Schwooop!
Fast like lightning, the arrow hit the target, but not where it was intended. Legolas sighed dejectedly as he put down his arm and bow. Several arrows littered around the target, failures.
The boy sat down on a tree stump, resting under the shade of a tree and fingered his bow that he received as a birthday gift from his father, the Elven king of Mirkwood. "Treat it well, my son," His father had told him.
But how did his father expect him not to have a dangerous urge to snap it in half since it appeared not to work and all the arrows never hit the bull's eye?
"Why can everyone else shoot an arrow but not I?" he muttered.
"Because of practice," a voice said simply from somewhere behind. Legolas whirled around.
The Elven king stood behind the tree, tall and stately with an air of dignity, his hands clasped behind his back. In the forest, where the golden and amber leaves formed a bed of foliage on the forest floor, Thranduil looked regal and appeared to shine with light from above. He stepped closer to his son and bent down to eye level.
"We are not born perfect archers, though we have more grace and accuracy than those of human and, and dw-dwarf archers," Thranduil said wisely, shuddering at the word "dwarf." He despised dwarves with an unrivaled hate and fury and disgust.
Legolas looked down at his bow again. It was a lovely bow, made of a light and supple wood that was gilded with beautiful designs. He was having doubts so he asked, "Father, are you sure it's not the bow that's not working?"
He learned quickly it was not a good question to ask, for his father's nose flared and his eyes flashed. "Son, do not shift the blame to the mechanisms of your weapon. It must be you, and you will practice and become a fine archer." Legolas stared down in shame, his pride slightly pricked. Thranduil noticed this, immediately sorry for lighting up on his son so quick, added softly, "But do not fret. You have plenty of the world's time to practice, hone, and perfect your skills. I believe in you, son."
The Elven king took Legolas's bow and turning around to the target, aimed, and quickly released an arrow, letting it fly straight into the bull's eye with a loud thunk. Legolas felt slightly envious of his father's amazingly superior abilities. But of course, it was expected of the king. Legolas only wanted to live up to his role as the son of the king, the prince. But even the commoners' sons could shoot better than him and he had been embarrassed when a young elf remarked that the prince could not even hit the ring around the bull's eye.
Thranduil turned back to Legolas, who had remained silent.
"Son, if I can shoot a bull's eye, I know you can too. You won't be perfect in one day but you can reach my level, maybe even better."
He handed the bow back to Legolas and patted his head affectionately. Then, he looked past and sighed, "I must go now, son. My council comes and waits for me, and I have much to do today."
Legolas turned to see several elf officials waiting patiently for the king.
The Elven king's hand left his son's head and he walked slowly to join them. Legolas watched his father go, his hands gripping ever tighter on his bow. He did not want to disappoint his father nor himself. Once again, he found himself picking up an arrow and nocking it on his bow. Then, with a deep breath, aimed and fired.
Twang!
The arrow landed and though it missed the bull's eye, it was closer than it had ever been.