This is a celebratory update as I have just handed in the last assignment
of my university career. Fairly useless information, but still.
Neither the film, nor the book are mine, I merely own this unnamed elf, while I also owe a debt of gratitude to Bernard Cornwell for the archery terminology, which he will probably never even know about.
There Is Always A First...
Elves are not born to die.
It is a simple idea; we are not easily accepting of death.
Elves are not born to die.
Yet, as I stand here with my brethren, staring out from the ramparts down onto this hostile plain below, I know we are all contemplating our fate. Our enemy stands ten thousand or more strong, while we few, we courageous, perhaps foolish few stand firm against them.
Elves are not born to die.
As though it is a lucky mantra, I repeat the line in my head, hoping beyond all hopes that my will alone is enough to make it the truth. I would take comfort from even a glimpse of the stars, fairest lights of Arda above, but the impenetrable black of the storm clouds entombs me, not even their radiant light can pierce this miserable darkness. Any comforting part of nature has been removed from this place; no trees stir, no flowers wave, and the pleasant ripple of a stream has been drowned out by the beating of the rain, the beating of feet and the beating of my own heart.
A warrior shall be distinguished in the battlefield. That is how wars are portrayed; the valiant fighting for what is good and right with the sun at their backs and the wind lifting their banners high. Not this. Not this bleak picture where vision has been reduced to the head of your arrow, a thick curtain of rain blanketing sight while the helm you were so proud to wear now seems to close in about you and you long to fling it from your person, feel the last bit of nature as the rain water patters on your head.
Elves are not born to die.
I leave my helm upon my head.
I could not remove it even if I wanted to. My right hand is curled around my bowstring, pulled back as far as I can allow it, my left is similarly engaged pushing the grip of my bow as far away from me, as far towards the enemy, as possible, my first arrow notched, waiting for its chance of glory. How long I have been standing here like this now I do not know; usually time for my kind passes slowly, little changing, yet this minute has passed as an age. Longer. For eternity.
Elves are not born to die.
The tension in my arms is palpable now, a quiet ache in the muscles but I will not relax my stance. I am proud of what I am, an archer, and even should it lead to my demise //Elves are not born to die// then I will die proudly, doing what I can. For if we fail here today, life as it has been would cease. Darkness will march over all of Arda, over elves, over men, over dwarves, over hobbits, over all. Whether upon these bleak walls, or under the golden trees of beloved Lothlorien, nothing will remain untouched, safe, pure. And that I can not allow. I am proud of what I am, and what I defend here today.
Elves are not born to die.
A small part of me refuses to understand why I am here. Let the men fight for themselves, it tells me. They are mortal, doomed, cursed, perhaps blessed to die. Let them fulfil their reason for being. And although we have been welcomed to this place, it is only because they recognise that we may save them yet. And for that, they are angry. Not the commanders, they welcome us with open arms, but the common men, the soldiers, the farmers, view us with distain that is tangible as if we should not be here.
Perhaps we should not.
Elves are not born to die.
The rain falls ever harder now, and I try to keep my gaze fixed on the front rank of the monsters before me. I do not even honour them in my mind by giving them their name. These things before us are not alive; no blessing of Iluvatar will ever be bestowed upon their foul heads. They are a dark spawning; they are no creatures of light. And yet they may be the end of us all.
The men too now have pulled back their bowstrings in preparation. I pay them no heed. I focus solely on my own target; a snorting cloud of steam from my enemy's stinking, rotten mouth. The Mirkwood Prince speaks but his words do not penetrate the cacophonous pounding in my ears. And still it rains.
Elves are not born to die.
An eerie stillness falls upon us. Even the enemy senses it, the pawing and stamping of the ground grows less, perhaps they realise the challenge before them is too great, perhaps they will abandon their task, perhaps there is a distant light into which we my emerge. Perhaps...
