The longest recorded kill with a modern sniper rifle belongs to the American-made Tac-50.
It is said that a Canadian sniper once struck a target from 3,540 metres away with that very weapon, a shot that stands as the farthest lethal range in the history of riflery.
Even propelled by gunpowder, the bullet flew for some ten seconds before finding its mark.
Yet here stood an Elf, over a thousand metres distant, armed with a seemingly primitive longbow, loosing nine arrows in rapid succession that struck the exact same spot.
Sheer force snapped a tree trunk far across the field.
What stunned the Dragonborn most of all was the precision: each shaft seemed timed to the beat of some unseen metronome.
The moment an arrow struck home, the next split its wooden predecessor clean down the middle, iron point hammering against iron point like a bloom of metal petals, without a hair’s breadth of error.
This defied all logic.
Dragonborn, his mind screamed in silent protest.
“May I see your bow?” he asked the Elf, astonishment plain upon his face.
Fena handed him the companion of countless years without hesitation.
Her voice was calm, though a thread of pride wove through it.
“Galadhrandlas, in the Common tongue, Eagle’s Claw, was forged by the Elves of Gondolin in the First Age.
It has drunk deep of foul and filthy Dark minions’ blood.
Among the many wondrous works of Elven craft, it is counted a prize of no small renown.” The Dragonborn took the longbow and felt a pleasing weight settle into his hands.
It measured near a full metre from tip to tip, the main stave hewn from the bole of a mighty white oak.
Both ends were shod with razored steel blades; clearly, this bow could serve in close combat.
The back was inlaid with mithril wrought into intricate, flowing patterns that swept from the limbs to the grip, where a single brilliant diamond, set like a star amidst a constellation, formed the likeness of a flower.
Very much in the Elven style, he mused.
He tested the string, drawn from some unknown material, and found the draw weight formidable.
Still, it should not have been enough to send an arrow so far.
Releasing the string, he gauged the distance.
From where they stood to the Elf’s orchard, it was well over a thousand metres.
The Elf had achieved with a simple bow what only a modern sniper’s rifle could accomplish.
Feeling the ever-present breeze sifting through the wilds, a thought kindled in his mind.
He returned the longbow and could not keep the question back.
“Is it the wind?” Fena smiled and nodded, the faint starlight in her eyes slowly dimming to a softer glow.
She explained, “All things in the world possess their own will: the high mountains, the rivers, the forests, the birds, even the wind that is everywhere.
When Eru shaped Arda, He bestowed upon all things the most delicate yet profound blessing.
If you but learn to listen, all the world becomes your ally.” Before the Dragonborn’s wondering gaze, the Elf turned, longbow still slung across her back, and stepped into the gentle currents of the river Lhûn.
“The Elves are born to this art.
We listen to all things, learn from them, and with their power we work wonders.” Amid the murmuring, placid waters of summer, a radiant white light enveloped the Elf’s tall, graceful form.
In that glow, bright as the holiest and most brilliant starlight of dawn, her melodious voice lifted, resonant and clear.
“Waters flowing from the Ered Luin, hearken to this word.
Rise with the tide, and show this one your wrath!” “Oh?” The Dragonborn, keen of sense, now truly felt it: a strange ripple emanated from the Elf and sped outward across the river.
In the next heartbeat, the quiet stream awoke as if a slumbering power had been roused.
Its surface churned and reared into towering waves more than a dozen metres high, surging downstream like a host of stampeding steeds.
Boom.
Watching the raging torrent, the Dragonborn instinctively stepped back a pace, in deference to the might of the living world.
As though she sensed his reverence, the Elf, still blazing with white light like a figure out of legend, smiled softly.
In an instant, the great galloping wave collapsed with a sigh, and the river returned to its tranquil, murmuring flow.
“Well?
That is the magic of the Elves.” The radiant aura faded as she spoke, her tone light and amused.
The Dragonborn could only nod in unreserved admiration.
Fena stepped cheerfully from the river Lhûn, paying no mind to her wet shoes, and walked toward a small wood in the distance.
“Ochriamm,” she said, “still your heart and listen to all that surrounds you.
Then you will find Arda breathing at your ear.
That breath is the pulse left by Ilúvatar and the Valar when they shaped all things ages uncounted ago.
Feel it, learn from it, and you will discover that every living thing is your friend.” Be it Sindarin, Falathrin, or the deeper lore of Quenya, the Elven tongues were full of phrases rich in manifold meanings.
One had to listen with care and turn the words over many times to glean the right sense from that vast sea of language.
The Dragonborn, who had studied Elvish for barely a fortnight, found most of the vocabulary and grammar utterly beyond him.
So he simply followed behind her, grimacing silently, and listened as best he could.
“Elves forge, till the earth, weave, and sail the endless seas of knowledge.
We create works of beauty that stagger mortal eyes…” The two of them passed into the Elf’s orchard on the banks of the Lhûn.
Sunlight fell in dappled patterns upon her face, and she looked surpassingly fair.
The silver-haired Elf laid her hand upon a fruit-laden apple tree, closed her eyes, and seemed to listen, or perhaps to speak.
When she opened them again, a flawless, ripe, crimson apple dropped from above into the black-haired Dragonborn’s waiting hand.
“And this, this is the most precious magic of the Elves.” The Dragonborn looked down at the great apple, then up at the Elf, and a distinct sensation of being thoroughly outdone settled over him.
But he mastered himself, and instead fell upon the sweet, juicy fruit with a fierce bite, tearing into it as though the apple had offered him some personal slight.
Watching the dark-haired Dragonborn devour the first ripe apple of the summer like a sulking child, Fena’s heart seemed to drift back toward distant, green years, when the northern Elves were yet thriving and strong.
