Could be any battle really, from the point of view of an archer.
Something So Familiar.
I have fletched arrows so many times, felt them shape under my fingertips, rested them across my knees when no one was watching. They are so familiar to me that I see them in my dreams.
When I dream I make arrows, then I fire them. When I wake I do the same. They fit into my bow and my hands like they have so many times before and fly straight and true. I used to miss the target when I first began, when the targets were always just circles and straw. Slowly I started to not miss and the circled targets had patterns of holes in the centre.
My brother used to throw things so I could practise aiming at moving targets. He would tease me when I missed and the arrows and bow felt more and more like they were part of my hands. My hands twitch now without my bow, I cannot sleep without knowing it is near. My brother no longer teases me for this, he understands my anxiety far too well than either of us would like.
The targets are no longer just things stuffed with straw, or whatever my brother chose to throw. Now the targets bleed and scream like straw never could and still the arrows seem so familiar.
Wood, and feathers that I labour over then surrender to the air so quickly, expecting them to hit what I aimed for. The screams no longer bother me.
I hold another arrow in my hand, something so familiar. The feathers were not attached properly, and feel less silky than the ones I favour when I have the choice. The wood is as smooth as I strive for and the shot was as true.
But no target of straw, or a distant scream that I dismiss. I cannot see the arrowhead, but I feel it inside. I can guess that the point is steel for arrows are my trade. Blood trickles beneath the arrow that I can touch, the feathers are sticky now. So strange.
So strange that something so familiar can hurt me so.