A movement in the stillness, sudden as a bolt of lightening charging across a heavy sky, but lightening this is not. It is an arrow. And it finds a target. A twitch ripples through the archer's ranks, but no more fire, instead obeying our commands. No doubt some are now cursing the man who fired but I can only think that now the monsters before us will demand retribution. Now there is no turning back, whatever the end.
Elves are not born to die.
The beast that is struck by the arrow dies slowly, only after a grotesque gurgling escapes it's punctured throat does it collapse to the ground. For an instant that lasts another age - oh how I have aged stood on this battlement - that stillness falls again, and a truth never before uncovered enters my head. There is always a first to die.
Elves are not born to die.
There is always a first to die, and watching the enemy roar with vengeance, I wonder with a cold dread who will be the first to die upon our walls. Man? Elf?
Elves are not born to die, but there is always a first.
All thoughts are pushed from my head as the enemy charges. I see them, vision now clear as they move as one mass, one great beast with many eyes staring, and weapons bristling. Closer they come, almost too close, I hold my fire. Wait for the command. But they are close. Almost too close.
Elves are not born to die, but there is always a first.
Finally, the order to fire comes. My first arrow launched, I reach for another and it too is airborne before the first has even reached its target. And its target it hits, a beast topples to the mud. All along the line other archers feel the elation of a target well met, but the joy is soon replaced by a chillness. For every gap we create, another enemy takes it's comrade's place. Another arrow leaves my hand, and another, but still they come, their numbers ever increasing, the beasts draw nearer.
Elves are not born to die, but there is always a first.
It had not occurred to me that these primitive fighting beasts would be able to reach us without scaling the walls themselves. It had not occurred to me that they can use bow and arrow as we can. It did not occur to me until a sudden weight strikes me in the chest, pushing me backwards. It did not occur to me until a cry is forced from my lips as my back foot feels only air, not stone beneath me, and as my hands enclose around the shaft of a black feathered arrow penetrating, violating, and I fall.
The ground below approaches slowly as still I cry out; a cry of pain, a cry for help, a cry to Mandos to receive me.
Elves are not born to die, but there is always...
Neither the film, nor the book are mine, I merely own this unnamed elf, while I also owe a debt of gratitude to Bernard Cornwell for the archery terminology, which he will probably never even know about.
There Is Always A First...
Elves are not born to die.
It is a simple idea; we are not easily accepting of death.
Elves are not born to die.
Yet, as I stand here with my brethren, staring out from the ramparts down onto this hostile plain below, I know we are all contemplating our fate. Our enemy stands ten thousand or more strong, while we few, we courageous, perhaps foolish few stand firm against them.
Elves are not born to die.
As though it is a lucky mantra, I repeat the line in my head, hoping beyond all hopes that my will alone is enough to make it the truth. I would take comfort from even a glimpse of the stars, fairest lights of Arda above, but the impenetrable black of the storm clouds entombs me, not even their radiant light can pierce this miserable darkness. Any comforting part of nature has been removed from this place; no trees stir, no flowers wave, and the pleasant ripple of a stream has been drowned out by the beating of the rain, the beating of feet and the beating of my own heart.
A warrior shall be distinguished in the battlefield. That is how wars are portrayed; the valiant fighting for what is good and right with the sun at their backs and the wind lifting their banners high. Not this. Not this bleak picture where vision has been reduced to the head of your arrow, a thick curtain of rain blanketing sight while the helm you were so proud to wear now seems to close in about you and you long to fling it from your person, feel the last bit of nature as the rain water patters on your head.
Elves are not born to die.
I leave my helm upon my head.
I could not remove it even if I wanted to. My right hand is curled around my bowstring, pulled back as far as I can allow it, my left is similarly engaged pushing the grip of my bow as far away from me, as far towards the enemy, as possible, my first arrow notched, waiting for its chance of glory. How long I have been standing here like this now I do not know; usually time for my kind passes slowly, little changing, yet this minute has passed as an age. Longer. For eternity.
Elves are not born to die.
