I aim; I strike. Of course I do.

My bow is long, and she is beautiful, crafted from the sturdiest black yew-wood, once it yielded itself and died, willing to be shapened into a weapon of beauty and war. Her arrows are of a lighter wood, headed by smooth, sharp arrowheads that gleam in the light. Her bowstring is taut and sure, woven from the strands of my mother’s own hair, entwined with my father’s.

The bow was a gift to me from my parents, sanctioned by the king and queen themselves. It was given to me when I came of age, under the terms and forests of my people. My father’s best friend and cohort of Doriath carved her for me, as well as the arrows, and had a most wonderful quiver fashioned to hold them all. There was a great banquet for my day of birth, filled with softly smiling faces, warm hands and gentle embraces. Yet all was solemn, none moreso than Mablung and especially my mother. We all waited for my father’s return from the fields and forests, but we knew he would not return. I would wait for him to scoop me up in his arms, despite the appraising eye of the king, and let the wind touch my face, yet I knew his smiling eyes would no longer look upon us.

For he left the king’s halls not by the king’s request, but by his own choice of heart. He left to seek out his good friend of Men and his charge, one he loved moreso than above his own wisdom. News we recieved months, perhaps years past, that he had died by his own sword, by the hand of the raven-haired, silver-eyed man.

I cannot say his name, I will not.

I never looked upon the child of Men with my own eyes, but my mother had met him face to face. She was afraid; saw the curse in his eyes, his fate that he would not escape save by his own altered choices – and also the curse placed upon those he loved. She told me that Father could see it too, see that he was both loved and cursed. But he could not overrule his love as mentor for the man, as his ally – and perhaps as his brother.

For my father was Cuthalion, the greatest of all of the kingdom’s warriors and wardens — the Strongbow. Esteemed of Lord Thingol, favored by the Lady Melian, honored by Mablung Drambor and respected and loved by all. Yet mother knew his best, perhaps moreso than Mablung Heavy-Hand; she knew that amonst his prideful stance and eternally sure aim, his eyes glittered with mischeif. He balanced his roles as teacher and warrior with playful friend and confidant, and father. His loyalty to the king and queen was undying – yet it rivaled his loyalty to the child of Hador’s house.

I was born upon the eve that Father discovered the young child of Men wandering tearfully through the Girdle of Melian. He did not often come to see me as I was an elfling, as he was often on leave at Lord Thingol’s bidding, to roam the forests much of the time. Mother would spend time serving the Lady, and also by weaving tunics and jerkins for Father, for she said that he was much too rigorous in his patrolling – he was immortal, yet his garments were not. When he did return to us, I remember the warmth of his smiles, of being a winking exception in a kingdom of solemn rules, and his light by steady grip as he taught me the beginnings of archery, and of being an Elf. I also remember his firmly embracing my mother and not willing to release her until she heard how much he did love her. But she already knew such. Heavy-Hand always said that Mother was the fall to Father’s spring. She reminded him of things he needed to heed; he would lift her spirits should she need it. Should she lose her patience with him he would easily make any anger fade, and soon she would forget why she was ever cross.

I had not the chance to experience such love, although I know that he did dearly love me; I can feel it through the kingdom, though every eye that looks upon me with pity, through every heart that mourns for and with me, for every tree that wilts slightly upon his absence.

I remember the last time of I beheld him, I being naught but a sapling amonst the old forest around me. He stood upon the threshold of Lord Thingol’s halls, ready to take his leave once again, to search for the awry fosterling of the Lord, the child of Men, and return him safely. His mood was changed; he was then the Hunter as he was called, tethered in his gear, the tracker and stalker of prey. Yet the prey he sought direly needed to be captured and returned; the curse was upon him. It was as if the surly mood of the heir of Hador had begun to seep into my father’s heart. Mablung had both tried to dissuade him and offer him help, but he would have neither; his mission was to accomplished alone.

He stood upon the threshold of the halls and rested his forehead against my mother’s, and the two were lost in time…I remember gazing upon them as if they were stone, beautiful guards of the halls. There was a glistening upon my mother’s cheek, and soon it wrought tears upon my father’s. He soon caught me spying upon them, and caught me up in a firm embrace, not releasing me until I heard his soft words of love in my ear. I did not understand, I did not know why a simple hunt for his charge made his shining spirit clouded.

“Do not forget what I have taught you,” he said. “Do not forget that you have my love and have it always. Do not be afraid to love, sweet son…for it is what makes living worthwhile.”

Those were his last words I personally heard, coming from lips that did smile weakly for me before he left, and never returned.

I found myself fleeing the halls of Lord Thingol and Lady Melian upon hearing the news, even though I knew in my heart, even though my mother knew before any winds of forebearing lay upon us all. I found myself wandering through and past the Girdle and into Beleriand, into the thick darkness of foreign forests and foilage. I told no one of my leave, I took nothing with me. I cared not that I was an Elf, the son of the most respected warrior in the lands…I cared not if a host of dwarves came upon me and shorn my hair from my head in ridicule…I cared not if an army of orcs were to waylay me or place a collar upon me and add me to the collection of kinfolk that ached and groaned underneath the Dark Lord’s oppressive hand and spirit.

I called my father stupid. Stupid to love a child of Men, stupid to let his love overpower his wisdom– the highest folly to me was to let the heart make decisions when the mind was slower. I called him a fool because this love lead him to his death…and he knew it. Yet he loved anyway. I vowed to follow his charge, this cursed child of Men, to follow him and to kill him, to end the curse before he cursed someone else.

Yet I had no weapon, I had nothing save what I wore. I had wandered for time that I had lost sense and track of, and collapsed. I beat the ground, I beat the tree nearest to me, I wept. Son of the Strongbow — how could I be if the Strongbow was no more?

I wandered in the dark depths of my mind, without purpose and without want for life, when gentle hands touched me. It was Mablung Drambor, Heavy-Hand, distant kin of my father and faithful second in command. He had tracked me. And of course — Doriath’s wardens were the most skilled in tracking, I could not be lost for long.

Troubled were Heavy-Hand’s eyes, as if he felt the same confusion as I. Yet he was older, and wiser, and spent more time with my Father. He took me back to Doriath. And he told me things that I will keep in my heart for however long my days span…that my father was not stupid to love one of the secondborn. That love was what created all of Arda, what sent things in motion, and what still kept evil at bay and from ever fully domineering the world. Love was why I was born. The Illuvatar loves us, loves all of His children, and that was why we were here. That was why we felt so deeply, and lived our lives.

I returned, and for a time stern eyes were opposed to loving and thankful embraces. I was still an elfling, and still was yet to near my coming of age.

So I have now. I have completed my training and teaching, and am a warden of Lord Thingol. Evil brews beyond; the Silmarils still gleam, as strongly as they did when my father and Mablung found one in the Red Maw’s belly, where Beren One-Hand said it was. My bow was carved in the exact way that Belthronding, my father’s bow, was, and I have a crest similar to his; nightengales fluttering about a might bow and fanned arrows. Yet mine bears a small sapling underneath the singing birds; for I am still young, and still have much to face. Mother says I am the picture of my father in his younger days, before his time accompaning Beren for the Jewel. She is proud.

“Do not forget what I have taught you,” he said. “Do not forget that you have my love and have it always. Do not be afraid to love, sweet son…for it is what makes living worthwhile.”

Indeed, Father. I do not know what the Illuvatar has decided for me, across the fields and forests of Beleriand, and beyond, but I know that I will not fail Him…or you.

I aim; I strike. Of course I do. For I am the son of the Strongbow.