„When the wolves of Angamando tear your flesh apart and break your bones, and devour your intestines you will think about me, Macilvelco, Yonya. You will understand my words… but it will be too late by then.“
As the elf with the sharp features, pale face and eyes, dark as night turned around, he was terrible to behold. His voice bore every fear the young elf could imagine, and his mouth moved in a strange way, as if it was mocking the world constantly, disgusted by its creatures.
„Draw!“ the mouth yelled.
The young elf raised the large bow, and drew. His face showed utmost effort, his hands were shaking. The bow creaked.
„HOLD!“ whispered the elf with the dark eyes, as he approached, studying his son’s face.
With a vibrating, mute noise the string flung through the air, accelerating the arrow to lightning speed within the blink of an eye.
„Did I ask you to fire the arrow?“ asked the mouth, dangerously calm.
„No, Atarinya.“
„Did I ask you to draw the bow?“
„You did, Atarinya.“
„Did I want you to fire the arrow?“
„Not now, Atarinya.“
„So, tell me. Why did you fire the arrow?“
The young elf lowered the bow.
„I…I do not know, Atarinya.“
„Oh, you do not know.“
The mouth showed a distorted smile.
„Do you know why I am doing this?“
The young elf did not answer.
Macilwë took a few steps, away from his son, hands folded behind his back.
„I am doing this because I want to make a cunning, capable warrior of the lazy, weak fool I call my son.“
The young elf clenched his teeth. He raised his bow and knocked another arrow.
Whirling like the harsh wind of the north, Macilwë turned around.
Swift like an attacking hawk he hit the tip of the knocked arrow with the pommel of his Falquan and sent it flying.
„DID I ASK YOU TO DRAW?!“ he yelled.
The son lowered his head.
„We are shooting three hundred arrows each day because I want each arrow to take one wretched life when the time has come.
You will shoot them swiftly, later. But now, you will learn to hold them first.“
„Yes, Atarinya.“
„Again. Draw!“ commanded the mouth.
With a creaking sound, the large bow was drawn again.
„Hold“ gnarled the mouth.
The son’s hands were shaking.
„Elbow up!“ The pommel of the Falquan hit the joint from below, to ensure the instruction was executed.
„Draw from the back. No arms. You are shaking like a pig in front of a butcher. Use your skeleton.“
The pommel hit the left shoulder blade.
The string flung through the air again. The arrow disappeared in the skies.
„I said HOLD!..“ yelled the mouth.
The young elf dropped the bow, falling on his knees.
„Atarinya… I cannot take it anymore!“
„You can take it! Your Hröa is MINE. Your elbow is mine. Your back is mine.
Your father COULD take it when the vile creature sucked the damn juice out of the trees! Your father could take it when Angamando’s armies assaulted Hísilómë. But your father cannot take it anymore to witness the weakness of this sweating, useless piece of meat!
Indeed, meat you will become, meat for the wolves of Angamando!“
Fingers like steel grabbed the failed archer’s arm.
„That Hröa does not belong to you. It is mine. Now get up.“
The young elf was pulled up.
„That was two hundred and ninety-eight. Two more arrows to shoot.“
Groaning, the young elf reached out for another quiver.
„Atarinya… this bow is so hard to draw… Why can’t I practice with a lighter one?“
Macilwë frowned.
„Do you want to be a jester? Do you want to amuse the orcs that are hungry for Valariandë’s spring? If you want to amuse them, then go to the Laiquendi. It will increase your chances for getting slaughtered. Or go to Lestanórë. There you can play with your baby bows, dance under the trees and learn how not to participate in battles. However, if you want to learn how to kill in order to survive, you will have to stay here - with me.
There is archery for war, Yonya, and there is archery for amusement.
Fancy braggarts in Himring and in Thargelion show off their so called skills, shooting their shiny bows in courtly games.
They can show you how to shoot two arrows at once, how to jump around while shooting, how to catch arrows in mid-air… they practice hours and hours for such situations, and forget that there is no perfect setting out there. Catching arrows and jumping around during battle will only bring them to one place: Mandos.
Besides, give them a bow like this, and they won’t be able to even draw it.
They are completely useless when it comes to wielding such a bow in battle.
There is archery for war, and there is archery for amusement.“
Macilwë crossed his arms.
„Now, take the bow, Macilvelco. Time to shoot the last two arrows.“
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[Translations and Notes:
Angamando - iron gaol (Quenya) ...the huge fortress of the dark lord Morgoth. Sindarin: Angband
Yonya - my son (Quenya)
Atarinya - my father (Quenya)
Falquan - large sword (Quenya) ...of all the swords the Noldor used to forge, the Falquan was the largest. It had to be wielded two-handed and sometimes reached the length of six feet
Hröa - body (Quenya)
Hísilómë - Land of mist (Quenya). Sindarin: Hithlum
Laiquendi (Quenya) or Laegrim (Sindarin) - Green Elves, mainly inhabitants of Ossiriand
Lestanórë - another name for Doriath (Quenya)
Himring - "Ever-Cold" (Sindarin). Great fortress of the sons of Fëanor and Maedhros' stronghold
Mandos - Castle of Custody. The place where the Vala Mandos dwells. The halls to which the soul (Fëa) of an elf goes if his body has been slain (Quenya)
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