My arm hurt, my finger tips hurt. The muscle in my shoulder began to shake as again I pulled the too taut bow back to my shoulder, tiny fibres from the string which had began to untwine catching at the lacerated edge of the two digits which held it tight.
Thwack.
Miss
Thwack.
Miss
I grated my teeth together, my whole face stiff from exhaustion, pulled yet another practise arrow from the ground, smoothly balanced it against the line and the notch, ignored the throbbing pain in the sinews of my shoulder as I once again took aim, my eyes narrowed in concentration as I stared, bleary eyed at my target, trying to conjure some grim faced enemy in my mind, instead of the sad sack of potatoes which sat drooping at the bottom of the garden.
And then, just as I was about to shift my fingertips and let fly, just as I was about to let that little wooden shaft soar and sink into the depths of flesh of my imaginary adversary, the bastard laughed.
The arrow went wild, arcing high into the trees that closed in around our house, a shuddering sob like breath escaped me, and I started to droop all over, like the sack of potatoes. I wanted to cry, I wanted to scream, I wanted to sink into the ground with shame. But instead of succumbing to the overwhelming clawing desperation, I turned, and did the only thing I knew at that moment I was any good at. I lunged with teeth and claws bared at my brother who sat against the wall behind me, long ranger legs spread out in front of him and crossed at the ankle, for all the world a lord of all he saw.
Well he didn't see me coming.
I saw through my battle rage the momentary widening of his eyes as I sprang up, a little ball of fury, my lips drawn back over my teeth like a warg.
A man may triumph impossibly if he has surprise on his side.
He threw his hands up to his face to protect himself from my ragged little claws for fingernails, but too late, I got a good swipe and a good club on the ear, and heard the sickening crack as his head struck the brick of our back wall.
He toppled off the barrel, landing on all fours, pushing me with an almighty shove which spent me sprawling onto my little rump in the grass.
We both sat there for a bit, breathing heavy. He placed two of his long tapered sword calloused finger tips to the tender spot of his head, and brought back an inky redness. His eyes, now dark with fury, swivelled to me and an all consuming panic drenched me in the path of those eyes. One day he would use that look on great warriors, and they would shrink in fear as he tore them to pieces, separated life from limb, with clean, practised strokes. But we had that look in common, it was part of our great and noble heritage, and so my eyes stayed locked with his, a precursory of what was to follow, the grey of our irises battling in a way far more profound, seeing in our minds the physical capabilities of our foe. The calm before the storm, more the moonless night before the tempest.
Always know where you are going to strike, and know where your enemy's first blow will fall
"You filthy little orc spawn" spoken with a whisper, like the purring of a cat, or the growl of a wolf that lies in the deep recesses of their throats, and yet every word was as clear to me as the tolling of the warning bell.
Fight or flee.
He loped at me, rising and propelled forward but never really getting up off all fours, his fists not flailing as mine had been, but aimed with an accuracy akin to his archery.
Fight it was then.
I rolled from under him, kicking my soft soled shoes as hard as I could, hoping to limit the damage, before I had actually sustained it.
Offence is the best defence.
We both roared at each other, roaring being preferable to yelping in pain as the blows fell. Curses and oaths that none of as little years as us should hear let alone utter flying back and forth like our limbs.
Never let your enemy know you feel any pain.
And this is how our mother found us, tumbling savagely amidst the short cropped grass of our lawn, for all the world like filthy little orc spawn.
We didn't notice her for quite a while, she stood quietly on the threshold of the door, her mouth held taught and her eyes hooded as they followed our struggle, our breaths coming in ever increasingly ragged breaths
Always keep your eyes about you. Always watch your flank.
Like my brother my mother had a powerful voice that carried itself with little volume. And so all she had to do was clear her throat. We both froze, heads and eyes swivelling to the door way.
My nose was bleeding, a small red river totally covering my upper lip and chin, my brother's right eye red and puffy and swelling shut, the whole knee of my breeks was now a gaping wide bloody gash, our grazed knuckles held up in a fist, motionless.
The wind sang threw the tress.
Nothing was said for wait seemed to be a whole age of the world, it felt as if the sun was spinning ever closer to the smudge of the horizon.
"He laughed at me"
Moments ago I had been a warrior, locked in an epic struggle for survival, yet my voice felt thin and quaking, petulant, a voice that belied my age.
