his son, Thranduil, who as far as Oropher was able to tell was still alive in Arda somewhere. Alive with a son of his own. A son who had succeeded where he himself had failed to save Arda from the treachery of the ring and its master.

It was hard to imagine Thranduil with a son of his own; he had been so young during the Battle of the Last Alliance.

"Who's next to die?" The elderly dwarf asked, the very one he had been trying his best to ignore. There was a reason he did not often come to this side of the island. Besides the fact it was populated largely with the Feanoriens and the like.

The only reason he was here now was that he had accompanied a friend to get smithing help from Celebrimbor.

The rest of the crowd seemed to like the dwarf though and they all laughed heartily, and another emerged from the crowd to fight the tall, strong elf in the center. This match did not last much longer than the last before another calm and even:

"Dead."

Rang out across the silent space.

A warrior this good was not just from practice, but necessity. Oropher had seen elves like this before, they were the most dangerous kind of opponent to face. Because often they were taught to survive and learning to fight, and to fight well, was only part of the numerous teaching that came with that.

He had to admire the strength in which the elf had been raised, whoever had raised him.

At first, he assumed it was perhaps another son of Elrond's' he did not know about, this was technically his land after all and there was a rumor that he there had been three sons for a time in Imladris. It would make sense.

But now that he had seen the twin sons with his own eyes, there was no way the three had been raised by the same hand.

"Dead."

There was a quality about this gladiator that also reminded Oropher of his Silvan elves, with their quick laughs and chaotic minds. There was also an air of mischief or wildness about the victor that Oropher had never seen among the Noldor before.

The blond flung his opponent's sword into the branches of an overhead tree with the tip of his own, and help his hand expectantly outwards to the right. Oropher watched as the branches seemed to take a moment to aim before releasing it back again.

"That's cheating!" The one on the ground yelled, one of Elrond's twins.

He had also never seen a tree have such a strong connection to any but a Silvan before, especially not one so strong.

The one still standing just laughed even more merrily, if possible and the branches shook above him as the tree joined in with his joy. "I would have won anyway."

"That doesn't make it not cheating."

"I never said it did," He might have said more, but the one twin scrambled to his feet and ran headfirst for his middle, tackling him to the ground.

Oropher decided it was time to check and see if his friend was finished with their work yet, and turned away from the crowd, ignoring the continued cheers from them.