Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in his magical world.

Credit: www dot Tuckborough dot net.

Arch(ery) Enemies? 

One, two, three …

Every arrow Legolas fired on Rivendell’s targeting range struck true.

Four, five, six …

The Prince of Mirkwood could feel Glóin’s son - his only spectator - watching him from behind, and wished the annoying creature had not stumbled upon the archery field during his wanderings. It took considerable effort to ignore the prickly feeling elicited by such close proximity with the dwarf.

But not effort enough. His final arrow missed the target by an inch. Irritated, he lowered his bow, turned, and arched an imperious eyebrow at his unwelcome visitor.

“Yes?”

The dwarf leaned against the wooden fence and idly fingered his walking axe as his brown orbs studied the rounded target fifty yards away. “Nine out of ten times you have struck, Master Elf. A poor score, considering that you are not slow to boast to every dwarf within earshot of the superior vision and reflexes enjoyed by your kind. I hope this is not a taste of your skill in battle, or the Quest may be lost ere it begins.”

Legolas willed himself not to collect one of his arrows from the target, nock his bow, and send it soaring into the back of the arrogant naugrim’s throat. Elrond would not take kindly to it.

“Boast? I do not boast. I merely state the facts as they are: elven vision and reflexes are superior. As for the Quest, take comfort that, Valar willing, it will rely more on stealth than combat,“ he responded coolly. “Yet as poor as you claim nine strikes from ten may be, it is still far superior to the combined strikes fifty of your kind might achieve with the same weapon, and thus more than sufficient to slay more foes than your crude dwarvish axe.”

His companion’s hairy lip curled in offence at the slight as he clutched his axe protectively. Legolas tried not to feel better.

He failed.

“There is naught crude in the mighty song of the axe as it parts orcish head from neck, elf! ’Tis a thing of beauty - something you will learn soon enough on our travels. But the issue here is not my weapon; it is yours. You claim fifty dwarves together could not equal your score. So I say to you this: I could equal it and more with but one arrow,” growled the dwarf in challenge, thumping his chest with a meaty thumb.

Legolas made no attempt to quash his burst of tinkling laughter. “A bold claim indeed, son of Glóin,” he retorted between gasps. “I shall fetch you the arrow myself! And if you can strike that target with it ten times from ten, then I will beg your pardon for any offence I have given you this day. Furthermore, I shall do so before all who dwell in Imladris.”

Instead of the expected glower, Legolas received an unexpected flash of gleaming white teeth as the dwarf beamed in something strangely akin to satisfaction. At first, the reaction unnerved him, but he shook the feeling off as he recovered the promised arrow and handed both it and his bow to his grinning challenger. What had he to fear? All the dwarves in Arda combined could never hope to best the archery skills of a single wood elf!

This thought buoyed him as he stepped aside and waved his right arm in a mocking arc towards the distant target.

“The field is yours, son of Glóin,” said Legolas smugly. “Go forth and impress! I shall endeavour not to laugh if you miss.”

The dwarf scowled at the last remark, but refrained from comment. He leaned his axe carefully against the fence, throwing Legolas a sidled glance as he did: a silent warning not to touch his axe. Legolas rolled his eyes. He would sooner coddle an orc than handle such a crude weapon.

“Prepare to be impressed, elf; and also to whet your tongue. It will need the practice for your public apology.”

With that, the hairy cave-lover stomped past Legolas, the elven arrow looking absurdly out of place in his meaty fist. Legolas’ eyes tracked him as he approached the mark to shoot, and as much as the thought of his beloved bow in the hands of an unwieldy novice pained him, it was countered by amusement as the graceful weapon towered over Imladris’ newest archer.

But his amusement turned to confusion as the dwarf passed the mark and continued down the emerald field, the elven bow slapping against his calf as he sought to keep it from dragging on the grass. Confusion then turned to disbelief as he arrived at the target, lifted the arrow, and struck.

One, two, three, four, five …

Nine times the elf counted his strokes, before the dwarf turned his head, raised the arrow once more, and pointedly struck the target a tenth time. By the time he returned, Legolas’ face was set in a stony expression.

“Ten times, Master Elf. As promised. I shall expect your apology in the Hall of Fire this very evening,” said the dwarf, offering up arrow and bow, and looking smugger than anyone had the right to.

Legolas snatched his weapons back rather ungraciously. “Then you shall wait an eternity, Master Dwarf. The challenge has been rendered void, for you did not fire the arrow from its bow.”

His opponent only smiled all the wider. “The challenge was not to fire arrow from bow, but merely to strike target with arrow. This I did - and more oft than you, I may add.” The smile disappeared as quickly as it came, and Legolas found himself facing the dwarven glower he had become familiar with of late. “Furthermore, you shall apologise for your slight, elf. For if you do not, I shall make it known to our host that you are as faithless a guest as ever entered his realm.”

Legolas paled. Technically speaking, the naugrim had a point: he had not mentioned firing the arrow from the bow. So amused had he been by the dwarf’s claim, and so confident that he would fail spectacularly, that it had not occurred to him to set conditions. And why should it? Who in Arda used an arrow without its mate?

Who indeed!

Snatching his axe from its perch at the fence, the dwarf glared up at him expectantly, his threat of informing Elrond of Legolas’ refusal to keep his word hanging between them. Legolas swallowed hard: the Lord of Imladris could out-glower any dwarf in Middle Earth, and his tongue was near as sharp as the King of Mirkwood’s - and that was before one considered his skill with the sword. If he thought for a second that one of his guests had slighted another under his roof, then refused to make the appropriate reparation …

“Well? Am I to expect the promised apology or nay?”

Suppressing the urge to strangle the dwarf with his over-braided beard, Legolas forced his head into a stilted nod.

“Well done, lad. I knew you would see reason and make amends as you aught,” said the dwarf, beaming once more, before offering a parting shot. “And I shall endeavour not to crow while you do so.”

With walking axe in hand, he stomped off the field, leaving a fuming elf in his hairy wake.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX