The infant finally slept. As though he could not see enough of this strange new world, he had fought slumber like a true warrior, 'til at last he succumbed as all warriors must in the end. The young elf maiden cradled her son in her arms and moved with a stealth known only to mothers, and carefully ( so as not to begin the battle anew ) placed the young lad in his bed. The father, not nearly as adept at this brand of warfare, crept lightly behind the mother and lingered by the child's bed as his wife prepared to retire for the evening.

The elf lord peered at his son with a love he had not known existed within him, and just as he was about to turn to his own bed the babe, as if to conspire with the father, opened his eyes and smiled. Without uttering a sound the young elfling made it clear that the smile would be fleeting if the father did not somehow entertain the new "master of the house". The baby's head turned and the father followed his eyes to the ancient elven harp propped in the corner of the room.

" Ahh, a song is it?" thought the father. "Then a song you shall have, my son".

The father retrieved the harp and quietly knelt by his son to play. The elflord's fingers danced over the strings and, once set in motion, the harp seemed to awake and play of it's own accord. In a soft alto voice the father sang:

The archer's bow let loose upon the world
an arrow straight and true.
Of finest wood and fletching rare, crafted with the greatest care
'Twas no simple arrow that now traversed the air.
'Twas the quiver of the archers heart, from whence this arrow flew.

The archer's eye did shed a tear, his lips let loose a sigh
as the arrow took it's course.
For his hand now held no sway, to guide the arrow on it's way.
The forces of the world would now greatly weigh
Upon the arrow's lonely flight and show it no remorse.

The arrow flies what seems so straight a path
to those with untrained eye.
But through this archers life, he's lived it's pleasures and it's strife.
He's learned the arrow flies the arc of life.
The arrow in it's flight doth rise, then fall, and seem to die.

But as the archer drew his mighty bow he knew
From deep within his heart,
Through wind, through light, through darkest night,
Beauty is found in the arrow's flight.
And this one he knew, would find it's mark

The last note still quietly reverberated on the strings of the harp as the father placed it back in it's corner. He returned once more to the bedside of his now sleeping son. As he gently tucked the blanket around the baby he wondered how much of the song his son had heard. He kissed the sleeping baby on the forehead and before turning toward his own bed whispered, " goodnight my precious arrow."