The Art of War
A Lord of the Rings fanfic-like thing
By
EvilFuzzy9
Of the elves and their tactics, there is much that could be said. Long years without end do they live, unless of life they should grow weary before their time; but otherwise the Quendi perish only at misfortune or malice, never of age.
Thus may death seem all the more fearful for my people, particularly those of the lesser kindreds who know not the high lore of the West. Elves are not warlike by nature, unless you consider any creature which rises in defense of its own as warlike. We do not lightly go to battle, not in these latter days.
But our history is long, and we have long fought both the Shadow and – more grievously – our fellow Children in many great battles, though I myself am young and have seen only a little of our former glory.
Of the Eldar who returned out of the West in war against the First Enemy, much has been said elsewhere, and is little known to myself outside old songs and tales. Chiefly, here and now, I shall speak of my own kindred, the Silvan elves, and a little perhaps of my father's people, the Sindar.
While the Noldor loved greatly the working of gems and metals, the Wood-elves cared more deeply for things which grew. Iron and steel we may fashion at need in times of war, though more poorly perhaps than such work as gives elven craft its fame, and fair things of skillful make are as dear to us as any race, but we have ever chiefly been hunters and gatherers.
Thus in battle my people favor bows greatest, then spears, axes, and knives; all such things as are of use in hunting and woodcraft. Of wood are most our weapons fashioned, and in the wood do we fight our battles.
Silvan elves are not soldiers. They do not march to battle in armies, save only at dire need, and little love have we for battle on the open field.
Other kindreds sing songs of glory in war, of vanquishing the foe in equal combat, of mastering the enemy with strength of arm and force of will. But the Wood-elves do not. It is in the hunt that we revel, in patience and cunning.
We are not soldiers. We do not fight our enemy on open fields, not at choice. We rather hunt them beneath the forest's eaves, stalk and harry and wear them down, split their numbers with guile and trickery, lead them with fear into traps long-prepared, drive them into rivers, down ravines, or through the dens of fierce beasts.
My people do not see honor in needless bloodshed. We may kill in the hunt, but that is a kill meditated and forgiven, an honored sacrifice of provident nature. Of a game-beast's death no waste is made.
War is nothing but waste.
Elves can live forever unless they are slain, and so all the more loth are we to spend our lives needlessly. If to war it must come, then better it be ended quickly, with little risk to ourselves.
And so the Wood-elves fight from the shadow with terror and dart, beguiling their foes and shooting them in the back. For war has no honor, and in battle no honor do we seek, save only that of preserving what we love.
Wood-elves do not fight: they hunt.
And they kill.
A/N: Writing something like this is nice change of pace from my usual fare. And I see it's even got a couple of followers, so I figure: another chapter or two? Yeah, sure; why not?
Chapter added: 5-24-14
TTFN and R&R!
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