The tension in my arms is palpable now, a quiet ache in the muscles but I will not relax my stance. I am proud of what I am, an archer, and even should it lead to my demise //Elves are not born to die// then I will die proudly, doing what I can. For if we fail here today, life as it has been would cease. Darkness will march over all of Arda, over elves, over men, over dwarves, over hobbits, over all. Whether upon these bleak walls, or under the golden trees of beloved Lothlorien, nothing will remain untouched, safe, pure. And that I can not allow. I am proud of what I am, and what I defend here today.
Elves are not born to die.
A small part of me refuses to understand why I am here. Let the men fight for themselves, it tells me. They are mortal, doomed, cursed, perhaps blessed to die. Let them fulfil their reason for being. And although we have been welcomed to this place, it is only because they recognise that we may save them yet. And for that, they are angry. Not the commanders, they welcome us with open arms, but the common men, the soldiers, the farmers, view us with distain that is tangible as if we should not be here.
Perhaps we should not.
Elves are not born to die.
The rain falls ever harder now, and I try to keep my gaze fixed on the front rank of the monsters before me. I do not even honour them in my mind by giving them their name. These things before us are not alive; no blessing of Iluvatar will ever be bestowed upon their foul heads. They are a dark spawning; they are no creatures of light. And yet they may be the end of us all.
The men too now have pulled back their bowstrings in preparation. I pay them no heed. I focus solely on my own target; a snorting cloud of steam from my enemy's stinking, rotten mouth. The Mirkwood Prince speaks but his words do not penetrate the cacophonous pounding in my ears. And still it rains.
Elves are not born to die.
An eerie stillness falls upon us. Even the enemy senses it, the pawing and stamping of the ground grows less, perhaps they realise the challenge before them is too great, perhaps they will abandon their task, perhaps there is a distant light into which we my emerge. Perhaps...
A movement in the stillness, sudden as a bolt of lightening charging across a heavy sky, but lightening this is not. It is an arrow. And it finds a target. A twitch ripples through the archer's ranks, but no more fire, instead obeying our commands. No doubt some are now cursing the man who fired but I can only think that now the monsters before us will demand retribution. Now there is no turning back, whatever the end.
Elves are not born to die.
The beast that is struck by the arrow dies slowly, only after a grotesque gurgling escapes it's punctured throat does it collapse to the ground. For an instant that lasts another age - oh how I have aged stood on this battlement - that stillness falls again, and a truth never before uncovered enters my head. There is always a first to die.
Elves are not born to die.
There is always a first to die, and watching the enemy roar with vengeance, I wonder with a cold dread who will be the first to die upon our walls. Man? Elf?
Elves are not born to die, but there is always a first.
All thoughts are pushed from my head as the enemy charges. I see them, vision now clear as they move as one mass, one great beast with many eyes staring, and weapons bristling. Closer they come, almost too close, I hold my fire. Wait for the command. But they are close. Almost too close.
Elves are not born to die, but there is always a first.
Finally, the order to fire comes. My first arrow launched, I reach for another and it too is airborne before the first has even reached its target. And its target it hits, a beast topples to the mud. All along the line other archers feel the elation of a target well met, but the joy is soon replaced by a chillness. For every gap we create, another enemy takes it's comrade's place. Another arrow leaves my hand, and another, but still they come, their numbers ever increasing, the beasts draw nearer.
Elves are not born to die, but there is always a first.
It had not occurred to me that these primitive fighting beasts would be able to reach us without scaling the walls themselves. It had not occurred to me that they can use bow and arrow as we can. It did not occur to me until a sudden weight strikes me in the chest, pushing me backwards. It did not occur to me until a cry is forced from my lips as my back foot feels only air, not stone beneath me, and as my hands enclose around the shaft of a black feathered arrow penetrating, violating, and I fall.
The ground below approaches slowly as still I cry out; a cry of pain, a cry for help, a cry to Mandos to receive me.
Elves are not born to die, but there is always...