In writing this story, I decided to try something different; something not as dark and full of angst and this is basically what I came up with. I used to do archery a few years back – the only sport that I ever really liked – but I had to stop do to commitments with high school. So this is pretty much me just trying to rekindle a few of the feelings that I used to experience.

*****

Serenity.

*****

‘Steady. Steady. Hold. Hold.’

Elladan’s past words repeated through his head, telling him what to do. ‘Hold tight to the curve in the middle, yet do not strangle it.’ The words of his older brother stayed with him whenever he was about to release an arrow, no matter what the situation or how dire the urgency.

Adjusting his grasp on the smooth, curved oak, Elrohir could not help but notice the flawless design and grain that the bow held. ‘Twas naturally curved and had required little effort on his part to whittle it and ’twas that alone that allowed it to be so powerful and strong. Not one splinter could be obtained from its perfect surface and it felt as though ’twas crafted of silk. The intricate leaves and vines painted on the ends with silver had not worn, even in it’s many years of use. They were as clear and radiant as ever, showing the skill and technique of the Lord’s youngest son. The patterns that neatly framed the hand when resting on it for use, were also in perfect condition, twisting up form the top and bottom of the hand and following through to the end of the strong curve. ‘Twas like a star, vibrant, shining and undying, never letting a hunter down just as the stars always directed those who needed guidance.

The string, so fine and taut, shone like a black swan in the sun. Woven from strands of his own hair, the string was so fine yet the strongest around. Many lengths of his dark, mid-back length hair had gone into the crafting of this bow. Braided and tied together, to make as extensive as needed for the long bow, it were down with it utmost care. If a single strand had failed, the whole thing was spoilt, rendered faulty and not being safe enough for use. It had taken him days, weeks even, before he was satisfied and before he felt as if it were the best that he or anyone else could ever do.

This bow was like an extension of his left arm, reliable and the perfect companion, granting him the upper hand in any situation. ‘Twas his life support, the thing that kept him alive whenever he went outside of the protective borders of his home in Rivendell. He could always rely on it, never have to fret if it would fail or leave him in a crucial moment like another hunter might. Safety, that’s what it was, it ’twas safety.

The arrow, bound to his bow and therefore bound to him, was also crafted with the highest precision. All his arrows, carefully whittled down from hard wood, flitted with the feathers of woodland birds and painted with the same consideration and pattern as his bow, were things of beauty. So light and thin, so graceful yet lethal that ’twas almost poetic justice, certainly containing a sense of irony. To think that something so beautiful, so well crafted and fragile could bring a grown man or Orc down with one single impact was miraculous.

The power that he felt holding it, aiming it at whatever he intended, was enough for him to lose himself in completely. Knowing that he was in control and with the relaxation of just two muscles he could show that control and dominate the situation. He knew that if he recalled all that he had been taught, all that had been said about the bond between bow and archer, that he would never miss his target, that he would always triumph. With just the movement of fitting an arrow to the string of the bow, he was powerful and one to be feared.

The bond was unbreakable; the thing that bound him to the bow was far beyond fondness. ‘Twas as if it were destiny, the bidding of the stars and the Valar that he should be endowed with such a weapon. Such a way to defend himself and his loved ones, his borders and his beloved home. ‘Twas his calling in his immortal life, to be called to the bow that he fashioned from his own hands from a gift from the trees which he would protect. He was meant to have this bow, meant to have this life, no matter how much it pained him at times. His connection with his weapon was deeper then just physical, and stronger then spiritual – ’twas just him. That was it, the bow that he held now, was just him in another form. One carved out of wood and toil, painted with care and respect, and used with skill and accuracy for protection.

He could feel it sing, hear the soft, musical note as the string snapped back and the arrow was released, searching out its target. He could almost look down the shaft while ’twas air born, guiding it with his mind to find the point that he had aimed it towards.

Even as he stood there, gently applying more pressure to the drawn string, he could sense these things. The way the bow answered his every move, the way the arrow locked onto where his eyes were and the way the surrounding environment held its breath, waiting for the fatal twang of the hair- braided string to snap back into place. The trees seemed to lean closer, the air became crisper and the soft beating of the Mother Earth sped up, showing her excitement at the situation at hand and anticipating when she would be rewarded for the gifts that she provided.

When she would be rewarded with the gift of blood – life – the life-blood that flowed through every thing that walked the earth whether it be beast or Elf, human or dwarf, hunted or land hunter. It pumped through everything, combining them all in the notes of the song sung by the Ainur at the dawning of the world and time. Every tree, every rock, every living thing was connected in one way or another just as everything needed the other, no matter how hard it was to admit.

Elrohir, standing there and holding fast to his taut bowstring was aware of all, and all was aware of him. They knew what was to happen, what was to unfold once the arrow slipped from the restricting fingers that held it at bay and tight against the thin, shinning cord of its founder. He was one with all and if he so wished, he could bend it to his will, to call upon the life-force of the world around him that Elves were so connected to, and use it to guide his arrow to his target.

