The Arrows

So, I'm back with a little drabble-ish… thing that I wrote a while ago. It's about a man who accidentally killed his elven friend and is facing execution because of it. Fill in your own history if you like in the comments; this is meant to be equivocal and mysterious. If there's enough interest, I may turn this into a full-length story.

Please review and tell me what you think!


Blood is dark.

I don't know why people always say that blood is bright. It isn't, and I would know.

Blood is dark when it comes from deep within one's body. It was when it poured out of my friend's pierced heart and it will be when the arrows rip into my own six hours from now.

It wasn't my fault, I tried to tell them. I didn't mean to let it happen. But the men of Mirkwood are not known for their mercy nor forgiving natures, but rather their hatred of those who violate their laws. And soon, I am going to find out just how deep their hatred of me runs.

It all started with an arrow. One leaf-shaped broadhead, fletched to perfection and sharpened to pierce the toughest animal hide. Only it wasn't an animal's skin that it ruptured, you see. It was the unprotected chest of my dearest friend.

As it started with an arrow, so shall it end with one. It is just and fitting for my actions.

Sweet Eru, it had all been an accident.