[Gwathagor]

His cloak was long, and though it was now tattered and stained, it had probably been of a deep royal blue. Blood soaked the hem of his garment and had dried down the side of his right boot. He stood very still, with his sword unsheathed. The only movement in the stillness was the warm wind, which gently blew his long dark hair about his face. He was tense and alert, but as the wind began to blow, he let down his guard. He took a deep breath of the clean Shire air, sighed, and began to sheath his sword.

I am very tired.

The sword was long and scarred, attesting to the ferocity of its bearer and to the many battles it had seen. It was an old weapon, outdated by many standards, but clean and well-cared for despite its nicks and battle-wounds. Though simple, the symmetry of the craftsmanship, the quality of the metal, and the natural curve and balance of the blade spoke of many long hours in the forge. It was kingly, but in no way pretentious or ceremonial, clearly designed for one purpose alone: to kill, swiftly and well. The sword was unadorned save for a thick strand of pure silver that traced its way through the working of the hilt, and about the leather-bound handle of the ancient longsword. The elf carefully and lovingly returned it to its simple leather scabbard, which bore upon it a device of a single white rose, set amidst a field of fiery stars.

Then he knew that he was watched. The slightest breath, the brief minor note in a birdsong, a change in the wind; nothing escaped his trained, wild-wary senses. His instincts told him that there was something behind him in the trees. He turned, swiftly and calmly to face his watcher. The royal sword leapt from its scabbard. At the same moment the moon rolled from behind a cloud, casting silver-blue beams upon the green sward. The sword caught the light of the full moon as a large wolf emerged from the pine grove. Its fangs and its glittering eyes also reflected the moonlight and its black mane rippled in the wind.

"Begone, creature of the cold north! This is not your realm, you may not trouble these little people." There was menace in the elf's voice, menace which the wolf returned with an almost imperceptibly deep growl.

Suddenly, in a single natural, quick motion, the wolf sprang forward, as a mighty howl tore from its throat. The elf's blade flashed up and forward in a similar a movement; an arc: calm, natural, and sure. Cold hate was in his eyes. Time seemed to slow, nearly to a standstill, as the clash of the two wild creatures loomed, and as the quiet moonlit village slept. The two killers from the wild stood locked in a deep and terrible combat upon the brink of humanity and civilization, where neither was accustomed to tred.

Then the clouds drifted back across the moon and the elf's longsword finished its arc, its blade coming to rest buried deep in the grass and soil of the hilltop. The wolf-creature had vanished, and the elf was alone, head down, bent double, both hands upon the grip of his sword. The monster's cry reverberated over all, then abruptly drifted away on the gentle summer wind.

The elf collapsed unconscious upon the green turf beside his sword. He was very tired.