3. Perception of a Hawkeye

Perception of a Hawkeye


  • Not written down anywhere, not repeated to anyone, just the considered reply Eluriel once gave to questions asked of her.

    Identity

    We are each of us a blend of all that has gone before as is a bow a blend of all that has gone into its creation.

    The wood. The sunshine upon the leaves of the tree and the water that has passed through is veins. The nourishment taken from the ground that came from countless different animals and plants. One hundred wolves who each fertilized the soil near it. Each of these wolves having eaten one thousand deer. Each of these deer having eaten ten thousand of pieces of foliage.

    Then there are the other influences upon it. Infections. Moss and lichen. Wounds left on it as a stag tested his antlers. And so too has there been the influence of those who in passing treated the tree to aid its recovery from such ills. That is the wood.

    A limb. In the eyes of a crafter it bears a resemblance to a fine bow. There are further influences on this also. The axe that hacked it away from the other branches. The tools run over its surface that depending on the wielder either carved smoothly or cut too deep. Such wounds being smoothed away over time either from natural abrasion or else with tender care… and love.

    Influences, yes, however these acted only to reveal the potential that has always been there in the wood.

    And the bow changes. One day it is left strung in error and the pull lessens. On another it is shortened to achieve that same pull it once had. And so, the bow is different to how it was in the past and different to how it will be in the future. However, its core is unchanged. The core is the wood of the tree grown over so many years.

    It is Weirwood from which you are carved. Rare and highly prized. A resilient wood that endures even when surrounded by flames that would consume another, Favoured in the making of music. Tones that resonate warmth and clarity. Like Weirwood, even when the source of magical radiance near you -in you- is doused... it lingers. And Weirwood trees are actively protected by rangers.

    And of unmixing archery and magic?

    The cantrips I once knew were but leaves that touched the bow as they rode the wind soon to move on again. The magic that is yours is locked into every grain of the wood and is inseparable from the other things involved in your creation. To take magic from you is not alike to taking a limb from you. Rather, it is to take away the sunshine or the rain or the food that grew the tree.

    You are an archer of the people for you are an elf who has used a bow. You are a musician for the song in your voice is ever there. Even now. To separate these things would be to split every grain of the wood. And that is what is the core. Archery and magic are entwined in you and cannot be separated. You can partition them when you choose to – for you might either loose an arrow with magic or without it. For another to make that choice for you is anathema.

    You thought this would bring acceptance you said. I accept you. You are my honourable elf brother as ever I have considered you since first we met. There is no need for you to rejoin your people for in spirit you have never been apart from them. Perhaps you are the only one who does not accept this. As you are to seek your vision of yourself from within rather from others perhaps this is what you need to do. Accept that you are a noble elf and name yourself as such.

    No matter how any other person looks upon the bow – no matter what they might see when they look upon it - You are the only one who can feel the grain and any burrs or dents in it. And so too are you the only one who can shape it whole.

    I name myself Guardian.


  • An elf does not lie.

    But nor are we infallible.

    We may mishear, misremember, or misunderstand.
    We may believe that which is given to us in misunderstanding or as a lie.
    We may even be its source.

    Imagine

    One day I am in battle with a goblin shaman. It sees that I will be the victor. It wants vengeance for kin dead all around. It wants me to know pain. It sees the cut left by an arrow which grazed my arm and with its dying breath casts a curse upon me; that the cut become a festering wound.

    The pain is such that I might at any moment lose control of myself and strike out at folk dear to me. With words, but not words alone.

    I try the common cures. So too do those who value the elf I was. Cures from folklore. Cures from other lands. All of these with more potent versions of the common ingredients.

    Finally I realise that I am cursed forever more.
    As an elf is an elf, is a curse a curse.
    Its base nature is to sustain torture.

    My life as it was is gone. No more the joyous girl. For as long as I live I will be in pain. The knowledge is crushing. It is torture. I might will myself dead.

    Pain
    Of the wound.
    Of knowing the hurt I have caused.
    Fear
    Of repeating it.
    Of them turning from me.
    Horror
    That I might infect another.
    That my infection could cause another these same pains and fears.

    With this curse I cannot be around others. I cannot remove the curse, so I remove myself from them. If I am near folk, it is only those who see darkness all around.

    I learn control. Perhaps I can be near folk without causing them hurt. Perhaps if I am careful there is no true risk of the curse infecting another.

    Acceptance comes finally. I rejoin the world. I take my name.
    Cursed. But my arm is covered and they see only the elf.
    I live.

    Content is a state of mind. Not a state of physical being.
    Am I content?
    To be satisfied with what one is or has; not wanting more or anything else.
    I am not content.
    But I say that I am.
    Because I believe that I am.

    I have come to terms with this my new life. The pain has been there for so long now that it is dulled. I say that I am content because I tell myself that I am. In every hidden corner I tell myself that. I will it to be true.

    What is the alternative?

    I seek always for a cure, as I did in times past. I dream of a life free from the curse. Of the future I want. Each failure hurts as the day the common cures were exhausted. I lose control. I hurt others. Pain. Fear. Horror. My will to live gone. I cannot endure that. Not again.

    So it is that I tell myself that I am content, and I believe it.

    An elf is an elf
    My base nature

    A curse is a curse
    Not part of me

    Now give me the cure
    I will drink it

    But do not tell me
    Just let it work

    Save me from pain