The fast approaching dark
I remember a time when these lands were filled with the new found songs of Ilúvatar's children. The voices of the firstborn, ringing out into the darkness. Then the whispers came. And darkness turned to shadow, like we were in the wake of a sleepless presence. People disappeared. Some went mad. Then Orome the rider strode in upon his horse. He promised great things, power and an end to the 'evil' he claimed was ensnaring around us. That was when the true evil crept forwards. We were already divided, a broken people with broken opinions. Some stayed and some left. I stayed to the bitter end. But now I wish I hadn't. Because once we were divided, once we were broken; that was when the whispers became shouts of hatred and vengeful war cries. That was when evil crept into us all, and the madness took hold.
The evil Melkor savaged our lands, burning all, defiling every drop of goodness. And did the Valar help us then? No. They only rewarded those gullible and naïve enough to follow them to the light and power. Every day know there are new rumours of the wars in the west. The tragedy of the line of Feanor. But do they hear of the famine and hunger they left us to make our daily lives? No. They brought this upon themselves, leaving us to nothing.
I suppose I cannot say much about famine and poverty. A couple of hundred years ago, yes, I was starving and poor. But now I have a living, an unusual one at that. And it all started with the loss that has turned me bitter and cold. The loss of family. That night still haunts my dreams…
The elf runs through the wild wood, a place of great beauty, but he cannot bear to stop now. Because they found him. His brother. He hears the jeers and cries of the orcs, carrying their prisoners and precious cargo. The footfalls of the orcs suddenly stop at clearing, and the elf nearly runs straight into the pack. He stops, lingering in the shadows he hears the chopping of wood, the burning of timber. They are obviously resting here through the day, as the light that they find so fearful is fast approaching. He pulls an arrow from his hunting quiver, and places it to the bow. He fires and hears an orc fall to the ground a cry of anger from his companions. He moves round the clearing, firing two more shots, both hitting their mark, even though all he can see are shadows in the light of the cooking fire. He fires one more, hoping his changing position will trick them into thinking they are being hunted. Then, praising Ilúvatar for the best, he rushes into the clearing, with only a hunting knife as arms. But to his dismay, the floor is littered with bodies of elves. And among them… "No!" He shouts, running to his brother's side. But it is too late. His throat is slit and he lies dead. The orcs, thinking they were under attack from a patrol of elves, had slain their prisoners, then made a quick escape when he had jumped into the clearing. Lying in a pool of elfish blood, he saw something glittering. A beautiful longsword, not forged by any dark elf. This was a sword of the Noldor, and one of the finest at that. It must have ended up in the orcish loot further west. The elf kneels and unsheathes the sword, laying it on the ground in front of him. He vows to devote his life to hunting and killing the orcs of Melkor for what they have done to is brother.
And that is what I have done ever since.