But he need it not, for he had faith in his abilities and more so in his bow. He had been schooled well, taught by his father and his guards and later by his seconds older brother. It had taken him longer to adapt to the way of the Elven bow than it had his brother, and so Elladan had taken it upon himself to school Elrohir in their spare time. And just as the sunrise always followed after the setting of the sun, Elrohir had learnt the ways of archery and in thus doing had found his calling.

‘Pull the string evenly,’ Elladan’s voice surfaced in his head not for the first time, ‘do not touch the feathers of the arrow or it will hinder the flight of the shaft.’ Even now the words of wisdom were in his head, never leaving and never letting him down.

‘Move your body so it is side on to you target.’ Moving his feet and swiveling his hips, Elrohir obeyed the silent command.

‘Feet apart and shoulders square. Do not drop your elbow!’ Cursing himself for doing it yet again, Elrohir raised his right elbow to be in line with his drawn back shoulder.

‘Remember; if you choose to lean into your right arm, lean the bow to the right as well. Keep your face parallel to the wood at all times.’ Elrohir had never been one to stay straight with his bow, tending to lean his head into the crook of his right arm and rest his cheek on his circled thumb.

‘If you are nervous, heaven forbid, press your middle finger to behind your pointed tooth for a stable arm.’ Pressing his finger in hard to his tooth, Elrohir was relieved to feel the slight shaking of his arm subside and eventually stop, allowing him an unhindered stand.

‘Take you time, that is what is important. Do not rush yourself, for releasing the arrow a single moment too soon could be the difference between life and death. Let it go when you feel the time is right, not when you think you should. Wait for that feeling to come over you, that feeling of control over both the situation and yourself and play upon that. Wait till your opponent is at unease with his surroundings and when that comes, when that serenity fills you, do as you must.’ That feeling was screaming around him, invading his senses, yet not to hinder them, to heighten them to their full potential. ‘Twas time, the perfect moment for the arrow to grace the air with its flight; to fly through the air and bring the intended down.

‘Elrohir,’ there was Elladan’s voice in his head again, telling him what to do and guiding him through his task.

‘Elrohir!’ it repeated, slightly louder and more urgent. Listening to it for its tone, Elrohir remembered the tireless hours that Elladan had put into aiding him to use a bow with ease. To be able to carve his own arrows and to be able to be at peace with what such a small thing could bring about after its release.

“Elrohir!” the voice resonated around the clearing, bringing his attention slamming back to his surroundings.

“Son of an Orc!” he muttered to himself for his loss of concentration and wanderings of his mind. Taking a deep breath he relaxed his fingers, feeling the very tip of the arrow that he had been holding pass through.

It whistled as it flew through the air, staying perfectly straight and on the deadline that he had set only moments before. It twirled round and round, the wind playing on the white feathers that adorned the end and making it spin, as if in a graceful dance with a partner that one could not see and only feel. The world seemed to stop, everything that existed was focused on this one arrow, this one thing that was once a piece of wood and part of a bird. This one thing that could hand out death at will and grant life with the act of stripping another of the precious gift. ‘Twas the only thing that mattered in the entire world.

Elrohir watched as his arrow flew through the air, driving its way in the scaly back of an Orc right were the fell beasts heart would be. It hit with the force intended, enough to kill but not enough to go right through, damaging the cherished cargo that he held against a tree.

With its knife still gripped in its hand, it sunk to the forest floor, pouring its thick, gruesome blood on the ground. Elrohir could feel that the Mother Earth was not happy with her gift of tainted life, but she would soak it up nonetheless and be forever thankful that ’twas not one of the favored Elves that enriched her soils.

Looking to where the Orc had been standing, Elrohir saw the appreciative look that his brother sent him while rubbing the feeling back into his throat. Knowing not what else to do, Elrohir merely smiled back, glad that he was able to save the one that had taught him so much and that had been there for him in his times of need.

Walking slowly over to his side, Elladan shot Elrohir a puzzled glance. “What troubles you, my brother?” he asked while picking up one of his forgotten blades that had been thrown away by an angry Orc.

“Nothing,” Elrohir replied wistfully and utterly unconvincing. “I was just thinking.”

A small smile came of Elladan’s face as he apprised his slightly shorter twin. “You frightened me,” he said, and when Elrohir lifted his gaze to inquire why, Elladan started to laugh. “I was worried that you were going over all the folly that I once told you about shooting.” With that said, Elladan walked off, smiling to himself.

Elrohir watched him leave with more questions than answers in his mind. Was it all folly? Was the inseparable bond between an archer and his weapon a pure thing contrived in Elladan’s mind to help coax him into learning the craft?

Sighing in defeat and slumping his shoulder slightly, Elrohir followed his brother’s example and returned to his horse’s side. Walking lightly across the ground, he could have sworn he felt a tremor run through the earth and the forest. Something like a heartbeat, something that all responded to and that all was part of. Something that told him of the ways of the world and the people contained there within. Something that told him, of all of Elladan’s words, to dismiss only the last that were said, and to hold true to the others. Something that told him that all was the way it should be and that he, and his bow, were part of a whole, part of something out of his control but part of which he could command.

That thing was life.

*****

The end.

Minka