After a moment, the Dragonborn tossed aside the core and asked, his voice a little thick, “So.
Can I learn the magic of the Elves?” Fena roused from her memories and studied him intently.
Beneath that towering, godlike frame, the Elf perceived a great and searing power flowing through the Dragonborn like molten rock.
It was the blessing of the One, and the strength of his bloodline besides: the might of the dragon.
The Elf slowly shook her head, then, just as deliberately, nodded.
The Dragonborn could only stare in confusion.
“In truth,” she said, “that Shout of yours already holds immense magic.
You simply do not yet know how to wield it.” “Listen, Ochriamm.” Fena’s expression grew grave.
“You carry within you a power that even Elves might envy and fear.
Rather than fritter away your heart on learning tricks to throw sparks or frighten folk, you would do better to delve deep and master the strength that is already yours.
I believe that when you fully unearth that power, you will prove far more formidable than that old fraud the Grey Wizard…” At that precise moment, in the white council hall of the Grey Havens, Gandalf gave a tremendous sneeze.
“I have the distinct feeling someone is speaking ill of me,” muttered the Wizard, rubbing his prominent nose.
Círdan allowed himself a knowing smile, the kind shared only between old friends.
“My dear Lord,” said Gandalf, catching the Shipwright’s amused expression, “as you said yourself, the Dragonborn’s safety does not yet require our fretting.
So might we now turn to the matter of the northern defences?” The Grey Wizard stood with one hand on his hip, the other clutching his long pipe, his face etched with concern.
“An attack by Orc warg-riders could come at any moment.
Dark minions are surely still stirring up scoundrels, robbers, murderers, and other irredeemable villains in secret.
No one knows what they plan next, and that has become one of my gravest worries.” He blew a large, rather impolite smoke ring.
“And yet the vigilance of the Elves is so lax.” Círdan frowned, but chose to let the remark pass.
“Wise Lord Círdan, I urge that the northern Elves send riders to beg aid from their allies.
I sense that this rising dark tide is no minor skirmish.
It may well be the signal that evil is stirring anew.
The Grey Havens are too lightly guarded and may not withstand the assault.” The Lord of the Havens countered him.
“The Elves of Mithlond are not as feeble as you seem to think.
True, long years of peace have left us somewhat less watchful, but our blades are still sharp, our horns still ring loud.
We can defend ourselves, Mithrandir.
You underestimate the northern Elves.” “Moreover,” the wise Shipwright continued, voicing his true fear, “in these fading days of the Elves, where are the allies to answer such a call?
The royal line of the Northern Dúnedain is all but extinguished.
Gondor in the South is too far to help.
Our kin in the East fare much as we do: they can hold their own, but lack the strength to march abroad.” Círdan shook his head, his tone bleak.
“And the distance is no small matter.
To ask them to cross half of Middle-earth and the Misty Mountains to come to our aid… Forgive my pessimism, Gandalf, but it is simply not possible.” “No,” the Grey Wizard broke in.
“There is yet one place in the North where we may seek aid.” Seeming to know exactly what the Wizard meant, the Lord of the Havens fell silent.
His grey-white beard drifted in the faint, salt-tinged sea breeze.
Gandalf refused to let the matter drop.
He pressed his point relentlessly.
“My honoured Lord, you know of whom I speak.” At last, Círdan sighed and gave voice to his thoughts.
“The Dwarves of the Blue Mountains have fallen low, Mithrandir.
They have forgotten the glory and pride of old, forgotten the splendour of Khazad-dûm and Erebor.
Their days are frittered away in smithies and stables, earning coin for their daily bread, then squandering it in the taverns of Men.
Empty lives.” The Lord of the Havens lifted his gaze toward the vast, cloud-piercing mountains that loomed north of the Havens, beyond the Gulf of Lhûn.
There was pity in his voice, and a measure of disappointment.
“To place our hope in them would be like hoping the Wargs of Gundabad give up eating meat.” “No,” Gandalf fired back.
“From all I have learned, there are still Dwarves in the Blue Mountains whose thirst for vengeance burns hot and whose sense of honour stands tall.
Lord Círdan, the sons of Durin still yearn for their ancient home.
They remember far-off Erebor, the halls stolen by the Dragon.” “You mean…” “Send your plea for aid to Thorin Oakenshield, Lord Círdan!” At that moment, beneath the Wizard’s aged features, his eyes gleamed like stars.
“His grandfather was King Thrór of the Kingdom under the Mountain, and his father was Thráin, who later fell to madness.
Thorin holds the birthright of Durin’s line.
He is the boldest of all the Blue Mountain Dwarves, and the most likely to answer our call.
He still commands a sturdy Dwarf-host, but dire poverty threatens to disband the last armed company of the Mountain.
Ever since the northern worm Smaug seized the Lonely Mountain, the vast share of the Dwarves’ treasure has lain under the Dragon’s belly.
The gold and jewels that King Thrór brought out were not abundant, and after many long years they are nearly spent.
Now the Dwarves must labour in Men’s smithies, mines, and stables just to keep their last warriors together.
Even so, that final remnant of Erebor’s army is on the brink of scattering, for a few coins earned at Men’s forges and stables cannot sustain a fighting force.” “If the wise Shipwright would offer a certain measure of jewels in exchange for the Dwarves’ aid, I believe that valiant prince would gladly lead his stout warriors hither to help the Elves hold back the incursions of the Dark minions.” The Wizard poured out his plan in an unbroken stream, plying his silver tongue with a will that would not be denied.
Though Círdan suspected there was more to the scheme than the Wizard let on, he found himself moved.
He frowned, turning the costs over in his mind, and wondering too whether the Dwarves had truly not yet forgotten their ancient honour and pride.
Suddenly, a piercing, high-pitched draconic roar burst from the north.