"Did he." Not a question, my mother never questioned, only stated.
"She shots like a girl, she never hits the target."
"I hit your face, and that was my target."
"Stop!" my mothers voice cracked through the air like a whip, her eyes dancing with a steely fire which made my heart quake. I lowered my eyes from my brothers, looking up at the shadow of my mother in the doorway through lowered lashes. Feeling her words soothe the fire in my limbs, the tense muscles releasing as she bore down upon us, without moving an inch from where she stood. After she saw that both me and my brother's rage had abated, and that we now sat like the once all important and now forgotten sagging pack of potatoes, she gave an almighty sigh, letting the anger seep from her too, her eyes softening, and the steel and fire replaced with a glint of laugher in the grey green of her hooded gaze, and the ghost of a indulgent smile on the ruby of her lips.
Always let the battle go
"Calerin, she is a girl, and if you haven't noticed so am I"
He lifted his eyes to her, his face worried, love and respect overwrought with worry that he had offended her,
"But-"
"-And it was me who sat with you when you were Shionas age, never laughing when arrow after arrow was lost to the trees, teaching you, showing you, you were no better then her at that time, and yet, you have learned, that is what experience is for"
He lowered his head, the truth of the words finding their mark, and I couldn't help my lip curling slightly in silent victory, and my mother, like the expert archer she was did not miss it, and rounded on my, causing my cheeks to burn in shame.
The battle is not over until it's over. Those who presume victory usually fall the hardest
" -and Calerin has become an archer worthy of the grey company, but only because he spent hours and hours practising …" my head whipped up and indignation, and the ghost of a protest began to form on my tongue, but was cleanly cut off before I had time to even make a sound "… and you seem all too easily distracted, rolling here in the mud like common pigs instead of dedicating yourself to becoming the best you can be, that is not the way of the ranger."
Whatever happens around you, keep your eye on your target.
We just sat for a while, as she looked over the tops of her lowered heads, and to my shame I felt tears begin to sting the backs of my eyes. I had been practising, for weeks and weeks I had pulled that string back to my shoulder, always missing my mark, growing more frustrated with every wayward blow, while Calerin shot with ease and grace, secure in his skill and smug with it. But she was right, fighting would not achieve anything, other than bruises and resentment between us, and I needed Calerin, I needed him to help me. I was wasting time, both my mother's and mine.
Her laugh was like the whisper of the wind, a gurgling brook of a chuckle, and both my brother and I glanced up in surprise, at a complete loss as to why she was laughing when moments before she had scolded.
"Oh me, at least, you both appear to be fairly proficient at hand to hand. and I can take no responsibility for your training either, you have each other to thank." She smiled at our upturned puzzled expressions as dawning comprehension obviously filled our eyes, as we realised that she wasn't mad at us, that it was our foolishness which had been of a concern.
"I came originally to say that there is some food on the table for you, though I suggest a bit of a clean up would be a good plan yes? Come as soon as your ready" and with that she retreated back into the house, leaving as with the broken strain of her low soft chuckle filtering from within the walls of our home. Laughter always seems to be intertwined with the vividest memories of my childhood.
My brother and I shared a sheepish grin, a grudging mutual respect emerging in the aftermath of our battle.
Always have honour in battle.
He reached up with the already stained sleeve of his tunic and wiped away some of the blood from my face.
The sickle of the moon rose high in the sky that evening found me once again with bow in hand, peering through the dark at the threadbare potatoes. My limbs were still stiff, but there was a certain comfort in pain, as if through the discomfort I knew that my muscles were there, and that there was still strength left in me. I had fitted a new bowline, the other one proving to have lost its spring, and my well worn fingers delighted in the smoothness of the twine. The arrow was notched, the sack in my sight, and a fire waiting for me inside after I had done just one more shot.
Thwack
Hit.
I turned, grinning ear to ear to my brother, who sat atop his usual barrel, long ranger legs spread out in front of him and crossed at they ankle, his eyes reciprocating my delight at finally sinking that dart into my target.
My brother, my brother in arms. And the one whom learned with me the rules of combat, with every day we spent shooting and sparring, and with every vicious blow struck through anger taught and let me teach.
My brother
"You still shoot like a girl"
Thwack
Hit
The door still holds the mark of that shot, right on target, an inch from his ear.