I know this is different, but I like to write things contrary to popular belief just because it’s contrary. Anyway, this is just a short one-shot in first person describing what I think may have passed through Legolas’ mind after the battle of Helm’s Deep, when he misses the orc that blows up the Deeping Wall.

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What was I to do? I tried. I tried with all I had.

True, my eyes are keen, even for one of my race, but they are not perfect. And it was dark. I have never shot my best in the dark. One would assume that, with my home being Mirkwood… But no. I know not the reason, only that my arrows are more likely to go amiss in darkness. And they glance at me as if their kin – my kin as well, they forget – are dead by my hand.

Do they realize how difficult it is to make a head shot from above? The target is small and the head comprises only one-third of the space visible, the other two-thirds being the shoulders, both of which I hit, by the way. Yes, I am accustomed to shooting from trees, but never from the height of the Deeping Wall.

Even if I had succeeded, what good could have been done by that? If I had killed that Uruk, one of his fellows would have retrieved the torch and continued. If I had been able to kill the second, another would have… I would quickly have run out of arrows before they ran out of Uruk-Hai.

It was foolish of Aragorn even to command it of me. He was rather preoccupied, so I blame him not. And I attempted to obey his command, which was foolish on my part as well. But if he hadn’t ordered me to kill that Uruk, the material outcome would not have varied, but these Men would not now be blaming me for their kindred’s death.

Explaining all this to them would be useless. They distrusted me before all this; they would not appreciate me attempting to defend myself. And what do these Men know of me? I highly doubt if more than a few even know my name or home. Or anything other than my race, for that matter.

But I am Legolas Greenleaf Thranduilion, of the house of Oropher. I am Prince of Mirkwood, friend of the lords Elrond and Celeborn and the lady Galadriel. I am the most skilled archer in my forest home and have been trained from childhood in the arts of battle and war. I have lived for centuries and served my king and father to the best of my abilities for the duration of that time.

I am not ashamed of what I have done this night, though those who surround me make no attempt to hide their thoughts that I ought to be. I listen not to them, but to my father, who has told me many times that if I try my hardest and fail the blame is not mine; the blame lies on my shoulders only if I did not give all I had to the task set before me. Let them think what they may. I know the truth: it was not my fault.