Morwen Halloth stood stiffly at the end of the rank, the top of her head reaching the level of the sister to her left's right shoulder. The archery instructor, a humorless man who had marched on the Black Tower with King Oropher surveyed his charges with his stony countenance, sable silken robes shimmering as he strode past the formation of girls. Stopping before Morwen, his left eye caught hers, causing the girl to swallow. “At how many paces do you engage the enemy over open ground, recruit?” the master barked.
“Two hundred paces with iron bodkins, my lord!” the girl shouted, her eyes focused on some nowhere that she imagined she might travel to to escape this routine, but admittedly necessary humiliation.
All her people were rigorously trained at arms from the age of thirty summers until they reached adulthood. Only maternity could excuse a maiden from the training and for the boys there was no relief save some crippling injury. This was the source of the elves' martial prowess. While orcs were inured to pain and accustomed to brutally enforced hierarchy through relentless bullying and torments, they had no animating spirit or cohesion. The elves, too practiced with arms and armor, marched for days on short rations in the most wretched weather and over the harshest terrain, but in stark contradistinction to the servants of the Enemy, each was committed to the survival of the community, their comrades and kin.
The shortest archer was aware dimly of all these things. But she very eager to cast off the heavy leather surcoat, harness and heavy gauntlets onto the grass of the drill field outside the gate of the elven realm of King Thranduil. The ranks of soldiery collapsed like a brown wave onto the field as the break was called.
At seventy seven, Morwen had enjoyed her coming of age ceremonial. The heaps of gifts, the dances and encomiums and blessings had been a welcome diversion from the alternating tedium of martial drilling and more peaceful pursuits she enjoyed such as woodcrafting, cooking and choir practice. Like most of her kind who felt a yen for exploration and adventure, she opted to continue as part of the woodland realm's army and like most such women, she became an archer. The archers of Greenwood, famously feared by intruders in the north of the forest formed the warders of the land in peacetime, scouting the frontiers for any who dared enter without leave of the king. In war, they backed up the infantry. Cavalry was largely useless in the thick tangle of Mirkwood, though most elves learned to ride for pleasure more because they had the time and inclination than to any warlike end.
“Morwee!” came a cheerful shout from behind. Morwen turned at the sound of her pet name to see her dearest friend, Ildrien approach, her flowing crimson gown incongruous amidst the dun mass of soldier's kit all about her.
“Illy!” Morwee smiled back. “What are you doing out here? We're going on patrol once the captain has sorted out our groups.”
Illdrien leaned in close, whispering conspiratorially to her friend. “I've discovered a little secret that can get you out of here...”
Morwee's eyebrows arched as her eyes grew wide. “What do you mean...”
“A group is being assembled to travel to some embassy to Imladris. I've got father to get you into it.”
Morwee felt her knees shaking. Imladris... She didn't think she'd ever see it. The place was practically mythical despite the fact that visitors came thence to the woodland realm from time to time to share news of the wider world. Little of which percolated down to the more common of Thranduil's people.
Morwee looked about her. Comrades nearby smiled, pretending they had not heard. Elves are not prone to jealousy about such things and her yearning to travel abroad was no secret to any of her shield-sisters and brothers.
“When?” Morwee whispered eagerly.
“A week's time. We found a place for you in the outriders. You'll be scouting the roads ahead. Alone. Think you can handle it?” Illdrien teased Morwen with a playful smirk. The rhetorical device was brushed aside.
“I won't be able to go out on this patrol, then...we're supposed to be scouting the south marches...ungols everywhere...”
Illdrien waved a small piece of folded parchment with an elegant seal upon it. “I've got this for your March-Captain,” she said, handing it over to her friend. “It bears the seal of the Captain-General.”
“Captain-General!?” Morwen breathed quietly. Nearby heads turned away. No one wanted to pry. Such intrusion was alien to the elves. Curiosity would be assuaged later. With elves there was always time.
Illdrien's eyes looked to the parchment and she nodded. “Just read it, silly.”
Morwen carefully broke the seal, wanting it as intact as possible. Her eyes grew wider still, if possible. For what she read was more glorious still than a trip to Imladris, glorious though that was. The Prince was going to Imladris. This was important. Beyond important. A great company was travelling to visit Elrond at his great house, the king's son among them. Her name was near the bottom with other scouts, most of whom she knew as instructors and mentors over the years.
“Aiya! Illy...your father did not ask favors on my behalf did he? I would feel terrible if he did.”
“Hush, Morwee,” Illy replied, placing a forefinger on her friend's lips, provoking a playful smile. “I only said to father that you have passed all your tests. You are of age. You want to see the world outside Greenwood. He asked me if you hoped to go into Aman. But I know your mind well. You want to see the lands told of in the stories. Among our people there is no great need to go into the West. The Trees are only part of an old story. The wars of Beleriand. The silmarils. Were there none among us who had kin who lived in those times, we should be little different than the Edain who think the sun is a fiery chariot or some other such nonsense. No wonder the Enemy finds them so easy to beguile. It is the curse of Men that they forget.”
Morwee was nodding, but in her mind she was cataloguing what she should take on the journey. A peroration to her parents was taking shape already. She would be safe. What could go wrong with Legolas and his stalwart friends and some of the best scouts in Greenwood? There was so much to be learned in the halls of Elrond, wisest in lore since the passing of Celebrimbor. Many who were mighty in craft and skilled in battle could be found in the Hall of Fire. Ancient songs mingled with the sweetest wine outside the fabled court of Galadriel, which almost no one had been to. She simply must go.
Morwee took up her gear and slung it over her shoulder. Her free hand took Ildrien's and together they made their way back into the hidden city. Adventure was in the air. And she was not yet a hundred!
