“You came.”
Daybreak. Windfall. The sight of a man standing alone. His sword pointed at me, as sweat drips off his chin. It is bizarre. That look in his eyes that contradicts the indifferent line of his lips. Like a fire, like a breeze. Those eyes that set on me.
“Elder brother Adelphus.” I reply, still shaken by the thought of combat.
Marcus stands to the side behind me, near the columns beside the dozens of dummies that stand on the training ground. Even the floor here is different, sand like instead of being ridden with grass or pavement stones. To prevent mud and broken bones, perhaps.
“Come here,” he passes me a bow, as though expecting me to be able to shoot it and point at a shooting target 50 yards away. A measly feat for an experienced soldier who could shoot 250 yards but a nightmare for me.
He scans me for a second, before passing me an arrow, saying, “The lesson will end when you’re able to shoot 3 targets in the center.”
I nearly bit my tongue, the first target is 50 yards, the second 60 yards and the third 70 yards, and although it is easy for an experienced soldier. I am a beginner at this. I glance at my hands, delicate and without callouses. Will it even be able to pull the bowstring?
“And what happens if I fail?” I ask.
His highness Adelphus did not smile, just the slightest bit of humor flitting through his eyes, I am doomed “Then the lesson does not end.”
Heaving a sigh, I stand in front of the line drawn with chalk, and attempt to pull the bowstring, which belongs to an ordinary bow. Made of wood and thus, not too heavy. Certainly different from the ornamentary ones in ceremonies or the high-grade bows used for practical battle. A practice bow.
The second time, I take the arrow and place the arrow on the arrow rest, before attempting to shoot it. Before I do, a hand overlaps with mine. It is Adelphus. The glare in his eyes so scary, I reflexively forget about his title.
“You’re doing it wrong,” he explains, guiding my hand to nock the arrow, “Before you shoot, you have to pull the back end of the arrow with your index and middle finger until it clicks.”
I nod, whilst rolling my eyes.
Yet he does not let go, “Take this seriously, an injury is not a joke.”
“Since when did you care about my injuries?” I ask him, emotions still unstable from the past week’s events.
His highness Adelphus guides my hand to stabilize the arrow, and returns directing the shot, “Keep your feet shoulder width, don’t grip too tightly, draw the bowstring back to your anchor point near your ear.”
My anger crawls when I realize he ignored me. My hand pulls the arrow back to my ear, but I still could not focus, glaring at him instead of looking at the target.
“Would it kill you to answer my questions?”
His highness Adelphus merely scolds me, “Pull the bowstring straight, instead of angled. Don’t flinch when you release it.”
I continue to glare at him, “Are you listening to me?”
He replies, a slight tug on his lips, “I’ll listen to you if you manage to hit bullseye.”
There is no other option, I agree, “Deal.”
I stand there, remembering the advice. Stand feed wide as shoulders. Draw the bowstring at anchor point, straight not angled. Keep grip moderate. Don’t flinch. I pull the bowstring back, trying to emulate every word and shoot.
The arrow falls 30 yard away, 20 yards short from hitting the easiest target. My face reddens. Dear heavens, how I want to bury my face under a hole. My eyes dart to his highness Adelphus. No mockery, no response, but a lazy eye that seem to ask, “that’s it?” Marcus on the back covers his mouth, laughing so obnoxiously, I consider making barehanded fights my next lesson.
“…If you are going to laugh, make it quick.” I say, trying to hide my embarrassment.
His highness Adelphus merely ignores me all over again, his hand taking mine once more, a new arrow nocked on the bowstring which failed me, which I failed, “Your mistake was not pulling the bow at full draw. Try again. I’ll assist you this time.”
He draws your hand -which is over the bowstring- backwards, this time you could tell, this is the maximum draw for the bow. For a second, you’re suddenly aware of his robust build, the faint smell of sweat, the strength in his arms.
Focus. I remind myself. This time the arrow shoots all the way to the target, although slightly off from bullseye. Instead of congratulating, his highness Adelphus sighs, “Don’t get tense when shooting either. It won’t end well.”
I bite my lips, pressing my feet left to right. How long will it take for me to hit all 3 targets? Much less hit the bullseye? I feel the urge to complain. The sun does not agree with my plans of ending the lesson early, blazing still into the night.
“Again.” His highness Adelphus says, “Focus on the target and gauge the depth.”
I grit my fist and shoot yet another one, this time it hits the edge, so far from the center it nearly misses. It does not take much for a person to lose their minds, “Until when… do I have to keep on doing this?”
My outfit, a red training outfit, has long been drenched by sweat. The sweltering heat does not help alleviate it the slightest. I look down at my right hand, the red lines imprinted on my palms. The way it hurts when I close my hand.
His highness Adelphus does not budge with pity, “Until you hit the third target.”
I launch another arrow for what feels to be the nth hundredth time, only for it to fall short of the third one. My arms are just too damned weak. Then again, that’s to be expected, considering I’ve never done anything laborious my entire life.
In the end I snap, sneaking up on him when he isn't looking in an attempt to plant a punch into his abdomen. When I strike, Adelphus catches me reflexively, going as far as flipping me over to the ground and twisting my arm. Dirty sand fills my view. I can imagine scratches on my face.
A deep bloodlust covers the air, I quickly drag my lips to say, “I’m so…y.”
“Adelphus.” Marcus calls from the back.
His highness Adelphus lets go of my right arm, letting my body fully drop to the sand, I fall protecting my face. When I get up, I realize the look of annoyance on his face which could not be hidden.
“Again.”
It is not until, I shoot another 17 arrows that it finally hits the 70 yard distance and Adelphus calls the servants who are in charge of serving me. At that time, I could barely walk, and can only depend on Marcus as my walking stick.
“You really do have a death wish don’t you?” Marcus whistles, “going against that monster, when you’re so weak.”
“Silence.” I shush him down, “He’s just so insufferable!”
The praetorian guard merely chuckles, “He’s rather considerate towards you. Anyone else would have gotten a fair beating by now. It’s not kind. What the battlefield has done towards him.”
I remember that moment when I tried brushing the leaf in his hair, when he caught my hand instantly looking alert.
It is not kind.
But the sight of him suffocating me in the prison cell brings me out of my empathy.
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