Just a little thing I wrote for English, thought it might be good here. Complete one-shot.
Crouched in the lower branches of the tree, sheltered from the harsh gleam of the moon by the dense foliage, which also made this an ideal hiding place, the boy waited. Darkness had descended some while ago, though all time seemed to still as he lurked in the shadows, the perfectly balanced bow resting upon his up-drawn knee. The deep, rumbling voice of his father drifted over the wall as he showed their guest around the gardens. Not long now. 'From the very beginning I have felt the pain, experienced the agony at the moment of death, shared in the family's grief.'
It was always the same. First dinner with the King, then a tour of the royal gardens, finishing in the orchard. Here the shot would be fired and the "enemy" dispatched. What had these people done? Nothing deserving of death, certainly. Sometimes it was a remark of slander. Other times, a mere delay in delivery. This time a rival, not of his father but of his brother. A rival for love. But that was not important, all he should be thinking of was the task at hand. The voices drifted closer.
Slowly, the boy reached backward to draw an arrow from the quiver on his back, each and every one laced with a deadly poison. The gate was opening. Shifting his stance slightly to gain a better view, he watched as first his father, then the target entered the orchard. From his position, so close that he could almost touch them, he could see every detail on the intricately designed brooch that held the elf's cloak about his shoulders. The twitch of the fingers as he reached out to take an apple from a nearby tree. The slight bump caused by the carefully concealed dagger in the target's boot.
Shifting again, causing a slight stir of the leaves about him, the boy gazed through the shadows, and raised his bow, aiming as always for the heart. The poison would ensure an almost instantaneous death. As he drew back the string, his thoughts turned again to the needlessness of this bloodshed. Having been trained from youth, he should no longer question his father's requests for death, but he still found himself wondering why. He had been told that an assassin should enjoy their work, but this was not gratifying. He had never found pleasure in the suffering of others, and he knew that he never would. Turning his mind back the immediate task, he focused again on the mark. Steadying his breath, he heard for the first time the conversation being held between the two men. It was of the venison they had eaten for dinner. But that was of little matter now, save that it was the last meal this elf would ever eat.
Releasing a slow breath, he loosed the arrow. As it flew through the air, the target looked up, having heard the almost imperceptible chord of the bowstring. But by the time realisation had set in there was nothing to be done. It struck. The boy knew it had flown true, as it always did. Turning, he made his way along the branch, vaulting the wall, to drop lightly down on the other side. His part in this barbaric plot was over. As he made his way up the hill towards the house, he saw again the last trace of anguish as it crossed the elf's face, the eyes that for a second had caught his own, asking that most terrible question that he himself was too afraid to voice. Why? And it was these lingering pictures that caused him to finally make the decision he had been deliberating since his brother first taught him to kill. As he gained the dark shadows of the palace he turned. In the sky, the stars were hidden, as if feeling the grief of the night and a blood red moon hung above the orchard, holding its last vigil over a dying man. Never again. Never again would he cause pain and suffering to others. No more would die by his hand. And with these last thoughts, Legolas turned again and made his way up that vine that grew by his balcony and into the dim light of his room.